Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “It is a joke, Rosalind, and nothing more,” said the young man, drawing her arm within his. “I really can do nothing but laugh at such folly, and I beg and entreat that you will do the same.”

  “Then you think, of course, Mr. Mowbray, that I have been supremely absurd in sending you the summons I did?”

  “Far, very far otherwise,” he replied gravely. “It has shown me a new feature in your character, Miss Torrington, and one which not to admire would be a sin, worse even than poor Mr. Cartwright would consider your wearing these pretty ringlets, Rosalind.”

  “Poor Mr. Cartwright!” repeated Rosalind, drawing away her arm. “How little do we think alike, Mr. Mowbray, concerning that man!”

  “The chief difference between us on the subject, I suspect arises from your thinking of him a great deal, Rosalind, and my thinking of him very little. I should certainly, if I set about reasoning on the matter, feel considerable contempt for a middle-aged clergyman of the Church of England who manifested his care of the souls committed to his charge by making their little bodies comb their hair straight, for the pleasure of saying that it was done upon conviction. But surely there is more room for mirth than sorrow in this.”

  “Indeed, indeed, you are mistaken! — and that not only as regards the individual interests of your sister Fanny, — though, Heaven knows, I think that no light matter, — but as a subject that must be interesting to every Christian soul that lives. Do not make a jest of what involves by far the most important question that can be brought before poor mortals: it is unworthy of you, Mr. Mowbray.”

  “If you take the subject in its general character,” replied Charles, “I am sure we shall not differ. I deplore as sincerely as you can do, Miss Torrington, the grievously schismatic inroad into our national church which these self-chosen apostles have made. But as one objection against them, though perhaps not the heaviest, is the contempt which their absurd puritanical ordinances have often brought upon serious things, I cannot but think that ridicule is a fair weapon to lash them withal.”

  “It may be so,” replied Rosalind, “and in truth it is often impossible to avoid using it; but yet it does not follow that the deeds and doctrines of these soi-disant saints give more room for mirth than sorrow.”

  “Well, Rosalind, give me your arm again, and I will speak more seriously. The very preposterous and ludicrous manner which Fanny, or her spiritual adviser, has chosen for showing forth her own particular regeneration, has perhaps led me to treat it more slightly than I should have done had the indications of this temporary perversion of judgment been of a more serious character. That is doubtless one reason for the mirth I have shown. Another is, that I conceive it would be more easy to draw poor little Fanny back again into the bosom of Mother Church by laughing at her, rather than by making her believe herself a martyr.”

  “Your laughter is a species of martyrdom which she will be taught to glory in enduring. But at present I feel sure that all our discussions on this topic must be in vain. I rejoice that you are here, though it is plain that you do not think her situation requires your presence; and I will ask no further submission of your judgment to mine, than requesting that you will not leave Mowbray till your mother returns.”

  “Be assured I will not; and be assured also, that however much it is possible we may differ as to the actual atrocity of this new vicar, or the danger Fanny runs in listening to him, I shall never cease to be grateful, dearest Miss Torrington, for the interest you have shown for her, and indeed for us all.”

  “Acquit me of silly interference,” replied Rosalind, colouring, “and I will acquit you of all obligation.”

  “But I don’t wish to be acquitted of it,” said Charles rather tenderly: “you do not know how much pleasure I have in thinking that you already feel interested about us all!”

  This was giving exactly the turn to what she had done which poor Rosalind most deprecated. The idea that young Mowbray might imagine she had sent for him from a general feeling of interest for the family, had very nearly prevented her writing at all — and nothing but a sense of duty had conquered the repugnance she felt at doing it. It had not been a little vexing to perceive that he thought lightly of what she considered as so important; and now that in addition to this he appeared to conceive it necessary to return thanks for the interest she had manifested, Rosalind turned away her head, and not without difficulty restrained the tears which were gathering in her eyes from falling. She was not in general slow in finding words to express what she wished to say; but at this moment, though extremely desirous of answering suitably, as she would have herself described the power she wanted, not a syllable would suggest itself which she had courage or inclination to speak: so, hastening her steps towards the house, she murmured, “You are very kind — it is almost time to dress, I believe,” and left him.

