Some powerful emotion checked his utterance; but in a moment he added,
“I would wish once more to pray beside my father before he goes hence to be no more seen by us on earth.”
“Mother!...” cried Helen, dropping on her knees and throwing her arms round her.
The appeal was answered by an embrace in which their tears mingled, and poor Mrs. Mowbray, whose aching heart seemed to dread every new emotion, said, while something like a shudder ran through her frame, “Do with me as you will, my children.... I cannot bear much more.... But perhaps it would be better for me that I should sink to rest beside him!”
“My dearest friend!” exclaimed Rosalind, coming softly towards her and impressing a kiss upon her forehead, “you have not lost all for which you might wish to live.”
“Oh, true ... most true!... Where is my poor Fanny, Rosalind? You will answer this letter for me, Charles?... I will be ready to see Mr. Cartwright whenever he chooses to come.... It will be a dreadful trial — but I am willing to endure it.”
The young man left the room, and such an answer was returned to the clergyman’s note as brought him to the door within an hour after it was despatched.
Rosalind, in obedience to Mrs. Mowbray’s hint, had sought Fanny in her chamber, where she seemed to find a sad consolation in versifying all the tender recollections of her lost father that her memory could supply; but she instantly obeyed the summons, and when Mr. Cartwright arrived, the whole family were assembled in the drawing-room to receive him.
The person, voice, and address of this gentleman were singularly well calculated to touch and soothe hearts suffering from affliction; and after the first painful moment in which they raised their eyes to meet those of the first stranger who had been admitted to look upon their sorrow, there was nothing in the interview to justify the terror with which the thought of it had inspired the poor widow.
Either from tact or feeling, Mr. Cartwright seemed to avoid speaking to Mrs. Mowbray, and it was to her son that he addressed such words as the occasion called for. Meanwhile, from time to time his eyes rested with gentle pity on the three beautiful girls, whose tears flowed silently as they listened to him.
But though the manner of Mr. Cartwright was full of the tenderest kindness, it was apparently embarrassed. He evidently feared to touch or to dwell upon the agonising subject which occupied all their thoughts, and it was Charles who had the courage to turn this melancholy meeting to the only purpose for which it could be desirable, by saying — though with a faltering voice, —
“Mr. Cartwright ... may we ask you to pray with us beside the coffin that contains the body of my father?”
The clergyman started, and his countenance expressed a mixture of satisfaction and surprise, his manner instantly became more solemn — more devout, and he replied eagerly, rising from his chair as he spoke, as if willing to hasten to the scene to which he was called,
“Most gladly — most joyfully, my dear sir, will I kneel with you and your amiable family to implore the Divine grace. I did not know.... I had hardly dared to hope.... Indeed I feared from the festivities ... from the style in which....”
“I trust, sir,” interrupted young Mowbray almost in a whisper, “that you do not suppose us unused to prayer, because we have rejoiced in the blessings which Heaven has bestowed?”
“I thank my God that it is not so,” replied the clergyman, pressing the young man’s hand affectionately; “and I will praise His holy name for every symptom I find that the world, my dear young friend, has not taken too strong a hold upon your heart. May we through His grace walk righteously together in the path in which it hath pleased Him to place us side by side!”
Charles Mowbray’s heart was ever open to every expression of kindness; and now, softened by sorrow, and warmed by a feeling of the purest piety, he returned the friendly pressure with interest, and then, taking his poor mother’s arm within his own, led the way to the chamber of death.
The mourning family knelt beside the coffin, and listened with suppressed sobs to an extempore prayer, by no means ill suited to the occasion, though it was not, as poor Charles had expected, chosen from among the many solemn and beautiful orisons which the Church has furnished or which the Scriptures might supply for such an hour of need. But he was not disposed at this moment to cavil at any words calculated to raise his thoughts and those of the beings he most fondly loved to that Power which had hitherto blessed their existence, and from whence alone they could hope for support under the affliction with which He had now visited them. Fervently and earnestly he prayed for them and for himself; and when he rose from his knees and again pressed his suffering mother to his heart, it was with a feeling of renovated hope and confidence in the future protection of Heaven which nothing but prayer uttered with genuine piety can give.
