Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “It is impossible!” said Helen, “I cannot: — I will not believe it. Rosalind! if you have had such an idea, how comes it that you have kept it secret from me?”

  “If instead of darkly fearing it,” replied Rosalind, “I had positively known it to be true, I doubt if I should have named it, Helen; — I could not have borne that words so hateful should have first reached the family from me.”

  “Has she told you it is so?” inquired Helen, her lips so parched with agitation that she pronounced the words with difficulty.

  “No, dearest, she has not; and perhaps I am wrong both in conceiving such an idea, and in naming it. But her mind is so violently, so strangely wrought upon by this detestable man, that I can only account for it by believing that he is — —”

  There was much filial piety in the feeling that prevented his finishing the sentence.

  “It is so that I have reasoned,” said Rosalind. “Heaven grant that we be both mistaken! — But will you not tell us, Charles, what it is that has suggested the idea to you? For Heaven’s sake relate, if you can, what has passed between you?”

  “If I can! — Indeed I doubt my power. She spoke of me as of one condemned of Heaven.”

  Rosalind started from her seat.— “Do not go on, Mr. Mowbray!” she exclaimed with great agitation; “I cannot bear this, and meet her with such external observance and civility as my situation demands. It can do us no good to discuss this wicked folly, — this most sinful madness. I, at least, for one, feel a degree of indignation — a vehemence of irritation on the subject, that will not, I am sure, produce good to any of us. She must go on in the dreadful path in which she has lost herself, till she meet something that shall shock and turn her back again. But all that can be done or said by others will but drive her on the faster, adding the fervour of a martyr to that of a convert.”

  “You speak like an oracle, dear Rosalind,” said poor Mowbray, endeavouring to smile, and more relieved than he would have avowed to himself at being spared the task of narrating his downfall from supposed wealth to actual penury before her.

  “She speaks like an oracle, but a very sad one,” said Helen. “Nevertheless, we will listen and obey. — You have spoken to my mother, and what you have said has produced no good effect: to me, therefore, it is quite evident that nothing can. Were it not that the fearful use which we hear made of the sacred name makes me tremble lest I too should use it irreverently, I would express the confidence I feel, that if we bear this heavy sorrow well, his care will be with us: and whether we say it or not, let us feel it. And now, Rosalind, we must redeem our lost time, and read for an hour or so upstairs. See! we have positively let the fire go out; — a proof how extremely injurious it is to permit our thoughts to fix themselves too intensely on any thing: — it renders one incapable of attending to the necessary affairs of life. — There, Charles, is a sermon for you. But don’t look so miserable, my dear brother; or my courage will melt into thin air.”

  “I will do my best to master it, Helen,” he replied; “but I shall not be able to make a display of my stoicism before you this evening, for I must return to Oakley.”

  “Are you going to dine there? Why did you not tell me so?”

  “If my conversation with my mother had ended differently, Helen, I should have postponed my visit till to-morrow; but as it is, it will be better for me to go now. I will drive myself over in the cab. I suppose I can have Joseph?” He rang the bell as he spoke.

  “Let the cab be got ready for me in half an hour: and tell Joseph I shall want him to go out with me to dinner.”

  “The cab is not at home, sir,” replied the servant.

  “Is it gone to the coach-maker’s? — What is the matter with it.”

  “There is nothing the matter with it, sir; but Mr. Cartwright has got it.”

  “Then let my mare be saddled. She is in the stable, I suppose?”

  “Mr. Corbold has had the use of your mare, Mr. Charles, for more than a month, sir: and terribly worked she has been, Dick says.”

  “Very well — it’s no matter: I shall walk, William.”

  The servant retired, with an expression of more sympathy than etiquette could warrant. Helen looked at her brother in very mournful silence; but tears of indignant passion started to the bright eyes of Rosalind. “Is there no remedy for all this?” she exclaimed. “Helen, let us run away together. They cannot rob me of my money, I suppose. Do ask Sir Gilbert, Charles, if I am obliged to stay here and witness these hateful goings-on.”

  “I will — I will, Miss Torrington. It would, indeed, be best for you to leave us. But my poor Helen, — she must stay and bear it.”

