Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “In matters of business no one should ever be in a hurry. Sit thee down again, friend, sit thee down, and let us talk this matter quietly over.”

  They did sit down again, and they did talk the matter quietly over; so quietly indeed, so lengthily, so step by step, that the reader might have rather more than enough of it, were I to repeat word for word all that was spoken on that occasion. Suffice it to say, that affairs wore a very different aspect, when at length Mrs. Allen Barnaby really did leave the room, from what they did when she first attempted to do so.

  One feature only of the interview remained unchanged. Rachel Williams continued during the whole of it to maintain her industry and her silence, never once lifting her eyes from her hemming, and never once speaking a word.

  Talking of the passions of a quaker may, to some people, I believe, appear like talking of the passions of a fish, but people so thinking cannot be natives of Philadelphia. The honest broad-brimmed abhorrence of slavery, and the hearty wish of bringing about a national abolition of it, does decidedly amount, in many instances, to a passion in the beautiful city of Grecian Banks, and flowery Catalpas. Our quiet-seeming friend, John Williams, was an instance of this, though his wife Rachel was not; for while she could not choose but remember (even if she had wished to forget it) that it was the same person who was now making a plain and specific application for dollars, that she had seen entering the dining-room the day before, the very emblem of all that a sober-minded female ought not to be, John himself had no room in his head or his heart for anything but the abolition question, and actually trembled when his conscience reminded him of the risk he had at one moment run, of suffering an ill-timed fit of avaricious caution to stifle an undertaking which promised such great advantage to the scheme that it was the first object of his life to advance.

  It was therefore with a bright and triumphant eye that Mrs. Allen Barnaby met the inquiring glance of her husband, upon encountering him in the retirement of their own apartment, whither he had returned from an unprofitable morning stroll on purpose to receive her.

  “You need not speak, my Barnaby!” he exclaimed, the moment he beheld her. “That you have succeeded, is just as easy seen as that you have a pair of the most expressive eyes in the world. And how in the world, my darling woman, have you contrived to screw money out of that parchment man?”

  “I should be vastly sorry, major, if I thought that I should get no more than what my dear friend John Williams will disburse himself — though I have no fears either that he should fail me. But my projects are a good deal more extended than that, my dear, as you may perceive, if you will do me the favour of running your eye over this list of names — the most wealthy, the most respectable, and the most influential in Philadelphia, as I beg to inform you.”

  She then drew forth a large sheet of paper which she displayed before him, and on which were, in truth, inscribed about thirty of the first names of the city. To these persons, John Williams had promised to apply for subscriptions to Mrs. Allen Barnaby’s book, giving her to understand, as he wrote each down, that on such an occasion she would be sure to receive a sum greatly exceeding the price of many copies, for that he pledged himself to make them understand how vitally important to the undertaking was the raising a considerable sum at the moment.

  “A considerable sum? I wonder what broadbrim calls a considerable sum — eh, my dear? Have you any notion?” demanded the major, with the saucy air of one not disposed to be easily contented.

  “He mentioned no figures whatever, major — I cannot say that he did,” replied Mrs. Allen Barnaby, with a slight frown. “But upon my honour, Donny, I don’t think it would be wise just at present for us to stand out quarrelling with our bread-and-butter, only because we think it just possible that the butter may not be thick enough.”

  “I have no more idea of committing any such folly, than I have of building a church, my love, so don’t alarm yourself,” he replied. “Not only just at present, Mrs. Allen Barnaby, but just for ever, our calling and our profession will be to catch what we can. This is no bad trade depend upon it, even among Yankees, if the capital brought to it has a good deal of sterling brass, mixed with the gold of such a wit as yours, my Barnaby. Oh no, I have no intention, depend upon it, of declining these quaker dollars; nor can I express to you sufficiently, my charming partner, the admiration I feel for the brilliant versatility of your talents, nor can I behold the bold, not to say audacious approach towards puritanical attire which your appearance at this moment exhibits, without feeling that my happy destiny has mated me with a mind worthy of union with my own.”

  This flourishing compliment, which was accompanied by a low bow, made the lady get up and place herself before the glass, and as she stood there with her hands primly crossed before her, both husband and wife laughed heartily.

  After this little indulgence of light heartedness, the well-matched pair entered upon a business-like discussion of their immediate arrangements. It was decided between them that Patty should be bribed by some new article of finery to be worn elsewhere, to make herself somewhat more decent in attire at the dinner-table, and also that Mrs. Allen Barnaby herself should lay out a few cents in mouse-coloured ribbon, and that the major and his martial mustache should keep out of the way, on pretence of botanising, in order to avoid the too obvious incongruity of appearance between them. This botanising notion was due to the ready invention of my heroine, and was rewarded by a fresh burst of conjugal admiration.

  This very pleasant conversation ended by the major informing his wife, that although he had no hope whatever of doing much during the time they might find it desirable to remain under the patronage of her quaker friends, he was nevertheless not without nope of doing something, for he had found out two public billiard-tables, which, though apparently carrying on business a little under the rose, would enable him to pass his time without having to reproach himself with that worst of all possible faults, idleness, which in his case, as she conscientiously observed, would be worse than in that of most others, inasmuch as he knew himself to be blessed with a degree of ability which rendered the employment of it a positive duty.

