The repast, and even the wine, did honour to the recommendation of the careful and experienced Thomas: and Mrs. Mowbray had the sincere satisfaction of seeing Mr. Corbold (“le pauvre homme!”) eat half a pound of salmon, one-third of a leg of lamb, and three-quarters of a large pigeon-pie, with a degree of relish that proved to her that she was “very right to stop for dinner.”
Nothing can show gratitude for such little attentions as these so pleasantly and so effectually as taking full advantage of them. Mr. Corbold indeed carried this feeling so far, that even after the two ladies had left the room, he stepped back and pretty nearly emptied the two decanters of wine before he rejoined them.
The latter part of the journey produced a very disagreeable scene, which, though it ended, as Helen thought at the time most delightfully for her, was productive in its consequences of many a bitter heart-ache.
It is probable that the good cheer at D —— , together with the final libation that washed it down, conveyed more than ordinary animation to the animal spirits of the attorney, and for some miles he discoursed with more than his usual unction on the sins of the sinful, and the holiness of the holy, till poor dear Mrs. Mowbray, despite her vehement struggles to keep her eyes open, fell fast asleep.
No sooner was Mr. Stephen Corbold fully aware of this fact, than he began making some very tender speeches to Helen. For some time her only reply was expressed by thrusting her head still farther out of the side window. But this did not avail her long. As if to intimate to her that a person whose attention could not be obtained through the medium of the ears must be roused from their apathy by the touch, he took her hand.
Upon this she turned as suddenly as if an adder had stung her, and fixing her eyes, beaming with rage and indignation, upon him, said,
“If you venture, sir, to repeat this insult, I will call to the postillions to stop, and order the footman instantly to take you out of the carriage.”
He returned her glance, however, rather with passion than repentance, and audaciously putting his arm round her waist, drew her towards him, while he whispered in her ear, “What would your dear good mamma say to that?”
Had he possessed the cunning of Mephistophiles, he could not have uttered words more calculated to unnerve her. The terrible conviction that it was indeed possible her mother might justify, excuse, or, at any rate, pardon the action, came upon her heart like ice, and burying her face in her hands, she burst into tears.
Had Mr. Stephen Corbold been a wise man, he would have here ceased his persecution: he saw that she was humbled to the dust by the reference he had so skilfully made to her mother; and perhaps, had he emptied only one decanter, he might have decided that it would be desirable to leave her in that state of mind. But, as it was, he had the very exceeding audacity once more to put his arm round her, and, by a sudden and most unexpected movement, impressed a kiss upon her cheek.
Helen uttered a piercing scream; and Mrs. Mowbray, opening her eyes, demanded, in a voice of alarm, “What is the matter?”
Mr. Corbold sat profoundly silent; but Helen answered, in great agitation, “I can remain in the carriage no longer, mamma, unless you turn out this man!”
“Oh, Helen! Helen! what can you mean by using such language?” answered her mother. “It is pride, I know, abominable pride, — I have seen it from the very first, — which leads you to treat this excellent man as you do. Do you forget that he is the relation as well as the friend of our minister? Fie upon it, Helen! you must bring down this haughty spirit to something more approaching meek Christian humility, or you and I shall never be able to live together.”
It seems almost like a paradox, and yet it is perfectly true, that had not Mrs. Mowbray from the very first, as she said, perceived the utter vulgarity, in person, language, and demeanour, of the vicar’s cousin, she would have been greatly less observant and punctilious in her civilities towards him; nor would she have been so fatally ready to quarrel with her daughter for testifying her dislike of a man who, her own taste told her, would be detestable, were not the holiness of his principles such as to redeem every defect with which nature, education, and habit had afflicted him.
The more Mrs. Mowbray felt disposed to shrink from an intimate association with the serious attorney, the more strenuously did she force her nature to endure him; and feeling, almost unconsciously perhaps, that it was impossible Helen should not detest him, she put all her power and authority in action, not only to prevent her showing it, but to prevent also so very sinful and worldly-minded a sentiment from taking hold upon her young mind.
