Mr. Cartwright turned what he had written towards her, saying, “This is the sort of letter which I should think it advisable to send.”
Mrs. Mowbray drew forth another sheet, and transcribed it so rapidly that it might be doubted whether she allowed herself time to read it as she did so.
“And this should be despatched instantly, should it not?” she said, folding and directing it.
“Indeed, I think so.”
“Then will you have the kindness to ring the bell, Mr. Cartwright?”
“Bring me a lighted taper, John,” said Mrs. Mowbray to the servant who entered; “and let Thomas get a horse ready to take this letter immediately to Oakley.”
The taper was brought, the letter sealed and delivered, with instructions that the bearer was to wait for an answer.
This important business concluded, Mr. Cartwright rose to go, saying, “You have filled my heart and my head so completely by the communication of Sir Gilbert Harrington’s conduct, that I protest to you I do not at this moment recollect why it was I troubled you with a visit this morning. I shall recollect it, I dare say, when I see you no longer; and if I do, you must let me come back before very long to tell you.”
“But whether you recollect it or not,” replied Mrs. Mowbray in a plaintive tone, “I trust you will not let it be long before I see you: otherwise, Mr. Cartwright, I shall not know how to proceed when I receive Sir Gilbert’s answer.”
This appeal was answered by an assurance, uttered in a tone of the most soothing kindness, that he would never be far from her when she wished him near; and then, with a pastoral and affectionate pressure of her hand, he left her.
Fanny kept her word, and was walking up and down about a dozen yards from that end of the shrubbery which terminated in the road leading to the house. Mr. Cartwright looked in that direction as he stepped from the library window, and walking quickly to the spot, conversed with her for several minutes as she stood leaning over the gate. Fanny smiled, blushed, and looked delighted: her hand, too, was pressed with affectionate kindness; and Mr. Cartwright returned to his vicarage and his early dinner.
CHAPTER XI.
HELEN’S MISERY AT HER MOTHER’S DISPLEASURE. — SIR G. HARRINGTON’S LETTER ON THE SUBJECT OF THE WILL.
When Miss Torrington and Helen retreated to the dressing-room appropriated to the former, which was the apartment in which they generally pursued their morning studies, they sat down disconsolately enough to review the results of their enterprise.
“Everything is ten times worse than it was before, Helen!” said her friend; “and it is all my fault!”
“Your fault? — Oh no! But I believe we are both of us too young to interfere, with any reasonable hope of doing good, between those who in age and wisdom are so greatly our superiors. Oh, Rosalind! I fear, I fear that my dearest mother is very angry with me!”
“I cannot believe it, Helen. I hardly know how far a dutiful daughter may be permitted to act like a rational human being; but to the best of my knowledge and belief, your conduct has been such as to ensure you the approbation and gratitude of any mother in the world — at least of any reasonable mother. You know, Helen, how truly fond I have become of my sweet-tempered guardianess. — Is there such a word? — I believe not; — of my guardian, then. During the eight months that I have made one of her family, I have never yet received a harsh word or unkind look from her, though I have not the slightest doubt that I have deserved many: but nevertheless, my own dear Helen, if she should blunder so egregiously as to be really angry with you for acting with such zealous, tender affection as you have done this morning merely because that obstinate old brute Sir Gilbert was not to be brought to reason; if she should really act thus — which I trust in God she will not — but if she should, I do verily believe, in all sincerity, that I should hate her.”
“No, you would not, — you would not be so unjust, Rosalind. What right had we to volunteer our silly services? What right had I, in particular, to fancy that if Sir Gilbert would not listen to the remonstrances of his excellent and very clever wife, he would listen to mine? — I really am ashamed of my silly vanity and most gross presumption; and if my dear, dearest mother will but forgive me this once, as all naughty children say, I do not believe she will ever have cause to chide me for meddling again. Oh, Rosalind! if she did but know how I love her, she could never have looked so coldly on me as she did when she told me I had had walking enough!”
