How was it possible, that being, as he most undoubtedly was, the lord and master of Cartwright Park, and all the wealth annexed thereto, and holding his lady’s comprehensive will, signed, sealed, and duly executed, in his own possession, — how could it be that he should feel so utterly beat down, overpowered, and degraded?
The bitter pang, however, lasted but a moment. What was the gossip of an hour, or a day, when set against the solid happiness of wealth? This was still his, to have and to hold; and after one little pinch at his heart, as he thought of the longed-for mitre, he struggled manfully to despise the paltry annoyance, and hastened, with all the speed he could make, to the rescue of his cousin, and, if Heaven so willed, to inflict vengeance, even unto death, upon his enemy.
Heaven, however, did not so will; Colonel Harrington having given the attorney exactly the quantum of flogging he intended, stuck his card, with his name and address both in town and country, into the groaning man’s pocket, laid him down very gently on the grass, and departed.
The disposal of the flogged gentleman’s person was now taken into consideration. Some cousins, perhaps, might have thought that a bed at Cartwright Park would have been the best thing to propose for it; but it appeared that such was not the opinion of Mr. Cartwright; for having quickly ascertained the situation of affairs, and assured himself that Colonel Harrington was no longer within his reach, he instantly ordered the coachman and stable-boy, who were among his suite, to return with all possible haste to the house, and prepare a carriage instantly to take his ill-used cousin home.
“Take me to your house, cousin!” murmured the smarting man, “I shall die if you send me to Wrexhill!” But Mr. Cartwright did not happen to hear him; and indeed his time and attention were wholly engrossed till the carriage arrived, and his kinsman lifted into it, by a strict examination of his people at the lodge, as to when Colonel Harrington had entered the Park, and whether they were at all aware that he was still lurking there.
To all which inquiries he of course received for answer,— “Law! your honour, upon such a day as this, how was any body to mark who went in, or who went out of the Park?”
Mr. Stephen Corbold was therefore safely conveyed to his own dwelling in Wrexhill; and the vicar returned to tell his lady, that from circumstances which had transpired, there could be no doubt that her daughter Helen had eloped with Colonel Harrington.
“On my word, my dearest Cartwright, I hardly know how to be sorry for it. William Harrington would be an excellent match for any woman. They were very fond of each other when they were children; and Helen has been so miserable and moping ever since I married, that it has been quite a misery to see her. I thought she was in love with your cousin? However, I suppose she has changed her mind again, and that it was a fit of jealousy on the part of Harrington that made him attack poor Mr. Corbold. But we can’t help it, you know. I am tired to death, my dear Cartwright; — do not let us stay up any longer talking about it; I dare say Helen will be very happy.”
So ended the eventful day of the Fababo Fancy Fair.
It is not necessary to inquire what were the reports, or what the gossipings to which this day’s events gave rise. The papers announced that a very large sum had been collected for the interesting missionary; and all the Hampshire world soon said that Colonel Harrington was going to be married to Miss Mowbray. But the attention of the Park family themselves was at this time greatly engrossed by Henrietta. She had long been in a very delicate state of health, but, probably from some cold caught at the late fête, her symptoms had become rapidly more alarming; she was soon confined to her bed, and the most skilful physician in the county gave it as his opinion that she could not live many weeks.
Rosalind was indefatigable in her attentions to her; and when the awful judgment of the physician was made known to her, she at once resolved that Henrietta should be made acquainted with it, in the hope that the prospect of approaching dissolution might soften her heart and lead her to seek and receive the only consolation of which such a situation admits.
Rosalind was too truly attached to Helen not to rejoice at the unexpected step she had taken, though her surprise at it was unbounded. She knew Helen’s character well, she knew too how implicitly they had trusted each other; and that this known, trusted and trusting friend should have eloped without having even hinted to her that Colonel Harrington had confessed the love which in happier moments she owned she hoped he felt, was inconceivable! Still it was true. And though no line of explanation had ever been permitted to reach her, still she rejoiced; and with all the trusting confidence of her nature believed that whatever appeared wrong or unkind, would some day or other be explained.
