CHAPTER I.

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STANDARD NOVELS.

No. LXXVIII.

"No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures

of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received

by the many than graver productions, however important these latter may

be. APULEIUS is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than

by his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has

outlived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author."

THE VICAR OF WREXHILL.

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.

BY FRANCES TROLLOPE

AUTHOR OF "JONATHAN JEFFERSON WHITLAW," "DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE

AMERICANS," "ONE FAULT," ETC.

Les bons et vrais devots qu'on doit suivre a la trace

Ne sont pas ceux aussi qui font taut de grimace.

He, quoi!... vous ne ferez nulle distinction

Entre l'hypocrisie et la devotion?

Vous les voulez traiter d'un semblable langage,

Et rendre meme honneur au masque qu'au visage?

MOLIERE.

NEW EDITION, REVISED.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY,

NEW BURLINGTON STREET;

BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;

J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1840.

LONDON:

Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE,

New-Street-Square.

[Illustration: "A sort of frozen blandishment smoothed the proud face of

the Vicar as he stood with his lady beside him, to receive the

sycophants."]

THE VICAR OF WREXHILL.

[Illustration: "On the turf before the bench and with their backs

towards the spot where Rosalind and Henrietta stood, knelt the Vicar and

Fanny."]

CHAPTER I.

THE VILLAGE OF WREXHILL.--THE MOWBRAY FAMILY.--A BIRTHDAY.

The beauties of an English village have been so often dwelt upon, so

often described, that I dare not linger long upon the sketch of

Wrexhill, which must of necessity precede my introduction of its vicar.

And yet not even England can show many points of greater beauty than

this oak-sheltered spot can display. Its peculiar style of scenery, half

garden, half forest in aspect, is familiar to all who are acquainted

with the New Forest, although it has features entirely its own. One of

these is an overshot mill, the sparkling fall of which is accurately and

most nobly overarched by a pair of oaks which have long been the glory

of the parish. Another is the grey and mellow beauty of its antique

church, itself unencumbered by ivy, while the wall and old stone gateway

of the churchyard look like a line and knot of sober green, enclosing it

with such a rich and unbroken luxuriance of foliage "never sear," as

seems to show that it is held sacred, and that no hand profane ever

ventured to rob its venerable mass of a leaf or a berry. Close beside

the church, and elevated by a very gentle ascent, stands the pretty

Vicarage, as if placed expressly to keep watch and ward over the safety

and repose of its sacred neighbour. The only breach in the ivy-bound

fence of the churchyard, is the little wicket gate that opens from the

Vicarage garden; but even this is arched over by the same immortal and

unfading green,--a fitting emblem of that eternity, the hope of which

emanates from the shrine it encircles. At this particular spot, indeed,

the growth of the plant is so vigorous, that it is controlled with

difficulty, and has not obeyed the hand which led it over the rustic

arch without dropping a straggling wreath or two, which if a vicar of

the nineteenth century could wear a wig, might leave him in the state

coveted for Absalom by his father. The late Vicar of Wrexhill,

however,--I speak of him who died a few weeks before my story

begins,--would never permit these graceful pendants to be shorn,

declaring that the attitude they enforced on entering the churchyard was

exactly such as befitted a Christian when passing the threshold of the

court of God.

Behind the Vicarage, and stretching down the side of the little hill on

which it stood, so as to form a beautiful background to the church, rose

a grove of lofty forest-trees, that seemed to belong to its garden, but

which in fact was separated from it by the road which led to Mowbray

Park, on the outskirts of which noble domain they were situated. This

same road, having passed behind the church and Vicarage, led to the

village street of Wrexhill, and thence, towards various other parishes,

over a common, studded with oaks and holly-bushes, on one side of which,

with shelving grassy banks that gave to the scene the appearance of

noble pleasure-grounds, was a sheet of water large enough to be

dignified by the appellation of Wrexhill Lake. Into this, the little

stream that turned the mill emptied itself, after meandering very

prettily through Mowbray Park, where, by the help of a little artifice,

it became wide enough at one spot to deserve a boat and boat-house, and

at another to give occasion for the erection of one of the most graceful

park-bridges in the county of Hampshire.

On one side of the common stands what might be called an alehouse, did

not the exquisite neatness of every feature belonging to the little

establishment render this vulgar appellation inappropriate. It was in

truth just such a place as a town-worn and fastidious invalid might have

fixed his eyes upon and said, "How I should like to lodge in that house

for a week or two!" Roses and honeysuckles battled together for space to

display themselves over the porch, and above the windows. The little

enclosure on each side the post whence swung the "Mowbray Arms"

presented to the little bay windows of the mansion such a collection of

odorous plants, without a single weed to rob them of their strength,

that no lady in the land, let her flower-garden be what it may, but

would allow that Sally Freeman, the daughter, bar-maid, waiter, gardener

at the "Mowbray Arms," understood how to manage common flowers as well

as any Scotchman in her own scientific establishment.

Industry, neatness, and their fitting accompaniment and reward, comfort,

were legible throughout the small domain. John Freeman brewed his own

beer, double and single; Dorothy, his loving wife, baked her own bread,

cured her own bacon, churned her own butter, and poached her own eggs,

or roasted her own chicken, when they were called for by any wandering

lover of woodland scenery who was lucky enough to turn his steps towards

Wrexhill. The other labours of the household were performed by Sally,

except indeed the watering of horses, and the like, for which services a

stout, decent peasant-boy received a shilling a week, and three good

meals a day: and happy was the cottager whose son got the appointment,

for both in morals and manners the horse-boy at the Mowbray Arms might

have set an example to his betters.

There are many other pretty spots and many more good people at Wrexhill;

but they must show themselves by degrees, as it is high time the

business of my story should begin.

The 2nd of May 1833 was a gay day at Wrexhill, for it was that on which

Charles Mowbray came of age, and the fete given on the occasion was

intended to include every human being in the parish, besides about a

hundred more, neighbours and friends, who came from a greater distance

to witness and share in the festivities.

A merrier, or in truth a happier set of human beings, than those

assembled round the breakfast-table at Mowbray Park on the morning of

that day, could hardly be found anywhere. This important epoch in the

young heir's life had been long anticipated with gay impatience, and

seemed likely to be enjoyed with a fulness of contentment that should

laugh to scorn the croaking prophecy which speaks of hopes fulfilled as

of something wherein doubtful good is ever blended with certain

disappointment. The Mowbray family had hoped to wake upon a joyous

morning, and they did so: no feeling of anxiety, no touch of disease, no

shadow of unkindness to any being who shared with them the breath of

life, came to blight the light-hearted glee which pervaded the whole

circle.

Charles Mowbray senior had hardly passed the prime of life, though a

constitutional tendency to something like corpulency made him look older

than he really was. Throughout his fifty summers he had scarcely known

an ailment or a grief, and his spirit was as fresh within him as that of

the noble-looking young man on whom his eyes rested with equal pride and

love.

Mrs. Mowbray, just seven years his junior, looked as little scathed by

time as himself; her slight and graceful figure indeed gave her almost

the appearance of youth; and though her delicate face had lost its

bloom, there was enough of beauty left to render her still a very lovely

woman.

Charles Mowbray junior, the hero of the day, was, in vulgar but

expressive phrase, as fine a young fellow as ever the sun shone upon.

His mind, too, was in excellent accordance with the frame it

inhabited,--powerful, elastic, unwearying, and almost majestic in its

unbroken vigour and still-increasing power.

"Aux coeurs heureux les vertus sont faciles," says the proverb; and as

Charles Mowbray was certainly as happy as it was well possible for a man

to be, he must not be overpraised for the fine qualities that warmed his

heart and brightened his eye. Nevertheless, it is only justice to

declare, that few human beings ever passed through twenty-one years of

life with less of evil and more of good feeling than Charles Mowbray.

Helen, his eldest sister, was a fair creature of nineteen, whose history

had hitherto been, and was probably ever doomed to be, dependant upon

her affections. As yet, these had been wholly made up of warm and

well-requited attachment to her own family; but few people capable of

loving heartily are without the capacity of suffering heartily also, if

occasion calls for it, and this strength of feeling rarely leaves its

possessor long in the enjoyment of such pure and unmixed felicity as

that which shone in Helen's hazel eye as she threw her arms around her

brother's neck, and wished him a thousand and a thousand times joy!

Fanny Mowbray, the youngest of the family, wanted three months of

sixteen. Poets have often likened young creatures of this age to an

opening rose-bud, and it was doubtless just such a being as Fanny

Mowbray that first suggested the simile. Any thing more bright, more

delicate, more attractive in present loveliness, or more full of promise

for loveliness more perfect still, was never seen.

In addition to this surprising beauty of form and feature, she possessed

many of those qualities of mind which are attributed to genius.

Meditative and imaginative in no common degree, with thoughts

occasionally both soaring and profound, she passed many hours of her

existence in a manner but little understood by her family--sometimes

devouring with unwearying ardour the miscellaneous contents of the large

library, and sometimes indulging in the new delight of pouring forth her

own wild, rambling thoughts in prose or rhyme. Unfortunately, the

excellent governess who had attended the two girls from the time that

Helen attained her eighth year died when Fanny was scarcely fourteen;

and the attachment of the whole family being manifested by a general

declaration that it would be impossible to permit any one to supply her

place, the consequence was, that the cadette of the family had a mind

less well and steadily regulated than it might have been, had her good

governess been spared to her a few years longer.

Though so many persons were expected before night to share the

hospitalities of Mowbray Park, that, notwithstanding the ample size of

its mansion, both the lady and her housekeeper were obliged to exert

considerable skill in arranging their accommodation, there was but one

person besides the family present at the happy breakfast-table; and she

was not a guest, but an inmate.

Rosalind Torrington was a young Irish girl from the province of Ulster,

who had passed the first seventeen years of her life in great

retirement, in a village not far distant from the coast, with no other

society than the immediate neighbourhood afforded. Since that time her

destiny had undergone a great change. She was an only child, and lost

both father and mother in one of those pestilential fevers which so

frequently ravage the populous districts of Ireland. Her father was one

of that frightfully-wronged and much-enduring race of Protestant

clergy, who, during the last few years, have suffered a degree of

oppression and persecution unequalled for its barefaced injustice by any

thing that the most atrocious page of history can record.

Her mother, of high English descent, had been banished from all

intercourse with her patrician family, because she refused to use her

influence with her exemplary husband to induce him to abandon his

profitless and often perilous preferment in Ireland, where he felt he

had the power as well the will to do good, in order to place himself in

dependence upon his wife's brother, a bachelor viscount who had invited

the impoverished family to his house, and promised some time or other to

do something for him in his profession--if he could. This invitation was

politely but most positively refused, and for the last three years no

intercourse of any kind had taken place between them. At the end of that

time, Mr. Torrington and his exemplary wife, while sedulously

administering to the sick souls of their poor parishioners, caught the

fever that raged among them, and perished. Mrs. Torrington survived her

husband three days; and during that time her thoughts were painfully

occupied by the future prospects of her highly-connected but

slenderly-portioned girl.

All she could do for her, she did. She wrote to her haughty brother in

such a manner as she thought, from her deathbed, must produce some

effect: but lest it should not, she addressed another letter to Mrs.

Mowbray, the favourite friend of her youth, entreating her protection

for her orphan child.

This letter enclosed a will fully executed, by which she left to her

daughter whatever property she might die possessed of, (amounting at the

utmost, as she supposed, to about five thousand pounds,) and

constituting Mrs. Mowbray sole guardian of her person and property.

During the interval which had elapsed since Mrs. Torrington's

estrangement from her noble brother, his lordship had contrived to

quarrel also with his nephew and heir, and in the height of his

resentment against him made a will, leaving the whole of his unentailed

property, amounting to above eighty thousand pounds, to his sister. By a

singular coincidence, Lord Trenet died two days before Mrs. Torrington;

so that her will was made exactly one day after she had unconsciously

become the possessor of this noble fortune. Had this most unexpected

event been made known to her, however, it would probably have made no

other alteration in her will than the addition of the name of some male

friend, who might have taken care of the property during the minority of

her child: and even this would only have been done for the purpose of

saving her friend trouble; for such was her opinion of Mrs. Mowbray,

that no circumstances attending her daughter's fortune could have

induced her to place the precious deposit of her person in other hands.

The poor girl herself, while these momentous events were passing, was

stationed at the house of an acquaintance at a few miles' distance,

whither she had been sent at the first appearance of infection; and thus

in the short space of ten days, from the cherished, happy darling of

parents far from rich, she became an heiress and an orphan.

Rosalind Torrington was a warm-hearted, affectionate girl, who had

fondly loved her parents, and she mourned for them with all her soul.

But the scene around her was so rapidly and so totally changed, and so

much that was delightful mixed with the novelty, that it is not

wonderful if at her age her grief wore away, and left her, sooner than

she could have believed the change possible, the gay and happy inmate of

Mowbray Park.

About four months had elapsed since her arrival, and she was already

greatly beloved by the whole family. In age she was about half-way

between the two sisters; and as she did not greatly resemble either of

them in temper or acquirements, she was at this time equally the friend

of both.

In most branches of female erudition Miss Torrington was decidedly

inferior to the Miss Mowbrays: but nature had given her a voice and a

taste for music which led her to excel in it; and so much spirit and

vivacity supplied on other points the want of regular study, that by the

help of her very pretty person, her good birth, and her large fortune,

nobody but Charles Mowbray ever discovered deficiency or inferiority of

any kind in Rosalind Torrington: but he had declared vehemently, the

moment she arrived, that she was not one quarter so pretty as his sister

Fanny, nor one thousandth part so angelic in all ways as his sister

Helen.

Such was the party who, all smiles and felicitations, first crowded

clamorously round the hero of the fete which now occupied the thoughts

of all, and then seated themselves at the breakfast-table, more intent

upon talking of its coming glories than on doing justice to the good

things before them.

"Oh, you lucky twenty-one!" exclaimed Miss Torrington, addressing young

Mowbray. "Did any one ever see such sunshine!... And just think what it

would have been if all the tents of the people had been drenched with

rain! The inward groans for best bonnets would have checked the

gratulations in their throats, and we should have had sighs perchance

for cheers."

"I do not believe any single soul would have cared for rain, or thought

for one moment of the weather, let it have been what it would,

Rosalind," observed Helen. "Charles," she continued, "is so adored and

doted upon by all the people round, both rich and poor, that I am

persuaded, while they were drinking his health, there would not have

been a thought bestowed on the weather."

"Oh!... To be sure, dear Helen.... I quite forgot that. Of course, a

glance at the Mowbray would be worth all the Mackintosh cloaks in the

world, for keeping a dry skin in a storm;--but then, you know, the hero

himself might have caught cold when he went out to shine upon them--and

the avoiding this is surely a blessing for which we all ought to be

thankful: not but what I would have held an umbrella over him with the

greatest pleasure, of course ... but, altogether, I think it is quite as

well as it is."

"You won't quiz my Helen out of her love for me, Miss Rosalind

Torrington," replied Charles, laughing; "so do not hope it."

"Miss Rosalind Torrington!" ... repeated the young lady indignantly.

Then rising and approaching Mrs. Mowbray, she said very solemnly, "Is

that my style and title, madam? Is there any other Miss Torrington in

all the world?... Is there any necessity, because he is one-and-twenty,

that he should call me Miss Rosalind?... And is it not your duty, oh! my

guardianess! to support me in all my rights and privileges? And won't

you please to scold him if he calls me Miss Rosalind again?"

"Beyond all question you are Miss Torrington, my dear," replied Mrs.

Mowbray; "and were not Charles unfortunately of age, and therefore

legally beyond all control, I would certainly command him never to say

Rosalind again."

"That is not exactly what I said. Most Respected!" replied the young

lady. "He may call me Rosalind if he will; but if I am Miss any thing, I

am Miss Torrington."

"You certainly are a lucky fellow, Charles," said his Father, "and

Rosalind is quite right in praising the sunshine. Helen with her coaxing

ways may say what she will, but our fete would have been spoilt without

it."

"Indeed I think so, sir.... Pray do not believe me ungrateful. Besides,

I like to see everything accord--and your bright beaming faces would

have been completely out of keeping with a dark frowning sky."

"Yon are quite right.... But come, make haste with your breakfast ...

let us leave the ladies to give an inquiring glance to the decorations

of the ball-room, and let you and I walk down to the walnut-trees, and

see how they are getting on with the tents and the tables, and all the

rest of it."

"I shall be ready in a minute, sir; but I have been scampering round the

whole park already this morning, and I am as hungry as a hound. Give me

one more egg, Helen, and then...."

"It is really a comfort to see what a fine appetite he has!--is it not,

Helen?" said Rosalind, surrounding his plate with rolls of all sorts and

sizes.

"I will call you '_Wild Irish Girl_' in the very midst of the ball this

evening if you do not behave better," said young Mowbray.

"And if you do, I will...."

"Come along, Charles," said his father; "her threats may put you out of

heart for the whole day."

"And might not we too take a walk before any of the people arrive?" said

Fanny. "I have heard the cuckoo this morning for the first time. He was

certainly thanking God for the sunshine; and I really think we ought to

go out, and then we shall do so too."

"A most delightful proposal!" cried Rosalind; "and if the birds should

happen to introduce a jig movement, we can practise our dancing steps as

we go along."

"Wait half an hour for me," said Charles, rising to accompany his

father, "and I will join your party. Let us go to the Pebble-Ford,

Rosalind; and you shall all three drink my health out of that dear pool

beside it, that Ros.... Miss Torrington--admired so much the other day."

"No, no, we can't wait a moment, Char.... Mr. Mowbray--" said Rosalind.

"Come, dear girls, let us be gone instantly."

"Not wait for him on his birthday!" cried Helen. "But you are not in

earnest, Rosalind?"

"How you do labour and toil to spoil that man, Helen!" said Miss

Torrington, raising her hands and eyes as he left the room. "It is a

great blessing for him that I have come amongst you! If any thing can

save him from utter destruction, it is I shall do it."

Charles however was waited for, and that for at least three times the

period he had named; but he came at last, and the walk was taken, and

the birds sang, and the brook sparkled, and the health was drunk

cordially, even by Rosalind; and the gay party returned in time to see

the first carriage approach, bearing guests invited to be present at the

tenants' dinner in the Park. Their morning toilet was hastily

readjusted, as another and another equipage rolled onwards towards the

house; and then the business of the day began. Lords and ladies, knights

and squires, yeomen and peasants, were seen riding, driving, running,

and walking through the spacious park in all directions. Then followed

the rustic fete and the joyous carouse, in which the name of Charles

Mowbray made the welkin ring; and then, the company having retreated to

the house, came the hurried steps of a dozen lady's-maids hastening to

their various scenes of action, and valets converting closets of all

sorts and sizes into dressing-rooms for unnumbered gentlemen; and then

the banquet, and then the coffee and the short repose--and then the

crowded ball.

All this came and went in order, and without the intervention of a

single circumstance that might mar the enjoyment of a day long set apart

for happiness, and which began and ended more exactly according to the

wishes and intentions of those who arranged its festivities than often

falls out at galas planned by mortals.

At five o'clock on the following morning the joyous din at length sank

into silence, and as many as hospitable ingenuity could find room for

lay down at Mowbray Park to enjoy again in dreams the untarnished gaiety

of that happy day.

CHAPTER II.

THE MORNING AFTER THE BIRTHDAY.

Even the stable-boys deemed themselves privileged to sleep later than

usual on the day after; and the ploughboy, as he went afield, missed the

merry smile of the park dairy-maid, who, like her superiors, seemed to

think on such an occasion time was made for very vulgar souls indeed,

and that none who had joined in so illustrious a gala, could be expected

to recover the full possession of their waking senses for some hours

after the usual time.

By slow degrees, however, the different members of the establishment

began to stretch themselves and give sign of reviving animation. The

housemaids yawningly opened the window-shutters; the footmen crept after

them to aid in removing from one room at least the traces of the

jubilee, which, like the relics of a lamp that has burnt out, showed but

the more unsightly from its past splendour; and at length, to a

superficial eye, the breakfast-room looked like the breakfast-room of

former years; though a more discriminating glance might have detected

girandoles where no such things had ever glittered before, card-tables

in the place of work-tables, and flowers, still blooming in situations

as little usual to them as a bed of strawberries would have been the day

before.

But it was long after these hireling efforts of forced labour had

prepared the table for the morning meal, that any one of the favoured

sleepers destined to partake of it left his or her downy pillow.... In

short ... it was past mid-day before the family and their guests began

to assemble; and even then many stragglers were still waited for before

they appeared, and Mrs. Mowbray and Helen began at length to talk of

breaking up the long session, and of giving orders to the butler to take

care of all those who should come after.

"It is not very surprising that the Davenports, who never ceased

dancing till long after the sun came to look at them," said Helen,--"it

is not all wonderful that they should sleep late, and I believe Mr.

Vivian makes it a principle to be the last on all occasions. But I am

quite astonished that papa does not appear: was he asleep, mamma, when

you came down this morning?"

"No, Helen, not quite asleep, for he spoke to me. But I think he was

very sleepy, for I hardly understood what he said; and as he appeared

extremely tired when he went to bed, I told Curtis to darken the room

again, and leave him quiet."

Another half-hour brought forth the Davenports and Mr. Vivian; but still

Mr. Mowbray did not appear, and Helen, though hitherto she had been

quite satisfied by her mother's account of his prolonged slumbers, again

began to feel uneasy about him.

"Do you not think, mamma," said she, "that I might venture to go up to

him?"

"I see not the least objection to it, Helen; especially as we know, that

if it were you who happened to wake him out of the soundest sleep he

ever enjoyed, the pleasure of seeing you near him would quite atone for

it."

"Very well mamma,--then I shall certainly let him sleep no longer now;"

and, so saying, Helen left the room.

"Is not Helen Mowbray a charming creature!" said a gentleman who was

seated next Miss Torrington, and who, being neither young, handsome,

rich, nor noble, felt that he could wound no feelings by expressing his

admiration of one young lady to another.

"I will tell you what she is," answered Rosalind warmly: "she is just as

much better than every body else in the world, as her sister, there, is

more beautiful."

"And you are...." said the middle-aged gentleman, fixing a pair of very

intelligent eyes on her face,--"you are...."

But notwithstanding the look of curiosity with which Miss Torrington

listened, the speaker suddenly stopped, for a bell was rung with that

sort of sudden and continued vehemence which denotes haste and agitation

in the hand that gives it movement.

"That is my father's bell!" said Charles in an accent of alarm; and

starting up, he was out of the room in an instant.

Mrs. Mowbray immediately followed him, and for several minutes a sort of

heavy silence seemed to have fallen on every individual present--not a

word being uttered by any one, and the eyes of all fixing themselves on

the face of Fanny, who kept her place as if spell-bound, but with a

countenance that expressed a feeling approaching to terror.

"This is not to be borne!" exclaimed Rosalind abruptly. "Excuse us for a

moment," she added, addressing those who still remained in the

breakfast-room.--"Come with me, Fanny, and let us know the worst at

once."

The two girls left the room together; and in a very few minutes

afterwards a servant entered, the violent agitation of whose manner

announced the news he brought before he spoke it.

"My master ... my poor master is dead!" were the words he uttered; and

their effect upon a party assembled for an occasion of so much

festivity, and who had so lately parted with their kind and happy host

in perfect health, may be easily imagined.

One single word in reply to the eager chorus of inquiry told the manner

of his death--

"Apoplexy!"

The scene which followed was what such an event must necessarily

produce. No single creature present, except one pretty portionless young

lady who thought it very likely that Mr. Charles might now fall in love

with her, could by possibility be benefited by the death of the amiable

man who had just breathed his last, and it is therefore probable that

the universal expression of regret was sincere in quality, though its

quantity might have been somewhat preternaturally increased by the

circumstances in which the parties were relatively placed when the awful

event was made known. Several tears were shed, and some glasses of cold

water called for, while the carriages were getting ready; the gentlemen

all looked grave, and many of the ladies pale; but in less than half an

hour they had all left the house, not one of them, as it happened, being

on terms of sufficient intimacy with the family to justify their

offering to remain at such a moment.

It is easy enough to dismiss from the scene persons whose feelings were

so slightly interested in it; but far different would be the task were I

to attempt painting the heartfelt anguish of those who remained. Mr.

Mowbray had been so deeply yet so tranquilly loved by every member of

his family--his intercourse with them had been so uniformly that of

constant endearment, unchequered by any mixture of rough temper or

unreasonable caprice, that their love for him was so natural and

inevitable, that they had never reasoned upon it, or were fully aware of

its intensity, till the dreadful moment in which they learned that they

had lost him for ever.

The feelings of Mrs. Mowbray for many hours amounted to agony; for till

a medical gentleman who examined the body at length succeeded in

convincing her that she was mistaken, she felt persuaded that her

beloved husband owed his death to her neglect, and that if, when she

mistook his unintelligible speech for sleepiness, she had discovered his

condition, and caused him to be bled, his precious life might have been

saved. It was evident, however, from many circumstances, that the

seizure was of a nature not to be baffled or parried by art; and the

relief this conviction at length afforded the widow was so great, that

her having first formed a contrary opinion was perhaps a blessing to

her.

The grief of Charles was that of a young, ardent, and most affectionate

spirit; but his mother and his sisters now seemed to hang upon him

wholly, and the Being who alone can read all hearts only knew how deep

was the sorrow he felt. The young Fanny, stealing away to her chamber,

threw herself, in an agony of tears, upon her bed, and, forgotten in the

general dismay that had fallen upon all, wept herself into a sleep that

lasted till she awakened on the following morning to a renewed sense of

sorrow which came over her like the dreadful memory of some frightful

dream.

But of all those whom poor Mowbray had left to deplore his loss, it was

Helen--his darling Helen--who unquestionably felt it the most

profoundly. His love for her had all that is most touching in

partiality, without one atom of the injustice which renders such a

feeling criminal; and its effect upon her loving and enthusiastic temper

was stronger than any words can describe.

Miss Torrington was perhaps beyond any other member of the family aware

of this, and the tenderest pity for the silent, suffering Helen took

possession of her. She was in truth a looker-on upon the melancholy

scene, and as such, was more qualified to judge how sorrow worked in

each of them than any other could be. Her residence in the family,

though sufficient to impress her with the kindest feelings towards its

chief, and the deepest impression of his worth, had hardly been long

enough to awaken thoroughly her affections towards him, and she wept

more in pity for those around her than from any personal feeling of

grief for the loss she had herself sustained. To soothe poor Helen, to

lead her thoughts even for a moment from the subject that engrossed

them, and to keep her as much as possible from gazing in vain tenderness

and hopeless agony upon the body of her father, became the sole

occupation of Rosalind during the dreadful interval between the real

loss of the beloved being to whom the soul of his child still fondly

clung, and the apparently more final separation still which took place

when all that was left of him was borne from the house.

Helen made little apparent return to all these tender cares, but she was

fully conscious of them. She felt that Rosalind read her heart, and knew

how to pity her; and the conviction turned liking into love, of that

enduring kind which such hearts as Helen's alone know how to give.

CHAPTER III.

THE VICAR OF WREXHILL.

On the day preceding that appointed for the funeral, Mrs. Mowbray

received the following letter:--

"MADAM,

"I trust that, as the minister of your parish, my venturing to

break in upon your grief will not be considered as an

intrusion. In the festivities which have ended so awfully, your

hospitality invited me and my children to bear a part; and

although I declined the invitation, I am most anxious to prove

to you, madam, and to your family, that no deficiency of

friendly feeling induced me to do so. But 'it is better to go

to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting,' and I

now therefore ask your permission to wait on you, with the most

earnest hope that the sacred office I hold may enable you to

receive me rather with a feeling of comfort than of pain. Be

assured, madam, that short as the period of my ministry in the

Parish of Wrexhill has been, it is with deep sympathy in the

grief that afflicts you that I subscribe myself, madam,

"Your humble servant and friend,

"WILLIAM JACOB CARTWRIGHT.

"Wrexhill Vicarage, May 9th, 1833."

Little calculated as this letter may seem to excite violent emotion, it

threw poor Mrs. Mowbray into an agony of renewed grief. The idea of

seeing for the first time since her loss a person who, however

well-meaning in his wish to visit her, must be classed as a stranger,

was inexpressibly painful; and, unused to encounter difficulty or

inconvenience of any kind, she shrank from receiving Mr. Cartwright with

a degree of weakness which made her son, who had seldom left her side,

tremble to think how little she was calculated to endure with firmness

the desolation that had fallen upon her.

"Oh! no! no! no!" she exclaimed vehemently, "I cannot see him--I can see

no one!--keep him from me, Charles,--keep every one from me, if you

would not see me sink to the earth before your eyes!"

"My poor mother!..." said Charles, tenderly taking her hand, "do not let

me see you tremble thus--you will make me tremble too! and we have need

of strength--we have all great need of strength in this time of trial."

"But you will not let this clergyman come to me, Charles!... Oh no! you

cannot be so cruel!"

"The very weakness which makes you shrink from this, my dearest mother,

is the strongest proof that such a visit should be sought, and not

avoided. Where, mother, are we any of us to look for the strength we

want, except from Him whose minister now seeks to comfort us?"

"He cannot comfort me!... Can you, can Helen, can my pretty Fanny

comfort me?... Then how should he?... Charles, Charles, there is no

comfort in seeing this strange man; you cannot think there is: then why

do you still stand with his note in your hand as if doubtful how you

ought to answer it?"

"No, mother, I am not doubtful: my very soul seems to sink within me,

when I think that he whose precepts...."

Tears--copious woman-like tears choked the utterance of the athletic

youth, who looked as if he could fight and conquer in any strife to

which fortune or misfortune could lead him. But the softness that now

mastered him came not of weakness, but of strength--strength of every

feeling that might do honour to a man. For a few moments he gave way to

this burst of passionate sorrow, and the mother and son wept together.

"My own dear Charles!" said Mrs. Mowbray, taking his hand and pressing

it to her heart, "how could I think for a moment that you would urge me

to do what was so very painful!"

"It can hardly be so painful for you to do as for me to urge it, dearest

mother; and yet I must do so ... because I think it right. There is no

other person in the world, I think, of what rank or station soever, for

whose admittance I would plead so earnestly, unless it were one who,

like this gentleman, offered to visit you as the minister of God."

Mrs. Mowbray buried her face in her handkerchief, and turned from him

with a movement of impatience. At this moment, Helen, and her constant

attendant Rosalind, entered the room. Mr. Cartwright's note was still in

Charles's hand, and he gave it to his sister, saying, "Helen, I think my

mother ought not to refuse this visit; but she is very averse to it. I

would not pain her for the world; but this is not a moment to refuse any

one who offers to visit us as the minister of Heaven."

Helen read the note, and her pale cheeks were washed anew with tears as

she did so.

"It is meant kindly," she said as she laid it upon the table; "but it is

very soon for my poor mother to meet a stranger."

Rosalind's eyes rested on the folded note, and some feeling suggested by

the consciousness that she too was almost a stranger brought a flush to

her cheek, and led her to step back towards a distant sofa. Whether

Charles observed or understood the movement, she knew not; but he

followed and placed the letter in her hand.

The words of Helen seemed to comfort her mother, for she again looked

up, and addressing Charles, almost reproachfully, said,

"Your sister Helen thinks as I do, Charles: it would almost be an

outrage against decency to receive a stranger on such a day as this."

"Had the request to wait upon you come from our late clergyman, mother,

would you have refused it?"

"Certainly not: but he was a friend of long standing, not a stranger,

Charles."

"But had he not been a clergyman, mother, you would hardly have wished

him to choose such a time to make a visit here; and our not having yet

become familiar with Mr. Cartwright in the common intercourse of

society, seems to me no sufficient reason for refusing to see him in the

sacred character in which he has offered to come...."

Some powerful emotion checked his utterance; but in a moment he added,

"I would wish once more to pray beside my father before he goes hence to

be no more seen by us on earth."

"Mother!..." cried Helen, dropping on her knees and throwing her arms

round her.

The appeal was answered by an embrace in which their tears mingled, and

poor Mrs. Mowbray, whose aching heart seemed to dread every new emotion,

said, while something like a shudder ran through her frame, "Do with me

as you will, my children.... I cannot bear much more.... But perhaps it

would be better for me that I should sink to rest beside him!"

"My dearest friend!" exclaimed Rosalind, coming softly towards her and

impressing a kiss upon her forehead, "you have not lost all for which

you might wish to live."

"Oh, true ... most true!... Where is my poor Fanny, Rosalind? You will

answer this letter for me, Charles?... I will be ready to see Mr.

Cartwright whenever he chooses to come.... It will be a dreadful

trial--but I am willing to endure it."

The young man left the room, and such an answer was returned to the

clergyman's note as brought him to the door within an hour after it was

despatched.

Rosalind, in obedience to Mrs. Mowbray's hint, had sought Fanny in her

chamber, where she seemed to find a sad consolation in versifying all

the tender recollections of her lost father that her memory could

supply; but she instantly obeyed the summons, and when Mr. Cartwright

arrived, the whole family were assembled in the drawing-room to receive

him.

The person, voice, and address of this gentleman were singularly well

calculated to touch and soothe hearts suffering from affliction; and

after the first painful moment in which they raised their eyes to meet

those of the first stranger who had been admitted to look upon their

sorrow, there was nothing in the interview to justify the terror with

which the thought of it had inspired the poor widow.

Either from tact or feeling, Mr. Cartwright seemed to avoid speaking to

Mrs. Mowbray, and it was to her son that he addressed such words as the

occasion called for. Meanwhile, from time to time his eyes rested with

gentle pity on the three beautiful girls, whose tears flowed silently as

they listened to him.

But though the manner of Mr. Cartwright was full of the tenderest

kindness, it was apparently embarrassed. He evidently feared to touch or

to dwell upon the agonising subject which occupied all their thoughts,

and it was Charles who had the courage to turn this melancholy meeting

to the only purpose for which it could be desirable, by saying--though

with a faltering voice,--

"Mr. Cartwright ... may we ask you to pray with us beside the coffin

that contains the body of my father?"

The clergyman started, and his countenance expressed a mixture of

satisfaction and surprise, his manner instantly became more solemn--more

devout, and he replied eagerly, rising from his chair as he spoke, as if

willing to hasten to the scene to which he was called,

"Most gladly--most joyfully, my dear sir, will I kneel with you and your

amiable family to implore the Divine grace. I did not know.... I had

hardly dared to hope.... Indeed I feared from the festivities ... from

the style in which...."

"I trust, sir," interrupted young Mowbray almost in a whisper, "that you

do not suppose us unused to prayer, because we have rejoiced in the

blessings which Heaven has bestowed?"

"I thank my God that it is not so," replied the clergyman, pressing the

young man's hand affectionately; "and I will praise His holy name for

every symptom I find that the world, my dear young friend, has not taken

too strong a hold upon your heart. May we through His grace walk

righteously together in the path in which it hath pleased Him to place

us side by side!"

Charles Mowbray's heart was ever open to every expression of kindness;

and now, softened by sorrow, and warmed by a feeling of the purest

piety, he returned the friendly pressure with interest, and then, taking

his poor mother's arm within his own, led the way to the chamber of

death.

The mourning family knelt beside the coffin, and listened with

suppressed sobs to an extempore prayer, by no means ill suited to the

occasion, though it was not, as poor Charles had expected, chosen from

among the many solemn and beautiful orisons which the Church has

furnished or which the Scriptures might supply for such an hour of need.

But he was not disposed at this moment to cavil at any words calculated

to raise his thoughts and those of the beings he most fondly loved to

that Power which had hitherto blessed their existence, and from whence

alone they could hope for support under the affliction with which He had

now visited them. Fervently and earnestly he prayed for them and for

himself; and when he rose from his knees and again pressed his suffering

mother to his heart, it was with a feeling of renovated hope and

confidence in the future protection of Heaven which nothing but prayer

uttered with genuine piety can give.

Mr. Cartwright did not take his leave till he had spoken an individual

blessing to each of them, which was accompanied by a pressure of the

hand that seemed to express more sympathy in what each felt than any

words could have done.

Young Mowbray then retired with him to arrange everything respecting the

ceremony which was to take place on the morrow. His mother expressed a

wish to lie down for an hour; and the three girls, after attending her

to her room, carefully shutting out the light in the hope that she might

sleep, and each one bidding her do so, with a fond caress, retreated to

the dressing-room of Helen, when their conversation naturally turned on

Mr. Cartwright.

This gentleman had taken possession of the little living of Wrexhill

only one month before the death of his most distinguished parishioner.

During the week which followed his first performance of duty in the

church, the family at the Park made a visit at the Vicarage: for though

Mr. Cartwright was a widower, he had a daughter nearly twenty years of

age, who, as mistress of her father's house, was of course visited by

the ladies. When this visit was returned, the Mowbray family were all

absent; and during the short interval which followed before the day on

which young Mowbray came of age, the preparations for the fete by which

this event was to be celebrated had prevented Mr. Cartwright and his

family from receiving any other invitation than that which requested

their attendance at it. This having been declined, he was as nearly as

possible a personal stranger to the whole Mowbray family.

"What exquisite benevolence his countenance expresses!" exclaimed Fanny:

"I never saw eyes so full of gentleness."

"His eyes are remarkably handsome," replied Rosalind; "but I am not

quite sure that I like him."

"The moments we passed with him were moments of agony," said Helen: "it

would hardly be fair to pronounce any judgment upon him from such an

interview."

"Perhaps you are right, dear Helen, and I will endeavour to suspend

mine," replied Rosalind. "But at least I may venture to remark that he

is a very young-looking father for the full-grown son and daughter we

have seen."

"I do not think he can be their father," observed Fanny. "Perhaps he is

only the husband of their mother?... Don't you think that is most

likely, Helen?"

"I don't know, dear," answered Helen: "I believe I hardly saw him."

"I really doubt if you did, my poor Helen," said Rosalind; "but if he

speak sooth, he could not say the same of us. If the Reverend gentleman

be given to sketching of portraits, he might, I think, produce a good

likeness of either of us, for, like Hamlet when he looked at Ophelia,

'he fell to such perusal of our faces, as he would draw them'.... I do

not think I shall like this Mr. Cartwright.... I do not mean now, Helen;

I speak only of what I think I shall do when I know more of him."

"Do you call that suspending your judgment, Rosalind?" said Helen with a

feeble smile.

"Well, then, do not try to make a hypocrite of me, dearest: it will

never answer: Wisdom is of too slow a growth for my little unprofitable

hotbed of an intellect, which forces every thought to run up to full

growth, lanky and valueless, as soon as it is sown. But by-and-by you

shall transplant some of my notions, Helen, into the fine natural soil

of your brain; and then, if they flourish, we shall see what they are

really worth."

For all reply, the pale Helen shook her head, as one who knows not well

what has been said to him; and the conversation languished and dropped,

as every other had done since the blow had fallen which had levelled her

young and joyous spirit to the dust.

CHAPTER IV.

THE WILL.

The day which saw the honoured remains of Mr. Mowbray committed to the

tomb was one of dreadful suffering to his family, and to none more than

to his son, who with a heart swelling with the most genuine grief, was

obliged to assume the garb of ceremony, and do the now gloomy honours of

the mansion to many of the same friends and neighbours who had so

recently received the joyous greeting of his father. Most thankful was

he for the relief which followed the departure of the last of those who

came to do honour to these splendid obsequies; and most soothing was it

to his wounded and weary spirits to find himself once more surrounded

only by those who could read in a look all he wished to express, and who

required no welcome to share in the sorrow of that bitter day.

But, like all other periods of human life, whether marked by sorrow or

by joy, it passed away with as even and justly-measured a pace as if no

event distinguished it from its fellow days; and then, by slow but sure

degrees, the little trifling ordinary routine of daily circumstance came

with its invisible and unnoticed magic, to efface, or at least to

weaken, feelings which seemed to have been impressed by the stamp of

burning iron on their souls.

Charles Mowbray had not yet taken his degree, and wishing to do so as

soon as possible, he was anxious to return to Christ Church without

delay; but his father's will had not yet been opened, and, at the

request of his mother, he postponed his departure till this could be

done. This important document was in the hands of Sir Gilbert

Harrington, an intimate friend and neighbour, who being in London at the

time of Mr. Mowbray's death, had been unable to obey the summons sent to

him in time to attend the funeral; but within a week after he arrived,

and the following morning was fixed upon for this necessary business.

The persons present were Sir Gilbert Harrington, Mr. Cartwright, a

respectable solicitor from the country town who had himself drawn the

instrument, and Charles Mowbray.

It was dated rather more than ten years back, and, after the usual

preamble, ran thus:

"In order that my children, or any other persons whom it may concern,

may know the reason and motive of the disposition of my property which I

am about to make, it is necessary that I should therewith state the

manner of my marriage with Clara Helena Frances, my dearly-beloved wife.

Notwithstanding her vast possessions, I wooed and married her solely

because I loved her; and this she had the generosity to believe, though

I was nearly penniless, having nothing but my true affection and good

blood to offer in return for all the wealth she brought. For several

months she withstood my earnest solicitations for an immediate union,

because, had she married before she became of age, her guardian would

have insisted upon settlements and restrictions, which would have

deprived me of all control over her property; nor would she subsequently

sign any document whatever previous to her marriage, thereby rendering

me the sole possessor of her fortune. WHEREFORE, to show my sense of

this unparalleled confidence and generosity, I hereby make her the sole

inheritrix of all I possess, to be ultimately disposed of according

wholly and solely to her own own will and pleasure...." And then

followed, with every necessary and unnecessary technicality of the law,

such a disposition of his property as left his children entirely

dependent on their mother both for their present and future subsistence.

That this will was very different from anything that Charles Mowbray

expected, is most certain, and there might perhaps have been some

slight feeling of disappointment at finding himself dependent even upon

his mother; but if such there were, it was not sufficiently strong to

prevent his doing justice to the noble feeling which had led to it; and,

in truth he felt so certain of the fond affection of his mother, that

not a shadow of fear either for his own interest or that of his sisters

crossed his mind.

The lawyer who read aloud the deed he had penned, had of course no

observation to make upon it, and Mr. Cartwright only remarked that it

was a proof of very devoted love and confidence.

Of the small party present at this lecture, Sir Gilbert Harrington was

the only one who testified any strong emotion respecting it; and his

displeasure and vexation were expressed in no very measured terms. His

warmth was at length checked, not because he had uttered all he had to

say, but because he met the eye of Mr. Cartwright fixed upon him with a

sort of scrutiny that was unpleasing to his feelings. He therefore

stopped short in the philippic he was pouring forth upon the infernal

folly of a man's acting in matters of importance without consulting his

friends, and taking the arm of Charles, walked through the hall into the

grounds without appearing to remember that as he was left joint executor

with Mrs. Mowbray to the will, it might be expected that he should make

some notification of its contents to her before he left the house.

"Shall we not speak to my mother, Sir Gilbert?" said Mowbray,

endeavouring to restrain the eager step of the Baronet as he was passing

through the hall-door.

"No, sir," was the laconic reply; and on he stalked with a more rapid

step than before.

The conversation which passed between them during the hour which

intervened before Sir Gilbert clambered up to his saddle and galloped

off, was made up of something between lamentation and anathema on his

side, and the most earnest assurances that no mischief could ensue from

his father's will on the part of Charles. The testy old gentleman could

not, however, be wrought upon to see the widow, who, as he said, must

have used most cursed cunning in obtaining such a will; of which,

however, poor lady, she was as innocent as the babe unborn; and he at

length left the Park, positive that he should have a fit of the gout,

and that the widow Mowbray would marry within a year.

As soon as he had got rid of his warm-hearted but passionate old friend,

Mowbray hastened to repair the neglect he had been forced into

committing, and sought his mother in the drawing-room. But she was no

longer there.

The room, indeed, appeared to be wholly untenanted, and he was on the

point of leaving it to seek his mother elsewhere, when he perceived that

Miss Torrington was seated at the most distant corner of it, almost

concealed by the folds of the farthest window-curtain.

"Rosalind!" ... he exclaimed, "are you hid there?... Where are all the

rest? and how come you to be left alone?"

"I am left alone, Mr. Mowbray ... because I wished it. Helen and Fanny

are with your mother, I believe, in her room."

Charles wished to see them all, and to see them together, and had almost

turned to go; but there was something in the look and manner of Rosalind

that puzzled him, and going up to her, he said kindly, "Is anything the

matter, Rosalind? You look as if something had vexed you."

To his great astonishment she burst into tears, and turning from him as

if to hide an emotion she could not conquer, she said, "Go, go, Mr.

Mowbray--go to your mother--you ought to have gone to her instantly."

"Instantly?... When?... What do you mean, Miss Torrington?"

"Miss Torrington means, Mr. Mowbray, that it would in every way have

been more proper for you to have announced to your mother yourself the

strange will it has pleased your father to leave, instead of sending a

stranger to do it."

"Who then has told her of it, Rosalind? Was it the lawyer? was it Mr.

Humphries?"

"No sir--it was Mr. Cartwright."

"But why should you be displeased with me for this, dear Rosalind? Sir

Gilbert led me out of the library by force, and would not let me go to

my mother, as I wished to do, and I have but this instant got rid of

him; but I did not commission either Mr. Cartwright or any one else to

make a communication to her which I was particularly desirous of making

myself."

"You did not send Mr. Cartwright to her?" said Rosalind colouring, and

looking earnestly in his face.

"No, indeed I did not. Did he say I had sent him?"

"How very strange it is," she replied after a moment's consideration,

"that I should be perfectly unable to say whether he did or did not! I

certainly do not remember that he explicitly said 'Madam, your son has

sent me here;' but this I do remember--that somehow or other I

understood that you had done so."

"And how did he announce to my mother that she.... I mean, how did he

communicate to her the purport of my father's will?"

"Charles Mowbray!" exclaimed Rosalind passionately, clenching her small

hands and stamping her little foot upon the ground--"I may be a very,

very wicked girl: I know I am wilful, headstrong, obstinate, and vain;

and call me also dark-minded, suspicious, what you will; but I do hate

that man."

"Hate whom, Rosalind?" said Charles, inexpressibly astonished at her

vehemence. "What is it you mean?... Is it Mr. Cartwright, our good

friendly clergyman, that you hate so bitterly?"

"Go to your mother, Mr. Mowbray. I am little more than seventeen years

old, and have always been considered less instructed, and therefore

sillier of course than was to be expected even from my age and sex; then

will it not be worse than waste of time to inquire what I

mean--especially when I confess, as I am bound to do, that I do not well

know myself?... Go to your mother, Charles, and let her know exactly all

you feel. You, at least, have no cause to hide your faults."

"I will go--but I wish I knew what has so strangely moved you."

"Ask your sisters--they saw and heard all that I did; at least, they

were present here, as I was;--ask them, examine them, but ask me

nothing; for I do believe, Charles, that I am less to be depended on

than any other person in the world."

"And why so, my dear Rosalind?" replied Mowbray, almost laughing. "Do

you mean that you tell fibs against your will?"

"Yes ... I believe so. At least, I feel strangely tempted to say a great

deal more than I positively know to be true; and that is very much like

telling fibs, I believe."

"Well, Rosalind, I will go, for you grow more mysterious every moment;

only, remember that I should greatly like to know all the thoughts that

come into that strange little head of yours. Will you promise that I

shall?"

"No," was the ungracious reply; and turning away, she left the room by a

door that led into a conservatory.

On entering his mother's dressing-room, Mowbray found her seated between

her two daughters, and holding a hand of each.

She looked up as he entered: the traces of tears were on her cheeks, and

her eyes rested on him with an expression of melancholy reproach such as

he had never read in them before.

"My dear, dear mother!" he exclaimed as he approached her, "has my

absence then vexed you so grievously?... I could not help it, mother;

Sir Gilbert literally made me his prisoner."

"Sir Gilbert, Charles, might have shown more respect to the memory of

the friend he has lost, than by keeping his son to listen to his own

wild invectives against the wife that friend so loved and trusted."

"Whoever has repeated to you the hasty expressions of Sir Gilbert, my

dear mother, in such a manner as to leave a painful impression on your

mind against him, has not acted well. You know his temper, but you know

his heart also; and I should not have thought that it could have been in

the power of any one to make you doubt the real friendship of Sir

Gilbert for us all."

