Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 272
“It was doubtless extremely simple, and extremely civil of him,” replied General Hubert, “but it surely is hardly sufficient to justify your belief that he is going to marry the young lady.”
“But that is not the worst of it. Where he had been taking them, or what he had been doing with them, Heaven knows; but it was, I should think, nearly an hour after I had seen the trio pass in the manner I have described, that I at last got down stairs, after having been detained by meeting an old acquaintance from Berlin, whom I had not seen for years, and there, at the bottom of the staircase, in a corner as much as possible out of sight, I found Sir Henry and his fair young friend tête-à-tête, long after the great majority of the company had driven off. The girl, too, was hanging on his arm in a sort of familiar way that I cannot hear to think of, because it convinces me that even if he be not fool enough to think of marrying her, he has been wicked enough to make her believe he does.”
“And the difference between the two is hardly worth discussion,” said Mrs. Hubert, suddenly rising and giving Lady Stephenson the mystical glance which makes it law that all the ladies present should instantly rise too.
General Hubert looked surprised at this unusually early retreat. “Are you going to leave us already, Agnes?” said he.
“Yes we are, general, by your good leave,” she replied. “The morning has been a fatiguing one for Elizabeth, and I really dare not propose leaving her at home this evening, therefore I mean to deposit her upon a sofa till it is necessary to attend Mrs. O’Donagough’s festivities.”
Whether General Hubert’s rapid glance towards his daughter, when these words were spoken, threw any light upon this movement, might have been doubtful to all but his wife; but she perfectly well understood the feeling that led him without any further questionings to open the door for them, and which caused him, as she passed, to snatch her hand, and wring it with strong emotion. Yet Agnes had never, even to him, betrayed her suspicions respecting the feelings of Elizabeth’s young heart towards Sir Henry Seymour, nor did he guess them now to their full extent. But he thought he had seen very decided proofs of admiration on the part of the young man towards his daughter; and though he wished a year or two might elapse, and give them time to know each other, before any thought of marriage was alluded to, he had been for some time watching every trait in his character with deep interest, and had begun to contemplate the idea of a near and dear connection with him as an event that he should not only approve, but very cordially rejoice in.
Most distasteful, therefore, was the rumour, which had reached him from more than one quarter, of Sir Henry Seymour’s devotion to Miss O’Donagough, and steadfastly did he believe the thing to be impossible, till he saw the effect which the repetition of it produced on his wife. But whatever feelings of vexation and displeasure it might have caused the general to hear such news confirmed, its effect on his wife was much more painful still. She knew, though he did not, that her Elizabeth was no longer “fancy free,” and though the conviction of this came too late for any caution on her part to do much good, her anxiety on the subject was lessened, if not altogether removed, by the conviction that the young man was devotedly attached to her, and that he was one to whom she could intrust the happiness of her heart’s dearest treasure with confidence. Such being the ease, it must be superfluous to state that the report of Sir Henry’s attachment to her cousin had been listened to with a very anxious mixture of fear and incredulity; but, improbable as it appeared to her, so many circumstances had occurred to confirm it, that, when she left the dinner-table, the incredulity had pretty nearly vanished, while the fear was strengthened almost into certainty. Had it not been, however, for Caroline’s strange conduct, and subsequent agitation when the subject was named, Mrs. Hubert would still have been inclined to doubt not only the truth of all she had heard, but also the testimony of Sir Edward’s eyes. But her imagination could suggest no other interpretation of Miss Seymour’s emotion than that her heart revolted from the connection her brother was about to form, though her devoted love for him led her to assume a degree of civility towards the young lady, which was altogether foreign to her feelings. During the few days that the poor girl remained in Berkeley-square, after the visit of Mrs. O’Donagough and her daughter, she had appeared so dreadfully embarrassed whenever they were spoken of, that the subject had been dropped by Mrs. Hubert from mere pity; and now that she was gone to visit friends at some distance from London, the recollection of all she had said and all that she seemed ashamed to say, did more to strengthen the report than anything she could have done or said, had she remained with them.