She now rejoiced yet more at Helen’s absence. Henrietta had never admitted her even to the uncertain and capricious degree of friendship which she had bestowed on herself; and had she been still at the Park, it would have been difficult for Rosalind to have devoted herself so wholly to the poor sufferer as she now did. Mrs. Cartwright’s situation prevented her from being much in the room. Fanny was still less there. She and Henrietta had never loved each other. At first Fanny disliked her because it was easy to perceive that she was neither beloved nor approved by Mr. Cartwright; and Henrietta despised her in return for the easy weakness with which she had become her father’s convert. So that, in this awful hour, Rosalind was the only friend who drew near her with affection; and most tender and constant was the care she bestowed upon her.
To the communication which she so much dreaded to make, though she considered it her duty to do it, Henrietta only replied by assuring her that for more than a year she had been fully aware that death was rapidly approaching her. “Alas! how lightly have I listened to you, dear Henrietta, when you have said this!” replied the weeping Rosalind. “But the reason, dear friend, why I did not, why I could not believe you were in earnest, was — —”
“Speak fearlessly, dear Rosalind —— was — that you thought I was unfit to die. But so are many, Rosalind, who yet must go when nature bids them.”
“But now, now Henrietta! Oh! tell me that you do not still doubt all things — doubt even the being of the eternal power that made you; tell me, I beseech you, that you have read and thought on these things since that dreadful day that I overheard you make the confession to Mr. Hetherington which has rung in my ears ever since.”
“Yes, Rosalind, I have read, and I have thought — but not now only, my kind friend. My short life, Rosalind, has been but one series of perturbed thinking — my brain has been racked by it. But I have gained nothing.”
“I have no power, Henrietta, no learning, no strength of reason to remove the doubts that so fearfully darken these your last hours. Yet what would I not give that you could taste the ineffable comfort of perfect hope and perfect faith!”
“Perfect faith!” repeated Henrietta impatiently— “why do you have recourse to the slang I hate? Teach me to hope — oh! that you could! but let me not hear the hateful words, the false use of which has been my destruction.”
“Henrietta! dearest Henrietta! will you consent to see a clergyman who can speak to you with the authority of age and wisdom?”
“A clergyman?” she replied, scoffingly. “Perhaps you will propose that I should see the Reverend Mr. Cartwright?”
“No, no. You do not think that it is such as him I would wish to send to you.”
“Yet he is my father, Miss Torrington. And there it is, you see — there lies the difficulty. Name a clergyman, and Mr. Cartwright seems to rise before me. And shall I use my dying breath to say that I would hear with reverence what such as he could say? Leave me in peace, Rosalind. Let me sleep, I tell you. If there be a God, he will pity me!”
There was so much feverish excitement in her manner of speaking, that Rosalind, terrified lest she might hasten the hour she so earnestly wished to retard, in the hope that light might break upon that darkness which it was so terrible to witness, forbore to answer her, and tenderly arranging her pillows under her
head, kissed her pale cheek and set herself down behind the curtain, in the place that she now almost constantly occupied.
After a moment, however, Henrietta spoke again, but it was gently and calmly. “Leave me, my most kind Rosalind,” said she! “leave me for an hour or two: you must want the fresh air, and I want perfect solitude. Rosalind, I will think. Let no one come to me till I ring my bell. Go, my dear friend!”
Rosalind, greatly affected by the changed voice and manner, pressed to her lips the emaciated hand held out to her, and retired.