  “Then I shall stay too: and that I think you might guess, Mr. Mowbray.”

  Rosalind’s tears overflowed as she spoke; and Charles Mowbray looked at her with that wringing of the heart which arises from thinking that all things conspire to make us wretched. When he was the reputed heir of fourteen thousand a year he had passed whole weeks in the society of Rosalind, and never dreamed he loved her; — but now, now that he was a beggar, and a beggar too, as it seemed, not very likely to be treated with much charity by his own mother, — now that it would be infamy to turn his thoughts towards the heiress with any hope or wish that she should ever be his, he felt that he adored her — that every hour added strength to a passion that he would rather die than reveal, and that without a guinea in the world to take him or to keep him elsewhere, his remaining where he was would expose him to sufferings that he felt he had no strength to bear.

  CHAPTER XII.

  THE VICAR’S PROGRESS, AND HIS COUNSEL TO FANNY AS TO THE BEST MEANS OF ASSISTING THE POOR.

  When the family assembled at dinner, and Mrs. Mowbray perceived the place of her son vacant, she changed colour, and appeared discomposed and absent during the whole time she remained at table. This, however, was not long; for, a very few minutes after the cloth was removed, she rose, and saying, “I want you, Fanny,” left the room with her youngest daughter without making either observation or apology to those she left. The result of this conference between the mother and daughter was the despatching a note to the Vicarage, which brought the vicar to join them with extraordinary speed.

  Mrs. Mowbray then related with a good deal of emotion the scene which had taken place between herself and her son in the morning; concluding it with mentioning his absence at dinner, and her fears that, in his unregenerate state of mind, he might be led to withdraw himself altogether from a home where godliness had begun to reign, and where, by the blessing of heaven, it would multiply and increase every day that they were spared to live.

  When she had concluded, Mr. Cartwright remained for several minutes silent, his eyes fixed upon the carpet, his arms folded upon his breast, and his head from time to time moved gently and sadly to and fro, as if the subject on which he was meditating were both important and discouraging. At length he raised his eyes, and fixed them upon Fanny.

  “My dear child,” he said, “withdraw yourself, and pray, while your mother and I remain together. Pray for us, Fanny! — pray for both of us, that we may so do the duty appointed unto us, as what we may decide to execute shall redound to the glory of heaven, and to our everlasting salvation, world without end, amen!”

  Fanny rose instantly, and clasping her innocent hands together, fervently exclaimed “I will! — I will!”

  Having opened the door, and laid his delicate white hand upon her head, whispering an ardent blessing as she passed through it, he watched her as she retreated with a rapid step to her chamber anxious to perform the duty assigned her; and then closing and bolting it after her, he returned to the sofa near the fire, and seated himself beside Mrs. Mowbray.

  “My friend!” said Mr. Cartwright, taking her hand; “my dear, dear friend! you are tried, you are very sorely tried. But it is the will of the Lord, and we must not repine at it: rather let us praise his name alway!”

  “I do!” ejaculated the widow with very pious emotion; “I do praise
and bless his holy name for all the salvation he hath vouchsafed to me, a sinner — and to my precious Fanny with me. Oh, Mr. Cartwright, it is very dear to me to think that I shall have that little holy angel with me in paradise! But be my guide and helper” — and here the good and serious lady very nearly returned the pressure with which her hand was held,— “oh! be my guide and helper with my other misguided children! Tell me, dear Mr. Cartwright, what must I do with Charles?”

  “It is borne in upon my mind, my dear and gentle friend, that there is but one chance left to save that deeply-perilled soul from the everlasting gulf of gnawing worms and of eternal flame.”

  “Is there one chance?” exclaimed the poor woman in a real ecstasy. “Oh! tell me what it is, and there is nothing in the wide world that I would not bear and suffer to obtain it.”

  “He must abandon the profession of arms and become a minister of the gospel.”

  “Oh! Mr. Cartwright, he never will consent to this. From his earliest childhood, his unhappy and unawakened father taught him to glory in the thought of fighting the battles of his country; and with the large fortune he must one day have, is it not probable that he might be tempted to neglect the cure of souls? And then, you know, Mr. Cartwright, that the last state of that man would be worse than the first.”

