Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  It was really generous in good Mrs. Simpson to give all the praise due for the instruction and religious awakening of her little girl to the vicar, for it was in truth entirely her own work; as it generally happened, that when Mr. Cartwright paid her a visit, fearing probably that the movements of a child might disturb his nerves, she dismissed her little Mimima to her nursery.

  One or two more attempts on the part of Helen to bring the conversation to a tone that she should consider as more befitting the neighbourly chit-chat of a morning visit, and, in plain English, less tinctured with blasphemy, having been made and failed, she rose and took her leave, the rest of her party following; but not without Fanny’s receiving another embrace, and this fervent farewell uttered in her ear:

  “The saints and angels bless and keep you, dear sister!”

  After quitting the house of this regenerated lady, the party proposed to make a visit to that of Mrs. Richards; but Miss Cartwright expressed a wish to go to the Vicarage instead, and begged they would call at the door for her as they passed. Miss Torrington offered to accompany her, but this was declined, though not quite in her usual cynical manner upon such occasions; and, could Rosalind have followed her with her eye up the Vicarage hill, she would have seen that she stopped and turned to look down upon the common and its trees, just at the spot where they had stood together before.

  On entering Mrs. Richards’s pretty flower-scented little saloon, they were startled and somewhat embarrassed at finding that lady in tears, and Major Dalrymple walking about the room with very evident symptoms of discomposure. Helen, who, like every body else in the neighbourhood, was perfectly aware of the major’s unrequited attachment, or, at any rate, his unsuccessful suit, really thought that the present moment was probably intended by him to decide his fate for ever; and felt exceedingly distressed at having intruded, though doubtful whether to retreat now would not make matters worse. Those who followed her shared both her fears and her doubts; but not so the widow and the major; who both, after the interval of a moment, during which Mrs. Richards wiped her eyes, and Major Dalrymple recovered his composure, declared with very evident sincerity that they were heartily glad to see them.

  “We are in the midst of a dispute, Mowbray,” said the major, addressing Charles; “and I will bet a thousand to one that you will be on my side, whatever the ladies may be. Shall I refer the question to Charles Mowbray, Mrs. Richards?”

  “Oh yes! I shall like to have it referred to the whole party!” she replied.

  “Well then, this it is: — I need not tell you, good people, that the present vicar of Wrexhill is — but holt là!” he exclaimed, suddenly stopping himself and fixing his eyes on Fanny; “I am terribly afraid by the trim cut of that little bonnet, that there’s one amongst us that will be taking notes. Is it so, Miss Fanny? Are you as completely over head and ears in love with the vicar, as your friend little Mary? and, for that matter, Louisa, Charlotte, Mrs. Simpson, Miss Mimima Simpson, Dame Rogers the miller’s wife, black-eyed Betsey the tailor’s daughter, Molly Tomkins, Sally Finden, Jenny Curtis, Susan Smith, and about threescore and ten more of our parish, have all put on the armour of righteousness, being buckled, belted, and spurred by the vicar himself. Are you really and truly become one of his babes of grace, Fanny?”

  “If it is your intention to say any thing disrespectful of Mr. Cartwright,” replied Fanny, “I had much rather not hear it. I will go and look at your roses, Mrs. Richards;” and, as Mrs. Richards did not wish her to remain, she quietly opened the glass-door which led into the garden, let her pass through it, and then closed it after her.

  “Pretty creature!” exclaimed Major Dalrymple; “what a pity!”

  “It will not last, major,” said Charles. “He has scared her conscience, which is actually too pure and innocent to know the sound of its own voice; and then he seized upon her fanciful and poetic imagination, and set it in arms against her silly self, till she really seems to see the seven mortal sins, turn which way she will; and I am sure she would stand for seven years together on one leg, like an Hindoo, to avoid them. She is a dear good little soul, and she will get the better of all this trash, depend upon it.”