Rosalind did indeed require the refreshment of air and exercise, from which she had almost wholly debarred herself for above a week; and such refreshment will certainly do more towards restoring the exhausted strength, both to body and mind, than any other remedy which can be devised. Yet, though it acts well, and almost infallibly, on the system, the benefit does not at once reach the consciousness of the weary watcher. Rosalind, as she slowly dragged her languid steps along, felt none of the pleasurable effects of the sweet breeze that blew in her face, for she was not aware of it. Her heart and soul were still in the chamber of the dying Henrietta; and though greatly too well taught to believe that a few feverish moments of changed opinions can put the passing spirit into a state of fitness for heaven, still she clung to the hope of hearing the unhappy girl avow better thoughts and feelings than those which had so long brooded over her misguided spirit. Fully occupied with these meditations, Rosalind walked for an hour, almost mechanically, through the shrubberies, unmindful of the sweet voice of nature that greeted her in the songs of birds and in the breath of flowers, and thinking only of what she might say or do to make the light of truth send one cheering ray upon the last hours of her unhappy friend.
When she re-entered the house, her maid, who was watching for her, said that Miss Cartwright had rung her bell, and requested to know when she returned.
Blaming herself for her long absence, Rosalind hastened to the sick room, and found Henrietta seated upright in her bed, with rather more animation and brightness in her eyes than she wished to see, for she thought it betokened fever; but her voice and manner were gentle and composed.
“Your words have not fallen to the ground, my most kind Rosalind,” said she; “and if it be possible, during the short period that remains for me to live, that I should attain a clearer knowledge of what I am than I have hitherto possessed, I shall welcome it most gladly. But of all the attributes with which the beautiful idea that you call God is invested, the only one that I conceive it possible for mortals to share with Him, is Truth. Power, alas! we have none — of knowledge very little, of wisdom less — and as to perfect goodness, perfect benevolence, we are not framed to feel it. But Truth, clear pure, beautiful, and bright, we can know and we can feel! It can make a part of us, even as it makes a part of Him; and by this only, as it seems to me, can we approach Him, touch Him, and, as it were be part of Him. For truth in a mortal, Rosalind, if it exist at all, is perfect as in a God. It is therefore, my dear friend, that though I feel, ay, and have always felt, that there may be an existing cause, endowed with will, productive of all the wonders of creation — and though this wondrous existence, if it be! deserves all worship — and though I (more sinned against than sinning) have offered none, yet still I feel that I may be forgiven. If I have kept far off from him my worship and my thoughts, at least I never have approached him with falsehood on my tongue or in my heart; and, to my judgment, this is the only crime relating to our intercourse with God at which we need to tremble. If such a Being be, can our blundering theories so touch his greatness that he should deign to frown upon us for them? No, no, no! We cannot know Him; and those who guess the nearest, can guess but very darkly. But truth and falsehood are as much within the compass of man’s nature as of God’s, and therefore are they, as concerning Him, the only virtue and the only sin.”
Henrietta spoke these words with her eyes closed, slowly and deliberately, as if her mind, like a cloud that
— — “Turns forth its silver lining to the night,”
sought in the midst of darkness to show the faint gleam within.
But every word she uttered made Rosalind more deeply feel the necessity of letting her hear the truths of religion from some one who had made its laws the study of a holy life. She longed that she should hear with more authority than she could lend to it, the voice of God himself, as revealed to man in records enduring as the world; — but where was she to seek such a one? As poor Henrietta had said, the name of a minister could to her suggest no other image than that of her father; — and from him she ever seemed to turn with horror.
Yet still Rosalind could not endure to abandon the hope that such a one might be found, and only waited till Henrietta would promise to see him before she took measures for the purpose. In answer to this request, the dying girl replied “But my permission is not all that is necessary, dearest Rosalind. What would my father say if you were fortunate enough to obtain for me a visit from such a one as you describe? He would not bear it. He would not admit his approach. I know he would not.”
“Let me ask him, Henrietta.”
“No!” cried the invalid with sudden energy, as if she had at that moment conceived and decided on her line of conduct. “I will ask him myself! This doubt, this darkness, this fearful mist that seems to hang about me, is terrible. Why should I not feel hopeful and assured as you do? Send to him, Rosalind — send to my father; and send too for his besotted wife, and for the poor, weak, wavering Fanny. Send for them all. — But don’t you leave me, Rosalind. I have a strange, anxious fluttering at my heart. It will be better when I have spoken to him.”
