Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Poor soul!” said Henrietta, turning towards her. “She is not wholly bad, but more unfit to judge and act than a baby: — for they can do nothing, and she, alas! can do much dreadful mischief. With my dying breath, unhappy victim of a most finished hypocrite, I do conjure you not to wrong your children, to enrich him. Poor soul! — He loves her not; no not even so much as, silly as she is, she well deserves from him. He will have a child born to him here, and another at Gloucester, much at the same time. Do not ruin your poor helpless children for him!”

  Mrs. Cartwright sat with her eyes immoveably fixed on those of Henrietta, even after she had ceased to speak: she sighed deeply, but uttered no syllable in reply.

  “Take her away, Rosalind. I have no more to say to her. And poor Fanny too. Heaven bless you, Fanny! — you may go now, my dear. All go, but Rosalind.”

  Her commands were instantly obeyed, and once more the two strangely matched friends were left alone together.

  “It is too late now, my Rosalind! My strength is failing fast. I can hardly see your sweet kind eyes, dear Rosalind! — but I can hear. Read to me, dearest; — quick, open the Bible that you left for me: — open it where the man says to Paul, ‘Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.’”

  Rosalind opened the precious volume, and read to her, slowly and distinctly, that exquisite passage of heaven-taught eloquence, which produced in reply the words she had quoted.

  Henrietta’s eyes were closed; but now and then a gentle pressure of the hand she held in hers persuaded Rosalind that she heard and understood each powerful word of that majestic pleading.

  When she had reached, and read the words Henrietta had quoted, she paused, and in a moment afterwards the now expiring girl uttered in broken accents, “Yes, — stop there. It has reached my soul — from your lips only, Rosalind!”

  Then suddenly her dying eyes opened, and fixed themselves on Rosalind; she clasped her hands, as if in prayer, and then with a strong effort pronounced these words, “Lord! I believe! — Help thou my unbelief!”

  Her head sank on her breast. The breath that uttered these words was her last.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  A CHANGE COMES O’ER THE SPIRIT OF HER DREAM.

  Helen had been nearly six weeks at Oakley without receiving a single line or message from any individual at the Park. She had written to her mother, fully explaining the reasons which had led her so suddenly to absent herself; and also, in the most respectful and affectionate manner, announced to her the proposal of Colonel Harrington and the approbation of his parents, — adding her earnest entreaties that her mother would not withhold her consent to their marriage. To this letter she received no answer; a circumstance which would have occasioned her the most cruel uneasiness, had not the fate of Colonel Harrington’s letter to herself enabled her to guess that of her own to her mother. To Fanny and to Rosalind she likewise wrote, and with the same ill success: but, fortunately for her tranquillity, their silence was reasonably interpreted in the same manner; and though this could but ill console her for the separation existing between them, it at least prevented her from feeling the pang of neglected affection.

  From her brother she received the only letter that had reached her since they parted; and though it was written in a strain of very melancholy despondency respecting himself, it spoke of her prospects with an energy of satisfaction and hope that it was delightful to have inspired.

  The report of Henrietta’s death reached her through the servants; and though no cordial intimacy had ever existed between them, she felt as a gentle-hearted young creature must ever feel on hearing that a companion of her own age and sex was gone hence to be no more seen.

  More than ever did she wish for tidings of her family; and of Rosalind, perhaps, more than of any other: for she knew that if her feelings for the poor Henrietta had not amounted to affection, she had inspired a very powerful interest in her bosom, and that Rosalind was likely to feel her early death very painfully. It was therefore with the strongest emotions of joy that one morning, rather more than a week after the event, she saw Rosalind approaching the principal entrance of the house, alone and on foot.

  Helen flew down stairs, through the hall, and out upon the steps to meet her, opening her arms to receive her with all the eager warmth of welcome natural after such an absence. But before Rosalind returned the embrace, she exclaimed, “You have seen your mother, Helen!”

  “Alas! no!” replied Helen. “Would to Heaven I had, Rosalind! What is it makes you think I have had this great happiness?”

  “Because I have just met her, — just seen her with my own eyes driving down the avenue.”

