Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  — — “Accursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right!”

  She remained stationary for a few minutes, hoping and expecting that the reverend gentleman would depart: but as this did not happen, she quietly re-entered the house and retired to her own dressing-room.

  Fanny then made a motion to enter also, but took very hospitable care that it should include both her companions. Mr. Cartwright spoke not of going — he even led the way to the library himself, and having closed the door and put down the ever-open sash windows, he turned to Fanny, and, with a smile that might have accompanied a proposal to sing or dance, said,

  “My dear Miss Fanny! does not your heart feel full of kind and tender wishes for the safety of your beloved mother during her absence from you?”

  “It does indeed!” said Fanny, shaking back her chesnut ringlets.

  “Then should we not,” rejoined the vicar, assisting her action by gently putting back her redundant curls with his own hand,— “should we not, my dear child, implore a blessing upon her from the only source from whence it can come!”

  “Oh yes,” replied Fanny, with affectionate earnestness, but by no means understanding his immediate purpose,— “Oh yes, Mr. Cartwright; I am sure I never pray so heartily as when praying for mamma.”

  “Then let us kneel,” said he, placing a chair before her, and kneeling down himself at the one that was next to it. Fanny instantly obeyed, covering her face with her hands, while her young heart beat with a timid and most truly pious feeling of fear lest the act was not performed with suitable deference; for hitherto her private devotions had been performed in strict obedience to the solemn and explicit words of Scripture— “When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.”

  But though conscious that the mode of prayer in which she was now so unexpectedly invited to join was very unlike what she was used to, her unbounded love and admiration for Mr. Cartwright rendered it absolutely impossible for her to conceive it wrong, and she prepared herself to pray with all the fervour of her young and ardent spirit.

  There was a moment’s pause, during which a look was exchanged between the father and daughter unseen by Fanny; but had it met her eye, it would only have appeared to her as a mystery that she was incapable of comprehending. Had Rosalind caught a sight of it, she might perhaps have fancied that the glance of the father spoke command, accompanied by direful threatenings, while that of his daughter betrayed disgust and bitterest contempt mingled with fear.

  Mr. Cartwright began, almost in a whisper, to utter his extemporary prayer. It first invoked a blessing on the little knot of united hearts that now offered their homage, and then proceeded to ask, in flowing periods, for exemption from all dangers likely to beset travellers by land for “our beloved sister who is this day gone forth.” In a tone somewhat more loud he went on to implore especial grace for the not yet awakened soul of the child she led with her; and then, his rich and powerful voice resounding through the room, his eyes raised to the ceiling, and his clasped and extended hands stretched out before him, he burst into an ecstasy of enthusiastic rantings, in which he besought blessings on the head of Fanny.

  It is impossible to repeat such language as Mr. Cartwright and those who resemble him think fit to use in their extemporary devotions, without offending against that sensitive horror of profanation which happily still continues to be one of the strongest feelings in the minds of Christians not converted — i. e. perverted from the solemn reverence our church enjoins in the utterance of every word by which we venture to approach the Deity. To such, the unweighed flippant use of those momentous words “LET US PRAY,” followed as they often are, by turgid rantings, and familiar appeals to the most High God, in volumes of rapid, careless wordiness, is perhaps the most offensive outrage to which their religions feelings can be exposed. One might be almost tempted to believe that the sectarians who, rejecting the authorized forms in which the bishops and fathers of our church have cautiously, reverently, and succinctly rehearsed the petitions which the Scriptures permit man to offer to his Creator; — one might, I say, almost be tempted to believe that these men have so misunderstood the Word of God, as to read: — Use vain repetitions as the Heathen do, for they SHALL BE heard for their much speaking. But this “much speaking,” with all its irreverent accompaniments of familiar phraseology, is an abomination to those who have preserved their right to sit within the sacred pale of our established church; and as it is among such that I wish to find my readers, I will avoid, as much as possible, offending them by unnecessary repetitions of Mr. Cartwright’s rhapsodies, preserving only so much of their substance as may be necessary to the making his character fully understood.

  While imploring Heaven to soften the heart of poor Fanny, who knelt weeping beside him like a Niobe, he rehearsed her talents and good qualities, earnestly praying that they might not be turned by the Prince of Darkness into a snare.

