“Oh! you saw him in a shop, did you? — and even that was sufficient to prove him delightful?”
“Quite enough!” replied Mary, colouring a little as she observed Major Dalrymple smile.
“The more you see of him, the more you will be aware of his excellence,” said Fanny, coming to the aid of her friend, and with an air of gravity that was intended to check the levity of the major. “I have seen him repeatedly at the Park, Major Dalrymple, and under circumstances that gave sufficient opportunity to show the excellence of his heart, as well as the charm of his friendly, affectionate, and graceful manner.”
“He has certainly been a very handsome man,” said the major.
“Has been!” exclaimed both the girls at once.
“He is still very well-looking,” added the gentleman.
“Well-looking!” was again indignantly echoed by the ladies.
“You do not think the term strong enough? but when a man gets on the wrong side of forty it is, I think, as much as he can expect.”
“I don’t care a farthing what his age maybe,” cried Mary; “do you, Miss Mowbray?... If he were a hundred and forty, with that countenance and that manner, I should still think him the handsomest and most perfect person I ever saw.”
“Dear Mary!” replied Fanny affectionately, “how exactly we feel alike about him! I love you dearly for fighting his battles so warmly.”
“There is surely no fighting in the case,” said Major Dalrymple, laughing,— “at least not with me. But have a care, young ladies: such perfect conformity of taste on these subjects does not always, I believe, tend to the continuance of female friendship. What a sad thing it would be if those two little hands were some day to set pulling caps between their respective owners!”
“There is not the least danger of any such dismal catastrophe, I assure you. Is there Mary?”
“Good heavens, no!” replied little Mary in a voice of great indignation. “What a hateful idea!”
“One reason why it is so delightful to love and admire Mr. Cartwright,” rejoined Fanny, “is, that one may do it and talk of it too, without any danger that rational people, Major Dalrymple, should make a jest of it, and talk the same sort of nonsense that every body is so fond of doing whenever a lady is heard to express admiration for a gentleman. But we may surely love and admire the clergyman of the parish; indeed I think it is a sort of duty for every one to do so.”
“I assure you,” replied the major, “that I both loved and admired Mr. Wallace exceedingly, and that I shall gladly pay the same homage to his successor as soon as I know him to deserve it. But
“Cautious age and youth....
you know the song, Mary?”
“I know your meaning, Major Dalrymple: you are always boasting of your age; but I don’t know any one but yourself who thinks so very much of....”
“... My antiquity and my wisdom.”
“Just that.... But, good heavens! Fanny Mowbray, who is that to whom your mother is speaking on the lawn?”
“It is Mr. Cartwright!” cried Fanny with animation; “and now, Major Dalrymple, you will have an opportunity of judging for yourself.”
“I fear not,” he replied, taking out his watch; “it is now eight o’clock, and Mrs. Richards seldom walks much after nine.”
The two girls now withdrew their arms, and hastened forward to the group of which Mr. Cartwright made one. Fanny Mowbray held out her hand to him, which was taken and held very affectionately for two or three minutes.
“You have been enjoying this balmy air,” said he to her in a voice sweetly modulated to the hour and the theme. “It is heaven’s own breath, Miss Fanny, and to such a mind as yours must utter accents worthy of the source from whence it comes.”
Fanny’s beautiful eyes were fixed upon his face, and almost seemed to say,
“When you speak, I’d have you do it ever.”
“I do not think he recollects me,” whispered Mary Richards in her ear: “I wish you’d introduce me.”
Fanny Mowbray started, but recovering herself, said, “Mr. Cartwright, give me leave to introduce my friend Miss Mary Richards to you. She is one of your parishioners, and one that you will find capable of appreciating the happiness of being so.”
Mr. Cartwright extended his pastoral hand to the young lady with a most gracious smile.
“Bless you both!” said he, joining their hands between both of his. “To lead you together in the path in which we must all wish to go, would be a task that might give a foretaste of the heaven we sought!”
