Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Emily, Emily!” cried her father; “upon my life and honour I think I must send you back to school again! The young man, too, may think perhaps that you have behaved beautifully in jilting him, but what do you think Sir Charles will say? A pretty business it will make in the county, won’t it?”

  “Never you mind Sir Charles, papa, nor the county either,” returned his daughter, nodding her head, and looking very intelligent. “I could tell you something about Sir Charles, if I chose it, that might cure your thinking me such a very great fool, after all; though I don’t pretend to say that it had really anything to do with my changing my mind, only it makes it very lucky. Sir Charles has spent every farthing of money that he has got in the world, papa! Minny told me that, to put me on my guard, she said; and people do say, that it was only for the sake of your money; dear papa, that he consented about the marriage, for he thinks that, in all other ways, we are not half grand enough for him.”

  “Does he, though — the proud beggar?” replied the passionate old man. “If all this that you tell me is true, Emmy, it shall be long enough before we send a letter after the young Squire, to bring him back again. I begin to think that things are best as they are, my dear. The awkwardest part of the job, Emily, is the telling everybody that is expecting the wedding that there is to be no such thing. What will the Prices say? The girl, you know, was to be bridesmaid. Won’t they be monstrously provoked?”

  “Never mind that, papa. Never you trouble yourself about my dear Louisa. I daresay I shall find some way or other to put her into good humour again.”

  And, having said this, Emily began laughing again so heartily, that her father stared at her with astonishment, and left her at last with an avowal on his lips, that she certainly was “too much of a child to be married as yet.” These words renewed the burst of merriment to such a degree, that she had recourse to her pocket-handkerchief to conceal it; but the only half-stifled laugh still followed him, so that he could not for the life of him help laughing too; and he mounted his steed and rode off, apparently in very good humour, notwithstanding the startling news that had been communicated to him.

  CHAPTER XLV

  NOTHING could have been much worse timed for the convenience of Sir Charles Otterborne than this new caprice on the part of the beautiful heiress. His spirits had been lulled into a most comfortable state of repose respecting his debts in the country; for he remembered with a chuckle, that if every man in the parish knew that he was over head and ears in debt, every man in the parish, and every woman too, knew equally well how solid were the funds upon which he should soon have the power of drawing, to release himself from them.

  Yet still the gay and high-spirited baronet could not always keep himself from feeling rather ill at ease, as he remembered the debts of a different character, that, at this particular time, he was owing’ in town. The making his son comprehend that he had got behindhand with his country neighbours, and that a little Steyton money would he very convenient, to set things straight in that direction, was a very easy business, particularly as he could say a good deal about repairs, and could really make himself quite touchingly eloquent on the enormous expense of park paling, and on the abominable price that country carpenters charged for timber.

  But the confessing to this admirable son that he must immediately contrive to raise about seven thousand pounds for him, if he did not intend to have him turned out of every fashionable club in town, for omitting to pay his debts of honour, was a very different affair; but he nerved himself for the task, by remembering that it would be performed at a moment when seven thousand pounds might be as easily paid by Herbert as seven thousand farthings, and that, moreover, the asking for it would afford him an excellent opportunity of calling all the gods to witness his stedfast resolution never to play again.

  The reasoning in this way had enabled him to endure the slow movements of the lawyers with a very tolerable appearance of composure; but the arrival of the three following letters, on three successive days, had certainly rendered the preservation of this philosophical exterior, while awaiting the nuptials of his son, extremely difficult.

  The first of the three was from a veteran nobleman, who had the reputation of never having had a bad play debt. It was rather urgent, but at the same time very affectionate. It ran thus: —

  “MY DEAR OTTERBORNE, — I give you my honour that I never sent a dun with more reluctance in my life than I now send this to you. But you, my dear old friend, know of old what my habits of doing business are, and that I am in some sort bound to carry out my system with the most perfect equality to every friend I have in the world. By some confounded accident, of which I know nothing, it has got winded that you have not yet handed over to me the three thousand six hundred that you were minus at our last settling; and more than one fellow, upon whom I have been obliged to put the screw pretty tightly, in order to get my own, has been singing out that equality was fair play, and a good deal more of the same sort. I am sure I need not tell you, Otterborne, that I look upon you as one of the best friends I have in the world, and it must therefore be easy enough for you to guess how devilish painful it is for me to tell you all this; but the real fact is, that the club that turned out Fitzsmith are making a confounded riot about the absolute necessity of equal laics; and, in short, after trying to keep the thing off as long as I could, I have been positively obliged to pacify them at last by saying, that, if I do not hear from you satisfactorily before the end of this week (and this is Wednesday), I shall make no further opposition, but let club-law take its course. In fact, there is no choice about it left me.

  “Yours, my dear fellow,

  “Ever most faithfully,

  “PRETONINGTON.”

  The second was considerably more concise. It only contained the following words: —

  “DEAR OTTERBORNE, — I am devilish hard up, and I must trouble you to settle our books directly. I shall expect to meet you prepared at the — , on Saturday next.

  “Yours, truly,

  “VlNCENT MONTRAVEN.”