"Surely, Charles, it was no symptom of friendship to me, to say that

your dear father had made an accursed will!"

"Good heavens!... what a strange misrepresentation, mother!... and all

hanging, as it should seem, upon one little syllable!... Our friend, as

you well know, is what Rosalind calls a manish man; he denies the

supremacy of woman, and might, and I verily believe did say, that a will

which vested power in her must be a cursed will. But we know too well

his long-licensed coarseness of expression to greatly marvel at that;

but for the solemn and most awful word ac-cursed, believe me, mother, he

never said it."

"It matters little, my dear son, what particular words of abuse Sir

Gilbert uttered against me, provided that your heart did not echo them."

"Mother! dearest mother!" cried Helen, rising and going towards her

brother, who seemed petrified at the words he heard, "how for a single

moment could you believe that Charles's heart could echo any word that

spoke not honour and love towards you!"

"He might have been mistaken, Helen," replied her mother with a heavy

sigh: "Charles could not indeed suspect that the mother his dear father

so fully trusted should prove unworthy of the trust.--But let us quit

this painful theme; and believe me, my children, that the first wish of

my heart is to prove myself worthy of his trust and your love."

"Such words are just what we might expect to hear from you, mother,"

said Mowbray, "were any profession from you to us necessary; but I would

gladly forget that you have ever thought such an assurance called for."

He bent down and kissed her fervently; and then making a sign to Helen,

who seemed about to follow him, that she should remain where she was, he

walked out for a couple of hours among the darkest thickets he could

find, with more of melancholy feeling than had ever before rested on his

spirits.

CHAPTER V.

THE ARISTOCRACY OF WREXHILL.

There was no longer any thing to prevent Charles Mowbray's return to

Oxford, and the following day the time of his departure was canvassed,

and at length fixed for the early part of the following week. During the

few days that intervened, Mrs. Mowbray seemed quite to have forgotten

their painful conversation respecting the will; she resumed all her

former confiding tenderness of manner, and told him before they parted,

that henceforward his liberal allowance would be doubled.

The day preceding his departure was Sunday, and for the first time since

their heavy loss the whole family appeared at church. They had all

dreaded the moment of reappearing before the eyes of the little village

world, and of thus giving public notice, as it were, that they no longer

required to be left to mourn in secret: but this painful ceremony came,

and was endured, like those that had preceded it; and poor Helen, as she

laid her head upon her pillow, exclaimed, "What is there that we could

not bear, and live."

The sad parting of the next morning having also passed over them, they

at once, and by necessity, fell into the mode of life which they were

hereafter to pursue. But dreary and heavy was the change that had fallen

on them, and it was long ere the mere act of assembling for their daily

meals ceased to be a source of suffering--for fearful was the blank left

by the absence of the kind, the gentle, the beloved, the venerated

being, whose voice was used to speak a blessing and a welcome over every

repast. But our natures seize with avidity the healing balm which time

and occupation offer: much variety of disposition was, however,

manifested in the manner in which each one of the family sought the

consolation they needed.

Mrs. Mowbray became evidently, though perhaps unconsciously, better both

in health and spirits from the time that her neighbours, according to

their different ranks, resumed their visits of friendship, civility, and

respect. She had testified outwardly, excepting to such an eye as

Rosalind's, more intense suffering than any other member of the family.

Nor was this in the smallest degree the result of affectation: she felt

all, and more than all, that she had ever expressed, and would gladly,

for the sake of her poor children, have concealed a part of it, had the

fibre of her character permitted her doing so. But she was demonstrative

by nature: with great softness and sweetness of temper, was joined that

species of weakness which is often said to be the most attractive

feature in the female character;--a weakness that induced her to seize

gladly and gratefully any hand extended to lead her, and which, while it

made her distrust herself, gave most sovereign sway and masterdom to

any one ready and willing to supply the strength and decision of purpose

which she wanted.

Many female philippics have been penned, I believe, against that manly

passion for superiority which leads our masters to covet in a companion

chosen for life the temper of mind here described; but I am tempted to

think that this longing to possess a being that wants protection, far

from demonstrating a disposition prone to tyranny, shows a nature

disposed to love and to cherish, in a manner perfectly accordant to the

most perfect _beau ideal_ of married life. But, on the other hand, there

may perhaps be more of fondness than judgment in those who make such

mallability of mind their first requisite in a choice so awfully

important.

Mrs. Mowbray, however, had a thousand good qualities to justify the

devoted affection of her husband. Generous, unsuspicious, and confiding,

she was almost as incapable of doubting the goodness of others, as of

deserving such doubts herself. Though heiress to immense property, no

feeling in the slightest degree approaching to pride had even for a

single instant swelled her heart; and though good, beautiful, and

accomplished, her estimate of herself was lower than that formed of her

by any other human being. Her heart was now more than ever opened to

every expression of sympathy and kindness, and she experienced the most

salutary effects from admitting those who uttered such, yet she was

still a mourner in her very heart and soul; and there were moments in

which she felt so bitterly that all her youthful affections were buried,

and every hope of earthly happiness past, that the fair young faces of

the three affectionate girls who were ready to devote themselves to her

seemed too bright and beautiful to be kept within the influence of her

melancholy, and she often sent them from her to their music-room, their

flower-gardens, or the Park, with a sort of feverish anxiety, lest their

youth and health should be sacrificed to their affection for her.

Helen had all the tenderness with none of the weakness of her mother's

character. She soon ceased to speak of her father, except occasionally,

when walking or sitting quite alone with Rosalind, when sheltering

boughs or thickening twilight might conceal the working features of her

face even from her. At such a moment, if some kind caress from her young

companion touched unawares the feelings over which she unceasingly kept

guard, as if they were a secret treasure too precious to be exposed to

vulgar eyes, she would from time to time give way to the sacred pleasure

of discoursing on the character of the father she had lost.

But she had resumed all her former occupations, and added to them the

far from unpleasing task of imparting to Rosalind much that had either

been ill taught or altogether neglected in her early education. This, as

well as their daily-increasing affection for each other, kept them much

together, without any blameable desertion either of Mrs. Mowbray or

Fanny: for the former was really wretched if she thought they confined

themselves too much to her drawing-room and herself; and the latter was

hourly becoming more devoted to solitary study, and to speculations too

poetical and sublime to be shared by any one less romantic and

imaginative than herself.

The neighbourhood was not a large one: Mowbray Park, and the estate

attached to it, stretched itself so far in all directions, that Oakley,

the residence of Sir Gilbert Harrington, the nearest landed proprietor,

was at the distance of more than a mile. The little village of Wrexhill,

however, had one or two pretty houses in it, inhabited by ladies and

gentlemen of moderate but independent fortune, with whom the family at

the Park associated on terms of intimacy.

Among these, the late Vicar and his family had been the decided

favourites of the whole race of Mowbrays,--and most deservedly so; for

the father was a man of piety, learning, and most amiable deportment;

his wife, a being whose temper, to say nothing of sundry other good

qualities, had made her the idol of the whole parish; and his two sons

and two daughters, just such sons and daughters as such parents deserved

to have. But, as Gregory Dobbs, the old parish clerk, observed, after

officiating at the funeral of Mr. Mowbray, "Death seemed to have taken a

spite against the village of Wrexhill, for within one short month he had

mowed down and swept away the two best and _most powerful_ men in the

parish, and 'twas no easy matter to say how long the inhabitants might

be likely to wear mourning."

The dispersion and departure of the good Vicar's family was an

additional misfortune that his parishioners had not looked for. The

living, more valuable for its pleasant house and pretty glebe than for

its revenue, was in the gift of one who through life had been, not in

appearance or profession only, but in most true sincerity, the attached

friend of the late incumbent; and Edward Wallace, his eldest son, was

bred to the church with the express understanding that the next

presentation should be his. With this persuasion, the young man's first

act on the death of his father was to tell his mother and sisters that

they should continue to inhabit the home they had so long loved. But

this arrangement was speedily overthrown; for in reply to the letter

which announced the death of his father to Sir J. C. Blackhouse, the

patron of the living, he received the following answer:

"My dear Fellow,

"As the devil would have it, I am now a cabinet minister, and I

no more dare give the living to your Tory father's son, than I

dare blow up Westminster Hall, or pull the Lord Chancellor's

nose in public. I do assure you I am very sorry for this, for I

believe you are likely to be as good a man as your excellent

father, who, when he was my tutor, had certainly no notion that

I should turn out such a first-rate Radical. However, there is

no resisting destiny; and so here I am, just going to give my

pretty little living to some Reverend Mr. Somebody that I don't

care a straw about, because my Lord M---- says, that though a

bit of a saint, he is a _capital clerical Whig_. I wish,

Edward, you'd try to forget all the fusty old nonsense about

Church and State,--upon my life I do. By-gones are by-gones, my

dear fellow; and if you could get up a clever pamphlet on the

Tithe Laws, or on the Protestant affinities to the Church of

Rome, or anything else with a good rich vein of whiggery

running through it, I really think I might still be able to do

something for you. Do think of this, and believe me,

"My dear fellow,

"Very affectionately,

"Your friend,

"J. C. BLACKHOUSE."

This most unlooked-for disappointment of course banished the Wallace

family from Wrexhill; and the regret their departure left was so

general, that it would be hardly saying too much to declare that no

interference of the Whig government, however personal or tyrannical,

ever produced a stronger sensation of disgust in the circle to which its

influence extended than this.

It was greatly owing to the influence of Mr. Mowbray, that Mr.

Cartwright, his son and daughter, were visited by the neighbourhood on

their arrival; but the obvious injustice and impropriety of treating

with indignity and disrespect the clergyman who was placed among them,

solely because they would have preferred one of their own choosing, had

led the benevolent owner of "the great house" to banish the painful

feelings to which this unpopular appointment had given rise, and before

he died, he had the satisfaction of knowing that those who looked up to

him as authority had followed his example, and that the new Vicar had

been called upon by all the visiting families of Wrexhill.

The handsomest house in the village was inhabited by a widow lady still

young enough to be called handsome, and living with sufficient show to

be supposed rich. She played a little, sang a little, sketched a little,

and talked and dressed a great deal. Some people declared that when she

was young, her complexion must have been as beautiful as that of Miss

Fanny Mowbray: but these were only the young farmers, who did not know

rouge when they saw it. This lady, whose name was Simpson, had one

little girl, a pretty little creature of eight years old, who was

sometimes petted and played with till she was completely spoiled, and

sometimes left in the nursery for days together, while her mamma was

absorbed in the perusal of a new novel or the fabrication of a new

dress.

At the next turn of the village street was the entrance to a little

place of much less pretension, but infinitely prettier, and in better

taste: this also was tenanted by a fair widow, who, had she not been

surrounded by three daughters, all taller than herself, might have

passed for being as young and as handsome as Mrs. Simpson. She was,

however, as little like her as possible in every other respect, being

subject to no caprice, remarkably simple in her dress, and her hair and

her cheeks always remaining of the colour that pleased God. This lady

had been early left a widow by the gallant and unfortunate Colonel

Richards, who lost a life in a skirmish with the native troops of India

which might have done honour to his country in a nobler field. What his

young widow endured in returning from a remote part of the country to

Madras, with her three infants and very little means, had doubtless

contributed, with the good gifts born with her, to make her what she

was; for there was a firmness and strength of mind enveloped in her

miniature frame, which seemed as if her brave husband had bequeathed to

her the legacy of his dauntless spirit to sustain her under all the

privations and misery his early death left her to encounter alone.

The character of her three girls will be easily understood hereafter.

Mrs. Richards's cottage was the only residence in Wrexhill except the

Vicar's that did not open upon the village street, so that she had no

immediate neighbour; but close to the corner of the pretty field that

fronted her dwelling and fed her cow, lived a bachelor half-pay officer,

who among many other excellent qualities possessed one which made him

pre-eminently interesting in her eyes:--he had known Colonel Richards

well, and less than half the reverence he felt for his memory has often

sufficed to enrich the church of Rome with a saint. It was not Major

Dalrymple's fault if the widow of his umqwhile commanding officer had

not long ago exchanged her comparative poverty for his very comfortable

independence; and considering that he was five years younger than the

lady, was the presumptive heir to a noble Scotch cousin who was thought

consumptive, played the flute exquisitely, and was moreover a tall and

gentlemanly figure, with no other fault imputed to him than a somewhat

obstinate pertinacity of attachment to herself, many people both in and

out of Wrexhill wondered at her obduracy, especially as she had never

been heard to say, even by her most intimate friends, "that her heart

was buried in the grave of her dear Richards."

The remaining aristocracy of Wrexhill need hardly be enumerated, as they

will not make any very considerable figure in the following pages. But

there was an attorney, an apothecary, and a schoolmaster. The latter,

indeed, was an excellent person, of whom we may hear more in the sequel;

but a _catalogue raisonne_ of names makes but a dull chapter.

CHAPTER VI.

THE PRINCIPAL PERSON IN THE VILLAGE.--THE VICAR'S FAMILY.

Two days after the Mowbray family appeared at church, the village gentry

began to offer their visits of condolence, which, happily however for

the tranquillity of the persons chiefly concerned, were performed in the

improved manner of modern times; that is to say, every allusion to the

recent event being by all but their intimate friends most cautiously

avoided by all parties.

The first person who entered the drawing-room was Mrs. Simpson. On all

occasions, indeed, this lady exerted herself to sustain the position of

"the principal person in the village." She seldom gave an order for "the

fly," which, weak as were its own springs, was, in truth, the

main-spring of all the rural visitings; she seldom ordered this

indispensable commodity without adding to her instructions, "Pray be

punctual, Mr. Sims,--I say this for your sake as well as my own; for if

the principal person in the village is made to wait, you may depend upon

it an opposition will be started immediately, and in that case, you

know, I should be obliged to give it my patronage." In like manner, the

butcher and baker in the village, the ruddy-faced milkman out of it, the

shoemaker, the dressmaker, the carpenter, the glazier, the dealer in

small wares and all wares, were severally and collectively given to

understand that Mrs. Simpson, as the principal person in the village,

had a right to expect the first-fruits of their civility, attention,

industry, and general stock-in-trade.

Her entrance into the presence of Mrs. Mowbray was as pregnant with

sentiment and sympathy as the degree of intimacy to which she was

admitted would permit. The hand-shaking was performed with a little

pressure and a little sigh; every pause in the conversation was made to

speak volumes by the sad tone in which the next sentence was spoken: in

short, if the minds of Mrs. Mowbray, her eldest daughter, and her ward,

who kindly volunteered to sustain this ordeal with her, had not been

fully occupied by the recent event, almost every word, look, and gesture

of the principal person of Wrexhill were calculated to recall it.

Mrs. Simpson was accompanied by her pretty little girl, flowered and

furbelowed into as near a resemblance to a bantam chicken as it was

possible for a pretty little girl to take.

The distance from the village to the Park was almost too great for so

young a child to walk, and the poor little thing looked heated, cross,

and weary; but her mamma declared that a ramble through those delicious

fields was the greatest treat in the world. "I trust in Heaven," she

continued, using her near-sighted eye-glass to look at a drawing which

lay on the table, "that Mimima" (her abbreviation of Jemima) "will have

my taste for sketching--I like to take her out with me, dear pet, she

enjoys it so! but at this lovely season it is the most difficult thing

in the world not to sketch as one goes. Indeed, when the mind is

pre-occupied"--(a sigh)--"every object, however"--(a pause)--"I beg your

pardon, but it is so difficult--"

"Come to me, Jemima," said Helen, holding out her hand, "and let me take

your bonnet off."

The child put up her shoulder, and pressed with distressing closeness

upon the delicate lilac of her mother's new silk dress.

"It is such a shy puss!" said Mrs. Simpson; "I often think what would

become of her"--(a sigh). "I beg your pardon--but sad thoughts will

press--"

"Little girl, do you love eau de Cologne?" said Rosalind, taking a

bottle from the table and holding it towards her.

Either the look, the accent, or the action of Rosalind had attraction

sufficient to draw the child towards her; when she good-humouredly

relieved the glowing cheeks from the stifling encumbrance of a very

close pink bonnet and thick green veil, and then copiously bedewed the

pretty head with the fragrant and refreshing water.

"Do you like it, dear?"

"Yes, very much; do it again! again!" said the child, laughing aloud.

"Mimima!--what did I tell you, dear! Alas!--young heads--I beg your

pardon--" (a sigh). "You are too good!--I fear you will spoil her, Miss

Torrington."

"I am only trying to cool her a little, ma'am; she looks quite in a

fever."

"She has sported along before me like a little fawn! I brought my maid

and the man servant, as I thought they might carry her between them if

she was tired; but she would not hear of it--the step of childhood is so

elastic!--Alas!--I beg your pardon!--"

"Don't you like to ride _a-cushion_, Miss Jemima?" said Rosalind, struck

by the idea of the maid and the man carrying the young lady between

them.

"What is that?" inquired the child.

Rosalind laughed a little, and coloured a little, at being obliged to

explain herself; but making the best of it, she took Mimima's little

hands and interlaced them with her own, after the most approved manner

of preparing to treat somebody with riding _a-cushion_.

No persons resent ridicule so much as those who are perpetually exposing

themselves to it. Mrs. Simpson out-glowed her rouge as she said, "I did

not mean, Miss Torrington, that my servants were to carry the child

together,--I really wonder such a very droll idea.--I beg your

pardon--but at such a time--"

Miss Torrington looked at her for a moment, and then rose and left the

room.

Mrs. Simpson saw that she had offended the heiress, and from that moment

conceived towards her one of those little feminine antipathies, which if

they do not as often lead to daggers and bowls in the higher ranks of

society as to black eyes and broken noses in the lower, are nevertheless

seldom quite innoxious.

The conversation now began to languish, for the principal person in

Wrexhill was decidedly out of humour, and Helen was painfully seeking

for what she was to say next, when the door was thrown open, and Mr. and

Miss Cartwright, and Mr. Jacob Cartwright, were announced.

No sudden and unexpected burst of sunshine ever produced a greater

change in the aspect of a watery landscape, than the entrance of this

party on the countenance of the handsome widow. Had Rosalind been

present, she would have found some amusement, or at least some

occupation, in seeking to discover whether it were the father or son who

possessed this vivifying power. To the pale, hollow-eyed daughter she

would certainly have attributed no such influence. But as we have not

her help to decide the doubt, we must leave the matter to the slower

hand of time.

Mr. Jacob Cartwright was a tall, straight, young man, but as yet a

little inclining to that line of contour, which can only be described by

the expressive word lanky. Neither was his hair handsome, for,

designated as "light" by his particular friends and admirers, it was

called "sandy" by the rest of the world. But the young gentleman had a

finely-formed mouth, with a very beautiful set of teeth, and a large

clear light blue eye, which many persons declared to be beautiful.

This young man was said to resemble greatly the mother he had lost: to

his father he was certainly as unlike as possible. Mr. Cartwright,

though somewhat above the middle height, was shorter than his son, and

his person incomparably better built; his features were very regularly

handsome, and the habitual expression of his countenance gentle and

attractive. His eyes were large, dark, and very beautifully formed, and

his hair and beard as black as those of a Spaniard, save here and there

a silver line which about the temples began to mix itself with the

sable. His mouth and teeth perhaps might have been said to resemble

those of his son, had not the expression been so different. In the son

these constituted merely a well-formed feature; to the father they

seemed to give a power when he spoke that might work wonders either for

good or evil.

Henrietta Cartwright resembled neither of them: of the two, she would

have been said to be most like her father, because her hair and eyes

were dark; but the form of the head and face, and above all, the cynic

expression of the mouth, were in perfect contrast to his. Like her

brother she was extremely thin; but she was not proportionably tall, and

in her this ascetic form seemed rather the result of ill health than of

make. She was moreover deadly pale, and seldom spoke in general society

if she could possibly avoid it.

Mrs. Mowbray received all the party with cordial kindness. In Helen's

manner there was a shade of coldness, especially to the father, whose

offered hand she did not appear to see; but the whole trio shared the

affectionate greetings of Mrs. Simpson.

"How _very_ lucky I am to meet you! Such a dismal long walk, all

alone!--but now we can return together. How are you, my dear Miss

Henrietta? has your headache left you?--No?--Oh, how I grieve to see you

suffer so! I need not inquire for you, Mr. Jacob--what a picture of

youth and activity you are! Mimima, come here. Don't you remember your

friend?--don't you remember Mr. Jacob Cartwright?--Ah! I thought you

could not forget him! You would not be your mother's child, dearest, if

you could ever forget kindness."

In her address to the elder gentleman there seemed to be a little more

caution in the expression of her affectionate feelings; but she looked

at him, and she listened to him, and more than once repeated what he

said, as if to impress the precious words on her memory. In short, from

the moment the Vicar and his family entered the room, it was evident the

ladies of the Park were completely put

----"In non cale;"

and this, considering the undeviating respect which through life Mrs.

Simpson had ever paid to wealth and station, was no trifling proof of

the sincerity of that friendship which she professed for her new

friends.

"I hope your youngest daughter is well, and Miss Torrington also?" said

Mr. Cartwright.

"Quite well, thank you. Helen, do you know where your sister is?"

"In the library, I believe, mamma."

"Miss Cartwright, would you not like some refreshment?... Do ring the

bell, Helen. I am sure, Mrs. Simpson, you ought to take some

wine-and-water after your long walk."

It was not difficult to see that this civility was the result of a

strong and painful effort on the part of Mrs. Mowbray, and Helen was

provoked with the whole party for not declining it; but no choice was

left her--the bell was rung, and the tray arrived. One comfort she had,

and that no trifling one: neither herself nor her mother had any further

occasion to seek subjects of conversation; Mrs. Simpson took the whole

of this troublesome business upon herself, and for the period that the

luncheon lasted was so completely engaged in eating and talking, that

she had not time for a single sigh.

The two gentlemen and the little girl were very nearly as busily

employed as herself; but Miss Cartwright sat silently apart, and a

feeling as nearly allied perhaps to curiosity as politeness, induced

Helen to change her place and seat herself near her.

"Will you not take some refreshment, Miss Cartwright?... Let me get you

some grapes."

"I thank you--none."

"Not even a little soda-water and wine? The morning seems unusually

warm."

"Nothing, I thank you."

"Are you a great walker?"

"Yes."

"This is a charming country for it--such a beautiful variety of lanes

and fields."

"I seldom vary my walk."

"Indeed! And what is the favourite spot you have chosen?"

"The ugliest and most gloomy I could find, that I might be sure of never

meeting any one."

Helen was silenced--she had not courage for another word, and in order

to cover her retreat, moved towards the table, and bestowed her

attention on the little girl, who, totally forgotten by her mamma, was

quaffing long draughts of wine from a tumbler which Mr. Jacob had been

preparing for himself, but which he had willingly yielded to her, and

now seemed waiting for the inevitable effect of such excess with a sort

of sly and covert glee that made Helen very angry.

"Your little girl will make herself ill, I am afraid, Mrs. Simpson, by

the quantity of wine she is taking: I am afraid there is no water with

it."

The lady, who was talking very earnestly in an under tone to Mr.

Cartwright, started at this appeal, and with a glance of more anger than

the age of the child could justify, drew her back from the table and

made her stand at some distance from it.

"I really think that it is Mr. Jacob Cartwright who should be punished,"

said Helen: "for he knew a great deal more about the matter than the

little girl herself."

"Oh no!... naughty little thing!"--said the mamma.

"I am very sorry if I have been the occasion of the little girl's doing

what was wrong," said Mr. Jacob slowly and in a very gentle tone. "I did

not think she would have taken so much; and she looked very tired and

warm."

Mrs. Simpson made some civil answer, and turned to renew her

conversation with the Vicar; but he was gone. She positively started,

and looked about her with great interest to discover what had become of

him. The windows of the room opened upon the lawn, and though she had

not seen his exit, she very naturally guessed that it must have been

made in that direction. After rising from the table, and making one or

two unmeaning movements about the room, taking up a book and laying it

down again without looking at its title, examining a vase on the

chimney-piece and a rose on the flower-stand, she gradually drew towards

the open window, and after pausing for half a minute, walked through it

upon the grass.

The little girl trotted after her; Mr. Jacob followed, probably hoping

to see her stagger about a little; and Helen, though sadly vexed at this

new device to prolong the tedious visit, could do no less than walk

after them.

The conservatory, drawing-room, and library, formed this side of the

house, the whole range of windows opening uniformly upon the lawn. As

Helen stepped out, she perceived that the party who had preceded her

were entering by the window of the library, and she quickly followed

them, thinking it probable that Fanny might be startled and vexed at

this unexpected interruption, when, as was very likely, she might be in

the very act of invoking the "sacred nine."

Upon entering the room, however, she found her sister, to her great

surprise, conversing earnestly with Mr. Cartwright, and appearing to be

hardly yet conscious of the presence of the others.

Mrs. Simpson gave a little, almost imperceptible toss of the head, at

discovering how the gentleman was engaged.

"We could not think whither you had vanished, Mr. Cartwright," said she,

in her sweetest voice; "but you really were very lucky to ramble in this

direction. Miss Fanny ought to have her picture taken in this fine room,

with all her books about her."

While she said this, Mr. Cartwright continued in a whisper to finish

what he was addressing to Fanny; and having done so, he turned to the

party which had followed him, saying, "The bright verdure of your

beautiful lawn, Miss Mowbray, tempted me out; but I hope our intrusion

has not disturbed your sister?"

Fanny answered eagerly that she was very glad to see him. At that moment

Helen chanced to turn her eyes towards the window by which they entered;

when she perceived that Miss Cartwright had followed them. She was,

however, more than half concealed by a large orange tree which stood in

a high square box beside the window; but her head was bent forward to

look into the room, and a sneer of such very singular expression rested

on her lip and in her eye as she looked at her father and Fanny, who

were still standing close together, that Helen remained perfectly still,

staring at her. In another moment Miss Cartwright changed the direction

of her eyes, and encountered those of Helen fixed upon her with a look

of unconcealed astonishment; but her own did not sink before them, and

she turned away with a smile quite as strange and unintelligible as the

look she had bestowed on Fanny.

At length this tedious visit was brought to its conclusion; the bonnet

of the tipsy and now very pale little girl was replaced, a number of

civil speeches spoken, and the whole party walked off together across

the lawn to a gate which was to take them by a short cut through the

Park.

"I quite envy Mrs. Simpson her walk home!" said Fanny. "I see she has

taken Mr. Cartwright's arm: I really do think he is the very handsomest

and most agreeable man I ever saw in my life!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE FIRST IMPRESSIONS MADE BY MR. CARTWRIGHT.--LETTER FROM LADY

HARRINGTON.

The three girls rallied round Mrs. Mowbray as soon as the guests had

departed, all kindly anxious to see how she bore this first step back

into a world so wholly changed for her.

She looked pale, and there was an air of languor and weariness about

her: nevertheless, to the great surprise of Helen, she expressed herself

much pleased by the visit:

"Mr. Cartwright," said she, "appears to me to be one of the most amiable

men I ever saw; every tone of his voice speaks kindness, and indeed, if

he did not speak at all, one look of his has more feeling and pity in it

than other people could express by a volume of words."

"Do you really think so, mamma?" said Helen eagerly, but suddenly

stopped herself, aware that in truth she had no grounds whatever for the

strong feeling of dislike towards him of which she was conscious. She

remembered, too, that her father had expressed himself greatly pleased

by the urbanity of his manners, and that the last act of the benign

influence he was wont to exercise on those around him had been to

conquer the prejudice against him, to which the exclusion of the Wallace

family had unjustly given rise. Helen remembered all this in a moment;

the colour mounted to her cheeks, and she was silent.

Rosalind, too, was silent, at least from words; but her eyes could speak

as many volumes at a glance as Mr. Cartwright's, and she fixed them for

an instant on Helen with a look that told her plainly her prejudices

against their new neighbour, however unreasonable, were fully shared by

her.

Meanwhile Fanny had thrown her arms round her mother's neck in a sort of

rapture at hearing her own opinions confirmed by such authority. "Oh,

how true that is, dearest mamma!" she exclaimed; "how exactly I feel the

same when he speaks to me!... Such goodness, such gentleness, so much

superiority, yet so much humility! Poor dear Mr. Wallace was an

excellent good man, certainly, but no more to be compared to Mr.

Cartwright than I to Hercules!"

"How many times have you seen Mr. Cartwright, Fanny?" said Rosalind.

"I have heard him preach three times," she replied, "and they were all

the most beautiful sermons in the world; and I have seen and spoken to

him four times more."

"Poor Mr. Wallace!" said Rosalind. "It was he who christened you, Fanny;

and from that time to the hour of his death, you seldom passed many days

together, I believe, without seeing and receiving affectionate words and

kind looks from him: and yet four times speaking to this gentle

gentleman has driven the memory of the poor old man from your heart!"

"No, it has not, Rosalind," replied Fanny, deeply blushing: "I am sure I

did not say that, did I, mamma?--But my loving and remembering Mr.

Wallace all the days of my life need not make me dislike everybody else,

I suppose?"

"It would be a great misfortune to you if it did, Fanny," said Mrs.

Mowbray. "I am delighted to see, both in you and many others, that the

violent and most unjustifiable prejudice which was conceived against Mr.

Cartwright before he was seen and known, is giving way before his

amiable and excellent qualities: I have no doubt that he will soon be

quite as popular in the parish as Mr. Wallace was."

"And Miss Cartwright, mamma?" said Helen; "do you think we shall love

her as well as we did Emma Wallace?"

"I know nothing whatever of Miss Cartwright as yet, Helen; she appears

very shy, but we must try to give her courage, my dear girls. I hope we

shall be on terms of as great intimacy with our new Clergyman as with

our former one: it was a sort of association that your dear father

particularly approved, and that alone is a sufficient reason for our

wishing to cultivate it."

This allusion was too solemn to admit any light conversation to follow

it. Mrs. Mowbray strolled with Fanny into the conservatory, and Rosalind

persuaded Helen that they should find the shrubberies infinitely cooler

and more agreeable than the house.

But even under the thickest cover that the grounds could offer, Helen

could not be tempted fully to open her heart upon the subject of Mr.

Cartwright, an indulgence which Rosalind certainly expected to obtain

when she proposed the walk; but the name of her father had acted like a

spell on Helen, and all that she could be brought positively to advance

on the subject of the Cartwright family was, that she did not think Miss

Cartwright was shy.

Within the next fortnight nearly every one who claimed a visiting

acquaintance with the Mowbray family, both in the village and the

neighbourhood round it, had called at the Park.

"All the calling is over now," said Helen, "and I am very glad of it."

"Every body has been very kind and attentive," replied her mother, "and

next week we must begin to return their calls. I hope nobody will be

offended, for some of them must be left for many days; the weather is

very hot, and the horses must not be overworked."

"I wonder why that charming little person that I fell in love with--the

widow, I mean, that lives in the Cottage at Wrexhill," said

Rosalind,--"I wonder she has not been to see you! She appeared to like

you all very much."

"I have thought of that two or three times," replied Helen. "I think, if

they had any of them been ill, we should have heard it; and yet

otherwise I cannot account for such inattention."

"It is merely accidental, I am sure," said Mrs. Mowbray. "But there is

one omission, Helen, that cuts me to the heart!" Tears burst from her

eyes as she spoke.

Poor Helen knew not how to answer: she was well aware that the omission

her mother alluded to was that of Sir Gilbert and Lady Harrington; and

she knew too the cause of it. Lady Harrington, who, with one of the best

hearts in the world, was sometimes rather blunt in her manner of showing

it, had sent over a groom with a letter to Helen, her god-daughter and

especial favourite, very fully explaining the cause of their not

calling, but in a manner that could in no degree enable her to remove

her mother's uneasiness respecting it. This letter, which by her

ladyship's especial orders was delivered privately into the hands of

Helen, ran thus:

"My darling Child!

"Can't you think what a way I must be in at being prevented

coming to see you? Sir Gilbert excels himself this time for

obstinacy and wilfulness. Every breakfast, every dinner, and

every tea since it happened, William and I do nothing but beg

and entreat that I may be permitted to go over and see your

poor mother! Good gracious! as I tell him, it is not her

fault--though God knows I do think just as much as he does,

that no man ever did make such a tom-fool of a will as your

father. Such a man as Charles! as Sir Gilbert says. 'Twas made

at the full of the moon, my dear, and that's the long and the

short of it; he was just mad, Helen, and nothing else. But is

that any reason that your poor dear mother should be neglected

and forsaken this way! God bless her dear soul! she's more like

a baby than any thing I ever saw, about money; and as to her

being an heiress, why I don't believe, upon my honour, that she

has ever recollected it from the day she married to the time

that your unlucky, poor dear distracted madman of a father

threw all her money back at her in this wild way. He had much

better have pelted her with rotten eggs, Helen! Such a friend

as Sir Gilbert, so warm-hearted, so steady, and so true, is not

to be found every day--old tiger as he is. But what on earth am

I to do about it? I shall certainly go mad too, if I can't get

at you; and yet, I give you my word, I no more dare order the

coachman to drive me to Mowbray Park than to the devil. You

never saw such a tyrannical brute of a husband as Sir Gilbert

is making himself about it! And poor William, too--he really

speaks to him as if he were a little beggar-boy in the streets,

instead of a colonel of dragoons. William said last night

something very like, 'I shall ride over to Wrexhill to-morrow,

and perhaps I shall see the family at Mow....' I wish you had

seen him--I only wish you had seen Sir Gilbert, Helen, for half

a moment!--you would never have forgotten it, my dear, and it

might have given you a hint as to choosing a husband. Never

marry a man with great, wide, open, light-coloured eyes, and

enormous black eyebrows, for fear he should swallow you alive

some day before you know where you are. 'See them! 'roared Sir

Gilbert. 'If you do, by G--d, sir, I'll leave every sou I have

in the world to some cursed old woman myself; but it shan't be

to you, madam,' turning short round as if he would bite

me:--'laugh if you will, but go to Mowbray if you dare!'

"'But are we never to see any of the family again, sir?' said

the colonel very meekly. 'I never told you so, Colonel Booby,'

was the reply. 'You may see that glorious fellow Charles as

often as you will, and the more you see of him the better; and

I'll manage if I can, as soon as he has taken this degree that

his heart's set upon, to get a commission for him in your

regiment; so you need not palaver about my wanting to part you

from him. And as for you, my lady, I give you full leave to

kidnap the poor destitute, penniless girls if you can; but if I

ever catch you doing any thing that can be construed into

respect or civility to that sly, artful hussy who cajoled my

poor friend Mowbray to make that cursed will, may I.... You

shall see, old lady, what will come of it!'

"Now what on earth can I do, dear darling? I believe your

mother's as innocent of cajoling as I am, and that's saying

something; and as for your being destitute, sweethearts, you'll

have fifty thousand pounds apiece if you've a farthing. I know

all about the property, and so does Sir Gilbert too; only the

old tiger pretends to believe, just to feed his rage, that your

mother will marry her footman, and bequeath her money to all

the little footboys and girls that may ensue: for one principal

cause of his vengeance against your poor mother is, that she is

still young enough to have children. Was there ever such a

man!--But here have I, according to custom, scribbled my paper

as full as it will hold, and yet have got a hundred thousand

more things to say; but it would all come to this, if I were to

scrawl over a ream. I am miserable because I can't come to see

your mother and you, and yet I can't help myself any more than

if I were shut up in Bridewell: for I never did do any thing

that my abominable old husband desired me not to do, and I

don't think I could do it even to please you, my pretty Helen;

only don't fancy I have forgotten you: but for God's sake don't

write to me! I am quite sure I should get my ears boxed.

"Believe me, darling child,

"Your loving friend and godmother,

"JANE MATILDA HARRINGTON."

"P. S. I am quite sure that the colonel would send pretty

messages if he knew what I was about: but I will not make him a

party in my sin. I was just going to tell him this morning; but

my conscience smote me, and I turned very sublimely away,

muttering, in the words of Macbeth--'Be innocent of this, my

dearest chuck!'"

This coarse but well-meaning letter gave inexpressible pain to Helen.

She dared not show it to her mother, who, she felt quite sure, would

consider the unjust suspicions of Sir Gilbert as the most cruel insult:

not could she, after Lady Harrington's prohibition, attempt to answer

it, though she greatly wished to do it, in the hope that she might be

able to place her mother's conduct and feelings in a proper light. But

she well knew that, with all her friend's rhodomontade, she was most

devotedly attached to her excellent though hot-headed husband, and that

she could not disoblige her more than by betraying a secret which, under

the present circumstances, would certainly make him very angry.

But the sight of her mother's tears, and her utter inability to say any

thing that might console her very just sorrow, inspired Helen with a

bold device. To Rosalind only had she shown Lady Harrington's letter,

and to Rosalind only did she communicate her project of boldly writing

to the enraged baronet himself.

"Do so, Helen," said Rosalind promptly: "it is the only measure to

pursue--unless indeed you and I were to set off and surprise him by a

visit."

"But my mother?..." replied Helen, evidently struck by the advantages of

this bolder scheme over her own,--"what would my mother say to our

going?"

"If she knew of it, Helen, I suspect it would lose all favour in Sir

Gilbert's eyes, and you would have no chance whatever of softening his

rage towards her. The expedition, if undertaken at all, must be a secret

one. When he learns it is so, I think it will touch his tough heart,

Helen, for he knows, I fancy, that such escapades are not at all in your

line. I only hope that he will not find out that I proposed it, as that

might lessen your merit in his eyes."

"No, no, that would do no harm. My doing it would be quite proof enough

how near this matter is to my heart."

"Well, then, Helen, shall we go?"

"Let me sleep upon it, Rosalind. If we do go, it must, I think, be quite

early in the morning, so as to have no questions asked before we set

out. It is not a long walk. Shall we see if he will give us some

breakfast?"

"A most diplomatic project!" replied Rosalind; "for it will enlist his

hospitality on our side, and ten to one but the rough coating of his

heart will thaw and resolve itself into a dew, as Fanny would say, by

the mere act of administering coffee and hot cakes to us; and then the

field is won."

"I think we will try," said Helen, smiling with a sort of inward

strengthening, from the conviction that such would very probably be the

result.

A few more words settled the exact time and manner of the expedition,

and the friends parted to dress for dinner.

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. RICHARDS AND HER DAUGHTERS.--THE TEA-PARTY.

On the evening of that day, the three girls for the first time induced

Mrs. Mowbray to go beyond the limits of the flower-garden, and walk

under the avenue of beautiful elms in the Park. The simple and

unostentatious tone of her character had influenced all her habits, and

Mrs. Mowbray was a better and more constant walker than ladies generally

who have two or three carriages ready to attend them. She appeared to

enjoy the exercise from which for several weeks she had been debarred;

and when the end of the avenue was reached, and Fanny almost

mechanically opened the wide gate at the bottom, of it, her mother

passed through it without making any observation, and in truth

forgetting at that moment all that had happened since she had last done

so. The gate opened upon a road, which, according to long-established

custom, they crossed nearly at right angles, and then mounted and

descended half a dozen steps, which conducted them into a wide and

beautiful meadow, now fragrant with the new-made hay that several

waggons were conveying to augment a lofty rick in a distant corner of

it.

It was not till Mrs. Mowbray perceived another party seated round the

base of a haycock which an empty waggon had nearly reached, that she

remembered all the circumstances which made every casual meeting a

matter of importance and agitation to her. The group which seemed a very

merry one, retained their places, till two stout haymakers saucily but

playfully presented their pitch-forks as if to dislodge them. They then

started to their feet to the number of five; and the Park family

recognized Mrs. Richards, her three daughters, and Major Dalrymple.

"I have not seen them yet, Helen!" said Mrs. Mowbray with nervous

trepidation:--"how very wrong I have been to come so far!"

"Why so, my dearest mother?" replied Helen, "I am sure it is less

painful to meet thus, than at those dreadful visits in the

drawing-room."

"But they have not called, Helen ... certainly, we had better go back."

"Dear mamma, it is not possible," said Fanny, stepping forward to meet a

favourite companion in the youngest Miss Richards: "you see Rosalind has

got to them already."

It was indeed too late to retreat; nor did the wish to do so last long.

Mrs. Richards pressed the hand of Rosalind, who had taken hers, but,

throwing it off at the same moment, hastened forward to greet the

widowed friend she had wanted courage to seek. Her colour was

heightened, perhaps, from feeling it possible that the cause of her

absence had been mistaken; but large tears trembled in her dark eyes,

and when she silently took the hand of Mrs. Mowbray and pressed it to

her lips, every doubt upon the subject was removed.

Major Dalrymple and the three girls followed; and the first moment of

meeting over, the two parties seemed mutually and equally pleased to

join. Mrs. Richards was the only person in the neighbourhood to whom

Rosalind, during her six months' residence in it, had at all attached

herself: there was something about her that had fascinated the young

heiress's fancy, and the circumstance of her being the only good second

in a duet to be found within the circle of the Mowbray Park visitings

had completed the charm.

With the two eldest Misses Richards, Helen was on that sort of intimate

footing which a very sweet-tempered, unpretending girl of nineteen, who

knows she is of some consequence from her station, and is terribly

afraid of being supposed to be proud, is sure to be with young ladies of

nearly her own age, blessed with most exuberant animal spirits, and

desirous of making themselves as agreeable to her as possible.

Louisa and Charlotte Richards were fine, tall, showy young women, with

some aspirations after the reputation of talent; but they were neither

of them at all like their mother, who was at least six inches shorter

than either of them, and aspired to nothing in the world but to make

her three children happy.

Little Mary, as her sisters still persisted to call her, approached much

nearer to the stature, person, and character of Mrs. Richards; she was

not quite so _mignonne_ in size, but she

"Had her features, wore her eye,

Perhaps some feeling of her heart,"

and was, spite of all the struggles which her mother could make to

prevent it, the darling of her eyes and the hope of her heart. Moreover,

little Mary was, as we have before hinted, the especial friend of Fanny

Mowbray.

The delights of a balmy evening in the flowery month of June--the

superadded delights of a hay-field, and above all, the supreme delight

of unexpectedly meeting a party of friends, were all enthusiastically

descanted upon by the two tall Misses Richards. They had each taken one

of Helen's slight arms, and borne her along over the stubble grass with

a degree of vehemence which hardly left her breath to speak.

"I do not think mamma is going any farther," she continued to utter,

while Miss Louisa stopped to tie a shoe-string.

"Oh, but you must!" screamed Miss Charlotte, attempting to drag her

onward singly.

"Stop, Charlotte!... stop!" cried the eldest sister, snapping off the

shoe-string in her haste--"you shall not carry her away from me. What a

shame! Isn't it a shame, when it is such an age since we met?"

There is nothing against which it is so difficult to rally, as the

exaggerated expression of feelings in which we do not share. The quiet

Helen could not lash herself into answering vehemence of joy, and having

smiled, and smiled till she was weary, she fairly slipped from her

companions, and hastened back with all the speed she could make to the

tranquil party that surrounded her mother.

The lively young ladies galloped after her, declaring all the way that

she was the cruellest creature in the world.

Mrs. Mowbray now said that she hoped they would all accompany her home

to tea;--a proposal that met no dissenting voice; but it was some time

before the whole party could be collected, for Fanny Mowbray and little

Mary were nowhere to be seen. Major Dalrymple, however, who was taller

even than the Misses Richards, by means of standing upon the last left

haycock, at length discovered them sitting lovingly side by side under

the shelter of a huge lime-tree that filled one corner of the field. He

was dismissed to bring them up to the main body, and executed his

commission with great gallantry and good-nature, but not without feeling

that the two very pretty girls he thus led away captive would much

rather have been without him; for as he approached their lair, he

perceived, not only that they were in very earnest conversation, but

that various scraps of written paper lay in the lap of each, which at

his approach were hastily exchanged, and conveyed to reticules, pockets,

or bosoms, beyond the reach of his eye.

They nevertheless smilingly submitted themselves to his guidance, and in

order to prove that he was not very troublesome, Fanny so far returned

to their previous conversation as to say,

"We must ask your judgment, Major Dalrymple, upon a point on which we

were disputing just before you joined us: which do you prefer in the

pulpit--and out of it--Mr. Wallace, or Mr. Cartwright?"

"You were disputing the point, were you?" he replied. "Then I am afraid,

Miss Fanny, I must give it against you; for I believe I know Mary's

opinion already, and I perfectly agree with her."

"Then I shall say to you, as I say to her," replied Fanny, eagerly "that

you are altogether blinded, benighted, deluded, and wrapt up in

prejudice! I have great faith both in her sincerity and yours, major;

and yet I declare to you, that it does seem to me so impossible for any

one to doubt the superiority of Mr. Cartwright in every way, that I can

hardly persuade myself you are in earnest."

"What do you mean by _every way_, Miss Fanny?--you cannot surely believe

him to be a better man than our dear old vicar?" said the major.

"We can none of us, I think, have any right to make comparisons of their

respective goodness--at least not as yet," replied Fanny. "When I said

_every way_, I meant in the church and in society."

"On the latter point I suppose I ought to leave the question to be

decided between you, as in all cases of the kind where gentlemen are to

be tried, ladies alone, I believe, are considered competent to form the

jury;--not that Mary can have much right to pronounce a verdict either,

for I doubt if she has ever been in a room with Mr. Cartwright in her

life."

"Yes, I have," said Mary eagerly, "and he is perfectly delightful!"

"Indeed!--I did not know you had seen him."

"Yes--we met him at Smith's."

"Oh! you saw him in a shop, did you?--and even that was sufficient to

prove him delightful?"

"Quite enough!" replied Mary, colouring a little as she observed Major

Dalrymple smile.

"The more you see of him, the more you will be aware of his excellence,"

said Fanny, coming to the aid of her friend, and with an air of gravity

that was intended to check the levity of the major. "I have seen him

repeatedly at the Park, Major Dalrymple, and under circumstances that

gave sufficient opportunity to show the excellence of his heart, as well

as the charm of his friendly, affectionate, and graceful manner."

"He has certainly been a very handsome man," said the major.

"Has been!" exclaimed both the girls at once.

"He is still very well-looking," added the gentleman.

"Well-looking!" was again indignantly echoed by the ladies.

"You do not think the term strong enough? but when a man gets on the

wrong side of forty it is, I think, as much as he can expect."

"I don't care a farthing what his age maybe," cried Mary; "do you, Miss

Mowbray?... If he were a hundred and forty, with that countenance and

that manner, I should still think him the handsomest and most perfect

person I ever saw."

"Dear Mary!" replied Fanny affectionately, "how exactly we feel alike

about him! I love you dearly for fighting his battles so warmly."

"There is surely no fighting in the case," said Major Dalrymple,

laughing,--"at least not with me. But have a care, young ladies: such

perfect conformity of taste on these subjects does not always, I

believe, tend to the continuance of female friendship. What a sad thing

it would be if those two little hands were some day to set pulling caps

between their respective owners!"

"There is not the least danger of any such dismal catastrophe, I assure

you. Is there Mary?"

"Good heavens, no!" replied little Mary in a voice of great indignation.

"What a hateful idea!"

"One reason why it is so delightful to love and admire Mr. Cartwright,"

rejoined Fanny, "is, that one may do it and talk of it too, without any

danger that _rational people_, Major Dalrymple, should make a jest of

it, and talk the same sort of nonsense that every body is so fond of

doing whenever a lady is heard to express admiration for a gentleman.

But we may surely love and admire the clergyman of the parish; indeed I

think it is a sort of duty for every one to do so."

"I assure you," replied the major, "that I both loved and admired Mr.

Wallace exceedingly, and that I shall gladly pay the same homage to his

successor as soon as I know him to deserve it. But

"Cautious age and youth....

you know the song, Mary?"

"I know your meaning, Major Dalrymple: you are always boasting of your

age; but I don't know any one but yourself who thinks so very much

of...."

"... My antiquity and my wisdom."

"Just that.... But, good heavens! Fanny Mowbray, who is that to whom

your mother is speaking on the lawn?"

"It is Mr. Cartwright!" cried Fanny with animation; "and now, Major

Dalrymple, you will have an opportunity of judging for yourself."