  “I trust she will, Mowbray; but tell me, while the mischief is still at work, shall you not think it right to banish the causer of it from your house? For you must know this brings us exactly to the point at issue between Mrs. Richards and me. She is breaking her heart because her three girls — ay, little Mary and all — have been bit by this black tarantula; and because she (thank Heaven!) has escaped, her daughters have thought proper to raise the standard of rebellion, and to tell her very coolly, upon all occasions, that she is doomed to everlasting perdition, and that their only chance of escape is never more to give obedience or even attention to any word she can utter.”

  The major stopped, overcome by his own vehemence; and Charles would have fancied that he saw tears in his eyes, if he had dared to look at him for another moment.

  Rosalind, who had more love and liking for Mrs. Richards than is usually the growth of six months’ acquaintance, had placed herself close beside her, and taken her hand; but, when Major Dalrymple ceased speaking, she rose up, and with a degree of energy that probably surprised all her hearers, but most especially Charles and Helen, she said: “If, Major Dalrymple, you should be the first in this unfortunate parish of Wrexhill to raise your voice against this invader of the station, rights, and duties of a set of men in whose avocations he has neither part nor lot, you will deserve more honour than even the field of Waterloo could give you! Yes! turn him from your house, dear friend, as you would one who brought poison to you in the guise of wholesome food or healing medicine. Let him never enter your doors again; let him preach (if preach he must) in a church as empty as his own pretensions to holiness; and if proper authority should at length be awaked to chase him from a pulpit that belongs of right to a true and real member of the English church, then let him buy a sixpenny licence, if he can get it, to preach in a tub, the only fitting theatre for his doctrines.”

  “Bravo!” cried the major in a perfect ecstasy; “do you hear her, Mrs. Richards? Charles Mowbray, do you hear her? and will either of you ever suffer Cartwright to enter your doors again?”

  “I believe in my heart that she is quite right,” said Charles: “the idiot folly I have witnessed at Mrs. Simpson’s this morning; and the much more grievous effects which his ministry, as he calls it, has produced here, have quite convinced me that such ministry is no jesting matter. But I have no doors, Dalrymple, to shut against him; all I can do is to endeavour to open my mother’s eyes to the mischief he is doing.”

  Helen sighed, and shook her head.

  “Is, then, your good mother too far gone in this maudlin delirium to listen to him?” said the major in an accent of deep concern.

  “Indeed, major, I fear so,” replied Helen.

  “I told you so, Major Dalrymple,” said Mrs. Richards; “I told you that in such a line of conduct as you advise I should be supported by no one of any consequence, and I really do not feel courage to stand alone in it.”

  “And it is that very want of courage that I deplore more than all the rest,” replied the major. “You, that have done and suffered so much, with all the quiet courage of a real heroine — that you should now sink before such an enemy as this, is what I really cannot see with patience.”

  “And whence comes this new-born cowardice, my dear Mrs. Richards?” said Rosalind.

  “I will tell you, Miss Torrington,” replied the black-eyed widow, her voice trembling with emotion as she spoke,— “I will tell you: all the courage of which I have ever given proof has been inspired, strengthened, and set in action by my children, — by my love for them, and their love for me. This is over: I have lost their love, I have lost their confidence. They look upon me, — even my Mary, who once shared every feeling of my heart, — they all look upon me as one accursed, separated from them through all eternity, and doomed by a decree of my Maker, decid
ed on thousands of years before I was born, to live for countless ages in torments unspeakable. They repeat all this, and hug the faith that teaches it. Is not this enough to sap the courage of the stoutest heart that ever woman boasted?”

  “It is dreadful!” cried Helen; “oh! most dreadful! Such then will be, and already are, the feelings of my mother respecting me, — respecting Charles. Yet, how she loved us! A few short months ago, how dearly she loved us both!”

  “Come, come, Miss Mowbray; I did not mean to pain you in this manner,” said the major. “Do not fancy things worse than they really are: depend upon it, your brother will take care to prevent this man’s impious profanation of religion from doing such mischief at Mowbray as it has done here. Had there been any master of the House at Meadow Cottage, this gentleman, so miscalled reverend, would never, never, never, have got a footing there.”

