IN WHICH SUNDRY VISITS ARE MADE.
Whatever kind or remorseful feelings had led Mrs. Cartwright to make
this unexpected visit to Oakley, she seemed to consider this one visit
enough--for it was never repeated: and however tenderly she might watch
over the fate of Helen, it was evident that she could only venture to do
so secretly; for Sir Gilbert never mentioned her visit to any one. But,
knowing she had been there, Helen's heart was satisfied when Sir
Gilbert, joining her hand and his son's together, said, "Make haste,
children;--get your courting done without loss of time; or you may find
yourselves married before it is finished, and so continue lovers after
the knot is tied,--a thing never heard of in civilised society."
"--But very likely, nevertheless, to happen to my Helen's husband, let
her marry when she will," said Colonel Harrington.
To her affianced husband Helen could have no secrets, and accordingly he
had been made acquainted with all that she knew respecting her mother's
most unexpected appearance at Oakley. He drew the same inference from
his father's joyous manner after it that Rosalind had done; and when Sir
Gilbert alluded to their marriage as an event which was speedily to take
place, no doubt remained either on his mind, or on that of the happy
Helen, that Mrs. Cartwright, having learned, from some source which her
husband could not impede, the proposal that had been made her, she had
proved her maternal feelings not extinct, though they had seemed
obscured, and ventured to make this secret visit for the purpose of
formally giving her consent, and thereby removing the only obstacle to
their marriage.
Instructions were accordingly immediately given by Sir Gilbert in
person, for he declared that he must see the lawyer himself; and every
thing relating to settlements was speedily put in train. The day after
the baronet's return to Oakley, he sent to Miss Mowbray, requesting that
she would meet him in the library; and having greeted her on her
entrance with even more than usual affection, he said, "Do you think, my
dear Helen, that you should have courage to make your mother a visit
even in the lion's den? Do you think you could have courage to spend
half an hour at the Park? I don't think it likely that Master Corbold
has forgotten his horsewhipping as yet;--so I own I think you may
venture."
"I will go anywhere, or do any thing that you think I ought to do, Sir
Gilbert; and to see my dear mother and poor Fanny once more would indeed
be a pleasure to me. We have met Rosalind twice since you went to
London, and she gives a very indifferent account of mamma's health."
"Poor thing! you shall go immediately, my dear child; if you have no
objection. I have ordered the carriage. William and I will go in it with
you as far as the Lodge, and there we will wait your return. If you
delay it above an hour, we shall drive up to the house to inquire what
is become of you; but you may return to us as much sooner as you like."
The carriage drove to the door as he spoke; but Helen kept it not
waiting long, and on returning from her room to the hall found Colonel
Harrington waiting to hand her into it. The two gentlemen stepped in
after her, and in a moment she found herself on her road to
_Cartwright_ Park, accompanied by Sir Gilbert and Colonel Harrington.
The strangeness of this came upon her so forcibly, that she exclaimed,
almost unconsciously, "Is it possible!"
"I don't wonder at your saying that, my dear," said Sir Gilbert: "It is
very natural. But you see, Helen, that as your mother has testified no
dislike to your approaching marriage, or taken any steps to oppose it, I
feel that she may expect, perhaps,--in short, I think it is very right
that you should call upon her; and to prove that, angry as I have been,
I do not bear malice, you may give her this little note from me, Helen.
But for your life, child, do not let that wretch her husband see her
receive it. I believe, in my soul, he would be the death of her if he
thought she could touch a bit of paper from me.--But the truth is,
Helen, I think she has suffered enough,--and, in short my dear, I
forgive her with all my heart: and I should like her to have this bit of
a note from me, and to get a friendly word of answer in return, if I
could. But for Heaven's sake be careful, child!"
"Fear not, Sir Gilbert, that I should run any risk of bringing more
misery upon her than, I fear, she has already. I will be very
careful,--and most thankful am I to be the bearer of a word of kindness
to her from you!"