  “Impossible! Rosalind you must be mistaken. I have been sitting in my own room these two hours, copying a long act of parliament for Sir Gilbert; and if any carriage had been here, I must have seen it.”

  “No, no, you would not: I observed that the carriage drove direct from the stable-yard, and out into the avenue below the second gate. When I saw the carriage, spite of my astonishment, my first feeling was terror lest I should be seen myself; and accordingly I retreated behind one of the enormous trees, which I am sure hid me effectually, but from whence I had not only a full view of the Cartwright equipage, but of Mrs. Cartwright in it, looking, I am sorry to say, even paler and more ill than usual.”

  “Is my mother looking ill, Rosalind?” said Helen anxiously, and seeming for the moment to be unmindful of the strange circumstance of her having been at Oakley. “Is she unwell?”

  “I grieve to say that I think she is. A scene which took place in poor Henrietta’s room only a few moments before she died, and at which Mrs. Cartwright was present, has, I think, shaken her severely. But what can have brought her here, Helen, unless it were her wish to see you? — And yet she has been, and is gone, without your hearing of it.”

  “It is indeed most strange,” replied Helen, ringing the bell of the drawing-room, into which they had entered. “Lady Harrington is, I know, in her closet, — perhaps my mother has seen her.”

  “Has my mother been here, Thomas?” inquired Helen of the old servant who answered the bell.

  “Oh, dear, no, Miss Mowbray: that was noways likely.”

  “Likely or not, Thomas, I assure you she has been here,” said Miss Torrington; “for I myself met her coming away.”

  “Then if that is the case, young ladies, there is certainly no use in my telling any more lies about it; for that’s a job I don’t like to be put upon, seeing as I am not over and above used to it. And so, as you know it already, I’m quite ready and willing to tell you the truth. — Mrs. Mowbray, — I ask your pardon, ladies, but I really can’t call her by no other name, — Mrs. Mowbray has been shut up in the library for above two hours with my master.”

  “How very strange!” exclaimed Rosalind thoughtfully. “Then I am sure she has chosen this day for the same reason that I did. Mr. Cartwright was sent for last night by the Earl of Harrowmore. Though he is not very communicative about his adventures in general, he could not resist mentioning this flattering circumstance at tea last night; adding, that he could not refuse the excellent and pious old nobleman, who probably was desirous of obtaining the benefit of his advice on some business of importance. And this morning he set off in his travelling-carriage and four post-horses with two out-riders, leaving word, as Judy told me, that he should not return till to-morrow. But, good heavens! what can Mrs. Cartwright have to say to Sir Gilbert? and how in the world did he come to admit her, Thomas?”

  “Since you know so much, you may as well know all, ladies. The carriage, sure enough, did not venture to drive up even to the back door without leave asked of Sir Gilbert; — at least I suppose it was to ask leave, that one of the new Park servants brought a note for him first. I took it in myself to him, and said, as I was bid, that the man was to wait for an answer. Never did I see mortal face screw itself up funnier than Sir Gilbert’s when he was reading that note: he looked for all the world as if he wanted to whistle; howsomeve
r, he did no such thing, but only scrawled a bit of an answer as grave as a judge; and then it was, Miss Mowbray, that he ordered me to say no word whatever of the Park servant’s coming, or of the carriage coming after, as it was likely to do; and he sealed up his answer, and told me to give it to the man, and then to go into the garden to look for you and the colonel, Miss Mowbray, and bid you come in, as you know I did, miss: and after a bit you went up stairs, miss, and the colonel’s horse was ordered; and when he was off and all clear, then, and not before, the carriage drove into the stable-yard; and your poor mamma, Miss Mowbray, looking as white as a sheet, went tottering and trembling in to Sir Gilbert, and there she stayed till about ten minutes ago, when the bell rang and out she came again, but looking, I thought, a deal less miserable.”

  “Thank you, Thomas,” said Helen. “This is, I believe, all we wish to know.”

  The venerable-serving man took the hint and departed.

  “What can all this mean, Rosalind?” said her friend the moment the door closed behind him. “Has any thing happened at home that can account for it?”

