Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Helen Mowbray!” he exclaimed, springing forward and seizing her hand, “how delighted I am to see you! How is dear little Fanny? — how is Charles? I trust you have none of you forgotten me?”

  Helen blushed deeply at the unexpected ardour of this address from a very tall, handsome, fashionable-looking personage, whose face she certainly would not have recognised had she met him accidentally: but a happy smile accompanied the blush, and he had no reason to regret the politic freedom of his first salutation, which had thus enabled him to pass over an infinity of gradations towards the intimacy he coveted, at one single step placing him at once on the footing of a familiar friend. It was indeed nearly impossible that Helen could be offended by the freedom; for not only was it sanctioned by the long-established union of their two families, but at this moment she could not but be pleased at finding another dear old friend in the garrison, who would be sure to add his influence to that of her godmother, that what she so greatly wished to obtain should not be refused.

  Before they reached the breakfast-room, therefore, the most perfect understanding was established between them. Her friend Miss Torrington was gaily introduced, for her heart felt gladdened by this important addition to her supporters in the cause she had undertaken; and she was disposed to believe that Rosalind’s proposal to make this alarming visit would turn out to have been one of the most fortunate things that ever happened.

  Within the breakfast-room, and approachable by no other access, was a small room, known throughout the mansion, and indeed throughout the neighbourhood also, as “My Lady’s Closet.” This sacred retreat was an oblong room, about eighteen feet by eight; a large and lofty window occupied nearly one end of it, across which was placed a deal-dresser or table of three feet wide, filling the entire space between the walls. The whole room was lined with shelves and drawers, the former of which were for the most part sheltered by heavy crimson damask curtains. A few small tables stood scattered here and there; and the sole accommodation for sitting consisted of one high stool, such as laundresses use when ironing.

  To the door of this apartment Sir Gilbert approached, and there reverently stopped; for by the law of the land, even he, though a pretty extensively privileged personage, was permitted to go no farther, unless licensed by an especial warrant from its mistress.

  “My lady,” he said, in the cheerful lusty voice that announces agreeable tidings,— “My lady, I have brought home company to breakfast.”

  “Have you, Sir Knight?” replied Lady Harrington, without turning her head, or otherwise interrupting herself in the performance of some apparently delicate process upon which she was occupied.

  “I’d rather have Mrs. Bluebeard for a wife than such an incurious old soul as you are!” said the testy baronet.— “And so you have not even the grace to ask who it is?”

  “Why, my dear Sir Tiger, I shall be sure to know within two minutes after Tomkins gives his passing thump to announce that he is carrying in the coffee; then why should I disturb this fairest of the Pentandria class? — my charming high-dried mirabilis?”

  “The devil take you, and all your classes, orders, and tribes, to his own hothouse! — I’ll be hanged if I don’t lock you into your den while I breakfast with her; — you shan’t see her at all!”

  “Mother! mother!” exclaimed the colonel hastily, to anticipate the execution of the threat— “it is Helen Mowbray!”

  “Helen Mowbray!” cried the old lady, thrusting her hot smoothing-iron on one side, and her blossom blotting-paper on the other, while the precious mirabilis fell to the ground; “Helen Mowbray!” and pushing aside the baronet by no very gentle movement of her tall and substantial person, she rushed forward, and Helen was speedily folded in a very close embrace.

  “There, there, there! don’t stifle the girl, old lady! — And supposing you were to bestow one little monosyllable of civility upon this pretty creature, Miss Torrington, who stands smiling at us all like an angel, though every soul amongst us is as rude as a bear to her. — I don’t believe you ever found yourself so entirely neglected before, my dear?”

  “I have never witnessed attention more gratifying to me than that which I have seen displayed this morning,” replied Rosalind.

  “You are a good girl, a very good girl, my dear, and I shall always love you for coming over with this poor dear disinherited child.”

  “Miss Torrington, I am delighted to see you, now and ever, my dear young lady,” said Lady Harrington, who, when she chose it, could be as dignified, and as courteous too, as any lady in the land.