"Well, well, Helen, that's all right,--by-gones are by-gones. Here we
are at the Lodge. Look at your watch, my dear; and remember, if you do
not return in an hour, we shall come and fetch you. I fear nothing, for
the fellow knows you are under the protection of the Oakley horsewhips;
only it is as well to leave nothing to chance. If you cannot in any way
escape the eyes of the villain, bring my note back again.--There, now,
dear, get out. Good b'ye!"
The colonel was already at the door to assist her, and whispered
earnestly as he quitted her hand, "You will not stay the full hour,
Helen, if--you love me."
With a step as light as Camilla's, Helen traversed the Park, and, with a
heart throbbing with many feelings, wound her way through sundry
well-known twistings and turnings that brought her to the same door by
which she had quitted the house on the memorable day of the Fancy Fair.
From what Rosalind had told her, she thought that if she could find her
way unannounced to her mother's dressing-room, it was probable she
should find her alone, and thereby be enabled to perform her errand
without danger. In the stable-yard she saw one of the vicar's
regenerated stable-boys; but he did not appear to take much notice of
her, and she succeeded in reaching her mother's dressing-room without
interruption.
She had calculated rightly. Mrs. Cartwright was sitting, or rather
lying, alone in her dressing-room; for she was stretched upon a sofa,
totally unemployed, and appearing so ill that Helen almost uttered a cry
as she looked at her.
At the sight of her daughter, Mrs. Cartwright started violently, and
rising from her recumbent posture, threw her arms round her with even
passionate fondness. But dear, inexpressibly dear as was this moment to
Helen's heart, she did not forget her commission; and while her lips
still rested on her mother's cheek, she drew Sir Gilbert's note from her
pocket and placed it in her hand.
"Read it quick, dearest mother! I know not what it contains; but Sir
Gilbert charged me to let no one see you read it."
Mrs. Cartwright seemed not to require any stimulant to caution, for
reading it rapidly, she tore it into atoms, and then, removing some of
the fuel from the grate, which though not lighted was prepared for fire,
she carefully placed the fragments on the rest, and covered them up so
that no speck remained visible. While thus employed, she said to Helen
almost in a whisper, "Thank Sir Gilbert; tell him I am better,--at least
well enough to take an airing."
Helen had reason to rejoice that she had lost no time in executing her
commission; for scarcely had her mother in all haste resumed her place
upon the sofa, when Mr. Cartwright entered.
By some means or other her arrival had certainly been announced to him,
for his countenance and manner expressed agitation, but not surprise. He
looked keenly first at his wife, and then at her; but they were prepared
for it; and excepting that Mrs. Cartwright's pale cheek was slightly
flushed, and Helen's brow contracted by an involuntary frown, they
neither of them betrayed any symptom of agitation.
The Vicar of Wrexhill uttered no word of salutation or of welcome to his
unexpected guest; nor did Helen address him. He placed himself, without
any pretext of occupation whatever, in a chair commanding a full view
of his wife and her daughter, and folding his arms, fixed his eyes first
on one and then on the other with the most undisguised determination of
watching them both.
The first words spoken were by Helen.
"May I be permitted to see my sister Fanny?" said she.
She addressed herself to her mother, but received her answer from Mr.
Cartwright.
"Most assuredly no!--You have stolen into my house by a back entrance,
and by the same you may leave it; you are used to the mode, it will not
puzzle you; and, if I may venture to give my opinion on the subject, the
sooner you again make use of this appropriate mode of retreat the
better."
"I believe you are right, sir," replied Helen coldly; adding very
judiciously, "The reception I have met with has not been such as to give
me any inclination to repeat the visit. Good morning, ma'am,--Good
morning, Mr. Cartwright."