"I fear not," he replied, taking out his watch; "it is now eight

o'clock, and Mrs. Richards seldom walks much after nine."

The two girls now withdrew their arms, and hastened forward to the group

of which Mr. Cartwright made one. Fanny Mowbray held out her hand to

him, which was taken and held very affectionately for two or three

minutes.

"You have been enjoying this balmy air," said he to her in a voice

sweetly modulated to the hour and the theme. "It is heaven's own breath,

Miss Fanny, and to such a mind as yours must utter accents worthy of the

source from whence it comes."

Fanny's beautiful eyes were fixed upon his face, and almost seemed to

say,

"When you speak, I'd have you do it ever."

"I do not think he recollects me," whispered Mary Richards in her ear:

"I wish you'd introduce me."

Fanny Mowbray started, but recovering herself, said, "Mr. Cartwright,

give me leave to introduce my friend Miss Mary Richards to you. She is

one of your parishioners, and one that you will find capable of

appreciating the happiness of being so."

Mr. Cartwright extended his pastoral hand to the young lady with a most

gracious smile.

"Bless you both!" said he, joining their hands between both of his. "To

lead you together in the path in which we must all wish to go, would be

a task that might give a foretaste of the heaven we sought!"

He then turned towards Mrs. Mowbray, and with a look and tone which

showed that though he never alluded to her situation, he never forgot

it, he inquired how far she had extended her ramble.

"Much farther than I intended when I set out," replied Mrs. Mowbray.

"But my children, the weather, and the hay, altogether beguiled me to

the bottom of Farmer Bennet's great meadow."

"Quite right, quite right," replied Mr. Cartwright, with something

approaching almost to fervour of approbation: "this species of quiet

courage, of gentle submission, is just what I expected from Mrs.

Mowbray. It is the sweetest incense that you can offer to Heaven; and

Heaven will repay it."

Mrs. Mowbray looked up at his mild countenance, and saw a moisture in

his eye that spoke more tender pity than he would permit his lips to

utter. It touched her to the heart.

Mrs. Richards, who was something of a florist, was examining, with the

assistance of Rosalind, some new geraniums that were placed on circular

stands outside the drawing-room, filling the spaces between the windows.

As this occupation had drawn them from the rest of the party from the

time Mr. Cartwright approached to join it, they had not yet received

that gentleman's salutation, and he now went up to them.

"Miss Torrington looks as if she were discoursing of her kindred. Are

these fair blossoms the children of your especial care?"

"They are the children of the gardener and the greenhouse, I believe,"

she replied carelessly, and stepped on to another stand.

"Mrs. Richards, I believe?" said the graceful vicar, taking off his hat

to her.

"I hope you are well, Mr. Cartwright?" replied the lady, following the

steps of Rosalind.

The two eldest Misses Richards were still assiduously besieging the two

ears of Helen; but as the subjects of which they discoursed did not

always require the same answers, she began to feel considerable fatigue

from the exertion necessary for carrying on this double conversation,

and was therefore not sorry to see Mr. Cartwright approach them, which

must, she thought, produce a diversion in her favour. But she found that

the parties were still personally strangers to each other; for though

his bow was general, his address was only to herself.

"And have you, too, Miss Mowbray, been venturing upon as long a walk as

the rest of the party?"

"We have all walked the same distance, Mr. Cartwright; but I believe we

none of us consider it to be very far. We are all good walkers."

"I rejoice to hear it, for it is the way to become good Christians.

Where or how can we meet and _meetly_ examine the works of the great

Creator so well as on the carpet he has spread, and beneath the azure

canopy which his hands have reared above us?--The Misses Richards, I

believe? May I beg an introduction, Miss Mowbray?"

"Mr. Cartwright, Miss Richards--Miss Charlotte Richards," said Helen,

without adding another word.

"I need hardly ask if you are walkers," said the vicar, as he passed a

smiling and apparently an approving glance over their rather remarkable

length of limb. "Your friends, Miss Mowbray, look like young antelopes

ready to bound over the fair face of Nature; and their eyes look as if

there were intelligence within wherewith to read her aright."

"Mamma is going into tea, I believe," said Helen, moving off.

The whole manner and demeanour of the two Misses Richards had changed

from the moment Mr. Cartwright approached. They became quite silent and

demure; but as they followed Helen, one on each side of him, they

coloured with pleasure as he addressed a gentle word, first to one, then

to the other; and when, after entering the drawing-room, he left them

for the purpose of making his farewell bow, or the semblance of it, to

Mrs. Mowbray, Miss Louisa whispered to Miss Charlotte, "Little Mary is

quite right: he _is_ the most delightful man in the world."

"You are not going to leave us, Mr. Cartwright?" said Mrs. Mowbray

kindly. "We are going to tea this moment."

"You are very obliging; but I had no intention of intruding on you

thus."

"Pray do not call it an intrusion. We shall be always most happy to see

you. I only wish your son and daughter were with us also."

"My daughter, thank you, is a sad invalid; and Jacob generally wanders

farther afield in such weather as this.... Is that gentleman Major

Dalrymple? May I ask you to introduce me?"

"I shall have much pleasure in doing so, I am sure. He is a very amiable

and estimable person."

Mrs. Mowbray crossed the room towards him, followed by the vicar. The

introduction took place, and the two gentlemen conversed together for a

few minutes on the ordinary topics of Russia, the harvest, the

slave-trade, and reform. On every subject, except the harvest, which Mr.

Cartwright despatched by declaring that it would be peculiarly abundant,

the reverend gentleman expressed himself with an unusual flow of words,

in sentences particularly well constructed; yet nevertheless his

opinions seemed enveloped in a mist; and when Mrs. Richards afterwards

asked the major his opinion of the new vicar, he replied that he thought

his manners very gentlemanlike and agreeable, but that he did not

perfectly remember what opinions he had expressed on any subject.

At first the company seemed inclined to disperse themselves in knots

about the room; but by degrees Mr. Cartwright very skilfully contrived,

on one pretence or another, to collect them all round a table that was

covered with the usual incitements to talk, and the conversation became

general. At least Mr. Cartwright was very generally listened to; the

major did not speak at all; and the ladies did little more than agree

with and applaud from time to time the placid, even, dulcet flow of

words which fell like a gentle rivulet from the lips of their new vicar.

This description, indeed, would not apply quite generally to all the

ladies; but the majority in his favour was five to three, and with this

advantage,--that whereas his admirers were loud and eloquent in their

expressions of approval, the minority contented themselves by preserving

silence.

CHAPTER IX.

HELEN AND ROSALIND CALL UPON SIR GILBERT HARRINGTON

Helen Mowbray knew that the choleric friend whose gentler feelings she

wished to propitiate was an early riser himself, and was never better

disposed to be well pleased with others than when they showed themselves

capable of following his example. She was therefore anxious to arrive at

his house in time to have the conversation she sought, yet dreaded,

before nine o'clock, the usual family breakfast-hour; though in the

shooting-season Sir Gilbert generally contrived to coax my lady and her

housekeeper to have hot rolls smoking on the table by eight. But,

luckily for the young ladies' morning repose, it was not

shooting-season; and they calculated that if they started about half

past seven they should have time for their walk, and a reasonably long

conversation afterwards, before the breakfast, to which they looked as

the pacific conclusion of the negotiation, should be ready.

At half past seven, accordingly, the fair friends met at the door of

Rosalind's dressing-room, and set off, fearless, though unattended,

through the shrubberies, the park, the flowery lanes, and finally,

across one or two hay-fields, which separated the two mansions.

Nothing can be better calculated to raise the animal spirits than an

early walk in the gay month of June; and on those not accustomed to the

elasticity, the freshness, the exhilarating clearness of the morning

air, the effect is like enchantment. All the sad thoughts which had of

late so constantly brooded round Helen's heart seemed to withdraw their

painful pressure, and she again felt conscious of the luxury of life,

with youth, health, and innocence, a clear sky, bright verdure, flowery

banks, and shady hedge-rows, to adorn it.

Rosalind, by an irresistible impulse of gaiety, joined her voice to

those of the blackbirds that carolled near her, till she was stopped by

Helen's exclaiming, "Rosalind, I feel courage for anything this

morning!"

"Yes," answered her companion, "let Sir Gilbert appear in any shape but

that of the Vicar of Wrexhill, and I should great him with a degree of

confidence and kindness that I am positive would be irresistible."

They were now within a short distance of the baronet's grounds, and

another step brought their courage to the proof; for on mounting a

stepping-stile which had originally been placed for the especial

accommodation of the Mowbray ladies, they perceived the redoubtable Sir

Gilbert at the distance of fifty paces, in the act of removing an

offending dock-root with his spud.

He raised his eyes, and recognising his young visitors, stepped eagerly

forward to meet them. To Rosalind, however, though usually a great

favourite, he now paid not the slightest attention; but taking Helen in

his arms, kissing her on both cheeks and on the forehead, and then

looking her in the face very much as if he were going to weep over her,

he exclaimed,

"My poor, poor child!... Why did not you bring poor Fanny too?... You

are right to come away, quite right, my dear child: it's dreadful to

live in dependence upon any one's caprice for one's daily bread! Your

home shall be here, Helen, and Fanny's too, as long as you like. Come,

my dear, take my arm: my lady will dance, you may depend upon it, when

she sees you, for we have had dreadful work about keeping her from

Mowbray! I'd just as soon keep a wild cat in order as your godmother,

Helen, when she takes a fancy: but you know, my dear, her going to

Mowbray was a thing not to be thought of, You are a good girl to

come--it shows that you see the matter rightly. I wish Fanny were here

too!"

All this was said with great rapidity, and without pausing for any

answer. Meanwhile he had drawn Helen's arm within his, and was leading

her towards the house.

Rosalind followed them quietly for a few steps; and then, either moved

thereto by the feeling of courage her walk had inspired, or from some

latent consciousness of the baronet's partiality to herself, she boldly

stepped up and took his arm on the other side.

"Bless my soul, Miss Torrington!... by the honour of a knight, I never

saw you; nor do I think I should have seen a regiment of young ladies,

though they had been all as handsome as yourself, if they had happened

to come with my poor dear Helen. It was very good of you to walk over

with her, poor little thing!... Your fortune is quite safe and

independent, my dear, isn't it? Nobody's doing a foolish thing can

involve you in any way, can it?"

"Not unless the foolish thing happened to be done by myself, Sir

Gilbert."

"That's a great blessing, my dear,--a very great blessing!... And you'll

be kind to our two poor girls, won't you, my dear?"

"I have more need that they should be kind to me--and so they are,--and

we are all very kind to one another; and if you will be but very kind

too, and come and see us all as you used to do, we shall be very happy

again in time."

"Stuff and nonsense, child!... You may come here, I tell you, and see me

as much as you like, under my own roof,--because I know who that belongs

to, and all about it; but I promise you that you will never see me going

to houses that don't belong to their right owner,--it would not suit me

in the least--quite out of my way; I should be making some confounded

blunder, and talking to poor Charles about his estate and his

property:--poor fellow! and he not worth sixpence in the world."

During all this time Helen had not spoken a word. They had now nearly

reached the house; and drawing her arm away, she held out her hand to

Sir Gilbert, and said in a very humble and beseeching tone,

"Sir Gilbert!... may I speak to you alone for a few minutes?"

"Speak to me, child?--what about? Is it about a sweet-heart? Is it about

wanting pocket-money, my poor child?--I'm executor to your father's

will, you know, Helen; and if you were starving in a ditch, and Fanny in

another, and poor Charles begging his bread on the high road, I have not

the power of giving either of ye a shilling of his property, though he

has left above fourteen thousand a year!"

Sir Gilbert was now lashing himself into a rage that it was evident

would render the object of Helen's visit abortive if she attempted to

bring it forward now. She exchanged a glance with Rosalind, who shook

her head, and the next moment contrived to whisper in her ear, "Wait

till after breakfast."

Sir Gilbert was now striding up the steps to the hall-door: the two

girls silently followed him, and were probably neither of them sorry to

see Colonel Harrington coming forward to meet them.

This young man had for the two or three last years seen but little of

the Mowbray family, having been abroad during nearly the whole of that

time; but he returned with something very like a tender recollection of

Helen's having been the prettiest little nymph at fifteen that he had

ever beheld, and her appearance at this moment was not calculated to

make him think she had lost her delicate beauty during his absence. Her

slight tall figure was shown to great advantage by her mourning dress;

and the fair and abundant curls that crowded round her face, now a

little flushed by exercise and agitation, made her altogether as pretty

a creature in her peculiar style as a young soldier would wish to look

upon.

The coal-black hair and sparkling dark eyes of Rosalind, her ruby lips

and pearl-like teeth, her exquisite little figure, and the general air

of piquant vivacity which made her perfectly radiant when animated,

rendered her in most eyes the more attractive of the two; but Colonel

Harrington did not think so; and giving her one glance of

curiosity,--for he had never seen her before,--he decided, that neither

she, nor any other woman he had ever beheld, could compare in loveliness

with his former friend and favourite.

His greeting to Helen was just what might be expected from a man who had

known her with great intimacy when she was some half-dozen inches

shorter, and who felt the strongest possible desire to renew the

acquaintance with as little delay as possible.

"Helen Mowbray!" he exclaimed, springing forward and seizing her hand,

"how delighted I am to see you! How is dear little Fanny?--how is

Charles? I trust you have none of you forgotten me?"

Helen blushed deeply at the unexpected ardour of this address from a

very tall, handsome, fashionable-looking personage, whose face she

certainly would not have recognised had she met him accidentally: but a

happy smile accompanied the blush, and he had no reason to regret the

politic freedom of his first salutation, which had thus enabled him to

pass over an infinity of gradations towards the intimacy he coveted, at

one single step placing him at once on the footing of a familiar friend.

It was indeed nearly impossible that Helen could be offended by the

freedom; for not only was it sanctioned by the long-established union of

their two families, but at this moment she could not but be pleased at

finding another dear old friend in the garrison, who would be sure to

add his influence to that of her godmother, that what she so greatly

wished to obtain should not be refused.

Before they reached the breakfast-room, therefore, the most perfect

understanding was established between them. Her friend Miss Torrington

was gaily introduced, for her heart felt gladdened by this important

addition to her supporters in the cause she had undertaken; and she was

disposed to believe that Rosalind's proposal to make this alarming visit

would turn out to have been one of the most fortunate things that ever

happened.

Within the breakfast-room, and approachable by no other access, was a

small room, known throughout the mansion, and indeed throughout the

neighbourhood also, as "My Lady's Closet." This sacred retreat was an

oblong room, about eighteen feet by eight; a large and lofty window

occupied nearly one end of it, across which was placed a deal-dresser or

table of three feet wide, filling the entire space between the walls.

The whole room was lined with shelves and drawers, the former of which

were for the most part sheltered by heavy crimson damask curtains. A few

small tables stood scattered here and there; and the sole accommodation

for sitting consisted of one high stool, such as laundresses use when

ironing.

To the door of this apartment Sir Gilbert approached, and there

reverently stopped; for by the law of the land, even he, though a pretty

extensively privileged personage, was permitted to go no farther, unless

licensed by an especial warrant from its mistress.

"My lady," he said, in the cheerful lusty voice that announces

agreeable tidings,--"My lady, I have brought home company to breakfast."

"Have you, Sir Knight?" replied Lady Harrington, without turning her

head, or otherwise interrupting herself in the performance of some

apparently delicate process upon which she was occupied.

"I'd rather have Mrs. Bluebeard for a wife than such an incurious old

soul as you are!" said the testy baronet.--"And so you have not even the

grace to ask who it is?"

"Why, my dear Sir Tiger, I shall be sure to know within two minutes

after Tomkins gives his passing thump to announce that he is carrying in

the coffee; then why should I disturb this fairest of the Pentandria

class?--my charming high-dried mirabilis?"

"The devil take you, and all your classes, orders, and tribes, to his

own hothouse!--I'll be hanged if I don't lock you into your den while I

breakfast with her;--you shan't see her at all!"

"Mother! mother!" exclaimed the colonel hastily, to anticipate the

execution of the threat--"it is Helen Mowbray!"

"Helen Mowbray!" cried the old lady, thrusting her hot smoothing-iron on

one side, and her blossom blotting-paper on the other, while the

precious mirabilis fell to the ground; "Helen Mowbray!" and pushing

aside the baronet by no very gentle movement of her tall and substantial

person, she rushed forward, and Helen was speedily folded in a very

close embrace.

"There, there, there! don't stifle the girl, old lady!--And supposing

you were to bestow one little monosyllable of civility upon this pretty

creature, Miss Torrington, who stands smiling at us all like an angel,

though every soul amongst us is as rude as a bear to her.--I don't

believe you ever found yourself so entirely neglected before, my dear?"

"I have never witnessed attention more gratifying to me than that which

I have seen displayed this morning," replied Rosalind.

"You are a good girl, a very good girl, my dear, and I shall always love

you for coming over with this poor dear disinherited child."

"Miss Torrington, I am delighted to see you, now and ever, my dear

young lady," said Lady Harrington, who, when she chose it, could be as

dignified, and as courteous too, as any lady in the land.

"You have walked over, I am sure, by the bright freshness of your looks.

Now, then, sit down one on each side of me, that I may be able to see

you without hoisting a _lunette d'approche_ across this prodigious

table."

"And so, because your ladyship is near-sighted," said Sir Gilbert,

"William and I are to sit at this awful distance from these beautiful

damsels? You are a tiresome old soul as ever lived!"

"And that's the reason you appear so profoundly melancholy and miserable

at this moment," said Lady Harrington, looking with no trifling degree

of satisfaction at the radiant good-humour and happiness which the

unexpected arrival of Helen had caused to be visible in the countenance

of her boisterous husband. "Do you find William much altered, Helen?"

she continued. "I wonder if any one has had the grace to present Colonel

Harrington to Miss Torrington?"

"Helen did me that kind office," said the colonel, "and I suppose she

must do the same for me to little Fanny. I long to see if she continues

as surpassingly beautiful as she was when I took my sad, reluctant leave

of Mowbray Park."

Rosalind immediately became answerable for the undiminished beauty of

Fanny, adding to her report on this point a declaration that the whole

family were anxious to renew their acquaintance with him.

This was the nearest approach that any of the party ventured to make

towards the mention of Mowbray Park or its inhabitants. Nevertheless,

the breakfast passed cheerfully, and even without a word from Sir

Gilbert in allusion to the destitute condition of Helen, and her brother

and sister. But when even the baronet had disposed of his last

egg-shell, pushed the ham fairly away from him, and swallowed his last

bowl of tea, the beautiful colour of Helen began gradually to deepen;

she ceased to speak, and hardly seemed to hear what was said to her.

Rosalind took the hint, and with more tact than is usually found in the

possession of seventeen and a half, she said to Lady Harrington,

"If I promise to keep my hands not only from picking and stealing, but

from touching, will your ladyship indulge me with a sight of your press,

and your boxes, and a volume or two of your _hortus siccus_? for I feel

considerable aspirations after the glory of becoming a botanist myself."

"My ladyship will show you something infinitely more to the purpose,

then, if you will come to the hothouse with me," replied Lady

Harrington, rising, and giving an intelligible glance to her son as she

did so, which immediately caused him to rise and follow her. "I cannot

take you where I should be sure to overhear them, my dear," she added in

a whisper as she led Rosalind from the room; "for if my rough diamond

should chance to be too rough with her, I should infallibly burst out

upon them; and yet I know well enough that I should do nothing but

mischief."

Helen was thus left alone with the kind-hearted but pertinacious

baronet. He seemed to have a misgiving of the attack that was about to

be opened upon him; for he made a fidgetty movement in his chair, pushed

it back, and looked so very much inclined to run away, that Helen saw no

time was to be lost, and, in a voice not over-steady, said,

"I want to speak to you, Sir Gilbert, about my dear mamma. I fear from

what you said to Charles, and more still by nobody's coming from Oakley

to see us, that you are angry with her.--If it is about the will, Sir

Gilbert, you do her great injustice: I am very, very sure that she

neither wished for such a will, nor knew any thing about it."

"It is very pretty and dutiful in you, Miss Helen, to say so, and to

think so too if you can. Perhaps I might have done the same at nineteen;

but at sixty-five, child, one begins to know a little better what signs

and tokens mean.--There is no effect without a cause, Miss Helen. The

effect in this affair is already pretty visible to all eyes, and will

speedily become more so, you may depend upon it. The cause may be still

hid from babes and sucklings, but not from an old fellow like me, who

knew your poor father, girl, before you were hatched or thought of,--and

knew him to be both a good and a wise man, who would never have done the

deed he did unless under the influence of one as ever near and ever dear

to him as your mother."

"You have known my mother too, Sir Gilbert, for many, many years:--did

you ever see in her any symptom of the character you now attribute to

her?"

"If I had, Miss Helen, I should not loathe and abominate her hypocrisy

as I now do. I will never see her more--for all our sakes: for if I did,

I know right well that I could not restrain my indignation within

moderate bounds."

"Then certainly it would be better that you should not see her," said

the weeping Helen: "for indeed, sir, I think such unmerited indignation

would almost kill her."

"If you knew any thing about the matter, child, you would be aware that

_merited_ indignation would be more likely to disagree with her.

Unmerited indignation does one no harm in the world, as I can testify

from experience; for my lady is dreadfully indignant, as I dare say you

guess, at my keeping her and William away from Mowbray Park: and it's

ten to one but you will be indignant too, child;--but I can't help it. I

love you all three very much, Helen; but I must do what I think right,

for all that."

"Not indignant, Sir Gilbert;--at least, that would not be the prevailing

feeling with me, though a sense of injustice might make it so with my

poor mother. What I shall feel will be grief--unceasing grief, if the

friend my beloved father most valued and esteemed continues to refuse

his countenance and affection to the bereaved family he has left."

From the time this conversation began, Sir Gilbert had been striding up

and down the room, as it was always his custom to do when he felt

himself in a rage, or was conscious that he was about to be so. He now

stopped opposite Helen; and while something very like tenderness almost

impeded his utterance, he said,

"That's trash--abominable false trash! Miss Helen. After what's passed

to-day, to say nothing of times past, you must know well enough that I'm

not likely to refuse my countenance and affection to your father's

children;--bereaved they are, sure enough! You know as well as I do,

that I love you all three--for your own sakes, girl, as well as for

his;--and your pretending to doubt it, was a hit of trumpery womanhood,

Helen,--so never make use of it again: for you see I understand the

sex,--and that's just the reason why I like my old woman better than any

other _she_ in the wide world;--she never tries any make-believe tricks

upon me."

"Believe me, Sir Gilbert," said Helen, smiling, "I hate tricks as much

as my godmother can: and if it were otherwise, you are the last person I

should try them upon. But how can we think you love us, if you will not

come near Mowbray?"

"You may think it, and know it, very easily, child, by the welcome you

shall always find here. It is very likely that you may not be long

comfortable at home; and before it happens, remember I have told you

that you shall always have a home at Oakley: but it must not be on

condition of bringing your mother with you; for see her I will not,--and

there's an end."

Helen remained silent. She felt painfully convinced that, at least for

the present, she should gain nothing by arguing the cause of her mother

any farther; and after a long pause, during which Sir Gilbert continued

to pace up and down before her, she rose, and sighing deeply, said,

"I believe it is time for us to return.--Good-b'ye, Sir Gilbert."

There was something in the tone of her voice which very nearly overset

all the sturdy resolution of the baronet; but instead of yielding to the

weakness, as he would have called it, like a skilful general he marched

off the field with his colours still flying, and certainly without

giving his adversary any reasonable ground to hope for victory.

"They are all in the hothouse, I believe," said he, walking before Helen

to a door of the hall which opened upon the beautiful gardens. "You have

not seen my lady's heaths for many a day, Helen:--she'll be savage if

you go without taking a look at them."

Helen followed without saying a word in reply, for her heart was full;

and when she joined the trio who had so considerately left her to the

uninterrupted possession of Sir Gilbert's ear, there was no need of any

questioning on their part, or answering on hers, to put them all in full

possession of the result of the tete-a-tete.

It would be difficult to say which of the three looked most vexed:

perhaps Lady Harrington gave the strongest outward demonstrations of

what she felt on the occasion.

She glanced frowningly at Sir Gilbert, who looked as if he intended to

say something amiable, and seizing upon Helen's two hands, kissed them

both, exclaiming, "Dearest and best! what a heart of flint must that

being have who could find the cruel strength to pain thee!"

Colonel Harrington, who, discomposed and disappointed, had thrown

himself on a bench, gave his mother a very grateful look for this; while

Rosalind, after examining her sad countenance for a moment, pressed

closely to her friend and whispered, "Let us go, Helen."

Poor Helen had no inclination to delay her departure; and knowing that

her partial godmother was fully capable of understanding her feelings,

she said, returning her carresses,

"Do not keep me a moment longer, dearest friend, for fear I should weep!

and then I am sure he would call it a trick."

"I will not keep you, Helen," replied Lady Harrington aloud. "You have

come on a mission of love and peace; and if I mistake not that heavy eye

and feverish cheek, you have failed. Poor child! she does not look like

the same creature that she did an hour and a half ago--does she,

William?"

"Adieu, Lady Harrington!" said Helen, the big tears rolling down her

cheeks despite her struggles to prevent them. "Good morning, Colonel

Harrington;--farewell, Sir Gilbert!"

"This is hard, Miss Torrington!" said the baronet, turning from Helen's

offered hand; "this is confounded hard! I'm doing my duty, and acting

according to my conscience as a man of honour, and yet I shall be made

to believe that Nero was a dove, and Bluebeard a babe of grace, compared

to me!"

But Miss Torrington being in no humour to answer him playfully, said

gravely,

"I am very sorry we broke in upon you so unadvisedly, Sir Gilbert. It is

plain our hopes have not been realised."

The young lady bowed silently to the colonel, and taking a short

farewell of Lady Harrington, but one in which mutual kindness was

mutually understood, she took the arm of her discomfited friend, and

they proceeded towards a little gate in the iron fencing which divided

the garden from the paddock in front of the house.

"And you won't shake hands with me, Helen!" said Sir Gilbert, following.

"Do not say so, sir," replied Helen, turning back and holding out her

hand.

"And when shall we see you here again?"

"Whenever you will come and fetch me, Sir Gilbert," she replied,

endeavouring to look cheerful. He took her hand, wrung it, and turned

away without speaking.

"Your interdict, sir," said Colonel Harrington, "does not, I hope,

extend beyond Mowbray Park paling?--I trust I may be permitted to take

care of these young ladies as far as the lodges?"

"If you did not do it, you know very well that I should, you puppy!"

replied his father: and so saying, he turned into a walk which led in a

direction as opposite as possible from that which his ireful lady had

chosen.

Colonel Harrington felt that it required some exertion of his

conversational powers to bring his fair companions back to the tone of

cheerful familiarity which had reigned among them all at the

breakfast-table; but the exertion was made, and so successfully, that

before the walk was ended a feeling of perfect confidence was

established between them. When they were about to part, he said,

"My mother and I shall labour, and cease not, to work our way through

the _ecorce_ to the kernel of my good father's heart; and there we shall

find exactly the material we want, of which to form a reconciliation

between your mother and him.--Farewell, Helen!--farewell, Miss

Torrington! I trust that while the interdict lasts, chance will

sometimes favour our meeting beyond the forbidden precincts."

He stepped forward to open the Park gate for them, shook hands, uttered

another "Farewell!" and departed.

CHAPTER X.

MRS. MOWBRAY CONSULTS MR. CARTWRIGHT UPON THE SUBJECT OF HER LATE

HUSBAND'S WILL.

The first person they encountered on entering the house was Fanny.

"Where _have_ you been!" she exclaimed. "My mother is half frightened to

death. Do go to her this moment, Helen, to set her heart at ease."

"Where is she, Fanny?" inquired Helen, with a sigh, as she remembered

how little the answers she must necessarily give to the questions she

would be sure to ask were likely to produce that effect.

"In her dressing-room, Helen. But where _have_ you been?"

"To Oakley."

"Good gracious, Helen!--and without asking mamma's leave?"

"I did it with a good intention, Fanny. Do you think I was wrong in

endeavouring to restore the intimacy that has been so cruelly

interrupted? Do you think mamma will be very angry? I am sure it was

chiefly for her sake that I went."

"No, I am sure she will not when you tell her that. But come directly: I

do assure you she has been seriously uneasy.--Did you find Sir Gilbert

very savage, Rosalind?"

"_Pas mal_, my dear."

Another moment brought them to Mrs. Mowbray. "Thank Heaven!" was her

first exclamation on seeing them; and the repetition of Fanny's emphatic

"Where _have_ you been?" followed it.

"Dearest mother!" said Helen, fondly embracing her, "do not chide us

very severely, even if we have been wrong; for indeed we meant to be

very, very right; and when we set out the expedition appeared to us

anything but a pleasant one. We have been to Oakley."

"I am too thankful at seeing you returned in safety, my dear girls, to

be very angry at any thing. But do tell me, Helen, what could have

induced you to volunteer a visit to the only people who have been unkind

to us since your poor father's death?"

"In the hope, mamma, of putting an end to an estrangement which I

thought was very painful to you."

"Dearest Helen! it was just like you! And have you succeeded, my love?"

"No, mamma, I have not."

Mrs. Mowbray coloured.

"And pray, Helen, have they explained to you the cause of their

extraordinary and most unfeeling conduct?"

"Do not say _they_, dearest mother! Lady Harrington is greatly

distressed at Sir Gilbert's conduct: so is the colonel, who is just come

home. Whatever fault there may be, it is Sir Gilbert's alone."

"Did he, then, explain himself to you?"

Helen remained silent.

"I must request, Helen," resumed her mother, "that you make no farther

mystery about the Harringtons. I am willing to excuse the strange step

you took this morning; but I shall be seriously displeased if you refuse

to tell me what passed during your visit. Of what is it that Sir Gilbert

accuses me?"

"I pointed out to him, mamma, the injustice of being angry with you

because papa made a will that he did not approve."

"Well, Helen! and what did he say to that?"

"Upon my word, mamma, I could not find a shadow of reason in any thing

he said."

"You evade my questions, Helen. I insist upon knowing what it is that

Sir Gilbert lays to my charge.--Helen!--do you refuse to answer me?"

"Oh no, mamma!--but you cannot think how painful it would be for me to

repeat it!"

"I cannot help it, Helen: you have brought this pain on yourself by your

very unadvised visit of this morning. But since you have gone to the

house of one who has declared himself my enemy, you must let me know

exactly what it is he has chosen to accuse me of; unless you mean that I

should imagine you wish to shield him from my resentment because you

think him right."

"Oh, my mother!" cried Helen; "what a word is that!"

"Well, then, do not trifle with me any longer, but repeat at once all

that you heard him say."

Thus urged, poor Helen stated Sir Gilbert's very unjust suspicions

respecting the influence used to induce Mr. Mowbray to make the will he

had left. It was in vain she endeavoured to modify and soften the

accusation,--the resentment and indignation of Mrs. Mowbray were

unbounded; and Helen had the deep mortification of perceiving that the

only result of her enterprise was to have rendered the breach she so

greatly wished to repair a hundred times wider than before.

"And this man, with these base and vile suspicions, is the person your

father has left as joint executor with me!--What a situation does this

place me in! Did he make any allusion to this, Helen?--did he say any

thing of the necessary business that we have, most unfortunately, to

transact together?"

"No, mamma, he did not."

A long silence followed this question and answer. Mrs. Mowbray appeared

to suffer greatly, and in fact she did so. Nothing could be farther from

the truth than the idea Sir Gilbert Harrington had conceived, and its

injustice revolted and irritated her to a degree that she never before

experienced against any human being. That Helen should have listened to

such an accusation, pained her extremely; and a feeling in some degree

allied to displeasure against her mingled with the disagreeable

meditations in which she was plunged.

"My head aches dreadfully!" she said at last. "Fanny, give me my shawl

and parasol: I will try what a walk in the fresh air will do for me."

"May I go with you, mamma?" said Helen.

"No, my dear; you have had quite walking enough. Fanny has not been out

at all: she may come with me."

These words were both natural and reasonable, but there was something in

them that smote Helen to the heart. She fondly loved her mother, and,

for the first time, she suspected that her heart and feelings were not

understood.

Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny had just walked through the library windows into

the garden, when they perceived Mr. Cartwright approaching the house.

They both uttered an exclamation of pleasure at perceiving him, and

Fanny said eagerly, "He must see us, mamma! Do not let him go all the

way round to the hall-door! May we not walk across and meet him?"

"To be sure. Run forward, Fanny; and when he sees you coming to him, he

will turn this way."

She was not mistaken: Fanny had not made three steps in advance of her

mother, before Mr. Cartwright turned from the road, and passing through

a gate in the invisible fence, joined her in a moment.

"How kind this is of you!" said he as he drew near;--"to appear thus

willing to receive again an intruder, whose quick return must lead you

to suspect that you are in danger of being haunted by him! And so I

think you are, Miss Fanny; and I will be generous enough to tell you at

once, that if you greet me thus kindly, I shall hardly know how to keep

away from Mowbray Park."

"But mamma is so glad to see you," said Fanny, blushing beautifully,

"that I am sure you need not try to keep away!"

Mrs. Mowbray now drew near to answer for herself; which she did very

cordially, assuring him that she considered these friendly and

unceremonious visits as the greatest kindness he could show her.

"It will be long, I think," said she, "before I shall have courage

sufficient to invite any one to this mournful and sadly-altered mansion:

but those whose friendship I really value will, I trust, have the

charity to come to us without waiting for an invitation."

"I wish I could prove to you, my dear madam," replied Mr. Cartwright

with respectful tenderness, "how fervently I desire to serve you: but,

surrounded by old and long-tried friends as you must be, how can a

new-comer and a stranger hope to be useful?"

This was touching a very tender point--and it is just possible that Mr.

Cartwright was aware of it, as he was present at the reading of the

will, and heard Sir Gilbert Harrington's first burst of rage on becoming

acquainted with its contents. But Mrs. Mowbray had either forgotten this

circumstance, or, feeling deeply disturbed at the fresh proof which

Helen had brought her of the falling off of an old friend, was disposed

to revert anew to it, in the hope of moving the compasssion and

propitiating the kindness of a new one.

"Alas! my dear sir," she said feelingly, "even old friends will

sometimes fail us; and then it is that we ought to thank God for such

happy accidents as that which has placed near us one so able and kindly

willing to supply their place as yourself.--Fanny, my love, the business

on which I have to speak is a painful one: go to your sister, dearest,

while I ask our kind friend's advice respecting this unhappy business."

"Good-b'ye then, Mr. Cartwright," said Fanny, holding out her hand to

him.--"But perhaps I shall see you again as you go away, for I shall be

in the garden."

"Bless you, my dear child!" said he fervently, as he led her a few steps

towards the shrubberies; "God bless, and have you in his holy keeping!"

"What an especial blessing have you, my dear friend," he said, returning

to Mrs. Mowbray, "in that charming child!--Watch over her, and guard her

from all evil! for she is one who, if guided in that only path which

leads to good, will be a saving and a precious treasure to all who

belong to her: but if led astray--alas! the guilt that the downfall of

so pure a spirit would entail on those whose duty it is to watch over

her!"

"She is indeed an excellent young creature!" said the proud mother,

whose darling the lovely Fanny had ever been; "but I think she wants

less guiding than any child I ever saw,--and it has always been so. She

learned faster than she could be taught; and her temper is so sweet, and

her heart so affectionate, that I really do not remember that she has

ever deserved a reprimand in her life."

"May the precepts of her admirable mother ever keep her thus!" said Mr.

Cartwright, as they seated themselves in the library, into which they

had entered. "But, oh! my dear lady! know you not that it is just such

sweet and gifted creatures as your Fanny that the Evil One seeks for his

own?--Nay, look not thus terrified, my excellent, my exemplary

friend,--look not thus terrified: if it be thus, as most surely it

is--think you that we are left without help to resist? My dear, my

admirable Mrs. Mowbray! yours is the hand appointed to lead this fair

and attractive being unspotted through the world. If great--awfully

great, as assuredly it is, be the responsibility, great--unspeakably

great, will be the reward. Then tremble not, dear friend! watch and

pray, and this unmeasurable reward shall be yours!"

Mrs. Mowbray, however, did tremble; but her trembling was accompanied by

a sweet and well-pleased consciousness of being considered by the

excellent man beside her as capable of leading this darling child to

eternal happiness and glory. The look, the accent of Mr. Cartwright went

farther than his words to convince her that he believed this power to be

hers, and she gazed at him with something of the reverence and humble

love with which Catholics contemplate the effigies of the saints they

worship.

"But what was the business, the painful business, my poor friend, upon

which you wished to consult me, before that vision of light had drawn

all our attention upon herself? What was it, my dear Mrs. Mowbray, you

wished to say to me?"

"I am hardly justified, I fear, Mr. Cartwright, thus early in our

acquaintance, in taking up your valuable time in listening to my sorrows

and my wrongs; but in truth I have both to bear; and I have at this

moment no friend near me to whom I can apply for advice how to proceed

with business that puzzles almost as much as it distresses me. May I,

then, my dear sir, intrude on your kindness for half an hour, while I

state to you the singular predicament in which I am placed?"

"Were it not, as most assuredly it is--were it not, dearest Mrs.

Mowbray, a true and deep-felt pleasure to me to believe that I might

possibly be useful to you, it would be my especial and bounden duty to

strive to be so. For what are the ministers of the Most High placed

amidst the people? wherefore are their voices raised, so that all should

hear them? Is it not, my friend, because their lives, their souls, their

bodies, are devoted to the service of those committed by Providence to

their care? And, trust me, the minister who would shrink from this is

unworthy--utterly unworthy the post to which he has been called. Speak,

then, dearest Mrs. Mowbray, as to one bound alike by duty and the most

fervent good-will to aid and assist you to the utmost extent of his

power."

The great natural gift of Mr. Cartwright was the power of making his

voice, his eye, and the flexible muscles of his handsome mouth, echo,

and, as it were reverberate and reiterate every word he spoke, giving to

his language a power beyond its own. What he now said was uttered

rapidly, but with an apparent depth and intensity of feeling that

brought tears of mingled gratitude and admiration to the eyes of Mrs.

Mowbray. After a moment given to this not unpleasing emotion, she said,

"It was from you, Mr. Cartwright, if I remember rightly, that I first

heard the enactments of my husband's will. When I give you my word, as I

now most solemnly do, that I had never during his life the slightest

knowledge of what that will was to be, I think you will believe me."

"Believe you!" exclaimed Mr. Cartwright. "Is there on earth a being

sufficiently depraved to doubt an assertion so vouched by you?"

"Oh, Mr. Cartwright! if all men had your generous, and, I will say, just

confidence in me, I should not now be in the position I am! But Sir

Gilbert Harrington, the person most unhappily chosen by Mr. Mowbray as

joint executor with myself, is persuaded that this generous will was

made in my favour solely in consequence of my artful influence over him;

and so deeply does he resent this imputed crime, that instead of

standing forward, as he ought to do, as the protector and agent of his

friend's widow, he loads the memory of that friend with insult, and

oppresses me with scorn and revilings, the more bitter because conveyed

to me by my own child."

Mrs. Mowbray wept.--Mr. Cartwright hid his face with his hands, and for

some moments seemed fearful of betraying all he felt. At length he fixed

his eyes upon her--eyes moistened by a tear, and in a low, deep voice

that seemed to indicate an inward struggle, he uttered, "_Vengeance is

mine, saith the Lord_!"

He closed his eyes, and sat for a moment silent,--then added, "Perhaps

of all the trials to which we are exposed in this world of temptation,

the obeying this mandate is the most difficult! But, like all uttered by

its Divine Author, it is blessed alike by its authority and its use.

Without it!--my friend! without it, would not my hand be grappling the

throat of your malignant enemy?--Without it, should I not even now be

seeking to violate the laws of God and man, to bring the wretch who can

thus stab an angel woman's breast to the dust before her? But, thanks to

the faith that is in me, I _know_ that his suspicious heart and cruel

soul shall meet a vengeance as much greater than any I could inflict, as

the hand that wields it is more powerful than mine! I humbly thank

Heaven for this, and remembering it, turn with chastened spirit from the

forbidden task of punishing him, to the far more Christian one of

offering aid to the gentle being he would crush.--Was it indeed from the

lips of your child, my poor friend, that these base aspersions reached

you?"

"It was indeed, Mr. Cartwright; and it was this which made them cut so

deeply. Poor Helen knew not what she was about when she secretly left

her mother's roof to visit this man, in the hope of restoring the

families to their former habits of intimacy!"

"Did Helen do this?" said Mr. Cartwright, with a sort of shiver.

"Yes, poor thing, she did; and perhaps for her pains may have won

caresses for herself. But, by her own statement--most reluctantly given,

certainly,--she seems to have listened to calumnies against her mother,

which I should have thought no child of mine would have borne to hear;"

and again Mrs. Mowbray shed tears.

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Cartwright, fervently clasping his

hands, "Dear, tortured Mrs. Mowbray, turn your weeping eyes to Heaven!

those drops shall not fall in vain. It was your child--a child nurtured

in that gentle bosom, who repeated to you this blasphemy? Oh, fie! fie!

fie! But let us not think of this,--at least, not at this trying moment.

Hereafter means must be taken to stay this plague-spot from spreading

over the hearts of all whom nature has given to love and honour you.

Your pretty, gentle Fanny! she at least will not, I think, be led to

listen to any voice that shall speak ill of you:--sweet child! let her

be near your heart, and that will comfort you.--But, alas! my poor

friend, this maternal disappointment, grievous as it is, will not be all

you have to bear from this wretch, whom Heaven, for its good but

inscrutable purposes, permits to persecute you. There must be business,

my dear Mrs. Mowbray, business of great importance that this man must be

immediately called upon to execute with you,--the proving the will, for

instance; he must either do this, or refuse to act."

"Would to Heaven he might refuse!" said Mrs. Mowbray eagerly; "what a

relief would this be to me, Mr. Cartwright! Do you think there would be

any possibility of leading him to it?"

"Of leading him,--certainly not; for it is very clear, from his conduct,

that whatever you appeared to wish, _that_ he would be averse to do.

Your only hope of obtaining what would most assuredly be an especial

blessing for you, his formal renunciation of the executorship, would, I

think, be from writing to him immediately, and imperatively demanding

his joining you forthwith in proving the will. In such a state of mind

as he must be in before he would bear to utter his vile suspicions to

your daughter, I think it very likely he may refuse."

"And what would happen then, Mr. Cartwright?"

"You must place yourself in the hands of a respectable lawyer, totally a

stranger and unconnected with him, and he would put you in a way to

prove it yourself; after which he could give you no further trouble of

any kind: unless, indeed, your misguided children should continue to

frequent his house, and so become the means of wounding your ears and

your heart by repeating his calumnies. But this, I trust, the source of

all wisdom and goodness will give you power to prevent."

"With your help and counsel, Mr. Cartwright, I may yet hope to weather

the storm that seems to have burst upon me; but indeed it could hardly

have burst upon any one less capable of struggling with it! In what

language should I write to this, cruel man, who has so undeservedly

become my enemy?"

"There is no difficulty there, my friend. The shortest and most strictly

ceremonious form must be the best."

Mrs. Mowbray drew towards her materials for writing,--opened the

portfolio, which between its leaves of blotting-paper contained sundry

sheets of wire-wove, black-edged post,--placed one of them before

her,--took a pen and curiously examined its tip--dipped it delicately in

the ink, and finally turned to Mr. Cartwright, saying,

"How very grateful I should be if you would have the great kindness to

write it for me!"

"But the handwriting, my dear lady, must be yours."

"Oh yes! I know. But it would be so much more satisfactory if you would

sketch the form!"

"Then I am sure I will do it most readily." He drew the paper to him and

wrote,

"Mrs. Mowbray presents her compliments to Sir Gilbert Harrington, and

requests to know on what day it will suit him to meet her and her lawyer

in London, for the purpose of proving her late husband's will at

Doctors' Commons. The amount of the real property may be ascertained by

the rent-roll; that of the personal, by means of papers left by the

deceased, and a valuation of the effects made by competent persons. Mrs.

Mowbray begs leave to intimate that she wishes as little delay as

possible to intervene before the completion of this transaction."

Mr. Cartwright turned what he had written towards her, saying, "This is

the sort of letter which I should think it advisable to send."

Mrs. Mowbray drew forth another sheet, and transcribed it so rapidly

that it might be doubted whether she allowed herself time to read it as

she did so.

"And this should be despatched instantly, should it not?" she said,

folding and directing it.

"Indeed, I think so."

"Then will you have the kindness to ring the bell, Mr. Cartwright?"

"Bring me a lighted taper, John," said Mrs. Mowbray to the servant who

entered; "and let Thomas get a horse ready to take this letter

immediately to Oakley."

The taper was brought, the letter sealed and delivered, with

instructions that the bearer was to wait for an answer.

This important business concluded, Mr. Cartwright rose to go, saying,

"You have filled my heart and my head so completely by the communication

of Sir Gilbert Harrington's conduct, that I protest to you I do not at

this moment recollect why it was I troubled you with a visit this

morning. I shall recollect it, I dare say, when I see you no longer; and

if I do, you must let me come back before very long to tell you."

"But whether you recollect it or not," replied Mrs. Mowbray in a

plaintive tone, "I trust you will not let it be long before I see you:

otherwise, Mr. Cartwright, I shall not know how to proceed when I

receive Sir Gilbert's answer."

This appeal was answered by an assurance, uttered in a tone of the most

soothing kindness, that he would never be far from her when she wished

him near; and then, with a pastoral and affectionate pressure of her

hand, he left her.

Fanny kept her word, and was walking up and down about a dozen yards

from that end of the shrubbery which terminated in the road leading to

the house. Mr. Cartwright looked in that direction as he stepped from

the library window, and walking quickly to the spot, conversed with her

for several minutes as she stood leaning over the gate. Fanny smiled,

blushed, and looked delighted: her hand, too, was pressed with

affectionate kindness; and Mr. Cartwright returned to his vicarage and

his early dinner.

CHAPTER XI.

HELEN'S MISERY AT HER MOTHER'S DISPLEASURE.--SIR G. HARRINGTON'S LETTER

ON THE SUBJECT OF THE WILL.

When Miss Torrington and Helen retreated to the dressing-room

appropriated to the former, which was the apartment in which they

generally pursued their morning studies, they sat down disconsolately

enough to review the results of their enterprise.

"Everything is ten times worse than it was before, Helen!" said her

friend; "and it is all my fault!"

"Your fault?--Oh no! But I believe we are both of us too young to

interfere, with any reasonable hope of doing good, between those who in

age and wisdom are so greatly our superiors. Oh, Rosalind! I fear, I

fear that my dearest mother is very angry with me!"

"I cannot believe it, Helen. I hardly know how far a dutiful daughter

may be permitted to act like a rational human being; but to the best of

my knowledge and belief, your conduct has been such as to ensure you the

approbation and gratitude of any mother in the world--at least of any

reasonable mother. You know, Helen, how truly fond I have become of my

sweet-tempered guardianess.--Is there such a word?--I believe not;--of

my guardian, then. During the eight months that I have made one of her

family, I have never yet received a harsh word or unkind look from her,

though I have not the slightest doubt that I have deserved many: but

nevertheless, my own dear Helen, if she should blunder so egregiously as

to be really angry with you for acting with such zealous, tender

affection as you have done this morning merely because that obstinate

old brute Sir Gilbert was not to be brought to reason; if she should

really act thus--which I trust in God she will not--but if she should, I

do verily believe, in all sincerity, that I should hate her."

"No, you would not,--you would not be so unjust, Rosalind. What right

had we to volunteer our silly services? What right had I, in particular,

to fancy that if Sir Gilbert would not listen to the remonstrances of

his excellent and very clever wife, he would listen to mine?--I really

am ashamed of my silly vanity and most gross presumption; and if my

dear, dearest mother will but forgive me this once, as all naughty

children say, I do not believe she will ever have cause to chide me for

meddling again. Oh, Rosalind! if she did but know how I love her, she

could never have looked so coldly on me as she did when she told me I

had had walking enough!"

