It should be observed that, during the few days which intervened between the arrival of Charles and the return of his mother, the vicar had greatly relaxed in his attentions to Fanny, and indeed altogether in the frequency of his pastoral visitations at the Park. He had explained this in the ear of his pretty proselyte, by telling her that he was much engaged in pushing forward the work of regeneration in his parish, to the which holy labour he was the more urgently incited by perceiving that the seed was not thrown upon barren ground. Nor indeed was this statement wholly untrue. He had taken advantage of the leisure which the present posture of affairs at the Park left upon his hands, in seeking to inflame the imaginations of as many of his parishioners as he could get to listen to him.
Among the females he had been particularly successful; and, indeed, the proportion of the fair sex who are found to embrace the tenets which this gentleman and his sect have introduced in place of those of the Church of England, is so great, that, as their faith is an exclusive one, it might be conjectured that the chief object of the doctrine was to act as a balance-weight against that of Mahomet, who, atrocious tyrant as he was, shut the gates of heaven against all woman-kind whatsoever; were it not that an occasional nest of he-saints may here and there be found, — sometimes in a drum-profaned barrack, and sometimes in a cloistered college, which show that election is not wholly confined to the fair. There are, however, some very active and inquiring persons who assert, that upon a fair and accurate survey throughout England and Wales, Ireland, Scotland, and the Town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, no greater number of this sect can be found of the masculine gender than may suffice to perform the duties of ministers, deputy ministers, missionaries, assistant missionaries, speech-makers both in and out of parliament, committee-men, and such serious footmen, coachmen, butchers, and bakers, as the fair inhabitants of the Calvinistic heaven require to perform the unfeminine drudgery of earth.
It was in consequence of this remission in the vicar’s labours for the regeneration of Fanny, that Charles Mowbray still treated him with the respect due to the clergyman of his parish. Rosalind felt it quite impossible to describe to him all she had seen, and her promise to Henrietta forbade her to repeat what she had heard; so that young Mowbray, though he disapproved of the puritanic innovations of Fanny’s toilet, and so much disliked Mr. Cartwright’s extempore preaching as to have decided upon attending divine service at Oakley church for the future, to avoid hearing what he considered as so very indecent an innovation, he was still quite unaware of Rosalind’s real motives for recalling him, though extremely well inclined to think her right in having done so.
Miss Torrington and Helen left the room very soon after the two gentlemen entered it. Henrietta, with the stealthy step of a cat, followed them, and young Mowbray felt strongly tempted to do the like; but was prevented, not so much by politeness perhaps, as by curiosity to ascertain, if possible, the terms on which both these gentlemen stood with his mother.
But it was not possible. As long as he remained with them, the very scanty conversation which took place was wholly on uninteresting subjects; and Charles at length left the room, from feeling that it was not his mother’s pleasure to talk to the attorney of the business that he presumed must have brought him there, as long as he remained in it.
There is in the domestic history of human life no cause productive of effects so terrible as the habit of acting according to the impulse, or the convenience, of the moment, without fully considering the effect what we are doing may produce on others.
Mrs. Mowbray, in waiting till Charles left the room before she spake to Mr. Corbold of the title-deeds and other papers which she was to put into his hands, was almost wholly actuated by the consciousness that the attorney she was employing (though a serious) was a very vulgar man. She knew that her son was rather fastidious on such points; and she disliked the idea that a man, whose distinguished piety rendered him so peculiarly eligible as a man of business, should, at his first introduction to the confidential situation she intended he should hold, lay himself open to the ridicule of a youth, who, she sighed to think, was as yet quite incapable of appreciating his merit in any way.
If any secondary motive mixed with this, it arose from the averseness she felt, of which she was not herself above half conscious, that any one should hear advice given by Mr. Cartwright, who might think themselves at liberty to question it; but, with all this, she never dreamed of the pain she was giving to Charles’s heart. She dreamed not that her son, — her only son, — with a heart as warm, as generous, as devoted in its filial love, as ever beat in the breast of a man, felt all his ardent affection for her, — his proud fond wish of being her protector, her aid, her confidential friend — now checked and chilled at once, and for ever!