On reaching the hall, Elizabeth took a side candle from the slab, and proceeded with it to her own room; and thither, in a few minutes afterwards, her mother followed.
“You are ill, my dearest child!” said Mrs. Hubert, on perceiving her sitting pale and motionless, while large tears were sadly coursing each other down her cheeks; “my darling Elizabeth! tell me what is passing in your mind! Trust me, sweet love! you will feel the better for it.”
“Mamma! how can I tell you what I am unable to explain even to myself? I would not wish to have a secret from you. If I have been weak and foolish, I would rather you knew it than not, dearest mother! but I cannot tell how it has all come about. I did not think that I could have been — no, and I do not think so now — so very weak, so very foolish, so everything that I should most dislike to be, as to fancy myself in love, and that, too, with a person who was loving another all the time! Oh! mother, your daughter ought not to be so vile as that.”
“The vileness does not rest with you, my child,” replied Mrs. Hubert, with strong emotion. “You believed yourself beloved, and had reason to believe it. But this is a theme on which I feel that I must never dare to speak. With you, Elizabeth, the impression will be soon effaced, believe me it will; you shake your head, but you cannot shake my belief, dearest: I speak with perfect confidence. If you have loved this man, it was because he appeared to you, as he did to me, worthy of your love. Now we find that he is not so, your feelings towards him will change, and that so completely, as to make you doubt that you ever entertained them.”
“That may be. But when shall I forget, mamma, that my forward vanity mistook what I suppose was friendship for his sister’s friend, for love? It is not my love for him, but my contempt for myself, that will make me miserable.”
“You will see this matter in a different light a little while hence, Elizabeth; and that different light will be the true one. But as yet this is perhaps impossible, and I will not harass your spirits now by disputing about it. Perhaps, dearest, it will be best that you should not go to this detestable ball to-night? There are enough of us assembled here, all desperately bent upon the enterprise, to satisfy the claims of relationship, were she ten times our aunt; indeed, it will be best that you should remain quietly at home.”
“It would be a great deal best for my pleasure, mamma; but, unless you insist upon my staying at home, I had rather go.”
“There may be much to try your spirits, my dear child, and it is quite clear they are not very strong to-night. Neither you nor I should choose that anything you may chance to feel should be suspected.”
“Trust me,” said Elizabeth, beseechingly.
“I will trust you, my sweet girl! you shall go or stay, just as you like best at the moment; there is no occasion to decide about it yet. If I were you, dearest, I would lie down. Claridge can easily arrange your hair again.”
Elizabeth silently nodded her assent, and, after fondly kissing her pale cheek, her mother left her.
On returning to the drawing-room, Mrs. Hubert found the whole party, consisting of Lady Stephenson, and her sister-inlaw Nora, Mrs. Henderson, Elizabeth Peters, and two Miss Nivetts, whom, by some of her skilful manoeuvrings, Mrs. O’Donagough had contrived to inscribe on her visiting list, in high, and almost loud debate, concerning the possibility of Sir Henry Seymour’s having fallen in love with Miss O’Donagough.
Lady Stephenson gave it as her opinion that all things were possible, but that the thing under discussion was not probable.
Mrs. Henderson observed that, after the scene she had witnessed between Miss Seymour and the O’Donagough ladies, she could entertain no doubt whatever of the truth of the report they had heard, inasmuch as the young lady’s conduct was perfectly natural upon that theory, and perfectly unintelligible upon every other.
Miss Peters declared that, though Mrs. O’Donagough was her aunt by marriage, she must say that she thought her more likely than any one she ever knew to take in a young man, and make him marry her daughter, whether he would or no.
