“Is that the principle upon which you proceed with him yourself, Mr. Jacob? Do you always make a point of contradicting every thing he says?”
“Pretty generally, Miss Torrington, when there is nobody by, and when I make it all pass for joke. But there is a law that even Miss Henrietta has been taught to obey; and that is, never to contradict him in company. Perhaps you have found that out, Miss Rosalind?”
“Perhaps I have, Mr. Jacob.”
“Will you not come in to tea, Miss Torrington?” said Henrietta, appearing at the window, with the volume in her hand which had seemed to occupy her whole attention from the time she had re-entered the drawing-room with Rosalind.
“I wish, sister,” said Jacob, affecting to look extremely cross, “that you would not pop out so, to interrupt one’s conversation! You might have a fellow feeling, I think, for a young lady, when she walks out of a window, and a young gentleman walks after her!”
Rosalind gave him a look from one side, and Henrietta from the other.
“Mercy on me!” he exclaimed, putting up his hands as if to guard the two sides of his face. “Four black eyes at me at once! — and so very black in every sense of the word!”
The young ladies walked together into the room, and Jacob followed, seeking the eye of his father, and receiving thence, as he expected, a glance of encouragement and applause.
When the tea was removed, Mr. Cartwright went to the piano-forte, and run his fingers with an appearance of some skill over the keys.
“I hope, my dear Miss Fanny, that you intend we should have a little music this evening?”
“If Mrs. Simpson, Miss Richards, and Miss Torrington will sing,” said Fanny, “I shall be very happy to accompany them.”
“What music have you got, my dear young lady?” said the vicar.
Miss Torrington had a large collection of songs very commodiously stowed beneath the instrument; and Helen and herself were nearly as amply provided with piano-forte music of all kinds: but though this was the first time Mr. Cartwright had ever approached the instrument, or asked for music, Fanny had a sort of instinctive consciousness that the collection would be found defective in his eyes.
“We have several of Handel’s oratorios,” she replied; “and I think Helen has got the ‘Creation.’”
“Very fine music both,” replied Mr. Cartwright; “but in the social meetings of friends, where many perhaps may be able to raise a timid note toward heaven, though incapable of performing the difficult compositions of these great masters, I conceive that a simpler style is preferable. If you will permit me,” he continued, drawing a small volume of manuscript music from his pocket, “I will point out to you some very beautiful, and, indeed, popular melodies, which have heretofore been sadly disgraced by the words applied to them. In this little book many of my female friends have, at my request, written words fit for a Christian to sing, to notes that the sweet voice of youth and beauty may love to breathe. Miss Torrington, I have heard that you are considered to be a very superior vocalist: — will you use the power that God has given, to hymn his praise?”
There was too much genuine piety in Rosalind’s heart to refuse a challenge so worded, without a better reason for doing it than personal dislike to Mr. Cartwright; nevertheless, it was not without putting some constraint upon herself that she replied,
“I very often sing sacred music, sir, and am ready to do so now, if you wish it.”
“A thousand thanks,” said he, “for this amiable compliance! I hail it as the harbinger of harmony that shall rise from all our hearts in sweet accord to heaven.”
Rosalind coloured, and her heart whispered, “I will not be a hypocrite.” But she had agreed to sing, and she prepared to do so, seeking among her volumes for one of the easiest and shortest of Handel’s songs, and determined when she had finished to make her escape.
While she was thus employed, however, Mr. Cartwright was equally active in turning over the leaves of his pocket companion; and before Miss Torrington had made her selection, he placed the tiny manuscript volume open upon the instrument, saying, “There, my dear young lady! this is an air, and these are words which we may all listen to with equal innocence and delight.”
Rosalind was provoked; but every one in the room had already crowded round the piano, and having no inclination to enter upon any discussion, she sat down prepared to sing whatever was placed before her.
