Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Likely enough,” replied his easy companion. “Give me half a chicken, and a glass of champagne, and I’ll play all night if you like it.”

  Meanwhile, the more ostensible business of the meeting was going on in an equally satisfactory manner in the ball-room. The party, which was really large and brilliant, assembled with fewer exceptions from disappointments and excuses than might have been expected, and the whirling waltz went on greatly to the satisfaction of Patty; and now and them, of Matilda too, for about one set in four she was blessed with a partner by a sudden fit of recollection in her devoted friend. At a little after midnight, Mrs. Hubert and her daughter, together with the whole party who had dined with them, entered the rooms. General Hubert was prevented from accompanying them by a gentleman, who, having called upon him very late in the evening upon business of importance, still remained with him in his library, when the rest of the party set off for Mrs. O’Donagough’s; but he sent down a slip of paper to his wife, on which was written in pencil, “I shall come to Curzon-street the moment I am at liberty — send back the carriage for me.”

  Mrs. Hubert and the party which entered with her, could not have made their appearance in any salon in Europe without producing a sensation, and it may easily be imagined that Mrs. O’Donagough was not sparing in her efforts to circulate the fact of their very near relationship to herself. Of all her glorious day, this was decidedly the most glorious moment, and perhaps in her own heart she might have felt a sort of undefined consciousness that she had reached her culminating point, for as she looked round upon the grand display of lights, and flowery decorations — as she listened to the gay strains of Strauss — as she marked the grand display of dancing elegance that floated round her — and finally, as she gazed upon the graceful array of distinguished relatives as they walked up the room, she heaved a deep-drawn sigh as if overpowered by the fulness of her contentment.

  Sir Henry Seymour had been for some time in the room, and joined Lady Stephenson, Mrs. Hubert, and their train, the moment they appeared. But of all that fair host, there was but one who met him kindly, nay, even that one felt in her heart of hearts that he was unworthy, and though, when she remarked that all looked upon him coldly, a sort of relenting softness led her still to greet him as a friend, she would have better liked that the state of things should have been reversed, and that, as heretofore, he should have been welcomed by the smiles of all, so that she might have been released from the sort of pitying necessity of being civil. But this state of things endured but a short time; he immediately asked her to dance, and though she agreed to do so, merely because she knew not how to avoid it, her judgment of him was completely changed before the measure ended.

  Little as Sir Henry Seymour had hitherto given his friends reason to admire his deliberative wisdom, he had been for some time past giving proofs of it, though they knew it not, which might well entitle him to respect. He had loved Elizabeth, young as she was, almost from the first moment he had renewed acquaintance with her after his return from Australia. This, however, was not till they met in Paris, about a year after the departure of the Hubert family from Brighton. But the feeling she inspired was not, at that period, at least, such as altogether to east out fear. He remembered that the guardian he had so grievously offended was by marriage her uncle, and though the reconciliation between them was perfect, he dreaded lest the harem-scarem reputation of his boyhood might become an impediment to the dearest hope of his life. For this reason he very wisely determined to look and love for a while longer, and though in spite of all his resolutions he certainly had betrayed, both to Elizabeth and Elizabeth’s watchful friends, the secret of his heart, he had never, till this eventful evening, breathed a word which could be fairly construed into a confession of love.

  But now, though the time of his self-imposed probation was not yet over, he could no longer restrain the impulse which urged him at once to avow his wishes, and receive his doom. More circumstances than one led him to this. The evident sensation produced among the critical crowd at St. James’s that morning by the appearance of Elizabeth, had sent a qualm of terror to his heart, from the idea that she must inevitably be asked in marriage by half the peerage. In addition to this misery, came the outrage to his feelings produced by Mrs. O’Donagough’s public seizure of him, and his consequent enforced desertion of all he most loved, for all he most disliked; and, to crown all, he was by no means slow to perceive in the altered eyes of his friends, when he presented himself to them in Mrs. O’Donagough’s drawing-room, that he had offended them, as he could not doubt, by his involuntary share in the adventures of the morning.