  “I hardly know how to answer you, my Helen, without appearing to know more than I really do — for in honest truth I know nothing. Your mother, it would be wrong to conceal it from you, Helen, is certainly very much out of health, and for some weeks past has appeared, I think, out of spirits and unhappy.”

  “Oh, Rosalind! Do you think it is I who have made her so? Do you think that my coming here has made her really unhappy?”

  “Indeed I do not: on the contrary, I am firmly persuaded she rejoices at it. You know, dearest, that since her marriage I have never been in great favour; and no wonder, considering the very particular aversion I have ever felt, and perhaps manifested, towards her bridegroom. But more than once, since you left us, she has spoken to me in a manner which reminded me of the days that are gone; and once she said, when that hateful cause of all harm, her Tartuffe husband, was not in the room, ‘You must greatly miss poor Helen, my dear Rosalind.’ I involuntarily caught her hand and kissed it, earnestly fixing my eyes on hers, to discover, if possible, what she thought and felt about you. She guessed as much, I fancy, for she turned her head away from me; but she pressed my hand, and said, almost in a whisper, ‘Dear Helen! I trust that the step she has taken will end in her happiness.’ He entered just as she had uttered these words; and the manner in which she started, and withdrew her hand, when the handle of the door turned, told me plainly enough that her love for her holy spouse was not of that perfect kind which casteth out fear. There was, moreover, Helen, a tear in her eye when she named you.”

  “Oh! my dear, dear mother!” cried Helen, her own eyes overflowing with freshly-awakened tenderness. “To hear this, Rosalind, is a joy far greater than I can express: and yet, if this returning love is obtained at the expense of her own happiness, I am a wretch to rejoice at it.”

  “You would be a wretch to purchase it at that price perhaps,” replied Rosalind,— “but not for rejoicing at it, now that, poor soul! she has already paid the penalty, as, in truth, I fear she has, of peace of mind for returning reason.”

  “And what has occurred, Rosalind, to make you think her less happy than heretofore?”

  “It is not very easy to answer that question, Helen. Excepting the death of poor Henrietta, and the awful scene which preceded it, in which she accused her father, in the presence of Mrs. Cartwright, Fanny, and myself, of pretty nearly all the sins and iniquities of which a man can be guilty; — excepting this, I can hardly say that any particular circumstance has occurred which can account for the evident change in your mother’s spirits, which was quite as evident before the death of Henrietta as since.”

  “You have observed no unkindness towards her on his part, Rosalind?” said Helen anxiously.

  “N ... o; certainly I have witnessed nothing that could be called unkindness. You know, Helen, he can smile and smile — but he seems, I think, to watch her. More than once, when I have been going to her, I have met him coming away; and when he has seen me, he has turned back, and re-entered her room with me. I know I have been savagely cross to her ever since her hateful marriage: but since I have seen her looking ill and miserable, my hard heart has softened towards her, and I have sought, instead of avoiding her; and I am quite sure, that from the moment he perceived this change, he has been on the qui vive to prevent our being alone together.”

  “My poor dear mother! I fear, I fear that she may live to deplore this marriage as much as we have ever done. You know, Rosalind, that we never believed Mr. Cartwright to be the holy man he proclaimed himself; but since I have been here, I have heard dreadful stories of him. Lady Harrington’s maid is a prodigious gossip; and though I really give her no encouragement, she never dresses me without telling me some new report respecting him. He has, however, a very strong party at Wrexhill, who appear firmly to believe that he is a perfect saint. But here, you know, they are literally and figuratively of another parish, and seem to make it a matter of duty to their own pastor to believe all the tales they can pick up about him. There is one very shocking story indeed, that is, I think, quite incredible. They say that Mrs. Simpson has been seduced by him, and only went away to be confined.”

  “Incredible. No! — this story is a commentary on one part of Henrietta’s dying accusation. She said he would have a child born to him at Gloucester nearly at the same time as that expected here.”

  “And it is to Gloucester she is gone!” exclaimed Helen. “Gracious heaven, what a wretch!”