Mr. Cartwright did not take his leave till he had spoken an individual blessing to each of them, which was accompanied by a pressure of the hand that seemed to express more sympathy in what each felt than any words could have done.
Young Mowbray then retired with him to arrange everything respecting the ceremony which was to take place on the morrow. His mother expressed a wish to lie down for an hour; and the three girls, after attending her to her room, carefully shutting out the light in the hope that she might sleep, and each one bidding her do so, with a fond caress, retreated to the dressing-room of Helen, when their conversation naturally turned on Mr. Cartwright.
This gentleman had taken possession of the little living of Wrexhill only one month before the death of his most distinguished parishioner. During the week which followed his first performance of duty in the church, the family at the Park made a visit at the Vicarage: for though Mr. Cartwright was a widower, he had a daughter nearly twenty years of age, who, as mistress of her father’s house, was of course visited by the ladies. When this visit was returned, the Mowbray family were all absent; and during the short interval which followed before the day on which young Mowbray came of age, the preparations for the fête by which this event was to be celebrated had prevented Mr. Cartwright and his family from receiving any other invitation than that which requested their attendance at it. This having been declined, he was as nearly as possible a personal stranger to the whole Mowbray family.
“What exquisite benevolence his countenance expresses!” exclaimed Fanny: “I never saw eyes so full of gentleness.”
“His eyes are remarkably handsome,” replied Rosalind; “but I am not quite sure that I like him.”
“The moments we passed with him were moments of agony,” said Helen: “it would hardly be fair to pronounce any judgment upon him from such an interview.”
“Perhaps you are right, dear Helen, and I will endeavour to suspend mine,” replied Rosalind. “But at least I may venture to remark that he is a very young-looking father for the full-grown son and daughter we have seen.”
“I do not think he can be their father,” observed Fanny. “Perhaps he is only the husband of their mother?... Don’t you think that is most likely, Helen?”
“I don’t know, dear,” answered Helen: “I believe I hardly saw him.”
“I really doubt if you did, my poor Helen,” said Rosalind; “but if he speak sooth, he could not say the same of us. If the Reverend gentleman be given to sketching of portraits, he might, I think, produce a good likeness of either of us, for, like Hamlet when he looked at Ophelia, ‘he fell to such perusal of our faces, as he would draw them’.... I do not think I shall like this Mr. Cartwright.... I do not mean now, Helen; I speak only of what I think I shall do when I know more of him.”
“Do you call that suspending your judgment, Rosalind?” said Helen with a feeble smile.
“Well, then, do not try to make a hypocrite of me, dearest: it will never answer: Wisdom is of too slow a growth for my little unprofitable hotbed of an intellect, which forces every thought to run up to full growth, lanky and valueless, as soon as it is sown. But by-and-by you shall transplant some of my notions,
Helen, into the fine natural soil of your brain; and then, if they flourish, we shall see what they are really worth.”
For all reply, the pale Helen shook her head, as one who knows not well what has been said to him; and the conversation languished and dropped, as every other had done since the blow had fallen which had levelled her young and joyous spirit to the dust.
CHAPTER IV.
THE WILL.
The day which saw the honoured remains of Mr. Mowbray committed to the tomb was one of dreadful suffering to his family, and to none more than to his son, who with a heart swelling with the most genuine grief, was obliged to assume the garb of ceremony, and do the now gloomy honours of the mansion to many of the same friends and neighbours who had so recently received the joyous greeting of his father. Most thankful was he for the relief which followed the departure of the last of those who came to do honour to these splendid obsequies; and most soothing was it to his wounded and weary spirits to find himself once more surrounded only by those who could read in a look all he wished to express, and who required no welcome to share in the sorrow of that bitter day.
