When Mowbray reached his home, it was, in truth, rather more than time to dress; but he kept the young ladies waiting as short a time as possible. Fanny presented him in proper style to Miss Cartwright as soon as he appeared in the drawing-room; and he had the honour of giving that silent young lady his arm to the dining-room.
Charles thought her deep-set black eyes very handsome; nevertheless, he secretly wished that she were a hundred miles off, for her presence, of course, checked every approach to confidential conversation.
Nothing, indeed, could well be more dull and unprofitable than this dinner. Miss Cartwright spoke not at all; Fanny, no more than was necessary for the performance of her duty at the head of the table; and Rosalind looked pale and languid, and so completely out of spirits, that every word she spoke seemed a painful effort to her. She was occupied in recalling to mind the tone and air of the party who dined together in that same room about six months before, when Charles had last returned from Oxford. The contrast these recollections offered to the aspect of the present party was most painful; and as Rosalind turned her eyes round the table with a look of wistful melancholy, as if looking for those who were no longer there, her thoughts were so legibly written on her countenance, that Mowbray understood them as plainly as if they had been spoken.
“Rosalind, will you take wine with me? — You look tired and pale.” This was said in a tone of affectionate interest that seemed to excite the attention of Henrietta; and when Miss Torrington raised her eyes to answer it, she observed that young lady’s looks fixed on Mr. Mowbray’s countenance with an expression that denoted curiosity.
The whole party seemed glad to escape from the dinner-table; and the young ladies, with light shawls and parasols, had just wandered out upon the lawn, when they met Mr. Cartwright approaching the house.
Fanny coloured, and looked at her brother. Miss Cartwright coloured too; and her eyes followed the direction of Fanny’s, as if to see how this familiar mode of approach was approved by Mr. Mowbray.
Charles certainly felt a little surprised, and did not take much pains to conceal it. For a moment he looked at the vicar, as if not quite certain who it was, and then, touching his hat with ceremonious politeness, said, haughtily enough, “Mr. Cartwright, I believe?”
It would have been difficult for any one to find fault with the manner in which this salutation was returned. In a tone admirably modulated between profound respect and friendly kindness, his hat raised gracefully from his head to greet the whole party, and his handsome features wearing an expression of the gentlest benevolence, Mr. Cartwright hoped that he had the happiness of seeing Mr. Mowbray well.
Charles felt more than half ashamed of the reception he had given him, and stretched out his hand as if to atone for it. The vicar felt his advantage, and pursued it by the most easy, winning, yet respectful style of conversation. His language and manners became completely those of an accomplished man of the world; his topics were drawn from the day’s paper and the last review: he ventured a jest upon Don Carlos, and a bon mot upon the Duke of Wellington; took little or no notice of Fanny; spoke affectionately to his daughter, and gaily to Miss Torrington; and, in short, appeared to be as little deserving of all Rosalind had said of him, as it was well possible for a gentleman to be.
“Fair Rosalind has certainly suffered her imagination to conjure up a bugbear in this man,” thought Charles. “It is impossible he can be the violent fanatic she describes.”
After wandering about the gardens for some time, Fanny proposed that they should go in to tea; but before they reached the house, Mr. Cartwright proposed to take his leave, saying that he had an engagement in Wrexhill, which was to prevent his lengthening his visit.
The adieu had been spoken on all sides, and the vicar turned from them to depart, when Charles recollected the commission he had received from Sir Gilbert, and that he had promised to report the result on the morrow. Hastily following him, therefore, he said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Cartwright; hut, before you go, will you have the kindness to read this note, and tell me if you know whether my mother received such a one before she went to London?”
Mr. Cartwright took the note, read it attentively, and then returned it, saying, “No, Mr. Mowbray, I should certainly think not: not because I never saw or heard of it, but because I imagine that if she had, she would not have proceeded to London without Sir Gilbert. Was such a note as that sent, Mr. Mowbray?”