Helen, however, was too much irritated at this moment to submit, as she had been ever used to do, to the commands of her mother; and still feeling the pressure of the serious attorney’s person against her own, she let down the front glass, and very resolutely called to the postillions to stop.
The boy who rode the wheeler immediately heard and obeyed her.
“Tell the servant to open the door,” said she with a firmness and decision which she afterwards recalled to herself with astonishment.
Thomas, who, the moment the carriage stopped, had got down, obeyed the call she now addressed to him, — opened the door, gave her his arm; and before either Mrs. Mowbray, or the serious attorney either, had fully recovered from their astonishment, Helen was comfortably seated on the dickey, enjoying the cool breeze of a delicious afternoon upon her flushed cheek.
The turn which was given to this transaction by Mr. Stephen Corbold during the tête-à-tête conversation he enjoyed for the rest of the journey with the young lady’s mother was such as to do credit to his acuteness; and that good lady’s part in it showed plainly that the new doctrines she had so rapidly imbibed, while pretending to purify her heart, had most lamentably perverted her judgment.
CHAPTER VI.
THE RETURN.
On reaching Mowbray, the first figure which greeted the eyes of the travellers was that of Charles, stationed on the portico steps waiting to receive them. A line from Helen to Rosalind, written only the day before, announced their intended return; but the appearance of Charles was a surprise to them, and to Helen certainly the most delightful that she could have experienced.
Mr. Cartwright had written a long and very edifying letter to Mrs. Mowbray, informing her of the unexpected arrival of her son from the scene of his studies, and making such comments upon it as in his wisdom seemed good. But though this too was written in the secret recesses of his own chamber, with many affecting little circumstances demonstrative of his holy and gentle emotions while so employed, it was, nevertheless, under the influence of still riper wisdom, subsequently destroyed, because he thought that the first surprise occasioned by the young man’s unwonted appearance would be more likely to produce the effect he desired than even his statement.
Neither Rosalind nor Charles himself had written, because they were both unwilling to state the real cause of his coming, and thought the plea of whim would pass off better in conversation than on paper. That Fanny should write nothing which good Mr. Cartwright did not wish known, can be matter of surprise to no one.
Helen, who had descried Charles before the carriage stopped, descended from her lofty position with dangerous rapidity, and sprang into his arms with a degree of delight, greater, perhaps, than she had ever before felt at seeing him.
The exclamation of Mrs. Mowbray certainly had in it, as the wise vicar predicted, a tone that indicated displeasure as well as surprise; and the embrace, which she could not refuse, was so much less cordial than it was wont to be, that he turned again to Helen, and once more pressed her to his heart, as if to console him for the want of tenderness in his mother’s kiss.
Meanwhile, Mr. Stephen Corbold stood under the lofty portico, lost in admiration at the splendid appearance of the house and grounds. Mrs. Mowbray, with a sort of instinctive feeling that this excellent person might not altogether find himself at his ease with her family, hastened towards him, determined that her own Christian humility should at
least set them a good example, and putting out both her hands towards him, exclaimed, with an earnestness that sounded almost like the voice of prayer, “Welcome, dear, DEAR, Mr. Corbold, to my house and home! and may you find in it the comfort and hospitality your exemplary character deserves!” Then turning to her son, she added, “I know not how long you are likely to stay away from college, Charles; but while you are here, I beg that you will exert yourself to the very utmost to make Mowbray agreeable to this gentleman; and remember, if you please, that his religious principles, and truly edifying Christian sentiments, are exactly such as I would wish to place before you as an example.”
Charles turned round towards the serious attorney, intending to welcome him by an extended hand; but the thing was impossible. There was that in his aspect with which he felt that he could never hold fellowship, and his salutation was turned into a ceremonious bow; a change which it was the less difficult to make, from the respectful distance at which the stranger guest placed himself, while preparing to receive the young man’s welcome.
