University of Virginia Library

MRS. PASSABLE TROTT.

The temerity with which I hovered on the brink
of matrimony when a very young man could only be
appreciated by a fatuitous credulity. The number
of very fat mothers of very plain families who can
point me out to their respectable offspring as their
once imminent papa, is ludicrously improbable. The
truth was that I had a powerful imagination in my
early youth, and no “realizing sense.” A coral necklace,
warm from the wearer—a shoe with a little round
stain in the sole—anything flannel—a bitten rosebud
with the mark of a tooth upon it—a rose, a glove, a
thimble—either of these was agony, ecstasy! To anything
with curls and skirts, and especially if encircled
by a sky-blue sash, my heart was as prodigal as a
Croton hydrant. Ah me!

But, of all my short eternal attachments, Fidelia
Balch (since Mrs. P. Trott) was the kindest and fairest.
Faithless of course she was, since my name
does not begin with a T.—but if she did not continue
to love me—P. Trott or no P. Trott—she was shockingly
forsworn, as can be proved by several stars,
usually considered very attentive listeners. I rather
pitied poor Trott—for I knew

and he was rich and forty-odd. But they seemed to
live very harmoniously, and if I availed myself of
such little consolations as fell in my way, it was the
result of philosophy. I never forgot the faithless
Fidelia.

This is to be a disembowelled narrative, dear reader
—skipping from the maidenhood of my heroine to
her widowhood, fifteen years—yet I would have you
supply here and there a betweenity. My own sufferings
at seeing my adored Fidelia go daily into another
man's house and shut the door after her, you can
easily conceive. Though not in the habit of rebelling
against human institutions, it did seem to me that the
marriage ceremony had no business to give old Trott
quite so much for his money. But the aggravating
part of it was to come! Mrs. P. Trott grew prettier
every day, and of course three hundred and sixty-five
noticeable degrees prettier every year! She
seemed incapable of, or not liable to, wear and tear;
and probably old Trott was a man, in-doors, of very
even behavior. And, it should be said too, in explanation,
that, as Miss Balch, Fidelia was a shade too
fat for her model. She embellished as her dimples
grew shallower. Trifle by trifle, like the progress of
a statue, the superfluity fell away from nature's original
Miss Balch (as designed in Heaven), and when
old Passable died (and no one knew what that P.
stood for, till it was betrayed by the indiscreet plate
on his coffin) Mrs. Trott, thirty-three years old, was
at her maximum of beauty. Plump, taper, transparently
fair, with an arm like a high-conditioned Venus,
and a neck set on like the swell of a French horn,
she was consumedly good-looking. When I saw in
the paper, “Died. Mr. P. Trott,” I went out and
walked passed the house, with overpowering emotions.
Thanks to a great many refusals, I had been faithful!
I could bring her the same heart, unused and undamaged,
which I had offered her before! I could
generously overlook Mr. Trott's temporary occupation
(since he had left us his money!)—and when her
mourning should be over—the very day—the very
hour—her first love should be ready for her, good as
new!

I have said nothing of any evidences of continued
attachment on the part of Mrs. Trott. She was a
discreet person, and not likely to compromise Mr. P.
Trott till she knew the strength of his constitution.
But there was one evidence of lingering preference
which I built upon like a rock. I had not visited her
during these fifteen years. Trott liked me not—you
can guess why! But I had a nephew, five years old
when Miss Balch was my “privately engaged,” and
as like me, that boy, as could be copied by nature.
He was our unsuspecting messenger of love, going to
play in old Balch's garden when I was forbidden the
house, unconscious of the billet-doux in the pocket
of his pinafore; and to this boy, after our separation,
seemed Fidelia to cling. He grew up to a youth of
mind and manners, and still she cherished him. He
all but lived at old Trott's, petted and made much of
—her constant companion—reading, walking, riding—
indeed, when home from college, her sole society.
Are you surprised that, in all this, there was a tenderness
of reminiscence that touched and assured me?
Ah—

I thought it delicate, and best, to let silence do its
work during that year of mourning. I did not whisper
even to my nephew Bob the secret of my happiness.
I left one card of condolence after old Trott's
funeral, and lived private, counting the hours. The
slowest kind of eternity it appeared!

The morning never seemed to me to break with so
much difficulty and reluctance as on the anniversary
of the demise of Mr. Passable Trott—June 2, 1840.
Time is a comparative thing, I well know, but the
minutes seemed to stick, on that interminable morning.
I began to dress for breakfast at four—but details
are tiresome. Let me assure you that twelve
o'clock, A. M., did arrive! The clocks struck it, and
the shadows verified it.

I could not have borne an accidental “not at home,”
and I resolved not to run the risk of it. Lovers, besides,
are not tied to knockers and ceremony. I bribed
the gardener. Fidelia's boudoir, I knew, opened upon
the lawn, and it seemed more like love to walk in.
She knew—I knew—Fate and circumstance knew and
had ordained—that that morning was to be shoved up,
joined on, and dovetailed to our last separation. The
time between was to be a blank. Of course she expected
me.