  “Let not her gift — her shining gift of poesy, lead her, as it has so often done others, to the deepest pit of hell! Let not the gentle and warm affections of her heart cling to those that shall carry her soul, with their own, down to the worm that dieth not, and to the fire that cannot be quenched! Rather, fix thou her love upon those who will seek it in thy holy name. May she know to distinguish between the true and the false, the holy and the unholy!”

  “Amen!” was here uttered by Henrietta, but in so low a whisper that only her father’s ear caught it. He paused for half a moment, and then continued with still-increasing zeal, so that his voice shook and tears fell from his eyes.

  Fanny was fully aware of all this strong emotion; for though she uncovered not her own streaming eyes, she could not mistake the trembling voice that pronounced its fervent blessing on her amidst sobs.

  Meanwhile Miss Torrington, who had seated herself before a book in her dressing-room, began to think that she was not acting very kindly towards Fanny, who, she knew, was so nearly childish in her manners as to render the entertaining company a very disagreeable task to her.

  “Poor little soul!” she exclaimed; “between the manna of the father, and the crabbishness of the daughter, she will be done to death if I go not to her rescue.” So she closed her book and hastened to the library.

  The sound she heard on approaching the door startled her, and she paused to listen a moment before she entered; for not having the remotest idea that it was the voice of prayer, she really believed that some one had been taken ill, — and the notion of convulsions, blended with the recollection of Henrietta’s sickly appearance, took possession of her fancy. She determined, however, to enter; but turned the lock with a very nervous hand, — and on beholding the scene which the opening door displayed, felt startled, awed, and uncertain whether to advance or retreat.

  She immediately met Henrietta’s eye, which turned towards her as she opened the door, and its expression at once explained the nature of the ceremony she so unexpectedly witnessed. Contempt and bitter scorn shot from it as she slowly turned it towards her father; and a smile of pity succeeded, as she mournfully shook her head, when, for a moment, she fixed her glance upon the figure of Fanny. Had the poor girl for whose especial sake this very unclerical rhapsody was uttered — had she been a few years older, and somewhat more advanced in the power of judging human actions, she must have been struck by the remarkable change which the entrance of Rosalind produced in the language and manner of the vicar. He did not for an instant suspend the flow of his eloquence, but the style of it altered altogether.

  “Bless her! bless this lovely and beloved one!” were the words which preceded the opening of the door, accompanied by the sobbings of vehement emotion.— “Bless all this worthy family, and all sorts and conditions of men; and so lead them home” ... &c. were those which followed, — uttered, too, with very decent sobriety and discretion.

  Rosalind, however, was not quite deceived by
this, though far from guessing how perfectly indecent and profane had been the impassioned language and vehement emotion which preceded her appearance.

  After the hesitation of a moment, she closed the door, and walking up to the side of Fanny, stood beside her for the minute and a half which it took Mr. Cartwright to bring his harangue to a conclusion. He then ceased, rose from his knees, and bowed to the intruder with an air so meek and sanctified, but yet with such a downcast avoidance of her eye withal, that Rosalind shrank from him with ill-concealed dislike, and would instantly have left the room, but that she did not choose again to leave Fanny, who still continued kneeling beside her, to a repetition of the scene she had interrupted.

  “Fanny!” she said, in an accent a little approaching to impatience.

  But Fanny heeded her not. Vexed and disgusted at this display of a devotion so unlike the genuine, unaffected, well-regulated piety in which she had been herself brought up, she repeated her call, — adding, as she laid her hand lightly on her shoulder,

  “This is not the sort of worship which your excellent father, or good Mr. Wallace either, would have approved.”

  Fanny now rose from her knees, and the cause of her not doing so before became evident. Her face was as pale as ashes, and traces of violent weeping were visible on her swollen eyelids.

  “Good Heaven, Fanny! what can have affected you thus? — What, sir, have you been saying to produce so terrible an effect on Miss Mowbray? The prayers of the church, in the discipline of which she has been most carefully bred up, produce no such paroxysms as these, Mr. Cartwright. — Come with me, Fanny, and do endeavour to conquer this extraordinary vehemence of emotion.”