Mrs. Cartwright, inexpressibly relieved by this happy stroke of policy,
stiffly bowed her head; and Helen retreated, very literally obeying the
mandate of the imperious master of the mansion, and returning by the way
she came, soon rejoiced her friends by her unhoped-for reappearance
before half the allotted time had expired. Helen most accurately
reported every word and look; which seemed not only to satisfy, but
perfectly to enchant Sir Gilbert. He laughed, rubbed his hands, made her
repeat every word again, and literally chuckled with delight as she
dwelt upon the fortunate rapidity with which she had seized the only
available moment to do his bidding.
On the following morning, Sir Gilbert, when asked by his lady what he
was going to do with himself, replied that he thought he should ride
over to Wrexhill. He did so, and returned only in time to dress himself
for dinner. The following day, and again the day after, the same
question, answer, and result occurred; it being quietly remarked
moreover by the rest of the party, that the particularly sweet temper
which the worthy baronet had brought from London appeared day by day to
be wearing away, and something of what his lady called his "tiger mood"
taking its place.
On the fourth morning, her ladyship's daily inquiry having received in
very sullen accents the same reply. Colonel Harrington remarked upon it
as soon as he was gone; adding, that he had a great inclination to go
over to Wrexhill, in order to discover, if possible, how his honoured
but mysterious father employed himself there.
"I really shall be very much obliged to you, William, if you will find
this out," said Lady Harrington. "It is the first time since we two
became one that I have ever suspected him of having a secret; and the
consequence is, that I am like to die of curiosity."
"Thus encouraged, I shall be gone instantly. Take care of Helen, mother,
till I come back." And with these words he departed, leaving the two
ladies leisure and inclination to discuss at length the many singular
caprices of which Sir Gilbert had been lately guilty.
At about four o'clock Colonel Harrington returned; but his report tended
rather to thicken than to elucidate the mystery. He had, without being
remarked himself, seen his father walking up and down the town
apparently in a state of the most perfect idleness; and then the
Cartwright carriage drove by the shop in which he had fixed his
look-out. Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright were both in it. It stopped at the
next door, which was that of the haberdasher, and they entered the shop
together. In about ten minutes Mr. Cartwright came out; and he heard him
say to his lady, (as he supposed,) "Get your business done as quickly as
you can: I shall be back in ten minutes." He then re-entered the
carriage and drove off. The instant he was gone, Sir Gilbert came out of
the post-office into which he had darted as the carriage passed, and
entered the shop in which Mrs. Cartwright was left. The interview, if he
had sought one with her, certainly did not last above five minutes; when
he reappeared, followed by the master of the shop making innumerable
bows. Sir Gilbert cut his obsequious civilities short by heartily
shaking hands with him, and then departed.
"Where he went next," continued the colonel, "I know not; but not
choosing to meet him, and feeling somehow or other perfectly persuaded
that he had seen Mrs. Cartwright, and that this interview, short as it
was, had been what he waited for, I got my horse and galloped home as
fast as I could."
Scarcely had he finished his narrative, when Sir Gilbert arrived. He
said not a word, however, to throw any light upon his own adventures;
yet was he neither silent nor sad.
* * * * *
Several weeks elapsed after this without bringing to Helen any tidings
of her mother. Her appearance and manner during their short interview
had indicated so much languor and ill-health, that her anxiety
respecting her became very acute, and daily did she haunt every spot
where it was probable she should meet with Rosalind, but in vain--no
Rosalind came, and nothing was left but to inquire through servants and
tradespeople the news of the Park. Nothing however, obtained in this way
afforded her satisfaction: for not only did every report so obtained
tend to confirm the idea that Mrs. Cartwright was an invalid, but
notwithstanding they were on many points uncertain and contradictory,
they all agreed in representing the conduct of Mr. Cartwright as being
strangely altered, and giving ground of fear to those who loved or
pitied his unfortunate wife, that he would every day become a harsher
and more jealous tyrant to her, for that of late he appeared fearful of
leaving her for an hour alone.
