The Vicar of Wrexhill Part 63

Send to him, Rosalind--send to my father; and send too for his besotted wife, and for the poor, weak, wavering f.a.n.n.y. Send for them all.--But don't you leave me, Rosalind. I have a strange, anxious fluttering at my heart. It will be better when I have spoken to him."

Rosalind delayed not a moment to do her bidding. There was an inequality in her manner that frightened her. She feared her time was short; and so worded the summons she sent to Mr. Cartwright and his wife, that they came instantly. f.a.n.n.y entered the room nearly at the same moment; and it was evident from their manner that they all thought they were come to receive her last farewell.

The feeble Henrietta asked Rosalind so to arrange her pillows that she might sit upright. Rosalind did so, and then kneeled down beside the bed.

Mr. Cartwright stood with his back leaning against the bed-post, and his eyes fixed on the ground; his wife entered leaning on his arm, and had not quitted it; but for some reason or other, Henrietta, who rarely took notice of her in any way, now asked her to place herself in a chair beside her bed.

"You had better sit," said she. "You are not very strong in any way."

f.a.n.n.y stood apart, and alone; and having looked round upon each of them, the dying girl fixed her eyes upon her father, and thus addressed him, "I have heard you say--a thousand times perhaps--that religion was the business of your life; and for that reason, sir, its very name hath become abhorrent to me. Oh, father!--you have much to answer for! I would have given my own right hand to believe in a good, a merciful, a forgiving G.o.d!--and I turned my young eyes to you. You told me that few could be saved, and that it was not what I deemed innocence could save me. You told me too, that I was in danger, but that you were safe. You told me that Heaven had set its seal upon you. And then I watched you--oh, how earnestly!--I spied out all your ways!--I found fraud, pride, impurity, and falsehood, mix with your deeds through every day you lived! Yet still you said that Heaven had set its seal upon you,--that your immortal soul was safe,--that happiness eternal was your predestined doom. I listened to you as a child listens to a father; not a word was lost; no, nor an action either. And then it was, father, that I became an unbeliever! an hardened infidel! a daring atheist! If it were true that G.o.d had chosen you, then was it true my soul rejected him!--Yet Rosalind, dear Rosalind, do not hate me,--do not shudder at my words. It was because I found no truth in him, that I could not, would not believe his doctrine true. But you--good, kind, and innocent,--I believe you."

The harsh and awful accents of her voice changed into a tone of the deepest tenderness as she continued to address Rosalind. "When did you ever lie? You tell me there is a G.o.d, and I may trust you. You do not prate of grace, and then labour to corrupt the innocence that looks into your face to ask the way to Heaven. You do not bid me wear a mask of feigned a.s.surance of salvation; nor will you bind my hands, nor keep me from the light of day, when I refuse to kneel, and sigh, and play the hypocrite. You will not bid me lie, and tell me that so only I can find the way to Heaven. You will not----"

With slow and stealthy pace Mr. Cartwright at this moment began to creep from his station and approach the door. But Henrietta, whose eyes were half closed--for the lashes seemed heavy with tears--instantly opened them, and cried aloud, "Stay! I have a right to bid you.--Father!--This good girl is kind and innocent; but she is young and very ignorant.--What can she know of Heaven? Is there--speak truly, these are the last words you will ever utter to me--is there within our reach some pious, holy, humble man of G.o.d,--such as I have read of,--but no saint, no saint? Father! is there such a one?--and may he come and pray with me?"

Every eye in the room was fixed on Mr. Cartwright, as his daughter made the appeal. For some moments he did not answer; but upon Henrietta's repeating loudly, and almost wildly, "May he come?" he answered in a low, husky voice. "This is mere bravado! You have lived a scoffing infidel,--and a scoffing infidel will you die. If, indeed, you wished for prayer and pardon, you would turn to me for it.--My curate may pray with her,--but none else."

And with these words he turned away without looking at her, and quitted the room.

The silence of death seemed already to have settled on the chamber; which was broken, at length, by the deep sobbings of the unfortunate Mrs. Cartwright.

"Poor soul!" said Henrietta, turning towards her. "She is not wholly bad, but more unfit to judge and act than a baby:--for they can do nothing, and she, alas! can do much dreadful mischief. With my dying breath, unhappy victim of a most finished hypocrite, I do conjure you not to wrong your children, to enrich him. Poor soul!--He loves her not; no not even so much as, silly as she is, she well deserves from him. He will have a child born to him here, and another at Gloucester, much at the same time. Do not ruin your poor helpless children for him!"

Mrs. Cartwright sat with her eyes immoveably fixed on those of Henrietta, even after she had ceased to speak: she sighed deeply, but uttered no syllable in reply.

"Take her away, Rosalind. I have no more to say to her. And poor f.a.n.n.y too. Heaven bless you, f.a.n.n.y!--you may go now, my dear. All go, but Rosalind."

Her commands were instantly obeyed, and once more the two strangely matched friends were left alone together.

"It is too late now, my Rosalind! My strength is failing fast. I can hardly see your sweet kind eyes, dear Rosalind!--but I can hear. Read to me, dearest;--quick, open the Bible that you left for me:--open it where the man says to Paul, 'Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.'"