  “You have walked over, I am sure, by the bright freshness of your looks. Now, then, sit down one on each side of me, that I may be able to see you without hoisting a lunette d’approche across this prodigious table.”

  “And so, because your ladyship is near-sighted,” said Sir Gilbert, “William and I are to sit at this awful distance from these beautiful damsels? You are a tiresome old soul as ever lived!”

  “And that’s the reason you appear so profoundly melancholy and miserable at this moment,” said Lady Harrington, looking with no trifling degree of satisfaction at the radiant good-humour and happiness which the unexpected arrival of Helen had caused to be visible in the countenance of her boisterous husband. “Do you find William much altered, Helen?” she continued. “I wonder if any one has had the grace to present Colonel Harrington to Miss Torrington?”

  “Helen did me that kind office,” said the colonel, “and I suppose she must do the same for me to little Fanny. I long to see if she continues as surpassingly beautiful as she was when I took my sad, reluctant leave of Mowbray Park.”

  Rosalind immediately became answerable for the undiminished beauty of Fanny, adding to her report on this point a declaration that the whole family were anxious to renew their acquaintance with him.

  This was the nearest approach that any of the party ventured to make towards the mention of Mowbray Park or its inhabitants. Nevertheless, the breakfast passed cheerfully, and even without a word from Sir Gilbert in allusion to the destitute condition of Helen, and her brother and sister. But when even the baronet had disposed of his last egg-shell, pushed the ham fairly away from him, and swallowed his last bowl of tea, the beautiful colour of Helen began gradually to deepen; she ceased to speak, and hardly seemed to hear what was said to her.

  Rosalind took the hint, and with more tact than is usually found in the possession of seventeen and a half, she said to Lady Harrington,

  “If I promise to keep my hands not only from picking and stealing, but from touching, will your ladyship indulge me with a sight of your press, and your boxes, and a volume or two of your hortus siccus? for I feel considerable aspirations after the glory of becoming a botanist myself.”

  “My ladyship will show you something infinitely more to the purpose, then, if you will come to the hothouse with me,” replied Lady Harrington, rising, and giving an intelligible glance to her son as she did so, which immediately caused him to rise and follow her. “I cannot take you where I should be sure to overhear them, my dear,” she added in a whisper as she led Rosalind from the room; “for if my rough diamond should chance to be too rough with her, I should infallibly burst out upon them; and yet I know well enough that I should do nothing but mischief.”

  Helen was thus left alone with the kind-hearted but pertinacious baronet. He seemed to have a misgiving of the attack that was about to be opened upon him; for he made a fidgetty movement in his chair, pushed it back, and looked so very much inclined to run away, that Helen saw no time was to be lost, and, in a voice not over-steady, said,

  “I want to speak to you, Sir Gilbert, about my dear mamma. I fear from what you said to Charles, and more still by nobody’s coming from Oakley to see us, that you are angry with her. — If it is about the will, Sir Gilbert, you do her great injustice: I am very, very sure that she neither wished for such a will, nor knew any thing about it.”

  “It is very pretty and dutiful in you, Miss Helen, to say so,
and to think so too if you can. Perhaps I might have done the same at nineteen; but at sixty-five, child, one begins to know a little better what signs and tokens mean. — There is no effect without a cause, Miss Helen. The effect in this affair is already pretty visible to all eyes, and will speedily become more so, you may depend upon it. The cause may be still hid from babes and sucklings, but not from an old fellow like me, who knew your poor father, girl, before you were hatched or thought of, — and knew him to be both a good and a wise man, who would never have done the deed he did unless under the influence of one as ever near and ever dear to him as your mother.”

  “You have known my mother too, Sir Gilbert, for many, many years: — did you ever see in her any symptom of the character you now attribute to her?”

  “If I had, Miss Helen, I should not loathe and abominate her hypocrisy as I now do. I will never see her more — for all our sakes: for if I did, I know right well that I could not restrain my indignation within moderate bounds.”

