Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 103
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.”
CHAPTER XV.
MRS. CARTWRIGHT’S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.
It was probably the love of seeing an enemy mortified, — which, it may be feared, is too common to all men, — which induced the Vicar of Wrexhill, notwithstanding the deep aversion he felt for Sir Gilbert Harrington, to suffer him not only to be invited to attend Mrs. Cartwright’s funeral, but also to be present at the opening of her will.
To both invitations the baronet returned a gracious acceptance, and accordingly once more found himself at the Park on the day that its gates were again to open to the funeral array of its owner.
Charles Mowbray, as Sir Gilbert’s carriage drew up, stood ready on the steps of the mansion to receive him; and tears moistened the eyes of both as they silently shook hands and entered the drawing-room, where the funeral guests were assembled.
The room was full. Not only all such saintly scions of the new birth as their esprit de corps always brought together were present there, but as many of the neighbouring gentry as he could collect were now assembled to witness the proud fanatic’s crowning triumph. One circumstance only tended to damp the happiness of this full success, this great conclusion to all his hopes and wishes, — his son was not present at it: and indeed so great had been the licence granted him, that he was at this time wandering, his proud father knew not where.
Nothing however, notwithstanding his deep-felt happiness, could be better got up than Mr. Cartwright’s sorrow as he watched his wife laid in the tomb: never was white cambric used with better grace. Poor Charles the while sheltered himself behind the stalwart figure of Sir Gilbert, and wept unseen.
Nearly the whole of the company who attended the funeral were invited to be present at the ceremony of opening of the will, which it was the pleasure of the bereaved widower should follow immediately after it.
Again the large drawing-room was surrounded by a circle of sable guests; not one of whom but felt more than usual curiosity at the opening a will upon which hung so large a property, and concerning which there were such conflicting interests.
Sir Gilbert considerately led his friend Charles into a corner where he was not conspicuous, and placed himself beside him; both of them being in good part concealed by the tall and portly person of a gentleman whom young Mowbray had never seen before, and whom indeed several persons, not too much interested in the scene to note what passed, had observed to enter with the funeral train after its return from the church, although he had not been present at the interment.
It is probable, however, that the master of the house himself was not aware of this; for he took no notice of him, and was in fact too fully occupied by the business afoot to know more or to think more of those around him than that they were there to witness the proudest and happiest moment of his life.
All the company being seated, and mute attentive silence hovering over all, Mr. Corbold, after bowing to two or three distinguished personages, whose seats were placed near the table at which he had stationed himself as if to assure their attentive witnessing of the act he was about to perform, broke open the seals of the parchment he held in his hand, and having spread it fairly open upon the table, read its contents aloud with a clear voice.
Never man had a more attentive auditory; no sound or movement interrupted the lecture; and when it was concluded, a murmur only, of rather shame-faced congratulation from the particular friends of Mr. Cartwright, broke the continued silence.
Something, meanwhile, very like a groan burst from the breast of the unhappy Mowbray; but Sir Gilbert Harrington hemmed so stoutly at the same moment, that no one heard it.
The company had already risen from their seats, and some were crowding round the meek and tranquil-looking vicar, — nay, one active carrier of evil tidings had slipped out of the room to inform Miss Torrington and Fanny of the nature of the departed lady’s testament, — when the tall gentleman who sat before the disinherited son arose, and with great politeness requested the attention of the company for one moment before they separated, for the purpose of hearing a document which he should be happy to have the pleasure of reading to them, and which, if not of so extraordinary a nature as the one they had just listened to, and therefore less likely to excite general attention, was at least of later date.
Every one appeared to listen to this address with interest, and nearly the whole company immediately reseated themselves. Some keen-eyed persons fancied they perceived the Vicar of Wrexhill change colour; but they were probably mistaken; for when Mr. Corbold whispered to him, “In the name of Heaven, what does this mean, cousin! — You never left her, did you?” he replied, also in a whisper, but in a steady voice, “Never for time enough to draw a codicil, — it is impossible!” And having so spoken, he too reseated himself in the attitude of a listener.
The tall gentleman then drew forth from his pocket another parchment, purporting to be the last will of the same lady, containing even more skins that the first; and running over with technical volubility a preamble, only important as describing the testator’s state of mind, he proceeded to the more essential portion of the document, and then read slowly and loudly, so that all men might hear, the bequest of all she died possessed of to her beloved son Charles Mowbray; the only deductions being legacies of fifty thousand pounds to each of her younger children, and her jewels to her daughter Helen, provided that within one year from the date of the will she should marry, or have married, Colonel William Harrington, of his Majesty’s —— Dragoons.
The name of Cartwright appeared not in any shape; probably because the provision for her younger children would have included the infant yet unborn when this will was made, had it survived her.
This document was as fully and satisfactorily signed, sealed, witnessed, and delivered, as the former one; the only difference being that it was dated some months later.
The pen that has traced these events is too feeble to portray the state into which this change of scenery and decorations threw the Vicar of Wrexhill. It would have been a great mercy for him if he had altogether lost his senses; but no symptom of this sort appeared, beyond a short paroxysm, during which he called upon Heaven to witness his promise of going to law with Mr. Mowbray for the purpose of setting aside his mother’s will.
After the first buzz produced by this second lecture had subsided, Sir Gilbert Harrington arose and addressed the company with equal good taste and good feeling. A few minutes’ conversation with his young friend Mr. Mowbray, he said, authorized him to assure the Vicar of Wrexhill that whatever private property he could lay claim to (a wag here whispered, “Sermons, surplices, and the like”) should be packed up and sent to the Vicarage, or any other place he would name, with the utmost attention and care. He added very succinctly, and without a single syllable unnecessarily irritating, that circumstances connected with the situation of the ladies of the family rendered it necessary that the reverend gentleman should not continue in the house; a necessity which, it might be hoped, would be the less inconvenient from the circumstance of his former residence being so near.