He then turned towards Mrs. Mowbray, and with a look and tone which showed that though he never alluded to her situation, he never forgot it, he inquired how far she had extended her ramble.
“Much farther than I intended when I set out,” replied Mrs. Mowbray. “But my children, the weather, and the hay, altogether beguiled me to the bottom of Farmer Bennet’s great meadow.”
“Quite right, quite right,” replied Mr. Cartwright, with something approaching almost to fervour of approbation: “this species of quiet courage, of gentle submission, is just what I expected from Mrs. Mowbray. It is the sweetest incense that you can offer to Heaven; and Heaven will repay it.”
Mrs. Mowbray looked up at his mild countenance, and saw a moisture in his eye that spoke more tender pity than he would permit his lips to utter. It touched her to the heart.
Mrs. Richards, who was something of a florist, was examining, with the assistance of Rosalind, some new geraniums that were placed on circular stands outside the drawing-room, filling the spaces between the windows. As this occupation had drawn them from the rest of the party from the time Mr. Cartwright approached to join it, they had not yet received that gentleman’s salutation, and he now went up to them.
“Miss Torrington looks as if she were discoursing of her kindred. Are these fair blossoms the children of your especial care?”
“They are the children of the gardener and the greenhouse, I believe,” she replied carelessly, and stepped on to another stand.
“Mrs. Richards, I believe?” said the graceful vicar, taking off his hat to her.
“I hope you are well, Mr. Cartwright?” replied the lady, following the steps of Rosalind.
The two eldest Misses Richards were still assiduously besieging the two ears of Helen; but as the subjects of which they discoursed did not always require the same answers, she began to feel considerable fatigue from the exertion necessary for carrying on this double conversation, and was therefore not sorry to see Mr. Cartwright approach them, which must, she thought, produce a diversion in her favour. But she found that the parties were still personally strangers to each other; for though his bow was general, his address was only to herself.
“And have you, too, Miss Mowbray, been venturing upon as long a walk as the rest of the party?”
“We have all walked the same distance, Mr. Cartwright; but I believe we none of us consider it to be very far. We are all good walkers.”
“I rejoice to hear it, for it is the way to become good Christians. Where or how can we meet and meetly examine the works of the great Creator so well as on the carpet he has spread, and beneath the azure canopy which his hands have reared above us? — The Misses Richards, I believe? May I beg an introduction, Miss Mowbray?”
“Mr. Cartwright, Miss Richards — Miss Charlotte Richards,” said Helen, without adding another word.
“I need hardly ask if you are walkers,” said the vicar, as he passed a smiling and apparently an approving glance over their rather remarkable length of limb. “Your friends, Miss Mowbray, look like young antelopes ready to bound over the fair face of Nature; and their eyes look as if there were intelligence within wherewith to read her aright.”
“Mamma is going into tea, I believe,” said Helen, moving off.
The whole manner and demeanour of the two Misses Richards had changed from the moment Mr. Cartwright approached. They became quite silent and demure; but as they followed Helen, one on each side
of him, they coloured with pleasure as he addressed a gentle word, first to one, then to the other; and when, after entering the drawing-room, he left them for the purpose of making his farewell bow, or the semblance of it, to Mrs. Mowbray, Miss Louisa whispered to Miss Charlotte, “Little Mary is quite right: he is the most delightful man in the world.”
“You are not going to leave us, Mr. Cartwright?” said Mrs. Mowbray kindly. “We are going to tea this moment.”
“You are very obliging; but I had no intention of intruding on you thus.”
“Pray do not call it an intrusion. We shall be always most happy to see you. I only wish your son and daughter were with us also.”
“My daughter, thank you, is a sad invalid; and Jacob generally wanders farther afield in such weather as this.... Is that gentleman Major Dalrymple? May I ask you to introduce me?”
“I shall have much pleasure in doing so, I am sure. He is a very amiable and estimable person.”