The garden door was ajar—as paid for. I entered,
traversed the vegetable beds, tripped through the flower-walk,
and—oh bliss!—the window was open! I
could just see the Egyptian urn on its pedestal of
sphinxes, into which I knew (per Bob) she threw all
her fading roses. I glided near. I looked in at the
window.

Ah, that picture! She sat with her back to me—
her arm—that arm of rosy alabaster—thrown carelessly
over her chair—her egg-shell chin resting on her
other thumb and forefinger—her eyelids sweeping her
cheek—and a white—yes! a white bow in her hair.

And her dress was of snowy lawn—white, bridal
white! Adieu, old Passable Trott!

I wiped my eyes and looked again. Old Trott's
portrait hung on the wall, but that was nothing. Her
guitar lay on the table, and—did I see aright?—a
miniature just beside it! Perhaps of old Trott—taken
out for the last time. Well—well! He was a
very respectable man, and had been very kind to her,
most likely.

“Ehem!” said I, stepping over the sill, “Fidelia!”

She started and turned, and certainly looked surprised.

“Mr. G—!” said she.

“It is long since we parted!” I said, helping myself
to a chair.

“Quite long!” said Fidelia.

“So long that you have forgotten the name of
G—?” I asked tremulously.

“Oh no!” she replied, covering up the miniature
on the table by a careless movement of her scarf.

“And may I hope that that name has not grown
distasteful to you?” I summoned courage to say.

“N—, no! I do not know that it has, Mr. G—!”

The blood returned to my fainting heart! I felt as
in days of yore.

“Fidelia!” said I, “let me not waste the precious
moments. You loved me at twenty—may I hope that
I may stand to you in a nearer relation! May I venture
to think that our family is not unworthy of a
union with the Balches?—that, as Mrs. G—, you
could be happy?”

Fidelia looked—hesitated—took up the miniature,
and clasped it to her breast.

“Do I understand you rightly, Mr. G—!” she
tremulously exclaimed. “But I think I do! I remember
well what you were at twenty! This picture
is like what you were then—with differences, it is true,
but still like! Dear picture!” she exclaimed again,
kissing it with rapture.

(How could she have got my miniature?—but no
matter—taken by stealth, I presume. Sweet and eager
anticipation!)

“And Robert has returned from college, then?”
she said, inquiringly.

“Not that I know of,” said I.

“Indeed!—then he has written to you!”

“Not recently!”

“Ah, poor boy! he anticipated! Well, Mr. G—!
I will not affect to be coy where my heart has been so
long interested.”

(I stood ready to clasp her to my bosom.)

“Tell Robert my mourning is over—tell him his
name” (the name of G—, of course) “is the music
of my life, and that I will marry whenever he
pleases!”

A horrid suspicion crossed my mind.

“Pardon me!” said I; “whenever he pleases, did
you say? Why, particularly, when he pleases?”

“La! his not being of age is no impediment, I
hope!” said Mrs. Trott, with some surprise. “Look
at his miniature, Mr. G—! It has a boyish look,
it's true—but so had you—at twenty!”

Hope sank within me! I would have given worlds
to be away. The truth was apparent to me—perfectly
apparent. She loved that boy Bob—that child—
that mere child—and meant to marry him! Yet how
could it be possible! I might be—yes—I must be,
mistaken. Fidelia Balch—who was a woman when
he was an urchin in petticoats!—she to think of marrying
that boy! I wronged her—oh I wronged her!
But, worst come to the worst, there was no harm in
having it perfectly understood.

“Pardon me!” said I, putting on a look as if I
expected a shout of laughter for the mere supposition,
“I should gather—(categorically, mind you!—
only categorically)—I should gather from what you
said just now—(had I been a third person listening,
that is to say—with no knowledge of the parties)—I
should really have gathered that Bob—little Bob—was
the happy man, and not I! Now don't laugh at me!”

“You the happy man!—Oh, Mr. G—! you are
joking! Oh no! pardon me if I have unintentionally
misled you—but if I marry again, Mr. G—, it will
be a young man!!! In short, not to mince the matter,
Mr. G—! your nephew is to become my husband
(nothing unforeseen turning up), in the course
of the next week! We shall have the pleasure of
seeing you at the wedding, of course! Oh no! You!
I should fancy that no woman would make two unequal
marriages, Mr. G—! Good morning, Mr.
G—!”

I was left alone, and to return as I pleased, by the
vegetable garden or the front door. I chose the latter,
being somewhat piqued as well as inexpressibly
grieved and disappointed. But philosophy came to
my aid, and I soon fell into a mood of speculation.

“Fidelia is constant!” said I to myself—“constant,
after all! She made up her mouth for me at twenty.
But I did not stay twenty! Oh no! I, unadvisedly,
and without preparatively cultivating her taste for
thirty-five, became thirty-five. And now what was she
to do? Her taste was not at all embarked in Passable
Trott, and it stayed just as it was—waiting to be
called up and used. She locks it up decently till old
Trott dies, and then reproduces—what? Why, just
what she locked up—a taste for a young man at
twenty—and just such a young man as she loved when
she was twenty! Bob—of course! Bob is like me—
Bob is twenty! Be Bob her husband!

But I cannot say I quite like such constancy!