Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  There was no room for any farther embarrassment, and Sir Charles Temple quietly replied, “Very probably.”

  “Such is the case, Charles, and I see no shame in avowing it. The humble Sophia Martin, the poor portionless orphan, has a look that recalls my poor boy to me perpetually — and this is a charm that I have no power to resist — Sophia Martin will be my heir, Temple.”

  “May she prove a worthy successor to her excellent uncle!” said the young man in an accent as cordial as it was possible for him to assume. But ail his efforts failed to make it fall on the ear of his old friend pleasantly. Mr. Thorpe, however, was much too reasonable a person to be offended, though he could have wished, perhaps, for better sympathy. But each took a glass of wine in silence, and the conversation was then renewed by Mr. Thorpe, on a subject as far distant as possible from the one they had left — and from that moment there seemed a compact entered into by tacit but mutual consent, that the little interlude of the last fortnight, and all the actors in it, should never form the theme of their future conversation. This resolution, though unacknowledged by either, was very faithfully kept to, by both; the old chroniclers, and their musty commentators, again crept into the study, and the philosophy of history became, as heretofore, the favourite theme of discussion between them.

  In this manner the short interval which remained of Sir Charles Temple’s stay in the country, wore away, and he came to take his farewell dinner with his old friend. Neither of the gentlemen were in very high spirits on the occasion; Sir Charles felt that taking leave of Thorpe-Combe was like again taking leave of Florence, and despite the unceasing continuity of his good resolutions, respecting the indifference which it was his duty to cultivate on the subject, he could not recall her image without painful, and even violent emotion; and the fact, that he had particularly got her into his head, and could not get her out again, was quite sufficient to account for his not being very good company.

  His old friend would probably have been more aware of this, had he not himself felt ill and out of spirits. He attributed this, however, solely to the approaching departure of his favourite; and often reiterated was the inquiry, “How soon do you think you shall be back again, Temple?” — But the evening closed at last; the friendly hands were clasped in a farewell grasp that both felt to be painful, and they parted.

  At a very early hour on the following morning, and while the shutters of his old friend’s windows were still closed, Sir Charles Temple passed before the front of the house, in order to take one more last farewell — alas! he had already taken many — of the spot where he had first heard Florence sing; and then, ashamed of his own weakness, he hurried home again, and in half an hour was galloping the one old pony that constituted all his English stud, to the high road on which he was to join the coach to London, Mr. Thorpe’s breakfast on that morning was a sad one, and it would have been sadder still, had he not made up his mind to be very busy. As long as Sir Charles Temple remained in the country, a dislike, which he could not conquer, to resuming the subject of the settlement of his estate, had prevented his taking any steps towards making his will; an event upon which it would have been equally disagreeable for him either to have kept silence or to have spoken. But the impediment of his friend’s presence removed, he determined to delay this important business no longer, and when Mrs. Barnes entered to remove his breakfast, he said, “Barnes, do you think I could trust Jem to take a letter for me to Mr. Westley’s?”

  “Yes, sure, sir, no doubt of it,” replied the intelligent housekeeper, as well aware of what was going to be done, as if her master had commenced the conversation by distinctly stating that it was his intention immediately to set about making his will.

  “Then let him be ready in half an hour; and you may come in and fetch the letter, which I shall have written by that time.”

  “Very well, sir,” was all the reply made: but half a glance at the housekeeper’s face might have shown her master that she felt conscious in every nerve of there being a very solemn business a-foot; but that nothing could be farther from her intention than to say any single word on the subject.

  Exactly at the time named she returned, and there found, lying, upon the table, a letter directed to Joseph Westley, Esq. Cropt Hill Cottage.

  “Any answer, sir?” said Mrs. Barnes, demurely.

  “No, Barnes; the gentleman will bring the answer himself.”

  “It will be a most abominable trick to serve me, if he asks the lawyer to dinner without telling me,” said Mrs. Barnes to her niece Nancy, as soon as Jem and his important despatch had disappeared. “I’ll dress but one of the partridges to-day, anyhow, you may depend upon that.”

