Collected Works of Frances Trollope
Page 377
Another gay supper followed this triumphant recital of the clever scene; when it was agreed on all sides, that with such an admirable talent, and such brilliant success in the use of it, the major owed it to himself and his family to turn it to greater profit than merely throwing dust enough in the eyes of Mr. Gabriel Monkton, to puzzle him as to his identity.
“Upon my honour, Donny, you must make these ladies pay for your preaching, or I shall not be satisfied,” said my heroine.
The major looked roguishly at her in return, and said —
“I am not sure, my Barnaby, but that you may be perfectly right as to the possibility of my making these exemplary females contribute a few dollars to the expenses of this particularly pleasant journey. But before you set me upon it, dear wife, let me beg you to remember that a good deal of sisterly and brotherly love-making must, in all human probability, take place before the result you anticipate can be looked for. Will not your fond heart feel some tender alarms, my dear, during your widowed residence at Pittsburg, knowing that I am thus employed at Sandusky?”‘
This sally produced a fresh burst of laughter, and Mrs. Allen Barnaby replied in admirable mock-heroic —
“Unquestionably, my love, I shall pine and I shall languish; nevertheless, such is my devotion to the common cause, that I will endure it all, rather than risk the loss of a single dollar, or,” gracefully suiting the action to the word, “forfeit a single drop of this sparkling glass of champagne.”
It is now absolutely necessary that the narrative should retrograde a little for the purpose of affording the reader a glimpse at some of the other personages introduced in it; and as my only real and legitimate heroine is at this time suspended, as it were, from all action, while awaiting at Pittsburg, the arrival of her husband from Sandusky, the present opportunity is particularly favourable for the purpose.
* * * * *
It is to be hoped that the kind and courteous reader remembers the position of affairs at Big-Gang Bank, at the time the Allen Barnaby party quitted it; and also the scene which followed between our young English friend Egerton, and his umwhile hospitable entertainers. The result of this was his immediately leaving the house, but not the neighbourhood; for, as may be likewise remembered, he had, while uttering his farewell to his particular friend, Miss Louisa Perkins, contrived to arrange an assignation with her for the evening at the house of Mrs. Clio Whitlaw.
Hurried as was the moment in which this arrangement was settled, he had contrived to make the worthy Louisa understand that this evening meeting would not be quite perfect unless the fair Annie were made a party to it. It must certainly have been owing to the experience which the elder Miss Perkins had gained in love matters, by having been a looker-on upon the great variety of such affairs in which the heart of her sister had been concerned, that she so immediately comprehended the state of the case respecting Annie Beauchamp and Mr. Egerton. Most certain it is, that they neither of them had ever breathed to her a single syllable explanatory of the state of their respective hearts, and yet the worthy spinster felt as certain of their being exceedingly in love with each other, as if she had been the confidant of both, from the first hour of their acquaintance to the last. In this respect, indeed, she had greatly the advantage of them, for although each by this time had a pretty tolerably clear idea of the truth respecting his or her own particular heart, they neither of them dared to believe that he or she had made any impression on the heart of the other. But although Miss Louisa felt as sure as sure could be, that the attachment was equal and mutual, she was not such a blundering agent as to hint this belief to her young friend, when she proposed to her the walk to Portico Lodge; she did not, indeed, even mention the name of Mr. Egerton; and whether Miss Beauchamp had overheard any part of the whisper by which the arrangement was made, it was impossible for Miss Louisa to guess, for the subject was never even alluded to between them. But, however this may be, the young lady made no objection to the proposal of the elder one, and they set off, arm-in-arm together, leaving the colonel and his wife expatiating to Miss Matilda upon the extraordinary virtue and talent of Mrs. Allen Barnaby, and the scandalous conduct of her young countryman, Mr. Egerton.
The two walking ladies were, perhaps, about equally well pleased to escape hearing this, and the satisfaction of having done so, brought a smile to the melancholy face of poor Annie; but it quickly passed away, for her heart was heavy and sad, and she moved on in total silence, feeling that if her very life had depended upon her talking, it would have been impossible. The good Louisa, however, seemed to understand all about it, and walked on beside her without uttering a sound that might interrupt her pretty companion’s revery.
Having thus reached in silence the entrance of Mrs. Whitlaw’s domain, Miss Louisa stopped and looked about her. Annie coloured violently, but she stopped also, but it was only for an instant, for as if some thought had arisen in her mind leading her to disapprove this delay, she suddenly moved forward again, and with a much quicker step than before. But ere she reached the little gate through which they were to pass into Mrs. Whitlaw’s shrubbery, Frederic Egerton stood before them.
Annie Beauchamp did not faint, although she became as pale as alabaster, and so strongly agitated was the young man also, that till Miss Perkins broke the silence, not a word was spoken. She did not, however, watch their embarrassment long without doing her very best, good soul, to remove it.