Charles had kept his eye very steadily fixed on the vicar, both while he read the note, and while he spoke of it. Not the slightest indication, however, of his knowing any thing about it was visible in his countenance, voice, or manner; and, again as he looked at him, young Mowbray felt ashamed of suspicions for which there seemed to be so little cause.
“Such a note as this was sent, Mr. Cartwright,” he frankly replied: “but I suspect that by some unlucky accident it never reached my mother’s hands; otherwise, as you well observe, she would not, most assuredly, have set off to London on this business without communicating with Sir Gilbert Harrington.”
“I conceive it must be so, indeed, Mr. Mowbray; and it is greatly to be lamented, for the receiving it would have saved poor Mrs. Mowbray much anxiety and trouble.”
“She expressed herself to you as being annoyed by Sir Gilbert’s refusing to act?”
“Oh yes, repeatedly; so much so, indeed, that nothing but the indispensable duty of my parish, prevented my offering to accompany her to London myself. I wished her very much to send for you; but nothing would induce her to interrupt your studies.”
It is not in the nature of a frank-hearted young man to doubt statements thus simply uttered by one having the bearing and appearance of a gentleman; and Charles Mowbray reported accordingly at the dinner-table of Sir Gilbert, assuring him that the test had proved Mr. Cartwright’s innocence on this point most satisfactorily.
CHAPTER IV.
MR. STEPHEN CORBOLD.
We must now follow Mrs. Mowbray and Helen to London, as some of the circumstances which occurred there proved of importance to them afterwards. The journey was a very melancholy one to Helen, and her feelings as unlike as possible to those which usually accompany a young lady of her age, appearance, and station, upon a visit to the metropolis. Mrs. Mowbray spoke very little, being greatly occupied by the volume recommended to her notice, at parting, by Mr. Cartwright; and more than once Helen felt something like envy at the situation of the two servants, who, perched aloft behind the carriage, were enjoying without restraint the rapid movement, the fresh air, and the beautiful country through which they passed; while she, like a drooping flower on which the sun has ceased to shine, hung her fair hand and languished for the kindly warmth she had lost.
They reached Wimpole Street about eight o’clock in the evening, and found every thing prepared for them with the most sedulous attention in their handsome and commodious apartments.
Mrs. Mowbray was tired, and, being really in need of the refreshment, blessed the hand, or rather the thought, which had forestalled all her wants and wishes, and spread that dearest of travelling banquets, tea and coffee, ready to greet her as she entered the drawing-room.
“This letter has been left for you, ma’am, by the gentleman who took the apartment,” said the landlady, taking a packet from the chimney-piece; “and he desired it might be given to you immediately.”
Mrs. Mowbray opened it; but perceiving it enclosed another, the address of which she glanced her eye upon, she folded it up again, and begged to be shown to her room while the tea was made.
Her maid followed her, but was dismissed with orders to see if Miss Mowbray wanted any thing. As soon as she was alone, she prepared to examine the packet, the receipt of which certainly startled her, for it was in the handwriting of Mr. Cartwright, from whom she had parted but a few hours before.
The envelope contained only these words:
“Mr. Stephen Corbold presents his respectful compliments to Mrs. Mowbray, and will do himself the honour of
waiting upon her to-morrow morning at eleven o’clock.”
“Gray’s Inn, July 13th, 1833.”
Mrs. Mowbray ran her eyes very rapidly over these words, and then opened the enclosed letter. It was as follows: —
“Do not let the unexpected sight of a letter from your minister alarm you, my dear and much-valued friend. I have nothing painful to disclose; and my sole object in writing is to make you feel that though you are distant from the sheltered spot wherein the Lord hath caused you to dwell, the shepherd’s eye which hath been appointed to watch over you is not withdrawn.