"I hope you are mistaken; I hope she did not look coldly on you. I hope

she is not angry; for if she be ... I shall go over to the enemy, Helen,

as sure as my name is Rosalind, and you may live to see me patting the

rough hide of that very shaggy British bull-dog, Sir Gilbert, every time

he says something impertinent against your mother."

"There is one thing," said Helen, slightly colouring, "that does in some

little degree reconcile me to the unfortunate visit of this morning--and

that this...."

"The having met Colonel Harrington!" cried Rosalind, interrupting her.

"Is it not so?"

"You are right," replied her friend composedly. "William Harrington,

when he was simply William Harrington, and not a dashing colonel of

dragoons, was kindness itself to me, when I was a puny, fretful girl,

that cried when I ought to have laughed. I cannot forget his

good-natured protecting ways with me, and I should have been truly sorry

if he had left the country again, as I suppose he will soon do, without

my seeing him."

"Truly, I believe you, my dear," replied Rosalind, laughing. "And your

plain William Harrington, too, seemed as willing to renew the

acquaintance as yourself. To tell you the truth, Helen, I thought I saw

symptoms of a mighty pretty little incipient flirtation."

"How can you talk such nonsense, when we have so much to make us sad!

Don't you think I had better go and see if mamma is come in, Rosalind? I

cannot express to you how miserable I shall be as long as I think that

she is angry with me."

At this moment the bell which announced that the luncheon was ready,

sounded, and poor Helen exclaimed, "Oh, I am so sorry! I ought to have

sought her again, before meeting her in this manner. But come! perhaps

her dear face will look smilingly at me again: how I will kiss her if it

does!"

But the warm heart was again chilled to its very core by the look Mrs.

Mowbray wore as the two girls entered the room. Fanny was already seated

next her. This was a place often playfully contested between the

sisters, and Helen thought, as she approached the door, that if she

could get it, and once more feel her mother's hand between her own, she

should be the happiest creature living.

But nothing could be less alike, than what followed her entrance, to the

imaginings which preceded it. Mrs. Mowbray was unusually silent to them

all, but to Helen she addressed not a single word. This was partly owing

to the feeling of displeasure which had recently been so skilfully

fastened in her breast, and partly to the anxiety she felt respecting

the answer of Sir Gilbert to her note.

In the middle of the silent and nearly untasted meal, the poetical Fanny

being in truth the only one who appeared to have much inclination to

eat, a salver was presented to Mrs. Mowbray, from whence, with a

heightened colour and almost trembling hand, she took a note. She

instantly rose from table and left the room. Helen rose too, but not to

follow her: she could no longer restrain her tears, and it was to hide

this from Fanny, and if possible from Rosalind, that she hastened to

leave them both, and shut herself in her own chamber to weep alone.

The present emotion of Helen cannot be understood without referring to

the manner in which she had hitherto lived with her mother, and indeed

to the general habits of the family. Mystery of any kind was unknown

among them; and to those who have observed the effect of this, its

prodigious influence on the general tone of family intercourse must be

well known. To those who have not, it would be nearly impossible to

convey in words an adequate idea of the difference which exists in a

household where the parents make a secret of all things of important

interest, and where they do not. It is not the difference between ease

and restraint, or even that more striking still, between sweet and sour

tempers in the chief or chiefs of the establishment; it is a thousand

times more vital than either. Without this easy, natural spontaneous

confidence, the family union is like a rope of sand, that will fall to

pieces and disappear at the first touch of any thing that can attract

and draw off its loose and unbound particles. But if it be important as

a general family habit, it is ten thousand times more so in the

intercourse between a mother and her daughters. Let no parent believe

that affection can be perfect without it; and let no mother fancy that

the heart of her girl can be open to her if it find not an open heart in

return. Mothers! if you value the precious deposit of your dear girls'

inmost thoughts, peril not the treasure by chilling them with any

mystery of your own! It is not in the nature of things that confidence

should exist on one side only: it must be mutual.

Never was there less of this hateful mildew of mystery than in the

Mowbray family during the life of their father. Whatever were the

questions that arose,--whether they concerned the purchase of an estate,

or the giving or accepting an invitation to dinner,--whether it were a

discussion respecting the character of a neighbour, or the flavour of

the last packet of tea,--they were ever and always canvassed in full

assembly; or if any members were wanting, it was because curiosity,

which lives only by searching for what is hid, lacking its proper

aliment, had perished altogether, and so set the listeners free.

This new-born secrecy in her mother struck therefore like a bolt of ice

into the very heart of the sensitive Helen. "Have I lost her for ever!"

she exclaimed aloud, though in solitude. "Mother! mother!--is it to be

ever thus!--If this be the consequence of my poor father's will, well

might Sir Gilbert deplore it! How happily could I have lived for ever,

dependent on her for my daily bread, so I could have kept her heart for

ever as open as my own!"

At this period, Helen Mowbray had much suffering before her; but she

never perhaps felt a pang more bitter in its newness than that which

accompanied the conviction that her mother had a secret which she meant

not to communicate to her. She felt the fact to be what it really was,

neither more nor less; she felt that it announced the dissolution of

that sweet and perfect harmony which had hitherto existed between them.

The note from Sir Gilbert Harrington was as follows:

"Sir Gilbert Harrington presents his compliments to Mrs.

Mowbray, and begs to inform her that he has not the slightest

intention of ever acting as executor to the very singular and

mysterious document opened in his presence on the 12th of May

last past, purporting to be the last will and testament of his

late friend, Charles Mowbray, Esquire.

"Oakley, June 59th, 1834."

"The lady had gone to her secret bower" to peruse this scroll; and it

was fortunate perhaps that she did so, for it produced in her a

sensation of anger so much more violent than she was accustomed to feel,

that she would have done herself injustice by betraying it.

Mrs. Mowbray had passed her life in such utter ignorance of every kind

of business, and such blind and helpless dependence, first on her

guardians, and then on her husband, that the idea of acting for herself

was scarcely less terrible than the notion of navigating a seventy-four

would be to ladies in general. Her thoughts now turned towards Mr.

Cartwright, as to a champion equally able and willing to help and defend

her, and she raised her eyes to Heaven with fervent gratitude for the

timely happiness of having met with such a friend.

That friend had pointed out to her the fault committed by Helen in a

manner that made it appear to her almost unpardonable. To have doubted

the correctness of his judgment on this, or any point, would have been

to doubt the stability of that staff which Providence had sent her to

lean upon in this moment of her utmost need. She doubted him not: and

Helen was accordingly thrust out, not without a pang perhaps, from that

warm and sacred station in her mother's heart that it had been the first

happiness of her existence to fill. Poor Helen! matters were going worse

for her--far worse than she imagined, though she was unhappy and out of

spirits. She believed, indeed, that her mother was really angry; but,

terrible as her forebodings were, she dreamed not that she was already

and for ever estranged.

As soon as the first burst of passionate anger had been relieved by a

solitary flood of tears, Mrs. Mowbray called a council with herself as

to whether she should immediately despatch a messenger to request Mr.

Cartwright to call upon her in the evening, or whether she should trust

to the interest he had so warmly expressed, which, if sincere, must

bring him to her, she thought, on the morrow.

After anxiously debiting this point for nearly an hour, and deciding

first on one line of conduct, and then on the other, at least six

different times within that period, she at last determined to await his

coming; and concealing the doubts and fears which worried her by

confining herself to her room under pretence of headach, the three girls

were left to pass the remainder of the day by themselves, when, as may

easily be imagined, the important events of the morning were fully

discussed among them.

Fanny, after the motives of the visit to Oakley had been fully explained

to her, gave it as her opinion that Helen was wrong in going without the

consent of her mother, but that her intention might plead in atonement

for it. But her indignation at hearing of the pertinacious obstinacy of

Sir Gilbert was unbounded.

"Oh! how my poor father was deceived in him!" she exclaimed. "He must

have a truly bad heart to forsake and vilify my mother at the time she

most wants the assistance of a friend. For you know there is business,

Helen, relative to the will, and the property, and all that--Sir Gilbert

understands it all,--hard-hearted wretch! and I doubt not he thinks he

shall crush poor mamma to the dust by thus leaving her, as he believes,

without a friend. But, thank God! he will find he is mistaken."

"What do you mean, Fanny?" said Rosalind sharply.

"I mean, Rosalind, that mamma is _not_ without a friend," replied Fanny

with emphasis. "It has pleased God in his mercy to send her one when she

most needed it."

"I trust that God will restore to her and to us the old, well known, and

trusted friend of my father," said Helen gravely. "On none other can we

rest our hope for counsel and assistance, when needed, so safely."

"Even if you were right, Helen," replied her sister, "there would be

small comfort in your observation. Of what advantage to mamma, or to us,

would the good qualities of Sir Gilbert he, if it be his will, as it

evidently is, to estrange himself from us? What a contrast is the

conduct of Mr. Cartwright to his!"

"Mr. Cartwright!" cried Rosalind, distorting her pretty features into a

grimace that intimated abundant scorn,--"Mr. Cartwright! There is much

consolation, to be sure, in what an acquaintance of yesterday can do or

say, for the loss of such an old friend as Sir Gilbert Harrington!"

"It would be a sad thing for poor mamma if there were not," replied

Fanny. "Of what advantage to her, I ask you, is the long standing of her

acquaintance with Sir Gilbert, if his caprice and injustice are to make

him withdraw himself at such a time as this?--And how unreasonable and

unchristianlike would it be, Rosalind, were she to refuse the friendship

of Mr. Cartwright, because she has not known him as long?"

"The only objection I see to her treating Mr. Cartwright as a

confidential friend is, that she does not know him at all," said

Rosalind.

"Nor ever can, if she treats him as you do, Miss Torrington," answered

Fanny, colouring. "I believe Mr. Edward Wallace was an especial

favourite of yours, my dear; and that perhaps may in some degree account

for your prejudice against our good Mr. Cartwright.--Confess,

Rosalind;--is it not so?"

"He was indeed an especial favourite with me!" replied Rosalind gravely;

"and for the love I bear you all, and more particularly for your sake,

Fanny, and your poor mother's, I would give much--much--much, that he

were in the place which Mr. Cartwright holds."

"But if mamma is in want of a man to transact her business, why does she

not write to Charles and desire him to return?" said Helen. "The taking

his degree a few months later would be of little consequence."

"Charles?" said Fanny with a smile that seemed to mean a great

deal.--"Charles is one of the most amiable beings in the world, but the

most incapable of undertaking the management of business."

"How can you know any thing about it, Fanny?" said Helen, looking at her

with surprise.

"I heard Mr. Cartwright say to mamma, that Charles was quite a boy,

though a very charming one."

Helen looked vexed, and Rosalind fixed her eyes upon Fanny as if wishing

she would say more.

"In short," continued Fanny, "if Sir Gilbert chooses to cut us, I don't

see what mamma _can_ do so proper and so right as to make a friend of

the clergyman of the parish."

Her two companions answered not a word, and the conversation was brought

to a close by Fanny's drawing from her pocket, her bag, and her bosom,

sundry scraps of paper, on which many lines of unequal length were

scrawled; and on these she appeared inclined to her fix whole attention.

This was always considered by Helen and Rosalind as a signal for

departure: for then Fanny was in a poetic mood; a word spoken or a

movement made by those around her produced symptoms of impatience and

suffering which they did not like to witness. Their absence was indeed a

relief: for pretty Fanny, during the few moments of conversation which

she had enjoyed at the gate of the shrubbery in the morning, had

promised Mr. Cartwright to compose a hymn. To perform this promise to

the best of her power was at this moment the first wish of her heart:

for the amiable vicar had already contrived to see some of those

numerous offerings to Apollo with which this fairest and freshest of

Sapphos beguiled her too abundant leisure. He had pronounced her poetic

powers great, and worthy of higher themes than any she had hitherto

chosen: if was most natural, therefore, that she should now tax her

genius to the utmost, to prove that his first judgment had not been too

favourable: so the remainder of that long day passed in melancholy

enough _tete-a-tete_ between Rosalind and Helen, and in finding rhymes

for all the epithets of heaven on the part of Fanny.

CHAPTER XII.

MR. CARTWRIGHT'S LETTER TO HIS COUSIN.--COLONEL HARRINGTON.

The intelligent reader will not be surprised to hear that Mr. Cartwright

did not suffer himself to be long expected in vain on the following

morning. Fanny, however, was already in the garden when he arrived; and

as it so happened that he saw her as she was hovering near the shrubbery

gate, he turned from the carriage-road and approached her.

"How sweetly does youth, when blessed with such a cheek and eye as

yours, Miss Fanny, accord with the fresh morning of such a day as

this!--I feel," he added taking her hand and looking in her blushing

face, "that my soul never offers adoration more worthy of my Maker than

when inspired by intercourse with such a being as you!"

"Oh! Mr. Cartwright!" cried Fanny, avoiding his glance by fixing her

beautiful eyes upon the ground.

"My dearest child! fear not to look at me--fear not to meet the eye of a

friend, who would watch over you, Fanny, as the minister of Heaven

should watch over that which is best and fairest, to make and keep it

holy. Let me have that innocent heart in my keeping, my dearest child,

and all that is idle, light, and vain shall be banished thence, while

heavenward thoughts and holy musings shall take its place. Have you

essayed to hymn the praises of your God, Fanny, since we parted

yesterday?"

This question was accompanied by an encouraging pat upon her glowing

cheek; and Fanny, her heart beating with vanity, shyness, hope, fear,

and sundry other feelings, drew the MS. containing a fairly-written

transcript of her yesterday's labours from her bosom, and placed it in

his hand.

Mr. Cartwright pressed it with a sort of pious fervour to his lips, and

enclosing it for greater security in a letter which he drew from his

pocket, he laid it carefully within his waistcoat, on the left side of

his person, and as near, as possible to that part of it appropriated for

the residence of the heart.

"This must be examined in private, my beloved child," said he solemnly.

"The first attempt to raise such a spirit as yours in holy song has, to

my feelings, something as awful in it as the first glad movement of a

seraph's wing!... Where is your mother, Fanny?"

"She is in the library."

"Alone?"

"Oh yes!--at least I should think so, for I am sure she is expecting

you."

"Farewell, then, my dear young friend!--Pursue your solitary musing

walk; and remember, Fanny, that as by your talents you are marked and

set apart, as it were, from the great mass of human souls, so will you

be looked upon the more fixedly by the searching eye of God. It is from

him you received this talent--keep it sacred to his use, as David did,

and great shall be your reward!--Shall I startle your good mother,

Fanny, if I enter by the library window?"

"Oh no! Mr. Cartwright--I am sure mamma would be quite vexed if you

always went round that long way up to the door, especially in summer you

know, when the windows are always open."

"Once more, farewell, then!"

Fanny's hand was again tenderly pressed, and they parted.

It would be a needless lengthening of my tale, were I to record all that

passed at this and three or four subsequent interviews which took place

between the vicar and Mrs. Mowbray on the subject of proving the will.

Together with the kindest and most soothing demonstrations of rapidly

increasing friendship and esteem, Mr. Cartwright conveyed to her very

sound legal information respecting what it was necessary for her to do.

The only difficulty remaining seemed to arise from Mrs. Mowbray's

dislike to apply to any friend in London, either for their hospitality

or assistance, during the visit it was necessary she should make there

for the completion of the business. This dislike arose from the very

disagreeable difficulties which had been thrown in her way by Sir

Gilbert Harrington's refusing to act. It would have been very painful to

her, as she frankly avowed to her new friend, to announce and explain

this refusal to any one; and it was therefore finally arranged between

them, that he should give her a letter of introduction to a most

excellent and trustworthy friend and relation of his, who was

distinguished, as he assured her, for being the most honourable and

conscientious attorney in London,--and perhaps, as he added with a sigh,

the only one who constantly acted with the fear of the Lord before his

eyes.

Gladly did Mrs. Mowbray accede to this proposal, for in truth it removed

a world of anxiety from her mind; and urged as much by a wish to prove

how very easy it was to be independent of Sir Gilbert, as by the

strenuous advice of Mr. Cartwright to lose no time in bringing the

business to a conclusion, she fixed upon the following week for this

troublesome but necessary expedition.

It may serve to throw a light upon the kind and anxious interest which

the Vicar of Wrexhill took in the affairs of his widowed parishioner, if

a copy of his letter to his cousin and friend Mr. Stephen Corbold be

inserted.

"TO STEPHEN CORBOLD, ESQ. SOLICITOR, GRAY'S INN, LONDON.

"My dear and valued Friend and Cousin,

"It has at length pleased God to enable me to prove to you how

sincere is the gratitude which I have ever professed for the

important service your father conferred upon me by the timely

loan of two hundred pounds, when I was, as I believe you know,

inconvenienced by a very troublesome claim. It has been a

constant matter of regret to me that I should never, through

the many years which have since passed, been able to repay it:

but, if I mistake not, the service which I am now able to

render you will eventually prove such as fairly to liquidate

your claim upon me; and from my knowledge of your pious and

honourable feelings, I cannot doubt your being willing to

deliver to me my bond for the same, should your advantages from

the transaction in hand prove at all commensurate to my

expectations."

[Here followed a statement of the widow Mowbray's business in

London, with the commentary upon the ways and means which she

possessed to carry that, and all other business in which she

was concerned, to a satisfactory conclusion, much to the

contentment of all those fortunate enough to be employed as her

assistants therein. The reverend gentleman then proceeded

thus.]

"Nor is this all I would wish to say to you, cousin Stephen, on

the subject of the widow Mowbray's affairs, and the advantages

which may arise to you from the connexion which equally, of

course, for her advantage as for yours, I am desirous of

establishing between you.

"I need not tell _you_, cousin Stephen, who, by the blessing of

Heaven upon your worthy endeavours, have already been able in a

little way to see what law is,--I need not, I say, point out to

you at any great length, how much there must of necessity be to

do in the management of an estate and of funds which bring in a

net income somewhat exceeding fourteen thousand pounds per

annum. Now I learn from my excellent friend Mrs. Mowbray, that

her late husband transacted the whole of this business himself;

an example which it is impossible, as I need not remark, for

his widow and sole legatee to follow. She is quite aware of

this, and by a merciful dispensation of the Most High, her

mind appears to be singularly ductile, and liable to receive

such impressions as a pious and attentive friend would be able

to enforce on all points. In addition to this great and heavy

charge, which it has pleased Providence, doubtless for his own

good purposes, to lay upon her, she has also the entire

management, as legal and sole guardian of a young Irish

heiress, of another prodigiously fine property, consisting,

like her own, partly of money in the English funds, and partly

in houses and lands in the north part of Ireland. The business

connected with the Torrington property is therefore at this

moment, as well as every thing concerning the widow Mowbray's

affairs, completely without any agent whatever; and I am not

without hopes, cousin Stephen, that by the blessing of God to

usward, I may be enabled to obtain the same for you.

"I know the pious habit of your mind, cousin, and that you,

like myself, never see any remarkable occurrence without

clearly tracing therein the immediate finger of Heaven. I

confess that throughout the whole of this affair;--the sudden

death of the late owner of this noble fortune; the singular

will he left, by which it all has become wholly and solely at

the disposal of his excellent widow; the hasty and not overwise

determination to renounce the executorship on the part of this

petulant Sir Gilbert Harrington; the accident or rather series

of accidents, by which I have become at once and so

unexpectedly, the chief stay, support, comfort, consolation,

and adviser of this amiable but very helpless lady;--throughout

the whole of this, I cannot, I say, but observe the gracious

Providence of my Master, who wills that I should obtain power

and mastery even over the things of this world, worthless

though they be, cousin Stephen, when set in comparison with

those of the world to come. It is my clear perception of the

will of Heaven in this matter which renders me willing,--yea,

ardent in my desire to obtain influence over the Mowbray

family. They are not all, however, equally amiable to the

wholesome guidance I would afford them: on the contrary, it is

evident to me that the youngest child is the only one on whom

the Lord is at present disposed to pour forth a saving light.

Nevertheless I will persevere. Peradventure the hearts of the

disobedient may in the end be turned to the wisdom of the just;

and we know right well who it is that can save from all

danger, even though a man, went to sea without art; a tempting

of Providence which would in my case be most criminal,--for

great in that respect has been its mercy, giving unto me that

light which is needful to guide us through the rocks and shoals

for ever scattered amidst worldly affairs.

"Thus much have I written to you, cousin Stephen, with my own

hand, that you might fully comprehend the work that lies before

us. But I will not with pen and ink write more unto you, for I

trust I shall shortly see you, and that we shall speak face to

face.

"I am now and ever, cousin Stephen, your loving kinsman and

Christian friend,

"WILLIAM JACOB CARTWRIGHt.

"Wrexhill Vicarage, 9th July, 1834."

"P.S. Since writing the above, the widow Mowbray has besought

me to instruct _the gentleman who is to act as her agent_ to

obtain lodgings for her in a convenient quarter of the town;

and therefore this letter will precede her. Nor can she indeed

set forth till you shall have written in return to inform her

whereunto her equipage must be instructed to drive. Remember,

cousin, that the apartments be suitable; and in choosing them

recollect that it is neither you nor I who will pay for the

same. Farewell. If I mistake not, the mercy of Heaven

overshadows you, my cousin."

Poor Mrs. Mowbray would have rejoiced exceedingly had it been possible

for her kind and ever-ready adviser and friend to accompany her to

London; but as he did not himself propose this, she would not venture to

do it, and only asked him, such as an obedient child might ask a parent,

whether he thought she ought to go attended only by a man and maid

servant, or whether she might have the comfort of taking one of her

daughters with her.

Mr. Cartwright looked puzzled; indeed the question involved considerable

difficulties. It was by no means the vicar's wish to appear harsh or

disagreeable in his enactments; yet neither did he particularly desire

that the eldest Miss Mowbray should be placed in circumstances likely to

give her increased influence over her mother: and as to Fanny, his

conscience reproached him for having for an instant conceived the idea

of permitting one to whom the elective finger of grace had so recently

pointed to be removed so far from his fostering care.

After a few moments of silent consideration, he replied,

"No! my dearest lady, you ought not to be without the soothing presence

of a child; and if I might advise you on the subject, I should recommend

your being accompanied by Miss Helen,--both, because, as being the

eldest, she might expect this preference, and because, likewise, I

should deem it prudent to remove her from the great risk and danger of

falling into the society of your base and injurious enemy during your

absence."

"You are quite right about that, as I'm sure you are about every thing,

Mr. Cartwright. I really would not have Helen see more of Sir Gilbert's

family for the world! She has such wild romantic notions about old

friendships being better than new ones, that I am sure it would be the

way to make terrible disputes between us. She has never yet known the

misery of having an old friend turn against her,--nor the comfort, Mr.

Cartwright, of finding a new one sent by Providence to supply his

place!"

"My dearest lady! I shall ever praise and bless the dispensation that

has placed me near you during this great trial;--and remember always,

that those whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth!"

"Ah! Mr. Cartwright, I fear that I have not been hitherto sufficiently

mindful of this, and that I have repined where I ought to have blessed.

But I trust that a more christian spirit is now awakened within me, and

that henceforward, with your aid, and by the blessing of Heaven upon my

humble endeavours, I may become worthy of the privilege I enjoy as being

one of your congregation."

"May the Lord hear, receive, record, and bless that hope!" cried the

vicar fervently, seizing her hand and kissing it with holy zeal.

Mrs. Mowbray coloured slightly; but feeling ashamed of the weak and

unworthy feeling that caused this, she made a strong effort to recover

from the sort of embarrassment his action caused, and said, with as much

ease as she could assume,

"Rosalind and Fanny are both very young and very giddy, Mr. Cartwright.

May I hope that during my short absence--which I shall make as short as

possible,--may I hope, my kind friend, that you will look in upon them

every day?"

"You cannot doubt it!--what is there I would not do to spare you an

anxious thought!--They are young and thoughtless, particularly your

ward. Miss Torrington is just the girl, I think, to propose some wild

frolic--perhaps another visit to Sir Gilbert; and your sweet Fanny is

too young and has too little authority to prevent it."

"Good Heaven! do you think so? Then what can I do?"

"An idea has struck me, my dear friend, which I will mention to you with

all frankness, certain that if you disapprove it, you will tell me so

with an openness and sincerity equal to my own.--I think that if my

staid and quiet daughter Henrietta were to pass the short interval of

your absence here, you might be quite sure that nothing gay or giddy

would be done:--her delicate health and sober turn of mind preclude the

possibility of this;--and her being here would authorize my daily

visit."

"There is nothing in the world I should like so well," replied Mrs.

Mowbray. "Any thing likely to promote an intimacy between my young

people and a daughter brought up by you must be indeed a blessing to us.

Shall I call upon her?--or shall I write the invitation?"

"You are very kind, dear lady!--very heavenly-minded!--but there is no

sort of necessity that you should take the trouble of doing either. I

will mention to Henrietta your most flattering wish that she should be

here during your absence: and, believe me, she will be most happy to

comply with it."

"I shall be very grateful to her.--But will it not be more agreeable for

her, and for us also, that she should come immediately? I cannot go

before Monday--this is Thursday; might she not come to us to-morrow?"

"How thoughtful is that!--how like yourself!--Certainly it will be

pleasanter for her, and I will therefore bring her."

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of a servant with

a note. But for the better understanding its effect both on the lady and

gentleman, it will be necessary to recount one or two circumstances

which had occurred to the anti-Cartwright party in the Mowbray family,

subsequent to their visit to Oakley.

A few days after that which witnessed poor Helen's disgrace, after

entering the drawing-room and receiving a hint from her mother (whom

she found there in close conclave with the vicar) that she had better

take her morning walk, it happened that she and Rosalind, as they were

earnestly discoursing of their yesterday's visit, and enjoying the

perfect shade of a lane leading to the village of Wrexhill, perceived a

horseman approaching them as slowly as it was possible to make a fine

horse walk. In the next moment, however, something appeared to have

pricked the sides of his intent, as well as those of his horse; for with

a bound or two he was close to them, and in the next instant dismounted

and by their side.

The gentleman proved to be Colonel Harrington, who immediately declared,

with very soldierly frankness, that he had been riding through every

avenue leading to Mowbray Park, in the hope of being fortunate enough to

meet them.

Rosalind smiled; while Helen, without knowing too well what she said,

answered with a deep blush, "You are very kind."

Colonel Harrington carefully tied up his reins and so arranged them as

to leave no danger of their getting loose; then giving his steed a

slight cut with his riding-whip, the obedient animal set off at an easy

trot for Oakley.

"He knows his way, at least, as well as I do," said the colonel. "It is

my father's old hunter, and I selected him on purpose, that if I were

lucky enough to meet you, I might have no trouble about getting rid of

him. And now tell me, Helen, how did your mother bear the answer my

father sent to her note?"

"An answer from Sir Gilbert?--and to a note from my mother?" said Helen.

"Alas! it was kept secret from me; and therefore, Colonel Harrington, I

had rather you should not talk of it to me."

"It is hardly reasonable that you should insist upon my keeping secret

what I have to tell you, Helen, because others are less communicative.

The letters he receives and writes are surely my father's business

either to impart or conceal, as he thinks best; and he is extremely

anxious to learn your opinion respecting your mother's letter, and his

answer to it. He certainly did not imagine that they had been kept

secret from you."

"Indeed I have never heard of either."

"Do you suppose, then, that she has mentioned them to no one?"

Helen did not immediately reply, but Rosalind did. "I am very

particularly mistaken, Colonel Harrington," said she, "if the Reverend

William Jacob Cartwright, vicar of Wrexhill, and privy counsellor at

Mowbray Park, did not superintend the writing of the one, and the

reading of the other."

"Do you really think so, Miss Torrington? What do you say, Helen? do you

believe this to have been the case?"

"He is very often at the Park," replied Helen.

"But do you think it possible that Mrs. Mowbray would communicate to him

what she would conceal from you?" said Colonel Harrington.

This question was also left unanswered by Helen; but Rosalind again

undertook to reply. "You will think me a very interfering person, I am

afraid, Colonel Harrington," said she; "but many feelings keep Helen

silent which do not influence me; and, as far as I am capable of

judging, it is extremely proper, and perhaps important, that Sir Gilbert

should know that this holy vicar never passes a day without finding or

making an excuse for calling at the Park. I can hardly tell how it is,

but it certainly does happen, that these visits generally take place

when we--that is, Helen and I--are not in the house; but ... to confess

my sins, and make a clear breast at once, I will tell you what I have

never yet told Helen, and that is, that I have ordered my maid to find

out, if she can, when Mr. Cartwright comes. He slipped in, however,

through the library window twice yesterday, so it is possible that he

may sometimes make good an entry without being observed; for it is

impossible that my Judy can be always on the watch, though she is so

fond of performing her needlework in that pretty trellised summer-house

in the Park."

"What an excellent vidette you would make, Miss Torrington," said the

young man, laughing. "But will you tell me, sincerely, and without any

shadow of jesting, why it is that you have been so anxious to watch the

movements of this reverend gentleman?"

"If I talk on the subject at all," she replied, "it will certainly be

without any propensity to jesting; for I have seldom felt less inclined

to be merry than while watching the increasing influence of Mr.

Cartwright over Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny. It was because I remarked that

they never mentioned his having called, when I knew he had been there,

that I grew anxious to learn, if possible, how constant his visits had

become; and the result of my _espionage_ is, that no day passes without

a visit."

"But what makes you speak of this as of an evil, Miss Torrington?"

"That is more than I have promised to tell you," replied Rosalind; "but,

as we _have_ become so very confidential, I have no objection to tell

you all--and that, remember, for the especial use of Sir Gilbert, who

perhaps, if he knew all that I guess, would _not_ think he was doing

right to leave Mrs. Mowbray in such hands."

"And what then, Miss Torrington, is there, _as you guess_, against this

gentleman?"

Rosalind for an instant looked puzzled; but, by the rapidity with which

she proceeded after she began, the difficulty seemed to arise solely

from not knowing what to say first. "There is against him," said she,

"the having hurried away from hearing the will read to the presence of

Mrs. Mowbray, and not only announcing its contents to her with what

might well be called indecent haste, considering that there were others

to whom the task more fitly belonged, and who would have performed it

too, had they not been thus forestalled;--not only did he do this, but

he basely, and, I do believe, most falsely, gave her to understand that

her son, the generous, disinterested, warm-hearted Charles Mowbray, had

manifested displeasure at it. Further, he has turned the head of poor

little Fanny, by begging copies of her verses to send--Heaven knows

where; and he moreover has, I am sure, persuaded Mrs. Mowbray to think

that my peerless Helen is in fault for something--Heaven knows what. He

has likewise, as your account of those secret letters renders certain,

dared to step between an affectionate mother and her devoted child, to

destroy their dear and close union by hateful and poisonous mystery. He

has also fomented the unhappy and most silly schism between your pettish

father and my petted guardian; and moreover, with all his far-famed

beauty and saint-like benignity of aspect, his soft crafty eyes dare not

look me in the face. And twelfthly and lastly, I hate him."

"After this, Miss Torrington," said the Colonel, laughing, "no man

assuredly could be sufficiently hardy to say a word in his

defence;--and, all jesting apart," he added very seriously, "I do think

you have made out a very strong case against him. If my good father sees

this growing intimacy between the Vicarage and the Park with the same

feelings that you do, I really think it might go farther than any other

consideration towards inducing him to rescind his refusal--for he _has_

positively refused to act as executor--and lead him at once and for ever

to forget the unreasonable cause of anger he has conceived against your

mother, Helen."

"Then let him know it without an hour's delay," said Helen. "Dear

Colonel Harrington! why did you let your horse go? Walk you must, but

let it be as fast as you can, and let your father understand exactly

every thing that Rosalind has told you; for though I should hardly have

ventured to say as much myself, I own that I think she is not much

mistaken in any of her conclusions."

"And do you follow her, Helen, up to her twelfthly and lastly? Do you

too _hate_ this reverend gentleman?"

Helen sighed. "I hope not, Colonel Harrington," she replied; "I should

be sorry to believe myself capable of hating, but surely I do not love

him."

The young ladies, in their eagerness to set the colonel off on his road

to Oakley, were unconsciously, or rather most obliviously, guilty of the

indecorum of accompanying him at least half the distance; and at last it

was Rosalind, and not the much more shy and timid Helen, who became

aware of the singularity of the proceeding.

"And where may _we_ be going, I should like to know?" she said, suddenly

stopping short. "Helen! is it the fashion for the Hampshire ladies to

escort home the gentlemen they chance to meet in their walks? We never

do that in my country."

Colonel Harrington looked positively angry, and Helen blushed celestial

rosy red, but soon recovered herself, and said, with that species of

frankness which at once disarms quizzing,

"It is very true, Rosalind; we seem to be doing a very strange thing:

but we have had a great deal to say that was really important; yet

nothing so much so, as leading Colonel Harrington to his father with as

little delay as possible.--But now I think we have said all. Good-b'ye,

Colonel Harrington: I need not tell you how grateful we shall all be if

you can persuade Sir Gilbert to restore us all to favour."

"The all is but one, Helen; but the doing so I now feel to be very

important. Farewell! Take care of yourselves; for I will not vex you,

Helen, by turning back again. Farewell!"

The letter which interrupted the tete-a-tete between Mrs. Mowbray and

the vicar was an immediate consequence of this conversation, and was as

follows:--

"Madam,

"Upon a maturer consideration of the possible effects to the

family of my late friend which my refusal to act as his

executor may produce, I am willing, notwithstanding my

repugnance to the office, to perform the duties of it, and

hereby desire to revoke my late refusal to do so.

(Signed) "GILBERT HARRINGTON.

"Oakley, July 12th, 1833."

"Thank Heaven," exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray as soon as she had read the

note,--"Thank Heaven that I have no longer any occasion to submit myself

to the caprices of any man!--And yet," she added, putting the paper into

Mr. Cartwright's hands, "I suppose it will be best for me to accept his

reluctant and ungracious offer?"

Mr. Cartwright took the paper, and perused it with great attention, and

more than once. At length he said,

"I trust I did not understand you. What was it you said, dearest Mrs.

Mowbray, respecting this most insulting communication?"

"I hardly know, Mr. Cartwright, what I said," replied Mrs. Mowbray,

colouring. "How can I know what to say to a person who can treat a woman

in my painful situation with such cruel caprice, such unfeeling

inconsistency?"

"Were I you, my valued friend, I should make the matter very easy, for I

should say nothing to him."

"Nothing?--Do you mean that you would not answer the letter?"

"Certainly: that is what I should recommend as the only mode of noticing

it, consistently with the respect you owe yourself."

"I am sure you are quite right," replied Mrs. Mowbray, looking relieved

from a load of difficulty.

"It certainly does not deserve an answer," said she, "and I am sure I

should not in the least know what to say to him."

"Then let us treat the scroll as it does deserve to be treated," said

the vicar with a smile. "Let the indignant wind bear it back to the face

of the hard-hearted and insulting writer!"

And so saying, he eagerly tore the paper into minute atoms, and appeared

about to consign them to the conveyance he mentioned, but suddenly

checked himself, and with thoughtful consideration for the gardener

added,

"But no! we will not disfigure your beautiful lawn by casting these

fragments upon it: I will dispose of them on the other side of the

fence."

CHAPTER XIII.

MRS. MOWBRAY'S DEPARTURE FOR TOWN.--AN EXTEMPORARY PRAYER.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening of this same day, that Mr.

Cartwright was seen approaching across the lawn towards the drawing-room

windows,--and that not only by Judy, but by the whole family, who were

assembled there and preparing to take their tea. His daughter Henrietta

was on his arm; yet still she rather followed than walked with him, so

evidently did she hang back, while he as evidently endeavoured to

quicken his pace and draw her forward.

The eyes of the whole party were attracted to the windows. Mrs. Mowbray

and Fanny, approaching different sashes, each stepped out to welcome

them; while Miss Torrington and Helen were content to watch the meeting

from their places on a sofa.

"Did you ever see a man drive a pig to market, Helen?" said Rosalind.

"In my country they do it so much more cleverly! for look you, if that

man were half as clever as he thinks himself, he would just go behind

the young lady and pull her backwards."

"I am not quite sure that the scheme would answer in this case," replied

Helen. "Look at the expression of her face, and I think you will

perceive that nothing but a very straightforward pull could induce her

to approach at all."

"Perhaps she is disgusted at her odious father's presumption and

forwardness?" cried Rosalind, starting up. "If that be so, I will

patronise her.--Poor thing! look at her eyes; I am positive she has been

weeping."

With this impression, Miss Torrington stepped forward, and, as the party

entered, greeted the young lady very kindly: though she hardly appeared

to perceive that her father entered with her.

She received in return a look which, with all her acuteness, she found

it extremely difficult to interpret. There was a strong and obvious

expression of surprise in it; and then, in the faint attempt at a smile

about the corners of the mouth,--which attempt, however, was finally

abortive,--Rosalind fancied that she traced a movement of gratitude,

though not of pleasure; but over every feature a settled gloom seemed to

hang, like a dark veil, obscuring, though not quite hiding every

emotion.

The difficulty of understanding why and wherefore she looked as she did,

was quite enough, with such a disposition as Rosalind's, to make her an

object of interest; and therefore, when Mrs. Mowbray made her the speech

that she was expressly brought to hear, expressive of hope that she

would have the great kindness to console that part of her family who

were to remain at home by affording them the pleasure of her company,

Rosalind relieved her from the immediate necessity of replying, by

saying gaily,

"She will and she must, Mrs. Mowbray, for we will take her prisoner; but

I will promise, as far as I am concerned, that her durance shall be as

gentle as possible."

It was now the vicar's turn to look astonished, which he certainly did

in no small degree, and ran some risk of destroying the favourable

impression which his daughter's look of misery had created, by saying,

in the sweet tone that Miss Torrington relished so little,

"Henrietta, my love--I trust you will be sensible of, and grateful for,

the amiable and condescending kindness of this young lady."

What the gloomy Henrietta answered, Rosalind did not stay to hear; for

by a movement of that impatience with which she always listened to all

that Mr. Cartwright spoke, she turned from him and walked out of the

window. She only stayed, however, long enough to gather a bunch of

geranium blossoms, which she put into the hand of Henrietta as she

placed herself beside her on re-entering.

"Are they not superb, Miss Cartwright?"

Miss Cartwright again answered by a look which once more set all

Rosalind's ingenuity at defiance. It now spoke awakened interest, and an

almost eager desire to look at and listen to her; but the heavy gloom

remained, while her almost total silence gave her an appearance of

reserve greatly at variance with the expression which, for a moment at

least, she had read in her eyes.

Helen was now, in full assembly, informed for the first time that she

was to attend her mother to town. Had this been told her, as every thing

was wont to be, in the dear seclusion of her mother's dressing-room, she

would have hailed the news with joy and gratitude, and believed that it

predicted a return of all the happiness she had lost: but now the effect

was wholly different; and though she mastered herself sufficiently to

send back the tears before they reached her eyes, and to declare, in the

gentle voice of genuine unaffected obedience, that she should be

delighted if she could be useful to her, the manner of the communication

sank deeply and painfully into her heart.

An answer having arrived by return of post from Stephen Corbold, Esq.,

solicitor, stating that commodious apartments were secured in

Wimpole-street, and himself ready, body and spirit, to do the lady's

bidding, Mrs. Mowbray fixed on the following day for her journey. Miss

Cartwright gave one mutter beyond a tacit consent to remain at the Park

during her absence, and the party separated; Fanny however declaring, as

she wrapped a shawl of her mother's about her head, that she must enjoy

the delicious moonlight by accompanying the vicar and his daughter as

far as the Park gates.

"And return alone, Fanny?" said her mother.

"Why not, dear lady?" replied Mr. Cartwright. "Her eye will not be

raised to the lamp of night without her heart's rising also in a hymn to

her Lord and Saviour; and I am willing to believe that her remaining

for a few moments beside her pastor and her friend, while under its soft

influence, will not be likely to make her thoughts wander in a wrong

direction."

"Oh no, Mr. Cartwright," replied the mother; "I am sure, if you think it

right, she shall go."

At this moment Miss Torrington was giving a farewell shake of the hand

to Henrietta when, instead of receiving from her an answering "Good

night!" something very like a groan smote her ear.

"How very strange!" she exclaimed aloud, after a silence that lasted

till the vicar, with Fanny leaning on his arm, and his sulky daughter

following, had half traversed the lawn towards the gate that opened upon

the drive.

"What is strange, Miss Torrington?" said Mrs. Mowbray.

"Almost every thing I see and hear, ma'am," replied the young lady.

"At what hour are we to set off to-morrow, mamma?" inquired Helen.

"At ten o'clock, my dear. You had better give your orders to Curtis

to-night, Helen, as to what she is to put up for you. I hope we shall

not be obliged to remain in town above two or three days."

"If you have any thing to do in your room to-night, Helen, it is time to

betake yourself to it," observed Rosalind; "for," looking at her watch,

"it is very near midnight, though Miss Fanny Mowbray is walking in the

Park.--Good night, Mrs. Mowbray." But Mrs. Mowbray did not appear to

hear her.

"Good night, mamma," said Helen, approaching to kiss her.

She received a very cold salute upon her forehead, and a "Good night,

Helen," in a tone that answered to it.

Rosalind took the arm of her friend within hers as they left the room

together, and a silent pressure spoke her sympathy; but neither of them

uttered a word that night, either concerning Mr. Cartwright's increasing

influence, or Mrs. Mowbray's continued coldness to Helen. They both of

them felt more than they wished to speak.

The following morning brought Mr. Cartwright and his daughter again to

the Park a few minutes before the post-horses arrived for Mrs. Mowbray's

carriage, and in a few minutes more every thing was ready for the

departure of the travellers. Helen gave a farewell embrace to Fanny and

Rosalind; while the attentive vicar stepped into the carriage before

Mrs. Mowbray entered it, to see that as many windows were up and as many

windows down as she wished, and likewise for the purpose of placing a

small volume in the side pocket next the place she was to occupy. He

then returned to her side, and as he handed her in, whispered, while he

pressed her hand,

"Do not fatigue yourself with talking, my dear friend: it is a great

while since you have taken a journey even so long as this. In the pocket

next you I have placed a little volume that I wish--oh, how

ardently!--that you would read with attention. Will you promise me

this?"

"I will," replied Mrs. Mowbray, deeply affected by his earnestness--"God

bless you!"

"The Lord watch over you!" responded Mr. Cartwright with a sigh. He then

retreated a step, and Helen sprang hastily into the carriage without

assistance; the door was closed, and before the equipage reached the

lodges Mrs. Mowbray had plunged into a disquisition on regeneration and

faith--the glory of the new birth--and the assured damnation of all who

cannot, or do not, attain thereto.

Meanwhile the party left under the shade of the portico looked at each

other as if to inquire what they were to do next. On all occasions of

morning departure there is generally a certain degree of

_desoeuvrement_ left with those who remain behind. In general,

however, this is soon got over, except by a desperate idler or a very

mournful residuary guest; but on the present occasion the usual

occupations of the parties were put completely out of joint, and

Rosalind, at least, was exceedingly well disposed to exclaim--

----"Accursed spite,

That ever I was born to set it right!"

She remained stationary for a few minutes, hoping and expecting that the

reverend gentleman would depart: but as this did not happen, she quietly

re-entered the house and retired to her own dressing-room.

Fanny then made a motion to enter also, but took very hospitable care

that it should include both her companions. Mr. Cartwright spoke not of

going--he even led the way to the library himself, and having closed the

door and put down the ever-open sash windows, he turned to Fanny, and,

with a smile that might have accompanied a proposal to sing or dance,

said,

"My dear Miss Fanny! does not your heart feel full of kind and tender

wishes for the safety of your beloved mother during her absence from

you?"

"It does indeed!" said Fanny, shaking back her chesnut ringlets.

"Then should we not," rejoined the vicar, assisting her action by gently

putting back her redundant curls with his own hand,--"should we not, my

dear child, implore a blessing upon her from the only source from whence

it can come!"

"Oh yes," replied Fanny, with affectionate earnestness, but by no means

understanding his immediate purpose,--"Oh yes, Mr. Cartwright; I am sure

I never pray so heartily as when praying for mamma."

"Then let us kneel," said he, placing a chair before her, and kneeling

down himself at the one that was next to it. Fanny instantly obeyed,

covering her face with her hands, while her young heart beat with a

timid and most truly pious feeling of fear lest the act was not

performed with suitable deference; for hitherto her private devotions

had been performed in strict obedience to the solemn and explicit words

of Scripture--"_When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou

hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy

Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly._"

But though conscious that the mode of prayer in which she was now so

unexpectedly invited to join was very unlike what she was used to, her

unbounded love and admiration for Mr. Cartwright rendered it absolutely

impossible for her to conceive it wrong, and she prepared herself to

pray with all the fervour of her young and ardent spirit.

There was a moment's pause, during which a look was exchanged between

the father and daughter unseen by Fanny; but had it met her eye, it

would only have appeared to her as a mystery that she was incapable of

comprehending. Had Rosalind caught a sight of it, she might perhaps

have fancied that the glance of the father spoke command, accompanied

by direful threatenings, while that of his daughter betrayed disgust and

bitterest contempt mingled with fear.

Mr. Cartwright began, almost in a whisper, to utter his extemporary

prayer. It first invoked a blessing on _the little knot of united

hearts_ that now offered their homage, and then proceeded to ask, in

flowing periods, for exemption from all dangers likely to beset

travellers by land for "our beloved sister who is this day gone forth."

In a tone somewhat more loud he went on to implore especial grace for

the not yet awakened soul of the child she led with her; and then, his

rich and powerful voice resounding through the room, his eyes raised to

the ceiling, and his clasped and extended hands stretched out before

him, he burst into an ecstasy of enthusiastic rantings, in which he

besought blessings on the head of Fanny.

It is impossible to repeat such language as Mr. Cartwright and those who

resemble him think fit to use in their extemporary devotions, without

offending against that sensitive horror of profanation which happily

still continues to be one of the strongest feelings in the minds of

Christians not converted--_i. e._ perverted from the solemn reverence

our church enjoins in the utterance of every word by which we venture to

approach the Deity. To such, the unweighed flippant use of those

momentous words "LET US PRAY," followed as they often are, by turgid

rantings, and familiar appeals to the most High God, in volumes of

rapid, careless wordiness, is perhaps the most offensive outrage to

which their religions feelings can be exposed. One might be almost

tempted to believe that the sectarians who, rejecting the authorized

forms in which the bishops and fathers of our church have cautiously,

reverently, and succinctly rehearsed the petitions which the Scriptures

permit man to offer to his Creator;--one might, I say, almost be tempted

to believe that these men have so misunderstood the Word of God, as to

read:--USE _vain repetitions as the Heathen do, for they_ SHALL BE

_heard for their much speaking_. But this "much speaking," with all its

irreverent accompaniments of familiar phraseology, is an abomination to

those who have preserved their right to sit within the sacred pale of

our established church; and as it is among such that I wish to find my

readers, I will avoid, as much as possible, offending them by

unnecessary repetitions of Mr. Cartwright's rhapsodies, preserving only

so much of their substance as may be necessary to the making his

character fully understood.

While imploring Heaven to soften the heart of poor Fanny, who knelt

weeping beside him like a Niobe, he rehearsed her talents and good

qualities, earnestly praying that they might not be turned by the Prince

of Darkness into a snare.

"Let not her gift--her shining gift of poesy, lead her, as it has so

often done others, to the deepest pit of hell! Let not the gentle and

warm affections of her heart cling to those that shall carry her soul,

with their own, down to the worm that dieth not, and to the fire that

cannot be quenched! Rather, fix thou her love upon those who will seek

it in thy holy name. May she know to distinguish between the true and

the false, the holy and the unholy!"

"Amen!" was here uttered by Henrietta, but in so low a whisper that only

her father's ear caught it. He paused for half a moment, and then

continued with still-increasing zeal, so that his voice shook and tears

fell from his eyes.

Fanny was fully aware of all this strong emotion; for though she

uncovered not her own streaming eyes, she could not mistake the

trembling voice that pronounced its fervent blessing on her amidst sobs.

Meanwhile Miss Torrington, who had seated herself before a book in her

dressing-room, began to think that she was not acting very kindly

towards Fanny, who, she knew, was so nearly childish in her manners as

to render the entertaining company a very disagreeable task to her.