The air was undeniably a popular one, being no other than “Fly not yet!” which, as all the world knows, has been performed to millions of delighted listeners, in lofty halls and tiny drawing-rooms, and, moreover, ground upon every hand-organ in Great Britain for many years past. Rosalind ran her eyes over the words, which, in fair feminine characters, were written beneath the notes as follow:
Fly not yet! ’Tis just the hour When prayerful Christians own the power That, inly beaming with new light, Begins to sanctify the night For maids who love the moon. Oh, pray! — oh, pray!
’Tis but to bless these hours of shade That pious songs and hymns are made; For now, their holy ardour glowing, Sets the soul’s emotion flowing. Oh, pray! — oh, pray!
Prayer so seldom breathes a strain So sweet as this, that, oh! ’tis pain To check its voice too soon. Oh, pray! — oh, pray!
An expression of almost awful indignation rose to the eyes of Rosalind. “Do you give me this, sir,” she said, “as a jest? — or do you propose that I should sing it as an act of devotion?”
Mr. Cartwright withdrew the little book and immediately returned it to his pocket.
“I am sorry, Miss Torrington, that you should have asked me such a question,” he replied with a kind of gentle severity which might have led almost any hearer to think him in the right. “I had hoped that my ministry at Wrexhill, short as it has been, could not have left it a matter of doubt whether, in speaking of singing or prayer, I was in jest?”
“Nevertheless, sir,” rejoined Rosalind, “it does to me appear like a jest, and a very indecent one too, thus to imagine that an air long familiar to all as the vehicle of words as full of levity as of poetry can be on the sudden converted into an accompaniment to a solemn invocation to prayer — uttered, too, in the form of a vile parody.”
“I think that a very few words may be able to prove to you the sophistry of such an argument,” returned the vicar. “You will allow, I believe, that this air is very generally known to all classes. — Is it not so?”
Rosalind bowed her assent.
“Well, then, let me go a step farther, and ask whether the words originally set to this air are not likely to be recalled by hearing it?”
“Beyond all doubt.”
“Now observe, Miss Torrington, that what you have been pleased to call levity and poetry, I, in my clerical capacity, denounce as indecent and obscene.”
“Is that your reason for setting me to play it?” said Rosalind in a tone of anger.
“That question again, does not, I fear, argue an amiable and pious state of mind,” replied Mr. Cartwright, appealing meekly with his eyes to the right and left. “It is to substitute other thoughts for those which the air has hitherto suggested that I conceive the singing this song, as it now stands, desirable.”
“Might it not be as well to leave the air alone altogether?” said Rosalind.
“Decidedly not,” replied the vicar. “The notes, as you have allowed, are already familiar to all men, and it is therefore a duty to endeavour to make that familiarity familiarly suggest thoughts of heaven.”
“Thoughts of heaven,” said Rosalind, “should never be suggested familiarly.”
“Dreadful — very dreadful doctrine that, Miss Torrington! and I must tell you, in devout assurance of the truth I speak, that it is in order to combat and overthrow such notions as you now express, that Heaven hath vouchsafed, by an act of special providence, to send upon earth in these later days my humble self, and some others who think like me.”
“And permit me, sir, in the name of the earthly father I ha
ve lost,” replied Rosalind, while her eyes almost overflowed with the glistening moisture her earnestness brought into them,— “permit me in his reverenced name to say, that constant prayer can in no way be identified with familiarity of address; and that of many lamentable evils which the class of preachers to whom you allude have brought upon blundering Christians, that of teaching them to believe that there is righteousness in mixing the awful and majestic name of God with all the hourly, petty occurrences of this mortal life, is one of the most deplorable.”
“May your unthinking youth, my dear young lady, plead before the God of mercy in mitigation of the wrath which such sentiments are calculated to draw down!”
“Oh!” sobbed Miss Richards.
“Alas!” sighed Mrs. Simpson.
“How can you, Rosalind, speak so to the pastor and master of our souls?” said Fanny, while tears of sympathy for the outraged vicar fell from her beautiful eyes.