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  DURING the space of ten days or a fortnight, the sincere and steadfast-purposed John Williams was fully occupied in canvassing among his Mends and acquaintance for such substantial patronage for Mrs. Allen Barnaby’s work upon “Slavery in the United States of America,” as her peculiar circumstances rendered necessary. Of all canvassing this species is decidedly the most difficult, let it be carried on where it will; but John Williams was not a man to withdraw himself from an enterprise merely because he found it difficult, and at length his perseverance so far succeeded that he ventured to announce hopes to his client of being able to raise the respectable sum of five hundred dollars, provided she would agree to make over the copyright of her forthcoming work to a quaker bookseller, who on that condition had agreed to undertake not only the publication of it, but also the collecting the promised subscriptions for the purpose of paying them over in advance to the authoress.

  Perhaps my heroine never gave a more decided proof of ready cleverness than on this occasion. She would joyfully have accepted a single dollar in exchange for all the profit she actually anticipated from the publication of her unborn production; but on receiving this magnificent proposal from John Williams, she started, shook her head, sighed, dropped her eyes, and for the space of a minute and a half, exhibited with admirable skill all the symptoms of great disappointment, borne with meek patience and resolute philosophy.

  “Thee dost not like this proposal, friend Barnaby?” said the good quaker, looking at her rather timidly. “Thee dost not think five hundred dollars will suffice for thy present necessities?”

  “Not so, my dear sir,” replied the admirable woman, with a modest humility of manner that was very striking; “the sum you name would be quite sufficient for the humble style to which I shall for this object reduce my manner of travelling. It is not t
hat, my kind Mend, which causes me to hesitate. But I confess to you that the idea of parting with the copyright of a work which I have reason to believe will be very profitable, does startle me. I cannot but indeed consider it equivalent to parting with several thousand dollars.”

  “Indeed!” returned John Williams, feeling, good man, very much ashamed of having been made the organ of so unjust and ungenerous a proposition. “If that be the case, my good lady, I withdraw the offer with many apologies for having made it.”

  “Nay, dear sir, do not say that,” she replied. “To you I must ever feel deeply grateful; and moreover, my good friend, we must not lose sight of my very peculiar position. I do not feel that I have the power to refuse this offer, though the terms of it do seem rather severe, for in fact, without the assistance it promises I can do nothing, and therefore, as you perceive, I must perforce accept it, or abandon at once and for ever an undertaking in which every feeling of my heart is engaged.”

  “I do believe thee, I do believe thee,” replied the quaker, deeply touched by the generous devotion of the poor negro’s advocate. “But thy goodness must not be the means of robbing thee of thy fair hopes of honest profit from thy labours. I must see my friend the bookseller again, and endeavour to bring him to reason.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” said Mrs. Allen Barnaby, timidly, and with the air of a person who knows that he is asking for a good deal, “perhaps, sir, your friend the bookseller might agree to give me one quarter share of the profits arising from the sale of the work after all expenses, including the advance of five hundred dollars, shall have been paid?”

  “Nothing can be fairer or more liberal,” replied John Williams, with an eagerness of manner that was almost unseemly in a quaker; but in fact he was greatly delighted at the idea of settling the business in a manner that he thought would be agreeable to all parties; and immediately seizing the stick, that ever stood ready in the corner (his ample beaver being already on his head), he declared his intention of immediately seeing the individual whose consent it was necessary to obtain, and left the room with a promise of bringing home the stipulated sum with him, which ho would deliver to her, he said, at the same hour on the following morning, being engaged out to dinner with his wife, which would prevent their meeting again that day.

  Mrs. Allen Barnaby rose from her chair at the same moment that he rose from his, for she had no inclination whatever to remain tete-a-tete with Rachel.

  That very sensible woman and exemplary wife did not take any trouble to conceal from my quick-sighted heroine, that her liking for her did not increase by their lengthened acquaintance. In fact, though she strictly kept her word to her husband, and did not permit her own feelings or prejudices to be any hindrançe to the work which had for its object the welfare of the negro race, she -did, in honest truth, hate and detest Mrs. Allen Barnaby as much as it was well possible for a Christian quaker to hate anything. She had hailed the first mitigation of brilliance in her as a symptom of seemly respect to the society of quakers in general, and to John and Rachel Williams in particular. But not content with this, Mrs. Allen Barnaby had gone on, day by day, adding little quaker et cæteras to her fitting out, which showed upon her like a white rose stuck in the unshapely ear of an elephant, till the worthy Rachel, who though a quaker, had enough of the woman in her to see through such trickery, felt persuaded that she was nothing better than a great overblown cheat, and in pursuance of this unpleasant persuasion spake to her little, and looked at her less, all which being carefully noted by my observant heroine, it is no great wonder that she bustled out of the room the very moment after John Williams left it, with no other leave-taking than a rapidly-enunciated, “Good morning, ma’am.”