  But the one partridge was enough. Mr. Westley did not make his appearance on that day. The next, however, brought him to the Combe; and a decisive and business-like pull at the bell brought Mrs. Barnes to the inside of the door, and Jem to the outside. The lawyer’s horse was taken and led round to the stables, and the lawyer himself introduced into Mr. Thorpe’s study.

  There are various different degrees of domestic treachery and domestic impertinence. Some footmen (before the blessed invention of covers) would turn a note inside-out, as it is said, rather than not become acquainted with the contents; while others never did anything beyond peeping in at the ends. Some servants, as perfectly assured of what was going on as Mrs. Barnes, would have applied their ear to the keyhole; but Mrs. Barnes would have scorned such an action, and instead of using unlawful means to acquire more information, contented herself with most legitimately communicating as much as she had.

  Niece Nancy had the benefit of this; and as they shook, and pulled, and shook again the curtains that were once again to be consigned to darkness and repose, Mrs. Barnes not only explained exactly what Mr. Westley and her master were at that moment about, but also in what way, according to her judgment and belief, the great question of the Thorpe-Combe estate was likely to be decided.

  “I have no more doubt than that I stand here, Nancy, how the property Will go. That is, of course, what is not to be left in legacies. I think I can answer for it that there will be some legacies; but the fine estate, and the house, and all the beautiful things in it, will all go.... Now where do you guess, Nancy?”

  “If I had got to give it away to any of them as have been here, surety it should not be to either of them three scoffing, jeering, flirts as used to make such a sight of cinders before dinner every day in the blue damask. I hated the sight of ’em, tossing up their Welsh noses as if there was nothing good enough for’em.”

  “You are quite right, Nancy. They won’t be the better for a single stick on the place — trust me for that. — But go on, girl. Who do you think it will be?”

  “Why, it won’t be the little smut of a one, neither. She is as much overdone t’other way. I always thought she’d end by hugging me, she was so unaccountable civil and intimate. She isn’t a bit like a lady, to my mind.”

  “Humph!” said Mrs. Barnes, “she is no beauty to be sure, but she wasn’t the last in the list, I can tell you, with master. What d’ye say to her managing to have the little teaboard for him, in every evening, that she might make his tea? She has Cut her eye-teeth, Nancy, you may swear to that. But my master will never be such a fool as to turn over his houses and lands to such a one as that, — though I shouldn’t wonder if she was to be paid a pretty good price, in the shape of a legacy, for every drop of tea she poured out.”

  “No, «no, — it won’t be she, that’s no ways likely; but I’ll tell you who I think ought to have it, — and that’s the sweet, beautiful, pretty creature as was in the green chintz. She’s the one for my money, with her voice like a blackbird and her eyes like two diamonds.”

  She may be the one for your money, Nancy, if you have any to spare; but she won’t be the one for my master’s. It would not be right in the eyes of the county — a young thing like that; what should she do with it? No, no, my master is a good bit queer sometimes, with his hatred of footmen an
d the rest of it; but he’s a gentleman every inch of him, and he’ll take care that ’tis a gentleman that comes after him — and that gentleman will be one of the two young Mr. Spencers — the eldest, in coarse, I suppose. And who else could he choose out, Nancy, if you will but think about it, reasonable, for a minute. They come to the place like gentlemen, and they are dressed by a valet, like gentlemen, and they look like gentlemen altogether, — and you see, when the time comes, if I ain’t right.”

  “There is nobody so likely to know, at any rate, aunt, as you are, and I’m not going to contradict you; but I hope when the young gentleman gets a wife, that she will have sense enough to see how the things have been looked after and taken care of.”

  On this day, though not one single word had been said about dinner, Mrs. Barnes relaxed in her severity of purpose so much as to prepare two wild-ducks for the spit; but, nevertheless, they were not doomed to smoke together on the board, for just as the fire was preparing itself to receive them the parlour bell rang, Jem was ordered to bring round Mr. Westley’s horse, and the lawyer departed.