The two Miss -Nivetts both followed on the same side, first one, and then the other, remarking that nothing occurred so constantly as instances of men being drawn in to marry odious, disagreeable women, and exactly the very sort of people they most disliked, by mere art and good management; and that was the reason, to their certain knowledge, why so many admirable young women remained single, just because they would not condescend to do the same sort of things themselves. As both these young ladies were considerably past thirty, their judgment had naturally much weight; but, notwithstanding this, and all that had preceded it, Mrs. Stephenson scrupled not to raise her silver voice in the glorious minority of one, and to proclaim her positive and complete conviction that, either from knavery and mischief, or from fun and foolery, the report was altogether an invention, having no more foundation in truth than the celebrated error which in ages past had assigned to our humble earth the honoured place of centre to the solar system.
On the appearance of Mrs. Hubert, her opinion was eagerly called for by the whole party; but her answer was more oracular than satisfactory, being summed up in that very safe formula, “Time will show.” —
An hour or two, followed, which were wiled away by coffee and criticism. The court circle, as a matter of course, passed under a general review, and then, for the gratification of Mrs. Henderson and her sister, the only ladies present who had not been that day at St. James’s, Mrs. Stephenson entered upon a very graphic description of the dress and appearance of Mrs. O’Donagough and her daughter, observing that as all present were either her relations, or her relation’s relations, there could be no sort of objection to her speaking with unaffected truth of the general effect produced by them upon all beholders. By this time the gentlemen had joined the party, and many a burst of irresistible laughter from Frederic Stephenson attested his continued enjoyment of his pretty wife’s powers of persiflage, though he ceased not to protest all the time that he did not at all approve quizzing the O’Donagoughs, that O’Donagough himself was a capital good fellow, and that he meant to invite them all to dinner, to meet Seymour, very soon.
At length the clock struck twelve.
“The carriages have been waiting a long time, Agnes,” said the general, “and, if we intend to go at all, I think we must go now.”
The whole party declared themselves to be perfectly ready, but where was Elizabeth?
“Wait for us one moment!” said Mrs. Hubert, as she left the room to inquire how her daughter had decided. It was with a very gentle hand that Agnes opened the bedroom door, for she was not without hopes that she should find her child asleep. “Had she decided upon going,” thought she, “we should have seen her in the drawing-room ere this.” But she was mistaken. Elizabeth was seated, fully prepared for the ball, her dress no otherwise differing from that of the morning than by the removal of the train and plume. She was reading, and hex beautiful features showed no traces of their recent emotion.
“You mean to go, then, my dear love?” said her mother. “Yes, mamma! I am quite ready,” she replied; and quickly wrapping her shawl about her, she set forth upon an expedition which any one, who could have known what was passing in her heart, must have allowed required more courage than the mounting many a “deadly breach” has done.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THOUGH, for some cause, which it is reasonable to suppose was originated by the retiring timidity of his nature, Mr. O’Donagough did not himself go to court, he was nevertheless exceedingly anxious to receive a full and true description of all that had befallen his lady and their daughter there, and accordingly was in waiting, together with the Misses Perkins, to receive them on their return. “Where the deuce have you been staying all this time?” demanded Mr. O’Donagough the instant his wife’s portly person was within the library door. For in that sanctum, the only spot uninvaded by preparations for the ball, were the party to dine, and, with the exception of the dear interval of dressing, recreate themselves till their company arrived.
“What in the world have you been about?” reiterated Mr. O’Donagough.
Why, part of the time, my dear, we have been in the presence of Her Most Gracious Majesty, by whom we were received in the most flattering manner possible. I am sure I quite longed to stay and talk to her, she looked so very obliging. Well, and part of the time we were with all the rest of the fine folks, you know — seeing, and being seen, Donny, and I know one young lady by sight, at any rate, who was pretty tolerably admired, I can tell you. I never did see a girl stared at as Patty was — that’s the fact. God knows I don’t want to flatter her, and make her vain, for I hate it like poison. I never was vain myself, and I trust my daughter will follow in the same path. But truth is truth, and there was not a man could pass her without turning round, and having another look.”
“I am not greatly surprised at that, my dear!” replied Mr. O’Donagough, looking very complacently at his glittering daughter. “Patty was a devilish fine girl when she was dressed with no finery at all, to speak of; and I can’t say but what she looks all the better for what she has got on now. It would have been rather strange if the people had not looked at her, I think.”