“I am no longer a young man, my dear Mrs. Mowbray; and during the years through which I have passed, my profession, my duty, and my inclination have alike led me to examine my fellow-creatures, and to read them, as it were, athwart the veil of their mortal bodies. Habit and application have given me, I believe, some skill in developing the inward character of those amongst whom I am thrown: nor can I doubt that the hand of Heaven is in this, as in truth it is in all things if we do but diligently set ourselves to trace it; — I cannot, I say, but believe that this faculty which I feel so strong within me, of discerning in whom those spirits abide that the Lord hath chosen for his own, — I cannot but believe that this faculty is given me by his especial will and for his especial glory. I wish well, sincerely well, to the whole human race: I would never lose an opportunity of lifting my voice in warning to them, in the hope that peradventure there may be one among the crowd who may turn and follow me. But, my friend, far different is the feeling with which my heart clings with stedfast care and love to those on whom I see the anointing finger of Heaven. It is such that I would lead, even as a pilot leadeth the vessel intrusted to his skill, into the peaceful waters, where glory, and honour, and joy unspeakable and without end, shall abide with them for ever!
“Repine not, oh! my friend, if all your race are not of these. Rather rejoice with exceeding great joy that it hath pleased Heaven to set its seal on two. To this effect, look round the world, my gentle friend, and see what myriads of roofs arise beneath which not one can be found to show forth the saving power. Mark them! how they thread the giddy maze, and dance onward down the slippery path that leads to everlasting perdition! Mark this, sweet spirit! and rejoice that you and your Fanny are snatched from the burning! My soul revels in an ecstasy of rapture unspeakable, as I gaze upon you both, and know that it is I, even I, am chosen to lead you. What are all the victories and glories of the world to this? Think you, my gentle friend, that if all the worldly state and station of Lambeth were offered me on one side, and the task of leading thy meek steps into the way of life called me to the other, that I should hesitate for one single instant which to choose?
“Oh no! Trust me, I would meet the scorn and revilings of all men — aye, and the bitterest persecutions that ever the saints of old were called upon to bear, rather than turn mine eyes from thee and the dear work, though princedoms, principalities, and powers might be gained thereby!
“Be strong then in faith, be strong in hope; for thou art well loved of Heaven, and of him whom it hath been its will to place near thee as its minister on earth!
“Be strong in faith! Kneel down, sweet friend! — even now, as thine eye reads these characters traced by the hand of one who would give his life to guard thee from harm, kneel down, and ask that Heaven may be with thee, — well assured that he who bids thee to do so will at the same moment be kneeling, likewise, to invoke blessings on thy fair and virtuous head!
“At a moment when the heart is drawn heavenward, as mine is now, how hateful — I may say, how profane, seem those worldly appellations and distinctions with which the silly vanity of man has sought to decorate our individual nothingness! How much more befitting a serious Christian is it, in such a moment as this, to use that name which was bestowed by a higher authority! You have three such, my sweet friend. The two first are now appropriated, as it were, to your daughters; but the third is more especially your own. — Clara! On Clara may the dew of Heaven descend like healing balm! — Kneel then, sweet Clara — thou chosen handmaid; kneel down, and think that William Cartwright kneels beside thee!
“Written on my knees in the secret recesses of my own chamber — W. C.”
No sooner did Mrs. Mowbray’s eye reach the words “kneel down,” than she obeyed them, and in this attitude read to the end of the epistle. Mrs. Mowbray’s feelings whenever strongly excited, either by joy, sorrow, or any other emotion, always showed themselves in tears, and she now wept profusely — vehemently; though it is probable she would have been greatly puzzled to explain why, even to herself. She would certainly, however, have declared, had she spoken on the subject to any one, that those tears were a joy, a blessing, and a comfort to her. But as she had nobody to whom she could thus open her heart, she washed her eyes with cold water, and descended with all the composure she could assume to Helen and the tea-table.
Notwithstanding this precaution, Helen’s watchful eye perceived that her mother had been weeping, and, forgetting the unnatural coldness which a breath more fatal than pestilence had placed between them, she exclaimed with all her wonted tenderness,
“What is the matter, dear mamma? — I trust that no bad news has met you?”
