Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Yes,” replied Mrs. Mathews.

  “And you will immediately see her,” he rejoined, “for the purpose of trying the experiment.”

  “I will go this very hour, this moment,” she replied.

  “God bless you, my dear, energetic friend! I well knew that if I found help from any one it would be from you,” he replied, looking so greatly comforted as to be almost like his tranquil self again.

  “I wish I might walk across the park with you,” added he, “but this I must not. My penitent might see us together, and I would rather avoid this. I did my best to receive his rascally confession with the professional imperturbability of a priest, but I do not feel quite certain that I succeeded.”

  “What makes you doubt it?” inquired Mrs. Mathews. “Was it his manner or your own feelings which produced the doubt?”

  “A little of both, I believe,” was his reply. “He looked for a moment, as he might have done if he had been more anxious to find out what I thought would be the consequence of what he had confessed, than of the confession itself, or my opinion of him in consequence of it.”

  “Did he?” said Mrs. Mathews, and then she stopped.

  “Yes,” returned her companion, “I thought so for a moment, but I daresay I was mistaken. I take him to be a very dissolute, worthless scamp, who trusts to his handsome person and his grandfather’s protection for bringing him safely through all the scrapes he may get into. I really think I did him more than justice in believing it possible that he had any feeling of shame, or anything but the most daring libertine indifference as to the consequences of what he had disclosed.”

  “Perhaps you are right, and perhaps you are wrong,” she replied, as she rose from her chair, and prepared to leave the room. “I will leave you here if you like to stay; for, by way of a priest, I believe you to be indifferent honest, and that you are not likely to steal any of my treasures; but I am in haste to do my errand, so farewell.”

  And so saying she hastened to her own room to equip herself for her walk; but when she sallied forth in the direction which led to the park ladder, she saw, walking away together in the opposite direction, her friend, Mr. Cuthbridge, and her grandson, Mr. Stephen Cornington; and as she went, she whispered to herself, —

  “Perhaps, after all, his grandmamma understands him better than his confessor.”

  CHAPTER XLII.

  MRS. MATHEWS found Lady Otterborne and Janet tête-à-tête as usual in the beautiful room, half-boudoir, half-library, which was considered as sacred to her ladyship’s use. It was there, and it was thus, that very nearly all the hours devoted by Janet to Lady Otterborne were passed.

  The thought and the hope of awakening a comparison in the mind of her son between the blazing beauty of Emily Steyton and the delicate loveliness of Janet had long passed away, and it would have been strange indeed if it had not; for it had soon become very evident that the charm which Herbert used to find in his long tête-à-tête gossiping with his mother had ceased to exist for him when the tête-à-tête was converted into a trio.

  It was not so much his manner, when for a short interval he occasionally visited Lady Otterborne’s retreat as formerly, which suggested to her the idea that he did not consider the presence of Janet an additional attraction, — for he was always very civil to her, — but it was the very notorious fact that when Janet was staying in the house, his visits to the boudoir were both less frequent and less long than formerly; and now it should seem as if poor Janet really had something about her that was inimical to the enjoyment of confidential intercourse, for scarcely had Mrs. Mathews entered the room than she whispered to her adopted child to leave it.

  Janet coloured a little, but instantly obeyed, and ever being in possession of some pleasant volume that would serve for the time being as most excellent company, she retired to the pretty room that was now always designated as “Miss Anderson’s,” and left her two maternal friends alone.

  And how did Mrs. Mathews open her important mission? Did she tell Lady Otterborne, as Mr. Cuthbridge certainly intended she should do, of the terrible degradation of poor Emily, accompanied by a solemn and mysterious assurance that although accident had put her in possession of the fact, no inquiry must be made as to the source from whence she had obtained it? Was it thus that Mrs. Mathews executed her commission?”

  No, she did nothing of the kind.