  Nothing could exceed the air of gay good-humour with which the well-pleased major received his lady’s account of what had passed; they were unquestionably a most happily-assorted couple, and as if to take instant advantage of the peculiar hilarity of their parents, the Don and his wife knocked at the door of their room just as my heroine had concluded her narrative, and declared that they were come with a joint petition that the whole party might go to the play that evening. No favour was ever asked at a more propitious moment; both the father and mother were in too happy a state of spirits not to relish any proposal the object of winch was gaiety and amusement.

  “Off with you, then, Tornorino,” exclaimed Patty, joyously, “and get the very best places you can.”

  “Perhaps it will be better for me to undertake that part of the business, especially as I have a notion that one and all of you will look my way for money to pay for them,” said the major.

  “You are always a dear darling, papa, that I will say for you,” replied his daughter, her bright eyes positively dancing in her head with glee; “but you can pay the Don, you know, when he comes back, and you’ll find that he will get capital good places for you.”

  Thus reassured, the major gave up the point, and the interval of the messenger’s absence was spent in very lively chit-chat by the parents and their darling daughter, who, to say truth, was not always equally disposed to bestow the advantage of her charming spirits upon them, when no other person was present to share their admiration.

  The Don, however, did not linger on his way, but returned with two tickets for front places in one of the best boxes in the house; and these he presented to his august mother-in-law, informing her at the same time that they were the only very good places left, but that he had made an acquaintance with one of the gentlemen of the orchestra who had promised him an order for himself and his wife.

  “Then Patty shall go with her mother, Tornorino,” said the major, good-naturedly. “I won’t take a good place while Patty has got a bad one.”

  “It not be a bad one,” returned the Don, earnestly. “It be a very good one.”

  “Good or bad, Torni,” returned his wife, with great vivacity, “it will be no treat to me, you know, if I am to be parted from you, my darling. No, no, Mr. Pap, I know you mean to be very kind, and I thank you accordingly, but I shall sit with the Don, be sure of that.”

  The major returned some laughing compliment to her pigeon - like constancy, and promised not to interfere with it again.

  As my heroine’s particular friends were absent from the dinner-table that day, she had little or no opportunity for conversation, for her previous devotion to John Williams had prevented her taking her usual measures to obtain acquaintance with any one else. But Patty was more than usually talkative, and before the repast ended had addressed the interesting question, “Are you going to the play to-night?” to no less than five different persons. Three of these being very “dry” quakers, answered in the negative with something not far removed from a grunt or a groan; and of the two others, one said he did not know, while the other so far encouraged her prattling propensity as to inquire if there was to be anything particularly worth seeing in the performance that night.

  Madam Tornorino’s first reply to this very natural question did not sound very civil, for it consisted in a short loud laugh, which seemed to indicate that the person who had asked it, had been guilty of an absurdity; but having indulged in this mirthful propensity for a minute or two, she settled her features into more than usual gravity, and said —

  “Upon my word, sir, I don’t quite know, but we heard there was to be a new performer; didn’t we, Don Tornorino?”

  “Mais oui” returned her husband, bowing to the inquirer, “dere will be a début to-night.”

  “Then I shall certainly go,” said the gentleman to whom he addressed himself; adding, “that is just what I like best.”

  And hereupon Patty laughed again; upon which her mother, a good deal shocked at her rudeness to the very well-dressed gentleman who appeared to occasion her mirth, said in an audible aside to the major —

  “The dear creature is in such spirits at the idea of going to the theatre to-night, that she is ready to laugh at everything.” An observation which was fully justified by her daughter suddenly
clapping her hands, with the most naïve appearance of irrepressible glee, and again bursting forth into a fit of merriment so genuine, that it was almost impossible not to join in it.

  “What were you laughing at, Patty?” said her father, taking her arm as the party were dispersing after dinner, “I declare, my dear, I think you grow younger, as well as handsomer, every day. Doesn’t she, Tornorino?”

  “Oh! she is a bien belle femme” replied Tornorino, at the same time whispering something in her ear.

  “And you are a beautiful man, my darling,” she replied, withdrawing her arm from her father. “And he is going to give me another treat,” the added; “for he says I must take a delightful walk with him before the play, and so I shall set off this very moment.”

  “Why, Patty, you will be tired to death,” said her mother, “so dreadfully hot as it is. Upon my word you had much better lie down instead of trotting out in the sunshine.”

  “Thank’e for nothing, mamma,” replied the lively beauty, snapping her fingers. “My husband always knows what is best for me, don’t you, Don? So good-by, dear pap and mam, and the next time you see me, I hope you’ll find that I am not at all the worse for my walk.”

  “Stay, Patty, stay,” cried her father, calling after her as she walked off towards her own room with her Don; “I suppose you mean to come back in time to walk to the theatre with us.”

  “Upon my word, I don’t suppose any such thing,” returned his daughter, gaily. “At any rate, pap, you had better not wait for us,” she added, “because as we are not going to sit together, there is no use in our bustling back just to be in time for you. I won’t say but what I shall spend a ‘levy’ that I have got in the corner of my pocket, in treating the Don with an ice, so that most likely we shall not come back at all.”

  As no very reasonable objection could be made to this conjugal arrangement, the young couple were suffered to walk off without further opposition, while the seniors entered their own retreat together.