If all other circumstances left it a matter of doubt whether evangelical influence (as it is impiously called) were productive of good or evil, the terrible power which it is so constantly seen to have of destroying family union must be quite sufficient to settle the question. Any person who will take the trouble to inquire into the fact, will find that family affection has been more blighted and destroyed by the workings of this fearful superstition than by any other cause of which the history of man bears record.
The tone of Helen’s voice seemed for a moment to recall former feelings, and her mother looked at her kindly: but before she could give utterance to any word of affection, the recollection of all Mr. Cartwright had said to prove that Helen deserved not the affection of her mother, and that the only chance left to save herself was to be found in the most austere estrangement, till such time as her hard heart should be softened; the recollection of all this came across the terrified mind of Mrs. Mowbray, and she resumed the solemn and distant bearing she had of late resumed, with a nervous sensation of alarm at the great crime she had been on the point of committing.
Poor Helen saw the look, and listened with her whole soul in her eyes for the kind words which had so nearly followed it; but when they came not, her heart sank within her, and pleading fatigue, she begged to be shown to her own room, where she spent half the night in weeping.
Most punctually at eleven o’clock on the following morning, Mr. Stephen Corbold was announced, and a stiff priggish-looking figure entered the drawing-room, who, though in truth a “special attorney,” looked much more like a thorough-bred methodistical preacher than his friend and cousin Mr. Cartwright. In age he was a few years that gentleman’s junior, but in all outward gifts most lamentably his inferior; being, in truth, as ill-looking and ungentlemanlike a person as any congregation attached to the “Philo-Calvin Frybabe” principles could furnish.
The footman might have announced him in the same words as Lépine did Vadius:
“Madame, un homme est là, qui veut parler à vous. Il est vètu de noir, et parle d’un ton doux.”
For, excepting his little tight cravat, he appeared to have nothing white about him, and he seldom raised his cautious voice above a whisper.
“I am here, madam,” he began, addressing himself to Mrs. Mowbray, who felt rather at a loss what to say to him, “at the request of my cousin, the Reverend William Jacob Cartwright, Vicar of Wrexhill. He hath given me to understand that you have business to transact at Doctors’ Commons, relative to the last will and testament of your late husband. Am I correct, madam?”
“Quite so, Mr. Corbold. I wish to despatch this business as quickly as possible, as I am anxious to return again to my family.”
“No delay shall intervene that I can preve
nt,” replied the attorney. “Is there any other business, madam, in which my services can be available?”
“You are very kind, sir. I believe there are several things on which I shall have to trouble you. Mr. Mowbray generally transacted his own business, which in London consisted, I believe, solely in receiving dividends and paying tradesmen’s bills: the only lawyer he employed, therefore, was a gentleman who resides in our county, and who has hitherto had the care of the estates. But my excellent minister and friend Mr. Cartwright has written upon this sheet of paper, I believe, what it will be necessary for me to do in order to arrange things for the future.”
Mrs. Mowbray put the paper into the lawyer’s hands, who read it over with great attention, nodding his head slightly from time to time as any item struck him as particularly interesting and important.
“Three per Cents — very good. Bank Stock — very good. Power of Attorney. — All right, madam, all right. It hath pleased the Lord to give my cousin, his servant, a clear and comprehending intellect. All shall be done even as it is here set down.”
“How long, sir, do you think it will be necessary for me to remain in town?”
“Why, madam, there are many men would run this business out to great length. Here is indeed sufficient to occupy a very active professional man many weeks: but by the blessing of Heaven, which is often providentially granted to me in time of need, I question not but I may be able to release you in a few days, madam, provided always that you are prepared to meet such expenses as are indispensable upon all occasions when great haste is required.”
“Expense will be no object with me, Mr. Corbold; but a prolonged absence from home would be extremely inconvenient. Pray remember that I shall be most happy to pay any additional sum which hastening through the business may require.”
“Very good, madam, very good. That Heaven will be good unto me in this business, I cannot presume to doubt; for it hath been consigned unto me by one of its saints on earth, and it is for the service of a lady who, I am assured by him, is likely to become one of the most favoured agents that it hath ever selected to do its work on earth.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 72