  The third was from a well-born and well-bred foreigner, who gently hinted, “that there were, among the various affairs of life, some transactions which admitted of delay, and some which did not; and that Sir Charles Otterborne was too much a man of the world, and too much a gentleman of honour, not to be aware that the settlement of the account between them was au affair of the latter description.”

  Sir Charles had long been in the habit of ordering all his letters to be taken to him in his own private study; so that no eye witnessed the feeling, a little approaching to dismay, with which he perused these dispatches.

  For one moment he felt extremely well disposed to blow his brains out; but in the next he recollected the proud strut with which Herbert’s intended father-in-law had declared that it was his intention to pay down eighty thousand pounds of his daughter’s fortune into the hands of her husband upon their wedding day; and then he felt that he might, at least, take his choice between this always-ready resource of blowing his brains out, and the disclosing his real situation to his son.

  Perhaps it was his recollection of the “canon ‘gainst selfslaughter” which at once determined him to apply to his son in preference; and, that one short moment of struggle over, he once again assumed the aspect of one of the gayest-hearted creatures in existence. It really was quite pleasant to look at him; and when, an hour or two after the arrival of these letters, he happened to meet his carpenter, Stokes, he could not resist the pleasure of saying to him, that he hoped he did not happen to have any very long job of work on hand at present, because he was going to make an alteration in some of the best bedrooms at the Manor-house.

  “My son will be married within a week, at the furthest,” said he, “and I shall take the opportunity of his being absent upon his wedding tour to get it done. I shall be very angry if I can’t get even the painting and papering-work finished before he comes back again.”

  Not all this superabundant vivacity, how
ever, prevented his attending punctually to the letters he had received. They were all answered by the next post; and all the answers were gay, even to playfulness. He told all his three correspondents that he had fully intended to be in town on the following Wednesday, when, as he flattered himself, they would have to congratulate him on the marriage of his son with one of the richest heiresses in England.

  These letters were received and answered by Sir Charles Otterborne, on the same day that William Price received from his father the cheque which was to pay his post-horses to Gretna Green.

  When the high-spirited baronet rose from his early breakfast-table on the following morning, he felt himself so particularly alert, that he determined upon walking over to the Lodge, in order to pay his intended daughter-in-law a visit, and also for the purpose of asking Mrs. Steyton, in confidence, whether the Tuesday following was not to be, at last, finally named as the “happy day.”

  Had Sir Charles only waited about ten minutes longer, before he set out upon this eventful walk, he never would have set out upon it at all, for his son would by that time have told him, that the marriage he was so fondly anticipating could certainly not take place immediately, inasmuch as he himself intended to go abroad for a few weeks, before it was finally settled.

  But so it was not to be; for when Herbert reached his father’s study — where, as was usual with him, he had breakfasted alone — he found that he had already gone out. This accident was an important one to Herbert for it prevented his taking his intended trip to Belgium; whether eventually it made any important difference in what befel his father, may be doubtful; but the day was altogether the most eventful one probably which had ever occurred in the peaceful village of Weldon.

  On reaching the gates of the paddock which surrounded the dwelling of Mr. Steyton, Sir Charles was struck by perceiving a terrified-looking group of domestic servants, among whom were women as well as men, endeavouring by main force to make their master return to the house from which he looked as if he had made his escape by violence; he was without his hat, his hair was strangely disordered, as if he had been removing a portion of it by tearing it off — and, clenched firmly in his right hand, he carried a pistol.

  “Stand off! — stand off!” he screamed in the loudest key that his voice could reach; “I’ll blow out the brains of the first man, or woman either, that stops me.”

  Yet still he found it difficult to advance; for his faithful domestics of both sexes, though they did not venture to face him, impeded his onward progress very effectually by hanging upon the skirts of his coat behind.

  As soon as the poor gentleman had recovered sufficient composure to recognise Sir Charles, his whole aspect changed. He no longer attempted to push forward, but seizing the baronet with his left arm, while he continued to grasp the pistol in his right, he said, “For Heaven’s sake, Sir Charles, tell me all you know! You have lost her as well as I, if she has gone — and I have never told you yet one-half of what I intended to give her! Who is it she has gone off with? It is not your own son, after all — is it? I would be in a towering passion with ’em both if it was — but yet I’d bless the day that ever they did it.”

  “Did what, Mr. Steyton?” demanded the half-frightened, and greatly-puzzled Sir Charles. “Did what, Sir? Why should they run off, together?”

  “Somebody has run off with her!” returned Mr. Steyton. “I was always sure it would turn out so; I always said it, and that was the reason, I can tell you, why I snapped so greedily at your son, — though I don’t believe he’ll ever have a thousand a year in the world to help himself. But he could have made her my lady, at any rate, — and there would have been some comfort in that. But, who has got her now? Can you tell me that?”

  “Why do you suppose that any one has got her, my good Sir?” said Sir Charles; who, while he endeavoured to conceal his merriment at the grotesque appearance of the group before him, felt not the least alarm from the wild and improbable statement of his vehement neighbour; his comfortable assurance that the elopement which he talked of was impossible, rendering it quite impossible also that he could share his suspicions.

  “How do I know that anyone has got her?” returned Mr. Steyton. “Why, you don’t suppose that she has run away by herself, do you?”