"Poor little soul!" she exclaimed; "between the manna of the father, and

the crabbishness of the daughter, she will be done to death if I go not

to her rescue." So she closed her book and hastened to the library.

The sound she heard on approaching the door startled her, and she paused

to listen a moment before she entered; for not having the remotest idea

that it was the voice of prayer, she really believed that some one had

been taken ill,--and the notion of convulsions, blended with the

recollection of Henrietta's sickly appearance, took possession of her

fancy. She determined, however, to enter; but turned the lock with a

very nervous hand,--and on beholding the scene which the opening door

displayed, felt startled, awed, and uncertain whether to advance or

retreat.

She immediately met Henrietta's eye, which turned towards her as she

opened the door, and its expression at once explained the nature of the

ceremony she so unexpectedly witnessed. Contempt and bitter scorn shot

from it as she slowly turned it towards her father; and a smile of pity

succeeded, as she mournfully shook her head, when, for a moment, she

fixed her glance upon the figure of Fanny. Had the poor girl for whose

especial sake this very unclerical rhapsody was uttered--had she been a

few years older, and somewhat more advanced in the power of judging

human actions, she must have been struck by the remarkable change which

the entrance of Rosalind produced in the language and manner of the

vicar. He did not for an instant suspend the flow of his eloquence, but

the style of it altered altogether.

"Bless her! bless this lovely and beloved one!" were the words which

preceded the opening of the door, accompanied by the sobbings of

vehement emotion.--"Bless all this worthy family, and all sorts and

conditions of men; and so lead them home" ... &c. were those which

followed,--uttered, too, with very decent sobriety and discretion.

Rosalind, however, was not quite deceived by this, though far from

guessing how perfectly indecent and profane had been the impassioned

language and vehement emotion which preceded her appearance.

After the hesitation of a moment, she closed the door, and walking up to

the side of Fanny, stood beside her for the minute and a half which it

took Mr. Cartwright to bring his harangue to a conclusion. He then

ceased, rose from his knees, and bowed to the intruder with an air so

meek and sanctified, but yet with such a downcast avoidance of her eye

withal, that Rosalind shrank from him with ill-concealed dislike, and

would instantly have left the room, but that she did not choose again to

leave Fanny, who still continued kneeling beside her, to a repetition of

the scene she had interrupted.

"Fanny!" she said, in an accent a little approaching to impatience.

But Fanny heeded her not. Vexed and disgusted at this display of a

devotion so unlike the genuine, unaffected, well-regulated piety in

which she had been herself brought up, she repeated her call,--adding,

as she laid her hand lightly on her shoulder,

"This is not the sort of worship which your excellent father, or good

Mr. Wallace either, would have approved."

Fanny now rose from her knees, and the cause of her not doing so before

became evident. Her face was as pale as ashes, and traces of violent

weeping were visible on her swollen eyelids.

"Good Heaven, Fanny! what can have affected you thus?--What, sir, have

you been saying to produce so terrible an effect on Miss Mowbray? The

prayers of the church, in the discipline of which she has been most

carefully bred up, produce no such paroxysms as these, Mr.

Cartwright.--Come with me, Fanny, and do endeavour to conquer this

extraordinary vehemence of emotion."

Fanny took her arm; but she trembled so violently that she could

scarcely stand.

"Mr. Cartwright," said Rosalind with a burst of indignation that she

could not control, "I must beg of you not to repeat this species of

experiment on the feelings of this young lady during the absence of her

mother. At her return she will of course decide upon your continuance,

or discontinuance, in the office you have been pleased to assume; but,

till then, I must beg, in her name, that we may have no more of this."

"Oh! Rosalind!" exclaimed Fanny, while a fresh shower of tears burst

from her eyes, "how can you speak so!"

"Tell me, my dear young lady," said Mr. Cartwright, addressing Miss

Torrington in a voice of the gentlest kindness, "did good Mrs. Mowbray,

on leaving home, place Miss Fanny under your care?"

"No, sir, she did not," replied Rosalind, a crimson flush of anger and

indignation mounting to her cheeks; "but, being considerably older than

Fanny, I deem it my duty to prevent her if possible from again becoming

an actor in such a scene as this."

Fanny withdrew her arm, and clasping her hands together, again

exclaimed, "Oh! Rosalind!"

"Do not agitate yourself, my good child," said the vicar; "I shall never

suspect you of that hardening of the heart which would lead you to be of

those who wish to banish the voice of prayer from the roof that shelters

you. Nor shall I," he continued meekly, but firmly,--"nor shall I

consider myself justified in remitting that care and attention which I

promised your excellent mother to bestow on you, because this unhappy

young person lifts her voice against the holy duties of my calling. I

shall return to you in the evening, and then, I trust, we shall again

raise our voices together in praise and prayer."

So saying, Mr. Cartwright took his hat and departed.

The three young ladies were left standing, but not in one group. Miss

Cartwright, as soon as released from her kneeling position, had

approached a window, and was assiduously paring her nails; Rosalind

fixed her eyes upon the floor, and seemed to be revolving some question

that puzzled her; and Fanny, after the interval of a moment, left the

room.

Miss Torrington approached the window, and said coldly, but civilly, "I

am sorry, Miss Cartwright, to have spoken so sternly to your father,--or

rather, for the cause which led me to do so,--but I really considered it

as my duty."

"Oh! pray, ma'am, do not apologise to me about it."

"I do not wish to offer an apology for doing what I believe to be right;

but only to express my sorrow to a guest, in the house that is my home,

for having been obliged to say any thing that might make her feel

uncomfortable."

"I do assure you, Miss Torrington," replied the vicar's daughter, "that

my feelings are very particularly independent of any circumstance,

accident, or event, that may affect Mr. Cartwright ... my father."

"Indeed!" said Rosalind, fixing on her a glance that seemed to invite

her confidence.

"Indeed!" repeated Henrietta, quietly continuing the occupation

furnished by her fingers' ends, but without showing any inclination to

accept the invitation.

Rosalind was disconcerted. The singularity of Miss Cartwright's manner

piqued her curiosity, and though by no means inclined to form a party

with her against her father, she had seen enough to convince her that

they were far from being on very affectionate terms together. A feeling

of pity, too, though for sorrows and sufferings suggested chiefly by her

own imagination, gave her a kind-hearted inclination for more intimate

acquaintance; but she began to suspect that the wish for this was wholly

on her side, and not shared in any degree by her companion.

Chilled by this idea, and out of spirits from the prospect of being

daily exposed to Mr. Cartwright's visits, Rosalind prepared to leave the

room; but good-nature, as was usual with her, prevailed over every other

feeling, and before she reached the door, she turned and said,

"Is there any thing, Miss Cartwright, that I can offer for your

amusement? The books of the day are chiefly in our dressing-rooms, I

believe--and I have abundance of new music--and in this room I can show

you where to find a very splendid collection of engravings."

"I wish for nothing of the kind, I am much obliged to you."

"Shall I send Fanny to you? Perhaps, notwithstanding the ocean of tears

you have seen her shed, she would prove a much more cheerful companion

than I could do at this moment."

"I do not wish for a cheerful companion," said Henrietta.

"Is there any thing, then, that I can do," resumed Rosalind, half

smiling, "that may assist you in getting rid of the morning?"

"You may sit with me yourself."

"May I?--Well, then, so I will. I assure you that I only thought of

going because it appeared to me that you did not particularly desire my

company."

"To say the truth, Miss Torrington, I do not think there is any thing on

earth particularly worth desiring; but your conversation may perhaps be

amongst the most endurable. Besides, it is agreeable to look at you."

"You are very civil," replied Rosalind, laughing. "Perhaps you would

like me to hold a nosegay in my hand, or to put on a bonnet and

feathers, that I might be still better worth looking at."

"No.--If I had a bunch of flowers before my eyes, I should not want you:

no woman can be so beautiful as a collection of flowers. But I shall do

very well, I dare say. Nothing, you know, lasts very long."

"Your father, then, I presume, has taught your thoughts, Miss

Cartwright, to fix themselves altogether on a future and a better

world."

"As to a future world, Miss Torrington, I must have better authority

than Mr. Cartwright's before I pretend to know any thing about it."

"But I hope your distaste for that which we enjoy at present does not

arise from its having been unkind to you?"

"When I was a child," answered Henrietta, "I had a kind of sickly

longing for kindness; but now, that I am older and wiser, I cannot say

that I think kindness or unkindness are matters of much consequence."

"That, indeed, is a feeling that must put one speedily either above or

below sorrow."

"I am below it."

"It would be just as easy to say, above, Miss Cartwright; and if you

really have reached to a state of such stoical indifference, I rather

wonder you should not feel that it sets you above all the poor sensitive

souls whom you must see longing for a smile, and trembling at a frown."

"Because, Miss Torrington, I have constantly felt that in approaching

this state of mind I have been gradually sinking lower and lower in my

own estimation: I am become so hatefully familiar with sin and

wickedness, that I perfectly loathe myself--though assuredly it has

ended by giving me a very pre-eminent degree of indifference concerning

all that may hereafter happen to me."

"Is it in your own person," said Rosalind jestingly, "that you have

become thus familiar with sin?"

"No. It is in that of my father."

Rosalind started. "You talk strangely to me, Miss Cartwright," said she

gravely; "and if you are playing upon my credulity or curiosity, I must

submit to it. But if there be any serious meaning in what you say, it

would be more generous if you would permit me to understand you. I

believe you are aware that I do not esteem Mr. Cartwright: an avowal

which delicacy would have certainly prevented my making to you, had you

not given me reason to suspect----"

"--That I do not very greatly esteem him either," said Henrietta,

interrupting her.

"Exactly so: and as I am deeply interested for the welfare and happiness

of the family amongst whom he seems disposed to insinuate himself upon

terms of very particular intimacy, I should consider it as a great

kindness if you would tell me what his character really is."

"The request is a very singular one, considering to whom it is

addressed," said Miss Cartwright; "and besides I really cannot perceive

any reason in the world why I should be guilty of an indecorum in order

to do you _a great kindness_."

"The indecorum, Miss Cartwright, has been already committed," said

Rosalind. "You have already spoken of your father as you should not have

spoken, unless you had some strong and virtuous motive for it."

"How exceedingly refreshing is the unwonted voice of truth!" exclaimed

Henrietta. "Rosalind Torrington, you are an honest girl, and will not

betray me; for I do fear him--coward that I am--I do fear his cruelty,

even while I despise his power. I think but lightly," she continued, "of

the motes that people this paltry world of ours; yet there are

gradations amongst us, from the pure-hearted kind fool, who, like you,

Rosalind, would wish to spend their little hour of life in doing good,

down to the plotting knave who, like my father, Miss Torrington, cares

not what mischief he may do, so that his own unholy interest, and unholy

joys, may be increased thereby: and so, look you, there are gradations

also in my feelings towards them, from very light and easy indifference,

down, down, down to the deepest abyss of hatred and contempt. I know not

what power you may have here--not much, I should fear; for though you

are rich, the Mowbrays are richer; yet it is possible, I think, that if

the energy which I suspect makes part of your character be roused, you

may obtain some influence. If you do, use it to keep Mr. Cartwright as

far distant from all you love as you can. Mistrust him yourself, and

teach all others to mistrust him.--And now, never attempt to renew this

conversation. I may have done you some service--do not let your

imprudence make me repent it. Let us now avoid each other if you please:

I do not love talking, and would not willingly be led into it again."

Miss Cartwright left the room as soon as these words were spoken,

leaving Rosalind in a state of mind extremely painful. Through all the

strange wildness of Henrietta's manner she thought that she could trace

a friendly intention to put her on her guard; but she hardly knew what

the mischief was which she feared, and less still perhaps what she could

do to guard against it. The most obvious and the most desirable thing,

if she could achieve it, was the preventing Mr. Cartwright's making the

constant morning and evening visits which he threatened; but she felt

that her power was indeed small, and, such as it was, she knew not well

how to use it.

Having remained for above an hour exactly in the place where Miss

Cartwright had left her, inventing and rejecting a variety of schemes

for keeping Mr. Cartwright from the house during the absence of Mrs.

Mowbray, she at length determined to write to him, and after a good deal

of meditation produced the following note:

"Miss Torrington presents her compliments to Mr. Cartwright,

and begs to inform him, that having been very strictly brought

up by her father, a clergyman of the established church, she

cannot, consistently with her ideas of what is right, continue

to make her residence in a house where irregular and extempore

prayer-meetings are held. She therefore takes this method of

announcing to Mr. Cartwright, that if he perseveres in

repeating at Mowbray Park the scene she witnessed this morning,

she shall be obliged to leave the house of her guardian, and

will put herself under the protection of Sir Gilbert Harrington

till such time as Mrs. Mowbray shall return.

"Mowbray Park, 13th July 1833."

This note she immediately despatched to the Vicarage by her own footman,

who was ordered to wait for an answer, and in the course of an hour

returned with the following short epistle:

"Mr. Cartwright presents his compliments to Miss Torrington,

and respectfully requests permission to wait upon her for a few

minutes to-morrow morning.

"Wrexhill Vicarage, July 13th, 1833."

Nothing could be less like the answer she expected than this note, and

she might possibly have been doubtful whether to grant the audience

requested, or not, had she not perceived, with very considerable

satisfaction, that she had already obtained a remission of the evening

rhapsody he had threatened in the morning, which inspired her with

reasonable hope that her remonstrance would not prove altogether in

vain. She determined therefore to receive Mr. Cartwright on the morrow,

but did not deem it necessary to send another express to say so, feeling

pretty certain that the not forbidding his approach would be quite

sufficient to ensure its arrival.

The evening passed in very evident and very fidgetty expectation on the

part of Fanny, who more than once strolled out upon the lawn, returning

with an air of restlessness and disappointment. But Rosalind was in

excellent spirits, and contrived to amuse Miss Cartwright, and even

elicit an expression of pleasure from her, by singing some of her

sweetest native melodies, which she did with a delicacy and perfection

of taste and feeling that few could listen to without delight.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN INTERVIEW.--THE LIME TREE.--ROSALIND'S LETTER TO MR. MOWBRAY.

At about eleven o'clock the following morning, Miss Torrington was

informed that Mr. Cartwright requested to speak to her for a few minutes

in the drawing-room. Henrietta was with her when the message was

delivered, and seemed to await her reply with some curiosity.

"I will wait upon him immediately," was the civil and ready answer; and

as Rosalind gave it, and at the same moment rose from her chair to obey

the summons, she looked in the face of her companion to see if there

were any wish expressed there that the silence so strictly enjoined

should be broken. But Miss Cartwright was occupied by a volume of

engravings which lay before her, and Rosalind left the room without

having met her eye.

It is impossible to imagine a demeanour or address more perfectly

gentlemanlike and respectful than those of Mr. Cartwright as he walked

across the room to receive Miss Torrington. Strong as her feelings were

against him, this still produced some effect; and as she seated herself,

and motioned to him to do the same, her mental soliloquy amounted to

this:--"At any rate, I will listen patiently to what he has to say."

"I have taken the liberty of requesting to speak to you, Miss

Torrington, because I feel persuaded that my conduct and principles have

from some accident been misunderstood; and I cannot but hope that it

may be in my power to explain them, so as in some degree to remove the

prejudice which I fear you have conceived against me."

"It is my duty, sir, both as a matter of courtesy and justice, to hear

whatever you wish to say in justification or excuse of the scene I

witnessed yesterday morning. Miss Fanny Mowbray is not yet recovered

from the effects of the agitation into which she was thrown by it; and I

have no objection, Mr. Cartwright, to repeat to you in person my fixed

determination not to continue in the house if that scene be repeated."

"It is impossible," replied Mr. Cartwright "to find a lady of your age

so steadfast in adhering to what she believes to be right, without

feeling both admiration and respect for her; and I should think--forgive

me if I wound you--I should think that such an one cannot altogether

condemn the offering of prayer and thanksgiving?"

"Mr. Cartwright," replied Rosalind, her colour rising, and her voice

expressive of great agitation, "you talk of having been misunderstood;

but it is I, sir, who have reason to make this complaint. From which of

my words, either written or spoken, do you presume to infer that I

contemn the offering of prayer and thanksgiving?"

"I beseech you to bear with me patiently," said Mr. Cartwright with a

look and tone of the most touching mildness; "and be assured that by

doing so, we shall not only be more likely to make ourselves mutually

understood, but finally to arrive at that truth which, I am willing to

believe, is equally the object of both. And the theme, my dear young

lady, on which we speak should never be alluded to,--at least, I think

not,--with any mixture of temper."

Poor Rosalind! Honest as her vehemence was, she felt that she had been

wrong to show it, and with an effort that did her honour she contrived

to say "You are quite right, sir. As far as manner is concerned, you

have greatly the advantage of me by your self-possession and calmness.

Herein I will endeavour to imitate you, and assure you, with a _sang

froid_ as perfect as your own, that I consider the offering of prayer

and thanksgiving as the first duty of a Christian. It is in consequence

of the reverence in which I hold this sacred duty, that I shrink from

seeing it performed irreverently. I have been taught to believe, sir,

that the deepest learning, the most deliberative wisdom, and the most

grave and solemn meditation given to the subject by the fathers and

founders of our church, were not too much to bestow on the sublime and

awful attempt to address ourselves suitably to God in prayer. Prayers so

framed, and fitted for every exigency that human nature can know, have

been prepared for us with equal piety and wisdom; and while such exist,

I will never join in any crude, unweighed, unauthorised jargon addressed

to the Deity, however vehement the assumption of piety may be in the

bold man who uses it."

"It is seldom that so young a lady," replied the vicar with a kind and

gentle smile, "can have found time to give this important question so

much attention as you appear to have done. Yet, perhaps,--yet, perhaps,

Miss Torrington, when a few years more of deep consideration have been

given by you to the subject, you may be led to think that fervour of

feeling may more than atone for imperfection in expression."

"If you imagine, sir," replied Rosalind, in a voice as tranquil and

deliberate as his own, "that I have dared to regulate my conduct and

opinions on such a point as this by any wisdom of my own, you do me

great injustice. Such conduct, if general, would make as many churches

upon earth as there are audacious spirits who reject control. My father,

Mr. Cartwright, was one whose life was passed in the situation which,

perhaps, beyond all others in the world, taught him the value of the

establishment to which he belonged. To those of another and an adverse

faith he was a kind friend and generous benefactor; but he could not be

insensible, nor did he leave me so, of the superior purity and moral

efficacy of his own;--and I hope not to live long enough to forget the

reverence which he has left impressed upon my mind for all that our

church holds sacred."

"Not for worlds, my excellent young lady," exclaimed Mr. Cartwright with

warmth, "would I attempt to shake opinions so evidently sustained by a

sense of duty! Respect for such will assuredly prevent my again

attempting to perform the office which offended your opinions this

morning, as long as you continue, what you certainly ought to be at this

time, the mistress of this family. I will only ask, Miss Torrington, in

return for the sincere veneration I feel for your conscientious

scruples, that you will judge me with equal candour, and will believe

that however we may differ in judgment, I am not less anxious to be

right than yourself."

Rosalind answered this appeal by a silent bow.

"May I, then, hope that we are friends?" said he, rising and presenting

his hand; "and that I may venture to call, as I promised Mrs. Mowbray I

would do, on yourself, Miss Fanny, and my daughter, without driving you

from the house?"

"Certainly, sir," was Rosalind's cold reply. The request appeared as

reasonable in itself as it was politely and respectfully made, and to

refuse it would have been equally churlish, presumptuous and unjust.

Nevertheless, there was something at the bottom of her heart that

revolted against the act of shaking hands with him; and feigning to be

occupied by arranging some flowers on the table, she suffered the

offered hand to remain extended, till at length its patient owner

withdrew it.

Though well pleased that her remonstrance had put a stop to the vicar's

extempore prayings at the house, Rosalind was not altogether satisfied

by the result of the interview. "We are still upon infinitely too civil

terms," thought she: "but I see that just at present it would be an

Herculean labour to quarrel with him:--if I smite him on one cheek, he

will turn himself about as unresistingly as a sucking pig upon the spit,

and submit to be basted all round without uttering a single squeak. But

when Mrs. Mowbray returns I suspect that it will be my turn to be

basted:--_n'importe_--I am sure I have done no more than my father would

have thought right."

With this consolation she returned to her dressing-room and applied

herself to her usual occupations. Henrietta was no longer there; but as

the fashion of the house was for every one to find employment and

amusement for themselves during the morning, she did not think it

necessary to pursue her in order to prove her wish to be agreeable.

At luncheon the three young ladies met as usual in the dining-room:

Fanny appeared to have recovered her spirits and good-humour, and

Henrietta seemed to wish to be more conversable than usual. They then

strolled into the gardens, visited the hothouses, and finally placed

themselves in a shady and fragrant bower, where they discoursed of

poetry and music for an hour or two.

When these subjects seemed to be wellnigh exhausted, Miss Cartwright

rose and slowly walked towards the house without intimating to her

companions what it was her purpose to do next.

Rosalind and Fanny being thus left tete-a-tete, the former said, "What

do you think of our new acquaintance, Fanny?--How do you like Miss

Cartwright?"

"I do not think she seems at all an amiable girl," replied Fanny. "With

such advantages as she has, it is quite astonishing that her manners are

so little agreeable."

"She is not remarkably conversable, certainly," said Rosalind; "but I

suspect that she has very bad health. How dreadfully sallow she is!"

"I suspect that she has a worse infirmity than bad health," answered

Fanny;--"she has, I fear, an extremely bad temper."

"She has not a violent temper, at any rate," observed Rosalind; "for I

never remember to have seen any one who gave me a greater idea of being

subdued and spirit-broken."

"That is not at all the impression she makes upon me," said Fanny: "I

should call her rather sullen than gentle, and obstinate instead of

subdued. But this gossiping is sad idle work, Rosalind: as Miss

Henrietta has fortunately taken herself off, I may go on with what I was

doing before luncheon."

* * * * *

Late in the evening, Mr. Cartwright and his son Jacob paid the young

ladies a visit. The vicar's conversation was chiefly addressed to Miss

Torrington; and if she had never seen him before, she must have agreed

with Fanny in thinking him one of the most agreeable persons in the

world--for he spoke fluently and well upon every subject, and with a

person and voice calculated to please every eye and every ear. There

were probably, indeed, but few who could retain as steady a dislike to

him as our Rosalind did.

The young man got hold of a purse that Fanny was netting, and did his

best to entangle her silks; but his chief amusement was derived from

attempts to quiz and plague his sister, who treated him much as a large

and powerful dog does a little one,--enduring his gambols and annoying

tricks with imperturbable patience for a while, and then suddenly

putting forth a heavy paw and driving him off in an instant.

The following day passed very nearly in the same manner, excepting that

the three girls separated immediately after breakfast, and did not meet

again till luncheon-time. On the third, Fanny was the first to leave the

breakfast-room; and Miss Cartwright and Rosalind being left together,

the former said,

"I suppose we owe our repose from morning and evening ranting to you,

Miss Torrington?"

"I certainly did not approve it, Miss Cartwright, and I took the liberty

of telling your father so."

"You were undoubtedly very right and very wise, and I dare say you feel

some inward satisfaction at your success. Mr. Cartwright has really

shown great deference to your opinion by so immediately abandoning, at

your request, so very favourite an occupation."

Rosalind was about to reply, when Miss Cartwright changed the

conversation by abruptly saying,

"Will you take a stroll with me this morning, Miss Torrington?"

"Yes, certainly, if you wish it;--but I think we shall find it very

warm."

"Oh! no. I will lead you a very nice shady walk to the prettiest and

most sheltered little thicket in the world. Let us put on our bonnets

directly;--shall we?"

"I will not delay you a moment," said Rosalind. "Shall I ask Fanny to go

with us?"

"Why no," replied Miss Cartwright; "I think you had better not;--the

chances are ten to one against her finding it convenient. You know she

is so fond of solitary study----"

"I believe you are right," said Rosalind; and the young ladies parted,

to meet again a few minutes after, with bonnets and parasols, at the

hall-door.

"And which way are we to go to find this welcome shade?" said Rosalind,

holding her parasol low down to shelter her pretty face. "The sun is

almost intolerable."

"This way," said Henrietta, turning aside from the drive in a direction

which soon brought them to a thickly-planted ride that surrounded the

Park. "We shall find it delightful here."

It was an hour which, in the month of July, few ladies would choose for

walking; but Miss Torrington politely exerted herself to converse,

though she secretly longed to be lying silent and alone on the sofa in

her own dressing-room, with no greater exertion than was necessary for

the perusal of--

"The dear pages of some new romance."

Henrietta, however, only answered her dryly and shortly, and presently

said,

"I should be really very much obliged to you, Miss Torrington, if you

would not speak to me any more. Just listen to the blackbirds, will

you?--depend upon it we can neither of us express ourselves one half so

well as they do."

Rosalind willingly submitted to this request; and the young ladies

walked onward, producing no other sound than the occasional brushing of

their dresses against the underwood, which at every step became thicker,

rendering the path almost too narrow for two to walk abreast.

"Now, let us just turn down through this little opening," said Henrietta

in a whisper; "and pray do not speak to me."

Rosalind, who began to believe that she must have some meaning for her

strange manner of proceeding, followed her in perfect silence; and they

had not gone far into the intricacies of the tangled copse, before she

heard the sound of a human voice at no great distance from her.

Henrietta, who was in advance, turned round and laid her finger on her

lips. The caution was not needed: Rosalind had already recognised the

tones of Mr. Cartwright, and a few more silent steps brought them to a

spot thickly surrounded on all sides, but from whence they could look

out upon a small and beautiful opening, in the centre of which a

majestic lime-tree stretched its arms in all directions over the soft

green turf.

Rosalind instantly recognised the spot as one frequently resorted to in

their evening rambles, for the sake of its cool and secluded beauty, and

also because a bench, divided into commodious stalls, surrounded the

capacious tree, from whence opened a vista commanding a charming view

across the Park.

On the turf before this bench, and with their backs turned towards the

spot where Rosalind and Henrietta stood, knelt Mr. Cartwright and Fanny.

His eyes were fixed upon her with passionate admiration, and the first

words they distinctly heard were these, spoken with great vehemence by

the vicar:--

"Persecuted--trampled on--turned forth from every other roof, let thy

blue vault spread over us, and while I struggle to snatch this precious

brand from the eternal fire of thy wrath, pour upon our heads the dew of

thy love! Grant me power to save this one dear soul alive, though it

should seem good in thy sight that millions should perish around her!

Save her from the eternal flame that even now rises to lick her feet,

and if not stayed by prayer--the prayer of thy saints,--will speedily

envelope and consume her!"

Rosalind remained to hear no more. Heartsick, indignant, disgusted, and

almost terrified by what she saw and heard, she retreated hastily, and,

followed by Henrietta, rapidly pursued her way to the house.

Her companion made an effort to overtake her, and, almost out of breath

by an exertion to which she was hardly equal, she said,

"I have shown you this, Miss Torrington, for the sake of giving you a

useful lesson. If you are wise, you will profit by it, and learn to know

that it is not always safe to suppose you have produced an effect,

merely because it may be worth some one's while to persuade you into

believing it. Having said thus much to point the moral of our walk in

the sun, you may go your way, and I will go mine. I shall not enter upon

any more elaborate exposition of Mr. Cartwright's character."

So saying, she fell back among the bushes, and Rosalind reached the

house alone.

On entering her dressing-room, Miss Torrington sat herself down, with

her eau de Cologne bottle in one hand and a large feather fan in the

other, to meditate--coolly, if she could, but at any rate to

meditate--upon what she ought to do in order immediately to put a stop

to the very objectionable influence which Mr. Cartwright appeared to

exercise over the mind of Fanny.

Had she been aware of Sir Gilbert Harrington's having written to recall

his refusal of the executorship, she would immediately have had recourse

to him; but this fact had never transpired beyond Mrs. Mowbray and the

vicar; and the idea that he had resisted the representation which she

felt sure his son had made to him after the conversation Helen and

herself had held with him, not only made her too angry to attempt any

farther to soften him, but naturally impressed her with the belief that,

do or say what she would on the subject, it must be in vain.

At length it struck her that Charles Mowbray was the most proper person

to whom she could address herself; yet the writing such a letter as

might immediately bring him home, was a measure which, under all

existing circumstances, she felt to be awkward and disagreeable. But the

more she meditated the more she felt convinced, that, notwithstanding

the obvious objections to it, this was the safest course she could

pursue: so having once made up her mind upon the subject, she set about

it without farther delay, and, with the straightforward frankness and

sincerity of her character, produced the following epistle:--

"Dear Mr. Mowbray,

"Your last letter to Helen, giving so very agreeable an account

of the style and manner of your _Little-go_, makes it an

ungracious task to interrupt your studies--and yet that is what

I am bent upon doing. You will be rather puzzled, I suspect, at

finding me assuming the rights and privileges of a

correspondent, and moreover of an adviser, or rather a

dictator: but so it is--and you must not blame me till you are

quite sure you know all my reasons for it.

"Mrs. Mowbray is gone to London, accompanied by Helen, for the

purpose of proving (I think it is called) your father's will; a

business in which Sir Gilbert Harrington has, most unkindly for

all of you, refused to join her. This journey was so suddenly

decided upon, that dear Helen had no time to write to you about

it: she knew not she was to go till about nine o'clock the

evening preceding.

"The Vicar of Wrexhill was probably acquainted with the

intended movement earlier; for no day passes, or has passed for

some weeks, without his holding a private consultation with

your mother.

"Oh! that vicar, Charles! I think I told you that I hated him,

and you seemed to smile at my hatred as a sort of missish

impertinence and caprice; but what was instinct then has become

reason now, and I am strangely mistaken if your hatred would

not fully keep pace with mine had you seen and heard what I

have done.

"When I decided upon writing to you I intended, I believe, to

enter into all particulars; but I cannot do this--you must see

for yourself, and draw your own inferences. My dislike for this

man may carry me too far, and you must be much more capable of

forming a judgment respecting his motives than I can be. Of

this however I am quite sure,--Fanny ought at this time to have

some one near her more capable of protecting her from the

mischievous influence of this hateful man than I am. I know,

Mr. Charles, that you have no very exalted idea of my wisdom;

and I am not without some fear that instead of coming home

immediately, as I think you ought to do, you may write me a

very witty, clever answer, with reasons as plenty as

blackberries to prove that I am a goose. _Do not do this, Mr.

Mowbray._ I do not think that you know me very well, but in

common courtesy you ought not to believe that any young lady

would write you such a summons as this without having very

serious reasons for it.

"As one proof of the rapidly-increasing intimacy between the

family of the vicar and your own, you will, on your arrival,

find the daughter, Miss Cartwright, established here to console

us for your mother's (and Helen's!) absence. She is a very

singular personage: but on her I pass no judgment, sincerely

feeling that I am not competent to it. If my opinion be of

sufficient weight to induce you to come, Mr. Mowbray, I must

beg you to let your arrival appear the result of accident; and

not to let any one but Helen know of this letter.

"Believe me, very sincerely,

"Your friend,

"ROSALIND TORRINGTON."

CHAPTER XV.

ROSALIND'S CONVERSATION WITH MISS CARTWRIGHT.--MRS. SIMPSON AND MISS

RICHARDS MEET THE VICAR AT THE PARK.--THE HYMN.--THE WALK HOME.

In the course of the morning after this letter was despatched, Miss

Cartwright and Rosalind again found themselves tete-a-tete. The nature

of Rosalind Torrington was so very completely the reverse of mysterious

or intriguing, that far from wishing to lead Henrietta to talk of her

father in that style of hints and innuendos to which the young lady

seemed addicted, she determined, in future, carefully to avoid the

subject; although it was very evident, from the preconcerted walk to the

lime-tree, that, notwithstanding her declaration to the contrary, Miss

Cartwright was desirous to make her acquainted with the character and

conduct of her father.

Whether it were that spirit of contradiction which is said to possess

the breast of woman, or any other more respectable feeling, it may be

difficult to decide, but it is certain that the less Rosalind appeared

disposed to speak of the adventure of yesterday, the more desirous did

Henrietta feel to lead her to it.

"You were somewhat disappointed, I fancy, Miss Torrington," said she,

"to discover that though you had contrived to banish the conventicle

from the house, it had raised its voice in the grounds."

"Indeed I was," replied Rosalind.

"I rather think that you are addicted to speaking truth--and perhaps you

pique yourself upon it," resumed Miss Cartwright. "Will you venture to

tell me what you think of the scene you witnessed?"

"You are not the person I should most naturally have selected as the

confidant of my opinions respecting Mr. Cartwright," said Rosalind; "but

since you put the question plainly I will answer it plainly, and confess

that I suspect him not only of wishing to inculcate his own Calvinistic

doctrines on the mind of Fanny Mowbray, but moreover, notwithstanding

his disproportionate age, of gaining her affections."

"Her affections?" repeated Henrietta. "And with what view do you imagine

he is endeavouring to gain her affections?"

"Doubtless with a view to making her his wife; though, to be sure, the

idea is preposterous."

"Sufficiently. Pray, Miss Torrington, has Miss Fanny Mowbray an

independent fortune?"

"None whatever. Like the rest of the family, she is become by the death

of her father entirely dependent upon Mrs. Mowbray."

"Your fortune is entirely at your own disposal, I believe."

Rosalind looked provoked at the idle turn Miss Cartwright was giving to

a conversation which, though she had not led to it, interested her

deeply.

"Do not suspect me of impertinence," said Henrietta in a tone more

gentle than ordinary. "But such is the case, is it not?"

"Yes, Miss Cartwright," was Rosalind's grave reply.

"Then, do you know that I think it infinitely more probable Mr.

Cartwright may have it in contemplation to make you his wife."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Cartwright," said Rosalind, "but I really

thought that you were speaking of your father seriously; and it seems

you are disposed to punish me for imagining you would do so, to one so

nearly a stranger."

"I never jest on any subject," replied the melancholy-looking girl,

knitting her dark brows into a frown of such austerity as almost made

Rosalind tremble. "A reasoning being who has nothing to hope among the

realities on this side the grave, and hopes nothing on the other, is not

very likely to be jocose."

"Good Heavens! Miss Cartwright," exclaimed Rosalind, "what dreadful

language is this? Are you determined to prove to me that there may be

opinions and doctrines more terrible still than those of your father?"

"I had no meaning of the kind, I assure you," replied Henrietta, in her

usual quiet manner, which always seemed to hover between the bitterness

of a sneer, and the quietude or indifference of philosophy. "Pray do not

trouble yourself for a moment to think about me or my opinions. You

might, perhaps, as you are a bold-spirited, honest-minded girl, do some

good if you fully comprehended all that was going on around you; though

it is very doubtful, for it is impossible to say to what extent the

besotted folly of people may go. But don't you think it might on the

whole be quite as probable that Mr. Cartwright may wish to marry the

mother as the daughter?"

"Mrs. Mowbray!--Good gracious! no."

"Then we differ. But may I ask you why you think otherwise?"

"One reason is, that Mrs. Mowbray's recent widowhood seems to put such

an idea entirely out of the question; and another, that he appears to be

positively making love to Fanny."

"Oh!--is that all? I do assure you there is nothing at all particular in

that. He would tell you himself, I am sure, if you were to enter upon

the subject with him, that it is his duty to influence and lead the

hearts of his flock into the way he would have them go, by _every_ means

in his power."

"Then you really do not think he has been making love to Fanny?"

"I am sure, Miss Torrington," replied Henrietta very gravely, "I did not

mean to say so."

"Indeed! indeed! Miss Cartwright," said Rosalind with evident symptoms

of impatience, "these riddles vex me cruelly. If your father _does_

make love to this dear fanciful child, he must, I suppose, have some

hope that she will marry him?"

"How can I answer you?" exclaimed Henrietta with real feeling. "You

cannot be above two or three years younger than I am, yet your purity

and innocence make me feel myself a monster."

"For Heaven's sake do not trifle with me!" cried Rosalind, her face and

neck dyed with indignant blood; "you surely do not mean that your father

is seeking to seduce this unhappy child?"

"Watch Mr. Cartwright a little while, Rosalind Torrington, as I have

done for the six last terrible years of my hateful life, and you may

obtain perhaps some faint idea of the crooked, complex machinery--the

movements and counter-movements, the shiftings and the balancings, by

which his zig-zag course is regulated. Human passions are in him for

ever struggling with, and combating, what may be called, in their

strength, _superhuman_ avarice and ambition.

"To touch, to influence, to lead, to rule, to tyrannise over the hearts

and souls of all he approaches, is the great object of his life. He

would willingly do this in the hearts of men,--but for the most part he

has found them tough; and he now, I think, seems to rest all his hopes

of fame, wealth, and station on the power he can obtain over women.--I

say not," she added after a pause, while a slight blush passed over her

pallid cheek, "that I believe his senses uninfluenced by beauty;--this

is far, hatefully far from being the case with Mr. Cartwright;--but he

is careful, most cunningly careful, whatever victims he makes, never to

become one in his own person.

"You would find, were you to watch him, that his system, both for

pleasure and profit, consists of a certain graduated love-making to

every woman within his reach, not too poor, too old, or too ugly. But if

any among them fancy that he would sacrifice the thousandth part of a

hair's breadth of his worldly hopes for all they could give him in

return--they are mistaken."

"The character you paint," said Rosalind, who grew pale as she listened,

"is too terrible for me fully to understand, and I would turn my eyes

from the portrait, and endeavour to forget that I had ever heard of it,

were not those I love endangered by it. Hateful as all this new

knowledge is to me, I must still question you further, Miss Cartwright:

What do you suppose to be his object in thus working upon the mind of

Fanny Mowbray?"

"His motives, depend upon it, are manifold. Religion and love, the new

birth and intellectual attachment--mystical sympathy of hearts, and the

certainty of eternal perdition to all that he does not take under the

shadow of his wing;--these are the tools with which he works. He has got

his foot--perhaps you may think it a cloven one, but, such as it is, he

seems to have got it pretty firmly planted within the paling of Mowbray

Park. He made me follow him hither as a volunteer visiter, very much

against my inclination; but if by what I have said you may be enabled to

defeat any of his various projects among ye,--for he never plots

single-handed,--I shall cease to regret that I came."

"My power of doing any good," replied Rosalind, "must, I fear, be

altogether destroyed by my ignorance of what Mr. Cartwright's intentions

and expectations are. You have hinted various things, but all so

vaguely, that I own I do not feel more capable of keeping my friends

from any danger which may threaten them, than before this conversation

took place."

"I am sorry for it," said Henrietta coldly, "but I have really no

information more accurate to give."

"I truly believe that you have meant very kindly," said Rosalind,

looking seriously distressed. "Will you go one step farther, and say

what you would advise me to do, Miss Cartwright?"

"No, certainly, Miss Torrington, I will not. But I will give you a hint

or two what not to do. Do not appear at all better acquainted with me

than I show myself disposed to be with you. Do not make the slightest

alteration in your manner of receiving Mr. Cartwright; and do not, from

any motive whatever, repeat one syllable of this conversation to Fanny

Mowbray. Should you disobey this last injunction, you will be guilty of

very cruel and ungrateful treachery towards me." Having said this, with

the appearance of more emotion than she had hitherto manifested,

Henrietta rose and left the room.

"At length," thought Rosalind, "she has spoken out; yet what are we

likely to be the better for it? It seems that there is a great net

thrown over us, of which we shall feel and see the meshes by-and-by,

when he who has made prey of us begins to pull the draught to shore; but

how to escape from it, the oracle sayeth not!"

* * * * *

On the evening of that day, Mrs. Simpson and the eldest Miss Richards

walked over from Wrexhill to pay a visit at the Park. They were not

aware of the absence of Mrs. Mowbray, and seemed disposed to shorten

their visit on finding she was not at home; but Rosalind, who for the

last hour had been sitting on thorns expecting Mr. Cartwright to make

his evening call, most cordially and earnestly invited them to stay till

after tea, feeling that their presence would greatly relieve the

embarrassment which she feared she might betray on again seeing the

vicar.

"But it will be so late!" said Miss Richards. "How are we to get home

after it is dark? Remember, Mrs. Simpson, there is no moon."

"It is very true," said Mrs. Simpson. "I am afraid, my dear Miss

Torrington, that we must deny ourselves the pleasure you offer;--but I

am such a nervous creature! It is very seldom that I stir out without

ordering a man-servant to follow me; and I regret excessively that I

omitted to do so this evening."

"I think," said Rosalind, colouring at her own eagerness, which she was

conscious must appear rather new and rather strange to Mrs. Simpson,

with whom she had hardly ever exchanged a dozen words before,--"I think

Mr. Cartwright will very likely be here this evening, and perhaps he

might attend you home. Do you not think, Miss Cartwright," she added,

turning to Henrietta, "that it is very likely your father will call this

evening?"

"Good gracious!--Miss Cartwright--I beg your pardon, I did not know you.

I hope you heard that I called;--so very happy to cultivate your

acquaintance!--Oh dear! I would not miss seeing Mr. Cartwright for the

world!--Thank you, my dear Miss Torrington;--thank you, Miss Fanny: I

will just set my hair to rights a little, if you will give me leave.

Perhaps, Miss Fanny, you will permit me to go into your bed-room?" Such

was the effect produced by the vicar's name upon the handsome widow.

Miss Richards coloured, smiled, spoke to Henrietta with very respectful

politeness, and finally followed her friend Mrs. Simpson out of the

room, accompanied by Fanny, who willingly undertook to be their

gentlewoman usher.

"Mr. Cartwright has already made some impression on these fair ladies,

or I am greatly mistaken," said Henrietta. "Did you remark, Miss

Torrington, the effect produced by his name?"

"I did," replied Rosalind, "and my reasonings upon it are very

consolatory; for if he has already found time and inclination to produce

so great effect there, why should we fear that his labours of love here

should prove more dangerous in their tendency?"

"Very true. Nor do I see any reason in the world why the Mowbray is in

greater peril than the Simpson, or the Fanny than the Louisa,--excepting

that one widow is about twenty times richer than the other, and the

little young lady about five hundred times handsomer than the great

one."

At this moment the Mr. Cartwrights, father and son, were seen turning

off from the regular approach to the house, towards the little gate that

opened from the lawn; a friendly and familiar mode of entrance, which

seemed to have become quite habitual to them.

Rosalind, who was the first to perceive them, flew towards the door,

saying, "You must excuse me for running away, Miss Cartwright. I invited

that furbelow widow to stay on purpose to spare me this almost

tete-a-tete meeting. I will seek the ladies and return with them."

"Then so will I too," said Henrietta, hastily following her. "I am by no

means disposed to stand the cross-examination which I know will ensue if

I remain here alone."

The consequence of this movement was, that the vicar and his son

prepared their smiles in vain; for, on entering the drawing-room, sofas

and ottomans, footstools, tables, and chairs, alone greeted them.

Young Cartwright immediately began peeping into the work-boxes and

portfolios which lay on the tables.

"Look here, sir," said he, holding up a caricature of Lord B----m. "Is

not this sinful?"

"Do be quiet, Jacob!--we shall have them here in a moment;--I really

wish I could teach you when your interest is at stake to make the best

of yourself. You know that I should be particularly pleased by your

marrying Miss Torrington; and I do beg, my dear boy, that you will not

suffer your childish spirits to put any difficulties in my way."

"I will become an example unto all men," replied Jacob, shutting up his

eyes and mouth demurely, and placing himself bolt upright upon the

music-stool.

"If you and your sister could but mingle natures a little," said Mr.

Cartwright, "you would both be wonderfully improved. Nothing with which

I am acquainted, however joyous, can ever induce Henrietta to smile; and

nothing, however sad, can prevent your being on the broad grin from

morning to night. However, of the two, I confess I think you are the

most endurable."

"A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool's

back," said Jacob in a sanctified tone.

"Upon my honour, Jacob, I shall be very angry with you if you do not set

about this love-making as I would have you. Don't make ducks and drakes

of eighty thousand pounds:--at least, not till you have got them."

"Answer not a fool according to his folly, least he be wise in his own

conceit," said Jacob.

Mr. Cartwright smiled, as it seemed against his will, but shook his head

very solemnly. "I'll tell you what, Jacob," said he,--"if I see you set

about this in a way to please me, I'll give you five shillings to-morrow

morning."

"Wherefore is there a price in the hand of a fool to get wisdom, seeing

he hath no heart to it?" replied Jacob. "Nevertheless, father, I will

look lovingly upon the maiden, and receive thy promised gift, even as

thou sayest."

"Upon my word, Jacob, you try my patience too severely," said the

vicar; yet there was certainly but little wrath in his eye as he said

so, and his chartered libertine of a son was preparing again to answer

him in the words of Solomon, but in a spirit of very indecent

buffoonery, when the drawing-room door opened, and Mrs. Simpson, Miss

Richards, and Fanny Mowbray entered.

It appeared that Rosalind and Miss Cartwright on escaping from the

drawing-room had not sought the other ladies, but taken refuge in the

dining-parlour, from whence they issued immediately after the others had

passed the door, and entering the drawing-room with them, enjoyed the

gratification of witnessing the meeting of the vicar and his fair

parishioners.

To the surprise of Rosalind, and the great though silent amusement of

her companion, they perceived that both the stranger ladies had

contrived to make a very edifying and remarkable alteration in the

general appearance of their dress.

Miss Richards had combed her abounding black curls as nearly straight as

their nature would allow, and finally brought them into very reverential

order by the aid of her ears, and sundry black pins to boot,--an

arrangement by no means unfavourable to the display of her dark eyes and

eyebrows.

But the change produced by the _castigato_ toilet of the widow was

considerably more important. A transparent blond _chemisette_, rather

calculated to adorn than conceal that part of the person to which it

belonged, was now completely hidden by a lavender-coloured silk

handkerchief, tightly, smoothly, and with careful security pinned

behind, and before, and above, and below, upon her full but graceful

bust.

Rosalind had more than once of late amused herself by looking over the

pages of Moliere's "Tartuffe;" and a passage now occurred to her that

she could not resist muttering in the ear of Henrietta:--

"Ah, mon Dieu! je vous prie,

Avant que de parler, prenez-moi ce mouchoir"--&c.

The comer of Miss Cartwright's mouth expressed her appreciation of the

quotation, but by a movement so slight that none but Rosalind could

perceive it.

Meanwhile the vicar approached Mrs. Simpson with a look that was full of

meaning, and intended to express admiration both of her mental and

personal endowments. She, too, had banished the drooping ringlets from

her cheeks, and appeared before him with all the pretty severity of a

Madonna band across her forehead.

Was it in the nature of man to witness such touching proofs of his

influence without being affected thereby? At any rate, such indifference

made no part of the character of the Vicar of Wrexhill, and the murmured

"Bless you, my dear lady!" which accompanied his neighbourly pressure of

the widow Simpson's hand, gave her to understand how much his grateful

and affectionate feelings were gratified by her attention to the hints

he had found an opportunity to give her during a tete-a-tete

conversation at her own house a few days before.

Nor was the delicate attention of Miss Richards overlooked. She, too,

felt at her fingers' ends how greatly the sacrifice of her curls was

approved by the graceful vicar, who now sat down surrounded by this fair

bevy of ladies, smiling with bland and gentle sweetness on them all.

Mr. Jacob thought of the promised five shillings, and displaying his

fine teeth from ear to ear, presented a chair to Miss Torrington.

"I wish you would let us have a song, Miss Rosalind Torrington," said

he, stationing himself at the back of her chair and leaning over her

shoulder. "I am told that your voice beats every thing on earth hollow."

His eye caught an approving glance from his father as he took this

station, and he wisely trusted to his attitude for obtaining his reward,

for these words were audible only to the young lady herself.

"You are a mighty odd set of people!" said she, turning round to him. "I

cannot imagine how you all contrive to live together! There is not one

of you that does not appear to be a contrast to the other two."

"Then, at any rate, you cannot dislike us all _equally_," said the

strange lad, with a grimace that made her laugh, despite her inclination

to look grave.

"I do not know that," was the reply. "I may dislike you all equally, and

yet have a different species of dislike for each."

"But one species must be stronger and more vigorous than the others.