  The walk between the Grange and the Manor-house was not a long walk, but Mrs. Mathews had taken it slowly, and by doing so had given herself time sufficient to ruminate upon the singular statement which she had listened to from her old friend, and to draw her own conclusions upon it.

  The result of this was that she greatly doubted the truth of Mr. Stephen Cornington’s confession.

  It would be very greatly exaggerating Mrs. Mathews’ acuteness were I to say that she perfectly understood the character of Stephen Cornington. She was very far indeed from doing so; nevertheless she understood considerably more of it than any other individual of his Hertfordshire acquaintance.

  She had, in truth, very often amused herself by studying his little crooked clever ways with his grandfather. From the very first evening, ay, from the very first hour of his arrival, she had convinced herself that there was no truth in him; and from that clay to the one which had now exhibited him to her as the sinning, but humble penitent, who had conscientiously knelt before his confessor and priest, and confessed his sins, she had gone on, day by day, to be more and more fully convinced that there was, indeed, no truth in him.

  Had she heard from any other quarter precisely the same statement which had now reached her as being made by himself, she would probably have believed it without much difficulty, for she disliked the looks and the ways of poor Emily Steyton exceedingly, and certainly, on the whole, thought worse of her than she deserved; so that the same tenable tale from another quarter might not have found her so strongly disposed to disbelieve it as perhaps she ought to have been.

  But coming from HIM it had from the very first moment appeared doubtful, and before, considerably before she had reached the boudoir of Lady Otterborne, she had convinced herself most completely to her own satisfaction that it was Nor was she at any loss to comprehend the motive which had led to its invention. However light and lively the monkey tricks of Stephen Cornington had been in the eyes of others, they had all been full of meaning to her. She had, accidentally, happened to observe him when his grandfather, while giving him a catalogue raisonnée of the whole neighbourhood, had dwelt a little upon the interesting fact that one of the richest heiresses in England was one of it.

  She had noted the aroused attention, the inquiring eye, the thoughtful look, enduring for a single moment only, but indicating a meditative process within that might, as she guessed, last longer. And then she marked his introduction to the heiress, and then his reception of the important news that she was about to be married to Herbert Otterborne.

  She had seen plainly enough that this news was no pleasant news, but she had seen at no great distance of time afterwards, that it had not caused him to despair.

  And then she watched the poor girl’s silly ways with him.

  She read as plainly as if it had been printed in one of her most splendid volumes, that the girl thought him very handsome, and that she liked greatly to believe that he thought her so. But Mrs. Mathews was essentially the very reverse of a gossiping old woman. She could amuse herself for hours together, when not in a talking mood, by finding out what people were at; but never did she dream of amusing herself by communicating her occult discoveries to others. In fact, her speculations would have lost all their value had they not been for herself alone.

  In the case of her valued young friend, Herbert, she had for some time been soothing herself with the hope that Sir Charles would be arrested before the long-winded settlements could be completed, and that the consequence of such an event upon Mr. Steyton and his family might be such as to leave her highly-esteemed Herbert poor, but free.


  But with all this she had nothing to do, she could have nothing to do; and it required all the influence of Mr. Cuthbridge to induce her to act as she was now doing. The request had been made by him with a degree of solemnity which had rendered her incapable of refusing it; moreover, she had felt, as she listened to his frightful statement, that, rather than suffer Herbert Otterborne to marry Emily Steyton, she would have enacted the part of town-crier to prevent it.

  But the observation he had dropped so casually respecting his young penitent’s manner of welching the effect of his confession, had struck her as being highly characteristic of her littleloved Stephen; and the additional circumstance of his having been on the alert to watch the movements of the priest, at once produced a feeling, wonderfully like conviction, in her mind, that the decidedly improbable sin he had confessed, was a lie, and that his hope of preventing Emily’s marriage with Herbert was the motive for it.