  “But, who is it that says she has run away?” persisted the incredulous Sir Charles. “Did any of you see her run off?” he added, turning to the group of servants.

  In reply to this direct appeal there was a universal “No, Sir Charles upon hearing which, Mr. Steyton first seemed inclined to level his pistol at the whole party; and then he let it fall upon the ground.

  “What the devil, then, have you been telling me such lies for?” said he, looking almost as angry at their denial of the news, as he had been at their assertion of it.

  “I only said, Sir,” said one, “that Minny thought her young lady must have run off, because she had gone quite early out of her room, and had left all her things lying about at sixes and sevens.”

  “I only repeated what I heard the housemaid say,” said another. “If you please, Sir, it was the kitchenmaid told me,” said a third.

  “But Tom, the gardener’s boy, now says that he saw Miss Emily walking along, quite quietly, by her own self, more than an hour ago, along the London road,” added a fourth.

  “Then, who was it that said she had run off?” demanded the somewhat pacified Mr. Steyton.

  “Please, Sir, it was your own self,” said one of the grooms.

  “Well done, Steyton! — that’s capital!” cried Sir Charles, laughing very heartily; “all that I can make out is that our clear Emily thought she should like an early walk this fine morning, and that she took the liberty of setting out, without asking Minny’s leave, and without folding up her nightcap; and that is what they call leaving her things at sixes and sevens!”

  “Where is Minny?” vociferated Mr. Steyton. “That girl, shall go! I will not be plagued with such a fool in the house, — her mistress is quite enough for one to manage, I think they are all fools, or mad, or drunk, or something; and your son, Sir Charles, among the rest, now I think of it. What did he mean, I wonder, by writing such a queer letter as he did, saying he was going abroad for a little while? Is he gone abroad, Sir Charles?”

  “Just about as much as your daughter is run off,” replied Sir Charles, laughing. “Nay, they may be gone together for anything I know.”

  “Then he is not gone abroad?” said Mr. Steyton, with a look of newly-awakened intelligence. “And now I remember,” he added, “Emily laughed ready to kill herself when she talked about it! I’ll bet a guinea they have had some lovers’ quarrel, Sir Charles. Eh! — don’t you think I’m right?” said the greatly comforted old gentleman, perfectly convinced that his daughter would be at home again in a few minutes, and perhaps bring her affianced Herbert with her, in spite of himself, and all his jealous fancies.

  And, in truth, there really did appear many more substantial reasons for believing in this termination of the adventure, than in any other. In the first place the repentant Herbert Otterborne had evidently changed his mind about going abroad, as his father would otherwise most certainly have heard of it. And in the next place, who was there, excepting Herbert himself, for Emily to run away with? “If I can be certain of anything,” thought he, “I may, at least, be certain that she is not eloped with Stephen Cornington, for I never saw downright horror and hatred if I did not see it in her countenance, when she talked of him.”

  And this was decidedly a great comfort.

  In short, before Sir Charles Otterborne left the lodge, the choleric master of it had completely recovered his tranquillity, and actually set off in the happiest frame of mind imaginable to take a stroll along the London road, in the hope of meeting his daughter.

  Sir Charles, however, had not, as he complacently told himself, made his visit for nothing; for he obtained a very solemn promise from Mr. Steyton that the marriage of their son and daughter should positively take pl
ace on the following Tuesday.

  “We have given them quite time enough for all their fancies and fooleries,” observed Mr. Steyton, very sagaciously; “and I don’t intend to allow them any more.”

  “And upon my honour, Sir, I think you are quite right,” was the reply of Sir Charles: “and I presume,” he added, “that need make no further mystery about the day. You have no wish to keep it secret, have you, Mr. Steyton?”

  “Secret, Sir Charles? No, faith! I mean that the wedding shall be in the face of all the world, and I don’t care how soon all the world knows it.”

  “In that case, I suppose, I had better tell Price at once that we have, at last, really fixed the day,” said Sir Charles, as he walked away.

  “Yes, Sir Charles, I wish you would,” replied Mr. Steyton, “ that is to say, if you happen to see him. But you need not go out of your way to do it; I dare say Emily will be writing to Louisa about it, before the day’s over.”

  Sir Charles, however, felt no inclination to profit by this polite proposal for saving him trouble, for it seemed as if he were seized with a perfect mania for making visits among high and low. In his way to the Grange, where he intended to bestow one of his morning calls, he very good-humouredly stepped in for a few minutes at the workshop of Mr. Stokes, and mentioned to him, in an off-hand accidental sort of manner, that the wedding was fixed for Tuesday next. But the intelligence would have probably produced more effect upon the anxious carpenter had not Minny just left him, after giving it as her decided opinion that Miss Emily had not set off a walking by herself at that queer hour of the morning for nothing; though who could be her lover, if she had one, it was not easy to say, — for Minny happened to know that it certainly was not Mr. Stephen Cornington. And there was also another point on which Minny felt quite certain, and had told her father so; namely, that let it be whom it would, it was not Squire Otterborne: so that, on the whole, Sir Charles’ condescending visit to the carpenter was not of any great utility.