Besides, I will assist your judgment. I do not mean to say I am quite

perfect; but, depend upon it, I'm the best of the _set_, as you call

us."

"Your authority, Mr. Jacob, is the best in the world, certainly.

Nevertheless, there are many who on such an occasion might suspect you

of partiality."

"Then they would do me great injustice, Miss Torrington. I am a man, or

a boy, or something between both: take me for all in all, it is five

hundred to one you ne'er shall look upon my like again. But that is a

play-going and sinful quotation, Miss Rosalind, like your name: so be

merciful unto me, and please not to tell my papa."

"You may be very certain, Mr. Jacob, that I shall obey you in this."

"Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,--

Such a nut is Rosalind."

responded the youth; and probably thinking that he had fairly won his

five shillings, he raised his tall thin person from the position which

had so well pleased his father, and stole round to the sofa on which

Fanny was sitting.

Fanny was looking very lovely, but without a trace of that bright and

beaming animation which a few short months before had led her poor

father to give her the _sobriquet_ of "Firefly." He was wont to declare,

and no one was inclined to contradict him, that whenever she appeared,

something like a bright coruscation seemed to flash upon the eye. No

one, not even a fond father, would have hit upon such a simile for her

now. Beautiful she was, perhaps more beautiful than ever; but a sad and

sombre thoughtfulness had settled itself on her young brow,--her voice

was no longer the echo of gay thoughts, and, in a word, her whole aspect

and bearing were changed.

She now sat silently apart from the company, watching, with an air that

seemed to hover between abstraction and curiosity, Mrs. Simpson's manner

of making herself agreeable to Mr. Cartwright.

This lady was seated on one side of the vicar, and Miss Richards on the

other: both had the appearance of being unconscious that any other

person or persons were in the room, and nothing but his consummate skill

in the art of uttering an aside both with eyes and lips could have

enabled him to sustain his position.

"My sisters and I are afraid you have quite forgotten us," murmured Miss

Richards; "but we have been practising the hymns you gave us, and we

are all quite perfect, and ready to sing them to you whenever you come."

"The hearing this, my dear young lady, gives me as pure and holy a

pleasure as listening to the sacred strains could do:--unless, indeed,"

he added, bending his head sideways towards her, so as nearly to touch

her cheek, "unless, indeed, they were breathed by the lips of Louisa

herself. That must be very like hearing a seraph sing!"

Not a syllable of this was heard save by herself.

"I have thought incessantly," said Mrs. Simpson, in a very

low voice, as soon as Mr. Cartwright's head had recovered the

perpendicular,--"incessantly, I may truly say, on our last conversation.

My life has been passed in a manner so widely different from what I am

sure it will be in future, that I feel as if I were awakened to a new

existence!"

"The great object of my hopes is, and will ever be," replied the Vicar

of Wrexhill almost aloud, "to lead my beloved flock to sweet and safe

pastures.--And for you," he added, in a voice so low, that she rather

felt than heard his words, "what is there I would not do?" Here his eyes

spoke a commentary; and hers, a note upon it.

"Which is the hymn, Mr. Cartwright, that you think best adapted to the

semi-weekly Sabbath you recommended us to institute?" said Miss

Richards.

"The eleventh, I think.--Yes, the eleventh;--study that, my dear child.

Early and late let your sweet voice breathe those words,--and I will be

with you in spirit, Louisa."

Not even Mrs. Simpson heard a word of this, beyond "dear child."

"But when shall I see you?--I have doubts and difficulties on some

points, Mr. Cartwright," said the widow aloud. "How shamefully

ignorant--I must call it _shamefully_ ignorant--did poor Mr. Wallace

suffer us to remain!--Is it not true, Louisa? Did he ever, through all

the years we have known him, utter an awakening word to any of us?"

"No, _indeed_ he never did," replied Miss Louisa, in a sort of penitent

whine.

"I am rather surprised to hear you say that, Miss Richards," said

Rosalind, drawing her chair a little towards them. "I always understood

that Mr. Wallace was one of the most exemplary parish priests in

England. Did not your father consider him to be so, Fanny?"

"I--I believe so,--I don't know," replied Fanny, stammering and

colouring painfully.

"Not know, Fanny Mowbray!" exclaimed Rosalind;--"not know your father's

opinion of Mr. Wallace! That is very singular indeed."

"I mean," said Fanny, struggling to recover her composure, "that I never

heard papa's opinion of him as compared with--with any one else."

"I do not believe he would have lost by the comparison," said Rosalind,

rising, and walking out of the window.

"Is not that prodigiously rich young lady somewhat of the tiger breed?"

said young Cartwright in a whisper to Fanny.

"Miss Torrington is not at all a person of serious notions," replied

Fanny; "and till one is subdued by religion, one is often very

quarrelsome."

"I am sure, serious or not, you would never quarrel with any one,"

whispered Jacob.

"Indeed I should be sorry and ashamed to do so now," she replied. "Your

father ought to cure us all of such unchristian faults as that."

"I wish I was like my father!" said Jacob very sentimentally.

"Oh! how glad I am to hear you say that!" said Fanny, clasping her hands

together. "I am sure it would make him so happy!"

"I can't say I was thinking of making him happy, Miss Fanny: I only

meant, that I wished I was like any body that you admire and approve so

much."

"A poor silly motive for wishing to be like such a father!" replied

Fanny, blushing; and leaving her distant place, she established herself

at the table on which the tea equipage had just been placed, and busied

herself with the tea-cups.

This remove brought her very nearly opposite Mr. Cartwright and the two

ladies who were seated beside him, and from this moment the conversation

proceeded without any "asides" whatever.

"At what age, Mr. Cartwright," said Mrs. Simpson, "do you think one

should begin to instil the doctrine of regeneration into a little

girl?"

"Not later than ten, my dear lady. A very quick and forward child might

perhaps be led to comprehend it earlier. Eight and three-quarters I have

known in a state of the most perfect awakening; but this I hold to be

rare."

"What a spectacle!" exclaimed Miss Richards in a sort of rapture. "A

child of eight and three-quarters! Did it speak its thoughts, Mr.

Cartwright?"

"The case I allude to, my dear young lady, was published. I will bring

you the pamphlet. Nothing can be more edifying than the out-breakings of

the Spirit through the organs of that chosen little vessel."

"I hope, Mr. Cartwright, that _I_ shall have the benefit of this dear

pamphlet also. Do not forget that I have a little girl exactly eight

years three-quarters and six weeks.--I beg your pardon, my dear Louisa,

but this must be so much more interesting to me than it can be to you as

yet, my dear, that I trust Mr. Cartwright will give me the precedence in

point of time. Besides, you know, that as the principal person in the

village, I am a little spoiled in such matters. I confess to you, I

should feel hurt if I had to wait for this till you had studied it. You

have no child, you know."

"Oh! without doubt, Mrs. Simpson, you ought to have it first," replied

Miss Richards. "I am certainly not likely as yet to have any one's soul

to be anxious about but my own.--Is this blessed child alive, Mr.

Cartwright?"

"In heaven, Miss Louisa,--not on earth. It is the account of its last

moments that have been so admirably drawn up by the Reverend Josiah

Martin. This gentleman is a particular friend of mine, and I am much

interested in the sale of the little work. I will have the pleasure, my

dear ladies, of bringing a dozen copies to each of you; and you will

give me a very pleasing proof of the pious feeling I so deeply rejoice

to see, if you will dispose of them at one shilling each among your

friends."

"I am sure I will try all I can!" said Miss Richards.

"My influence could not be better employed, I am certain, than in

forwarding your wishes in all things," added Mrs. Simpson.

Young Jacob, either in the hope of amusement, or of more certainly

securing his five shillings, had followed the indignant Rosalind out of

the window, and found her refreshing herself by arranging the vagrant

tendrils of a beautiful creeping plant outside it.

"I am afraid, Miss Rosalind Torrington," said he, "that you would not

say Amen! if I did say, May the saints have you in their holy keeping! I

do believe in my heart that you would rather find yourself in the

keeping of sinners."

"The meaning of words often depends upon the character of those who

utter them," replied Rosalind. "There is such a thing as slang, Mr.

Jacob; and there is such a thing as cant."

"Did you ever mention that to my papa, Miss Rosalind?" inquired Jacob in

a voice of great simplicity.

Rosalind looked at him as if she wished to discover what he was

at,--whether his object were to quiz her, his father, or both. But

considering his very boyish appearance and manner, there was more

difficulty in achieving this than might have been expected. Sometimes

she thought him almost a fool; at others, quite a wag. At one moment she

was ready to believe him more than commonly simple-minded; and at

another felt persuaded that he was an accomplished hypocrite.

It is probable that the youth perceived her purpose, and felt more

gratification in defeating it than he could have done from any

love-making of which she were the object. His countenance, which was

certainly intended by nature to express little besides frolic and fun,

was now puckered up into a look of solemnity that might have befitted

one of the Newman-street congregation when awaiting an address in the

unknown tongue.

"I am sure," he said, "that my papa would like to hear you talk about

all those things very much, Miss Torrington. I do not think that he

would exactly agree with you in every word you might say: but that never

seems to vex him: if the talk does but go about heaven and hell, and

saints and sinners, and reprobation and regeneration, and the old man

and the new birth, that is all papa cares for. I think he likes to be

contradicted a little; for that, you know, makes more talk again."

"Is that the principle upon which you proceed with him yourself, Mr.

Jacob? Do you always make a point of contradicting every thing he says?"

"Pretty generally, Miss Torrington, when there is nobody by, and when I

make it all pass for joke. But there _is_ a law that even Miss

Henrietta has been taught to obey; and that is, never to contradict him

in company. Perhaps you have found that out, Miss Rosalind?"

"Perhaps I have, Mr. Jacob."

"Will you not come in to tea, Miss Torrington?" said Henrietta,

appearing at the window, with the volume in her hand which had seemed to

occupy her whole attention from the time she had re-entered the

drawing-room with Rosalind.

"I wish, sister," said Jacob, affecting to look extremely cross, "that

you would not pop out so, to interrupt one's conversation! You might

have a fellow feeling, I think, for a young lady, when she walks out of

a window, and a young gentleman walks after her!"

Rosalind gave him a look from one side, and Henrietta from the other.

"Mercy on me!" he exclaimed, putting up his hands as if to guard the two

sides of his face. "Four black eyes at me at once!--and so very black in

every sense of the word!"

The young ladies walked together into the room, and Jacob followed,

seeking the eye of his father, and receiving thence, as he expected, a

glance of encouragement and applause.

When the tea was removed, Mr. Cartwright went to the piano-forte, and

run his fingers with an appearance of some skill over the keys.

"I hope, my dear Miss Fanny, that you intend we should have a little

music this evening?"

"If Mrs. Simpson, Miss Richards, and Miss Torrington will sing," said

Fanny, "I shall be very happy to accompany them."

"What music have you got, my dear young lady?" said the vicar.

Miss Torrington had a large collection of songs very commodiously stowed

beneath the instrument; and Helen and herself were nearly as amply

provided with piano-forte music of all kinds: but though this was the

first time Mr. Cartwright had ever approached the instrument, or asked

for music, Fanny had a sort of instinctive consciousness that the

collection would be found defective in his eyes.

"We have several of Handel's oratorios," she replied; "and I think Helen

has got the 'Creation.'"

"Very fine music both," replied Mr. Cartwright; "but in the social

meetings of friends, where many perhaps may be able to raise a timid

note toward heaven, though incapable of performing the difficult

compositions of these great masters, I conceive that a simpler style is

preferable. If you will permit me," he continued, drawing a small volume

of manuscript music from his pocket, "I will point out to you some very

beautiful, and, indeed, popular melodies, which have heretofore been

sadly disgraced by the words applied to them. In this little book many

of my female friends have, at my request, written words fit for a

Christian to sing, to notes that the sweet voice of youth and beauty may

love to breathe. Miss Torrington, I have heard that you are considered

to be a very superior vocalist:--will you use the power that God has

given, to hymn his praise?"

There was too much genuine piety in Rosalind's heart to refuse a

challenge so worded, without a better reason for doing it than personal

dislike to Mr. Cartwright; nevertheless, it was not without putting some

constraint upon herself that she replied,

"I very often sing sacred music, sir, and am ready to do so now, if you

wish it."

"A thousand thanks," said he, "for this amiable compliance! I hail it as

the harbinger of harmony that shall rise from all our hearts in sweet

accord to heaven."

Rosalind coloured, and her heart whispered, "I will not be a hypocrite."

But she had agreed to sing, and she prepared to do so, seeking among her

volumes for one of the easiest and shortest of Handel's songs, and

determined when she had finished to make her escape.

While she was thus employed, however, Mr. Cartwright was equally active

in turning over the leaves of his pocket companion; and before Miss

Torrington had made her selection, he placed the tiny manuscript volume

open upon the instrument, saying, "There, my dear young lady! this is an

air, and these are words which we may all listen to with equal innocence

and delight."

Rosalind was provoked; but every one in the room had already crowded

round the piano, and having no inclination to enter upon any discussion,

she sat down prepared to sing whatever was placed before her.

The air was undeniably a popular one, being no other than "Fly not

yet!" which, as all the world knows, has been performed to millions of

delighted listeners, in lofty halls and tiny drawing-rooms, and,

moreover, ground upon every hand-organ in Great Britain for many years

past. Rosalind ran her eyes over the words, which, in fair feminine

characters, were written beneath the notes as follow:

Fly not yet! 'Tis just the hour

When prayerful Christians own the power

That, inly beaming with new light,

Begins to sanctify the night

For maids who love the moon.

Oh, pray!--oh, pray!

'Tis but to bless these hours of shade

That pious songs and hymns are made;

For now, their holy ardour glowing,

Sets the soul's emotion flowing.

Oh, pray!--oh, pray!

Prayer so seldom breathes a strain

So sweet as this, that, oh! 'tis pain

To check its voice too soon.

Oh, pray!--oh, pray!

An expression of almost awful indignation rose to the eyes of Rosalind.

"Do you give me this, sir," she said, "as a jest?--or do you propose

that I should sing it as an act of devotion?"

Mr. Cartwright withdrew the little book and immediately returned it to

his pocket.

"I am sorry, Miss Torrington, that you should have asked me such a

question," he replied with a kind of gentle severity which might have

led almost any hearer to think him in the right. "I had hoped that my

ministry at Wrexhill, short as it has been, could not have left it a

matter of doubt whether, in speaking of singing or prayer, I was in

jest?"

"Nevertheless, sir," rejoined Rosalind, "it does to me appear like a

jest, and a very indecent one too, thus to imagine that an air long

familiar to all as the vehicle of words as full of levity as of poetry

can be on the sudden converted into an accompaniment to a solemn

invocation to prayer--uttered, too, in the form of a vile parody."

"I think that a very few words may be able to prove to you the sophistry

of such an argument," returned the vicar. "You will allow, I believe,

that this air is very generally known to all classes.--Is it not so?"

Rosalind bowed her assent.

"Well, then, let me go a step farther, and ask whether the words

originally set to this air are not likely to be recalled by hearing it?"

"Beyond all doubt."

"Now observe, Miss Torrington, that what you have been pleased to call

levity and poetry, I, in my clerical capacity, denounce as indecent and

obscene."

"Is that your reason for setting me to play it?" said Rosalind in a tone

of anger.

"That question again, does not, I fear, argue an amiable and pious state

of mind," replied Mr. Cartwright, appealing meekly with his eyes to the

right and left. "It is to substitute other thoughts for those which the

air has hitherto suggested that I conceive the singing this song, as it

now stands, desirable."

"Might it not be as well to leave the air alone altogether?" said

Rosalind.

"Decidedly not," replied the vicar. "The notes, as you have allowed, are

already familiar to all men, and it is therefore a duty to endeavour to

make that familiarity familiarly suggest thoughts of heaven."

"Thoughts of heaven," said Rosalind, "should never be suggested

familiarly."

"Dreadful--very dreadful doctrine that, Miss Torrington! and I must tell

you, in devout assurance of the truth I speak, that it is in order to

combat and overthrow such notions as you now express, that Heaven hath

vouchsafed, by an act of special providence, to send upon earth in these

later days my humble self, and some others who think like me."

"And permit me, sir, in the name of the earthly father I have lost,"

replied Rosalind, while her eyes _almost_ overflowed with the glistening

moisture her earnestness brought into them,--"permit me in his

reverenced name to say, that constant prayer can in no way be identified

with familiarity of address; and that of many lamentable evils which the

class of preachers to whom you allude have brought upon blundering

Christians, that of teaching them to believe that there is righteousness

in mixing the awful and majestic name of God with all the hourly, petty

occurrences of this mortal life, is one of the most deplorable."

"May your unthinking youth, my dear young lady, plead before the God of

mercy in mitigation of the wrath which such sentiments are calculated to

draw down!"

"Oh!" sobbed Miss Richards.

"Alas!" sighed Mrs. Simpson.

"How can you, Rosalind, speak so to the pastor and master of our souls?"

said Fanny, while tears of sympathy for the outraged vicar fell from her

beautiful eyes.

"My dear children!--my dear friends!" said Mr. Cartwright in a voice

that seemed to tremble with affectionate emotion, "think not of

me!--Remember the words 'Blessed are they which are persecuted for

righteousness' sake!' I turn not from the harsh rebuke of this young

lady, albeit I am not insensible to its injustice,--nor, indeed, blind

to its indecency. But blessed--oh! most blessed shall I hold this trial,

if it lead to the awakening holy thoughts in you!--My dear young lady,"

he continued, rising from his seat and approaching Rosalind with an

extended hand, "it may be as well, perhaps, that I withdraw myself at

this moment. Haply, reflection may soften your young heart.--But let us

part in peace, as Christians should do."

Rosalind did not take his offered hand. "In peace, sir," she

said,--"decidedly I desire you to depart in peace. I have no wish to

molest you in any way. But you must excuse my not accepting your

proffered hand. It is but an idle and unmeaning ceremony perhaps, as

things go; but the manner in which you now stretch forth your hand gives

a sort of importance to it which would make it a species of falsehood in

me to accept it. When it means any thing, it means cordial liking; and

this, sir, I do not feel for you."

So saying, Rosalind arose and left the room.

Fanny clasped her hands in a perfect agony, and raising her tearful eyes

to Heaven as if to deprecate its wrath upon the roof that covered so

great wickedness, exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Cartwright! what can I say to

you!"

Mrs. Simpson showed symptoms of being likely to faint; and as Mr.

Cartwright and Fanny approached her, Miss Richards, with a vehemence of

feeling that seemed to set language at defiance, seized the hand of the

persecuted vicar and pressed it to her lips.

Several minutes were given to the interchange of emotions too strong to

be described in words. Female tears were blended with holy blessings;

and, as Jacob afterwards assured his sister, who had contrived

unobserved to escape, he at one time saw no fewer than eight human

hands, great and small, all mixed together in a sort of chance-medley

heap upon the chair round which they at length kneeled down.

It will be easily believed that Miss Torrington appeared no more that

night; and after an hour passed in conversation on the persecutions and

revilings to which the godly are exposed, Mrs. Simpson, who declared

herself dreadfully overcome, proposed to Miss Richards that they should

use such strength as was left them to walk home. A very tender leave was

taken of Fanny, in which Mr. Jacob zealously joined, and the party set

out for a star-lit walk to Wrexhill, its vicar supporting on each arm a

very nervous and trembling hand.

Mr. Cartwright soon after passing the Park-lodge, desired his son to

step forward and order the clerk to come to him on some urgent parish

business before he went to bed. The young man darted forward nothing

loth, and the trio walked at a leisurely pace under the dark shadows of

the oak-trees that lined the road to the village.

They passed behind the Vicarage; when the two ladies simultaneously

uttered a sigh, and breathed in a whisper, "Sweet spot!" Can it be

doubted that both were thanked by a gentle pressure of the arm?

The house of Mrs. Simpson lay on the road to that of Mrs. Richards, and

Miss Louisa made a decided halt before the door, distinctly pronouncing

at the same time,

"Good night, my dear Mrs. Simpson!"

But this lady knew the duties of a chaperon too well to think of leaving

her young companion till she saw her safely restored to her mother's

roof.

"Oh! no, my dear!" she exclaimed: "if your house were a mile off,

Louisa, I should take you home."

"But you have been so poorly!" persisted the young lady, "and it is so

unnecessary!"

"_It is right_," returned Mrs. Simpson with an emphasis that marked too

conscientious a feeling to be further resisted. So Miss Richards was

taken home, and the fair widow languidly and slowly retraced her steps

to her own door, with no other companion than the Vicar of Wrexhill.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

CHARLES MOWBRAY'S ARRIVAL AT THE PARK.

Never had Rosalind Torrington so strongly felt the want of some one to

advise her what to do, as the morning after this disagreeable scene. Had

she consulted her inclination only, she would have remained in her own

apartments till the return of Mrs. Mowbray and Helen. But more than one

reason prevented her doing so. In the first place, she was not without

hope that her letter would immediately bring young Mowbray home; and it

would be equally disagreeable to miss seeing him, by remaining in her

dressing-room, or to leave it expressly for the purpose of doing so: and

secondly, however far her feelings might be from perfect confidence and

esteem towards Miss Cartwright, she felt that she owed her something,

and that it would be ungrateful and almost cruel to leave her

tete-a-tete with the bewildered Fanny, or en tiers with her and the

vicar.

She therefore determined to run the risk of encountering Mr. Cartwright

as usual, but felt greatly at a loss how to treat him. Their last demele

had been too serious to be forgotten by either; and her opinion of him

was such, that far from wishing to conciliate him, or in any way to

efface the impression of what she had said on leaving him, her

inclination and her principles both led her to wish that it should be

indelible, and that nothing should ever lessen the distance that was now

placed between them. But Rosalind felt all the difficulty of maintaining

this tone towards a person not only on terms of intimate friendship with

the family, but considered by part of it as a man whose word ought to be

law. She began to fear, as she meditated on the position in which she

was placed, that Mowbray Park could not long continue to be her home.

The idea of Helen, and what she would feel at losing her, drew tears

from her eyes; and then the remembrance of her Irish home, of her lost

parents, and the terrible contrast between what she had heard last

night, and the lessons and opinions of her dear father, made them flow

abundantly.

The day passed heavily. Miss Cartwright appeared to think she had done

enough, and devoted herself almost wholly to the perusal of a French

metaphysical work which she had found in the library, Fanny was silent

and sad, and seemed carefully to avoid being left for a moment alone

with Rosalind. Mr. Cartwright made no visit to the house during the

morning: but Judy informed her mistress, when she came to arrange her

dress for dinner, that the reverend gentleman had been walking in the

shrubberies with Miss Fanny; and in the evening he made his entrance, as

usual, through the drawing-room window.

It was the result of a strong effort produced by very excellent feeling,

that kept Rosalind in the room when she saw him approach; but she had

little doubt that if she went, Miss Cartwright would follow her, and she

resolved that his pernicious tete-a-tetes with Fanny should not be

rendered more frequent by any selfishness of hers.

It was evident to her from Mr. Cartwright's manner through the whole

evening, that it was his intention to overload her with gentle kindness,

in order to set off in strong relief her harsh and persecuting spirit

towards him. But not even her wish to defeat this plan could enable her

to do more than answer by civil monosyllables when he spoke to her.

Miss Cartwright laid aside her book and resumed her netting as soon as

she saw him approach; but as usual, she sat silent and abstracted, and

the conversation was wholly carried on by the vicar and his pretty

proselyte. No man, perhaps, had a greater facility in making

conversation than the Vicar of Wrexhill: his habit of extempore

preaching, in which he was thought by many to excel, probably

contributed to give him this power. But not only had he an endless flow

of words wherewith to clothe whatever thoughts suggested themselves, but

moreover a most happy faculty of turning every thing around him to

account. Every object, animate or inanimate, furnished him a theme; and

let him begin from what point he would, (unless in the presence of noble

or influential personages to whom he believed it would be distasteful,)

he never failed to bring the conversation round to the subject of

regeneration and grace, the blessed hopes of himself and his sect, and

the assured damnation of all the rest of the world.

Fanny Mowbray listened to him with an earnestness that amounted to

nervous anxiety, lest she should lose a word. His awful dogmas had taken

fearful hold of her ardent and ill-regulated imagination; while his

bland and affectionate manner, his fine features and graceful person,

rendered him altogether an object of the most unbounded admiration and

interest to her.

As an additional proof, probably, that he did not shrink from

persecution, Mr. Cartwright again opened the piano-forte as soon as the

tea equipage was removed, and asked Fanny if she would sing with him.

"With you, Mr. Cartwright!" she exclaimed in an accent of glad surprise:

"I did not know that you sang. Oh! how I wish that I were a greater

proficient, that I might sing with you as I would wish to do!"

"Sing with me, my dear child, with that sweet and pious feeling which I

rejoice to see hourly increasing in your heart. Sing thus, my dearest

child, and you will need no greater skill than Heaven is sure to give to

all who raise their voice to it. This little book, my dear Miss Fanny,"

he continued, drawing once more the manuscript volume from his pocket,

"contains much that your pure and innocent heart will approve. Do you

know this air?" and he pointed to the notes of "La ci darem' la mano."

"Oh yes!" said Fanny; "I know it very well."

"Then play it, my good child. This too we have taken as spoil from the

enemy, and instead of profane Italian words, you will here find in your

own language thoughts that may be spoken without fear."

Fanny instantly complied; and though her power of singing was greatly

inferior to that of Rosalind, the performance, aided by the fine bass

voice of Mr. Cartwright, and an accompaniment very correctly played, was

very agreeable. Fanny herself thought she had never sung so well before,

and required only to be told by the vicar what she was to do next, to

prolong the performance till considerably past Mr. Cartwright's usual

hour of retiring.

About an hour after the singing began, Henrietta approached Miss

Torrington, and said in a whisper too low to be heard at the instrument,

"My head aches dreadfully. Can you spare me?"

As she had not spoken a single syllable since the trio entered the

drawing-room after dinner, Rosalind could not wholly refrain from a

smile as she replied "Why, yes; I think I can."

"I am not jesting; I am suffering, Rosalind. You will not leave that

girl alone with him?"

"Dear Henrietta!" cried Rosalind, taking her hand with ready sympathy,

"I will not, should they sing together till morning. But is there

nothing I can do for you--nothing I can give you that may relieve your

head?"

"Nothing, nothing! Good night!" and she glided out of the room unseen by

Fanny and unregarded by her father.

It more than once occurred to Miss Torrington during the two tedious

hours that followed her departure, that Mr. Cartwright, who from time to

time stole a glance at her, prolonged his canticles for the purpose of

making her sit to hear them; a species of penance for her last night's

offence by no means ill imagined.

At length, however, he departed; and after exchanging a formal "Good

night," the young ladies retired to their separate apartments.

Rosalind rose with a heavy heart the following morning, hardly knowing

whether to wish for a letter from Charles Mowbray, which it was just

possible the post might bring her, or not. If a letter arrived, there

would certainly be no hope of seeing him; but if it did not, she should

fancy every sound she heard foretold his approach, and she almost

dreaded the having to answer all the questions he would come prepared to

ask.

This state of suspense, however, did not last long; for, at least one

hour before it was possible that a letter could arrive, Charles Mowbray

in a chaise with four foaming post-horses rattled up to the door.

Rosalind descried him from her window before he reached the house; and

her first feeling was certainly one of embarrassment, as she remembered

that it was her summons which had brought him there. But a moment's

reflection not only recalled her motives, but the additional reasons she

now had for believing she had acted wisely; so, arming herself with the

consciousness of being right, she hastened down stairs to meet him, in

preference to receiving a message through a servant, requesting to see

her.

She found him, as she expected, in a state of considerable agitation and

alarm; and feeling most truly anxious to remove whatever portion of this

was unnecessary, she greeted him with the most cheerful aspect she could

assume, saying, "I fear my letter has terrified you, Mr. Mowbray, more

than I wished it to do. But be quite sure that now you are here every

thing will go on as it ought to do; and of course, when your mother

returns, we can neither of us have any farther cause of anxiety about

Fanny."

"And what is your cause of anxiety about her at present, Miss

Torrington? For Heaven's sake explain yourself fully; you know not how I

have been tormenting myself by fearing I know not what."

"I am bound to explain myself fully," said Rosalind gravely; "but it is

not easy, I assure you."

"Only tell me at once what it is you fear. Do you imagine Mr. Cartwright

hopes to persuade Fanny to marry him?"

"I certainly did think so," said Rosalind; "but I believe now that I was

mistaken."

"Thank Heaven!" cried the young man fervently. "This is a great relief,

Rosalind, I assure you. I believe now I can pretty well guess what it is

you do fear; and though it is provoking enough, it cannot greatly

signify. We shall soon cure her of any fit of evangelicalism with which

the vicar is likely to infect her."

"Heaven grant it!" exclaimed Rosalind, uttering a fervent ejaculation in

her turn.

"Never doubt it, Miss Torrington. I have heard a great deal about this

Cartwright at Oxford. He is a Cambridge man, by the way, and there are

lots of men there who think him quite an apostle. But the thing does not

take at Oxford, and I assure you he is famously quizzed. But the best of

the joke is, that his son was within an ace of being expelled for

performing more outrageous feats in the larking line than any man in the

university; and in fact he must have been rusticated, had not his pious

father taken him home before the business got wind, _to prepare him

privately for his degree_. They say he is the greatest Pickle in Oxford;

and that, spite of the new light, his father is such an ass as to

believe that all this is ordained only to make his election more

glorious."

"For his election, Mr. Mowbray, I certainly do not care much; but for

your sister--though I am aware that at her age there may be very

reasonable hope that the pernicious opinions she is now imbibing may be

hereafter removed, yet I am very strongly persuaded that if you were

quite aware of the sort of influence used to convert her to Mr.

Cartwright's Calvinistic tenets, you would not only disapprove it, but

use very effectual measures to put her quite out of his way."

"Indeed!--I confess this appears to me very unnecessary. Surely the best

mode of working upon so pure a mind as Fanny's is to reason with her,

and to show her that by listening to those pernicious rhapsodies she is

in fact withdrawing herself from the church of her fathers; but I think

this may be done without sending her out of Mr. Cartwright's way."

"Well," replied Rosalind very meekly, "now you are here, I am quite sure

that you will do every thing that is right and proper. Mrs. Mowbray

cannot be much longer absent; and when she returns, you will perhaps

have some conversation with her upon the subject."

"Certainly.--And so Sir Gilbert has absolutely refused to act as

executor?"

"He has indeed, and spite of the most earnest entreaties from Helen.

Whatever mischief happens, I shall always think he is answerable for it;

for his refusal to act threw your mother at once upon seeking counsel

from Mr. Cartwright, as to what it was necessary for her to do; and from

that hour the house has never been free from him for a single day."

"Provoking obstinacy!" replied Mowbray: "yet after all, Rosalind, the

worst mischief, as you call it, that can happen, is our not being on

such pleasant terms with them as we used to be. And the colonel is at

home too; I must and will see him, let the old man be as cross as he

will.--But where is your little saint? you don't keep her locked up, I

hope, Rosalind? And where is this Miss of the new birth that you told me

of?"

Young Mowbray threw a melancholy glance round the empty room as he

spoke, and the kind-hearted Rosalind understood his feelings and truly

pitied him. How different was this return home from any other he had

ever made!

"The room looks desolate--does it not, Mr. Mowbray?--Even I feel it so.

I will go and let Fanny know you are here; but what reason shall I

assign for your return?"

"None at all, Miss Torrington. The whim took me, and I am here. Things

are so much better than I expected, that I shall probably be back again

in a day or two; but I must contrive to see young Harrington."

Rosalind left the room, heartily glad that Fanny's brother was near her,

but not without some feeling of mortification at the little importance

he appeared to attach to the information she had given him.

A few short weeks before, Rosalind would have entered Fanny's room with

as much freedom as her own; but the schism which has unhappily entered

so many English houses under the semblance of superior piety was rapidly

doing its work at Mowbray Park; and the true friend, the familiar

companion, the faithful counsellor, stood upon the threshold, and

ventured not to enter till she had announced her approach by a knock at

the dressing-room door.

"Come in," was uttered in a gentle and almost plaintive voice by Fanny.

Miss Torrington entered, and, to her great astonishment, saw Mr.

Cartwright seated beside Fanny, a large Bible lying open on the table

before them.

She looked at them for one moment without speaking. The vicar spread his

open hand upon the volume, as if to point out the cause of his being

there; and as his other hand covered the lower part of his face the

expression of his countenance was concealed.

Fanny coloured violently,--and the more so, perhaps, because she was

conscious that her appearance was considerably changed since she met

Miss Torrington at breakfast. All her beautiful curls had been carefully

straightened by the application of a wet sponge; and her hair was now

entirely removed from her forehead, and plastered down behind her poor

little distorted ears as closely as possible.

Never was metamorphosis more complete. Beautiful as her features were,

the lovely picture which Fanny's face used to present to the eye

required her bright waving locks to complete its charm; and without them

she looked more like a Chinese beauty on a japan skreen, than like

herself.

Something approaching to a smile passed over Rosalind's features, which

the more readily found place there, perhaps, from the belief that

Charles's arrival would soon set her ringlets curling again.

"Fanny, your brother is come," said she, "and he is waiting for you in

the drawing-room."

"Charles?" cried Fanny, forgetting for a moment her new character; and

hastily rising she had almost quitted the room, when she recollected

herself, and turning back, said,

"You will come too, to see Charles, Mr. Cartwright?"

"I will come, as usual, this evening, my dear child," said he, with the

appearance of great composure; "but I will not break in upon him now.

Was his return expected?" he added carelessly, as he took up his hat;

and as he spoke Rosalind thought that his eye glanced towards her.

"No indeed!" replied Fanny: "I never was more surprised. Did he say,

Rosalind, what it was brought him home?"

"I asked him to state his reason for it," replied Miss Torrington, "and

he told me he could assign nothing but whim."

Rosalind looked in the face of the vicar as she said this, and she

perceived a slight, but to her perfectly perceptible, change in its

expression. He was evidently relieved from some uneasy feeling or

suspicion by what she had said.

"Go to your brother, my dear child; let me not detain you from so happy

a meeting for a moment."

Fanny again prepared to leave the room; but as she did so, her eye

chanced to rest upon her own figure reflected from a mirror above the

chimney-piece. She raised her hand almost involuntarily to her hair.

"Will not Charles think me looking very strangely?" said she, turning

towards Mr. Cartwright with a blushing cheek and very bashful eye.

He whispered something in her ear in reply, which heightened her blush,

and induced her to answer with great earnestness, "Oh no!" and, without

farther doubt or delay, she ran down stairs. Miss Torrington followed

her, not thinking it necessary to take any leave of the vicar, who

gently found his way down stairs, and out of the house, as he had found

his way into it, without troubling any servant whatever.

CHAPTER II.

CHARLES'S AMUSEMENT AT HIS SISTER'S APPEARANCE.--HE DISCUSSES HER CASE

WITH ROSALIND.

Rosalind and Fanny entered the drawing-room together; and young Mowbray,

at the sound of their approach, sprang forward to meet them; but the

moment he threw his eyes on his sister he burst forth into a fit of

uncontrollable laughter; and though he kissed her again and again,

still, between every embrace, he broke out anew, with every

demonstration of vehement mirth.

"I am very glad to see you, Charles," said Fanny, with a little

sanctified air that certainly was very amusing; "but I should like it

better if you did not laugh at me."

"But, my dear, dear, dearest child! how can I help it?" replied her

brother, again bursting into renewed laughter. "Oh, Fanny, if you could

but see yourself just as you look at this moment! Oh! you hideous little

quiz! I would not have believed it possible that any plastering or

shearing in the world could have made you look so very ugly. Is it not

wonderful, Miss Torrington?"

"It certainly alters the expression of her countenance in a very

remarkable manner," replied Rosalind.

"The expression of a countenance may be changed by an alteration from

within, as well as from without," said Fanny, taking courage, and not

without some little feeling of that complacency which the persuasion of

superior sanctity is generally observed to bestow upon its possessors.

"Why, you most ugly little beauty!" cried Charles, again giving way to

merriment; "you don't mean to tell me that the _impayable_ absurdity of

that poor little face is owing to any thing but your having just washed

your hair?"

"It is owing to conviction, Charles," replied Fanny with great

solemnity.

"Owing to conviction?--To conviction of what, my poor little girl?"

"To conviction that it is right, brother."

"Right, child, to make that object of yourself? What in the world can

you mean, Fanny?"

"I mean, brother, that I have an inward conviction of the sin and folly

of dressing our mortal clay to attract the eyes and the admiration of

the worldly."

"By worldly, do you mean of all the world?" said Rosalind.

"No, Miss Torrington. By worldly, I mean those whose thoughts and wishes

are fixed on the things of the earth."

"And it is the admiration of such only that you wish to avoid?" rejoined

Rosalind.

"Certainly it is. Spiritual-minded persons see all things in the

spirit--do all things in the spirit: of such there is nothing to fear."

Young Mowbray meanwhile stood looking at his sister, and listening to

her words with the most earnest attention.

At length he said, more seriously than he had yet spoken, "To tell you

the truth, little puritan, I do not like you at all in your new

masquerading suit: though it must be confessed that you play your part

well. I don't want to begin lecturing you, Fanny, the moment I come

home; but I do hope you will soon get tired of this foolery, and let me

see my poor father's daughter look and behave as a Christian young woman

ought to do. Rosalind, will you take a walk with me? I want to have a

look at my old pony."

Miss Torrington nodded her assent, and they both left the room together,

leaving Fanny more triumphant than mortified.

"He said that my persecutions would begin as soon as my election was

made sure! Oh! why is he not here to sustain and comfort me! But I will

not fall away in the hour of trial!"

The poor girl turned her eyes from the window whence she saw her brother

and Rosalind walking gaily and happily, as she thought, in search of the

old pony, and hastened to take refuge in her dressing-room, now rendered

almost sacred in her eyes by the pastoral visit she had that morning

received there.

The following hour or two gave Fanny her first taste of martyrdom. She

was, or at least had been, devotedly attached to her brother, and the

knowing him to be so near, yet so distant from her, was terrible. Yet

was she not altogether without consolation. She opened the volume, that

volume that _he_ had so lately interpreted to her (fearful profanation!)

in such a manner as best to suit his own views, and by means of using

the process he had taught her, though unconsciously perhaps, she

contrived to find a multitude of texts, all proving that she and the

vicar were quite right, and all the countless myriads who thought

differently, quite wrong. Then followed a thanksgiving which might have

been fairly expressed in such words as "I thank thee, I am not like

other men!" and then, as the sweet summer air waved the acacias to and

fro before her windows, and her young spirit, panting for lawns and

groves, sunshine and shade, suggested the idea of her brother and

Rosalind enjoying it all without her, her poetical vein came to her

relief, and she sat down to compose a hymn, in which, after rehearsing

prettily enough all the delights of summer rambles through verdant

fields, for four stanzas, she completed the composition by a fifth, of

which "sin," "begin," and "within," formed the rhymes.

This having recourse to "song divine" was a happy thought for her,

inasmuch as it not only occupied time which must otherwise have hung

with overwhelming weight upon her hands, but the employment soon

conjured up, as she proceeded, the image of Mr. Cartwright, and the

pious smile with which he would receive it from her hands, and the soft

approval spoken more by the eyes than the lips, and the holy

caress--such, according to his authority, as that with which angel meets

angel in the courts of heaven.

All this was very pleasant and consoling to her feelings; and when her

hymn was finished she determined to go down stairs, in order to sing it

to some (hitherto) profane air, which she might select from among the

songs of her sinful youth.

As she passed the mirror she again glanced at her disfigured little

head; but at that moment she was so strong in "conviction," that, far

from wishing to accommodate her new birth of _coiffure_ to worldly eyes,

she employed a minute or two in sedulously smoothing and controlling her

rebellious tresses, and even held her head in stiff equilibrium to

prevent their escape from behind her ears.

"Good and holy man!" she exclaimed aloud, as she gave a parting glance

at the result of all these little pious coquetries. "How well I know

what his kind words would be if he could see me now! Such" she added

with a gentle sigh, "will I strive to be, though all the world should

join together to persecute me for it."

While Mr. Cartwright's prettiest convert was thus employed, Miss

Torrington and Charles Mowbray, far from being engaged in chasing a

pony, or even in looking at the summer luxury of bloom which breathed

around them as they pursued their way through the pleasure-grounds, were

very gravely discussing the symptoms of her case.

"It is a joke, Rosalind, and nothing more," said the young man, drawing

her arm within his. "I really can do nothing but laugh at such folly,

and I beg and entreat that you will do the same."

"Then you think, of course, Mr. Mowbray, that I have been supremely

absurd in sending you the summons I did?"

"Far, very far otherwise," he replied gravely. "It has shown me a new

feature in your character, Miss Torrington, and one which not to admire

would be a sin, worse even than poor Mr. Cartwright would consider your

wearing these pretty ringlets, Rosalind."

"_Poor_ Mr. Cartwright!" repeated Rosalind, drawing away her arm. "How

little do we think alike, Mr. Mowbray, concerning that man!"

"The chief difference between us on the subject, I suspect arises from

your thinking of him a great deal, Rosalind, and my thinking of him very

little. I should certainly, if I set about reasoning on the matter, feel

considerable contempt for a middle-aged clergyman of the Church of

England who manifested his care of the souls committed to his charge by

making their little bodies comb their hair straight, for the pleasure of

saying that it was done upon conviction. But surely there is more room

for mirth than sorrow in this."

"Indeed, indeed, you are mistaken!--and that not only as regards the

individual interests of your sister Fanny,--though, Heaven knows, I

think that no light matter,--but as a subject that must be interesting

to every Christian soul that lives. Do not make a jest of what involves

by far the most important question that can be brought before poor

mortals: it is unworthy of you, Mr. Mowbray."

"If you take the subject in its general character," replied Charles, "I

am sure we shall _not_ differ. I deplore as sincerely as you can do,

Miss Torrington, the grievously schismatic inroad into our national

church which these self-chosen apostles have made. But as one objection

against them, though perhaps not the heaviest, is the contempt which

their absurd puritanical ordinances have often brought upon serious

things, I cannot but think that ridicule is a fair weapon to lash them

withal."

"It may be so," replied Rosalind, "and in truth it is often impossible

to avoid using it; but yet it does not follow that the deeds and

doctrines of these _soi-disant_ saints give more room for mirth than

sorrow."

"Well, Rosalind, give me your arm again, and I will speak more

seriously. The very preposterous and ludicrous manner which Fanny, or

her spiritual adviser, has chosen for showing forth her own particular

regeneration, has perhaps led me to treat it more slightly than I should

have done had the indications of this temporary perversion of judgment

been of a more serious character. That is doubtless one reason for the

mirth I have shown. Another is, that I conceive it would be more easy to

draw poor little Fanny back again into the bosom of Mother Church by

laughing at her, rather than by making her believe herself a martyr."

"Your laughter is a species of martyrdom which she will be taught to

glory in enduring. But at present I feel sure that all our discussions

on this topic must be in vain. I rejoice that you are here, though it is

plain that you do not think her situation requires your presence; and I

will ask no further submission of your judgment to mine, than requesting

that you will not leave Mowbray till your mother returns."

"Be assured I will not; and be assured also, that however much it is

possible we may differ as to the actual atrocity of this new vicar, or

the danger Fanny runs in listening to him, I shall never cease to be

grateful, dearest Miss Torrington, for the interest you have shown for

her, and indeed for us all."

"Acquit me of silly interference," replied Rosalind, colouring, "and I

will acquit you of all obligation."

"But I don't wish to be acquitted of it," said Charles rather tenderly:

"you do not know how much pleasure I have in thinking that you already

feel interested about us all!"

This was giving exactly the turn to what she had done which poor

Rosalind most deprecated. The idea that young Mowbray might imagine she

had sent for him from _a general feeling of interest for the family_,

had very nearly prevented her writing at all--and nothing but a sense of

duty had conquered the repugnance she felt at doing it. It had not been

a little vexing to perceive that he thought lightly of what she

considered as so important; and now that in addition to this he appeared

to conceive it necessary to return thanks for the _interest_ she had

manifested, Rosalind turned away her head, and not without difficulty

restrained the tears which were gathering in her eyes from falling. She

was not in general slow in finding words to express what she wished to

say; but at this moment, though extremely desirous of answering

_suitably_, as she would have herself described the power she wanted,

not a syllable would suggest itself which she had courage or inclination

to speak: so, hastening her steps towards the house, she murmured, "You

are very kind--it is almost time to dress, I believe," and left him.

Charles felt that there was something wrong between them, and decided at

once very generously that it must be his fault. There is nothing more

difficult to trace with a skilful hand than the process by which a young

man and maiden often _creep_ into love, without either of them being at

all aware at what moment they were first seized with the symptoms. When

the parties _fall_ in love, the thing is easy enough to describe: it is

a shot, a thunderbolt, a whirlwind, or a storm; nothing can be more

broadly evident than their hopes and their ecstasies, their agonies and

their fears. But when affection grows unconsciously, and, like a seed of

minionette thrown at random, unexpectedly shows itself the sweetest and

most valued of the heart's treasures, overpowering by its delicious

breath all other fragrance, the case is different.

Something very like this creeping process was now going on in the heart

of young Mowbray. Rosalind's beauty had appeared to him veiled by a very

dark cloud on her first arrival from Ireland: she was weary, heartsick,

frightened, and, moreover, dressed in very unbecoming mourning. But as

tears gave place to smiles, fears to hopes, and exhausted spirits to

light-hearted cheerfulness, he found out that "she was very pretty

indeed"--and then, and then, and then, he could not tell how it happened

himself, so neither can I; but certain it is, that her letter gave him

almost as much pleasure as alarm; and if, after being convinced that

there was no danger of Mr. Cartwright's becoming his brother-in-law, he

showed a somewhat unbecoming degree of levity in his manner of treating

Fanny's case, it must be attributed to the gay happiness he felt at

being so unexpectedly called home.

As for the heart of Rosalind, if any thing was going on therein at all

out of the common way, she certainly was not aware of it. She felt

vexed, anxious, out of spirits, as she sought her solitary

dressing-room: but it would have been no easy task to persuade her that

LOVE had any thing to do with it.

CHAPTER III.

CHARLES WALKS OVER TO OAKLEY.--THE VICAR IMPROVES IN HIS OPINION.

At the time Miss Torrington observed to Mr. Mowbray that it was near

dressing-time, it wanted about four hours of dinner; so, having followed

her with his eyes as she mounted the steps and entered the house, he

drew out his watch, and perceiving that he had quite enough time for the

excursion before "dressing-time" would be over, set off to walk to

Oakley.

How far Rosalind might have been disposed to quarrel with him for the

very small proportion of meditation which he bestowed on Fanny during

his delightful stroll through the well-known shady lanes, or how far she

might have been tempted to forgive him for the much greater portion

devoted to herself, it is impossible to say; but he arrived at Sir

Gilbert's hall-door in that happy state of mind which is often the

result of a delicious day-dream, when Hope lends the support of her

anchor to Fancy.

Sir Gilbert and the colonel were out on horseback, the servant said--but

"my lady is in the garden." And thither Mowbray went to seek her.

He was somewhat startled at his first reception; for the old lady

watched his approach for some steps, standing stock-still, and without

giving the slightest symptom of recognition. At length she raised her

glass to her eye and discovered who the tall stranger was; upon which

she sent forth a sound greatly resembling a view "hollo!" which

immediately recalled the servant who had marshalled Mowbray to the

garden, and without uttering a word of welcome, gave the following

order very distinctly:

"Let Richard take the brown mare and ride her sharp to Ramsden. Sir

Gilbert is gone to the post-office, the bank, the sadler's, and the

nursery-garden. Let him be told that Mr. Mowbray is waiting for him at

Oakley--and let not a single instant be lost."

The rapid manner in which "Very well, my lady," was uttered in reply,

and the man vanished out of sight, showed that the order was likely to

be as promptly executed as spoken.

"My dear, dear Charles!" cried the old lady; then stepping forward and

placing her hands in his, "What brings you back to Mowbray? But never

mind what it is--nothing very bad, I hope, and then I must rejoice at

it. I am most thankful to see you here, my dear boy. How is my sweet

Helen?--could you not bring her with you, Charles?"