  Her profound and perfectly well-founded conviction of the duplicity of the young man’s character made this, in her opinion, as probable in this case as it would be the reverse in most others; neither did she forget, what it was so very certain the young man would remember, namely, that though the librarian of Proctor Castle was a Papist, his friendships and associations were altogether Protestant, and that his well-known attachment to Herbert Otterborne, in particular, rendered it rather more than probable that by some means or other he would prevent his intended marriage with Miss Steyton.

  The Manor-house park was not much more than half traversed when Mrs. Mathews arrived at this conclusion. “Ben trovato,” she murmured, as she gently strolled onwards. “Ben trovato, blaster Stephen! but, nevertheless, I will do my old friend’s bidding, only it shall be after my own fashion.

  And so my gentle grandson, I shall not have studied your handsome face, and your captivating ways for nothing.”

  No sooner had the obedient Janet left the room than Mrs. Mathews entered upon her delicate mission; and nothing of so much importance was ever done more simply, or in a less startling manner.

  “Forgive my having sent our little Janet out of the room, dear Lady Otterborne,” said she; “but I have something to say to you which no one but yourself must hear.”

  “And what is that?” replied Lady Otterborne, with a smile that was full of neighbourly kindness; but she changed colour, and her eye looked anxiously in the face of Mrs. Mathews, for she knew that her old acquaintance was not likely to come to her on a secret errand, unless she had really something of importance to communicate.

  “I am going to put your kindness to the proof — nay, I am going to ask for a very great compliment from you,” said Mrs. Mathews. “I am not very fond of gossip, and I believe my neighbours know it, for they rarely trouble me with any. But accident has made me acquainted with what may be a fact, or may be a falsehood. I am bound not to tell you how it reached me — nay, I hold myself bound also not to tell you what it is. But yet, with all this silly-seeming mystery about me, I must venture to ask, for a short time — only for a short time, dear lady — that you will contrive, in some way or other, to impede the marriage of your son with Miss Steyton.”

  Lady Otterborne certainly felt, and certainly looked very much astonished.

  “I see that your ladyship thinks I am taking a very unwarrantable liberty,” said Mrs. Mathews, “and I should be disposed to think so myself, did I not feel that under the very peculiar circumstances of the case, I am bound, both by my high esteem for you, and my sincere attachment to your son, to act as I am now doing.”

  “Do not believe, for a moment, that I doubt either the kindness or the propriety of your conduct,” said Lady Otterborne; “I have known you too long and too well for any such doubt to be possible. But your communication has startled me.”

  “I am aware that it must have done so,” said Mrs. Mathews. “Nay, my words do not deserve to be called a communication; you must feel that I have given you only a dark mysterious hint, and upon a subject too, where a mysterious hint must appear most mischievous and abominable. Yet I do assure you that no other mode of action is open to me, save what must be considered as more objectionable still. For so very obscure a person as myself, who has never even profited by the kindness of the neighbourhood in becoming more intimately known to it, for such a one to do what I am doing now, without offering any better guarantee than my own word that I am acting rightly does certainly seem to myself to be very presumptuous. But I have no choice left me.”

  “Do not think I doubt either your good feeling, or your sound judgment,” said Lady Otterborne, eagerly. “I doubt neither; and if it be still in my power, I will act implicitly according to your instructions, although they are so darkly mysterious. But I am very far from being sure that I have any such power. We had notice by this mornings post that the settlements are at length completed, and Sir Charles is expecting the arrival of a professional gentleman by the next train to explain anything that may require explanation and witness the execution of the deeds. I know that Sir Charles himself undertook to procure the licence, and I have little or no rather no doubt that it is actually in the house. You perceive, therefore, my dear Mrs. Mathews, that notwithstanding my perfect confidence in you, I may still be unable to act as you desire. How will it be possible for me, at the very last moment, to tell the Steyton family that we have changed our minds? Or how can I expect to induce Sir Charles (to say nothing of my son) to make himself a party in so unjustifiable a proceeding, and that, too, without assigning any reason for it?”