“I hope you are mistaken; I hope she did not look coldly on you. I hope she is not angry; for if she be ... I shall go over to the enemy, Helen, as sure as my name is Rosalind, and you may live to see me patting the rough hide of that very shaggy British bull-dog, Sir Gilbert, every time he says something impertinent against your mother.”
“There is one thing,” said Helen, slightly colouring, “that does in some little degree reconcile me to the unfortunate visit of this morning — and that this....”
“The having met Colonel Harrington!” cried Rosalind, interrupting her. “Is it not so?”
“You are right,” replied her friend composedly. “William Harrington, when he was simply William Harrington, and not a dashing colonel of dragoons, was kindness itself to me, when I was a puny, fretful girl, that cried when I ought to have laughed. I cannot forget his good-natured protecting ways with me, and I should have been truly sorry if he had left the country again, as I suppose he will soon do, without my seeing him.”
“Truly, I believe you, my dear,” replied Rosalind, laughing. “And your plain William Harrington, too, seemed as willing to renew the acquaintance as yourself. To tell you the truth, Helen, I thought I saw symptoms of a mighty pretty little incipient flirtation.”
“How can you talk such nonsense, when we have so much to make us sad! Don’t you think I had better go and see if mamma is come in, Rosalind? I cannot express to you how miserable I shall be as long as I think that she is angry with me.”
At this moment the bell which announced that the luncheon was ready, sounded, and poor Helen exclaimed, “Oh, I am so sorry! I ought to have sought her again, before meeting her in this manner. But come! perhaps her dear face will look smilingly at me again: how I will kiss her if it does!”
But the warm heart was again chilled to its very core by the look Mrs. Mowbray wore as the two girls entered the room. Fanny was already seated next her. This was a place often playfully contested between the sisters, and Helen thought, as she approached the door, that if she could get it, and once more feel her mother’s hand between her own, she should be the happiest creature living.
But nothing could be less alike, than what followed her entrance, to the imaginings which preceded it. Mrs. Mowbray was unusually silent to them all, but to Helen she addressed not a single word. This was partly owing to the feeling of displeasure which had recently been so skilfully fastened in her breast, and partly to the anxiety she felt respecting the answer of Sir Gilbert to her note.
In the middle of the silent and nearly untasted meal, the poetical Fanny being in truth the only one who appeared to have much inclination to eat, a salver was presented to Mrs. Mowbray, from whence, with a heightened colour and almost trembling hand, she took a note. She instantly rose from table and left the room. Helen rose too, but not to follow her: she could no longer restrain her tears, and it was to hide this from Fanny, and if possible from Rosalind, that she hastened to leave them both, and shut herself in her own chamber to weep alone.
The present emotion of Helen cannot be understood without referring to the manner in which she had hitherto lived with her mother, and indeed to the general habits of the family. Mystery of any kind was unknown among them; and to those who have observed the effect of this, its prodigious influence on the general tone of family intercourse must be well known. To those who have not, it would be nearly impossible to convey in words an adequate idea of the difference which exists in a household where the parents make a secret of all things of important interest, and where they do not. It is
not the difference between ease and restraint, or even that more striking still, between sweet and sour tempers in the chief or chiefs of the establishment; it is a thousand times more vital than either. Without this easy, natural spontaneous confidence, the family union is like a rope of sand, that will fall to pieces and disappear at the first touch of any thing that can attract and draw off its loose and unbound particles. But if it be important as a general family habit, it is ten thousand times more so in the intercourse between a mother and her daughters. Let no parent believe that affection can be perfect without it; and let no mother fancy that the heart of her girl can be open to her if it find not an open heart in return. Mothers! if you value the precious deposit of your dear girls’ inmost thoughts, peril not the treasure by chilling them with any mystery of your own! It is not in the nature of things that confidence should exist on one side only: it must be mutual.