“My dear children! — my dear friends!” said Mr. Cartwright in a voice that seemed to tremble with affectionate emotion, “think not of me! — Remember the words ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake!’ I turn not from the harsh rebuke of this young lady, albeit I am not insensible to its injustice, — nor, indeed, blind to its indecency. But blessed — oh! most blessed shall I hold this trial, if it lead to the awakening holy thoughts in you! — My dear young lady,” he continued, rising from his seat and approaching Rosalind with an extended hand, “it may be as well, perhaps, that I withdraw myself at this moment. Haply, reflection may soften your young heart. — But let us part in peace, as Christians should do.”
Rosalind did not take his offered hand. “In peace, sir,” she said,— “decidedly I desire you to depart in peace. I have no wish to molest you in any way. But you must excuse my not accepting your proffered hand. It is but an idle and unmeaning ceremony perhaps, as things go; but the manner in which you now stretch forth your hand gives a sort of importance to it which would make it a species of falsehood in me to accept it. When it means any thing, it means cordial liking; and this, sir, I do not feel for you.”
So saying, Rosalind arose and left the room.
Fanny clasped her hands in a perfect agony, and raising her tearful eyes to Heaven as if to deprecate its wrath upon the roof that covered so great wickedness, exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Cartwright! what can I say to you!”
Mrs. Simpson showed symptoms of being likely to faint; and as Mr. Cartwright and Fanny approached her, Miss Richards, with a vehemence of feeling that seemed to set language at defiance, seized the hand of the persecuted vicar and pressed it to her lips.
Several minutes were given to the interchange of emotions too strong to be described in words. Female tears were blended with holy blessings; and, as Jacob afterwards assured his sister, who had contrived unobserved to escape, he at one time saw no fewer than eight human hands, great and small, all mixed together in a sort of chance-medley heap upon the chair round which they at length kneeled down.
It will be easily believed that Miss Torrington appeared no more that night; and after an hour passed in conversation on the persecutions and revilings to which the godly are exposed, Mrs. Simpson, who declared herself dreadfully overcome, proposed to Miss Richards that they should use such strength as was left them to walk home. A very tender leave was taken of Fanny, in which Mr. Jacob zealously joined, and the party set out for a star-lit walk to Wrexhill, its vicar supporting on each arm a very nervous and trembling hand.
Mr. Cartwright soon after passing the Park-lodge, desired his son to step forward and order the clerk to come to him on some urgent parish business before he went to bed. The young man darted forward nothing loth, and the trio walked at a leisurely pace under the dark shadows of the oak-trees that lined the road to the village.
They passed behind the Vicarage; when the two ladies simultaneously uttered a sigh, and breathed in a whisper, “Sweet spot!” Can it be doubted that both were thanked by a gentle pressure of the arm?
The house of Mrs. Simpson lay on the road to that of Mrs. Richards, and Miss Louisa made a decided halt before the door, distinctly pronouncing at the same time,
“Good night, my dear Mrs. Simpson!”
But this lady knew the duties of a chaperon too well to think of leaving her young companion till she saw her safely restored to her mother’s roof.
“Oh! no, my dear!” she exclaimed: “if your house were a mile off, Louisa, I should take you home.”
“But you have been so poorly!” persisted the young lady, “and it is so unnecessary!”
“It is right,” returned Mrs. Simpson with an emphasis that marked too conscientious a feeling to be further resisted. So Miss Richards was taken home, and the fair widow languidly and slowly retraced her steps to her own door, with no other companion than the Vicar of Wrexhill.
VOLUME THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
CHARLES MOWBRAY’S ARRIVAL AT THE PARK.
Never had Rosalind Torrington so strongly felt the want of some one to advise her what to do, as the morning after this disagreeable scene. Had she consulted her inclination only, she would have remained in her own apartments till the return of Mrs. Mowbray and Helen. But more than one reason prevented her doing so. In the first place, she was not without hope that her letter would immediately bring young Mowbray home; and it would be equally disagreeable to miss seeing him, by remaining in her dressing-room, or to leave it expressly for the purpose of doing so: and secondly, however far her feelings might be from perfect confidence and esteem towards Miss Cartwright, she felt that she owed her something, and that it would be ungrateful and almost cruel to leave her tête-à-tête with the bewildered Fanny, or en tiers with her and the vicar.
