Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “And have you changed your mind about Mr. Otterborne? Is it really possible that you have changed your mind about him?” cried William Price, colouring to the temples, and with his eyes looking vastly brighter and more intelligent than they had ever looked before since he first opened them upon the light of day.

  “Good gracious, William Price! What a hurry you are in!” replied Emily, blushing in her turn, and also looking exceedingly intelligent, and beyond all question exceedingly beautiful.

  “I am sure I can’t tell how it happened at first,” she continued, beginning to tie knots in her pocket-handkerchief with rather an embarrassed air; “I believe it was because I thought that he seemed to like his mother better than he liked me; and then I believe I only did it to plague him I let that great horrid giant of a foreigner walk with me, and talk with me, like a fool and ignorant young girl as I am. But the truth is that I am not very old as yet, William Price, and I dare say I shall grow wiser when I am, for they say everybody does that.”

  William Price did not venture to take her hand, but he ventured to take hold of the knotted pocket-handkerchief, and looking in her eyes with all the eloquence of truth beaming from his own, he exclaimed, “Only be wise enough to know true love, true devotion, most adorable Emily, when you find it, even in one so little worthy to approach you as I am! — For then perhaps your gentle heart will lead you to forgive my boldness, in consideration of my truth.”

  And her gentle heart did forgive his boldness, and that too, for the excellent good reason he had assigned.

  In a word she really and sincerely felt his truth, and was very decidedly a good deal touched by it.

  But the poor girl began to feel that it would be better for her to lay her aching head upon her pillow now, than to go on talking to anybody, even to such a tried and true friend as William Price. She again turned very pale, and the frightened young man began to feel almost as desirous as she did herself, to get her to the house, and leave her to recover herself.

  “Let me go to my own room, William Price, and then I shall be better able to think over everything,” said she, rising, yet looking as if very little able to walk.

  “Lean on me! lean on me!” he said, gently drawing her arm within his.

  She looked at him for a moment, earnestly, but it was not a coquettish, or even a flirting look.

  “You have been very, very kind to me!” she said, while a quiet tear or two escaped from her eyes; and then they silently moved on together towards the house.

  When they had nearly reached it, she stopped, and looking up in his face, said very confidentially, “Do you think, William Price, that I ought to mention all this to mamma, or not?” blot to press the arm that rested on his as she said this was impossible; but William Price was not a presuming young man, and he did it very gently, and it might seem, as he did not immediately reply, that the movement only indicated his wish to pause a little longer for the purpose of considering the rather important question which had been put to him.

  After a short pause however, he replied, “In my opinion, my dearest Miss Emily, it would be best, at least for the present, to say nothing about it to anyone. Indeed, at this moment I am quite certain that you are not strong enough to talk about it to anybody You are trembling now! Dearest, dearest Emily! Would to heaven I dared to take you in my arms, and carry you to your room!”

  “Indeed you are very kind to me, dear William Price, and I don’t think I shall ever forget it,” said poor Emily, sobbing. “I don’t think there is anybody, no not anybody in the world, that would have been so kind to me in every way as you have been! And I think you are quite right about not telling mamma, or anybody, and it will be such a comfort not to be obliged to talk of it!”

  “Indeed I think so,” he replied; “nor do I imagine that there is the least danger of Cornington’s executing the brutal threat which he uttered as he went away. But even if he should dare to circulate any of his own horrible lies about what has passed, I have the comfort of knowing that I have been longer and better known in the neighbourhood than he has, and that my testimony will be listened to before his.”

  “That’s true! and I thank God for it!” replied poor Emily, fervently, “and that is one reason among others why I may owe more to you than to anybody else in the wide world But go away now, dear William Price, will you, please! We are close now to the garden door, and I shall go in by that. Good-bye! God bless you!”

  And as she spoke she withdrew her arm, and offered to shake hands, as she reiterated her “Good-bye!” He took her hand and retained it in his for a moment, while he said with very considerable agitation, “Let me know the worst at once! When are you to be married to Herbert Otterborne?”