Never was there less of this hateful mildew of mystery than in the Mowbray family during the life of their father. Whatever were the questions that arose, — whether they concerned the purchase of an estate, or the giving or accepting an invitation to dinner, — whether it were a discussion respecting the character of a neighbour, or the flavour of the last packet of tea, — they were ever and always canvassed in full assembly; or if any members were wanting, it was because curiosity, which lives only by searching for what is hid, lacking its proper aliment, had perished altogether, and so set the listeners free.
This new-born secrecy in her mother struck therefore like a bolt of ice into the very heart of the sensitive Helen. “Have I lost her for ever!” she exclaimed aloud, though in solitude. “Mother! mother! — is it to be ever thus! — If this be the consequence of my poor father’s will, well might Sir Gilbert deplore it! How happily could I have lived for ever, dependent on her for my daily bread, so I could have kept her heart for ever as open as my own!”
At this period, Helen Mowbray had much suffering before her; but she never perhaps felt a pang more bitter in its newness than that which accompanied the conviction that her mother had a secret which she meant not to communicate to her. She felt the fact to be what it really was, neither more nor less; she felt that it announced the dissolution of that sweet and perfect harmony which had hitherto existed between them.
The note from Sir Gilbert Harrington was as follows:
“Sir Gilbert Harrington presents his compliments to Mrs. Mowbray, and begs to inform her that he has not the slightest intention of ever acting as executor to the very singular and mysterious document opened in his presence on the 12th of May last past, purporting to be the last will and testament of his late friend, Charles Mowbray, Esquire.
“Oakley, June 59th, 1834.”
“The lady had gone to her secret bower” to peruse this scroll; and it was fortunate perhaps that she did so, for it produced in her a sensation of anger so much more violent than she was accustomed to feel, that she would have done herself injustice by betraying it.
Mrs. Mowbray had passed her life in such utter ignorance of every kind of business, and such blind and helpless dependence, first on her guardians, and then on her husband, that the idea of acting for herself was scarcely less terrible than the notion of navigating a seventy-four would be to ladies in general. Her thoughts now turned towards Mr. Cartwright, as to a champion equally able and willing to help and defend her, and she raised her eyes to Heaven with fervent gratitude for the timely happiness of having met with such a friend.
That friend had pointed out to her the fault committed by Helen in a manner that made it appear to her almost unpardonable. To have doubted the correctness of his judgment on this, or any point, would have been to doubt the stability of that staff which Providence had sent her to lean upon in this moment of her utmost need. She doubted him not: and Helen was accordingly thrust out, not without a pang perhaps, from that warm and sacred station in her mother’s heart that it had been the first happiness of her existence to fill. Poor Helen! matters were going worse for her — far worse than she imagined, though she was unhappy and out of spirits. She believed, indeed, that her mother was really angry; but, terrible as her forebodings were, she dreamed not that she was already and for ever estranged.
As soon as the first burst of passionate anger had been relieved by a solitary flood of tears, Mrs. Mowbray called a council with herself as to whether she should immediately despatch a messenger to request Mr. Cartwright to call upon her in the evening, or whether she should trust to the interest he had so warmly expressed, which, if sincere, must bring him to her, she thought, on the morrow.
After anxiously debiting this point for nearly an hour, and deciding first on one line of conduct, and then on the other, at least six different times within that period, she at last determined to await his coming; and concealing the doubts and fears which worried her by confining herself to her room under pretence of headach, the three girls were left to pass the remainder of the day by themselves, when, as may easily be imagined, the important events of the morning were fully discussed among them.
Fanny, after the motives of the visit to Oakley had been fully explained to her, gave it as her opinion that Helen was wrong in going without the consent of her mother, but that her intention might plead in atonement for it. But her indignation at hearing of the pertinacious obstinacy of Sir Gilbert was unbounded.
“Oh! how my poor father was deceived in him!” she exclaimed. “He must have a truly bad heart to forsake and vilify my mother at the time she most wants the assistance of a friend. For you know there is business, Helen, relative to the will, and the property, and all that — Sir Gilbert understands it all, — hard-hearted wretch! and I doubt not he thinks he shall crush poor mamma to the dust by thus leaving her, as he believes, without a friend. But, thank God! he will find he is mistaken.”
