Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Mrs. Mowbray coloured from a mixed feeling of modesty and pleasure. That Mr. Cartwright should have thus described her, was most soothing to her heart; but when she recollected how far advanced he was, and how very near the threshold she as yet stood, her diffidence made her shrink from hearing herself named in language so flattering.

  “Is that fair young person who left the room soon after I entered it your daughter, madam?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good. I rejoice to hear it: that is, I would be understood to say, that I rejoice with an exceeding great joy that the child of a lady who stands in such estimation as you do with a chosen minister of the elected church, should wear an aspect so suitable to one who, by especial Providence, will be led to follow her example.”

  Mrs. Mowbray sighed.

  “I lament, madam,” resumed Mr. Corbold, “I may say with great and bitter lamentation, both for your sake, and that of the young person who has left the room, that the London season should be so completely over.”

  “Sir!” said Mrs. Mowbray in an accent of almost indignant surprise, “is it possible that any friend and relation of Mr. Cartwright’s can imagine that I, in my unhappy situation — or indeed, without that, as a Christian woman hoping with fear and trembling to become one of those set apart from worldly things, — is it possible, sir, that you can think I should partake, or let my daughter partake, in the corrupt sinfulness and profane rioting of a London season!”

  “May Heaven forgive you for so unjust a suspicion, most respected madam!” cried Mr. Corbold, clasping his hands and raising his eyes to Heaven. “The language of the saints on earth is yet new to you, most excellent and highly to be respected convert of my cousin! The London season of which I speak, and which you will hear alluded to by such sinful creatures as, like me, have reason to believe by an especial manifestation of grace that they are set apart, — the London season of which I and they speak, is that, when during about six blessed weeks in the spring, the chosen vessels resort in countless numbers to London, for the purpose of being present at all the meetings which take place during that time, with as much ardour and holy zeal as the worldly-minded show in arranging their fêtes and their fooleries at the instigation of Satan — in anticipation, as it should seem, poor deluded creatures! of the crowds that they shall hereafter meet amidst fire and brimstone in his realms below. The season of which I speak, and of which you will hear all the elect speak with rapture and thanksgiving, consists of a quick succession of splendid and soul-stirring meetings, at which all the saints on whom the gift of speech hath descended, some for one, some for two, some for three, some for four — ay, some for five hours at a time, sustained, as you may suppose, by a visible resting of the Divine power upon them. This, madam, is the season that, for your sake, and for the sake of the fair young person your daughter, I wished was not yet over.”

  Mrs. Mowbray made a very penitent and full apology for the blunder she had committed, and very meekly confessed her ignorance, declaring that she had never before heard the epithet of “London season” given to any thing so heavenly-minded and sublime as the meetings he described.

  The discovery of this species of ignorance on the part of Mrs. Mowbray, which was by no means confined to the instance above mentioned, was a very favourable circumstance for Mr. Corbold. There was, perhaps, no other subject in the world upon which he was competent to give information (except in the technicalities of his own profession); but in every thing relating to missionary meetings, branch-missionary meetings’ reports, child’s missionary branch committees, London Lord’s day’s societies, and the like, he was quite perfect. All this gave him a value in Mrs. Mowbray’s eyes as a companion which he might have wanted without it. At all conversations of this kind, Mrs. Mowbray took great care that Helen should be present, persuaded that nothing could be so likely to give her that savour of righteousness in which, as yet, she was so greatly deficient.

  The consequence of this arrangement was twofold. On Helen’s side, it generated a feeling compounded of contempt and loathing towards the fanatical attorney, which in most others would have led to the passion called hatred; but in her it seemed rather a passive than an active sentiment, which would never have sought either nourishment or relief in doing injury to its object, but which rendered her so ill at ease in his presence that her life became perfectly wretched from the frequency of it.

