Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Before the young man left them, it was settled that Colonel Harrington should immediately exert himself to obtain the commission so long promised; a service in the performance of which no difficulty was anticipated, as the last inquiries made on the subject at the Horse Guards were satisfactorily answered.

  “Meanwhile,” said the baronet as he wrung his hand at parting, “give not way for one single inch before the insolent interference of these canters and ranters: remember who and what you are, and that you have a friend who will make the county too hot to hold any one, male or female, who shall attempt to shake or shackle you in your natural rights. Treat your mother with the most perfect respect and politeness; but make her understand that you are your father’s son, and that there is such a thing as public opinion, which, on more occasions than one, has been found as powerful as any other law of the land. Cheer the spirits of the poor woe-begone girls as much as you can; and tell Helen that her duty to her father’s memory requires that she should not neglect her father’s friends. And now good night, Charles! Come to us as often as you can; and God bless you, my dear boy!”

  By this advice young Mowbray determined to act; and wishing to escape any discussion upon lesser points, he avoided all tête-à-tête conversations with his mother, kept as much out of Mr. Cartwright’s way as possible, turned his back upon the serious attorney whenever he met him, and devoted his time to walking, reading, and singing, with Miss Torrington and his sister Helen, while waiting to receive the news of his appointment. When this should arrive, he determined once more to see his mother in private, and settle with her, on the best footing he could, the amount and manner of his future supplies.

  This interval, which lasted nearly a month, was by no means an unhappy one to Charles. He had great confidence in the judgment of Sir Gilbert Harrington, and being much more inclined to believe in his mother’s affection than to doubt it, he resolutely shut his eyes upon whatever was likely to annoy him, and gave himself up to that occupation which beyond all others enables a man, or a woman either, to overlook and forget every other, — namely, the making love from morning to night.

  The manner in which this undeclared but very intelligible devotion of the heart was received by the fair object of it was such, perhaps, as to justify hope, though it by no means afforded any certainty that the feeling was returned. Even Helen, who fully possessed her brother’s confidence, and had hitherto, as she believed, fully possessed the confidence of Rosalind also, — even Helen knew not very well what to make of the varying symptoms which her friend’s heart betrayed. That Miss Torrington took great pleasure in the society of Mr. Mowbray, it was impossible to doubt; and that she wished him to find pleasure in hers, was equally clear. His favourite songs only were those which she practised in his absence and sang in his presence; he rarely praised a passage in their daily readings which she might not, by means of a little watching, be found to have read again within the next twenty-four hours. The feeble winter-blossoms from the conservatory, of which he made her a daily offering, might be seen preserved on her toilet in a succession of glasses, and only removed at length by a remonstrance from her maid, who assured her that “stale flowers were unwholesome; though, to be sure, coming out of that elegant conservatory did make a difference, no doubt.” Yet even then, the bouquet of a week old was not permitted to make its exit till some aromatic leaf or still green sprig of myrtle had been drawn from it, and deposited somewhere or other, where its pretty mistress, perhaps, never saw it more, but which nevertheless prevented her feeling that she had thrown the flowers he had given her on Sunday in the breakfast-room, or on Monday in the drawing-room, &c. &c. &c., quite away.

  Yet, with all this, it was quite impossible that Charles, or even Helen, who knew more of these little symptomatic whims than he did, could feel at all sure what Rosalind’s answer would be if Mr. Mowbray made her a proposal of marriage.

  From time to time words dropped from Rosalind indicative of her extreme disapprobation of early marriages both for women and men, and declaring that there was nothing she should dread so much as forming a union for life with a man too young to know his own mind. When asked by Charles at what age she conceived it likely that a man might attain this very necessary self-knowledge, she answered with a marked emphasis,

  “Decidedly not till they are many years older than you are, Mr. Mowbray.”

  Even to her own heart Rosalind would at this time have positively denied, not only that she loved Charles Mowbray, but that Charles Mowbray loved her. She was neither insensible nor indifferent to his admiration, or to the pleasure he took in her society; but she had heard Charles’s judgment of her on her arrival more than once repeated in jest. He had said, that she was neither so amiable as Helen, nor so handsome as Fanny. To both of these opinions she most sincerely subscribed, and with such simple and undoubting acquiescence, that it was only when she began to read in his eyes the legible “I love you,” that she remembered his having said it. Then her woman’s heart told her, that inferior though she might be, it was not her husband that must be the first to discover it; and superior as he was, — which she certainly was not disposed to deny, — it was not with such disproportionate excellence that she should be most likely to form a happy union.

  Had Mowbray guessed how grave and deeply-seated in Rosalind’s mind were the reasons which would have led her decidedly to refuse him, this flowery portion of his existence would have lost all its sweetness. It was therefore favourable to his present enjoyment that, confident as he felt of ultimately possessing the fortune to which he was born, he determined not to propose to Rosalind till his mother had consented to assure to him an independence as undoubted as her own. The sweet vapour of hope, therefore, — the incense with which young hearts salute the morning of life, — enveloped him on all sides: and pity is it that the rainbow-tinted mist should ever be blown away from those who, like him, are better, as well as happier, for the halo that so surrounds them.