This consequence of her cold, restrained manner in his presence, was so natural, — in fact, so inevitable, — that had she turned her eyes from herself and her own little unimportant feelings, to what might be their effect upon his, it is hardly possible that she could have avoided catching some glimpse of the danger she ran, — and much after misery might have been spared; as it was, she felt a movement of unequivocal satisfaction when he departed; and, having told Fanny to join the other young ladies while she transacted business, she was left alone with the two gentlemen, and, in a few minutes afterwards, the contents of her late husband’s strong-box, consisting of parchments, memoranda, and deeds almost innumerable, overspread the large table, as well as every sofa and chair within convenient reach.
The two serious gentlemen smiled, but it was inwardly. Their eyes ran over the inscription of every precious packet; and if those of the professional man caught more rapidly at a glance the respective importance of each, the vicar had the advantage of him in that prophetic feeling of their future importance to himself, which rendered the present hour one of the happiest of his life.
Meanwhile, Charles sought Helen and her friend. Far, however, from wishing to impart to them the painful impression he had received, his principal object in immediately seeking them was, if possible, to forget it. He found the four girls together in the conservatory, and, affecting more gaiety than he felt, exclaimed, “How many recruits shall I get among you to join me in a walk to Wrexhill? One, two, three, four! That’s delightful! Make haste; bonnet and veil yourselves without delay: and if we skirt round the plantations to the lodge, we shall escape being broiled, for the lanes are always shady.”
When he had got his convoy fairly under weigh, they began to make inquiries as to what he was going to do at Wrexhill. “I will tell you,” he replied, “if you will promise not to run away and forsake me.”
They pledged themselves to be faithful to their escort, and he then informed them, that it was his very particular wish and desire to pay sundry visits to the beau monde of Wrexhill.
“It is treason to the milliner not to have told us so before, Charles,” said Helen; “only look at poor Fanny’s little straw-bonnet, without even a bow to set it off. What will Mrs. Simpson think of us?”
“I assure you, Helen,” said Fanny, “that if I had known we were going to visit all the fine people in the county, I should have put on no other bonnet; and as for Mrs. Simpson, I believe you are quite mistaken in supposing she would object to it. I hope she has seen the error of her ways, as well as I have, Charles; and that we shall never more see her dressed like a heathenish woman, as she used to do.”
“Oh Fanny! Fanny!” exclaimed Charles, laughing. “How long will this spirit vex you.”
Fortunately, however, for the harmony of the excursion, none of the party appeared at this moment inclined to controversy, and the subject dropped. Instead, therefore, of talking of different modes of faith, and of the bonnets thereunto belonging, the conversation turned upon the peculiar beauty of the woodland scenery around Wrexhill; and Miss Cartwright, as almost a stranger, was applied to for her opinion of it.
“I believe I am a very indifferent judge of scenery,” she replied. “The fact is, I never see it.�
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“Do you not see it now?” said Rosalind. “Do you not see that beautiful stretch of park-like common, with its tufts of holly, its rich groups of forest-trees, with their dark heavy drapery of leaves, relieved by the light and wavy gracefulness of the delicate and silvery birch? and, loveliest of all, do you not see that stately avenue of oaks, the turf under them green in eternal shade, and the long perspective, looking like the nave of some gigantic church?”
Rosalind stood still as she spoke, and Henrietta remained beside her. They were descending the bit of steep road which, passing behind the church and the vicarage, led into the village street of Wrexhill, and the scene described by Miss Torrington was at this point completely given to their view.
Henrietta put her arm within that of Rosalind with a degree of familiarity very unusual with her, and having gazed on the fair expanse before her for several minutes, she replied, “Yes, Rosalind, I do see it now, and I thank you for making it visible to me. Perhaps, in future, when I may perchance be thinking of you, I may see it again.”