But, like all other periods of human life, whether marked by sorrow or by joy, it passed away with as even and justly-measured a pace as if no event distinguished it from its fellow days; and then, by slow but sure degrees, the little trifling ordinary routine of daily circumstance came with its invisible and unnoticed magic, to efface, or at least to weaken, feelings which seemed to have been impressed by the stamp of burning iron on their souls.
Charles Mowbray had not yet taken his degree, and wishing to do so as soon as possible, he was anxious to return to Christ Church without delay; but his father’s will had not yet been opened, and, at the request of his mother, he postponed his departure till this could be done. This important document was in the hands of Sir Gilbert Harrington, an intimate friend and neighbour, who being in London at the time of Mr. Mowbray’s death, had been unable to obey the summons sent to him in time to attend the funeral; but within a week after he arrived, and the following morning was fixed upon for this necessary business.
The persons present were Sir Gilbert Harrington, Mr. Cartwright, a respectable solicitor from the country town who had himself drawn the instrument, and Charles Mowbray.
It was dated rather more than ten years back, and, after the usual preamble, ran thus:
“In order that my children, or any other persons whom it may concern, may know the reason and motive of the disposition of my property which I am about to make, it is necessary that I should therewith state the manner of my marriage with Clara Helena Frances, my dearly-beloved wife. Notwithstanding her vast possessions, I wooed and married her solely because I loved her; and this she had the generosity to believe, though I was nearly penniless, having nothing but my true affection and good blood to offer in return for all the wealth she brought. For several months she withstood my earnest solicitations for an immediate union, because, had she married before she became of age, her guardian would have insisted upon settlements and restrictions, which would have deprived me of all control over her property; nor would she subsequently sign any document whatever previous to her marriage, thereby rendering me the sole possessor of her fortune. Wherefore, to show my sense of this unparalleled confidence and generosity, I hereby make her the sole inheritrix of all I possess, to be ultimately disposed of according wholly and solely to her own own will and pleasure....” And then followed, with every necessary and unnecessary technicality of the law, such a disposition of his property as left his children entirely dependent on their mother both for their present and future subsistence.
That this will was very different from anything that Charles Mowbray expected, is most certain, and there might perhaps have been some slight feeling of disappointment at finding himself dependent even upon his mother; but if such there were, it was not sufficiently strong to prevent his doing justice to the noble feeling which had led to it; and, in truth he felt so certain of the fond affection of his mother, that not a shadow of fear either for his own interest or that of his sisters crossed his mind.
The lawyer who read aloud the deed he had penned, had of course no observation to make upon it, and Mr. Cartwright only remarked that it was a proof of very devoted love and confidence.
Of the small party present at this lecture, Sir Gilbert Harrington was the only one who testified any strong emotion respecting it; and his displeasure and vexation were expressed in no very measured terms. His warmth was at length checked, not because he had uttered all he had to say, but because he met the eye of Mr. Cartwright fixed upon him with a sort of scrutiny that was unpleasing to his feelings. He therefore stopped short in the philippic he was pouring forth upon the infernal folly of a man’s acting in matters of importance without consulting his friends, and taking the arm of Charles, walked through the hall into the grounds without appearing to remember that as he was left joint executor with Mrs. Mowbray to the will, it might be expected that he should make some notification of its contents to her before he left the house.
“Shall we not speak to my mother, Sir Gilbert?” said Mowbray, endeavouring to restrain the eager step of the Baronet as he was passing through the hall-door.
“No, sir,” was the laconic reply; and on he stalked with a more rapid step than before.
The conversation which passed between them during the hour which intervened before Sir Gilbert clambered up to his saddle and galloped off, was made up of something between lamentation and anathema on his side, and the most earnest assurances that no mischief could ensue from his father’s will on the part of Charles. The testy old gentleman could not, however, be wrought upon to see the widow, who, as he said, must have used most cursed cunning in obtaining such a will; of which, however, poor lady, she was as innocent as the babe unborn; and he at length left the Park, positive that he should have a fit of the gout, and that the widow Mowbray would marry within a year.