  The resolution upon which he had been pondering from the moment he had bowed himself away from the carriage-door of Mrs. O’Donagough, became at that moment fixed and unchangeable. He had endured to linger with very tolerable philosophy on the threshold of happiness, but to see himself thrust from it in consequence of his presumed attachment to the O’Donagough race, was beyond his strength. He determined not to leave the room till he had asked Elizabeth Hubert to be his wife — and he determined, too, that should her answer be favourable, he would not live twenty-four hours longer without exonerating himself from the intolerable thraldom of feeling at the mercy of Mr. O’Donagough, by confessing both to Sir Edward and the general the whole history of his foolish masquerading expedition to Australia.

  In both these resolutions he was quite right; and for all the wisdom of the first of them he was speedily rewarded by the beautiful simplicity with which Elizabeth permitted him to read her innocent young heart. How far the closing of that day was unlike its opening, to both of them, may be very safely left to conjecture; while the narrative turns to scenes of rather a different character, which were going on at no great distance from them.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  THERE was, besides Elizabeth, one other person of Mrs. Hubert’s party who entered the rooms with a spirit preoccupied, and nevertheless awake in no common degree to a feeling of deep interest, concerning all that might chance to pass there. This person was Mrs. Stephenson. From the time she had met Mrs. O’Donagough at the house of her father, this lively lady had been labouring without intermission to obtain intelligence respecting the source of her newly-acquired wealth, together with every particular possible to be got at, respecting the position and manner of life of Mr. O’Donagough. Having an extremely clever lady’s maid, and a saucy French page, who could have worked his way through a deal board as readily as a gimlet, had he expected to find either mischief or profit behind it, — having two such functionaries, both very devotedly attached to her, and bound in all ways to do her bidding, it is not, perhaps, very extraordinary that she contrived to obtain a few hints which confirmed her in the belief that good Mr. Willoughby’s suggestion of a large fortune having fallen into the possession of Mr. O’Donagough was less probable than desirable. In short, she came to the house fully aware that high play was carried on there, and was much inclined to suspect that Sir Henry Seymour’s intimacy in the family was owing to this. With a great deal of warm-hearted good feeling, Nora had also a little of that species of animated interest in the affairs of those she loved, which sometimes leads to interference more active than judicious. Most women loving and trusting a husband, as completely as she loved and trusted hers, would have confided all their suspicions to him, and trusted to his management the delicate task of discovering whether the man she had wished to see the husband of her niece was undeserving this happiness, either from his being a gambler, or an inconstant. But no, Mrs. Stephenson very greatly preferred managing the whole matter herself, and, excepting her maid and her page, no living being had the slightest suspicion of what she had got in her head.

  For a short time after Seymour and Elizabeth had stood up side by side for the purpose of walking about a little, and talking a good deal to the various airs of a quadrille, Mrs. Stephenson took the trouble of moving from one side of the room to the other, and back again, and then a little on one side, and then a li
ttle on the other, in order to ascertain whether they appeared to be on the same sort of terms together which she had formerly remarked with so much satisfaction. It was not very long before she became perfectly satisfied on this point, and then she determined to take advantage of having completely separated herself from her party in order to penetrate to the card-room, and make her own observations upon what she might find there, without being interrupted by anybody.