  Charles felt that there was something wrong between them, and decided at once very generously that it must be his fault. There is nothing more difficult to trace with a skilful hand than the process by which a young man and maiden often creep into love, without either of them being at all aware at what moment they were first seized with the symptoms. When the parties fall in love, the thing is easy enough to describe: it is a shot, a thunderbolt, a whirlwind, or a storm; nothing can be more broadly evident than their hopes and their ecstasies, their agonies and their fears. But when affection grows unconsciously, and, like a seed of minionette thrown at random, unexpectedly shows itself the sweetest and most valued of the heart’s treasures, overpowering by its delicious breath all other fragrance, the case is different.

  Something very like this creeping process was now going on in the heart of young Mowbray. Rosalind’s beauty had appeared to him veiled by a very dark cloud on her first arrival from Ireland: she was weary, heartsick, frightened, and, moreover, dressed in very unbecoming mourning. But as tears gave place to smiles, fears to hopes, and exhausted spirits to light-hearted cheerfulness, he found out that “she was very pretty indeed” — and then, and then, and then, he could not tell how it happened himself, so neither can I; but certain it is, that her letter gave him almost as much pleasure as alarm; and if, after being convinced that there was no danger of Mr. Cartwright’s becoming his brother-in-law, he showed a somewhat unbecoming degree of levity in his manner of treating Fanny’s case, it must be attributed to the gay happiness he felt at being so unexpectedly called home.

  As for the heart of Rosalind, if any thing was going on therein at all out of the common way, she certainly was not aware of it. She felt vexed, anxious, out of spirits, as she sought her solitary dressing-room: but it would have been no easy task to persuade her that LOVE had any thing to do with it.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHARLES WALKS OVER TO OAKLEY. — THE VICAR IMPROVES IN HIS OPINION.

  At the time Miss Torrington observed to Mr. Mowbray that it was near dressing-time, it wanted about four hours of dinner; so, having followed her with his eyes as she mounted the steps and entered the house, he drew out his watch, and perceiving that he had quite enough time for the excursion before “dressing-time” would be over, set off to walk to Oakley.

  How far Rosalind might have been disposed to quarrel with him for the very small proportion of meditation which he bestowed on Fanny during his delightful stroll through the well-known shady lanes, or how far she might have been tempted to forgive him for the much greater portion devoted to herself, it is impossible to say; but he arrived at Sir Gilbert’s hall-door in that happy state of mind which is often the result of a delicious day-dream, when Hope lends the support of her anchor to Fancy.

  Sir Gilbert and the colonel were out on horseback, the servant said — but “my lady is in the garden.” And thither Mowbray went to seek her.

  He was somewhat startled at his first reception; for the old lady watched his approach for some steps, standing stock-still, and without giving the slightest symptom of recognition. At length she raised her glass to her eye and discovered who the tall stranger w
as; upon which she sent forth a sound greatly resembling a view “hollo!” which immediately recalled the servant who had marshalled Mowbray to the garden, and without uttering a word of welcome, gave the following order very distinctly:

  “Let Richard take the brown mare and ride her sharp to Ramsden. Sir Gilbert is gone to the post-office, the bank, the sadler’s, and the nursery-garden. Let him be told that Mr. Mowbray is waiting for him at Oakley — and let not a single instant be lost.”

  The rapid manner in which “Very well, my lady,” was uttered in reply, and the man vanished out of sight, showed that the order was likely to be as promptly executed as spoken.

  “My dear, dear Charles!” cried the old lady; then stepping forward and placing her hands in his, “What brings you back to Mowbray? But never mind what it is — nothing very bad, I hope, and then I must rejoice at it. I am most thankful to see you here, my dear boy. How is my sweet Helen? — could you not bring her with you, Charles?”