  Another week passed away, and nothing more was heard either of Mr. Westley or the will; but, at the end of that time, three neighbours among the Thorpe-Combe tenants, all well-behaved respectable men, had each a note sent him, (which as they were not even sealed, Mrs. Barnes did look into,) requesting them to call at Combe at twelve o’clock on the following Tuesday. They arrived punctually at the hour appointed, and found Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Westley seated at a table, with a skin of parchment extended before them. To this instrument, whatever it was, they were requested to put their names as witnesses of having seen Mr. Thorpe sign his, with seal annexed and proclamation made, that it was his own act and deed. This done, they were invited to refresh themselves by a tumbler of choice cogniac and boiling water (the weather being fearfully cold) and then dismissed.

  Another week passed, — and another, — yet still Mrs. Barnes had nothing more substantial than conjecture by which to satisfy the curiosity of herself and all those of her friends and acquaintance in the parish who deemed themselves privileged to pay her a visit, and have a little neighbourly talk with her about the signing and sealing, which everybody knew had taken place at the Combe the day that lawyer Westley had rode by the second time. All she could do was, to look discreet, and declare that she knew her master well enough to be quite sure that all was right and as it ought to be. Nobody, she said, knew what was right to be done better than Mr. Thorpe, and as she did not feel she had a right to say any more, she begged they would all be so good as not to ask her.

  But at the end of rather more than a fortnight from the time when this notorious signing and sealing took place, Mr. Thorpe rang his bell rather sharply, which was answered by Mrs. Barnes, at her most rapid pace; and, in fact, she entered the room with a feeling and a look of alarm, for it was long since he had rung so violently.

  “I am glad to see you can move so briskly, Barnes,” said her master, in a voice more gentle than ordinary, “for I do not feel altogether well.”

  “You don’t think that the broiled chicken could have disagreed, do you, sir?” said Mrs. Barnes, in a tone of deep anxiety.

  “I don’t know... How can one know, Barnes? I don’t believe that if one had an apothecary living in the house all the year round, one should be at all more enlightened as to the recondite effects of broils and stews. But I think you may as well give me a little carbonate of soda, Barnes.”

  Carbonate of soda was never at any great distance from Mr. Thorpe, and the gentle corrector of indulgences was administered: after which, the housekeeper seemed preparing to make her retreat, but her master stopped her by saying, “Do put a morsel or two more wood into the chimney, Barnes... I wonder whether I am particularly chilly, or if it is really very, very cold.”

  “Cold, sir! God bless you! Don’t be after fancying yourself ill, if it is only on the account of being cold, for the very oldest folks in the parish say that the like has not been known for above these thirty years. If it was not for the spring that runs out of the hill into the marble basin in the flower-garden, we should not have a drop of water to help ourselves; and even that we are obliged to wait for as it runs, for the moment after it touches the marble it begins its freezing. It is terrible weather, sir, I do assure you.”

  “Let Beaumont have a couple of loads of wood sawed into short lengths, and given, by a good barrow-full at a time, to as many as choose to come for it. And double the weekly quantity of soup, Barnes, just while this very pinching weather lasts.”

  “God bless you, sir!” said the good woman, “you can’t say a better word than that, for ’tis a great comfort to ’em, poor souls! a drop of good Combe soup such weather as this; and I’ll set about it with a right good will, I promise you, sir.” And then having skilfully arranged the logs and swept the hearth, she departed.

  Mrs. Barnes kept her word, and did set about ordering the wood, and preparing for a fresh batch of soup, with a right good will; but hardly had she sent off Jem in one direction and the kitchen-maid in another, than the parlour-bell again rang, though not quite so sharply as before; and having wiped her hands and removed an exterior apron, she once more went at her best speed to answer it.

  “It is very good of you, Barnes, not to keep me waiting, because I really do not think I am quite well,” said the old gentleman shivering. “Don’t you think, if you were to make me a cup of gruel and put a little brandy in it, I might feel it warm me? I think the soda was too cold for me, Barnes.”