  The crowd that filled the rooms, and which at that time was at its height, prevented this manœuvre from being remarked by any individual of her own party. Frederic was not there: for Mr. O’Donagough, having long ago ascertained that he was not a playing man, had gradually, as Iris connection increased with those who were, made himself less agreeable, and less observant, so that the acquaintance begun at Brighton would have been a decided bore in London, had it not tacitly died away by mutual concert. Without any interruption whatever, therefore, the enterprising Nora made her way across the first room, through the second, and into the third, till she found herself within a few feet of Mr. O’Donagough, Mr. Ronaldson, their snug little table, and their very quiet game of piquet. She perceived a considerable quantity of gold upon the table, which surprised her not, but it did surprise her to observe that it was the simplelooking young man who constantly won every game, while her strongly suspected acquaintance, Mr. O’Donagough as constantly lost without manifesting any symptom of vexation, or indeed of emotion of any kind. Beside Mr. Ronaldson, and immediately opposite O’Donagough stood Mr. Foxcroft. To Mrs. Stephenson this gentleman was totally a stranger, nor would his appearance in any way have attracted her attention, had she not observed that a slight smile, which he sought to conceal by passing his hand across his mouth, was perceptible each time that the elder gentleman counted over a handful of sovereigns to the younger one. She was quite sure, too, by the direction of the eyes of both, that whatever thoughts produced this smile were in common between Mr. O’Donagough and the gaunt figure from whom it proceeded, though nothing in the slightest degree approaching to an answering smile could be perceived on the well-regulated features of the former.

  It was just as she had observed this for the third time, and that some vague notion not altogether unlike the truth was growing into very shrewd suspicion in the mind of Mrs. Stephenson, that she felt her arm touched by some one beside her, and looking round, perceived Elizabeth Peters staring at Mr. O’Donagough very earnestly, while at the same time she was calling her attention with more familiarity than their acquaintance warranted.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Stephenson,” she said, “but will you be so kind as to tell me the name of that gentleman opposite?”

  “It is the master of the house — Mr. O’Donagough.”

  “O’Donagough?” repeated Miss Peters in a cautious whisper. “Indeed, Mrs. Stephenson, that is not his real name.”

  At any other time it is possible that this abrupt contradiction from a person very nearly a stranger to her might have obtained from Mrs. Stephenson a look of offended surprise and nothing more; but in the present state of her mind, nothing could be more certain of commanding her attention than such a communication as this. She immediately passed her arm under that of Miss Peters, and silently drew her through the crowd till they reached the landing-place on the top of the stairs; there, comparatively speaking, they were alone, and Mrs. Stephenson after mounting a step or two of the ascending flight for greater security, turned to her surprised companion, and said in a tone of the deepest interest, “Tell me, Miss Peters, for mercy’s sake, tell me instantly, what it is you mean by the words you just now spoke to me.”

  “I mean, Mrs. Stephenson, that unless I am a great deal more mistaken than ever I was in my whole life before, that person who you say is the master of the house is Major Allen, a man that I knew very well at Clifton very nearly twenty years ago.”

  Never certainly did any lady in the act of weaving a romance and elucidating a mystery, receive a piece of intelligence more well-timed, or more completely german to the subject of her thoughts.

  “My dear Miss Peters!” she exclaimed, catching the hand of her companion, and fervently clasping it, “are you indeed convinced, fully convinced, of the truth of what you now assert? It is no idle curiosity which makes me ask you this; your answer is of real importance.”

  “Indeed Mrs. Stephenson, I am; and I would not say it, unless I was quite sure.”

  “But how can we account for no other persons having recognised him? Did not Agnes know that Major Allen? and I well remember hearing Mr. Stephenson, and the general also, talk over that same season at Clifton of which you must now he speaking, and naming him in a manner that proved they must have known him personally. I think, bliss Peters, that it is impossible.”

  “It is not impossible at all, Mrs. Stephenson,” replied Elizabeth Peters. “I well remember that neither Agnes nor either of the gentlemen you name, ever spoke to him at all; whereas I was the person to whom he always addressed himself.

  I was very young then, and did not find out till afterwards that he was not so gentlemanlike a person as he pretended to be. But I was more with my aunt Barnaby than any of them, and this man was certainly making love to her, though it did not come to anything then. You may depend upon it that what I say is true — I remember every feature in his face, but most particularly I remember a wart that he has on the left temple, which the wig that he wears now is intended, I suppose, to cover; but while I stood looking at him he wiped his forehead with his pocket handkerchief, and just pushed back the hair, so that I saw it perfectly. I was very sure it was Major Allen before that, but I could not have any doubt afterwards.”