  “Good gracious me! How can I tell f” replied Emily, looking as perfectly frightened at the question as if the idea was quite new to her.

  “The lawyers are still at work? The engagement still continues?” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied, with a deep sigh, “I believe so! But upon my word and honour, William Price, now I have had a little more time to reflect upon it, I do not think we ought to be married, for I do not think we are the least bit suited to each other.”

  “Then promise me that you will take a little more time still to think about it! Only promise me that, and I will go this instant.”

  “Well, then, I do promise it,” she replied.

  “And may I call to know how you are to-morrow?” said he, eagerly.

  “Yes, certainly! I don’t think I am going to deny you that, after all that has happened this morning. You can come up with Louisa, you know.”

  He only stayed one half-instant longer to kiss her hand, and then turned away and, with a rapid step, soon ensconced himself and his gun amidst the thickest shades of the copse.

  CHAPTER XLI.

  THE effect of Jemima Stokes’ visit to Herbert Otterborne has been already related, and she felt, as she well might do, perfectly satisfied by the result of it, as it produced precisely all the consequences she intended; that is to say, her father suspended the threatened arrest, that the again prosperous wooing of the young squire might not be interrupted. But her subsequent interview with her lover had again changed all her projects, for it left her with the persuasion that it was, indeed, absolutely necessary that the ceremony of marriage should pass between her lover and the heiress, if she still hoped that his promises of subsequently eloping with her, and accompanied with a good portion of poor Emily’s money, should ever be fulfilled. And in order the more easily to achieve this, she lost no time in conveying to her father the assurance that her mistress had again changed her mind, and now declared that she had a great deal rather die than marry the young squire of the Manor-house.

  The careful carpenter, however, did not receive this very disagreeable intelligence as true, without subjecting his fair and very clever daughter to a sharp and strict cross-examination. But her evidence was as clear as it was positive, and the consequence was that not only Mr. Stokes, the carpenter, but two other tradesmen, after consulting together, came to the conclusion that they would wait one week more, but no longer, and that if nothing occurred within that time to make them doubt the truth of Minny’s statement, the three writs with which he had long been threatened should all be issued against the baronet at once.

  The reason for this confidential union between parties who might have found it more profitable each to pursue his own object alone, was that upon more than one similar occasion the well-practised creditor had contrived to make his escape by starting for London in one direction, when his own servants believed him to be paying a morning visit in another. This manœuvre was now, however, effectually guarded against, as if he escaped an arrest on the left, he was sure to meet it on the right.

  Meanwhile, Sir Charles was the gayest of the gay, jesting with his creditors, both in town and country, upon this pleasant new way of paying old debts.

  Things were in this state when the privacy of Mrs. Mathews was again invaded
by the very abrupt entry of Mr. Cuthbridge into her den. Their tête-à-tête was again an unbroken one, tor Janet was again at the Manor-house, and Mrs. Mathews was, at the moment of his entrance in very full enjoyment of a new German novel. But though the profound nature of her studies, or rather the profound attention she was bestowing upon them, must have been sufficiently obvious, the priest made no apology for his intrusion, but closing the door of the room rather carefully after he had entered it, he abruptly approached her, and grasping her arm instead of taking her offered hand, he said?

  “Mrs. Mathews! I am going to prove that I have great confidence in you, and I expect you to prove in return that you have great confidence in me.”

  She looked at him with surprise, and seemed for a moment to think that he was jesting, but this mistake did not last long, and pointing to a chair near her, she replied, “Be it so, my good friend, and I do not think that we shall either of us he disappointed.”

  “Do you hear in your remembrance what I said to you the other day on the subject of oral confession?” said he.

  “I think I do,” she replied. “You said, if I mistake not, that it ought to be held sacred.”