  “She is in London, my dear Lady Harrington, with my mother. Where is the colonel?”

  “With his father; — they will return together; no grass will grow under their horses’ feet as they ride homeward to meet you, Charles! But how comes it that you are at home? If you have left Oxford, why are you not with your mother and Helen?”

  A moment’s thought might have told Mowbray that this question would certainly be asked, and must in some manner or other be answered; but the moment’s thought had not been given to it, and he now felt considerably embarrassed how to answer. He lamented the estrangement already existing, however, too sincerely, to run any risk of increasing it by ill-timed reserve, and therefore, after a moment’s hesitation, very frankly answered— “I can tell you, my dear lady, why I am here, more easily than I can explain for what purpose. I returned post to Mowbray this morning, because Miss Torrington gave me a private intimation by letter, that she thought the new Vicar of Wrexhill was obtaining an undue influence over the mind of Fanny. She did not express herself very clearly, and I was fool enough to imagine that she supposed he was making love to her; but I find that her fears are only for poor little Fanny’s orthodoxy. Mr. Cartwright is one of, I believe, the most mischievous sect that ever attacked the established Church; and Miss Torrington, not without good reason, fears that Fanny is in danger of becoming a proselyte to his gloomy and unchristianlike doctrine. But, at her age, such a whim as this is not, I should hope, very likely to be lasting.”

  “I don’t know that,” replied Lady Harrington sharply. “Miss Torrington has acted with great propriety, and exactly with the sort of promptitude and decision of character for which I should have given her credit. Beware, Mr. Mowbray, how you make light of the appearance of religious schism among you: it is a deadly weapon of discord, and the poison in which it is dipped seldom finds an antidote either in family affection or filial obedience.”

  “But Fanny is so nearly a child, Lady Harrington, that I can hardly believe her capable of manifesting any very dangerous religious zeal at present.”

  “You don’t know what you are talking about, Charles! Of every family into which this insidious and most anti-christian schism has crept, you would find, upon inquiry, that in nine instances out of ten, it has been the young girls who have been selected as the first objects of conversion, and then made the active means of spreading it afterwards. Don’t treat this matter lightly, my dear boy! Personally I know nothing of this Mr. Cartwright; — we never leave our parish church and our excellent Dr. Broughton, to run after brawling extempore preachers; — but I have been told by one or two of our neighbours who do, that he is what is called a shining light; which means, being interpreted, a ranting, canting, fanatic. Take care, above all things, that your mother does not catch the infection.”

  “My mother! — Oh no! Her steady principles and quiet good sense would render such a falling off as that quite impossible.”

  “Very well! I am willing to hope so. And yet, Charles, I cannot for the life of me help thinking that she must have had some other adviser than her own heart when she left my good Sir Gilbert’s letter without an answer.”

  “Of what letter do you speak, Lady Harrington?” said young Mowbray, colouring;— “of that whereby he refused to execute the trust my father bequeathed him?”

  “No, Charles! Of that whereby he rescinded his refusal.”

  “Has such a letter been sent?” inquired Mowbray eagerly. “I never heard of it.”

  “Indeed! Then we must presume that Mrs. Mowbray did not think it worth mentioning. Such a letter has, however, been sent, Mr. Mowbray; and I confess, I hoped, on seeing you arrive, that you were come to give it an amicable, though somewhat tardy answer, in person.”

  “I am greatly surprised,” replied Charles, “to hear that such a letter has been received by my mother, because I had been led to believe that Sir Gilbert had declared himself immoveable on the subject; but still more am I surprised that I should not have heard of it. Could Helen know it, and not tell me? It must have been to her a source of the greatest happiness, as the one which preceded had been of the deepest mortification and sorrow.”

  “Your sister, then, saw the first letter?”

  “She did, Lady Harrington, and wrote me word of it, with expressions of the most sincere regret.”