  “Then I heartily wish there were,” said Charles, “if only for the sake of setting a good example to the parish in general; but, for the Park in particular, it is as masterless as the cottage.”

  “I believe,” said Mrs. Richards, “that amongst you I shall gain courage to be mistress here; and this, if effectually done, may answer as well. You really advise me, then, all of you, to forbid the clergyman of the parish from entering my doors?”

  “Yes,” replied the major firmly; and he was echoed zealously by the rest of the party.

  “So be it then,” said Mrs. Richards. “But I would my enemy, for such indeed he is, held any other station among us. I could shut my doors against all the lords and ladies in the country with less pain than against the clergyman.”

  “I can fully enter into that feeling,” said Helen: “but surely, in proportion as the station is venerable, the abuse of it is unpardonable. Let this strengthen your resolution; and your children will recover their wits again, depend upon it. I would the same remedy could be applied with us! but you are so much respected, my dear Mrs. Richards, that I am not without hope from your example. Adieu! We shall be anxious to hear how you go on; and you must not fail to let us see you soon.”

  The Mowbray party, having recalled the self-banished Fanny, then took leave, not without the satisfaction of believing that their visit had been well-timed and useful.

  CHAPTER IX.

  DISCUSSION ON TRUTH. — MR. CORBOLD INSTALLED.

  Having called at the Vicarage for Miss Cartwright, they proceeded homeward along the pleasant paths they had so often trod with light-hearted gaiety; but now there was a look of care and anxious thoughtfulness on each young brow, that seemed to say their happiness was blighted by the fear of sorrow to come.

  Though not at all able to understand Henrietta, and not above half liking her, there was yet more feeling of intimacy between Miss Torrington and her than had been attained by any other of the family. It was she, therefore, who, after preceding the others by a few rapid steps up the hill, rang the bell of the Vicarage, and waited in the porch for Miss Cartwright.

  During these few moments the trio had passed on, and Miss Torrington, finding herself tête-à-tête with the vicar’s daughter, ventured to relate to her pretty nearly all that occurred at the house of Mrs. Richards; by no means omitting the resolution that lady had come to respecting Mr. Cartwright.

  “I am very sorry for it,” said Henrietta.

  “You regret the loss of their society? Then for your sake, Henrietta, I am sorry too.”

  “For my sake? I regret the loss of their society! Are you not mocking me?”

  “You know I am not,” replied Rosalind in a tone of vexation; “why should you not regret the loss of Mrs. Richards’ society?”

  “Only because there is no society in the world that I could either wish for, — or regret.”

  “It is hardly fair in you, Miss Cartwright,” said Rosalind, “to excite my interest so often as you do, and yet to leave it for ever pining, for want of a more full and generous confidence.”

  “I have no such feeling as generosity in me; and as to exciting your interest, I do assure you it is quite involuntarily; and, indeed, I should think that no human being could be less likely to trouble their fellow creatures in that way than myself.”

  “But is there not at least a little wilfulness, Henrietta, in the manner in which from time to time you throw out a bait to my curiosity?”

  “It is weakness, not wilfulness, Rosalind. I am ashamed to confess, even to myself, that there are moments when I fancy I should like to love you; and then I would give more than my worthless life, if I had it, that you should love me. When this contemptible folly seizes me, I may, perhaps, as you say, throw out a bait to catch your curiosity, and then it is I utter the words of which you complain. But you must allow that this childishness never holds me long, and that the moment it is past I become as reasonable and as wretched again as ever.”

  “Will you tell me whether this feeling of profound contempt for yourself, whenever you are conscious of a kindly sentiment towards me, arises from your conviction of my individual despicability, or from believing that all human affections are degrading?”

  “Not exactly from either. As for you, Rosalind, — is it not the weak and wavering Hamlet who says, in one of those flashes of fine philosophy that burst athwart the gloom of his poor troubled spirit,

  ‘Give me that man that is not passion’s slave?’