  “Then certainly it would be better that you should not see her,” said the weeping Helen: “for indeed, sir, I think such unmerited indignation would almost kill her.”

  “If you knew any thing about the matter, child, you would be aware that merited indignation would be more likely to disagree with her. Unmerited indignation does one no harm in the world, as I can testify from experience; for my lady is dreadfully indignant, as I dare say you guess, at my keeping her and William away from Mowbray Park: and it’s ten to one but you will be indignant too, child; — but I can’t help it. I love you all three very much, Helen; but I must do what I think right, for all that.”

  “Not indignant, Sir Gilbert; — at least, that would not be the prevailing feeling with me, though a sense of injustice might make it so with my poor mother. What I shall feel will be grief — unceasing grief, if the friend my beloved father most valued and esteemed continues to refuse his countenance and affection to the bereaved family he has left.”

  From the time this conversation began, Sir Gilbert had been striding up and down the room, as it was always his custom to do when he felt himself in a rage, or was conscious that he was about to be so. He now stopped opposite Helen; and while something very like tenderness almost impeded his utterance, he said,

  “That’s trash — abominable false trash! Miss Helen. After what’s passed to-day, to say nothing of times past, you must know well enough that I’m not likely to refuse my countenance and affection to your father’s children; — bereaved they are, sure enough! You know as well as I do, that I love you all three — for your own sakes, girl, as well as for his; — and your pretending to doubt it, was a hit of trumpery womanhood, Helen, — so never make use of it again: for you see I understand the sex, — and that’s just the reason why I like my old woman better than any other she in the wide world; — she never tries any make-believe tricks upon me.”

  “Believe me, Sir Gilbert,” said Helen, smiling, “I hate tricks as much as my godmother can: and if it were otherwise, you are the last person I should try them upon. But how can we think you love us, if you will not come near Mowbray?”

  “You may think it, and know it, very easily, child, by the welcome you shall always find here. It is very likely that you may not be long comfortable at home; and before it happens, remember I have told you that you shall always have a home at Oakley: but it must not be on condition of bringing your mother with you; for see her I will not, — and there’s an end.”

  Helen remained silent. She felt painfully convinced that, at least for the present, she should gain nothing by arguing the cause of her mother any farther; and after a long pause, during which Sir Gilbert continued to pace up and down before her, she rose, and sighing deeply, said,

  “I believe it is time for us to return. — Good-b’ye, Sir Gilbert.”

  There was something in the tone of her voice which very nearly overset all the sturdy resolution of the baronet; but instead of yielding to the weakness, as he would have called it, like a skilful general he marched off the field with his colours still flying, and certainly without giving his adversary any reasonable ground to hope for victory.

  “They are all in the hothouse, I believe,” said he, walking before Helen to a door of the hall which opened upon the beautiful gardens. “You have not seen my lady’s heaths for many a day, Helen: — she’ll be savage if you go without taking a look at them.”

  Helen followed without saying a word in reply, for her heart was full; and when she joined the trio who had so considerately left her to the uninterrupted possession of Sir Gilbert’s ear, there was no need of any questioning on their part, or answering on hers, to put them all in full possession of the result of the tête-à-tête.

  It would be difficult to say which of the three looked most vexed: perhaps Lady Harrington gave the strongest outward demonstrations of what she felt on the occasion.

  She glanced frowningly at Sir Gilbert, who looked as if he intended to say something amiable, and seizing upon Helen’s two hands, kissed them both, exclaiming, “Dearest and best! what a heart of flint must that being have who could find the cruel strength to pain thee!”

  Colonel Harrington, who, discomposed and disappointed, had thrown himself on a bench, gave his mother a very grateful look for this; while Rosalind, after examining her sad countenance for a moment, pressed closely to her friend and whispered, “Let us go, Helen.”

  Poor Helen had no inclination to delay her departure; and knowing that her partial godmother was fully capable of understanding her feelings, she said, returning her carresses,

  “Do not keep me a moment longer, dearest friend, for fear I should weep! and then I am sure he would call it a trick.”