  “But of the second she said nothing? That is not like Helen.”

  “So little is it like her, that I feel confident she never heard of the second letter.”

  “I believe so too, Charles. But what, then, are we to think of your mother’s having shown the first letter, and concealed the second?”

  “It cannot be! my mother never conceals any thing from us. We have never, from the moment we left the nursery, been kept in ignorance of any circumstance of general interest to the family. My poor father’s constant phrase upon all such occasions was— ‘Let it be discussed in a committee of the whole house.’”

  “I cannot understand it,” replied the old lady, seating herself upon a bench in the shade; “but, at any rate, I rejoice that you did not all think Sir Gilbert’s recantation — which was not written without an effort, I promise you — so totally unworthy of notice as you have appeared to do.”

  Charles Mowbray seated himself beside her, and nearly an hour was passed in conversation on the same subject, or others connected with it. At the end of that time, Sir Gilbert, booted and spurred, appeared at the door of the mansion, followed by his son. There was an angry spot upon his cheek, and though it was sufficiently evident that he was eager to meet young Mowbray, it was equally so that he was displeased with him.

  Lady Harrington, however, soon cleared the way to the most frank and cordial communication, rendering all explanation unnecessary by exclaiming, “He has never seen nor heard of your second letter, Sir Gilbert — nor Helen either.”

  The baronet stood still for a moment, looking with doubt and surprise first at his wife, and then at his guest. The doubt, however, vanished in a moment, and he again advanced, and now with an extended hand towards Charles.

  A conversation of some length ensued; but as it consisted wholly of conjectures upon a point that they were all equally unable to explain, it is unnecessary to repeat it. The two young men met each other with expressions of the most cordial regard, and before they parted, Colonel Harrington related the conversation he had held with Helen and Miss Torrington, the result of which was his father’s having despatched the letter whose fate appeared involved in so much mystery.

  Lady Harrington, notwithstanding they who did not love her called her masculine, showed some feminine tact in not mentioning to Sir Gilbert that it was a letter from Miss Torrington which had recalled Charles. It is probable that when her own questionings had forced this avowal from him, she had perceived some shade of embarrassment in his answer; but she failed not to mention the serious turn that Fanny Mowbray appeared to have taken, and her suspicions that the new Vicar of Wrexhill must have been rather more assiduous than was desirable in his visit at the Park.<
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  “The case is clear — clear as daylight, my lady: I understand it all. Stop a moment, Charles: if you won’t stay dinner, you must stay while I furnish you with a document by means of which you may, I think, make a useful experiment.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Sir Gilbert left the party in the garden, and hurried into the house, whence he returned in a few minutes with a scrap of paper in his hand.

  “Fortunately, Charles, very fortunately, I have kept a copy of my last note to your mother. I am sure I know not what induced me to keep it: had such a thing happened to Mr. Cartwright, he would have declared it providential — but I, in my modesty, only call it lucky. — Take this paper, Charles, and read it if you will: ’tis a shame you have not read it before! You say, I think, that the vicar is expected at Mowbray this evening: just put this scrap of paper into his hand, and ask him if he ever read it before. Let him say what he will, I give you credit for sufficient sharpness to find out the truth. If he has seen it, I shall know whom I have to thank for the insolent contempt it has met with.”

  “But my mother!” cried Charles with emotion. “Is it possible that she could conceal such a note as this from her children, and show it to this man? Sir Gilbert, I cannot believe it.”

  “I don’t like to believe it myself, Charles; upon my life I don’t. But what can we think? At any rate, make the experiment to-night; it can do no harm; and come here to dinner to-morrow to tell us the result.”

  “I will come to you with the greatest pleasure, and bring you all the intelligence I can get. My own opinion is, that the note was lost before it reached my mother’s hands. The usual hour, I suppose, Sir Gilbert, — six o’clock?”

  “Six o’clock, Charles, — and, as usual, punctual to a moment.”