  Poor Mrs. Mathews became as red as scarlet while listening to this very reasonable remonstrance; but she replied unflinchingly, “Nevertheless it must be done, Lady Otterborne. Do not, I beseech you, throw the responsibility of doing it upon your son; and yet it is to him that I must apply, if you refuse me your assistance.”

  “No! no! For Heaven’s sake do not threaten THAT! I fear for nothing, I care for nothing but for him! Tell me in what manner you propose that I should do what you require of me?”

  “My dear lady!” exclaimed Mrs. Mathews, inexpressibly pained by the agitation which her words had produced in the pale and trembling mother, “I will ask nothing of you but what I feel, as I look at you now, may be only too easily granted! Let me recommend you, Lady Otterborne, to exaggerate a little the indisposition which I too plainly see you are now suffering from. Let your son understand that you are ill, and we may be very sure that the marriage will be postponed.”

  “It shall be so,” replied Lady Otterborne. “Tell dear Janet to go home with you, for I have too much headache to wish even for her society. Solitude is well known to be my best remedy for headache.”

  “But will this suffice to postpone the marriage?” said Mrs. Mathews, anxiously.

  “My telling Herbert that I wish it to be postponed till I am better, will suffice,” was the answer; and it was an answer that perfectly satisfied Mrs. Mathews; for she too knew Herbert well enough to be quite certain that it would produce the result desired.

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  THIS day was destined to be rather an important one in the annals of Weldon, for while these scenes were passing at the Grange and the Manor-house, another, by no means less important, had been going on at the parsonage.

  Immediately after breakfast Mr. William Price had again taken his gun, and again availed himself of Mr Steyton’s neighbourly permission to enter the copse whenever he liked to do so for the purpose of shooting rabbits, the beautiful carnations at the Lodge having suffered much from the depredations of these dangerous neighbours.

  Accident, however, again favoured him; and instead of shooting rabbits he was, during by far the greater part of his absence from home, kneeling in a state of great beatitude at the feet of the beautiful Emily Steyton.

  On leaving her he returned, with a rapid step, to the Parsonage, and going straight to his father’s study, had the good fortune of finding him there, and of finding him alone.

  “What on earth have you been about William, to heat y
ourself so violently?” said the reverend divine, looking up from the sermon he meant to preach next Sunday; “you are perfectly crimson, my dear boy. Have you been running?”

  “Yes, Sir; or, at least, I have been walking very fast,” replied the young man. “But, indeed, I have a great deal to do, Sir, and there is no time to be lost. I want both your advice and assistance, my dear father! but as I think it is about a business that will give you pleasure, I hope you will excuse my troubling you. I suppose, my dear Sir, I must begin at the beginning, and confess to you, before I say any more, that I have fallen most violently in love.”

  The usually placid brow of the very gentlemanlike rector of Weldon was overcast, and looking rather sternly at his red and radiant son, he said, —

  “Do not give me reason to suppose that I have spoiled you by my indulgence, William. You see how I am engaged, and you must be aware that I cannot be in a humour for joking.”

  “Indeed, Sir, you are quite mistaken if you fancy there is any joke in the matter. I am quite, quite serious; and you will be so too, I am very sure, if you will only have the kindness to listen to me. Miss Steyton, father, is the young lady with whom I have fallen in love,” said Mr. William Price, with considerable solemnity.

  “I thought, William,” replied his reverend father, with something a little like a sneer, “I thought that Miss Steyton was immediately going to be married to the son and heir of Sir Charles Otterborne of the Manor-house.”

  “And a great many other people have been thinking the same, Sir,” said his son; “but they are all mistaken, I assure you. Mr Herbert Otterborne has certainly been wanting to marry her, and as all the friends on both sides liked and approved it very much, the angelic Emily had not the heart to contradict and disappoint them, and, in short, she promised to consent to their wishes. But the feelings of her heart were against it, Sir; she loves me, and nobody but me, and I am this moment come from her with her full permission for our immediate elopement.”