Mrs. Mowbray crossed the room towards him, followed by the vicar. The introduction took place, and the two gentlemen conversed together for a few minutes on the ordinary topics of Russia, the harvest, the slave-trade, and reform. On every subject, except the harvest, which Mr. Cartwright despatched by declaring that it would be peculiarly abundant, the reverend gentleman expressed himself with an unusual flow of words, in sentences particularly well constructed; yet nevertheless his opinions seemed enveloped in a mist; and when Mrs. Richards afterwards asked the major his opinion of the new vicar, he replied that he thought his manners very gentlemanlike and agreeable, but that he did not perfectly remember what opinions he had expressed on any subject.
At first the company seemed inclined to disperse themselves in knots about the room; but by degrees Mr. Cartwright very skilfully contrived, on one pretence or another, to collect them all round a table that was covered with the usual incitements to talk, and the conversation became general. At least Mr. Cartwright was very generally listened to; the major did not speak at all; and the ladies did little more than agree with and applaud from time to time the placid, even, dulcet flow of words which fell like a gentle rivulet from the lips of their new vicar. This description, indeed, would not apply quite generally to all the ladies; but the majority in his favour was five to three, and with this advantage, — that whereas his admirers were loud and eloquent in their expressions of approval, the minority contented themselves by preserving silence.
CHAPTER IX.
HELEN AND ROSALIND CALL UPON SIR GILBERT HARRINGTON
Helen Mowbray knew that the choleric friend whose gentler feelings she wished to propitiate was an early riser himself, and was never better disposed to be well pleased with others than when they showed themselves capable of following his example. She was therefore anxious to arrive at his house in time to have the conversation she sought, yet dreaded, before nine o’clock, the usual family breakfast-hour; though in the shooting-season Sir Gilbert generally contrived to coax my lady and her housekeeper to have hot rolls smoking on the table by eight. But, luckily for the young ladies’ morning repose, it was not shooting-season; and they calculated that if they started about half past seven they should have time for their walk, and a reasonably long conversation afterwards, before the breakfast, to which they looked as the pacific conclusion of the negotiation, should be ready.
At half past seven, accordingly, the fair friends met at the door of Rosalind’s dressing-room, and set off, fearless, though unattended, through the shrubberies, the park, the flowery lanes, and finally, across one or two hay-fields, which separated the two mansions.
Nothing can be better calculated to raise the animal spirits than an early walk in the gay month of June; and on those not accustomed to the elasticity, the freshness, the exhilarating clearness of the morning air, the effect is like enchantment. All the sad thoughts which had of late so constantly brooded round Helen’s heart seemed to withdraw their painful pressure, and she again felt conscious of the luxury of life, with youth, health, and innocence, a clear sky, bright verdure, flowery banks, and shady hedge-rows, to adorn it.
Rosalind, by an irresistible impulse of gaiety, joined her voice to those of the blackbirds that carolled near her, till she was stopped by Helen’s exclaiming, “Rosalind, I feel courage for anything this morning!”
“Yes,” answered her companion, “let Sir Gilbert appear in any shape but that of the Vicar of Wrexhill, and I should great him with a degree of confidence and kindness that I am positive would be irresistible.”
They were now within a short distance of the baronet’s grounds, and another step brought their courage to the proof; for on mounting a stepping-stile which had originally been placed for the especial accommodation of the Mowbray ladies, they perceived the redoubtable Sir Gilbert at the distance of fifty paces, in the act of removing an offending dock-root with his spud.
He raised his eyes, and recognising his young visitors, stepped eagerly forward to meet them. To Rosalind, however, though usually a great favourite, he now paid not the slightest attention; but taking Helen in his arms, kissing her on both cheeks and on the forehead, and then looking her in the face very much as if he were going to weep over her, he exclaimed,
“My poor, poor child!... Why did not you bring poor Fanny too?... You are right to come away, quite right, my dear child: it’s dreadful to live in dependence upon any one’s caprice for one’s daily bread! Your home shall be here, Helen, and Fanny’s too, as long as you like. Come, my dear, take my arm: my lady will dance, you may depend upon it, when she sees you, for we have had dreadful work about keeping her from Mowbray! I’d just as soon keep a wild cat in order as your godmother, Helen, when she takes a fancy: but you know, my dear, her going to Mowbray was a thing not to be thought of, You are a good girl to come — it shows that you see the matter rightly. I wish Fanny were here too!”