  Fanny took her arm; but she trembled so violently that she could scarcely stand.

  “Mr. Cartwright,” said Rosalind with a burst of indignation that she could not control, “I must beg of you not to repeat this species of experiment on the feelings of this young lady during the absence of her mother. At her return she will of course decide upon your continuance, or discontinuance, in the office you have been pleased to assume; but, till then, I must beg, in her name, that we may have no more of this.”

  “Oh! Rosalind!” exclaimed Fanny, while a fresh shower of tears burst from her eyes, “how can you speak so!”

  “Tell me, my dear young lady,” said Mr. Cartwright, addressing Miss Torrington in a voice of the gentlest kindness, “did good Mrs. Mowbray, on leaving home, place Miss Fanny under your care?”

  “No, sir, she did not,” replied Rosalind, a crimson flush of anger and indignation mounting to her cheeks; “but, being considerably older than Fanny, I deem it my duty to prevent her if possible from again becoming an actor in such a scene as this.”

  Fanny withdrew her arm, and clasping her hands together, again exclaimed, “Oh! Rosalind!”

  “Do not agitate yourself, my good child,” said the vicar; “I shall never suspect you of that hardening of the heart which would lead you to be of those who wish to banish the voice of prayer from the roof that shelters you. Nor shall I,” he continued meekly, but firmly,— “nor shall I consider myself justified in remitting that care and attention which I promised your excellent mother to bestow on you, because this unhappy young person lifts her voice against the holy duties of my calling. I shall return to you in the evening, and then, I trust, we shall again raise our voices together in praise and prayer.”

  So saying, Mr. Cartwright took his hat and departed.

  The three young ladies were left standing, but not in one group. Miss Cartwright, as soon as released from her kneeling position, had approached a window, and was assiduously paring her nails; Rosalind fixed her eyes upon the floor, and seemed to be revolving some question that puzzled her; and Fanny, after the interval of a moment, left the room.

  Miss Torrington approached the window, and said coldly, but civilly, “I am sorry, Miss Cartwright, to have spoken so sternly to your father, — or rather, for the cause which led me to do so, — but I really considered it as my duty.”

  “Oh! pray, ma’am, do not apologise to me about it.”

  “I do not wish to offer an apology for doing what I believe to be right; but only to express my sorrow to a guest, in the house that is my home, for having been obliged to say any thing that might make her feel uncomfortable.”

  “I do assure you, Miss Torrington,” replied the vicar’s daughter, “that my feelings are very particularly independent of any circumstance, accident, or event, that may affect Mr. Cartwright ... my father.”

  “Indeed!” said Rosalind, fixing on her a glance that seemed to invite her confidence.

  “Indeed!” repeated Henrietta, quietly continuing the occupation furnished by her fingers’ ends, but without showing any inclination to accept the invitation.

  Rosalind was disconcerted. The singularity of Miss Cartwright’s manner piqued her curiosity, and though by no means inclined to form a party with her against her father, she had seen enough to convince her that they were far from being on very affectionate terms together. A feeling of pity, too, though for sorrows and sufferings suggested chiefly by her own imagination, gave her a kind-hearted inclination for more intimate acquaintance; but she began to suspect that the wish for this was wholly on her side, and not shared in any degree by her companion.

  Chilled by this idea, and out of spirits from the prospect of being daily exposed to Mr. Cartwright’s visits, Rosalind prepared to leave the room; but good-nature, as was usual with her, prevailed over every other feeling, and before she reached the door, she turned and said,

  “Is there any thing, Miss Cartwright, that I can offer for your amusement? The books of the day are chiefly in our dressing-rooms, I believe — and I have abundance of new music — and in this room I can show you where to find a very splendid collection of engravings.”

  “I wish for nothing of the kind, I am much obliged to you.”

  “Shall I send Fanny to you? Perhaps, notwithstanding the ocean of tears you have seen her shed, she would prove a much more cheerful companion than I could do at this moment.”

  “I do not wish for a cheerful companion,” said Henrietta.

  “Is there any thing, then, that I can do,” resumed Rosalind, half smiling, “that may assist you in getting rid of the morning?”

  “You may sit with me yourself.”

  “May I? — Well, then, so I will. I assure you that I only thought of going because it appeared to me that you did not particularly desire my company.”