"She is in London, my dear Lady Harrington, with my mother. Where is the

colonel?"

"With his father;--they will return together; no grass will grow under

their horses' feet as they ride homeward to meet you, Charles! But how

comes it that you are at home? If you have left Oxford, why are you not

with your mother and Helen?"

A moment's thought might have told Mowbray that this question would

certainly be asked, and must in some manner or other be answered; but

the moment's thought had not been given to it, and he now felt

considerably embarrassed how to answer. He lamented the estrangement

already existing, however, too sincerely, to run any risk of increasing

it by ill-timed reserve, and therefore, after a moment's hesitation,

very frankly answered--"I can tell you, my dear lady, why I am here,

more easily than I can explain for what purpose. I returned post to

Mowbray this morning, because Miss Torrington gave me a private

intimation by letter, that she thought the new Vicar of Wrexhill was

obtaining an undue influence over the mind of Fanny. She did not express

herself very clearly, and I was fool enough to imagine that she supposed

he was making love to her; but I find that her fears are only for poor

little Fanny's orthodoxy. Mr. Cartwright is one of, I believe, the most

mischievous sect that ever attacked the established Church; and Miss

Torrington, not without good reason, fears that Fanny is in danger of

becoming a proselyte to his gloomy and unchristianlike doctrine. But, at

her age, such a whim as this is not, I should hope, very likely to be

lasting."

"I don't know that," replied Lady Harrington sharply. "Miss Torrington

has acted with great propriety, and exactly with the sort of promptitude

and decision of character for which I should have given her credit.

Beware, Mr. Mowbray, how you make light of the appearance of religious

schism among you: it is a deadly weapon of discord, and the poison in

which it is dipped seldom finds an antidote either in family affection

or filial obedience."

"But Fanny is so nearly a child, Lady Harrington, that I can hardly

believe her capable of manifesting any very dangerous religious zeal at

present."

"You don't know what you are talking about, Charles! Of every family

into which this insidious and most anti-christian schism has crept, you

would find, upon inquiry, that in nine instances out of ten, it has been

the young girls who have been selected as the first objects of

conversion, and then made the active means of spreading it afterwards.

Don't treat this matter lightly, my dear boy! Personally I know nothing

of this Mr. Cartwright;--we never leave our parish church and our

excellent Dr. Broughton, to run after brawling extempore preachers;--but

I have been told by one or two of our neighbours who do, that he is what

is called a _shining light_; which means, being interpreted, a ranting,

canting, fanatic. Take care, above all things, that your mother does not

catch the infection."

"My mother!--Oh no! Her steady principles and quiet good sense would

render such a falling off as that quite impossible."

"Very well! I am willing to hope so. And yet, Charles, I cannot for the

life of me help thinking that she must have had some other adviser than

her own heart when she left my good Sir Gilbert's letter without an

answer."

"Of what letter do you speak, Lady Harrington?" said young Mowbray,

colouring;--"of that whereby he refused to execute the trust my father

bequeathed him?"

"No, Charles! Of that whereby he rescinded his refusal."

"Has such a letter been sent?" inquired Mowbray eagerly. "I never heard

of it."

"Indeed! Then we must presume that Mrs. Mowbray did not think it worth

mentioning. Such a letter has, however, been sent, Mr. Mowbray; and I

confess, I hoped, on seeing you arrive, that you were come to give it an

amicable, though somewhat tardy answer, in person."

"I am greatly surprised," replied Charles, "to hear that such a letter

has been received by my mother, because I had been led to believe that

Sir Gilbert had declared himself immoveable on the subject; but still

more am I surprised that I should not have heard of it. Could Helen know

it, and not tell me? It must have been to her a source of the greatest

happiness, as the one which preceded had been of the deepest

mortification and sorrow."

"Your sister, then, saw the first letter?"

"She did, Lady Harrington, and wrote me word of it, with expressions of

the most sincere regret."

"But of the second she said nothing? That is not like Helen."

"So little is it like her, that I feel confident she never heard of the

second letter."

"I believe so too, Charles. But what, then, are we to think of your

mother's having shown the first letter, and concealed the second?"

"It cannot be! my mother never conceals any thing from us. We have

never, from the moment we left the nursery, been kept in ignorance of

any circumstance of general interest to the family. My poor father's

constant phrase upon all such occasions was--'Let it be discussed in a

committee of the whole house.'"

"I cannot understand it," replied the old lady, seating herself upon a

bench in the shade; "but, at any rate, I rejoice that you did not all

think Sir Gilbert's recantation--which was not written without an

effort, I promise you--so totally unworthy of notice as you have

appeared to do."

Charles Mowbray seated himself beside her, and nearly an hour was passed

in conversation on the same subject, or others connected with it. At the

end of that time, Sir Gilbert, booted and spurred, appeared at the door

of the mansion, followed by his son. There was an angry spot upon his

cheek, and though it was sufficiently evident that he was eager to meet

young Mowbray, it was equally so that he was displeased with him.

Lady Harrington, however, soon cleared the way to the most frank and

cordial communication, rendering all explanation unnecessary by

exclaiming, "He has never seen nor heard of your second letter, Sir

Gilbert--nor Helen either."

The baronet stood still for a moment, looking with doubt and surprise

first at his wife, and then at his guest. The doubt, however, vanished

in a moment, and he again advanced, and now with an extended hand

towards Charles.

A conversation of some length ensued; but as it consisted wholly of

conjectures upon a point that they were all equally unable to explain,

it is unnecessary to repeat it. The two young men met each other with

expressions of the most cordial regard, and before they parted, Colonel

Harrington related the conversation he had held with Helen and Miss

Torrington, the result of which was his father's having despatched the

letter whose fate appeared involved in so much mystery.

Lady Harrington, notwithstanding they who did not love her called her

masculine, showed some feminine tact in not mentioning to Sir Gilbert

that it was a letter from Miss Torrington which had recalled Charles. It

is probable that when her own questionings had forced this avowal from

him, she had perceived some shade of embarrassment in his answer; but

she failed not to mention the _serious_ turn that Fanny Mowbray appeared

to have taken, and her suspicions that the new Vicar of Wrexhill must

have been rather more assiduous than was desirable in his visit at the

Park.

"The case is clear--clear as daylight, my lady: I understand it all.

Stop a moment, Charles: if you won't stay dinner, you must stay while I

furnish you with a document by means of which you may, I think, make a

useful experiment."

Without waiting for an answer, Sir Gilbert left the party in the garden,

and hurried into the house, whence he returned in a few minutes with a

scrap of paper in his hand.

"Fortunately, Charles, very fortunately, I have kept a copy of my last

note to your mother. I am sure I know not what induced me to keep it:

had such a thing happened to Mr. Cartwright, he would have declared it

providential--but I, in my modesty, only call it lucky.--Take this

paper, Charles, and read it if you will: 'tis a shame you have not read

it before! You say, I think, that the vicar is expected at Mowbray this

evening: just put this scrap of paper into his hand, and ask him if he

ever read it before. Let him say what he will, I give you credit for

sufficient sharpness to find out the truth. If he has seen it, I shall

know whom I have to thank for the insolent contempt it has met with."

"But my mother!" cried Charles with emotion. "Is it possible that she

could conceal such a note as this from her children, and show it to this

man? Sir Gilbert, I cannot believe it."

"I don't like to believe it myself, Charles; upon my life I don't. But

what can we think? At any rate, make the experiment to-night; it can do

no harm; and come here to dinner to-morrow to tell us the result."

"I will come to you with the greatest pleasure, and bring you all the

intelligence I can get. My own opinion is, that the note was lost before

it reached my mother's hands. The usual hour, I suppose, Sir

Gilbert,--six o'clock?"

"Six o'clock, Charles,--and, as usual, punctual to a moment."

When Mowbray reached his home, it was, in truth, rather more than time

to dress; but he kept the young ladies waiting as short a time as

possible. Fanny presented him in proper style to Miss Cartwright as soon

as he appeared in the drawing-room; and he had the honour of giving that

silent young lady his arm to the dining-room.

Charles thought her deep-set black eyes very handsome; nevertheless, he

secretly wished that she were a hundred miles off, for her presence, of

course, checked every approach to confidential conversation.

Nothing, indeed, could well be more dull and unprofitable than this

dinner. Miss Cartwright spoke not at all; Fanny, no more than was

necessary for the performance of her duty at the head of the table; and

Rosalind looked pale and languid, and so completely out of spirits, that

every word she spoke seemed a painful effort to her. She was occupied in

recalling to mind the tone and air of the party who dined together in

that same room about six months before, when Charles had last returned

from Oxford. The contrast these recollections offered to the aspect of

the present party was most painful; and as Rosalind turned her eyes

round the table with a look of wistful melancholy, as if looking for

those who were no longer there, her thoughts were so legibly written on

her countenance, that Mowbray understood them as plainly as if they had

been spoken.

"Rosalind, will you take wine with me?--You look tired and pale." This

was said in a tone of affectionate interest that seemed to excite the

attention of Henrietta; and when Miss Torrington raised her eyes to

answer it, she observed that young lady's looks fixed on Mr. Mowbray's

countenance with an expression that denoted curiosity.

The whole party seemed glad to escape from the dinner-table; and the

young ladies, with light shawls and parasols, had just wandered out upon

the lawn, when they met Mr. Cartwright approaching the house.

Fanny coloured, and looked at her brother. Miss Cartwright coloured too;

and her eyes followed the direction of Fanny's, as if to see how this

familiar mode of approach was approved by Mr. Mowbray.

Charles certainly felt a little surprised, and did not take much pains

to conceal it. For a moment he looked at the vicar, as if not quite

certain who it was, and then, touching his hat with ceremonious

politeness, said, haughtily enough, "Mr. Cartwright, I believe?"

It would have been difficult for any one to find fault with the manner

in which this salutation was returned. In a tone admirably modulated

between profound respect and friendly kindness, his hat raised

gracefully from his head to greet the whole party, and his handsome

features wearing an expression of the gentlest benevolence, Mr.

Cartwright hoped that he had the happiness of seeing Mr. Mowbray well.

Charles felt more than half ashamed of the reception he had given him,

and stretched out his hand as if to atone for it. The vicar felt his

advantage, and pursued it by the most easy, winning, yet respectful

style of conversation. His language and manners became completely those

of an accomplished man of the world; his topics were drawn from the

day's paper and the last review: he ventured a jest upon Don Carlos, and

a _bon mot_ upon the Duke of Wellington; took little or no notice of

Fanny; spoke affectionately to his daughter, and gaily to Miss

Torrington; and, in short, appeared to be as little deserving of all

Rosalind had said of him, as it was well possible for a gentleman to

be.

"Fair Rosalind has certainly suffered her imagination to conjure up a

bugbear in this man," thought Charles. "It is impossible he can be the

violent fanatic she describes."

After wandering about the gardens for some time, Fanny proposed that

they should go in to tea; but before they reached the house, Mr.

Cartwright proposed to take his leave, saying that he had an engagement

in Wrexhill, which was to prevent his lengthening his visit.

The adieu had been spoken on all sides, and the vicar turned from them

to depart, when Charles recollected the commission he had received from

Sir Gilbert, and that he had promised to report the result on the

morrow. Hastily following him, therefore, he said, "I beg your pardon,

Mr. Cartwright; hut, before you go, will you have the kindness to read

this note, and tell me if you know whether my mother received such a one

before she went to London?"

Mr. Cartwright took the note, read it attentively, and then returned it,

saying, "No, Mr. Mowbray, I should certainly think not: not because I

never saw or heard of it, but because I imagine that if she had, she

would not have proceeded to London without Sir Gilbert. Was such a note

as that sent, Mr. Mowbray?"

Charles had kept his eye very steadily fixed on the vicar, both while he

read the note, and while he spoke of it. Not the slightest indication,

however, of his knowing any thing about it was visible in his

countenance, voice, or manner; and, again as he looked at him, young

Mowbray felt ashamed of suspicions for which there seemed to be so

little cause.

"Such a note as this was sent, Mr. Cartwright," he frankly replied: "but

I suspect that by some unlucky accident it never reached my mother's

hands; otherwise, as you well observe, she would not, most assuredly,

have set off to London on this business without communicating with Sir

Gilbert Harrington."

"I conceive it must be so, indeed, Mr. Mowbray; and it is greatly to be

lamented, for the receiving it would have saved poor Mrs. Mowbray much

anxiety and trouble."

"She expressed herself to you as being annoyed by Sir Gilbert's refusing

to act?"

"Oh yes, repeatedly; so much so, indeed, that nothing but the

indispensable duty of my parish, prevented my offering to accompany her

to London myself. I wished her very much to send for you; but nothing

would induce her to interrupt your studies."

It is not in the nature of a frank-hearted young man to doubt statements

thus simply uttered by one having the bearing and appearance of a

gentleman; and Charles Mowbray reported accordingly at the dinner-table

of Sir Gilbert, assuring him that the _test_ had proved Mr. Cartwright's

innocence on this point most satisfactorily.

CHAPTER IV.

MR. STEPHEN CORBOLD.

We must now follow Mrs. Mowbray and Helen to London, as some of the

circumstances which occurred there proved of importance to them

afterwards. The journey was a very melancholy one to Helen, and her

feelings as unlike as possible to those which usually accompany a young

lady of her age, appearance, and station, upon a visit to the

metropolis. Mrs. Mowbray spoke very little, being greatly occupied by

the volume recommended to her notice, at parting, by Mr. Cartwright; and

more than once Helen felt something like envy at the situation of the

two servants, who, perched aloft behind the carriage, were enjoying

without restraint the rapid movement, the fresh air, and the beautiful

country through which they passed; while she, like a drooping flower on

which the sun has ceased to shine, hung her fair hand and languished for

the kindly warmth she had lost.

They reached Wimpole Street about eight o'clock in the evening, and

found every thing prepared for them with the most sedulous attention in

their handsome and commodious apartments.

Mrs. Mowbray was tired, and, being really in need of the refreshment,

blessed the hand, or rather the thought, which had forestalled all her

wants and wishes, and spread that dearest of travelling banquets, tea

and coffee, ready to greet her as she entered the drawing-room.

"This letter has been left for you, ma'am, by the gentleman who took the

apartment," said the landlady, taking a packet from the chimney-piece;

"and he desired it might be given to you immediately."

Mrs. Mowbray opened it; but perceiving it enclosed another, the address

of which she glanced her eye upon, she folded it up again, and begged to

be shown to her room while the tea was made.

Her maid followed her, but was dismissed with orders to see if Miss

Mowbray wanted any thing. As soon as she was alone, she prepared to

examine the packet, the receipt of which certainly startled her, for it

was in the handwriting of Mr. Cartwright, from whom she had parted but a

few hours before.

The envelope contained only these words:

"Mr. Stephen Corbold presents his respectful compliments to

Mrs. Mowbray, and will do himself the honour of waiting upon

her to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock."

"Gray's Inn, July 13th, 1833."

Mrs. Mowbray ran her eyes very rapidly over these words, and then opened

the enclosed letter. It was as follows:--

"Do not let the unexpected sight of a letter from your minister

alarm you, my dear and much-valued friend. I have nothing

painful to disclose; and my sole object in writing is to make

you feel that though you are distant from the sheltered spot

wherein the Lord hath caused you to dwell, the shepherd's eye

which hath been appointed to watch over you is not withdrawn.

"I am no longer a young man, my dear Mrs. Mowbray; and during

the years through which I have passed, my profession, my duty,

and my inclination have alike led me to examine my

fellow-creatures, and to read them, as it were, athwart the

veil of their mortal bodies. Habit and application have given

me, I believe, some skill in developing the inward character of

those amongst whom I am thrown: nor can I doubt that the hand

of Heaven is in this, as in truth it is in all things if we do

but diligently set ourselves to trace it;--I cannot, I say, but

believe that this faculty which I feel so strong within me, of

discerning in whom those spirits abide that the Lord hath

chosen for his own,--I cannot but believe that this faculty is

given me by his especial will and for his especial glory. I

wish well, sincerely well, to the whole human race: I would

never lose an opportunity of lifting my voice in warning to

them, in the hope that peradventure there may be one among the

crowd who may turn and follow me. But, my friend, far different

is the feeling with which my heart clings with stedfast care

and love to those on whom I see the anointing finger of Heaven.

It is such that I would lead, even as a pilot leadeth the

vessel intrusted to his skill, into the peaceful waters, where

glory, and honour, and joy unspeakable and without end, shall

abide with them for ever!

"Repine not, oh! my friend, if all your race are not of these.

Rather rejoice with exceeding great joy that it hath pleased

Heaven to set its seal on two. To this effect, look round the

world, my gentle friend, and see what myriads of roofs arise

beneath which not one can be found to show forth the saving

power. Mark them! how they thread the giddy maze, and dance

onward down the slippery path that leads to everlasting

perdition! Mark this, sweet spirit! and rejoice that you and

your Fanny are snatched from the burning! My soul revels in an

ecstasy of rapture unspeakable, as I gaze upon you both, and

know that it is I, even I, am chosen to lead you. What are all

the victories and glories of the world to this? Think you, my

gentle friend, that if all the worldly state and station of

Lambeth were offered me on one side, and the task of leading

thy meek steps into the way of life called me to the other,

that I should hesitate for one single instant which to choose?

"Oh no! Trust me, I would meet the scorn and revilings of all

men--aye, and the bitterest persecutions that ever the saints

of old were called upon to bear, rather than turn mine eyes

from thee and the dear work, though princedoms, principalities,

and powers might be gained thereby!

"Be strong then in faith, be strong in hope; for thou art well

loved of Heaven, and of him whom it hath been its will to place

near thee as its minister on earth!

"Be strong in faith! Kneel down, sweet friend!--even now, as

thine eye reads these characters traced by the hand of one who

would give his life to guard thee from harm, kneel down, and

ask that Heaven may be with thee,--well assured that he who

bids thee to do so will at the same moment be kneeling,

likewise, to invoke blessings on thy fair and virtuous head!

"At a moment when the heart is drawn heavenward, as mine is

now, how hateful--I may say, how profane, seem those worldly

appellations and distinctions with which the silly vanity of

man has sought to decorate our individual nothingness! How much

more befitting a serious Christian is it, in such a moment as

this, to use that name which was bestowed by a higher

authority! You have three such, my sweet friend. The two first

are now appropriated, as it were, to your daughters; but the

third is more especially your own.--Clara! On Clara may the dew

of Heaven descend like healing balm!--Kneel then, sweet

Clara--thou chosen handmaid; kneel down, and think that William

Cartwright kneels beside thee!

"Written on my knees in the secret recesses of my own

chamber--W. C."

No sooner did Mrs. Mowbray's eye reach the words "kneel down," than she

obeyed them, and in this attitude read to the end of the epistle. Mrs.

Mowbray's feelings whenever strongly excited, either by joy, sorrow, or

any other emotion, always showed themselves in tears, and she now wept

profusely--vehemently; though it is probable she would have been greatly

puzzled to explain why, even to herself. She would certainly, however,

have declared, had she spoken on the subject to any one, that those

tears were a joy, a blessing, and a comfort to her. But as she had

nobody to whom she could thus open her heart, she washed her eyes with

cold water, and descended with all the composure she could assume to

Helen and the tea-table.

Notwithstanding this precaution, Helen's watchful eye perceived that her

mother had been weeping, and, forgetting the unnatural coldness which a

breath more fatal than pestilence had placed between them, she exclaimed

with all her wonted tenderness,

"What is the matter, dear mamma?--I trust that no bad news has met you?"

If all other circumstances left it a matter of doubt whether evangelical

influence (as it is impiously called) were productive of good or evil,

the terrible power which it is so constantly seen to have of destroying

family union must be quite sufficient to settle the question. Any person

who will take the trouble to inquire into the fact, will find that

family affection has been more blighted and destroyed by the workings of

this fearful superstition than by any other cause of which the history

of man bears record.

The tone of Helen's voice seemed for a moment to recall former feelings,

and her mother looked at her kindly: but before she could give utterance

to any word of affection, the recollection of all Mr. Cartwright had

said to prove that Helen deserved not the affection of her mother, and

that the only chance left to save herself was to be found in the most

austere estrangement, till such time as her hard heart should be

softened; the recollection of all this came across the terrified mind of

Mrs. Mowbray, and she resumed the solemn and distant bearing she had of

late resumed, with a nervous sensation of alarm at the great crime she

had been on the point of committing.

Poor Helen saw the look, and listened with her whole soul in her eyes

for the kind words which had so nearly followed it; but when they came

not, her heart sank within her, and pleading fatigue, she begged to be

shown to her own room, where she spent half the night in weeping.

Most punctually at eleven o'clock on the following morning, Mr. Stephen

Corbold was announced, and a stiff priggish-looking figure entered the

drawing-room, who, though in truth a "special attorney," looked much

more like a thorough-bred methodistical preacher than his friend and

cousin Mr. Cartwright. In age he was a few years that gentleman's

junior, but in all outward gifts most lamentably his inferior; being, in

truth, as ill-looking and ungentlemanlike a person as any congregation

attached to the "Philo-Calvin Frybabe" principles could furnish.

The footman might have announced him in the same words as Lepine did

Vadius:

"Madame, un homme est la, qui veut parler a vous.

Il est vetu de noir, et parle d'un ton doux."

For, excepting his little tight cravat, he appeared to have nothing

white about him, and he seldom raised his cautious voice above a

whisper.

"I am here, madam," he began, addressing himself to Mrs. Mowbray, who

felt rather at a loss what to say to him, "at the request of my cousin,

the Reverend William Jacob Cartwright, Vicar of Wrexhill. He hath given

me to understand that you have business to transact at Doctors' Commons,

relative to the last will and testament of your late husband. Am I

correct, madam?"

"Quite so, Mr. Corbold. I wish to despatch this business as quickly as

possible, as I am anxious to return again to my family."

"No delay shall intervene that I can prevent," replied the attorney. "Is

there any other business, madam, in which my services can be available?"

"You are very kind, sir. I believe there are several things on which I

shall have to trouble you. Mr. Mowbray generally transacted his own

business, which in London consisted, I believe, solely in receiving

dividends and paying tradesmen's bills: the only lawyer he employed,

therefore, was a gentleman who resides in our county, and who has

hitherto had the care of the estates. But my excellent minister and

friend Mr. Cartwright has written upon this sheet of paper, I believe,

what it will be necessary for me to do in order to arrange things for

the future."

Mrs. Mowbray put the paper into the lawyer's hands, who read it over

with great attention, nodding his head slightly from time to time as any

item struck him as particularly interesting and important.

"Three per Cents--very good. Bank Stock--very good. Power of

Attorney.--All right, madam, all right. It hath pleased the Lord to give

my cousin, his servant, a clear and comprehending intellect. All shall

be done even as it is here set down."

"How long, sir, do you think it will be necessary for me to remain in

town?"

"Why, madam, there are many men would run this business out to great

length. Here is indeed sufficient to occupy a very active professional

man many weeks: but by the blessing of Heaven, which is often

providentially granted to me in time of need, I question not but I may

be able to release you in a few days, madam, provided always that you

are prepared to meet such expenses as are indispensable upon all

occasions when great haste is required."

"Expense will be no object with me, Mr. Corbold; but a prolonged absence

from home would be extremely inconvenient. Pray remember that I shall be

most happy to pay any additional sum which hastening through the

business may require."

"Very good, madam, very good. That Heaven will be good unto me in this

business, I cannot presume to doubt; for it hath been consigned unto me

by one of its saints on earth, and it is for the service of a lady who,

I am assured by him, is likely to become one of the most favoured agents

that it hath ever selected to do its work on earth."

Mrs. Mowbray coloured from a mixed feeling of modesty and pleasure. That

Mr. Cartwright should have thus described her, was most soothing to her

heart; but when she recollected how far advanced he was, and how very

near the threshold she as yet stood, her diffidence made her shrink from

hearing herself named in language so flattering.

"Is that fair young person who left the room soon after I entered it

your daughter, madam?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. I rejoice to hear it: that is, I would be understood to say,

that I rejoice with an exceeding great joy that the child of a lady who

stands in such estimation as you do with a chosen minister of the

elected church, should wear an aspect so suitable to one who, by

especial Providence, will be led to follow her example."

Mrs. Mowbray sighed.

"I lament, madam," resumed Mr. Corbold, "I may say with great and bitter

lamentation, both for your sake, and that of the young person who has

left the room, that the London season should be so completely over."

"Sir!" said Mrs. Mowbray in an accent of almost indignant surprise, "is

it possible that any friend and relation of Mr. Cartwright's can imagine

that I, in my unhappy situation--or indeed, without that, as a Christian

woman hoping with fear and trembling to become one of those set apart

from worldly things,--is it possible, sir, that you can think I should

partake, or let my daughter partake, in the corrupt sinfulness and

profane rioting of a London season!"

"May Heaven forgive you for so unjust a suspicion, most respected

madam!" cried Mr. Corbold, clasping his hands and raising his eyes to

Heaven. "The language of the saints on earth is yet new to you, most

excellent and highly to be respected convert of my cousin! The London

season of which I speak, and which you will hear alluded to by such

sinful creatures as, like me, have reason to believe by an especial

manifestation of grace that they are set apart,--the London season of

which I and they speak, is that, when during about six blessed weeks in

the spring, the chosen vessels resort in countless numbers to London,

for the purpose of being present at all the meetings which take place

during that time, with as much ardour and holy zeal as the

worldly-minded show in arranging their fetes and their fooleries at the

instigation of Satan--in anticipation, as it should seem, poor deluded

creatures! of the crowds that they shall hereafter meet amidst fire and

brimstone in his realms below. The season of which I speak, and of which

you will hear all the elect speak with rapture and thanksgiving,

consists of a quick succession of splendid and soul-stirring meetings,

at which all the saints on whom the gift of speech hath descended, some

for one, some for two, some for three, some for four--ay, some for five

hours at a time, sustained, as you may suppose, by a visible resting of

the Divine power upon them. This, madam, is the season that, for your

sake, and for the sake of the fair young person your daughter, I wished

was not yet over."

Mrs. Mowbray made a very penitent and full apology for the blunder she

had committed, and very meekly confessed her ignorance, declaring that

she had never before heard the epithet of "London season" given to any

thing so heavenly-minded and sublime as the meetings he described.

The discovery of this species of ignorance on the part of Mrs. Mowbray,

which was by no means confined to the instance above mentioned, was a

very favourable circumstance for Mr. Corbold. There was, perhaps, no

other subject in the world upon which he was competent to give

information (except in the technicalities of his own profession); but in

every thing relating to missionary meetings, branch-missionary meetings'

reports, child's missionary branch committees, London Lord's day's

societies, and the like, he was quite perfect. All this gave him a value

in Mrs. Mowbray's eyes as a companion which he might have wanted without

it. At all conversations of this kind, Mrs. Mowbray took great care that

Helen should be present, persuaded that nothing could be so likely to

give her that savour of righteousness in which, as yet, she was so

greatly deficient.

The consequence of this arrangement was twofold. On Helen's side, it

generated a feeling compounded of contempt and loathing towards the

fanatical attorney, which in most others would have led to the passion

called hatred; but in her it seemed rather a passive than an active

sentiment, which would never have sought either nourishment or relief in

doing injury to its object, but which rendered her so ill at ease in his

presence that her life became perfectly wretched from the frequency of

it.

On the part of the gentleman, the effect of these frequent interviews

was different. From thinking Mrs. Mowbray's daughter a very fair young

person, he grew by gradual, but pretty rapid degrees, to perceive that

she was the very loveliest tabernacle in which had ever been enshrined

the spirit of a woman; and by the time Mrs. Mowbray had learned by rote

the names, titles, connexions, separations, unions, deputations, and

endowments of all the missionary societies, root and branch, and of all

the central and eccentric establishments for the instruction of

ignorance in infants of four months to adults of fourscore, Mr. Stephen

Corbold had made up his mind to believe that, by fair means or foul, it

was his bounden duty, as a pious man and serious Christian, to

appropriate the fair Helen to himself in this life, and thereby ensure

her everlasting happiness in the life to come.

It must not be supposed that while these things passed in London the

Vicar of Wrexhill was forgotten. Mrs. Mowbray's heart and conscience

both told her that such a letter as she had received from him must not

remain unanswered: she therefore placed Helen in the drawing-room, with

a small but very closely-printed volume on "Free Grace," recommended by

Mr. Corbold, and having desired her, in the voice of command, to study

it attentively till dinner-time, she retired to her own room, where,

having knelt, wept, prayed, written, and erased, for about three hours,

she finally signed and sealed an epistle, of which it is unnecessary to

say more than that it conveyed a very animated feeling of satisfaction

to the heart of the holy man to whom it was addressed.

CHAPTER V.

MR. STEPHEN CORBOLD RETURNS WITH MRS. MOWBRAY AND HELEN TO WREXHILL.

Mrs. Mowbray's business in London, simple and straightforward as it was,

might probably under existing circumstances have occupied many weeks,

had not a lucky thought which visited the restless couch of Mr. Stephen

Corbold been the means of bringing it to a speedy conclusion.

"_Soyez amant, et vous serez inventif_," is a pithy proverb, and has

held good in many an illustrious instance, but in none, perhaps, more

conspicuously than in that of Mr. Stephen Corbold's passion for Miss

Mowbray. One of the earliest proofs he gave of this, was the persuading

Mrs. Mowbray that the only way in which he could, consistently with his

other engagements, devote to her as much time as her affairs required,

would be, by passing every evening with her. And he did pass every

evening with her: and poor Helen was given to understand, in good set

terms, that if she presumed to retire before that excellent man Mr.

Stephen Corbold had finished his last tumbler of soda-water and Madeira,

not only would she incur her mother's serious displeasure, but be

confided (during their absence from Mowbray) to the spiritual

instruction of some _earnest_ minister, who would teach her in what the

duty of a daughter consisted.

And so Helen Mowbray sat till twelve o'clock every night, listening to

the works of the saints of the nineteenth century, and exposed to the

unmitigated stare of Mr. Stephen Corbold's grey eyes.

The constituting himself the guide and protector of the ladies through a

series of extemporary preachings and lecturings on Sunday, was perhaps

too obvious a duty to be classed as one of love's invention: but the

ingenuity shown in persuading Mrs. Mowbray that it would be necessary

for the completion of her business that he should attend her home, most

certainly deserves this honour.

Though no way wanting in that quality of mind which the invidious

denominate "impudence," and the judicious "proper confidence,"--a

quality as necessary to the fitting out of Mr. Stephen Corbold as

parchment and red tape,--he nevertheless felt some slight approach to

hesitation and shame-facedness when he first hinted the expediency of

this measure. But his embarrassment was instantly relieved by Mrs.

Mowbray's cordial assurance that she rejoiced to hear such a manner of

concluding the business was possible, as she knew it would give their

"excellent minister" pleasure to see his cousin.

There is no Christian virtue, perhaps, to which a serious widow lady is

so often called (unless she belong to that class invited by the

"exemplary" in bevies, by way of charity, when a little teapot is set

between every two of them,)--there is no Christian virtue more

constantly inculcated on the minds of _rich_ serious widows than that of

hospitality; nor is there a text that has been quoted oftener to such,

or with greater variety of accent, as admonitory, encouragingly,

beseechingly, approvingly, jeremiadingly in reproach, and

hallelujahingly in gratitude and admiration, than those three impressive

and laudatory words,--

"GIVEN TO HOSPITALITY!"

During a snug little morning visit at the Park, at which only Mrs.

Mowbray and Fanny were present, Mr. Cartwright accidentally turned to

these words; and nothing could be more touchingly eloquent than the

manner in which he dwelt upon and explained them.

From that hour good Mrs. Mowbray had been secretly lamenting the want of

sufficient opportunity to show how fully she understood and valued this

Christian virtue, and how willing she was to put it in practice toward

all such as her "excellent minister" should approve: it was, therefore,

positively with an out-pouring of fervent zeal that she welcomed the

prospect of a visit from _such a man_ as Mr. Stephen Corbold.

"It is indeed a blessing and a happiness, Mr. Corbold," said she, "that

what I feared would detain me many days from my home and my family

should be converted into such a merciful dispensation as I must consider

your coming to be. When shall you be able to set out, my dear sir?"

"I could set out to-morrow, or, at the very latest, the day after, if I

could obtain a conveyance that I should deem perfectly safe for the

papers I have to carry."

Helen shuddered, for she saw his meaning lurking in the corner of his

eye as he turned towards her one of his detested glances.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Mowbray, hesitatingly, and fearful that she might

be taxing his great good-nature too far,--"perhaps, upon such an urgent

occasion, you might have the great goodness Mr. Corbold, to submit to

making a third in my travelling-carriage?"

"My gratitude would indeed be very great for such a permission," he

replied, endeavouring to betray as little pleasure as possible. "I do

assure you, my dear lady, such precautions are far from unnecessary.

Heaven, for its own especial purposes, which are to us inscrutable,

ordains that its tender care to usward shall be shown rather by giving

us prudence and forethought to avoid contact with the wicked, than by

any removal of them from our path: wherefore I hold myself bound in

righteousness to confess that the papers concerning your affairs--even

yours, my honoured lady, might run a very fearful risk of being

abducted, and purloined, by some of the many ungodly persons with whom

no dispensation of Providence hath yet interfered to prevent their

jostling its own people when they travel, as sometimes unhappily they

must do, in stage-coaches."

"Ah, Mr. Corbold!" replied the widow, (mentally alluding to a

conversation which she had held with Mr. Cartwright on the separation to

be desired between the chosen and the not-chosen even in this world;

such being, as he said, a sort of type or foreshowing of that eternal

separation promised in the world to come;)--"Ah, Mr. Corbold! if I had

the power to prevent it, none of the chosen should ever again find

themselves obliged to submit to such promiscuous mixture with the

ungodly as this unsanctified mode of travelling must lead to. Had I

power and influence sufficient to carry such an undertaking into effect,

I would certainly endeavour to institute a society of Christians, who,

by liberal subscriptions among themselves, might collect a fund for

defraying the travelling expenses of those who are set apart. It must be

an abomination, Mr. Corbold, that such should be seen travelling on

earth by the same vehicles as those which convey the wretched beings who

are on their sure and certain road to eternal destruction!"

"Ah, dearest madam!" replied the attorney, with a profound sigh, "such

thoughts as those are buds of holiness that shall burst forth into

full-blown flowers of eternal glory round your head in heaven! But,

alas! no such society is yet formed, and the sufferings of the

righteous, for the want of it, are truly great!"

"I am sure they must be, Mr. Corbold," replied the kind Mrs. Mowbray in

an accent of sincere compassion; "but, at least in the present instance,

you may be spared such unseemly mixture, if you will be good enough not

to object to travelling three in the carriage. Helen is very slight, and

I trust you will not be greatly incommoded."

Mr. Corbold's gratitude was too great to be expressed in a sitting

attitude; he therefore rose from his chair, and pressing his extended

hands together as if invoking a blessing on the meek lady's holy head,

he uttered, "Heaven reward you, madam, for not forgetting those whom it

hath remembered!" and as he spoke, he bowed his head low, long, and

reverently. As he recovered the erect position on ordinary occasions

permitted to man, he turned a little round to give a glance of very

lover-like timidity towards Helen, who when he began his reverence to

her mother was in the room; but as he now turned his disappointed eyes

all round it, he discovered that she was there no longer.

After this, the business which could, as Mr. Corbold said, be

conveniently transacted in London, was quickly despatched, and the day

fixed for their return to Mowbray, exactly one week after they left it.

Mr. Stephen Corbold was invited to breakfast previous to the departure;

and he came accompanied by so huge a green bag, as promised a long stay

among those to whose affairs the voluminous contents related.

When all things in and about the carriage were ready, Mr. Stephen

Corbold presented his arm to the widow, and placed her in it. He then

turned to Helen, who on this occasion found it not so easy as at setting

off to avoid the hand extended towards her; that is to say, she could

not spring by it unheeded: but as she would greatly have preferred the

touch of any other reptile, she contrived to be very awkward, and

actually caught hold of the handle beside the carriage-door, instead of

the obsequious ungloved fingers which made her shudder as she glanced

her eyes towards them.

"You will sit in the middle, Helen," said Mrs. Mowbray.

"I wish, mamma, you would be so kind as to let me sit in the dickey,"

replied the young lady, looking up as she spoke to the very comfortable

and unoccupied seat in front of the carriage which, but for Mrs.

Mowbray's respectful religious scruples, might certainly have

accommodated Mr. Corbold and his bag perfectly well. "I should like it

so much better, mamma!"

"Let me sit in the middle, I entreat!" cried Mr. Corbold, entering the

carriage in haste, to prevent farther discussion. "My dear young lady,"

he continued, placing his person in the least graceful of all imaginable

attitudes,--"my dear young lady, I beseech you----"

"Go into the corner, Helen!" said Mrs. Mowbray hastily wishing to put so

exemplary a Christian more at his ease, and without thinking it

necessary to answer the insidious petition of her daughter, which, as

she thought, plainly pointed at the exclusion of the righteous attorney.

Helen ventured not to repeat it, and the carriage drove off. For the

first mile Mr. Stephen Corbold sat, or rather perched himself, at the

extremest edge of the seat, his hat between his knees, and every muscle

that ought to have been at rest in active exercise, to prevent his

falling forward on his nose; every feature, meanwhile, seeming to say,

"This is not my carriage." But by gentle degrees he slid farther and

farther backwards, till his spare person was not only in the enjoyment

of ease, but of great happiness also.

Helen, as her mother observed, was "very slight," and Mr. Corbold began

almost to fancy that she would at last vanish into thin air, for, as he

quietly advanced, so did she quietly retreat till she certainly did

appear to shrink into a very small compass indeed.

"I fear I crowd you, my dearest lady!" he said, addressing Mrs. Mowbray

at least ten times during as many miles; and every time this fear came

over him he gave her a little more room, dreadfully to the annoyance of

the slight young lady on the other side of him. Poor Helen had need to

remember that she was going home--going to Rosalind, to enable her to

endure the disgust of her position; but for several hours she did bear

it heroically. She thought of Mowbray,--of her flower-garden,--of the

beautiful Park,--of Rosalind's snug dressing-room, and the contrast of

all this to the life she had led in London. She thought too of Oakley,

and of the possibility that some of the family might, by some accident

or other, be met in some of the walks which Rosalind and she would be

sure to take. In short, with her eyes incessantly turned through the

open window towards the hedges and ditches, the fields and the flowers

by the road-side, she contrived to keep herself, body and soul, as far

as possible from the hated being who sat beside her.

On the journey to London, Mrs. Mowbray had not thought it necessary to

stop for dinner on the road, both she and Helen preferring to take a

sandwich in the carriage; but, from the fear of infringing any of the

duties of that hospitality which she now held in such high veneration,

she arranged matters differently, and learning, upon consulting her

footman, that an excellent house was situated about half-way between

London and Wrexhill, she not only determined on stopping there, but

directed the man to send forward a note, ordering an early dinner to be

ready for them.

This halt was an agreeable surprise to Mr. Stephen Corbold. It was

indeed an arrangement such as those of his peculiar sect are generally

found to approve; for it is a remarkable fact, easily ascertained by any

who will give themselves the trouble of inquiry, that the serious

Christians of the present age indulge themselves bodily, whenever the

power of doing so falls in their way, exactly in proportion to the

mortifications and privations with which they torment their spirits: so

that while a young sinner would fly from an untasted glass of claret

that he might not lose the prologue to a new play, a young saint would

sip up half-a-dozen (if he could get them) while descanting on the

grievous pains of hell which the pursuit of pleasure must for ever

bring.

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 tete-a-tete 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

tete-a-tete 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. Corbold?" 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.

CHAPTER VII.

THE VICAR AND HIS COUSIN.

None of the Mowbray family were present at the meeting between the Vicar

of Wrexhill and his cousin. The latter, indeed, set out from the Park at

a very early hour on the morning after his arrival, in order to

breakfast with his much esteemed relation, and to enjoy in the privacy

of his Vicarage a little friendly and confidential conversation as to

the projects and intentions concerning him, which had been hinted at in

his letters.

He was welcomed by Mr. Cartwright with very obliging civility; not but

that the vicar felt and showed, upon this, as well as all other

occasions, a very proper consciousness of his own superiority in all

ways. However, the Corbold connexion had been very essentially useful to

him in days past; and Mr. Stephen, the present representative of the

family, might _possibly_ be extremely useful to him in days to come.

Several fresh-laid eggs were therefore placed on the table,--coffee was

added to tea,--and his reception in all ways such as to make Mr. Stephen

feel himself extremely comfortable.

When the repast was ended, Mr. Jacob received a hint to withdraw; and

as soon as the door was closed behind him, the serious vicar approached

his chair to that of the serious attorney, with the air of one who had

much to hear, and much to communicate.

"You seem hereunto, cousin Stephen, to have managed this excellent

business, which under Providence I have been enabled to put into your

hands, with great ability; and, by a continuation of mercy, I am not

without hope, that you will, as I heretofore hinted, bring the same to

good effect."

"There is hope, great and exceeding merciful hope, cousin William, that

all you have anticipated, and peradventure more too, may come to pass. A

blessing and a providence seem already to have lighted upon you, cousin,

in your new ministry, for into this vessel which your cousinly kindness

hath set within my sight, you have poured grace and abounding

righteousness. Surely there never was a lady endowed with such goodly

gifts who was more disposed to make a free-will offering of them to the

saints, than this pious and in all ways exemplary widow."

"Your remarks, cousin, are those of a man on whom the light shines. May

the mercy of Heaven strengthen unto you, for its glory, the talent it

hath bestowed! And now with the freedom of kinsmen who speak together,

tell to me what are the hopes and expectations to which your

conversation with this excellent, and already very serious lady, have

given birth."

"I have no wish or intention, cousin William, of hiding from you any

portion of the thoughts which it has pleased Providence to send into my

heart; the which are in fact, for the most part, founded upon the

suggestions which, by the light of truth, I discerned in the first

letter upon the widow Mowbray's affairs which you addressed unto me."

"Respecting the agency of her own business, and peradventure that of her

ward's also?"

"Even so. I have, in truth, well-founded faith and hope that by the

continuation of your friendship and good report, cousin William, I may

at no distant period attain unto both."

"And if you do, cousin Stephen," returned the vicar, with a smile; "your

_benefice_ in the parish of Wrexhill will be worth considerably more

than mine."

A serious, waggish, holy, cunning smile now illuminated the

red, dry features of the attorney, and shaking his head with a

Burleigh-like-pregnancy of meaning, he said, "Ah, cousin!"

The vicar smiled again, and rising from his chair, put his head and

shoulders out of the open window, looking carefully, as it seemed, in

all directions; then, drawing them in again, he proceeded to open the

door of the room, and examined the passage leading to it in the same

cautious manner.

"My son Jacob is one of the finest young men in Europe, cousin Stephen,"

said the vicar, reseating himself; "but he is young, and as full of

little childish innocent fooleries as any baby: so it is as well not to

speak all we may have to say, without knowing that we are alone; for

many an excellent plan in which Providence seemed to have taken a great

share, has been impiously spoiled, frustrated, and destroyed, by the

want of caution in those to whom it was intrusted. Let not such sin lie

at our door! Now tell me then, cousin Stephen, and tell me frankly, why

did you smile and say, 'Ah cousin'?"

"Because, while speaking of what, through mercy, I may get at Wrexhill,

it seemed to me like a misdoubting of Providence not to speak a little

hint of what its chosen minister there may get too."

"I get my vicar's dues, cousin Stephen; and it may be, by a blessing

upon my humble endeavours, I may, when next Easter falls, obtain some

trifle both from high and low in the way of Easter offering."

"Ah, cousin!" repeated the attorney, renewing his intelligent smile.

"Well then," said the well-pleased vicar, "speak out."

"I am but a plodding man of business," replied Mr. Corbold, "with such

illumination upon matters of faith as Providence hath been pleased to

bestow; but my sense, such as it is, tells me that the excellent and

pious widow of Mowbray Park will not always be permitted by Providence

to remain desolate."

"She does, in truth, deserve a better fate," rejoined the vicar.

"And what better fate can befall her, cousin William, than being bound

together in holy matrimony with one of the most shining lights to be

found among the saints on earth?"

"Yes!" responded the vicar with a sigh; "that is the fate she merits,

and that is the fate she ought to meet!"

"And shall we doubt Providence?--shall we doubt that a mate shall be

found for her? No, cousin William; doubt not, for I say unto thee, 'Thou

art the man!'"

The vicar endeavoured to look solemn; but, though his handsome features

were in general under excellent control, he could not at this moment

repress a pleasant sort of simpering smile that puckered round his

mouth. Mr. Stephen Corbold, perceiving that his cousin was in nowise

displeased by the prophecy he had taken the liberty to utter, returned

to the subject again, saying, "I wish you had seen her face,--she must

have been very like her daughter,--I wish you could have seen her,

cousin William, every time I named you!"

"Indeed! Did she really testify some emotion? I trust you are not

jesting, cousin Stephen; this is no subject for pleasantry."

"Most assuredly it is not! and I think that you must altogether have

forgotten my temper and character, if you suppose that I should think it

such. To tell you the truth, cousin, I look upon the time present as a

period marked and settled by Providence for the calling you up to the

high places. Will it not be a glory to have its minister and servant

placed in such a palace as Mowbray? and will it not be converting what

hitherto has doubtless been the abode of sinners, into a temple for the

elect?"

"I will not deny," replied the vicar, "that such thoughts have

occasionally found place in my own mind. There have already been some

very singular and remarkable manifestations in this matter; and it is

the perceiving this, which has led me to believe, and indeed feel

certain, that my duty calls upon me so to act, that this wealthy relict

of a man too much addicted to the things of this world may, finally by

becoming part and parcel of myself, lose not the things eternal."

"I greatly rejoice," rejoined Mr. Corbold, "that such is your decision

in this matter; and if it should so fall out that Heaven in its wisdom

and goodness shall ordain you to become the master of Mowbray Park, (at

these words the vicar cast his eyes upon the ground and meekly bowed his

head,) and I have a persuasion that it will so ordain, borne strongly in

upon my mind, then and in that case, cousin William, I trust that your

patronage and support will not be withdrawn from me."

"Cousin Stephen," replied the vicar, "you are a man that on many

occasions I shall covet and desire to have by me and near me, both for

your profit and advantage and my own; but in the case which you have

put, and which Heaven seems to have whispered to your soul--in the

case, Stephen, that I should ever become the master and owner of

Mowbray, and all the sundry properties thereunto belonging, I think--no

offence to you, cousin--that I should prefer managing the estates

myself."

The serious attorney looked somewhat crestfallen, and perhaps some such

questionings were borne in upon his mind as--"What is it to me if he

marries the widow, if I do not get the management of the estates?"

When the vicar raised his eyes to the face of his cousin, he probably

perceived the impression his words had produced, and kindly anxious to

restore him to more comfortable feelings, he added,--"The fine property

of Miss Torrington, cousin Stephen, might certainly be placed entirely

in your hands--the management of it I mean--till she comes of age; but

then if she marries my son, which I think not unlikely, it is probable

that Jacob may follow my example, and prefer taking care of the property

himself."

"Then, at the very best," replied Mr. Corbold, "I can only hope to

obtain an agency for a year or two?"

"I beg your pardon, cousin; my hopes for you go much farther than that.

In the first place, I would recommend it to you, immediately to settle

yourself at Wrexhill: I am told that there is a good deal of business up

and down the country hereabouts; and, if I obtain the influence that I

hope to do in more ways than one, I shall take care that no attorney is

employed but yourself, cousin Stephen. Besides this, I know that there

may happen to be settlements or wills wanting amongst us, my good

friend, which may make your being at hand very convenient; and, in all

such cases, you would do your work, you know, pretty much at your own

price. All this, however, is only contingent, I am quite aware of that;

and therefore, in order that you may in some sort share my good

fortune,--if such indeed should fall upon me,--I have been thinking,

cousin Stephen, that when I shall be married to this lady, whom it has

pleased Providence to place in my path, you, being then the near

relative of a person of consequence and high consideration in the

county, may also aspire to increase your means by the same holy

ordinance; and if such a measure should seem good to your judgment, I

have a lady in my eye,--also a widow, and a very charming one, my dear

friend,--who lives in a style that shows her to be favoured by

Providence with the goods of fortune. What say you to this, cousin

Stephen?"