  “That this at least is true, I have not the slightest doubt,” rejoined Rosalind: “and what is more, I am certain your mother has heard it. You know that this precious vicar invited Mrs. Simpson’s child to pass the period of her absence at the Park; and you must remember how very fond of the poor little thing your mother seemed to be, actually listening to her parrot performances in the fanatical line as if she had been inspired. It was before you went, I think, that I laughed at her so immoderately for saying that she prayed for currant pudding every night, and that Mrs. Cartwright was so very angry with me about it. Well! observe the change, and account for it as you will. For the last two or three weeks she has hardly spoken to the child, or taken the least notice of her: and if I am not greatly mistaken, it is for about the same period that her health and her spirits have appeared to droop. Depend upon it, Helen, some one has carried this report to her.”

  “It certainly seems probable. Poor, poor mamma! How terrible her feelings must be, Rosalind, if from thinking this man something half-way between heaven and earth, she has really found out that he is an hypocrite and a villain!”

  “Terrible indeed! I would that she had not so well deserved it, Helen. But now comes the question: what has brought her here?”

  “I think I understand that perfectly,” replied Helen. “No sooner are her eyes opened to the real character of this man, than her tenderness for us returns. I have little doubt that she came here to speak of me. Perhaps, Rosalind, she has heard, and you too, of my engagement with Colonel Harrington?”

  “Perhaps we have, Helen,” replied Rosalind, laughing: “and I think it likely that you have partly read the riddle right, and that she may have taken advantage of her watchful husband’s absence to express to Sir Gilbert her approbation, — which, you know, is necessary before you can be married, Helen.”

  “I know it is,” replied Helen, colouring: “and if indeed she has given this consent, she has removed the only obstacle to our immediate marriage.”

  “Then heartily I wish you joy, sweet friend!” said Rosalind, kissing her. “Novice as I am, I found out long ago — did I not, Helen? — that you and Colonel Harrington, or Colonel Harrington and you — I really do not know how to express myself to spare your beautiful blushes, my dear friend, — but I am very, very glad of this — in every way it is so desirable. Poor dear little Fanny, whose hair is gently creeping down into ringlets again, will find a fitter home with you, Helen, than Cartwright Park can be for
her.”

  “How fast your fancy runs, Rosalind! How do we know that my mother’s visit,” (and Helen’s bright blushes all forsook her as she spoke,)— “how do we know that it was not to forbid this marriage that she came, and not to permit it?”

  “Two months ago, had the same thing occurred, I should have thought so: now I cannot think it. However, Helen, this suspense cannot last long. Although Sir Gilbert forbad his servants to mention your mother’s visit, for fear perhaps that it should reach the ears of her husband, you may depend upon it that he will inform you of it himself. But I must go, dearest! — I by no means wish this instance of positive rebellion to the commands of my guardian should be known. You must remember the command I long ago received not to carry on any correspondence with the family at Oakley; and this command has never been rescinded. So adieu, my dearest Helen! — I am quite persuaded now that nothing which you could write would reach me at the Park; but unless I am positively locked up, we may surely contrive to meet without my again performing this desperate feat of disobedience. Could you not wander in the fields sometimes?”

  “I have done so constantly, dear Rosalind; but ever and always in vain.”

  “That has not been because you were forgotten; but I have seldom left poor Henrietta, and never long enough to have reached the fields. But now I certainly can manage this. I should like to bring poor Fanny with me: but this I will not do, for fear of drawing down the anger of Mr. Cartwright upon her — which she would not bear, I think, so well as I. — But ought I not, before I go, to ask for Lady Harrington?”

  “Oh yes! — I am sure she would be so very glad to see you!”

  A message was accordingly sent to my lady’s closet, and the two girls requested to go to her there. Helen was not without hope that she would mention to her Mrs. Cartwright’s visit; but she was disappointed: nor was there the slightest reason to believe from her manner that she was acquainted with it. She appeared exceedingly pleased at seeing Miss Torrington, and told her that whenever she could venture to repeat the visit without endangering the tranquillity of her present irksome home, they should all be delighted to see her.