Though Rosalind had purposely remained in her own apartment till the first meeting with Charles was over, Helen was already in her arms; having exchanged a hasty kiss with Fanny, whom she met in the hall, hastening to receive her mother.
“Oh! my dearest Rosalind! How thankful am I to be once more with you again! I never, I think, shall be able to endure the sight of London again as long as I live. I have been so very, very wretched there!”
“Upon my word, Helen, I have not lived upon roses since you went. You can hardly be so glad to come back, as I am to have you. What did your mother say on seeing Charles?”
“I hardly know. She did not, I think, seem pleased to see him: but I am more delighted at the chance that has brought him, let it be what it will, than I have words to express. Oh! it is such a blessing to me! — dear, dear, Charles! he knows not what a treasure he is. The very sight of him has cured all my sorrows — and yet I was dreadfully miserable just now.”
“Then, thank Heaven! he is here, my own Helen! But tell me, dearest, what is it has made you miserable? Though you tell me it is over, the tears seemed ready to start when you said so.”
“Oh! my woes will make a long story, Rosalind; and some of them must be for your ear only; but this shall be at night, when nobody is near to hear us: — but, by the way, you must have a great deal to tell me. How comes it that Charles is here? And, what seems stranger still, how comes it that, as he is here, you have not been living upon roses?”
“My woes may make a story as well as yours, Helen; and a long one too, if I tell all: but it must come out by degrees, — a series of sketches, rather than an history.”
“Have you seen any body from Oakley, Rosalind?”
“Ah, Helen!” said Rosalind smiling, as she watched the bright colour mounting even to the brows of her friend; “your history, then, has had nothing in it to prevent your remembering Oakley?”
“My history, as you call it, Rosalind, has been made up of a series of mortifications: some of them have almost broken my heart, and my spirit too; but others have irritated me into a degree of courage and daring that might perhaps have surprised you; and every thing that has happened to me, has sent my thoughts back to my home and to my friends, — all my friends, Rosalind, — with a degree of clinging and dependent affection such as I never felt before.”
“My poor Helen! But look up, dearest! and shed no tears if you can help it. We all seem to be placed in a very singular and unexpected position, my dear friend; but it is not tears that will help us out of it. This new man, this vicar, seems inclined to go such lengths with his fanatical hypocrisy, that I have good hopes your mother and Fanny will ere long get sick of him and his new lights, and then all will go right again. Depend upon it, all that has hitherto gone wrong, has been wholly owing to him. I certainly do not think that your poor father’s will was made in the spirit of wisdom; but even that would have produced none of the effects it has done, had not this hateful man instilled, within ten minutes after the will was read, the poison of doubt and suspicion against Charles, into the mind of your mother. Do you not remember his voice and his look, Helen, when he entered the room where we were all three sitting with your mother? I am sure I shall never forget him! I saw, in an instant, that he intended to make your mother believe that Charles resented the will; and that, instead of coming himself, he had sent him to your mother to tell her of it. I hated him then; and every hour that has passed since has made me hate him more. But let us take hope, Helen, even from the excess of the evil. Your mother cannot long remain blind to his real character; and, when once she sees him as he is, she will again become the dear kind mother you have all so fondly loved.”
“Could I hope this, Rosalind, for the future, there is nothing I could not endure patiently for the present, — at least nothing that could possibly happen while Charles is here; but I do not hope it.”
There was a melancholy earnestness in Helen’s voice, as she pronounced the last words, that sounded like a heavy prophecy of evil to come, in the ears of Rosalind. “Heaven help us, then!” she exclaimed. “If we are really to live under the influence and authority of the Vicar of Wrexhill, our fate will be dreadful. If your dear father had but been spared to us a few years longer, — if you and I were but one-and-twenty Helen, — how different would be the light in which I should view all that now alarms us; my fortune would be plenty for both of us, and I would take you with me to Ireland, and we would live with — —”
“Oh Rosalind! how can you talk so idly? Do you think that any thing would make me leave my poor dear mother?”