Happy therefore as Helen's individual prospects appeared to be, a heavy
weight and sad foreboding hung upon her spirits. Her brother's letters
too, though eloquent in affection, and in every expression of joy at her
approaching marriage, spoke of himself in a tone of such hopeless
despondency as dashed her happier destiny with bitterness. It was no
slight augmentation of these sorrows that she felt herself in a great
measure obliged to conceal them. To Colonel Harrington, indeed she
ventured to confess that her anxious solicitude for those she loved
tarnished her happiness: but this confidence brought with it more sorrow
than comfort, for she perceived but too plainly that she had blighted
his happiness while confessing the imperfection of her own.
Lady Harrington, though all kindness and even tenderness to her, seemed
almost cautiously to avoid every subject that led her to talk of her
family: and as for Sir Gilbert, he appeared to be enjoying a state of
spirits so enviable in their uniform cheerfulness, that to mention fear
or sorrow to him would have been wanton cruelty.
At length, from the butcher, or the baker, or some other of those
indispensable functionaries who know all things concerning those who
live, move, and have their being, by means of their ministering
ambulations, and who fail not to make all they know to circulate as
freely as they do themselves,--at length, from some such the news
arrived at Oakley that Mrs. Cartwright had presented her husband with a
son; and moreover, that the mother and child were as well as could be
expected.
To Helen this intelligence brought the most unfeigned joy. She believed
that all her fears for her mother's health had been unfounded; and that,
though it seemed certain that she must live banished from her recovered
love, she might at least enjoy the comfort of believing that she was
well and happy.
On Sir Gilbert the intelligence produced a very different effect. As
Helen regained her spirits, he lost his; and though he was still gentle
and kind to her, he was upon the whole as cross, crusty, and
disagreeable as it is easy to imagine.
One morning, while Colonel Harrington and Helen were, sauntering in the
avenue, he enjoying her improved cheerfulness, and she secretly blaming
herself for having ever suffered him to pine for the want of it, they
perceived a servant in the Cartwright livery galloping towards the
house. The same idea, the same terror, though felt in a most unequal
degree, struck them both. Helen turned deadly pale; and so persuaded did
she feel that her mother was dead, that when they stopped the man and
received from him a verbal notice that her mother was very ill and
wished to see her, the words, though alarming enough in themselves,
seemed to be a relief. They returned with all haste to the house to
order the carriage for her; and while she was preparing for this sad and
most unexpected expedition, the colonel questioned the servant, and
learned from him that Mrs. Cartwright's infant having died in
convulsions in her arms, she had fallen into a state considered by her
attendants as extremely dangerous; that during the whole of the last
night she had remained nearly insensible, but having recovered her
intellects and speech, her entreaties to see Helen were so urgent that
Mr. Cartwright (who, as the man said, never left her bedside for an
instant,) consented that she should be sent for. Miss Fanny and Miss
Torrington were also with her, he added, and young Mr. Mowbray had been
written to; but he believed, from what the people about her said, that
there was little chance of her surviving till he arrived.
Having learned these particulars, the colonel sought his father, not
only to communicate them, but to ask his opinion as to the propriety of
his accompanying Helen on this sad visit.
"I cannot bear," he added, "that she should go alone."
"Of course, young sir, you cannot," replied Sir Gilbert, with a sudden,
and, as his son thought, not very feeling return of cheerfulness, "I
should as soon think of letting her walk thither on all-fours: but your
lovership must excuse me if I declare that it is my intention to
accompany the young lady myself. I am sorry for you, William;--but so it
must be. There's the carriage;--go to my lady's closet, and let her hear
the news."
So saying, the baronet, without waiting to receive any answer, hastened
to the door, and reached it just as Helen was stepping into the
carriage. Without consulting her on the subject, he stepped in after
her, and they drove away.
It would be doing an injustice to the essentially kind feelings of Sir
Gilbert not to avow that his manner expressed very tender sympathy with
Helen's natural and heavy sorrow: but the minds of both were full, and
few words passed between them during their drive.