“What do you mean, Fanny?” said Rosalind sharply.
“I mean, Rosalind, that mamma is not without a friend,” replied Fanny with emphasis. “It has pleased God in his mercy to send her one when she most needed it.”
“I trust that God will restore to her and to us the old, well known, and trusted friend of my father,” said Helen gravely. “On none other can we rest our hope for counsel and assistance, when needed, so safely.”
“Even if you were right, Helen,” replied her sister, “there would be small comfort in your observation. Of what advantage to mamma, or to us, would the good qualities of Sir Gilbert he, if it be his will, as it evidently is, to estrange himself from us? What a contrast is the conduct of Mr. Cartwright to his!”
“Mr. Cartwright!” cried Rosalind, distorting her pretty features into a grimace that intimated abundant scorn,— “Mr. Cartwright! There is much consolation, to be sure, in what an acquaintance of yesterday can do or say, for the loss of such an old friend as Sir Gilbert Harrington!”
“It would be a sad thing for poor mamma if there were not,” replied Fanny. “Of what advantage to her, I ask you, is the long standing of her acquaintance with Sir Gilbert, if his caprice and injustice are to make him withdraw himself at such a time as this? — And how unreasonable and unchristianlike would it be, Rosalind, were she to refuse the friendship of Mr. Cartwright, because she has not known him as long?”
“The only objection I see to her treating Mr. Cartwright as a confidential friend is, that she does not know him at all,” said Rosalind.
“Nor ever can, if she treats him as you do, Miss Torrington,” answered Fanny, colouring. “I believe Mr. Edward Wallace was an especial favourite of yours, my dear; and that perhaps may in some degree account for your prejudice against our good Mr. Cartwright. — Confess, Rosalind; — is it not so?”
“He was indeed an especial favourite with me!” replied Rosalind gravely; “and for the love I bear you all, and more particularly for your sake, Fanny, and your poor mother’s, I would give much — much — much, that he were in the place which Mr. Cartwright holds.”
“But if mamma is in want of a man to transact her business, why
does she not write to Charles and desire him to return?” said Helen. “The taking his degree a few months later would be of little consequence.”
“Charles?” said Fanny with a smile that seemed to mean a great deal.— “Charles is one of the most amiable beings in the world, but the most incapable of undertaking the management of business.”
“How can you know any thing about it, Fanny?” said Helen, looking at her with surprise.
“I heard Mr. Cartwright say to mamma, that Charles was quite a boy, though a very charming one.”
Helen looked vexed, and Rosalind fixed her eyes upon Fanny as if wishing she would say more.
“In short,” continued Fanny, “if Sir Gilbert chooses to cut us, I don’t see what mamma can do so proper and so right as to make a friend of the clergyman of the parish.”
Her two companions answered not a word, and the conversation was brought to a close by Fanny’s drawing from her pocket, her bag, and her bosom, sundry scraps of paper, on which many lines of unequal length were scrawled; and on these she appeared inclined to her fix whole attention. This was always considered by Helen and Rosalind as a signal for departure: for then Fanny was in a poetic mood; a word spoken or a movement made by those around her produced symptoms of impatience and suffering which they did not like to witness. Their absence was indeed a relief: for pretty Fanny, during the few moments of conversation which she had enjoyed at the gate of the shrubbery in the morning, had promised Mr. Cartwright to compose a hymn. To perform this promise to the best of her power was at this moment the first wish of her heart: for the amiable vicar had already contrived to see some of those numerous offerings to Apollo with which this fairest and freshest of Sapphos beguiled her too abundant leisure. He had pronounced her poetic powers great, and worthy of higher themes than any she had hitherto chosen: if was most natural, therefore, that she should now tax her genius to the utmost, to prove that his first judgment had not been too favourable: so the remainder of that long day passed in melancholy enough tête-à-tête between Rosalind and Helen, and in finding rhymes for all the epithets of heaven on the part of Fanny.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 62