  “Not quite that,” he rejoined, “I could not so apply the word sacred. But I told you that the betraying it would be repugnant to my feelings.”

  “Yes. You are right. That was the purport of what you said. You went no further,” said she.

  “Yet now I am come to you for the express purpose of committing this repugnant act, and were my doing so to be known, or in the least degree suspected, my position as a priest, as a man of honour, and a gentleman, would be very sorely changed.”

  “You are very safe, old friend, in thinking that none of this is likely to be the consequence of your committing this offence before me; nevertheless, my dear Mr. Cuthbridge, I would greatly prefer your not doing so,” said Mrs. Mathews.

  “I have no doubt of it, my honourable friend,” replied the priest, “but I very earnestly entreat that you will not refuse to listen to me. Trust for once, both in your own case, and mine, to my power of judging between conflicting duties. My not betraying this confession would, in my judgment, be a greater sin than betraying it; and you may do more good to others by listening to it than you can do to yourself by refusing to do so. Will you in this be guided by me? Do I deserve thus much confidence at your hands?”

  “Yes,” replied Mrs. Mathews, after the meditation of a moment. “I think you do. Speak on, Sir priest!”

  “Alas! this is no jesting matter,” he replied, “for a very fearful sin is about to be committed if we do not interfere to prevent it. That noble fellow, Herbert Otterborne, is about to marry the daughter of Steyton. Is it not so?”

  “Yes, certainly. To the best of my knowledge and belief it is so,” replied Mrs. Mathews.

  “No! not for the world, Mrs. Mathews, must that marriage take place! — And you must prevent it. By some means or other it must and shall be prevented. That idiot girl has already given herself to your precious grandson, Mrs. Mathews; will you permit Herbert Otterborne to marry the mistress of Stephen Cornington?”

  “No! on my life, he shall do no such thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Mathews, vehemently. “Gracious heaven!” she added, “is everything I most love and value to be destroyed by that hateful boy?”

  “I know not how in other ways he may be able to injure you, or how far it may be possible to prevent it,” said Mr. Cuthbridge, “but we may prevent his throwing over his mistress to be the wife of the high-minded, unsuspicious Herbert. That boy has been for years my playfellow, my companion, and my friend. Were he a Papist, his attachment to me would be a very different tie; for the Papist makes his priest the stepping stone to heaven, and whether by birth a prince or a peasant, a priest is always a priest. But the ease was different between Herbert Otterborne and myself. In the judgment of the English Protestant, the paid retainer of an English Papist can rank but little above his menials; but not only has no such feeling ever mixed itself with Herbert’s affection for me, but, your g as he is, he has contrived to give me a sort of esteem and popularity in the neighbourhood that I never should have had without him. And shall I see him give his honourable hand in wedlock to the mistress of this young bastard villain?”

  “Be tranquil, Mr. Cuthbridge. Be satisfied, Herbert Otterborne shall never marry the mistress of Master Stephen Cornington. And now sit down quietly, if you can, and let us settle between us how best it can be prevented.”

  It was with a very blank look, and a not very encouraging shake of the head, that the priest complied with her request, and sat down.

  “All that I am quite certain of at present respecting the task I have assigned you, my good friend, is, that it must be done. — Coûte qui coûte, Mrs. Mathews, it must be achieved, but as to the best way, or any way at all of doing it, I as yet see nothing before me but danger and difficulty.”

  “Is that the way in which you usually encourage your penitents, Sir priest, when you command them to perform some pious task?” said Mrs. Mathews, endeavouring to smile, but feeling in truth most exceedingly anxious and uncomfortable.

  “I presume that the difficulty arises from your doubts as to my having sufficient confidence in myself to undertake the task you set before me; and the danger, as I take it, must lie in the excellent good chance there seems to be that our interference may force a gentleman to stand and be shot at by a blackguard. Is it not so?”