  On the part of the gentleman, the effect of these frequent interviews was different. From thinking Mrs. Mowbray’s daughter a very fair young person, he grew by gradual, but pretty rapid degrees, to perceive that she was the very loveliest tabernacle in which had ever been enshrined the spirit of a woman; and by the time Mrs. Mowbray had learned by rote the names, titles, connexions, separations, unions, deputations, and endowments of all the missionary societies, root and branch, and of all the central and eccentric establishments for the instruction of ignorance in infants of four months to adults of fourscore, Mr. Stephen Corbold had made up his mind to believe that, by fair means or foul, it was his bounden duty, as a pious man and serious Christian, to appropriate the fair Helen to himself in this life, and thereby ensure her everlasting happiness in the life to come.

  It must not be supposed that while these things passed in London the Vicar of Wrexhill was forgotten. Mrs. Mowbray’s heart and conscience both told her that such a letter as she had received from him must not remain unanswered: she therefore placed Helen in the drawing-room, with a small but very closely-printed volume on “Free Grace,” recommended by Mr. Corbold, and having desired her, in the voice of command, to study it attentively till dinner-time, she retired to her own room, where, having knelt, wept, prayed, written, and erased, for about three hours, she finally signed and sealed an epistle, of which it is unnecessary to say more than that it conveyed a very animated feeling of satisfaction to the heart of the holy man to whom it was addressed.

  CHAPTER V.

  MR. STEPHEN CORBOLD RETURNS WITH MRS. MOWBRAY AND HELEN TO WREXHILL.

  Mrs. Mowbray’s business in London, simple and straightforward as it was, might probably under existing circumstances have occupied many weeks, had not a lucky thought which visited the restless couch of Mr. Stephen Corbold been the means of bringing it to a speedy conclusion.

  “Soyez amant, et vous serez inventif,” is a pithy proverb, and has held good in many an illustrious instance, but in none, perhaps, more conspicuously than in that of Mr. Stephen Corbold’s passion for Miss Mowbray. One of the earliest proofs he gave of this, was the persuading Mrs. Mowbray that the only way in which he could, consistently with his other engagements, devote to her as much time as her affairs required, would be, by passing every evening with her. And he did pass every evening with her: and poor Helen was given to understand, in good set terms, that if she presumed to retire before that excellent man Mr. Stephen Corbold had finished his last tumbler of soda-water and Madeira, not only would she incur her mother’s serious displeasure, but be confided (during their absence from Mowbray) to the spiritual instruction of some earnest minister, who would teach her in what the duty of a daughter consisted.

  And so Helen Mowbray sat till twelve o’clock every night, listening to the works of the saints of the nineteenth century, and exposed to the unmitigated stare of Mr. Stephen Corbold’s grey eyes.

  The constituting himself the guide and protector of the ladies through a series of extemporary preachings and lecturings on Sunday, was perhaps too obvious a duty to be classed as one of love’s invention: but the ingenuity shown in persuading Mrs. Mowbray that it would be necessary for the completion of her business that he should attend her home, most certainly deserves this honour.

  Though no way wanting in that quality of mind which the invidious denominate “impudence,” and the judicious “proper confidence,” — a quality as necessary to the fitting out of Mr. Stephen Corbold as parchment and red tape, — he nevertheless felt some slight approach to hesitation and shame-facedness when he first hinted the expediency
of this measure. But his embarrassment was instantly relieved by Mrs. Mowbray’s cordial assurance that she rejoiced to hear such a manner of concluding the business was possible, as she knew it would give their “excellent minister” pleasure to see his cousin.

  There is no Christian virtue, perhaps, to which a serious widow lady is so often called (unless she belong to that class invited by the “exemplary” in bevies, by way of charity, when a little teapot is set between every two of them,) — there is no Christian virtue more constantly inculcated on the minds of rich serious widows than that of hospitality; nor is there a text that has been quoted oftener to such, or with greater variety of accent, as admonitory, encouragingly, beseechingly, approvingly, jeremiadingly in reproach, and hallelujahingly in gratitude and admiration, than those three impressive and laudatory words, —

  “GIVEN TO HOSPITALITY!”

  During a snug little morning visit at the Park, at which only Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny were present, Mr. Cartwright accidentally turned to these words; and nothing could be more touchingly eloquent than the manner in which he dwelt upon and explained them.