Rosalind turned to seek her meaning in her face, and saw that her dark deep-set eyes were full of tears. This was so unexpected, so unprecedented, so totally unlike any feeling she had ever remarked in her before, that Rosalind was deeply touched by it, and, pressing the arm that rested on hers, she said: “Dear Henrietta! Why are you so averse to letting one understand what passes in your heart? It is only by an accidental breath, which now and then lifts the veil you hang before it, that one can even find out you have any heart at all.”
“Did you know all the darkness that dwells there, you would not thank me for showing it to you.”
Having said this, she stepped hastily forward, and drawing on Rosalind, who would have lingered, with her, till they had overtaken the others, they all turned from the lane into the village street together.
They had not proceeded a hundred yards, before they were met by a dozen rosy and riotous children returning from dinner to school. At sight of the Mowbray party, every boy uncapped, and every little girl made her best courtesy; but one unlucky wag, whose eyes unfortunately fixed themselves on Fanny, being struck by the precision of her little bonnet, straight hair, and the total absence of frill, furbelow, or any other indication of worldly-mindedness, restrained his bounding steps for a moment, and, pursing up his little features into a look of sanctity, exclaimed— “Amen!” — and then, terrified at what he had done, galloped away and hid himself among his fellows.
Fanny coloured, but immediately assumed the resigned look that announceth martyrdom. Charles laughed, though he turned round and shook his switch at the saucy offender. Helen looked vexed, Rosalind amused, and Henrietta very nearly delighted.
A few minutes more brought them to the door of Mrs. Simpson. Their inquiry for the lady was answered by the information that she “was schooling miss; but if they would be pleased to walk in, she would come down directly.” They accordingly entered the drawing-room, where they were kept waiting for some time, which was indeed pretty generally the fate of morning visitors to Mrs. Simpson.
The interval was employed as the collectors of albums and annuals intend all intervals should be, namely, in the examination of all the morocco-bound volumes deposited on the grand round table in the middle of the room, and on all the square, oblong, octagon, and oval minor tables, in the various nooks and corners of it.
On the present occasion they seemed to promise more amusement than usual to the party, who had most of them been frequently there before, — for they were nearly all new. Poor little Fanny, though she knew that not one of those with her were capable of enjoying the intellectual and edifying feast that almost the first glance of her eye showed her was set before them, could not restrain an exclamation of— “Oh! How heavenly-minded!”
The whole collection indeed, which though recently and hastily formed, had evidently been brought together by the hand of a master of such matters, was not only most strictly evangelical, but most evangelically ingenious.
Helen, however, appeared to find food neither for pleasantry nor edification there; for having opened one or two slender volumes, and as many heavy pamphlets, she abandoned the occupation with a sigh, that spoke sadness and vexation. Miss Cartwright, who had seated herself on the same sofa, finished her examination still more quickly, saying in a low voice as she settled herself in a well-pillowed corner —
“Surfeit is the father of much fast.”
Miss Torrington and young Mowbray got hold of by far the finest volume of all, whose gilt leaves and silken linings showed that it was intended as the repository of the most precious gifts, that, according to the frontispiece, Genius could offer to Friendship. Having given a glance at its contents, Charles drew out his pencil, and on the blank side of a letter wrote the following catalogue of them, which, though imperfect as not naming them all, was most scrupulously correct as far as it went:
“Saint Paul’s head, sketched in pen and ink; ‘Here’s the bower,’ to words of grace; The death-bed talk of Master Blink; Lines on a fallen maiden’s case. Sonnet upon heavenly love; A pencil drawing of Saint Peter. Emblems — the pigeon and the dove. Gray’s Odes, turned to psalm-tune metre. A Christian ode in praise of tea, Freely translated from Redi.”
