On the turf before this bench, and with their backs turned towards the spot where Rosalind and Henrietta stood, knelt Mr. Cartwright and Fanny. His eyes were fixed upon her with passionate admiration, and the first words they distinctly heard were these, spoken with great vehemence by the vicar: —
“Persecuted — trampled on — turned forth from every other roof, let thy blue vault spread over us, and while I struggle to snatch this precious brand from the eternal fire of thy wrath, pour upon our heads the dew of thy love! Grant me power to save this one dear soul alive, though it should seem good in thy sight that millions should perish around her! Save her from the eternal flame that even now rises to lick her feet, and if not stayed by prayer — the prayer of thy saints, — will speedily envelope and consume her!”
Rosalind remained to hear no more. Heartsick, indignant, disgusted, and almost terrified by what she saw and heard, she retreated hastily, and, followed by Henrietta, rapidly pursued her way to the house.
Her companion made an effort to overtake her, and, almost out of breath by an exertion to which she was hardly equal, she said,
“I have shown you this, Miss Torrington, for the sake of giving you a useful lesson. If you are wise, you will profit by it, and learn to know that it is not always safe to suppose you have produced an effect, merely because it may be worth some one’s while to persuade you into believing it. Having said thus much to point the moral of our walk in the sun, you may go your way, and I will go mine. I shall not enter upon any more elaborate exposition of Mr. Cartwright’s character.”
So saying, she fell back among the bushes, and Rosalind reached the house alone.
On entering her dressing-room, Miss Torrington sat herself down, with her eau de Cologne bottle in one hand and a large feather fan in the other, to meditate — coolly, if she could, but at any rate to meditate — upon what she ought to do in order immediately to put a stop to the very objectionable influence which Mr. Cartwright appeared to exercise over the mind of Fanny.
Had she been aware of Sir Gilbert Harrington’s having written to recall his refusal of the executorship, she would immediately have had recourse to him; but this fact had never transpired beyond Mrs. Mowbray and the vicar; and the idea that he had resisted the representation which she felt sure his son had made to him after the conversation Helen and herself had held with him, not only made her too angry to attempt any farther to soften him, but naturally impressed her with the belief that, do or say what she would on the subject, it must be in vain.
At length it struck her that Charles Mowbray was the most proper person to whom she could address herself; yet the writing such a letter as might immediately bring him home, was a measure which, under all existing circumstances, she felt to be awkward and disagreeable. But the more she meditated the more she felt convinced, that, notwithstanding the obvious objections to it, this was the safest course she could pursue: so having once made up her mind upon the subject, she set about it without farther delay, and, with the straightforward frankness and sincerity of her character, produced the following epistle: —
“Dear Mr. Mowbray,
“Your last letter to Helen, giving so very agreeable an account of the style and manner of your Little-go, makes it an ungracious task to interrupt your studies — and yet that is what I am bent upon doing. You will be rather puzzled, I suspect, at finding me assuming the rights and privileges of a correspondent, and moreover of an adviser, or rather a dictator: but so it is — and you must not blame me till you are quite sure you know all my reasons for it.
“Mrs. Mowbray is gone to London, accompanied by Helen, for the purpose of proving (I think it is called) your father’s will; a business in which Sir Gilbert Harrington has, most unkindly for all of you, refused to join her. This journey was so suddenly decided upon, that dear Helen had no time to write to you about it: she knew not she was to go till about nine o’clock the evening preceding.
“The Vicar of Wrexhill was probably acquainted with the intended movement earlier; for no day passes, or has passed for some weeks, without his holding a private consultation with your mother.
“Oh! that vicar, Charles! I think I told you that I hated him, and you seemed to smile at my hatred as a sort of missish impertinence and caprice; but what was instinct then has become reason now, and I am strangely mistaken if your hatred would not fully keep pace with mine had you seen and heard what I have done.