“I see how it is, my dear young friends,” she said, “as plainly as if I was in both your hearts. What has happened this morning is certainly very unlucky for you both, but if I leave you by yourselves to talk it over, I hope and trust you will think upon something or other to set it all right again.”
Egerton gave one look of gratitude to his kind ally, who instantly stepped forward, and then seizing the hand of Annie, he hastily exclaimed —
“Forgive this most involuntary abruptness, dearest Miss Beauchamp! Drive me not from you, as I was driven from your house this morning, but believe that if my respect, my reverence, equalled not my love, I should not thus implore you to be my wife in the only moment, and in the only manner that is left me.”
There was a something (it is impossible to describe what) in the eyes of Annie as she raised them to the face of Egerton as he spoke, that seemed to save him from despair, though her first act (except looking at him) was to withdraw her hand; and her first words to say —
“If indeed you thus love me, Mr. Egerton, you will instantly overtake Miss Perkins, and bring her back to me.”
It is possible that some young ladies might have spoken such words under similar circumstances, without either intending or expecting that they would or should be obeyed. But there is an intonation in the accents of truth, which when heard by ears intent upon discovering the exact meaning of what they listen to, cannot easily be misunderstood. —
Egerton had left the side of his beloved, and had taken the hand of Miss Perkins, in order to make her break in upon the tête-à-tête, which he would have given years of life to prolong, in less time, perhaps, than it had ever taken him before to bound over an equal space.
“She will not listen to me, my dearest Miss Perkins,” said he, “unless you are beside her. Come back with me this moment, I entreat you.”
The kind-hearted Louisa did not get over the ground with precisely the same sort of flying movement that Mr. Egerton had done, but she moved as rapidly as she could towards her young friend; and though in the interpretation of her feelings she had not now the advantage of any great experience, from having watched similar emotions in her sister, she seemed, somehow or other, to comprehend that it was possible, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, that poor Annie might be in earnest in wishing to have her back again.
When the trio were thus once more reunited, Annie Beauchamp attempted to say something which doubtless would have been very much to the purpose, but she failed, and instead of speaking, dropped her head upon the shoulder of Louisa, and burst into tears.
“Hurried!” cried Egerton, clasping his hands, and fixing his eyes upon the weeping girl, with an air and manner that seemed to say he could be contented to stand thus gazing upon her for ages.
“Oh no! she shall not be hurried, Miss Perkins; let her but give me hope for the future, however distant, and she shall see how absolute her power is over me.”
Annie raised her head, and fixed her beautiful eyes, all tearful as they were, upon him. The first overwhelming transition from doubting, trembling hope, to delicious certainty was over, and the firm but gentle energy of Annie Beauchamp, immediately displayed itself.
“Not for a knowledge of my sentiments shall you wait, Mr. Egerton,” said she; “I have been somewhat over prompt, it may be, in days past, to make you fully comprehend the extent of my prejudices, and I will not be afraid to let you see, that strong as they were, they were not so inveterate as to stand against truth, honour, and generosity. I know nothing of your family or fortune, but I know you, and thus far will I profit by my American freedom. I will promise you, Mr. Egerton, never to be the wife of any other man, so long as it shall continue to be your wish that I should become yours. Nay, nay, you must not thank me thus vehemently,” she added, as he seized her hand and covered it with kisses; “for it may be that all I have said, and all I have the power to say, shall mean nothing more than the expression of my gratitude for sentiments so dearly valued, that were my mother and father willing, I would not deem my whole life too long a space to be employed in proving how very precious they are to me. But, alas! Mr. Egerton, how can we hope, after what has passed this morning, that I can ever be your wife without ceasing to be their child? And this, at once and for ever, let me declare to you, I never will do! I will not give you as a companion for life, a guilty daughter, whose remorse would grow more bitter every day she lived. This I will never do.”
“Nor will I ever ask it of you, Annie,” replied Egerton, with sincerity equal to her own. “I could not love you as I do, did I not in my very soul believe that you are as good as you are beautiful. But, dearest, I do not despair of obtaining the consent of Colonel Beauchamp, and even of your mother, Annie, angry as she is with me at this moment. I have romance enough about me, I confess, to rejoice at having heard the precious words you have uttered, while you were still ignorant of my fortune and position in the world; and as those dear words are recorded where they will endure as long as life and memory are lent me, I may now tell you freely, that my estate, and the settlement I shall propose to your father, are not such as to offer a reason for his rejecting me. My family is honourable, and very nobly connected; and what I think will weigh far more with you, dearest Annie, than either, I flatter myself I can refer with honest confidence to the guardians who have had charge of me from the death of my father to the time of my coming of age, as well as to Eton and Oxford, where I received my education, for testimony that my actions have hitherto brought no disgrace upon my name.”