He had just presented the scrap to Rosalind when Mrs. Simpson entered, leading her little girl in her hand; but the young lady had leisure to convey it unnoticed to her pocket, as the mistress of the house had for the first few minutes eyes only for Fanny. In fact, she literally ran to her the instant she perceived her little bonnet, and, folding her arms round her, exclaimed —
“My dear, dear child! My dear, dear sister! This is providential! It is a blessing I shall remember alway! Our minister told me that I should read at a glance the blessed change wrought upon you: I do read it, and I will rejoice therefore! I beg your pardon, ladies. Mr. Mowbray, pray sit down — I beg your pardon: I rejoice to see you, though as yet — —”
Her eyes fixed themselves on the bonnet of Rosalind, which, besides being large, had the abomination of sundry bows, not to mention a bunch of laburnum blossoms.
“Ah! my dear Miss Helen! The time will come — I will supplicate that it may — when you too, like your precious sister, shall become a sign and example to all men. How the seed grows, my sweet Miss Fanny!” she continued, turning to the only one of her guests whom, strictly speaking, she considered it right to converse with. “How it grows and spreads under the dew of faith and the sunshine of righteousness. It is just three months, three little blessed months, since the beam first fell upon my heart, Miss Fanny; and look at me, look at my child, look at my albums, look at my books, look at my card-racks, look at my missionary’s box on one side, and my London Lord-days’ society box on the other. Is not this a ripening and preparing for the harvest, Miss Fanny?”
Fanny coloured, partly perhaps from pride and pleasure; but partly, certainly, from shyness at being so distinguished, and only murmured the word “Beautiful!” in reply.
Miss Mowbray felt equally provoked and disgusted; but, while inwardly resolving that she would never again put herself in the way of witnessing what she so greatly condemned, she deemed it best to stay, if possible, the torrent of nonsense which was thus overwhelming her sister, by giving another turn to the conversation.
“Have you seen Mrs. Richards lately, Mrs. Simpson?” she said.
“Mrs. Richards and I very rarely meet now, Miss Mowbray,” was the reply. “The three young ladies indeed, I am happy to say, have wholly separated themselves from their mother in spirit, and are all of them becoming shining lights. Oh, Miss Fanny! how sweetly pious are those lines written between you and little Mary!”
Fanny suddenly became as red as scarlet.
“The alternate verses, I mean, in praise and glory of our excellent minister. He brought them to me himself, and we read them together, and we almost shed tears of tender blessing on you both, dear children!”
Charles, who thought, and with great satisfacti
on, that whatever stuff his poor little sister might have written, she was now very heartily ashamed of it, wishing to relieve her from the embarrassment, which nevertheless he rejoiced to see, rose from his chair, and approaching a window, said, “What a very pleasant room you have here, Mrs. Simpson; it is almost due east, is it not? If the room over it be your apartment, I should think the sun must pay you too early a visit there, unless your windows are well curtained.”
“Oh, Mr. Mowbray! Sunrise is such a time of praise and blessing, that, even though the curtains are drawn, I always try, if I am awake, to think how heavenly it is looking outside.”
“Are you an early riser, Mrs. Simpson?” said Helen.
“Not very, — at least not always; but since my election I have been endeavouring to get down to prayers by about half-past eight. It is so delightful to think how many people are coming down stairs to prayers just at half-past eight!”
“Your little girl is very much grown, Mrs. Simpson,” said Miss Torrington, willing to try another opening by which to escape from under the heels of the lady’s hobby; but it did not answer.
“Hold up your head, Mimima dear!” said the mamma; “and tell these ladies what you have been learning lately. She is still rather shy; but it is going off, I hope. Precious child! she is grown such a prayerful thing, Miss Fanny, you can’t imagine. Mimima, why did you not eat up all your currant-pudding yesterday? tell Miss Fanny Mowbray!”
“Because it is wicked to love currant-pudding,” answered the child, folding her little hands one over the other upon the bosom of her plain frock, no longer protruding in all directions its sumptuous chevaux-de-frise of lace and embroidery.
“Darling angel! And why, my precious! is it wicked?”
“Because it is a sin to care for our vile bodies, and because we ought to love nothing but the Lord.”
“Is not that a blessing?” said Mrs. Simpson, again turning to Fanny. “And how can I be grateful enough to the angelic man who has put me and my little one in the right way?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 76