Rosalind delayed not a moment to do her bidding. There was an inequality in her manner that frightened her. She feared her time was short; and so worded the summons she sent to Mr. Cartwright and his wife, that they came instantly. Fanny entered the room nearly at the same moment; and it was evident from their manner that they all thought they were come to receive her last farewell.
The feeble Henrietta asked Rosalind so to arrange her pillows that she might sit upright. Rosalind did so, and then kneeled down beside the bed.
Mr. Cartwright stood with his back leaning against the bed-post, and his eyes fixed on the ground; his wife entered leaning on his arm, and had not quitted it; but for some reason or other, Henrietta, who rarely took notice of her in any way, now asked her to place herself in a chair beside her bed.
“You had better sit,” said she. “You are not very strong in any way.”
Fanny stood apart, and alone; and having looked round upon each of them, the dying girl fixed her eyes upon her father, and thus addressed him, “I have heard you say — a thousand times perhaps — that religion was the business of your life; and for that reason, sir, its very name hath become abhorrent to me. Oh, father! — you have much to answer for! I would have given my own right hand to believe in a good, a merciful, a forgiving God! — and I turned my young eyes to you. You told me that few could be saved, and that it was not what I deemed innocence could save me. You told me too, that I was in danger, but that you were safe. You told me that Heaven had set its seal upon you. And then I watched you — oh, how earnestly! — I spied out all your ways! — I found fraud, pride, impurity, and falsehood, mix with your deeds through every day you lived! Yet still you said that Heaven had set its seal upon you, — that your immortal soul was safe, — that happiness eternal was your predestined doom. I listened to you as a child listens to a father; not a word was lost; no, nor an action either. And then it was, father, that I became an unbeliever! an hardened infidel! a daring atheist! If it were true that God had chosen you, then was it true my soul rejected him! — Yet Rosalind, dear Rosalind, do not hate me, — do not shudder at my words. It was because I found no truth in him, that I could not, would not believe his doctrine true. But you — good, kind, and innocent, — I believe you.”
The harsh and awful accents of her voice changed into a tone of the deepest tenderness as she cont
inued to address Rosalind. “When did you ever lie? You tell me there is a God, and I may trust you. You do not prate of grace, and then labour to corrupt the innocence that looks into your face to ask the way to Heaven. You do not bid me wear a mask of feigned assurance of salvation; nor will you bind my hands, nor keep me from the light of day, when I refuse to kneel, and sigh, and play the hypocrite. You will not bid me lie, and tell me that so only I can find the way to Heaven. You will not — —”
With slow and stealthy pace Mr. Cartwright at this moment began to creep from his station and approach the door. But Henrietta, whose eyes were half closed — for the lashes seemed heavy with tears — instantly opened them, and cried aloud, “Stay! I have a right to bid you. — Father! — This good girl is kind and innocent; but she is young and very ignorant. — What can she know of Heaven? Is there — speak truly, these are the last words you will ever utter to me — is there within our reach some pious, holy, humble man of God, — such as I have read of, — but no saint, no saint? Father! is there such a one? — and may he come and pray with me?”
Every eye in the room was fixed on Mr. Cartwright, as his daughter made the appeal. For some moments he did not answer; but upon Henrietta’s repeating loudly, and almost wildly, “May he come?” he answered in a low, husky voice. “This is mere bravado! You have lived a scoffing infidel, — and a scoffing infidel will you die. If, indeed, you wished for prayer and pardon, you would turn to me for it. — My curate may pray with her, — but none else.”
And with these words he turned away without looking at her, and quitted the room.
The silence of death seemed already to have settled on the chamber; which was broken, at length, by the deep sobbings of the unfortunate Mrs. Cartwright.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 100