“Ah, Mr. Egerton,” returned Annie, with both a sigh and a smile, “all this would have gone very far yesterday towards obtaining such an answer as you wish. But I fear that as yet you have no idea of the anger conceived against you, both for your unfortunate parley with the slaves in the rice grounds, and your accusations against the husband of that terrible Mrs. Barnaby. Indeed, indeed, I fear that you would not be listened to upon such a subject for a single instant.”
“Neither will I venture to ask it; dearest Annie,” he replied. “I feel perfectly certain of being able to bring evidence of the truth of all I have said respecting this major, and if I do so, my motives for having warned your father of his practices, must surely be justly appreciated; and as to the other offence imputed to me, a very short time must surely suffice to prove that I have at least done nothing productive of any mischievous result.”
“You speak so hopefully, Mr. Egerton,” she replied, “that you make me think you must know better about it all than I do. But you will allow that time must be given, both for your inquiry about the major, and for the negative proof of your innocence respecting the poor slaves. But this last imputation will, I doubt not, die away, if they all remain quiet.”
“And time shall be patiently given by me, sweet Annie, provided you promise that I may now and then hear from you. Of course I shall leave this place to-night, as it certainly would look like plotting and planning mischief were I to be found lurking here, after the scene of this morning. How I bless the speaking paleness of your fair face, dearest, which gave me courage to ask our kind friend here, for this interview! How different will be my departure now, from what in that first dreadful moment I feared it would have been! And you will write to me, Annie? First addressed to the post-office at New York; for it is thither, as I understand, that my precious countryman has taken himself, and it is thither that I shall immediately follow; but you will write to me, and promise to receive my letters in return?”
Annie looked in the face of Miss Perkins, and would at that moment have given a good deal if the kind feelings she so plainly saw written there, had been more mingled with the tougher quality of good sense. Poor girl! She longed for an English opinion that might have been trusted, as to the propriety of complying with the request of Egerton. To refuse him seemed almost beyond her strength; yet, conscious of her total ignorance of English etiquette in such matters, she shrunk from the idea of consenting to do what was unusual. Egerton saw the struggle, and understood it.
“Are you not my affianced wife, Annie? Conditionally, it is true; but still you are pledged to me. And am I not, still more, your affianced husband? For I have offered my vows unshackled by any condition whatever. Think you, then, that I would ask you to do anything that I would not sanction in my own sister, were I happy enough to have one?”
“I will write to you,” said Annie, gently, “if you desire me to do it.” —
“And will you receive my letters, dearest?” he rejoined, after once again fervently kissing her hand.
“Yes, Mr. Egerton, I will,” she replied, with something almost approaching to solemnity in her manner. “But in both cases it must be done by the assistance of Miss Perkins; for it must not be from me that my parents first learn what has passed between us.”
It will easily be believed that the good Louisa raised no difficulties upon this point, and Frederic Egerton looked quite as happy as it was possible for a man to do who was on the very eve of parting with his beloved.
All this had passed in a shady and obscure retreat in a rustic summer-house, at no great distance from the entrance to Mrs. Whitlaw’s grounds, into which Annie, who knew it well, had almost unconsciously entered, immediately after Miss Perkins had rejoined her. And now she rose to leave it, saying to that excellent person as she did so —
“I cannot visit Mrs. Whitlaw now, Miss Louisa — I should not comprehend a single word she said to me. Farewell, Mr. Egerton!” and she held out her hand to him, “Farewell!”
Before this sad word was uttered between them for the last time, the eyes of the whole party bore witness that they did not separate with indifference; for on seeing the emotion of her young friends, the tender-hearted Louisa wept for company.
But part they must, and part they did at last; but not till the lovers had confessed to each other, that despite the obstacles which thus drove them asunder, that hour was the happiest of their lives.
CHAPTER XLIV.
So very little space is left for detailing the last scenes of the Barnabys in America that they must needs be passed over very lightly. It is hardly necessary, after what the reader knows already, to state that the reception of the reverend Mr. O’Donagough at Mount Lebanon was everything his heart could wish. Young ladies and old, brown ladies and fair, all vied with each other how they best might prove their reverence
for his character and admiration for his talents. It is true that the gentlemen of Sandusky, did not put themselves to much trouble to do the honours of the town to the industrious major; but neither did they, on the other hand, at all interfere to check the hospitalities of the ladies, so that the time he remained there he might truly be said to have been living in clover.
It must be remembered, however, that Major Allen Barnaby, though for particular reasons alone at Sandusky, was not alone in the world — at any rate, he himself never forgot that he had a wife and daughter, whose worldly welfare depended as much upon his exertions in one way, as the unworldly welfare of the serious ladies of the lake did in another; and it therefore happened, as all persons blessed with an acute perception of character must have foreseen, that he had not remained many days amonst them, before he made it understood that the hand of fortune had been as penurious to him as that of nature had been bountiful.