  My wits are often as much diseased as his, I believe; but I too have my intervals; and, when the moon is not at the full, I sometimes sketch the portrait of a being that one might venture to love. I, however, have no quarrel against passion, — it is not from thence my sorrows have come; — but I would say,

  ‘Give me that friend That is not falsehood’s slave, and I will wear him (or her, Rosalind,) In my heart’s core, — ay, in my heart of heart.’

  And if after all my hard schooling I could be simple enough to believe that any thing in human form could be true, I should be more likely to commit the folly about you than about any one I ever saw in my life.”

  “But still you believe me false?”

  “I do.”

  “And why, Henrietta?”

  “Because you are a woman; — no, no, because you are a human being.”

  “And you really, without meaning to season your speech with pungent crystals of satire — you really do not believe that truth can be found in any human being?”

  “I really do not.”

  “Heaven help you, then! I would rather pass my life in a roofless cabin, and feed on potato-parings, than live in such a persuasion.”

  “And so would I, Rosalind.”

  “Then why do you nourish such hateful theories? I shall begin to think your jesting words too true, Henrietta; and believe, indeed, that your wits are not quite healthy.”

  “Would I could believe it! I would submit to a strait-waistcoat and a shaven crown to-morrow if I could but persuade myself that I was mad, and that all that I have fancied going on around me were but so many vapours from a moon-sick brain.”

  “And so they have been, if you construe every word you hear, and every act you see, into falsehood and delusion.”

  “Rosalind! Rosalind! — how can I do otherwise? Come, come, enough of this: do not force me against my will, against my resolution, to tell you what has brought me to the wretched, hopeless state of apathy in which you found me. Were I to do this, you would only have to follow the weakness of your nature, and believe, in order to become as moody and as miserable as myself.”

  “But you do not mean to tell me that I should be proving my weakness in believing you?”

  “Indeed I do. You surely cannot be altogether so credulous as to suppose that all you see in me is true, sincere, candid, open, honest?”

  “Are you honest now in telling me that you are false?”

  “Why, partly yes, and partly no, Rosalind; and it is just such a question as that which sets one upon discovering how contrary to our very essence it is, to be purely and altogether true. But were I one of those who fancy that p
incushions are often made by the merciful decrees of an all-wise Providence, I should say that we were ordained to be false, in order to prevent our being straightforward, undisguised demons. Why, I, — look you, — who sit netting a purse that I hope will never be finished, as diligently as if my life would be saved by completing the last stitch by a given time, and as quietly as if I had no nails upon my fingers, and no pointed scissors in my netting-case, — even I, all harmless as I seem, would be likely, were it not for my consummate hypocrisy, to be stabbing and scratching half a dozen times a day.”

  “And, were you freed from this restraint, would your maiming propensities betray themselves promiscuously, or be confined to one or more particular objects?”

  “Not quite promiscuously, I think. But, hypocrisy apart for a moment, do you not perceive that Mr. Charles Mowbray has been looking round at us, — at both of us, observe, — about once in every second minute? Do you know that I think he would like us, — both of us, observe, — to walk on and join the party.”

  “Well, then, let us do so,” said Rosalind.

  As they drew near the house, they perceived Mr. Stephen Corbold wandering round it, his hands behind his back and under his coat, and his eyes now raised to the stately portico, now lowered to the long range of windows belonging to the conservatory; at one moment sent afield over the spacious park, and in the next brought back again to contemplate anew the noble mansion to which it belonged. During one of the wanderings of those speculating orbs, he spied the advancing party; and immediately settling himself in his attire, and assuming the more graceful attitude obtained by thrusting a hand in each side-pocket of his nether garments, he resolutely walked forward to meet them.

  Fanny, his friends and kinsfolk being ever in her memory, made an effort which seemed to combat instinct, and put out her little hand to welcome him; but before he was fully aware of the honour, for indeed his eyes were fixed upon her elder sister, she coloured, and withdrew it again, satisfying her hospitable feelings by pronouncing simply his name, but with a sort of indistinctness in the accent which seemed to signify that something more had either preceded or followed it.