  “And he calls himself Allen O’Donagough!” exclaimed Mrs. Stephenson in the softest of whispers, and suddenly feeling perfectly convinced of the fact. “Nothing was ever so fortunate as my meeting you here, my dear Miss Peters. You will not, I am sure, refuse to assist me in the project I am bent upon, of completely unmasking this detestable man. It would be a very righteous thing to do it, even without any personal motive — but I have many. Will you then return with me to the card room — remain close to me — and without attracting attention, even by a whisper, let us both carefully watch what is going on? You have already proved that you have a keen eye — I am not quite blind myself; and with your help, and that of my eyeglass, I fully expect to see something worth noting.”

  Exceedingly well pleased to find herself of more consequence than usual, Elizabeth Peters expressed her readiness to do anything that Mrs. Stephenson wished; and once more linked arm-in-arm, they re-entered the card room together. By the time they recovered their position near the little piquet table, a murmur about “going down to supper” began to make itself heard, and a movement was already perceptible among the crowd. Silently pressing the arm of her companion, Mrs. Stephenson very skilfully fell back, as if pressed upon by the passing throng, and ensconced herself and Miss Peters in a draperied recess, which contained a sofa, and which might, by letting the curtains drop, be made exactly to correspond in appearance with the one window of the apartment, giving to the irregular room the advantageous effect of two windows instead of one, and a niche. During the long consultations which had been held between Mrs. O’Donagough and her friend Louisa, concerning the most advantageous manner of setting off her “beautiful rooms” for this great occasion, nothing had detained them so long as this puzzling recess. Miss Louisa was very strongly of opinion that the general effect of the three rooms altogether would be a great deal indeed more grand by making it appear that there were two regular handsome windows in the card room. Whereas Mrs. O’Donagough herself, remembering, perhaps, the days of Silverton and Captain Tate, declared that nothing could look so inviting as that pretty sofa with the draperies festooned before it. At length the amiable wife exclaimed, “We will ask Donny about it.” And Miss Louisa was accordingly despatched to the study to invite the master of the house to the consultation.

  “Well, Mr. O’D., what do you say to it
?” demanded his wife, after fairly stating the pros and cons.

  “It had much better look like a window at once, my dear,” he replied. “I don’t want people to be tempted, as you call it, into sitting in this room at all. Nobody can enjoy a game at cards unless the room is quiet; and though I know just at first that the people will be pushing in and out, I am determined to have a quiet hour or two after supper, and I shall just lock the door, you may depend upon it.”

  “That is just as you please, my dear,” answered his wife, gaily. “By that time, all the people will have seen that we have got three rooms; and, of course, that’s all I care about it.”

  “Very well, then, that’s all right; but I’d rather you would make the recess look merely like a window if you can.” And so the discussion ended, Mrs. O’Donagough very obediently arranging the curtains of the window and the recess exactly alike. But about half an hour before the company began to arrive — while Mr. O’Donagough was giving some last instructions to Foxcroft in the library, and while the two Miss Perkinses and Patty were still indulging in some last looks, last pins, and last pinches before their looking-glasses above — the highly-delighted mistress of the fête beguiled those moments of expectation by walking backwards and forwards through what she loved to call her suite of rooms, and pushing a bench an inch one way, and pulling a chair an inch that, in the idle attempt to improve what her heart told her was already perfect. In the course of these repeated promenades, it occurred to her that the appearance both of the real window and the fictitious one would be greatly more elegant were their draperies partially drawn up, disclosing in the one case a small portion of a coloured blind, which she greatly admired, and in the other a very slight peep into her beloved recess, which, though not sufficient to induce anybody to penetrate its darkness, nevertheless might give the idea of some addition to the extent, of which she was so particularly proud. This last improvement completed her labours of preparation, for the three ladies from above entered the room immediately after; and their admiration of her and her rooms, and her admiration of them and their dresses, left no time for any more finishing touches, before the company began to arrive.