  “No, Mrs. Mathews,” he replied; “I have no doubts whatever, nor ever had since I saw you determined to write Latin verse more correctly than I could do, that you should feel any want of confidence in yourself. Neither do I anticipate the slightest chance that our friend Herbert should have to be shot at by Mr. Mathews’ grandson. It is by no means impossible, I think, that Master Stephen may in some way or other get horsewhipped; but that necessity would not frighten either of ns, would it?”

  As Mr. Cuthbridge said this, the stern expression of his features seemed to relax, and he looked at her, as in days of yore, with something like a quizzing smile.

  But it was now her turn to look grave; and she did so, poor lady, quite involuntarily, but so visibly as rather to disconcert her companion. Why should she look grave, or rather, why should she look almost heart-broken, because he mentioned the possibility of Stephen Cornington being horsewhipped? But not even to her old friend could she confess that by her own wilful act and deed, this detested Stephen Cornington was to inherit every shilling of her property, while her Janet would be left penniless!

  There was something so desperately galling in this terrible remembrance that it would have been overwhelming, had not the tough nature of Mrs. Mathews contrived to create a sort of callus round the thorny thought, which enabled her to bear it without wincing. But at this moment the thorns were stronger than the callus, and she did wince.

  Mr. Cuthbridge looked at her with surprise, and with something of vexation too. He was in truth disappointed, for he did her the great wrong of believing that she felt too nearly connected with the culprit to relish the idea of his being publicly disgraced. But the pang at the heart of poor Mrs. Mathews, though sharp, was short; she instantly perceived the painful effect which her grave reception of his words had caused him, and removed it at once by exclaiming, “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Cuthbridge, do not look as if you thought I was going to weep, because there may be a chance that my precious grandson should be whipped! But heaven help me, good priest, I do feel, now and then, as if I should like to weep because I had got him here unwhipped.”

  “If that be all, I give you absolution,” replied the priest, greatly comforted; “and now then, to business, for I tell you there is no time to be lost. It is only two days ago that poor Herbert was with me, and he came expressly to say that he believed his marriage would take place immediately, and that as he intended making Munich the principal object of his wedding tour, he should be able to examine for me one of the old treasures of the library there, which he knew I wished to co
nsult. We must be quick, Mrs. Mathews. I tell you that no time must be lost.”

  Mrs. Mathews pressed one hand to her eyes, and extended the other towards him, as a signal that he was to be silent while she employed a few moments in meditation. He understood her, and obeyed; and for the space of at least a hundred and twenty seconds they both remained profoundly silent.

  “You will not think my device a very subtle one,” she said, at length; “but my opinion is, that the forbidding of the banns must proceed from Lady Otterborne.”

  Mr. Cuthbridge remained silent for a moment, and then said, with anything but a satisfied air, “I do not understand you.”

  “Who else is there, Mr. Cuthbridge, to whom he is likely to listen? I have no doubt in the world, and you can have none either, that the unfortunate young man’s only reason for forming the detestable alliance is, that he may save his mother from the misery of being turned out of her house in order that her husband’s creditors may take possession of it, or at least of all that it contains. As yet, Herbert has, I well know, succeeded in persuading her that the beauty of the young lady has fascinated him; and believing this, and knowing of no harm in the wretched girl beyond her deficiency in such a degree of intellect, and such a degree of polish, as she might have wished for in her son’s wife, she has very properly, in my opinion, abstained from all opposition to a marriage which would at once relieve him from all the terrible embarrassments with which his unprincipled father has overwhelmed him. But one word from Lady Otterborne, one little word, signifying that Miss Steyton’s indiscreet conduct on the night of the Knightly Abbey pic-nic, and other circumstances into which she did not choose to enter, made her — Lady Otterborne, I mean — feel that she could never receive her as a daughter, one word from her to this effect, Mr. Cuthbridge, would achieve all that we want.”

  “And do you think, Mrs. Mathews, that you have sufficient influence upon her mind to persuade her of the propriety, of the rectitude, of her doing this, without quoting my authority.”