All this was said with great rapidity, and without pausing for any answer. Meanwhile he had drawn Helen’s arm within his, and was leading her towards the house.
Rosalind followed them quietly for a few steps; and then, either moved thereto by the feeling of courage her walk had inspired, or from some latent consciousness of the baronet’s partiality to herself, she boldly stepped up and took his arm on the other side.
“Bless my soul, Miss Torrington!... by the honour of a knight, I never saw you; nor do I think I should have seen a regiment of young ladies, though they had been all as handsome as yourself, if they had happened to come with my poor dear Helen. It was very good of you to walk over with her, poor little thing!... Your fortune is quite safe and independent, my dear, isn’t it? Nobody’s doing a foolish thing can involve you in any way, can it?”
“Not unless the foolish thing happened to be done by myself, Sir Gilbert.”
“That’s a great blessing, my dear, — a very great blessing!... And you’ll be kind to our two poor girls, won’t you, my dear?”
“I have more need that they should be kind to me — and so they are, — and we are all very kind to one another; and if you will be but very kind too, and come and see us all as you used to do, we shall be very happy again in time.”
“Stuff and nonsense, child!... You may come here, I tell you, and see me as much as you like, under my own roof, — because I know who that belongs to, and all about it; but I promise you that you will never see me going to houses that don’t belong to their right owner, — it would not suit me in the least — quite out of my way; I should be making some confounded blunder, and talking to poor Charles about his estate and his property: — poor fellow! and he not worth sixpence in the world.”
During all this time Helen had not spoken a word. They had now nearly reached the house; and drawing her arm away, she held out her hand to Sir Gilbert, and said in a very humble and beseeching tone,
“Sir Gilbert!... may I speak to you alone for a few minutes?”
“Speak to me, child? — what about? Is it about a sweet-heart? Is it about wanting pocket-money, my poor child? — I�
�m executor to your father’s will, you know, Helen; and if you were starving in a ditch, and Fanny in another, and poor Charles begging his bread on the high road, I have not the power of giving either of ye a shilling of his property, though he has left above fourteen thousand a year!”
Sir Gilbert was now lashing himself into a rage that it was evident would render the object of Helen’s visit abortive if she attempted to bring it forward now. She exchanged a glance with Rosalind, who shook her head, and the next moment contrived to whisper in her ear, “Wait till after breakfast.”
Sir Gilbert was now striding up the steps to the hall-door: the two girls silently followed him, and were probably neither of them sorry to see Colonel Harrington coming forward to meet them.
This young man had for the two or three last years seen but little of the Mowbray family, having been abroad during nearly the whole of that time; but he returned with something very like a tender recollection of Helen’s having been the prettiest little nymph at fifteen that he had ever beheld, and her appearance at this moment was not calculated to make him think she had lost her delicate beauty during his absence. Her slight tall figure was shown to great advantage by her mourning dress; and the fair and abundant curls that crowded round her face, now a little flushed by exercise and agitation, made her altogether as pretty a creature in her peculiar style as a young soldier would wish to look upon.
The coal-black hair and sparkling dark eyes of Rosalind, her ruby lips and pearl-like teeth, her exquisite little figure, and the general air of piquant vivacity which made her perfectly radiant when animated, rendered her in most eyes the more attractive of the two; but Colonel Harrington did not think so; and giving her one glance of curiosity, — for he had never seen her before, — he decided, that neither she, nor any other woman he had ever beheld, could compare in loveliness with his former friend and favourite.
His greeting to Helen was just what might be expected from a man who had known her with great intimacy when she was some half-dozen inches shorter, and who felt the strongest possible desire to renew the acquaintance with as little delay as possible.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 59