  From that hour good Mrs. Mowbray had been secretly lamenting the want of sufficient opportunity to show how fully she understood and valued this Christian virtue, and how willing she was to put it in practice toward all such as her “excellent minister” should approve: it was, therefore, positively with an out-pouring of fervent zeal that she welcomed the prospect of a visit from such a man as Mr. Stephen Corbold.

  “It is indeed a blessing and a happiness, Mr. Corbold,” said she, “that what I feared would detain me many days from my home and my family should be converted into such a merciful dispensation as I must consider your coming to be. When shall you be able to set out, my dear sir?”

  “I could set out to-morrow, or, at the very latest, the day after, if I could obtain a conveyance that I should deem perfectly safe for the papers I have to carry.”

  Helen shuddered, for she saw his meaning lurking in the corner of his eye as he turned towards her one of his detested glances.

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Mowbray, hesitatingly, and fearful that she might be taxing his great good-nature too far,— “perhaps, upon such an urgent occasion, you might have the great goodness Mr. Corbold, to submit to making a third in my travelling-carriage?”

  “My gratitude would indeed be very great for such a permission,” he replied, endeavouring to betray as little pleasure as possible. “I do assure you, my dear lady, such precautions are far from unnecessary. Heaven, for its own especial purposes, which are to us inscrutable, ordains that its tender care to usward shall be shown rather by giving us prudence and forethought to avoid contact with the wicked, than by any removal of them from our path: wherefore I hold myself bound in righteousness to confess that the papers concerning your affairs — even yours, my honoured lady, might run a very fearful risk of being abducted, and purloined, by some of the many ungodly persons with whom no dispensation of Providence hath yet interfered to prevent their jostling its own people when they travel, as sometimes unhappily they must do, in stage-coaches.”

  “Ah, Mr. Corbold!” replied the widow, (mentally alluding to a conversation which she had held with Mr. Cartwright on the separation to be desired between the chosen and the not-chosen even in this world; such being, as he said, a sort of type or foreshowing of that eternal separation promised in the world to come;)— “Ah, Mr. Corbold! if I had the power to prevent it, none of the chosen should ever again find themselves obliged to submit to such promiscuous mixture with the ungodly as this unsanctified mode of travelling must lead to. Had I power and influence sufficient to carry such an undertaking into effect, I would certainly endeavour to institute a society of Christians, who, by liberal subscriptions among themselves, might collect a fund for defraying the travelling expenses of those who are set apart. It must be an abomination, Mr. Corbold, that such should be seen travelling on earth by the same vehicles as those which convey the wretched beings who are on their sure and certain road to eternal destruction!”

  “Ah, dearest madam!” replied the attorney, with a profound sigh, “such thoughts as those are buds of holiness that shall burst forth into full-blown flowers of eternal glory round your head in heaven! But, alas! no such society is yet formed, and the sufferings of the righteous, for the want of it, are truly great!”

  “I am sure they must be, Mr. Corbold,” replied the kind Mrs. Mowbray in an accent of sincere compassion; “but, at least in the present instance, you may be spared such unseemly mixture, if you will be good enough not to object to travelling three in the carriage. Helen is very slight, and I trust you will not be greatly incommoded.”

  Mr. Corbold’s gratitude was too great to be expressed in a sitting attitude; he therefore rose from his chair, and pressing his extended hands together as if invoking a blessing on the meek lady’s holy head, he uttered, “Heaven reward you, madam, for not forgetting those whom it hath remembered!” and as he spoke, he bowed his head low, long, and reverently. As he recovered the erect position on ordinary occasions permitted to man, he turned a little round to give a glance of very lover-like timidity towards Helen, who when he began his reverence to her mother was in the room; but as he now turned his disappointed eyes all round it, he discovered that she was there no longer.

  After this, the business which could, as Mr. Corbold said, be conveniently transacted in London, was quickly despatched, and the day fixed for their return to Mowbray, exactly one week after they left it.

  Mr. Stephen Corbold was invited to breakfast previous to the departure; and he came accompanied by so huge a green bag, as promised a long stay among those to whose affairs the voluminous contents related.

