Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 75
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.