“When I decided upon writing to you I intended, I believe, to enter into all particulars; but I cannot do this — you must see for yourself, and draw your own inferences. My dislike for this man may carry me too far, and you must be much more capable of forming a judgment respecting his motives than I can be. Of this however I am quite sure, — Fanny ought at this time to have some one near her more capable of protecting her from the mischievous influence of this hateful man than I am. I know, Mr. Charles, that you have no very exalted idea of my wisdom; and I am not without some fear that instead of coming home immediately, as I think you ought to do, you may write me a very witty, clever answer, with reasons as plenty as blackberries to prove that I am a goose. Do not do this, Mr. Mowbray. I do not think that you know me very well, but in common courtesy you ought not to believe that any young lady would write you such a summons as this without having very serious reasons for it.
“As one proof of the rapidly-increasing intimacy between the family of the vicar and your own, you will, on your arrival, find the daughter, Miss Cartwright, established here to console us for your mother’s (and Helen’s!) absence. She is a very singular personage: but on her I pass no judgment, sincerely feeling that I am not competent to it. If my opinion be of sufficient weight to induce you to come, Mr. Mowbray, I must beg you to let your arrival appear the result of accident; and not to let any one but Helen know of this letter.
“Believe me, very sincerely,
“Your friend,
“Rosalind Torrington.”
CHAPTER XV.
ROSALIND’S CONVERSATION WITH MISS CARTWRIGHT. — MRS. SIMPSON AND MISS RICHARDS MEET THE VICAR AT THE PARK. — THE HYMN. — THE WALK HOME.
In the course of the morning after this letter was despatched, Miss Cartwright and Rosalind again found themselves tête-à-tête. The nature of Rosalind Torrington was so very completely the reverse of mysterious or intriguing, that far from wishing to lead Henrietta to talk of her father in that style of hints and innuendos to which the young lady seemed addicted, she determined, in future, carefully to avoid the subject; although it was very evident, from the preconcerted walk to the lime-tree, that, notwithstanding her declaration to the contrary, Miss Cartwright was desirous to make her acquainted with the character and conduct of her father.
Whether it were that spirit of contradiction which is said to possess the breast of woman, or any other more respectable feeling, it may be difficult to decide, but it is certain that the less Rosalind appeared disposed to speak of the adventure of yesterday, the more desirous did Henrietta feel to lead her to it.
“You were somewhat disappointed, I fancy, Miss Torrington,” said she, “to discover that though you had contrived to banish the conventicle from the house, it had raised its voice in the grounds.”
“Indeed I was,” replied Rosalind.
“I rather think that you are addicted to speaking truth — and perhaps you pique yourself upon it,” resumed Miss Cartwright. “Will you venture to tell me what you think of the scene you witnessed?”
“You are not the person I should most naturally have selected as the confidant of my opinions respecting Mr. Cartwright,” said Rosalind; “but since you put the question plainly I will answer it plainly, and confess that I suspect him not only of wishing to inculcate his own Calvinistic doctrines on the mind of Fanny Mowbray, but moreover, notwithstanding his disproportionate age, of gaining her affections.”
“Her affections?” repeated Henrietta. “And with what view do you imagine he is endeavouring to gain her affections?”
�
��Doubtless with a view to making her his wife; though, to be sure, the idea is preposterous.”
“Sufficiently. Pray, Miss Torrington, has Miss Fanny Mowbray an independent fortune?”
“None whatever. Like the rest of the family, she is become by the death of her father entirely dependent upon Mrs. Mowbray.”
“Your fortune is entirely at your own disposal, I believe.”
Rosalind looked provoked at the idle turn Miss Cartwright was giving to a conversation which, though she had not led to it, interested her deeply.
“Do not suspect me of impertinence,” said Henrietta in a tone more gentle than ordinary. “But such is the case, is it not?”
“Yes, Miss Cartwright,” was Rosalind’s grave reply.
“Then, do you know that I think it infinitely more probable Mr. Cartwright may have it in contemplation to make you his wife.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Cartwright,” said Rosalind, “but I really thought that you were speaking of your father seriously; and it seems you are disposed to punish me for imagining you would do so, to one so nearly a stranger.”