“Strange!” exclaimed Miss Matilda, “it would have been downright unnatural! You do look beautiful to-day, Patty, and there’s no good in denying it, even to your face. So don’t be angry, my dear, for I can’t help it.”
“Well, then, if the truth is to be told,” said Miss Louisa, “I won’t be afraid to give my opinion, even before it is asked, and I must say that never in my life did I ever see Mrs. O’Donagough look so beautifully well as she does to-day. My goodness! how those feathers do become her, to be sure!”
After a few more delightful moments such as these, Patty and Matilda ran up stairs, leaving Mrs. O’Donagough to explain at length the jocose manœuvre of her noble friend, which had occasioned her late return.
“Well, Patty! tell me all. Did you enjoy it?” was the opening of the tête-à-tête in the fair debutante’s bed-room.
“Enjoy it? I am sure I can hardly tell whether I did or not. It was all done in such a flurry. Of course I liked to see the people looking at me, and for once in her life mamma told the truth, for upon my honour and life, Matilda, I don’t think that there was one man passed, unless perhaps it was some very old ones indeed, who did not turn his head round to look at me. And they were all, I suppose, dukes and lords, or else baronets, at the very least. And that is not like being stared at in a common way, you know.”
“I think not, indeed,” replied her friend, with great energy. “There’s many a girl may get a good stare from people at the playhouse, you know, or anything of that sort, who would never get a single look from a lord. But I should think, Patty, that you were exactly the sort of girl to produce a great effect at court. Because you know that when there is such a quantity of rank and fashion, as the papers say, all brought together in a crowd, nobody that was not something particularly striking could hope to be looked at at all. I always have said there was something uncommonly striking in you. But you have not told me half yet. Did you see many people that you knew?”
“Yes! we saw the Stephensons and the Huberts — and there was another that I saw, too, that I plagued well, I’ll be hanged if I didn’t — nasty, false-hearted villain as he is!”
“You don’t mean Sir Jack, do you?”
“Yes, but I do, though; and I would plague and torment him into his grave if I did but know the way, and dance over it, with you know who, Matilda, when I had got him there. You’ll stare, perhaps, when I tell you that I got hold of his sir-ship’s arm, and made my beau of him for an hour and a half by any watch in Christendom. And didn’t I hold him tight? I do believe, at the very bottom of my heart, that he would have had me in the middle of the Red Sea, if be could.”
“Nonsense, Patty! why should he have given you his arm, if he wanted so bad to get rid of you?”
“Why? — ask mamma that, Matilda. She did manage it capital, to be sure! But she didn’t know one half-quarter the delight I took in it for all that. She don’t see so far into a millstone as I do, and though I don’t much think she herself believes all the lies she is so fond of telling about his being still my lover, I am quite sure that she has got no notion of what else he’s after. But I have, Matilda. He is in love now, or pretending to be in love (which is much the same thing to him, good-for-nothing villain), with my whey-faced cousin Elizabeth. And I’ll just ask you to guess how well pleased he was at being-made, absolutely made, Matilda, to let go both Miss and Madam Hubert, in order to take mamma and me in tow, instead of them. Oh! it was capital fun, I promise you, and I’ll have some more of it to-night, or I’ll know the reason why. But I won’t talk any more about it now, Matilda, for I am as hungry as a hound, and I won’t be plagued all through dinner time with fearing to spoil my lovely pink satin. A spot of grease, you know, would just be murder. I know how I eat when I’m hungry. I’m not one of your mincing misses that’s afraid to enjoy their food, for fear of spoiling either their gown, or their complexion, or their gentility. But I’ll just make free with my finery, and cover it all up upon the bed till it’s time to put it on again for the ball. You must help me to take it off, Matilda, for our lady’s maid is over head and ears in business about the supper. ‘Twill be such a glorious supper, Matilda! won’t we enjoy it after the waltzing?”