  “To say the truth, Miss Torrington, I do not think there is any thing on earth particularly worth desiring; but your conversation may perhaps be amongst the most endurable. Besides, it is agreeable to look at you.”

  “You are very civil,” replied Rosalind, laughing. “Perhaps you would like me to hold a nosegay in my hand, or to put on a bonnet and feathers, that I might be still better worth looking at.”

  “No. — If I had a bunch of flowers before my eyes, I should not want you: no woman can be so beautiful as a collection of flowers. But I shall do very well, I dare say. Nothing, you know, lasts very long.”

  “Your father, then, I presume, has taught your thoughts, Miss Cartwright, to fix themselves altogether on a future and a better world.”

  “As to a future world, Miss Torrington, I must have better authority than Mr. Cartwright’s before I pretend to know any thing about it.”

  “But I hope your distaste for that which we enjoy at present does not arise from its having been unkind to you?”

  “When I was a child,” answered Henrietta, “I had a kind of sickly longing for kindness; but now, that I am older and wiser, I cannot say that I think kindness or unkindness are matters of much consequence.”

  “That, indeed, is a feeling that must put one speedily either above or below sorrow.”

  “I am below it.”

  “It would be just as easy to say, above, Miss Cartwright; and if you really have reached to a state of such stoical indifference, I rather wonder you should
not feel that it sets you above all the poor sensitive souls whom you must see longing for a smile, and trembling at a frown.”

  “Because, Miss Torrington, I have constantly felt that in approaching this state of mind I have been gradually sinking lower and lower in my own estimation: I am become so hatefully familiar with sin and wickedness, that I perfectly loathe myself — though assuredly it has ended by giving me a very pre-eminent degree of indifference concerning all that may hereafter happen to me.”

  “Is it in your own person,” said Rosalind jestingly, “that you have become thus familiar with sin?”

  “No. It is in that of my father.”

  Rosalind started. “You talk strangely to me, Miss Cartwright,” said she gravely; “and if you are playing upon my credulity or curiosity, I must submit to it. But if there be any serious meaning in what you say, it would be more generous if you would permit me to understand you. I believe you are aware that I do not esteem Mr. Cartwright: an avowal which delicacy would have certainly prevented my making to you, had you not given me reason to suspect — —”

  “ — That I do not very greatly esteem him either,” said Henrietta, interrupting her.

  “Exactly so: and as I am deeply interested for the welfare and happiness of the family amongst whom he seems disposed to insinuate himself upon terms of very particular intimacy, I should consider it as a great kindness if you would tell me what his character really is.”

  “The request is a very singular one, considering to whom it is addressed,” said Miss Cartwright; “and besides I really cannot perceive any reason in the world why I should be guilty of an indecorum in order to do you a great kindness.”

  “The indecorum, Miss Cartwright, has been already committed,” said Rosalind. “You have already spoken of your father as you should not have spoken, unless you had some strong and virtuous motive for it.”

  “How exceedingly refreshing is the unwonted voice of truth!” exclaimed Henrietta. “Rosalind Torrington, you are an honest girl, and will not betray me; for I do fear him — coward that I am — I do fear his cruelty, even while I despise his power. I think but lightly,” she continued, “of the motes that people this paltry world of ours; yet there are gradations amongst us, from the pure-hearted kind fool, who, like you, Rosalind, would wish to spend their little hour of life in doing good, down to the plotting knave who, like my father, Miss Torrington, cares not what mischief he may do, so that his own unholy interest, and unholy joys, may be increased thereby: and so, look you, there are gradations also in my feelings towards them, from very light and easy indifference, down, down, down to the deepest abyss of hatred and contempt. I know not what power you may have here — not much, I should fear; for though you are rich, the Mowbrays are richer; yet it is possible, I think, that if the energy which I suspect makes part of your character be roused, you may obtain some influence. If you do, use it to keep Mr. Cartwright as far distant from all you love as you can. Mistrust him yourself, and teach all others to mistrust him. — And now, never attempt to renew this conversation. I may have done you some service — do not let your imprudence make me repent it. Let us now avoid each other if you please: I do not love talking, and would not willingly be led into it again.”