“I never jest on any subject,” replied the melancholy-looking girl, knitting her dark brows into a frown of such austerity as almost made Rosalind tremble. “A reasoning being who has nothing to hope among the realities on this side the grave, and hopes nothing on the other, is not very likely to be jocose.”
“Good Heavens! Miss Cartwright,” exclaimed Rosalind, “what dreadful language is this? Are you determined to prove to me that there may be opinions and doctrines more terrible still than those of your father?”
“I had no meaning of the kind, I assure you,” replied Henrietta, in her usual quiet manner, which always seemed to hover between the bitterness of a sneer, and the quietude or indifference of philosophy. “Pray do not trouble yourself for a moment to think about me or my opinions. You might, perhaps, as you are a bold-spirited, honest-minded girl, do some good if you fully comprehended all that was going on around you; though it is very doubtful, for it is impossible to say to what extent the besotted folly of people may go. But don’t you think it might on the whole be quite as probable that Mr. Cartwright may wish to marry the mother as the daughter?”
“Mrs. Mowbray! — Good gracious! no.”
“Then we differ. But may I ask you why you think otherwise?”
“One reason is, that Mrs. Mowbray’s recent widowhood seems to put such an idea entirely out of the question; and another, that he appears to be positively making love to Fanny.”
“Oh! — is that all? I do assure you there is nothing at all particular in that. He would tell you himself, I am sure, if you were to enter upon the subject with him, that it is his duty to influence and lead the hearts of his flock into the way he would have them go, by every means in his power.”
“Then you really do not think he has been making love to Fanny?”
“I am sure, Miss Torrington,” replied Henrietta very gravely, “I did not mean to say so.”
“Indeed! indeed! Miss Cartwright,” said Rosalind with evident symptoms of impatience, “these riddles vex me cruelly. If your father does make love to this dear fanciful child, he must, I suppose, have some hope that she will marry him?”
“How can I answer you?” exclaimed Henrietta with real feeling. “You cannot be above two or three years younger than I am, yet your purity and innocence make me feel myself a monster.”
“For Heaven’s sake do not trifle with me!” cried Rosalind, her face and neck dyed with indignant blood; “you surely do not mean that your father is seeking to seduce this unhappy child?”
“Watch Mr. Cartwright a little while, Rosalind Torrington, as I have done for the six last terrible years of my hateful life, and you may obtain perhaps some faint idea of the crooked, complex machinery — the movements and counter-movements, the shiftings and the balancings, by which his zig-zag course is regulated. Human passions are in him for ever struggling with, and combating, what may be called, in their strength, superhuman avarice and ambition.
“To touch, to influence, to lead, to rule, to tyrannise over the hearts and souls of all he approaches, is the great object of his life. He would willingly do this in the hearts of men, — but for the most part he has found them tough; and he now, I think, seems to rest all his hopes of fame, wealth, and station on the power he can obtain over women. — I say not,” she added after a pause, while a slight blush passed over her pallid cheek, “that I believe his senses uninfluenced by beauty; — this is far, hatefully far from being the case with Mr. Cartwright; — but he is careful, most cunningly careful, whatever victims he makes, never to become one in his own person.
“You would find, were you to watch him, that his system, both for pleasure and profit, consists of a certain graduated love-making to every woman within his reach, not too poor, too old, or too ugly. But if any among them fancy that he would sacrifice the thousandth part of a hair’s breadth of his worldly hopes for all they could give him in return — they are mistaken.”
“The character you paint,” said Rosalind, who grew pale as she listened, “is too terrible for me fully to understand, and I would turn my eyes from the portrait, and endeavour to forget that I had ever heard of it, were not those I love endangered by it. Hateful as all this new knowledge is to me, I must still question you further, Miss Cartwright: What do you suppose to be his object in thus working upon the mind of Fanny Mowbray?”