"Why, it is borne in upon me to say, cousin William, that, in such a

case as this, I should be inclined to follow your good example, and

choose for myself. And, truth to speak, I believe the choice is in some

sort made already; and I don't see but your marriage may be as likely to

help me in this case as in the other; and as to fortune, it is probable

that you may be able to lend me a helping hand there, too; for the young

lady, I fancy, is no other than your own daughter-in-law that is to

be--the pretty Miss Helen, cousin William?"

The vicar as he listened to these words, very nearly uttered a whistle.

He was, however, as he whispered to himself, mercifully saved from such

an indecorum by the timely remembrance that his cousin, though an

attorney, was a very serious man; but, though he did not whistle, he

deemed it necessary to express in a more solemn and proper manner his

doubts of the success to be hoped from the scheme proposed by Mr.

Corbold.

"As to the fortune of the young person who may, as you observe, some day

by the blessing of Providence become my daughter-in-law, I must tell you

as a friend and kinsman, cousin Stephen, that I hold it to be very

doubtful if she ever have any fortune at all. Are you aware that she is

not regenerate?"

"I partly guess as much," replied the attorney. "But," he added with a

smile, "I can't say I should have any objection to marrying her first,

and leading her into the way of salvation afterwards. And when I can

testify to her having forsaken the errors of her ways, and that I have

made her a light to lighten the Gentiles, I suppose you won't object

then to her coming in for a share of her mother's inheritance?"

"That would certainly make a difference; but I won't disguise from you,

cousin, that I consider this young person's as a hopeless case. She was

foredoomed from the beginning of the world: I see the mark upon her.

However, that might not perhaps make such difference in your

determination, for I know you to be a man very steadfast in hope, cousin

Stephen. But there is, moreover, I think, another obstacle. You must not

take my frankness amiss; but I have an inward misgiving as to her being

willing to accept you."

"As the young lady is a minor, cousin William, I should count upon its

being in your power to make her marry pretty well whom you please. And

this you may rely upon, that, in case you favour me heartily in this

matter, there is no work of any kind that you could put me to, that I

should not think it my bounden duty to perform."

"You speak like a just and conscientious man, cousin Corbold; and, by

the blessing of Heaven upon us, I trust that we shall be so able to work

together for righteousness' sake, that in the end we may compass that

which we desire. Nevertheless, I confess that it is still borne in upon

me that the fair and excellent widow Simpson would be the wisest choice

for you."

"Should it please Providence that such should be my own opinion

hereafter, cousin Cartwright, I will not fail to make it known unto

you."

"I will rest my faith on your wisdom therein," replied the vicar: "but

it is now time that I should go to speak the blessing of a minister, and

the welcome of a friend, to the excellent lady at the Park. And remember

two things, cousin Stephen: the first is, never to remain in the room

with the widow Mowbray and myself, when no other persons are present;

and the next is in importance like unto it,--remember that the lady is

even yet new in widowhood, and that any imprudent and premature allusion

to my possibly taking her in marriage might ruin all. There are those

near her, cousin Stephen, who I question not will fight against me."

The attorney promised to be awake and watchful, and never to permit his

tongue to betray the counsels of his heart.

The cousins and friends (who, notwithstanding the difference of their

callings, considered themselves, as Mr. Corbold observed,

fellow-labourers in the vineyard,) then walked forth together towards

Mowbray Park, well pleased with themselves and all things around them at

the present, and with pious confidence in the reward of their labours

for the future.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHARLES'S SORROW.--MRS. SIMPSON IN HER NEW CHARACTER.--THE VICAR'S

PROCEEDINGS DISCUSSED.

The two gentlemen found the family at the Park very sociably seated

round a late breakfast table. Helen, Rosalind, and Charles, before they

broke up their conclave in the library the night before, or rather that

morning, had all decided that in the present thorny and difficult

position of affairs, it was equally their duty and interest to

propitiate the kind feelings of Mrs. Mowbray by every means in their

power, and draw her thereby, if possible, from the mischievous and

insidious influence of her new associates.

"It is hardly possible to believe," said Charles, "that my mother can

really prefer the society of such an animal as this methodistical

attorney to that of her own family, or of those neighbours and friends

from whom, since my father's death, she has so completely withdrawn

herself. It is very natural she should be out of spirits, poor dear

soul! and Mr. Cartwright is just the sort of person to obtain influence

at such a time; but I trust this will wear off again. She will soon get

sick of the solemn attorney, and we shall all be as happy again as

ever."

"Heaven grant it!" said Helen with a sigh.

"Heaven grant it!" echoed Rosalind with another.

It was in consequence of this resolution, that the trio continued to sit

at the table much longer than usual; exerting themselves to amuse Mrs.

Mowbray, to win from Fanny one of her former bright smiles, and even to

make Miss Cartwright sociable.

Their efforts were not wholly unsuccessful. There was a genuine

animation and vivacity about Charles that seemed irresistible: Mrs.

Mowbray looked at him with a mother's eye; Miss Cartwright forsook her

monosyllables, and almost conversed; and Fanny, while listening first to

Helen, and then to her brother, forgot her duty as a professing

Christian as far as to let a whole ringlet of her sunny hair get loose

from behind her ear, and not notice it.

In the midst of this gleam of sunshine the door opened, and Mr.

Cartwright and Mr. Corbold were announced. Ambitions of producing effect

as both these serious gentlemen certainly were, they could hardly have

hoped, when their spirits were most exalted within them, to have caused

a more remarkable revolution in the state of things than their

appearance now produced.

Mrs. Mowbray coloured, half rose from her chair, sat down again, and

finally exclaimed, "Oh! Mr. Cartwright!" in a tone of voice that

manifested almost every feeling he could wish to inspire.

Fanny, who was in the very act of smiling when the door opened,

immediately became conscious that her hair was out of order, and that

her whole attitude and manner were wanting in that Christian grace and

sobriety which had been of late her chiefest glory. Such Christian grace

and sobriety, however, as she had lately learned, poor child! are not

difficult to assume, or long in putting on; so that before "her

minister" had completed his little prayer and thanksgiving in the ear of

her mother, for her eternal happiness and her safe return, Fanny was

quite in proper trim to meet his eye, and receive his blessing.

Henrietta at once fell back into her wonted heavy silent gloom, like a

leaden statue upon which the sun, shining for a moment, had thrown the

hue of silver.

Charles stood up, and saluted the vicar civilly but coldly; while to his

companion's low bow he returned a slight and stiff inclination of the

head.

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."

"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 satisfaction, 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?"

It was really generous in good Mrs. Simpson to give all the praise due

for the instruction and religious awakening of her little girl to the

vicar, for it was in truth entirely her own work; as it generally

happened, that when Mr. Cartwright paid her a visit, fearing probably

that the movements of a child might disturb his nerves, she dismissed

her little Mimima to her nursery.

One or two more attempts on the part of Helen to bring the conversation

to a tone that she should consider as more befitting the neighbourly

chit-chat of a morning visit, and, in plain English, less tinctured with

blasphemy, having been made and failed, she rose and took her leave, the

rest of her party following; but not without Fanny's receiving another

embrace, and this fervent farewell uttered in her ear:

"The saints and angels bless and keep you, dear sister!"

After quitting the house of this regenerated lady, the party proposed to

make a visit to that of Mrs. Richards; but Miss Cartwright expressed a

wish to go to the Vicarage instead, and begged they would call at the

door for her as they passed. Miss Torrington offered to accompany her,

but this was declined, though not quite in her usual cynical manner upon

such occasions; and, could Rosalind have followed her with her eye up

the Vicarage hill, she would have seen that she stopped and turned to

look down upon the common and its trees, just at the spot where they had

stood together before.

On entering Mrs. Richards's pretty flower-scented little saloon, they

were startled and somewhat embarrassed at finding that lady in tears,

and Major Dalrymple walking about the room with very evident symptoms of

discomposure. Helen, who, like every body else in the neighbourhood, was

perfectly aware of the major's unrequited attachment, or, at any rate,

his unsuccessful suit, really thought that the present moment was

probably intended by him to decide his fate for ever; and felt

exceedingly distressed at having intruded, though doubtful whether to

retreat now would not make matters worse. Those who followed her shared

both her fears and her doubts; but not so the widow and the major; who

both, after the interval of a moment, during which Mrs. Richards wiped

her eyes, and Major Dalrymple recovered his composure, declared with

very evident sincerity that they were heartily glad to see them.

"We are in the midst of a dispute, Mowbray," said the major, addressing

Charles; "and I will bet a thousand to one that you will be on my side,

whatever the ladies may be. Shall I refer the question to Charles

Mowbray, Mrs. Richards?"

"Oh yes! I shall like to have it referred to the whole party!" she

replied.

"Well then, this it is:--I need not tell you, good people, that the

present vicar of Wrexhill is--but _holt la_!" he exclaimed, suddenly

stopping himself and fixing his eyes on Fanny; "I am terribly afraid by

the trim cut of that little bonnet, that there's one amongst us that

will be taking notes. Is it so, Miss Fanny? Are you as completely over

head and ears in love with the vicar, as your friend little Mary? and,

for that matter, Louisa, Charlotte, Mrs. Simpson, Miss Mimima Simpson,

Dame Rogers the miller's wife, black-eyed Betsey the tailor's daughter,

Molly Tomkins, Sally Finden, Jenny Curtis, Susan Smith, and about

threescore and ten more of our parish, have all put on the armour of

righteousness, being buckled, belted, and spurred by the vicar himself.

Are you really and truly become one of his babes of grace, Fanny?"

"If it is your intention to say any thing disrespectful of Mr.

Cartwright," replied Fanny, "I had much rather not hear it. I will go

and look at your roses, Mrs. Richards;" and, as Mrs. Richards did not

wish her to remain, she quietly opened the glass-door which led into the

garden, let her pass through it, and then closed it after her.

"Pretty creature!" exclaimed Major Dalrymple; "what a pity!"

"It will not last, major," said Charles. "He has scared her conscience,

which is actually too pure and innocent to know the sound of its own

voice; and then he seized upon her fanciful and poetic imagination, and

set it in arms against her silly self, till she really seems to see the

seven mortal sins, turn which way she will; and I am sure she would

stand for seven years together on one leg, like an Hindoo, to avoid

them. She is a dear good little soul, and she will get the better of all

this trash, depend upon it."

"I trust she will, Mowbray; but tell me, while the mischief is still at

work, shall you not think it right to banish the causer of it from your

house? For you must know this brings us exactly to the point at issue

between Mrs. Richards and me. She is breaking her heart because her

three girls--ay, little Mary and all--have been bit by this black

tarantula; and because she (thank Heaven!) has escaped, her daughters

have thought proper to raise the standard of rebellion, and to tell her

very coolly, upon all occasions, that she is doomed to everlasting

perdition, and that their only chance of escape is never more to give

obedience or even attention to any word she can utter."

The major stopped, overcome by his own vehemence; and Charles would have

fancied that he saw tears in his eyes, if he had dared to look at him

for another moment.

Rosalind, who had more love and liking for Mrs. Richards than is usually

the growth of six months' acquaintance, had placed herself close beside

her, and taken her hand; but, when Major Dalrymple ceased speaking, she

rose up, and with a degree of energy that probably surprised all her

hearers, but most especially Charles and Helen, she said: "If, Major

Dalrymple, you should be the first in this unfortunate parish of

Wrexhill to raise your voice against this invader of the station,

rights, and duties of a set of men in whose avocations he has neither

part nor lot, you will deserve more honour than even the field of

Waterloo could give you! Yes! turn him from your house, dear friend, as

you would one who brought poison to you in the guise of wholesome food

or healing medicine. Let him never enter your doors again; let him

preach (if preach he must) in a church as empty as his own pretensions

to holiness; and if proper authority should at length be awaked to chase

him from a pulpit that belongs of right to a true and real member of the

English church, then let him buy a sixpenny licence, if he can get it,

to preach in a tub, the only fitting theatre for his doctrines."

"Bravo!" cried the major in a perfect ecstasy; "do you hear her, Mrs.

Richards? Charles Mowbray, do you hear her? and will either of you ever

suffer Cartwright to enter your doors again?"

"I believe in my heart that she is quite right," said Charles: "the

idiot folly I have witnessed at Mrs. Simpson's this morning; and the

much more grievous effects which his ministry, as he calls it, has

produced here, have quite convinced me that such _ministry_ is no

jesting matter. But I have no doors, Dalrymple, to shut against him; all

I can do is to endeavour to open my mother's eyes to the mischief he is

doing."

Helen sighed, and shook her head.

"Is, then, your good mother too far gone in this maudlin delirium to

listen to him?" said the major in an accent of deep concern.

"Indeed, major, I fear so," replied Helen.

"I told you so, Major Dalrymple," said Mrs. Richards; "I told you that

in such a line of conduct as you advise I should be supported by no one

of any consequence, and I really do not feel courage to stand alone in

it."

"And it is that very want of courage that I deplore more than all the

rest," replied the major. "You, that have done and suffered so much,

with all the quiet courage of a real heroine--that you should now sink

before such an enemy as this, is what I really cannot see with

patience."

"And whence comes this new-born cowardice, my dear Mrs. Richards?" said

Rosalind.

"I will tell you, Miss Torrington," replied the black-eyed widow, her

voice trembling with emotion as she spoke,--"I will tell you: all the

courage of which I have ever given proof has been inspired,

strengthened, and set in action by my children,--by my love for them,

and their love for me. This is over: I have lost their love, I have lost

their confidence. They look upon me,--even my Mary, who once shared

every feeling of my heart,--they all look upon me as one accursed,

separated from them through all eternity, and doomed by a decree of my

Maker, decided on thousands of years before I was born, to live for

countless ages in torments unspeakable. They repeat all this, and hug

the faith that teaches it. Is not this enough to sap the courage of the

stoutest heart that ever woman boasted?"

"It is dreadful!" cried Helen; "oh! most dreadful! Such then will be,

and already are, the feelings of my mother respecting me,--respecting

Charles. Yet, how she loved us! A few short months ago, how dearly she

loved us both!"

"Come, come, Miss Mowbray; I did not mean to pain you in this manner,"

said the major. "Do not fancy things worse than they really are: depend

upon it, your brother will take care to prevent this man's impious

profanation of religion from doing such mischief at Mowbray as it has

done here. Had there been any master of the House at Meadow Cottage,

this gentleman, so miscalled _reverend_, would never, never, never, have

got a footing there."

"Then I heartily wish there were," said Charles, "if only for the sake

of setting a good example to the parish in general; but, for the Park in

particular, it is as masterless as the cottage."

"I believe," said Mrs. Richards, "that amongst you I shall gain courage

to be mistress here; and this, if effectually done, may answer as well.

You really advise me, then, all of you, to forbid the clergyman of the

parish from entering my doors?"

"Yes," replied the major firmly; and he was echoed zealously by the rest

of the party.

"So be it then," said Mrs. Richards. "But I would my enemy, for such

indeed he is, held any other station among us. I could shut my doors

against all the lords and ladies in the country with less pain than

against the clergyman."

"I can fully enter into that feeling," said Helen: "but surely, in

proportion as the station is venerable, the abuse of it is unpardonable.

Let this strengthen your resolution; and your children will recover

their wits again, depend upon it. I would the same remedy could be

applied with us! but you are so much respected, my dear Mrs. Richards,

that I am not without hope from your example. Adieu! We shall be anxious

to hear how you go on; and you must not fail to let us see you soon."

The Mowbray party, having recalled the self-banished Fanny, then took

leave, not without the satisfaction of believing that their visit had

been well-timed and useful.

CHAPTER IX.

DISCUSSION ON TRUTH.--MR. CORBOLD INSTALLED.

Having called at the Vicarage for Miss Cartwright, they proceeded

homeward along the pleasant paths they had so often trod with

light-hearted gaiety; but now there was a look of care and anxious

thoughtfulness on each young brow, that seemed to say their happiness

was blighted by the fear of sorrow to come.

Though not at all able to understand Henrietta, and not above half

liking her, there was yet more feeling of intimacy between Miss

Torrington and her than had been attained by any other of the family.

It was she, therefore, who, after preceding the others by a few rapid

steps up the hill, rang the bell of the Vicarage, and waited in the

porch for Miss Cartwright.

During these few moments the trio had passed on, and Miss Torrington,

finding herself tete-a-tete with the vicar's daughter, ventured to

relate to her pretty nearly all that occurred at the house of Mrs.

Richards; by no means omitting the resolution that lady had come to

respecting Mr. Cartwright.

"I am very sorry for it," said Henrietta.

"You regret the loss of their society? Then for your sake, Henrietta, I

am sorry too."

"For my sake? _I_ regret the loss of their society! Are you not mocking

me?"

"You know I am not," replied Rosalind in a tone of vexation; "why should

you not regret the loss of Mrs. Richards' society?"

"Only because there is no society in the world that I could either wish

for,--or regret."

"It is hardly fair in you, Miss Cartwright," said Rosalind, "to excite

my interest so often as you do, and yet to leave it for ever pining, for

want of a more full and generous confidence."

"I have no such feeling as generosity in me; and as to exciting your

interest, I do assure you it is quite involuntarily; and, indeed, I

should think that no human being could be less likely to trouble their

fellow creatures in that way than myself."

"But is there not at least a little wilfulness, Henrietta, in the manner

in which from time to time you throw out a bait to my curiosity?"

"It is weakness, not wilfulness, Rosalind. I am ashamed to confess, even

to myself, that there are moments when I fancy I should like to love

you; and then I would give more than my worthless life, if I had it,

that you should love me. When this contemptible folly seizes me, I may,

perhaps, as you say, throw out a bait to catch your curiosity, and then

it is I utter the words of which you complain. But you must allow that

this childishness never holds me long, and that the moment it is past I

become as reasonable and as wretched again as ever."

"Will you tell me whether this feeling of profound contempt for

yourself, whenever you are conscious of a kindly sentiment towards me,

arises from your conviction of my individual despicability, or from

believing that all human affections are degrading?"

"Not exactly from either. As for you, Rosalind,--is it not the weak and

wavering Hamlet who says, in one of those flashes of fine philosophy

that burst athwart the gloom of his poor troubled spirit,

'Give me that man that is not passion's slave?'

My wits are often as much diseased as his, I believe; but I too have my

intervals; and, when the moon is not at the full, I sometimes sketch the

portrait of a being that one might venture to love. I, however, have no

quarrel against passion,--it is not from thence my sorrows have

come;--but I would say,

'Give me that friend

That is not _falsehood's_ slave, and I will wear him

(or her, Rosalind,)

In my heart's core,--ay, in my heart of heart.'

And if after all my hard schooling I could be simple enough to believe

that any thing in human form could be true, I should be more likely to

commit the folly about you than about any one I ever saw in my life."

"But still you believe me false?"

"I do."

"And why, Henrietta?"

"Because you are a woman;--no, no, because you are a human being."

"And you really, without meaning to season your speech with pungent

crystals of satire--you really do not believe that truth can be found in

any human being?"

"I really do not."

"Heaven help you, then! I would rather pass my life in a roofless cabin,

and feed on potato-parings, than live in such a persuasion."

"And so would I, Rosalind."

"Then why do you nourish such hateful theories? I shall begin to think

your jesting words too true, Henrietta; and believe, indeed, that your

wits are not quite healthy."

"Would I could believe it! I would submit to a strait-waistcoat and a

shaven crown to-morrow if I could but persuade myself that I was mad,

and that all that I have fancied going on around me were but so many

vapours from a moon-sick brain."

"And so they have been, if you construe every word you hear, and every

act you see, into falsehood and delusion."

"Rosalind! Rosalind!--how can I do otherwise? Come, come, enough of

this: do not force me against my will, against my resolution, to tell

you what has brought me to the wretched, hopeless state of apathy in

which you found me. Were I to do this, you would only have to follow the

weakness of your nature, and believe, in order to become as moody and as

miserable as myself."

"But you do not mean to tell me that I should be proving my weakness in

believing _you_?"

"Indeed I do. You surely cannot be altogether so credulous as to suppose

that all you see in me is true, sincere, candid, open, honest?"

"Are you honest now in telling me that you are false?"

"Why, partly yes, and partly no, Rosalind; and it is just such a

question as that which sets one upon discovering how contrary to our

very essence it is, to be purely and altogether true. But were I one of

those who fancy that pincushions are often made by the merciful decrees

of an all-wise Providence, I should say that we were ordained to be

false, in order to prevent our being straightforward, undisguised

demons. Why, I,--look you,--who sit netting a purse that I hope will

never be finished, as diligently as if my life would be saved by

completing the last stitch by a given time, and as quietly as if I had

no nails upon my fingers, and no pointed scissors in my

netting-case,--even I, all harmless as I seem, would be likely, were it

not for my consummate hypocrisy, to be stabbing and scratching half a

dozen times a day."

"And, were you freed from this restraint, would your maiming

propensities betray themselves promiscuously, or be confined to one or

more particular objects?"

"Not quite promiscuously, I think. But, hypocrisy apart for a moment, do

you not perceive that Mr. Charles Mowbray has been looking round at

us,--at both of us, observe,--about once in every second minute? Do you

know that I think he would like us,--both of us, observe,--to walk on

and join the party."

"Well, then, let us do so," said Rosalind.

* * * * *

As they drew near the house, they perceived Mr. Stephen Corbold

wandering round it, his hands behind his back and under his coat, and

his eyes now raised to the stately portico, now lowered to the long

range of windows belonging to the conservatory; at one moment sent

afield over the spacious park, and in the next brought back again to

contemplate anew the noble mansion to which it belonged. During one of

the wanderings of those speculating orbs, he spied the advancing party;

and immediately settling himself in his attire, and assuming the more

graceful attitude obtained by thrusting a hand in each side-pocket of

his nether garments, he resolutely walked forward to meet them.

Fanny, his friends and kinsfolk being ever in her memory, made an effort

which seemed to combat instinct, and put out her little hand to welcome

him; but before he was fully aware of the honour, for indeed his eyes

were fixed upon her elder sister, she coloured, and withdrew it again,

satisfying her hospitable feelings by pronouncing simply his name, but

with a sort of indistinctness in the accent which seemed to signify that

something more had either preceded or followed it.

This word, the only one which greeted him, brought him instantly to her

side, and even gave him the prodigious audacity to offer his arm, which,

however, she did not accept; for at that moment the hook of her parasol

became entangled in the fringe of her shawl, and it seemed to require

vast patience and perseverance to extricate it. Still, notwithstanding

this little disappointment, he kept close to her side, for Helen leaned

upon the arm of her brother; and, though still persuaded that by the aid

of his reverend cousin he should be able to obtain her, and pretty

nearly every thing else he wished for, he had no particular inclination

to renew the courtship he had begun on the journey in the presence of

Charles.

Fanny, therefore, and her attendant entered the house together; while

the rest wheeled off in order to avail themselves of a postern entrance,

by which the ladies might reach their rooms without any risk of again

encountering Mr. Corbold, who by a sort of tacit consent seemed equally

avoided by all.

The survey which this person was taking of the premises when the walking

party returned was neither the first, second, third, nor fourth which he

had had the opportunity of making since their setting out; for, in

obedience to Mr. Cartwright's hint, he had no sooner received from Mrs.

Mowbray, under the instructions from that reverend person, the orders

necessary for the new arrangements about to be made, than he

retired,--the vicar remaining with the widow and the keys of her

title-deeds, which perhaps he had reason for thinking would be as safe

anywhere else as in his cousin Stephen's pocket.

The tete-a-tete which followed the attorney's departure was long,

interesting, and very confidential. On the part of the gentleman great

skill was displayed by the manner in which the following subjects were

made to mix and mingle together, till, like to a skilfully composed

ragout, no flavour of any kind was left distinctly perceptible, but the

effect of the whole was just what the artist intended it should be. The

subjects leading to and composing this general effect, were: first, the

deep interest raised in the breast of every good man by the sight of a

gentle and heavenly-minded woman in want of assistance to carry her

through the wearying and unspiritual cares incident to our passage

through this world of sin; secondly, the exceeding out-pouring of mercy

to be traced in such dispensations as led the unawakened to look for

such aid and assistance from those who have been called and elected;

thirdly, the blessed assurance of everlasting joy that never failed to

visit those who left husband or child for the Lord's sake; fourthly, the

unerring wisdom of Providence in the placing the tender consciences of

the newly-chosen in the keeping of those who best know how to lead them

aright; fifthly, the damnable and never-to-be-atoned-for wickedness of

struggling against Heaven for the sake of any worldly feelings or

affections whatever; and sixthly, the saving merit, surpassing all the

works that our sinful nature could ever permit us to perform, which is

found in such as cling to the spoken word, and who hold fast to the

persecuted and oppressed who preach it. On these themes, blended and

harmonised together so as completely to mystify the mind of the weak and

nervous Mrs. Mowbray, and accompanied with just so much gentle

demonstration of affectionate tenderness as might soften, without

alarming her, did the Vicar of Wrexhill discourse for the three hours

that they were left alone.

It would lead my narrative into too great length were every step

recorded by which all Mrs. Mowbray's other feelings were made to merge

in the one overwhelming influence of Calvinistic terror on one side,

and Calvinistic pride at presumed election on the other. The wily vicar

contrived in the course of a few months so completely to rule the heart

and head of this poor lady, that she looked upon her son Charles as a

reprobate, who, unless speedily changed in spirit by severe discipline

and the constant prayers of Mr. Cartwright, must inevitably pass from

this mortal life to a state of endless torture in the life to come. For

Helen she was bade to hope that the time of election, after much

wrestling, would come; in Fanny she was told to glory and rejoice; and

for Miss Torrington, quietly to wait the appointed time, till Heaven

should make its voice heard, when it would be borne in upon his mind, or

upon that of some one of the elect, whether she must be given over to

eternal destruction, or saved with the remnant of the true flock which

he and his brother shepherds were bringing together into one fold.

But with all this, though eternally talking of mystical and heavenly

love, which was ever blended with insidious demonstrations of holy,

brotherly, and Christian tenderness, Mr. Cartwright had never yet spoken

to the widow Mowbray of marriage.

She had been six months a widow, and her deep mourning weeds were

exchanged for a dress elegantly becoming, but still marking her as

belonging to what Mr. Cartwright constantly called, in the midst of all

his prosperous intrigues, the "persecuted church." Mr. Stephen Corbold

was comfortably settled in a snug little mansion in the village, and

though he had never yet got hold of the title-deeds, he had begun to

receive the rents of the Mowbray estates. He too was waiting the

appointed time,--namely, the installing of his cousin at the Park,--for

the fruition of all his hopes in the possession of Helen, and in such a

fortune with her as his report of her progress towards regeneration

might entitle her to. Mrs. Richards had been refused bread by a

converted baker; beer, by an elected brewer; and soap and candles, by

that pious, pains-taking, prayerful servant of the Lord, Richard White,

the tallow-chandler. Her daughters, however, still held fast to the

faith, though their poor mother grew thinner and paler every day, and

continued to meet the vicar sometimes in the highways, sometimes in the

byways, and sometimes in the exemplary Mrs. Simpson's drawing-room.

Colonel Harrington had returned to his regiment without ever again

seeing Helen, who had been forbidden with such awful denunciations in

case of disobedience from ever holding any intercourse direct or

indirect with the family at Oakley, that though she pined in thought,

she obeyed, and was daily denounced by Sir Gilbert and his lady, though

happily she knew it not, as the most ungrateful and heartless of girls.

Fanny was growing tall, thin, sour-looking, and miserable; for having a

sort of stubborn feeling within her which resisted the assurances she

almost hourly received of having been elected to eternal grace, she was

secretly torturing her distempered conscience with the belief that she

was deluding every one but her Creator,--that he alone read her heart

and knew her to be reprobate, hardened, and unregenerate, and that she

must finally and inevitably come to be the prey of the worm that dieth

not and the fire that is never quenched. The sufferings of this innocent

young creature under this terrible persuasion were dreadful, and the

more so because she communicated them to none. Had she displayed the

secret terrors of her soul to Mr. Cartwright or her mother, she knew she

should be told with praises and caresses that she was only the more

blessed and sure of immortal glory for feeling them. Had she opened her

heart to her sister, her brother, or Rosalind, her sufferings would

probably have soon ceased; but from this she shrank as from degradation

unbearable.

Poor Rosalind, meanwhile, was as profoundly unhappy as it was well

possible for a girl to be who was young, beautiful, rich, talented,

well-born, sweet-tempered, high-principled, not crossed in love, and

moreover in perfect health.

Young Mowbray had just taken a distinguished degree at Oxford, and

having given a farewell banquet to his college friends, returned home

with the hope of speedily obtaining the commission in a regiment of

horse for which his name had been long ago put down by his father.

It was at this time that several circumstances occurred at Wrexhill

sufficiently important to the principal personages of my narrative to be

recorded at some length.

CHAPTER X.

FANNY'S RELIGION.--A VISIT TO OAKLEY.

It was towards the end of November that young Mowbray returned from

Oxford to his mother's house in Hampshire. As usual, the first three or

four hours' chat with Helen and Rosalind put him _au fait_ of all that

had taken place during his absence. The retrospect was not a cheering

one; yet most of the circumstances which tended to annoy him were of

that minor kind which none but a very gossiping correspondent would

detail--and Helen was not such. Besides, since the mysterious letter

which had recalled Charles to keep watch over Fanny, (the full and true

purpose of which letter he had never yet discovered,) Miss Torrington

had not written to him; and as she was now the chief historian, her

round and unvarnished tale made him acquainted with many particulars to

which Helen had scarcely alluded in her correspondence with him.

Helen Mowbray's was not a spirit to exhaust itself and its sorrows by

breathing unavailing complaints; and though her brother had pretty

clearly understood from her letters that she was not happy or

comfortable at home, it was from Rosalind he first learned how many

circumstances were daily occurring to make her otherwise.

The only point on which he blamed her, or in which, according to

Rosalind's account, she had shown more yielding, and, as he called it,

weakness than her helpless and most unhappy position rendered

unavoidable, was in the never having attempted to see Lady Harrington.

This he declared was in itself wrong, and rendered doubly so by her

situation, which would have rendered the society and counsel of such a

friend invaluable. But he did not know--even Rosalind did not know--that

this forbearance for which he blamed her was the result of those

qualities for which they most loved her. But Helen knew, though they did

not, that if she had gone to Oakley, she should have thought more of

hearing news of Colonel Harrington than of any advice her godmother

could have given her, and have been infinitely more anxious to learn if

he ever mentioned her in his letters, than to know whether Lady

Harrington thought it best that she should be civil, or that she should

be rude, in her demeanour towards the Vicar of Wrexhill.

It was this conscious weakness which lent strength to the unreasonable

violence of her mother on this point. Had Helen been quite fancy-free

and altogether heart-whole, she would have had courage to discover that

a passionate prohibition, originating, as she could not doubt it did,

with a man for whom she entertained no species of esteem, ought not to

make her abandon one of the kindest friends she had ever known. But

there is a feeling stronger than reason in a young girl's breast; and

again and again this feeling had whispered to Helen,

"'It is not maidenly--'

to go to the house of a man that I fear I love, and that I hope loves

me, for the chance of hearing his name mentioned--and that too when my

mother forbids me to enter his father's doors."

But there was an authority in Charles's voice when he said, "You have

been wrong, Helen," which seemed to have power even over this, and she

promised that if after he paid the visit to Oakley, which he was fully

determined to do on the morrow, he should report that her friends there

were not too angry to receive her, she would consent to volunteer a

visit to them, assigning as her reason for doing so, to her mother, that

it was Charles's wish.

This conversation took place on the night of his arrival, and lasted for

some hours after every individual of the household, excepting those

engaged in it, were in bed. Poor Fanny was among those who had the

earliest retired, but she was not among the sleepers. She too had once

loved Charles most dearly, and most dearly had she been loved in return.

But now she felt that they were separated for ever in this world, and

that if they were doomed to meet in the world to come, it could only be

amidst torturing and devouring flames. As she knelt for long hours

beside her bed before she dared to lay her aching head on the pillow,

her thoughts reverted to her early youth, and to all the innocent

delights she had enjoyed with him and the now avoided Helen; and as she

remembered the ecstasy with which she once enjoyed the bloom of flowers,

the songs of birds, the breath of early morning, and all the poetry of

Nature, tears of silent, unacknowledged, but most bitter regret,

streamed from her eyes. But then again came the ague fit of visionary

remorse and genuine Calvinistic terror, and she groaned aloud in agony

of spirit for having suffered these natural tears to fall.

This dreadful vigil left such traces on the pale cheek and heavy eye of

the suffering girl, that her brother's heart ached as he looked at her;

and though with little hope, after what he had heard, of doing any good,

he determined to seek half an hour's conversation with her before he

went out.

When she rose to leave the breakfast-table therefore, Charles rose too,

and following her out of the room, stopped her as she was in the act of

ascending the stairs by putting his arms round her waist and saying,

"Fanny, will you take a walk with me in the shrubbery?"

Fanny started, and coloured, and hesitated, as if some deed of very

doubtful tendency had been proposed to her. But he persevered "Come,

dear! put your bonnet on--I will wait for you here--make haste Fanny!

Think how long it is since you and I took a walk together!"

"Is Helen going?" The question was asked in a voice that trembled; for

the idea that Charles meant during this walk to question her concerning

her faith occurred to her, and she would have given much to avoid it.

But before she could invent an excuse for doing so, her conscience,

always ready to enforce the doing whatever was most disagreeable to her,

suggested that this shrinking looked like being ashamed of her

principles; and no sooner had this idea suggested itself, than she said

readily, "Very well, Charles; I will come to you in a moment."

But the moment was rather a long one; for Fanny, before she rejoined

him, knelt down and made an extempore prayer for courage and strength to

resist and render of no effect whatever he might say to her. Thus

prepared, she set forth ready to listen with the most determined

obstinacy to any argument which might tend to overthrow any part of the

creed that was poisoning the very sources of her life.

"You are not looking well, my Fanny," said her brother, fondly pressing

her arm as they turned into the most sheltered part of the garden. "Do

you think the morning too cold for walking, my love? You used to be such

a hardy little thing, Fanny, that you cared for nothing; but I am afraid

the case is different now."

This was not exactly the opening that Fanny expected, and there was a

tenderness in the tone of his voice that almost softened her heart

towards him; but she answered not a word,--perhaps she feared to trust

her voice.

"I wish you would tell me, dearest, if any sorrow or vexation has chased

away the bloom and the gladness that we all so loved to look upon. Tell

me, Fanny, what is it that has changed you so sadly? You will not?--Then

you do not love me as I love you; for I am sure if I had a sorrow I

should open my heart to you."

"When a Christian has a sorrow, brother Charles, he should open his

heart to Heaven and not to a poor sinful mortal as wicked and as weak as

himself."

"But surely, my dear Fanny, that need not prevent a brother and sister

from conversing with the greatest confidence together. How many texts I

could quote you in which family unity and affection are inculcated in

the Bible!"

"Pray do not quote the Bible," said Fanny in a voice of alarm, "till the

right spirit has come upon you. It is a grievous sin to do it, or to

hear it."

"Be assured, Fanny, that I feel quite as averse to quoting the Bible

irreverently as you can do. But tell me why it is you think that the

right spirit, as you call it, has not come upon me."

"As I call it!" repeated Fanny, shuddering, "It is not I, Charles,--it

is one of Heaven's saints who says it; and it is a sin for me to listen

to you."

"It is doubtless Mr. Cartwright who says it, Fanny. Is it not so?"

"And who has so good a right to say it as the minister of your parish,

and the friend and protector that Heaven has sent to your widowed

mother?"

Poor Mowbray felt his heart swell. It was difficult to hear the man who

had come between him and all his best duties and affections named in

this manner as his own maligner, and restrain his just and natural

indignation;--yet he did restrain it, and said in a voice of the utmost

gentleness,

"Do you think, my beloved Fanny, Mr. Cartwright's influence in this

house has been for our happiness?"

"May the Lord forgive me for listening to such words!" exclaimed Fanny,

with that look of nervous terror which her beautiful face now so often

expressed. "But he can't! he can't!--I know it, I know it! It is my doom

to sin, and you are only an agent of that enemy who is for ever seeking

my soul to destroy it.--Leave me! leave me!"

"Fanny, this is dreadful! Can you really believe that the God of love

and mercy will hold you guilty for listening to the voice of your

brother? What have I ever done, my Fanny, to deserve to be thus driven

from your presence?"

The unhappy girl look bewildered. "Done!" she exclaimed. "What have you

done?--Is not that works?--is not that of works you speak, Charles?--Oh!

he knew, he foretold, he prophesied unto me that I should be spoken to

of works, and that I should listen thereunto, to my everlasting

destruction, if I confessed not my soul to him upon the instant. I must

seek him out: he said IF,--oh, that dear blessed IF! Let go my arm,

brother Charles!--let me seek my salvation!"

"Fanny, this is madness!"

She looked at him, poor girl, as he said this, with an expression that

brought tears to his eyes. That look seemed to speak a dreadful doubt

whether the words he had spoken were not true. She pressed her hand

against her forehead for a moment, and then said in a voice of the most

touching sadness, "Heaven help me!"

"Oh, Fanny!--darling Fanny!" cried the terrified brother, throwing his

arms round her: "save us from the anguish of seeing you destroyed body

and mind by this frightful, this impious doctrine! Listen to me, my own

sweet girl! Think that from me you hear the voice of your father--of the

good and pious Wallace--of your excellent and exemplary governess, and

drive this maddening terror from you. Did you live without God in the

world, Fanny, when you lived under their virtuous rule? How often have

you heard your dear father say, when he came forth and looked upon the

beauty of the groves and lawns, bright in the morning sunshine, 'Praise

the Lord, my children, for his goodness, for his mercy endureth for

ever!' Did not these words raise your young heart to heaven more than

all the frightful denunciations which have almost shaken your reason?"

"Works! works!--Oh, Charles, let me go from you! Your voice is like the

voice of a serpent: It creeps dreadfully near my heart, and I shall

perish, everlastingly perish, if I listen to you. IF:--is there yet an

IF for me now? Let me go, Charles: let me seek him;--if you love me, let

me seek my salvation."

"Do you mean that you would seek Mr. Cartwright, Fanny? You do not mean

to go to his house, do you?"

"His house? How little you know him, Charles! Think you that he would

leave me and my poor mother to perish! Poor, poor Charles, you do not

even know that this shepherd and guardian of our souls prays with us

daily?"

"Prays with you? Where does he pray with you?"

"In mamma's dressing-room."

"And who are present at these prayers?"

"Mamma, and I, and Curtis, and Jem."

"Jem? Who is Jem, Fanny?"

"The new stable-boy that our minister recommended, Charles, when that

poor deluded Dick Bragg was found walking in the fields with his sister

Patty on the Sabbath."

"You don't mean that Dick Bragg is turned away? He was, without

exception, the steadiest lad in the parish."

"Works! works!" exclaimed Fanny, wringing her hands. "Oh, Charles! how

your poor soul clings to the perdition of works!"

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Mowbray with great emotion, "where will all

this end? What an existence for Helen, for Rosalind? Is there no cure

for this folly,--this madness on one side, and this infernal craft and

hypocrisy on the other?"

On hearing these words, Fanny uttered a cry which very nearly amounted

to a scream, and running off towards the house with the fleetness of a

startled fawn, left her brother in a state of irritation and misery such

as he had never suffered before.

The idea of seeing Sir Gilbert Harrington immediately had perhaps more

comfort and consolation in it than any other which could have suggested

itself, and the lanes and the fields which divided Oakley from Mowbray

were traversed at a pace that soon brought the agitated young man to the

baronet's door.

"Is Sir Gilbert at home, John?" he demanded of an old servant who had

known him from childhood; but instead of the widely-opened door, and

ready smile which used to greet him, he received a grave and hesitating

"I don't know sir," from the changed domestic.

"Is Lady Harrington at home?" said Charles, vexed and colouring.

"It is likely she may be, Mr. Mowbray," said the old man relentingly.

"Will you please to wait one moment, Master Charles? I think my lady

can't refuse--"

Charles's heart was full; but he did wait, and John speedily returned,

saying almost in a whisper, "Please to walk in, sir; but you must go

into my lady's closet,--that's the only safe place, she says."

"Safe?" repeated Charles; but he made no objection to the taking refuge

in my lady's closet, and in another moment he found himself not only in

the closet, but in the arms of the good old lady.

"Oh!--if Sir Gilbert could see me!" she exclaimed after very heartily

hugging the young man. "He's a greater tiger than ever, Charles, and I

really don't know which of us would be torn to pieces first;--but only

tell me one thing before I abuse him any more:--how long have you been

at home?"

"The coach broke down at Newberry," replied Charles, "and I did not get

to Mowbray till nine o'clock last night."

"Thank Heaven!" ejaculated Lady Harrington very fervently. "Then there's

hope at least for you.--But what on earth can you say to me of my

beautiful Helen? Three months, Charles, three whole months since she has

been near me--and she knows I dote upon her, and that Sir Gilbert

himself, untameable hyena as he is, has always been loving and gentle to

her, as far as his nature would permit. Then why has she treated us

thus? You can't wonder, can you, that he swears lustily every morning

that ingratitude is worse than all the mortal sins put together?"

"I dare not throw the charge back upon you, my dear lady; and yet it is

being ungrateful for poor Helen's true affection to believe it possible

that she should so long have remained absent from you by her own free

will. You know not, dearest Lady Harrington, what my poor Helen has to

endure."

"Endure? What do you mean, Charles? Surely there is nobody living who

dares to be unkind to her? My poor boy,--I am almost ashamed to ask the

question, but you will forgive an old friend: is there any truth,

Charles, in that abominable report? that horrid report, you know, about

your mother?"

"What report, Lady Harrington?" said Mowbray, colouring like scarlet. "I

have heard no report, excepting that which is indeed too sure and

certain to be called a report;--namely, that she has become a violent

Calvinistic Methodist."

"That's bad enough, my dear Charles,--bad enough of all conscience; and

yet I have heard of what would be worse still: I have heard, Charles,

that she is going to be weak and wicked enough to marry that odious

hypocritical Tartuffe, the Vicar of Wrexhill."

Mowbray put his hand before his eyes, as if he had been blasted by

lightning, and then replied, as steadily as he could, "I have never

heard this, Lady Harrington."

"Then I trust--I trust it is not true, Charles. Helen, surely, and that

bright-eyed creature Miss Torrington, who have both, I believe, (for,

Heaven help me, I don't know!)--both, I believe, been staying all the

time at Mowbray;--and surely--and surely, if this most atrocious deed

were contemplated, they must have some knowledge of it."

"And that they certainly have not," returned Charles with recovered

courage; "for I sat with them both for two or three hours last night,

listening to their miserable account of this man's detestable influence

over my mother and Fanny; and certainly they would not have concealed

from me such a suspicion as this, had any such existed in the breast of

either."

"Quite true, my dear boy, and I can hardly tell you how welcome this

assurance is to me--not for your mother's sake, Charles; if you cannot

bear the truth, you must not come to me,--and on this point the truth

is, that I don't care one single straw about your mother. I never shall

forgive her for not answering Sir Gilbert's note. I know what the

writing it cost him--dear, proud, generous-hearted old fellow! And not

to answer it! not to tell her children of it! No, I never shall forgive

her, and I should not care the value of a rat's tail if she were to

marry every tub preacher throughout England, and all their clerks in

succession--that is, not for her own sake. I dare say she'll preach in a

tub herself before she has done with it; but for your sakes, my dear

souls, I do rejoice that it is not true."

"That would indeed complete our misery; and it is already quite bad

enough, I assure you. The house, Helen says, is a perfect conventicle.

The girls are ordered to sing nothing but psalms and hymns; some of the

latter so offensively ludicrous, too, as to be perfectly indecent and

profane. A long extempore sermon, or lecture as he calls it, is

delivered to the whole family in the great drawing-room every night;

missionary boxes are not only hung up beside every door, but actually

carried round by the butler whenever any one calls; and a hundred and

fifty other absurdities, at which we should laugh were we in a gayer

mood: but this farce has produced the saddest tragedy I ever witnessed,

in the effect it has had upon our poor Fanny. I have had some

conversation with her this morning, and I do assure you that I greatly

fear her reason is unsettled, or like to be so."

"Heaven forbid, Charles! Pretty innocent young thing! that would be too

horrible to think of."

The old lady's eyes were full of tears, a circumstance very unusual with

her, but the idea suggested struck her to the heart; and she had not yet

removed the traces of this most unwonted proof of sensibility, when a

heavy thump was heard at the door of the closet.

"Who's there?" said her ladyship in a voice rather raised than lowered

by the emotion which dimmed her eyes.

"Let me in, my lady!" responded the voice of Sir Gilbert.

"What do you want, Sir Gilbert? I am busy."

"So I understand, my lady, and I'm come to help you."

"Will you promise, if I let you in, not to hinder me, instead?"

"I'll promise nothing, except to quarrel with you if you do not."

"Was there ever such a tyrant! Come in then; see, hear, and understand."

The door was opened, and Sir Gilbert Harrington and Charles Mowbray

stood face to face. Charles smiled, and held out his hand. The baronet

knit his brows, but the expression of his mouth told her experienced

ladyship plainly enough that he was well enough pleased at the sight of

his unexpected guest.

"He only got to Mowbray at nine o'clock last night," said Lady

Harrington.

Sir Gilbert held out his hand. "Charles, I am glad to see you," said he.

"Thank Heaven!" ejaculated the old lady.

"My dear Sir Gilbert," said Charles, "I have learnt your kind and

friendly anger at the prolonged absence of my poor sister. The fault is

not hers, Sir Gilbert; she has been most strictly forbidden to visit

you."

"By her mother?"

"By her mother, Sir Gilbert."

"And pray, Charles, do you think it her duty to obey?"

"I really know not how to answer you. For a girl just nineteen to act in

declared defiance of the commands of her mother, and that mother her

sole surviving parent, is a line of conduct almost too bold to advise.

And yet, such is the lamentable state of infatuation to which my

mother's mind appears to be reduced by the pernicious influence of this

Cartwright, that I think it would be more dangerous still to recommend

obedience."

"Upon my life I think so," replied Sir Gilbert, in an accent that showed

he thought the proposition too self-evident to be discussed. "I have

been devilish angry with the girls,--with Helen, I mean,--for I

understand that little idiot, Fanny, is just as mad as her mother; but

that Helen, and that fine girl, Rosalind Torrington, should shut

themselves up with an hypocritical fanatic and a canting mad woman, is

enough to put any man out of patience."

"The situation has been almost enough to put Helen in her grave; she

looks wretchedly; and Miss Torrington is no longer the same creature. It

would wring your heart to see these poor girls, Sir Gilbert; and what

are they to do?"

"Come to us, Charles. Let them both come here instantly, and remain here

till your mother's mad fit is over. If it lasts, I shall advise you to

take out a commission of lunacy."

"The madness is not such as a physician would recognise, Sir Gilbert;

and yet I give you my honour that, from many things which my sister and

Miss Torrington told me last night, I really do think my mother's reason

must be in some degree deranged. And for my poor little Fanny, six

months ago the pride and darling of us all, she is, I am quite

persuaded, on the verge of insanity."

"And you mean to leave her in the power of that distracted driveller,

her mother, that the work may be finished?"

"What can I do, Sir Gilbert?"

"Remove them all. Take them instantly away from her, I tell you."

The blood rushed painfully to poor Mowbray's face. "You forget, Sir

Gilbert," he said, "that I have not the means: you forget my father's

will."

"No, sir; I do not forget it. Nor do I forget either that, had I not in

a fit of contemptible passion refused to act as executor, I might, I

think it possible,--I might have plagued her heart out, and so done some

good. I shall never forgive myself!"

"But you could have given us no power over the property, Sir Gilbert.

We are beggars."

"I know it, I know it!" replied the old gentleman, clenching his fists.