  Mr. Cartwright dropped the lady’s hand and rose from his seat. “I must leave you, then,” he said, his rich voice sinking into a tone of the saddest melancholy. “I must not — I may not give any other counsel; for in doing so, I should betray my duty, and betray the confidence you have placed in me. Adieu, then, beloved friend! adieu for ever! My heart — the weak and throbbing heart of a man is even now heaving in my breast. That heart will for ever forbid my speaking with harshness and austerity to you. Therefore, beloved but too feeble friend, adieu! Should I stay longer with you, that look might betray me into forgetfulness of every thing on earth — and heaven too!”

  The three last words were uttered in a low and mournful whisper. He then walked towards the door, turned to give one last look, and having unfastened the lock and shot back the bolt, was in the very act of departing, when Mrs. Mowbray rushed towards him, exclaiming “Oh, do not leave us all to everlasting damnation! Save us! save us! Tell me only what to do, and I will do it.”

  In the extremity of her eagerness, terror, and emotion, she fell on her knees before him, and raising her tearful eyes to his, seemed silently to reiterate the petition she had uttered.

  Mr. Cartwright looked down upon her, turned away for one short instant to rebolt the door, and then, raising his eyes to heaven, and dropping on his knees beside her, he threw his arms around her, impressed a holy kiss upon her brow, exclaiming in a voice rendered tremulous, as it should seem, by uncontrollable agitation, “Oh, never! never!”

  After a few moments unavoidably lost by both in efforts to recover their equanimity, they rose and reseated themselves on the sofa.

  The handkerchief of Mrs. Mowbray was at her eyes. She appeared greatly agitated, and totally unable to speak herself, sat in trembling expectation of what her reverend friend should say next.

  It was not immediately, however, that Mr. Cartwright could recover his voice; but at length he said, “It is impossible, my too lovely friend, that we can either of us any longer mistake the nature of the sentiment which we feel for each other. But we have the comfort of knowing that this sweet and blessed sentiment is implanted in us by the will of the Lord! And if it be sanctified to his honour and glory, it becometh the means of raising us to glory everlasting in the life to come. Wherefore, let us not weep and lament, but rather be joyful and give thanks that so it hath seemed good in his sight!”

  Mrs. Mowbray answered only by a deep sigh, which partook indeed of the nature of a sob; and by the continued application of her handkerchief, it appeared that she wept freely. Mr. Cartwright once more ventured to take her hand; and that she did not withdraw it, seemed to evince such a degree of Christian humility, and such a heavenly-minded forgiveness of his presumption, that the pious feelings of his heart broke forth in thanksgiving.

  “Praise and glory to the Lord alway!” he exclaimed, “your suffering sweetness, dearest Clara, loveliest of women, most dearly-beloved — your suffering sweetness shall be bruised no more! Let me henceforward be as the shield and buckler that shall guard thee, so that thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day. And tell me, most beloved! does not thy spirit rejoice, and is not thy heart glad, even as my heart, that the Lord hath been pleased to lay his holy law upon us — even upon thee and me?”

  “Oh, Mr. Cartwright!” replied the agitated Mrs. Mowbray, “I know not what I can — I know not what I ought to do. May Heaven guide me! — for, alas! I know not how to guide myself!”

  “And fear not, Clara, but he will guide thee! for he hath made thee but a little lower than the angels, and hath crowned thee with glory and honour. And tell me, thou highly-favoured one, doth not thy own heart teach thee, that heart being taught of him, that I am he to whom thou shouldst look for comfort now in the time of this mortal life? Speak to me, sweet and holy Clara. Tell me, am I deceived in thee? Or art thou indeed, and wilt thou indeed be mine?”

  “If I shall sin not by doing so, I will, Mr. Cartwright; for my spirit is too weak to combat all the difficulties I see before me. My soul trusts itself to thee — be thou to me a strong tower, for I am afraid.”

  “Think you, Clara, that he who has led you out of darkness into the way of life would now, for the gratification of his own earthly love, become a stumbling-block in thy path? My beloved friend! how are you to wrestle and fight for and with that misguided young man, who hath now, even now, caused you such bitter sufferings? He is thine; therefore he is dear to me. Let me lead him, even as I have led thee, and his spirit too, as well as thine and Fanny’s, shall rejoice!”