  Many a storm is preceded by a calm, — many a gay and happy hour only gives the frightful force of contrast to the misery that follows it.

  Mr. Cartwright having once and again received the plighted faith of Mrs. Mowbray, for the present confined his operations solely to the gentle task of urging her to hasten his happiness, and the assurance of eternal salvation to all her family.

  But here, though the obstacles he had to encounter were of a soft and malleable nature, easily yielding to the touch, and giving way at one point, they were yet difficult to get rid of altogether; for they were sure to swell up like dough, and meet him again in another place.

  Thus, when he proved to the pious widow that Heaven could never wish her to delay her marriage till her year of mourning was out, seeing that its honour and glory would be so greatly benefited and increased thereby, she first agreed perfectly in his view of the case as so put, but immediately placed before him the violent odium which they should have to endure from the opinion of the world. And then, when his eloquence had convinced her, that it was sinful for those who put not their faith in princes, nor in any child of man, to regulate their conduct by such worldly considerations, — though she confessed to him that as their future associations would of course be wholly and solely among the elect, she might perhaps overcome her fear of what her neighbours and unregenerate acquaintance might say, yet nevertheless she doubted if she could find courage to send orders to her milliner and dressmaker for coloured suits, even of a sober and religious tint, as it was so very short a time since she had ordered her half-mourning.

  It was more difficult perhaps to push this last difficulty aside than any other; for Mr. Cartwright could not immediately see how to bring the great doctrine of salvation to bear upon it.

  However, though the lady had not yet been prevailed upon to fix the day, and even at intervals still spoke of the eligibility of waiting till the year of mourning was ended, yet on the whole he had no cause to complain of the terms on which he stood with her, and very wisely permitted the peac
e of mind which he himself enjoyed to diffuse itself benignly over all the inhabitants of the Park and the Vicarage.

  Henrietta, who throughout the winter had been in too delicate a state of health to venture out of the house, was permitted to read what books she liked at the corner of the parlour fire; while Mr. Jacob, far from being annoyed by any particular strictness of domestic discipline, became extremely like the wind which bloweth where it listeth, wandering from farm-house to farm-house — nay, even from village to village, without restriction of any kind from his much-engaged father.

  Fanny, however, was neither overlooked nor neglected; though to have now led her about to little tête-à-tête prayer-meetings in the woods was impossible. First, the wintry season forbad it; and secondly, the very particular and important discussions which business rendered necessary in Mrs. Mowbray’s dressing-room — or, as it had lately been designated, Mrs. Mowbray’s morning parlour — must have made such an occupation as difficult as dangerous.

  At these discussions Fanny was never invited to appear. She prayed in company with her mother and Mr. Cartwright, and some of the most promising of the domestics, for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening; but the manner in which the interval between these two prayings was spent showed very considerable tact and discrimination of character in the Vicar of Wrexhill.

  Soon after the important interview which has been stated to have taken place between the lady of the manor and the vicar had occurred, Mr. Cartwright having met Fanny on the stairs in his way to her mamma’s morning parlour, asked her, with even more than his usual tender kindness, whether he might not be admitted for a few minutes into her “study;” for it was thus that her dressing-room was now called by as many of the household as made a point of doing every thing that Mr. Cartwright recommended.

  “Oh yes,” she replied with all the zealous piety which distinguishes the sect to which she belonged, whenever their consent is asked to do or suffer any thing that nobody else would think it proper to do or suffer,— “Oh yes! — will you come now, Mr. Cartwright?”

  “Yes, my dear child, it is now that I wish to come;” — and in another moment the Vicar of Wrexhill and his beautiful young parishioner were sitting tête-à-tête on the sofa of the young lady’s dressing-room.

  As usual with him on all such occasions, he took her hand. “Fanny!” he began,— “dear, precious Fanny! you know not how much of my attention — how many of my thoughts are devoted to you!”

  “Oh! Mr. Cartwright, how very, very kind you are to think of me at all!”

  “You must listen to me Fanny,” (he still retained her hand,) “you must now listen to me with very great attention. You know I think highly of your abilities — indeed I have not scrupled to tell you it was my opinion that the Lord had endowed you with great powers for his own especial service and glory. That last hymn, Fanny, confirms and strengthens me in this blessed belief, and I look upon you as a chosen vessel. But, my child, we must be careful that we use, and not abuse, this exceeding great mercy and honour. Your verses, Fanny, are sweet to my ear, as the songs of the children of Israel to those who were carried away captive. But not for me — not for me alone, or for those who, like me, can taste the ecstasy inspired by holy song, has that power been given unto you. The poor, the needy, those of no account in the reckoning of the proud — they have all, my dearest Fanny, a right to share in the precious gift bestowed on you. Wherefore, I am now about to propose to you a work to which the best and the holiest devote their lives, but on which you have never yet tried your young strength: — I mean, my dearest child, the writing of tracts for the poor.”

  “Oh! Mr. Cartwright! Do you really think it possible that I can be useful in such a blessed way?”