  When all things in and about the carriage were ready, Mr. Stephen Corbold presented his arm to the widow, and placed her in it. He then turned to Helen, who on this occasion found it not so easy as at setting off to avoid the hand extended towards her; that is to say, she could not spring by it unheeded: but as she would greatly have preferred the touch of any other reptile, she contrived to be very awkward, and actually caught hold of the handle beside the carriage-door, instead of the obsequious ungloved fingers which made her shudder as she glanced her eyes towards them.

  “You will sit in the middle, Helen,” said Mrs. Mowbray.

  “I wish, mamma, you would be so kind as to let me sit in the dickey,” replied the young lady, looking up as she spoke to the very comfortable and unoccupied seat in front of the carriage which, but for Mrs. Mowbray’s respectful religious scruples, might certainly have accommodated Mr. Corbold and his bag perfectly well. “I should like it so much better, mamma!”

  “Let me sit in the middle, I entreat!” cried Mr. Corbold, entering the carriage in haste, to prevent farther discussion. “My dear young lady,” he continued, placing his person in the least graceful of all imaginable attitudes,— “my dear young lady, I beseech you — —”

  “Go into the corner, Helen!” said Mrs. Mowbray hastily wishing to put so exemplary a Christian more at his ease, and without thinking it necessary to answer the insidious petition of her daughter, which, as she thought, plainly pointed at the exclusion of the righteous attorney.

  Helen ventured not to repeat it, and the carriage drove off. For the first mile Mr. Stephen Corbold sat, or rather perched himself, at the extremest edge of the seat, his hat between his knees, and every muscle that ought to have been at rest in active exercise, to prevent his falling forward on his nose; every feature, meanwhile, seeming to say, “This is not my carriage.” But by gentle degrees he slid farther and farther backwards, till his spare person was not only in the enjoyment of ease, but of great happiness also.

  Helen, as her mother observed, was “very slight,” and Mr. Corbold began almost to fancy that she would at last vanish into thin air, for, as he quietly advanced, so did she quietly retreat till she certainly did appear to shrink into a very small compass indeed.

  “I fear I crowd you, my dearest lady!�
�� he said, addressing Mrs. Mowbray at least ten times during as many miles; and every time this fear came over him he gave her a little more room, dreadfully to the annoyance of the slight young lady on the other side of him. Poor Helen had need to remember that she was going home — going to Rosalind, to enable her to endure the disgust of her position; but for several hours she did bear it heroically. She thought of Mowbray, — of her flower-garden, — of the beautiful Park, — of Rosalind’s snug dressing-room, and the contrast of all this to the life she had led in London. She thought too of Oakley, and of the possibility that some of the family might, by some accident or other, be met in some of the walks which Rosalind and she would be sure to take. In short, with her eyes incessantly turned through the open window towards the hedges and ditches, the fields and the flowers by the road-side, she contrived to keep herself, body and soul, as far as possible from the hated being who sat beside her.

  On the journey to London, Mrs. Mowbray had not thought it necessary to stop for dinner on the road, both she and Helen preferring to take a sandwich in the carriage; but, from the fear of infringing any of the duties of that hospitality which she now held in such high veneration, she arranged matters differently, and learning, upon consulting her footman, that an excellent house was situated about half-way between London and Wrexhill, she not only determined on stopping there, but directed the man to send forward a note, ordering an early dinner to be ready for them.

  This halt was an agreeable surprise to Mr. Stephen Corbold. It was indeed an arrangement such as those of his peculiar sect are generally found to approve; for it is a remarkable fact, easily ascertained by any who will give themselves the trouble of inquiry, that the serious Christians of the present age indulge themselves bodily, whenever the power of doing so falls in their way, exactly in proportion to the mortifications and privations with which they torment their spirits: so that while a young sinner would fly from an untasted glass of claret that he might not lose the prologue to a new play, a young saint would sip up half-a-dozen (if he could get them) while descanting on the grievous pains of hell which the pursuit of pleasure must for ever bring.