  “You shall have a drop of gruel, sir. There isn’t a finer thing in the world, or a more innocent,” replied the housekeeper. “And you just put your feet up on this stool, will you, sir? — close to the fire, like, — just so, — till I come back again with my drop of gruel. It is just the cruel cold weather that is too much for you, sir: but, thank God! there is remedies for that, and many of them, for those as have the means and just a little thought about ’em.”

  “I don’t like master at all, Nancy,” said the sagacious old woman, on returning to the kitchen, and setting hurriedly about her preparations for the gruel; “and what I like the least is his quietness. It isn’t his usual way, and I don’t like it at all.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to send for the doctor at once, aunt?” replied the girl; “so alone as he is!.... Sir Charles Temple gone to Italy, — and he making his will and all! It sets me all over in a shiver, I’ll be whipped if it don’t i and if you happen to make a little more gruel than you want, I wish you would give me a drop of it, — after you have mixed it ready, you know.”

  “Let you alone, Nancy, for knowing what’s comfortable,” replied the aunt. “Dear good old soul!” she continued, “I know I shall be unaccountable sorry for him? let it happen when it will. It is that abominable letter about his sop, ’tis that’s done it, if anything does happen now, — and you may say I said it, girl. ‘Tip his quietness I don’t like; it makes me feel monstrops queer, and that’s the truth. I wish to goodness he would just scold me a bit!”

  “If I was you I would send for the doctor, aunt,” said Nancy, solemnly.

  “He hates the whole tribe of ’em, Nancy, like poison; and I couldn’t hold myself justified in sending, as long as there’s a single hit of hope left that we can do without him,” replied Mrs. Barnes, conscientiously.

  The gruel, with its comforting accompaniments, was duly administered and duly taken, and Mr. Thorpe declared that he was certainly the better for it; but the next time the bell rang, it was to tell his prime minister that he could not help thinking he should be better in bed.... and to bed he went, and lay there, uneasily enough, poor gentleman! for several days. But Mrs. Barnes had never once the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper: nay, the doctor himself came and went, day after day, without eliciting a single sarcasm while he stayed, or a single reproach to any one who might have sent for him. Upon one occasion, however, after a comfortable sleep of an hour or two, upon waking up with the feeling of be
ing better than for some days past, he seemed inclined to resume his ordinary humour; for, looking round, and seeing Mrs. Barnes in her now constant place by hi$ bed-side, he said, quite in the tone of former days, “Now, are you not a fool, Barnes, to sit there day after day, as if you were determined to make yourself ill? Go, and lie down, silly woman! d’ye hear? — and when you have had as good a nap as I have, come to me again.”

  Delighted, most truly and sincerely delighted, at once more hearing the familiar tone, and firmly believing it to be the best possible evidence of her good master’s speedy recovery, she replied with great glee, “Very well, sir, you shall be obeyed for certain; only please to remember, sir, if you seem to be as well as you are now, when I come back again, I must have you eat a bit of something, — I must, indeed, sir.”

  “We will see about that, Goody Barnes, when the time comes. Now get along with ye, and I’ll try to go to sleep again.”

  It was about two hours after this that his watchful housekeeper returned to him: she had sat up during nearly the whole of four nights, and trusting to her belief that he could not speak so, were he not considerably better, she had very literally followed his injunctions and taken a nap.

  When she returned to him, he was apparently dozing; but he opened his eyes as she drew near, and she instantly saw that a change of no favourable nature had taken place.

  * * * * *

  To follow, throb by throb, the last pulsations of human life is less difficult than painful.

  Mr. Thorpe died within a month after he had made his will; and the worthy Mrs. Barnes, after the first natural burst of emotion was over, began to feel herself very painfully at a loss as to what she ought to do next. After a little reflection, however, she decided upon sending to the gentleman who had made his will, requesting that he would be pleased to write word of the melancholy event to such persons as he thought it necessary and proper should hear of it immediately.