The lodge-gates were standing wide open, and they dashed through them
without seeing any one of whom the trembling Helen could make inquiry;
but once arrived at the house, all suspense was soon over: Mrs.
Cartwright had breathed her last about ten minutes before they got
there.
Poor Helen's first burst of grief was terrible. The remembrance of her
poor mother's last embrace, though it became the most soothing comfort
to her during her after life, seemed at that moment only to soften her
heart to greater suffering. Passive, and almost unconscious, she
suffered Sir Gilbert to lift her out of the carriage and lay her on a
sofa in the drawing-room: and there, her tears flowing fast, and her
very soul, as it seemed, melting within her, she might probably have
long given way to her absorbing grief, had not surprise acted on her
faculties more powerfully than salts or hartshorn, and forced her to
open her eyes and her ears to witness the scene that passed before her.
Having seen her placed on a sofa with a female servant standing by her,
Sir Gilbert turned his attention from Helen, and politely requested
permission to wait on Mr. Cartwright.
Many, many things of an ordinary nature might have passed around her
without rousing Helen from her deep and most true sorrow; but this
request, and still more the tone in which it was spoken, awakened all
her attention to what followed.
The servant to whom Sir Gilbert addressed himself executed his
commission promptly and effectually; for almost immediately after
closing the drawing-room door, he threw it open again, and his master
entered.
Mr. Cartwright walked into the room with a proud and lofty aspect, and a
something both of sternness and of triumph on his brow, which Helen
thought Sir Gilbert would not easily endure; but, to her extreme
surprise, the baronet accosted him with a degree of almost servile
civility, bowing low, and uttering a few words of respectful condolence
with as much deference and ceremony as if addressing a sovereign prince
on the loss of his consort.
Mr. Cartwright replied with equal decorum; but the glance of pride and
triumph, not quite unmixed with something that gleamed like malice too,
shot from his eye, and Helen shuddered as she looked at him.
"I presume that you are aware, Mr. Cartwright," said Sir Gilbert with
imperturbable suavity, "that your late lady's eldest daughter, Miss
Mowbray, is about to contract a marriage with my son. Her remaining
therefore a member of my family will certainly be very agreeable to us
all; but at this painful moment, it would doubtless be a consolation to
the sisters, as well as to their friend, Miss Torrington, could they be
together. Will you therefore permit me, sir, to convey the three young
ladies to my house together, there to await the opening of the late Mrs.
Cartwright's will?"
"For this young lady, sir," replied the Vicar of Wrexhill, pointing to
Helen, "as she has chosen to exchange the protection of her own mother
for that of your son, I have nothing to say,--excepting, perhaps, that
the sooner she leaves my house, the better satisfied I shall feel
myself. But for Miss Torrington and Miss Fanny Mowbray, I must think
further of it before I resign them to any one."
"Well, sir," replied Sir Gilbert with, if possible, still-increasing
urbanity, "we must in this and all things submit ourselves wholly to
your will and pleasure. But may I, in testimony of my respect to the
memory of a lady towards whom perhaps I have behaved with some
harshness,--may I hope, Mr. Cartwright, that you will permit me to
attend her funeral?"
"Of this too I must think further," replied Mr. Cartwright with much
haughtiness.
"And her son?" rejoined the humbled baronet;--"I trust he will be
present at the last sad ceremony?"
"It is probable I may permit him to be so," replied the vicar, drawing
himself up into an attitude that might really have been called majestic.
"But permit me to observe, Sir Gilbert Harrington,--such is, I think,
your name,--that I require not in the arrangement of my affairs counsel
or advice from any man,--and least of all--from you."
So saying, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
"Come, my poor Helen!" said the repulsed baronet with great gentleness,
and not in the least, as it seemed, resenting the insolence with which
he had been treated,--"Come--I would have wished to have taken your poor
little sister and and your friend Rosalind home with us. But Heaven's
will--and the vicar's--must be done."