  “I am sure you may, my dear Fanny; and you know this will be the means of doing good both to the souls and bodies of the saints. For what you shall write, will not only be read to the edification and salvation of many Christian souls, but will be printed and sold for the benefit either of the poor and needy, or for the furthering such works and undertakings as it may be deemed most fit to patronise and assist.”

  “Oh! Mr. Cartwright! If I could be useful in such a way as that, I should be very thankful; — only — I have a doubt.”

  Here the bright countenance of Fanny became suddenly overclouded; she even trembled, and turned pale.

  “What is it, my dear child, that affects you thus?” said the vicar with real surprise; “tell me, my sweet Fanny, what I have said to alarm you?”

  “If I do this,” said Fanny, her voice faltering with timidity, “shall I not seem to be trusting to works?”

  “Do you mean, because the writings of authors are called their works?” said Mr. Cartwright very gravely.

  “No! Mr. Cartwright!” she replied, colouring from the feeling, that if so good and holy a man could quiz, she should imagine that he was now quizzing her,— “No! Mr. Cartwright! — but if I do this, and trust to get saving grace as a reward for the good I may do, will not this be trusting to works?”

  “My dear child,” he said; gently kissing her forehead, “such tenderness of conscience is the best assurance that what you will do will be done in a right spirit. Then fear not, dear Fanny, that those things which prove a snare to the unbeliever should, in like manner, prove a snare to the elect.”

  Again Fanny Mowbray trembled. “Alas! then I may still risk the danger of eternal fire by this thing, — for am I of the elect?”

  The vicar knew that Mrs. Mowbray was waiting for him, and fearing that this long delay might have a strange appearance, he hastily concluded the conversation by exclaiming with as much vehemence as brevity, “You are! You are!”

  CHAPTER XIII.

  MRS. SIMPSON’S CHARITABLE VISIT. — CHARLES’S TROUBLES CONTINUE.

  From this time most of Fanny Mowbray’s hours were spent in writing tracts; which, as soon as completed, were delivered to Mr. Cartwright. He received them ever with expressions of mingled admiration and gratitude, constantly assuring her, the next time they met, that nothing could be more admirably calculated to answer the effect intended, and that the last was incomparably superior to all which had preceded it.

  This occupation of writing tracts, first hit upon for the convenient occupation of Fanny Mowbray, was soon converted, by the ready wit of Mr. Cartwright, into an occupation, in one way or another, for all the professing Christians in his parish who happened to have nothing to do.

  Those who are at all acquainted with the manner in which the “Church Methodists,” as they are called, obtain the unbounded influence which they are known to possess in their different parishes, particularly over the female part of their congregations, must be aware, that, great and violent as the effect of their passionate extempore preaching often is, it is not to that alone that they trust for obtaining it. From the time Mr. Cartwright became Vicar of Wrexhill, he had been unremitting in his exertions of every kind to obtain power, influence, and dominion throughout the parish, and, on the whole, had been pretty generally successful. How far his handsome person and pleasing address contributed to this, it is not here necessary to inquire; but it is certain that he drew upon these advantages largely in his intercourse with the females in general, and with the ladies in particular. But though at first this particular species of devotion was exceedingly agreeable to him, both in its exercise and its success, he now found very considerable inconvenience from the difficulty of keeping up the frequency of his pastoral visits to his fair converts without giving more time to them than was consistent with his infinitely more important avocations at the Park.

  As soon, however, as he perceived how completely the writing of tracts occupied Fanny Mowbray during the time that was formerly bestowed upon listening to his sentimental divinity, he determined that several others of his female parishioners should dispose of their superfluous time in the same manner.

  Within twenty-four hours after he came to this decision, the three Misses Richards had, each and every of the
m, purchased a quire of foolscap paper, a quarter of a hundred of goose-quills, with a bottle of ink, and a Concordance, in common between them. Miss Stokes too, the little blue-eyed milliner, and Mrs. Knighton, the late post-master’s widow, and Mrs. Watkins, the haberdasher’s wife, were all furnished with abundant materials of the same value; and all of them determined to give up every earthly thing, if it were necessary, rather than disappoint the dear, blessed Mr. Cartwright of the comfort of receiving any thing he expected from them.

  The widow Simpson, and even her little holy Mimima, had also employment found for them; which, though it could but ill supply to that regenerate lady the loss of Mr. Cartwright’s society, which at this particular time she was in a great degree deprived of, served, nevertheless, to soothe her by the conviction, that though not seen, she was remembered.

  The part of the business consigned to Mrs. Simpson was the selling the tracts. It was not without surprise that the people of the neighbourhood, particularly the unawakened, saw the parlour-windows of “the principal person in the village” disfigured by a large square paper, looking very much as if it announced lodgings to let, but which, upon closer examination, proved to be inscribed as follows: “Religious tracts, hymns, and meditations sold here, at one penny each, or ninepence halfpenny for the dozen.”

  Miss Mimima’s duty was to hold in her hand a square box, with a slit cut in the lid thereof, in which all who purchased the tracts were requested to deposit their money for the same; and when the customer’s appearance betokened the possession of more pennies than their purchase required, the little girl was instructed to say, “One more penny, please ma’am, (or sir,) for the love of the Lord.”