“If you were to marry, for instance?”
“I should never do that without her consent; and that, you know, would hardly be leaving her.”
“Well! ‘Heaven and our innocency defend and guard us!’ for I do think, Helen, we are in a position that threatens vexation, to say the least of it. I wonder if Miss Cartwright’s visit is to end with your absence? She is the very oddest personage! sometimes I pity her; sometimes I almost admire her; sometimes I feel afraid of her, but never by any chance can I continue even to fancy that I understand her character.”
“Indeed! Yet in general you set about that rather rapidly, Rosalind. But must we not go down? I have hardly seen Fanny, and I long to talk a little to my own dear Charles.”
“And you will like to have some tea after your journey. Mrs. Mowbray, I think, never stops en route?”
“In general she does not; but to-day — —” a shudder ran through Helen’s limbs as she remembered the travelling adventures of the day, and she stopped.
“You look tired and pale, Helen! Come down, take some tea, and then go to bed directly. If we do not act with promptitude and decision in this matter, we shall set up talking all night.”
As they passed Miss Cartwright’s door, Rosalind knocked, and that young lady immediately opened it.
“Oh! you are come back then? I fancied, by Mr. Cartwright’s not coming this evening, that something might have occurred to prevent you?”
“If it had,” said Helen, smiling, “it must have been announced by express, for you can only have had my letter this morning.”
“True!” replied Miss Cartwright.
When the three young ladies entered the drawing-room, they found nobody in it but Mr. Stephen Corbold; Mrs. Mowbray having gone with Fanny to her own room, and Charles ensconced himself in the library, to avoid a tête-à-tête with the unpromising-looking stranger.
Rosalind gave him a glance, and then looked at Helen with an eye that seemed to say, “Who in the world have you brought us?” Helen, however, gave no glance of intelligence in return; but, walking to a table which stood in that part of the room which was at the greatest distance from the place occupied by Mr. Corbold, she sat down, and began earnestly reading an old newspaper that she found upon it.
Miss Cartwright started on recognising her cousin, and though she condescended to pronounce, “How do you do, Mr. Co
rbold?” there was but a cold welcome to him expressed either by her voice or manner. No one presented him to Rosalind, and altogether he felt as little at his ease as it was well possible for a gentleman to do, when the door opened, and Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny appeared. From that moment he became as much distinguished as he was before overlooked. Fanny, who knew that it was Mr. Cartwright’s cousin who stood bowing to her, delighted at the honour of being told that she was “Miss Fanny Mowbray,” received him with a kindness and condescension which soothed her own feelings as much as his, for she felt that every word she spoke to him was a proof of her devotion to her dear, good Mr. Cartwright! and that, when he heard of it, he could not fail to understand that it was for his sake.
The party retired early, ostensibly for the sake of the travellers; but perhaps the real cause of this general haste to separate, was, that they all felt themselves singularly embarrassed in each other’s company. Before Mrs. Mowbray had been five minutes in her house, she had ordered a splendid sleeping apartment to be made ready for Mr. Corbold; and the first half-hour after retiring to it, was spent by him in taking an accurate survey of its furniture, fittings-up, and dimensions: after which, he very nearly stifled himself (forgetful of the dog-days) by striving to enjoy the full luxury of the abounding pillows with which his magnificent couch was furnished.
Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny separated after a short but confidential colloquy. Miss Cartwright took her solitary way to her chamber, where, as the housemaids asserted, she certainly spent half the night in reading, or writing, or something or other, before she put out her light: and Rosalind and Helen, spite of their good resolutions, not only sat up talking in the library themselves, but permitted Charles to share their watch with them; so that, before they separated, every fact, thought, or opinion, treasured in the minds of each, were most unreservedly communicated to the others, — excepting that Helen did not disclose at full length all the reasons she had for detesting Mr. Corbold, and Charles did not think it necessary to mention, that Rosalind grew fairer to his eyes, and dearer to his heart, every hour.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 74