While his old friend was uttering this extremely judicious harangue, Charles escaped by a side door from the room, and bounding up the stairs to Rosalind’s dressing-room, where (though as yet he had hardly spoken to her) he pretty well knew she was sitting with his sister Fanny, he burst open the door, rushed in, and fell on his knees before her, clasping her most daringly in his arms, and almost devouring her hands with kisses.
Fanny stood perfectly aghast at this scene. During the few days that Charles had been at home she had truly grieved to see the decided coldness and estrangement that was between Rosalind and him; and what could have produced this sudden change she was totally unable to guess.
Not one of the family party had entertained the slightest doubt that the will, which Mr. Cartwright had more than once alluded to, was such as to render his late wife’s children wholly dependent upon him; and this painful expectation had been already fully confirmed: but even if it had proved otherwise, Fanny knew no reason why this should so change the conduct of Charles towards Miss Torrington.
Not so, however, the young lady herself. The vehement caresses of Mowbray explained the whole matter to her as fully and as clearly as the will itself could have done; and if she did bend forward her head till her dark tresses almost covered his — and if under that thick veil she impressed a wild and rapid kiss of joy upon his forehead, most people would forgive her if they knew how well she had all the while guessed at his misery, and how often her young heart had ached to think of it.
This impropriety, however, such as it was, was really the only one committed on the occasion. Sir Gilbert was an excellent man of business, as was likewise the tall gentleman his attorney; so seals were put upon all plate-chests, jewel-cases, and the like, except such as were proved satisfactorily by Mr. Stephen Corbold to have been purchased since the marriage of the widow Mowbray and Mr. Cartwright. All such were given over to the packing-cases of the serious attorney and the serious butler, and at half-past nine p.m. the Vicar of Wrexhill stepped into his recently-purchased (but not paid-for) travelling carriage, and turned his back on the Park — once more Mowbray Park — for ever.
But little remains to be said that may not easily be guessed at by the accomplished novel-reader: — and for such, of course, these pages are prepared.
Little Mary Richards speedily became Lady Hilton; and Fanny Mowbray, during a visit of some months at her Scotch castle, learned to think of her religious sufferings with sufficient composure to enable her once more to look forward as well as around her, with hope and enjoyment. And who is there that can doubt that the lovely Fanny Mowbray, with recovered senses and fifty thousand pounds, even though she did for ever abandon her poetic pursuits, met, at no very advanced age, with a husband worthy of her?
The two tall Misses Richards ceased to be serious as soon as it became decidedly mauvais ton at Wrexhill to be so: and in process of time they too married; leaving their charming little mother leisure to cultivate the friendship of Rosalind, who retained her partiality for her, and enjoyed her friendship and society for many happy years.
Need it be said that Rosalind and Helen were married on the same day? — So it was, however; and Mr. Edward Wallace performed the ceremony, the Vicar of Wrexhill being indisposed. Indeed the air of the Vicarage evidently disagreed with him; but, by the influence of some of the most distinguished of his party, both in religion and politics, he soon obtained an exchange with a gentleman who held preferment in the Fens. He did not, however, obtain a mitre, though a great many serious people declared that he deserved it: a disappointment which was perhaps the more cutting from the circumstance of Mr. Jacob’s having joined a troop of strolling players; and as he was not sufficiently successful amongst them to add any glory thereby to the family name, the loss of episcopal honours was the more severely felt.
Every thing else, I think, went just as it ought to do. Poor Miss Mimima was sent off to her mamma, who never again ventured to show her face at Wrexhill; probably fearing that she might cease to be considered as the principal person of the village.
Mr. Mowbray speedily re-established Mr. Marsh in his school; the old lawyer and apothecary returned; the newly-hired serious servants retreated before the returning honest ones — and, in short, a whole flight of fanaticals followed their incomparable vicar, till the pretty village of Wrexhill once more became happy and gay, and the memory of their serious epidemic rendered its inhabitants the most orderly, peaceable, and orthodox population in the whole country.
THE END
THE WIDOW BARNABY
The Widow Barnaby was first published in London in 1839 by Richard Bentley. It was one Frances Trollope’s most popular novels at the time and remains one of her better known works. It formed the first part of a trilogy involving Mrs. Barnaby, which included The Widow Married; A Sequel to Widow Barnaby (1840) and The Widow Wedded; Or the Adventures of the Barnabys in America (1843). The book begins with a history of Martha Barnaby’s family; it focuses predominately on Martha’s mother and the poor relationship she has with her sister-in-law, Betsy Compton. Mrs. Josiah Compton is depicted as extravagant and frivolous, given to devoting all available funds to her daughters’ clothing and accessories. Martha and her younger sister, Sophia, spend much of their youth attending balls and flirting with military gentlemen. Sophia marries the charming Lieutenant Willoughby and has a baby called Agnes. She dies after giving birth to Agnes and the child is left in the care of Sophia’s parents, and later, her sister. Martha marries the local surgeon and apothecary, Mr. Barnaby, who dies shortly after their union, leaving Mrs. Barnaby with a comfortable income. The novel then traces Martha’s adventures across England as she attempts to fulfil her desires. She is presented as am imprudent woman of appetites and is contrasted with the parsimonious and austere Aunt Betsy. She is presented as an entirely inappropriate guardian for her virtuous and reserved niece.