As soon as he had got rid of his warm-hearted but passionate old friend, Mowbray hastened to repair the neglect he had been forced into committing, and sought his mother in the drawing-room. But she was no longer there.
The room, indeed, appeared to be wholly untenanted, and he was on the point of leaving it to seek his mother elsewhere, when he perceived that Miss Torrington was seated at the most distant corner of it, almost concealed by the folds of the farthest window-curtain.
“Rosalind!” ... he exclaimed, “are you hid there?... Where are all the rest? and how come you to be left alone?”
“I am left alone, Mr. Mowbray ... because I wished it. Helen and Fanny are with your mother, I believe, in her room.”
Charles wished to see them all, and to see them together, and had almost turned to go; but there was something in the look and manner of Rosalind that puzzled him, and going up to her, he said kindly, “Is anything the matter, Rosalind? You look as if something had vexed you.”
To his great astonishment she burst into tears, and turning from him as if to hide an emotion she could not conquer, she said, “Go, go, Mr. Mowbray — go to your mother — you ought to have gone to her instantly.”
“Instantly?... When?... What do you mean, Miss Torrington?”
“Miss Torrington means, Mr. Mowbray, that it would in every way have been more proper for you to have announced to your mother yourself the strange will it has pleased your father to leave, instead of sending a stranger to do it.”
“Who then has told her of it, Rosalind? Was it the lawyer? was it Mr. Humphries?”
“No sir — it was Mr. Cartwright.”
“But why should you be displeased with me for this, dear Rosalind? Sir Gilbert led me out of the library by force, and would not let me go to my mother, as I wished to do, and I have but this instant got rid of him; but I did not commission either Mr. Cartwright or any one else to make a communication to her which I was particularly desirous of making myself.”
“You did not send Mr. Cartwright to her?” said Rosalind colouring, and
looking earnestly in his face.
“No, indeed I did not. Did he say I had sent him?”
“How very strange it is,” she replied after a moment’s consideration, “that I should be perfectly unable to say whether he did or did not! I certainly do not remember that he explicitly said ‘Madam, your son has sent me here;’ but this I do remember — that somehow or other I understood that you had done so.”
“And how did he announce to my mother that she.... I mean, how did he communicate to her the purport of my father’s will?”
“Charles Mowbray!” exclaimed Rosalind passionately, clenching her small hands and stamping her little foot upon the ground— “I may be a very, very wicked girl: I know I am wilful, headstrong, obstinate, and vain; and call me also dark-minded, suspicious, what you will; but I do hate that man.”
“Hate whom, Rosalind?” said Charles, inexpressibly astonished at her vehemence. “What is it you mean?... Is it Mr. Cartwright, our good friendly clergyman, that you hate so bitterly?”
“Go to your mother, Mr. Mowbray. I am little more than seventeen years old, and have always been considered less instructed, and therefore sillier of course than was to be expected even from my age and sex; then will it not be worse than waste of time to inquire what I mean — especially when I confess, as I am bound to do, that I do not well know myself?... Go to your mother, Charles, and let her know exactly all you feel. You, at least, have no cause to hide your faults.”
“I will go — but I wish I knew what has so strangely moved you.”
“Ask your sisters — they saw and heard all that I did; at least, they were present here, as I was; — ask them, examine them, but ask me nothing; for I do believe, Charles, that I am less to be depended on than any other person in the world.”
“And why so, my dear Rosalind?” replied Mowbray, almost laughing. “Do you mean that you tell fibs against your will?”
“Yes ... I believe so. At least, I feel strangely tempted to say a great deal more than I positively know to be true; and that is very much like telling fibs, I believe.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 55