“His motives, depend upon it, are manifold. Religion and love, the new birth and intellectual attachment — mystical sympathy of hearts, and the certainty of eternal perdition to all that he does not take under the shadow of his wing; — these are the tools with which he works. He has got his foot — perhaps you may think it a cloven one, but, such as it is, he seems to have got it pretty firmly planted within the paling of Mowbray Park. He made me follow him hither as a volunteer visiter, very much against my inclination; but if by what I have said you may be enabled to defeat any of his various projects among ye, — for he never plots single-handed, — I shall cease to regret that I came.”
“My power of doing any good,” replied Rosalind, “must, I fear, be altogether destroyed by my ignorance of what Mr. Cartwright’s intentions and expectations are. You have hinted various things, but all so vaguely, that I own I do not feel more capable of keeping my friends from any danger which may threaten them, than before this conversation took place.”
“I am sorry for it,” said Henrietta coldly, “but I have really no information more accurate to give.”
“I truly believe that you have meant very kindly,” said Rosalind, looking seriously distressed. “Will you go one step farther, and say what you would advise me to do, Miss Cartwright?”
“No, certainly, Miss Torrington, I will not. But I will give you a hint or two what not to do. Do not appear at all better acquainted with me than I show myself disposed to be with you. Do not make the slightest alteration in your manner of receiving Mr. Cartwright; and do not, from any motive whatever, repeat one syllable of this conversation to Fanny Mowbray. Should you disobey this last injunction, you will be guilty of very cruel and ungrateful treachery towards me.” Having said this, with the appearance of more emotion than she had hitherto manifested, Henrietta rose and left the room.
“At length,” thought Rosalind, “she has spoken out; yet what are we likely to be the better for it? It seems that there is a great net thrown over us, of which we shall feel and see the meshes by-and-by, when he who has made prey of us begins to pull the draught to shore; but how to escape from it, the oracle sayeth not!”
On the evening of that day, Mrs. Simpson and the eldest Miss Richards walked over from Wrexhill to pay a visit at the Park. They were not aware of the absence of Mrs. Mowbray, and seemed disposed to shorten their visit on finding she was not at home; but Rosalind, who for the last hour had been sitting on thorns expecting Mr. Cartwright to make his evening call, most cordially and earnestly invited them to stay till after tea, feelin
g that their presence would greatly relieve the embarrassment which she feared she might betray on again seeing the vicar.
“But it will be so late!” said Miss Richards. “How are we to get home after it is dark? Remember, Mrs. Simpson, there is no moon.”
“It is very true,” said Mrs. Simpson. “I am afraid, my dear Miss Torrington, that we must deny ourselves the pleasure you offer; — but I am such a nervous creature! It is very seldom that I stir out without ordering a man-servant to follow me; and I regret excessively that I omitted to do so this evening.”
“I think,” said Rosalind, colouring at her own eagerness, which she was conscious must appear rather new and rather strange to Mrs. Simpson, with whom she had hardly ever exchanged a dozen words before,— “I think Mr. Cartwright will very likely be here this evening, and perhaps he might attend you home. Do you not think, Miss Cartwright,” she added, turning to Henrietta, “that it is very likely your father will call this evening?”
“Good gracious! — Miss Cartwright — I beg your pardon, I did not know you. I hope you heard that I called; — so very happy to cultivate your acquaintance! — Oh dear! I would not miss seeing Mr. Cartwright for the world! — Thank you, my dear Miss Torrington; — thank you, Miss Fanny: I will just set my hair to rights a little, if you will give me leave. Perhaps, Miss Fanny, you will permit me to go into your bed-room?” Such was the effect produced by the vicar’s name upon the handsome widow.
Miss Richards coloured, smiled, spoke to Henrietta with very respectful politeness, and finally followed her friend Mrs. Simpson out of the room, accompanied by Fanny, who willingly undertook to be their gentlewoman usher.
“Mr. Cartwright has already made some impression on these fair ladies, or I am greatly mistaken,” said Henrietta. “Did you remark, Miss Torrington, the effect produced by his name?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 67