She therefore determined to run the risk of encountering Mr. Cartwright as usual, but felt greatly at a loss how to treat him. Their last démêlé had been too serious to be forgotten by either; and her opinion of him was such, that far from wishing to conciliate him, or in any way to efface the impression of what she had said on leaving him, her inclination and her principles both led her to wish that it should be indelible, and that nothing should ever lessen the distance that was now placed between them. But Rosalind felt all the difficulty of maintaining this tone towards a person not only on terms of intimate friendship with the family, but considered by part of it as a man whose word ought to be law. She began to fear, as she meditated on the position in which she was placed, that Mowbray Park could not long continue to be her home. The idea of Helen, and what she would feel at losing her, drew tears from her eyes; and then the remembrance of her Irish home, of her lost parents, and the terrible contrast between what she had heard last night, and the lessons and opinions of her dear father, made them flow abundantly.
The day passed heavily. Miss Cartwright appeared to think she had done enough, and devoted herself almost wholly to the perusal of a French metaphysical work which she had found in the library, Fanny was silent and sad, and seemed carefully to avoid being left for a moment alone with Rosalind. Mr. Cartwright made no visit to the house during the morning: but Judy informed her mistress, when she came to arrange her dress for dinner, that the reverend gentleman had been walking in the shrubberies with Miss Fanny; and in the evening he made his entrance, as usual, through the drawing-room window.
It was the result of a strong effort produced by very excellent feeling, that kept Rosalind in the room when she saw him approach; but she had little doubt that if she went, Miss Cartwright would follow her, and she resolved that his pernicious tête-à-têtes with Fanny should not be rendered more frequent by any selfishness of hers.
It was evident to her from Mr. Cartwright’s manner through the whole evening, that it was his intention to overload her with gentle kindness, in order to set off in strong relief her harsh and persecuting spirit towards him. But not even her wish to defeat this plan could enable her to do more than answer by civil monosyllables when he spoke to her.
Miss Cartwright laid
aside her book and resumed her netting as soon as she saw him approach; but as usual, she sat silent and abstracted, and the conversation was wholly carried on by the vicar and his pretty proselyte. No man, perhaps, had a greater facility in making conversation than the Vicar of Wrexhill: his habit of extempore preaching, in which he was thought by many to excel, probably contributed to give him this power. But not only had he an endless flow of words wherewith to clothe whatever thoughts suggested themselves, but moreover a most happy faculty of turning every thing around him to account. Every object, animate or inanimate, furnished him a theme; and let him begin from what point he would, (unless in the presence of noble or influential personages to whom he believed it would be distasteful,) he never failed to bring the conversation round to the subject of regeneration and grace, the blessed hopes of himself and his sect, and the assured damnation of all the rest of the world.
Fanny Mowbray listened to him with an earnestness that amounted to nervous anxiety, lest she should lose a word. His awful dogmas had taken fearful hold of her ardent and ill-regulated imagination; while his bland and affectionate manner, his fine features and graceful person, rendered him altogether an object of the most unbounded admiration and interest to her.
As an additional proof, probably, that he did not shrink from persecution, Mr. Cartwright again opened the piano-forte as soon as the tea equipage was removed, and asked Fanny if she would sing with him.
“With you, Mr. Cartwright!” she exclaimed in an accent of glad surprise: “I did not know that you sang. Oh! how I wish that I were a greater proficient, that I might sing with you as I would wish to do!”
“Sing with me, my dear child, with that sweet and pious feeling which I rejoice to see hourly increasing in your heart. Sing thus, my dearest child, and you will need no greater skill than Heaven is sure to give to all who raise their voice to it. This little book, my dear Miss Fanny,” he continued, drawing once more the manuscript volume from his pocket, “contains much that your pure and innocent heart will approve. Do you know this air?” and he pointed to the notes of “Là ci darem’ la mano.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 69