  “I will not keep you, Helen,” replied Lady Harrington aloud. “You have come on a mission of love and peace; and if I mistake not that heavy eye and feverish cheek, you have failed. Poor child! she does not look like the same creature that she did an hour and a half ago — does she, William?”

  “Adieu, Lady Harrington!” said Helen, the big tears rolling down her cheeks despite her struggles to prevent them. “Good morning, Colonel Harrington; — farewell, Sir Gilbert!”

  “This is hard, Miss Torrington!” said the baronet, turning from Helen’s offered hand; “this is confounded hard! I’m doing my duty, and acting according to my conscience as a man of honour, and yet I shall be made to believe that Nero was a dove, and Bluebeard a babe of grace, compared to me!”

  But Miss Torrington being in no humour to answer him playfully, said gravely,

  “I am very sorry we broke in upon you so unadvisedly, Sir Gilbert. It is plain our hopes have not been realised.”

  The young lady bowed silently to the colonel, and taking a short farewell of Lady Harrington, but one in which mutual kindness was mutually understood, she took the arm of her discomfited friend, and they proceeded towards a little gate in the iron fencing which divided the garden from the paddock in front of the house.

  “And you won’t shake hands with me, Helen!” said Sir Gilbert, following.

  “Do not say so, sir,” replied Helen, turning back and holding out her hand.

  “And when shall we see you here again?”

  “Whenever you will come and fetch me, Sir Gilbert,” she replied, endeavouring to look cheerful. He took her hand, wrung it, and turned away without speaking.

  “Your interdict, sir,” said Colonel Harrington, “does not, I hope, extend beyond Mowbray Park paling? — I trust I may be permitted to take care of these young ladies as far as the lodges?”

  “If you did not do it, you know very well that I should, you puppy!” replied his father: and so saying, he turned into a walk which led in a direction as opposite as possible from that which his ireful lady had chosen.

  Colonel Harrington felt that it required some exertion of his conversational powers to bring his fair companions back to the tone of cheerful familiarity which had reigned among them all at the breakfast-table; but the exertion was made,
and so successfully, that before the walk was ended a feeling of perfect confidence was established between them. When they were about to part, he said,

  “My mother and I shall labour, and cease not, to work our way through the écorce to the kernel of my good father’s heart; and there we shall find exactly the material we want, of which to form a reconciliation between your mother and him. — Farewell, Helen! — farewell, Miss Torrington! I trust that while the interdict lasts, chance will sometimes favour our meeting beyond the forbidden precincts.”

  He stepped forward to open the Park gate for them, shook hands, uttered another “Farewell!” and departed.

  CHAPTER X.

  MRS. MOWBRAY CONSULTS MR. CARTWRIGHT UPON THE SUBJECT OF HER LATE HUSBAND’S WILL.

  The first person they encountered on entering the house was Fanny.

  “Where have you been!” she exclaimed. “My mother is half frightened to death. Do go to her this moment, Helen, to set her heart at ease.”

  “Where is she, Fanny?” inquired Helen, with a sigh, as she remembered how little the answers she must necessarily give to the questions she would be sure to ask were likely to produce that effect.

  “In her dressing-room, Helen. But where have you been?”

  “To Oakley.”

  “Good gracious, Helen! — and without asking mamma’s leave?”

  “I did it with a good intention, Fanny. Do you think I was wrong in endeavouring to restore the intimacy that has been so cruelly interrupted? Do you think mamma will be very angry? I am sure it was chiefly for her sake that I went.”

  “No, I am sure she will not when you tell her that. But come directly: I do assure you she has been seriously uneasy. — Did you find Sir Gilbert very savage, Rosalind?”

  “Pas mal, my dear.”

  Another moment brought them to Mrs. Mowbray. “Thank Heaven!” was her first exclamation on seeing them; and the repetition of Fanny’s emphatic “Where have you been?” followed it.