  “Then be it so!” exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. “Promise me only to lead Helen also into life everlasting, and not to leave the poor benighted Rosalind for ever in darkness, and I will consent, Mr. Cartwright, to be your wife!”

  Nothing could be more satisfactory than the vicar’s answer to this appeal, and had not the good Mrs. Mowbray been too generous to exact a penalty in case of failure, there can be little doubt but that he would willingly have bound himself under any forfeiture she could have named, to have ensured a place in heaven, not only to all those she mentioned, but to every individual of her household, the scullion and stable-boys included.

  The great question answered of “To be or not to be the husband of Mrs. Mowbray?” the vicar began to point out to her in a more composed and business-like manner the great advantages both temporal and spiritual which must of necessity result to her family from this arrangement; and so skilfully did he manage her feelings and bend her mind to his purpose, that when at length he gave her lips the farewell kiss of affianced love, and departed, he left her in the most comfortable and prayerful state of composure imaginable. In about ten minutes after he was gone, she rang her bell, and desired that Miss Fanny might come to her; when, without exactly telling her the important business which had been settled during the time she passed upon her knees, she gave her to understand that Mr. Cartwright had probably thought of the only means by which all the unhappy disagreements in the family could be settled.

  “Indeed, mamma, I prayed for him,” said Fanny, lifting her eyes to Heaven; “I prayed most earnestly, that Heaven might bring him wisdom to succour you according to your wish, and therein to heal all our troubles.”

  “And your prayers have been heard, my dear child; and it hath sent him the wisdom that we all so greatly needed. — Have they had tea in the drawing-room, Fanny?”

  “I don’t know, mamma. I have been kneeling and praying all the time.”

  “Then, my dear, you must want refreshment. Go down and tell them that I am not quite well this evening, and shall therefore not come down again; but they may send me some tea by Curtis.”

  “I hope you are
not very ill, my dearest mother?” said Fanny, looking, anxiously at her.

  “No, dear, — not very ill — only a little nervous.”

  While these scenes passed at Mowbray Park, poor Charles was relieving his heart by relating, without reserve, what had passed between him and his mother. His first words on entering the library, where Sir Gilbert and Lady Harrington were seated, were, “Have you sent that letter to Oxford, Sir Gilbert?”

  “Yes, I have,” was the reply. “But why do you inquire, Charles?”

  “Because, if you had not, I would have begged you to delay it.”

  “And why so?”

  In reply to this question, young Mowbray told all that had passed; observing, when his painful tale was ended, that such being his mother’s decision, he intended to apply immediately to Corbold for the money he wanted.

  “Not you, by Jove, Charles! You shall do no such thing, I tell you! What! knuckle and truckle to this infernal gang of hypocrites! You shall do no such thing. Just let me know all that is going on in the garrison, and if I don’t counterplot them, I am a Dutchman.”

  “Puff not up your heart, Sir Knight, with such vain conceits,” said Lady Harrington. “You will plot like an honest man, and the Tartuffe will plot like a rogue. I leave you to guess which will do the most work in the shortest time. Nevertheless, you are right to keep him out of the way of these people as long as you can.”

  Notwithstanding the heavy load at his heart which Mowbray brought with him to Oakley, before he had passed an hour with his old friends his sorrows appeared lighter, and his hopes from the future brighter and stronger. Sir Gilbert, though exceedingly angry with Mrs. Mowbray, still retained some respect for her; and, spite of all his threatening hints to the contrary, he no more believed that the widow of his old friend would marry herself to the Reverend William Jacob Cartwright, than that he, when left a widower by my lady, should marry the drunken landlady of the Three Tankards at Ramsden. He therefore spoke to Charles of his present vexatious embarrassments as of all evils that must naturally clear away, requiring only a little temporary good management to render them of very small importance to him. Of Helen’s situation, however, Lady Harrington spoke with great concern, and proposed that she and Miss Torrington should transfer themselves from the Park to Oakley as soon as Charles joined his regiment, and there remain till Mrs. Mowbray had sufficiently recovered her senses to make them comfortable at home.