Rosalind opened the precious volume, and read to her, slowly and distinctly, that exquisite pa.s.sage of heaven-taught eloquence, which produced in reply the words she had quoted.

Henrietta's eyes were closed; but now and then a gentle pressure of the hand she held in hers persuaded Rosalind that she heard and understood each powerful word of that majestic pleading.

When she had reached, and read the words Henrietta had quoted, she paused, and in a moment afterwards the now expiring girl uttered in broken accents, "Yes,--stop there. It has reached my soul--from your lips only, Rosalind!"

Then suddenly her dying eyes opened, and fixed themselves on Rosalind; she clasped her hands, as if in prayer, and then with a strong effort p.r.o.nounced these words, "Lord! I believe!--Help thou my unbelief!"

Her head sank on her breast. The breath that uttered these words was her last.

CHAPTER XIII.

A CHANGE COMES O'ER THE SPIRIT OF HER DREAM.

Helen had been nearly six weeks at Oakley without receiving a single line or message from any individual at the Park. She had written to her mother, fully explaining the reasons which had led her so suddenly to absent herself; and also, in the most respectful and affectionate manner, announced to her the proposal of Colonel Harrington and the approbation of his parents,--adding her earnest entreaties that her mother would not withhold her consent to their marriage. To this letter she received no answer; a circ.u.mstance which would have occasioned her the most cruel uneasiness, had not the fate of Colonel Harrington's letter to herself enabled her to guess that of her own to her mother. To f.a.n.n.y and to Rosalind she likewise wrote, and with the same ill success: but, fortunately for her tranquillity, their silence was reasonably interpreted in the same manner; and though this could but ill console her for the separation existing between them, it at least prevented her from feeling the pang of neglected affection.

From her brother she received the only letter that had reached her since they parted; and though it was written in a strain of very melancholy despondency respecting himself, it spoke of her prospects with an energy of satisfaction and hope that it was delightful to have inspired.

The report of Henrietta's death reached her through the servants; and though no cordial intimacy had ever existed between them, she felt as a gentle-hearted young creature must ever feel on hearing that a companion of her own age and s.e.x was gone hence to be no more seen.

More than ever did she wish for tidings of her family; and of Rosalind, perhaps, more than of any other: for she knew that if her feelings for the poor Henrietta had not amounted to affection, she had inspired a very powerful interest in her bosom, and that Rosalind was likely to feel her early death very painfully. It was therefore with the strongest emotions of joy that one morning, rather more than a week after the event, she saw Rosalind approaching the princ.i.p.al entrance of the house, alone and on foot.

Helen flew down stairs, through the hall, and out upon the steps to meet her, opening her arms to receive her with all the eager warmth of welcome natural after such an absence. But before Rosalind returned the embrace, she exclaimed, "You have seen your mother, Helen!"

"Alas! no!" replied Helen. "Would to Heaven I had, Rosalind! What is it makes you think I have had this great happiness?"

"Because I have just met her,--just seen her with my own eyes driving down the avenue."

"Impossible! Rosalind you must be mistaken. I have been sitting in my own room these two hours, copying a long act of parliament for Sir Gilbert; and if any carriage had been here, I must have seen it."

"No, no, you would not: I observed that the carriage drove direct from the stable-yard, and out into the avenue below the second gate. When I saw the carriage, spite of my astonishment, my first feeling was terror lest I should be seen myself; and accordingly I retreated behind one of the enormous trees, which I am sure hid me effectually, but from whence I had not only a full view of the Cartwright equipage, but of Mrs.

Cartwright in it, looking, I am sorry to say, even paler and more ill than usual."

"Is my mother looking ill, Rosalind?" said Helen anxiously, and seeming for the moment to be unmindful of the strange circ.u.mstance of her having been at Oakley. "Is she unwell?"

"I grieve to say that I think she is. A scene which took place in poor Henrietta's room only a few moments before she died, and at which Mrs.

Cartwright was present, has, I think, shaken her severely. But what can have brought her here, Helen, unless it were her wish to see you?--And yet she has been, and is gone, without your hearing of it."

"It is indeed most strange," replied Helen, ringing the bell of the drawing-room, into which they had entered. "Lady Harrington is, I know, in her closet,--perhaps my mother has seen her."

"Has my mother been here, Thomas?" inquired Helen of the old servant who answered the bell.

"Oh, dear, no, Miss Mowbray: that was noways likely."

"Likely or not, Thomas, I a.s.sure you she has been here," said Miss Torrington; "for I myself met her coming away."

"Then if that is the case, young ladies, there is certainly no use in my telling any more lies about it; for that's a job I don't like to be put upon, seeing as I am not over and above used to it. And so, as you know it already, I'm quite ready and willing to tell you the truth.--Mrs.

Mowbray,--I ask your pardon, ladies, but I really can't call her by no other name,--Mrs. Mowbray has been shut up in the library for above two hours with my master."

"How very strange!" exclaimed Rosalind thoughtfully. "Then I am sure she has chosen this day for the same reason that I did. Mr. Cartwright was sent for last night by the Earl of Harrowmore. Though he is not very communicative about his adventures in general, he could not resist mentioning this flattering circ.u.mstance at tea last night; adding, that he could not refuse the excellent and pious old n.o.bleman, who probably was desirous of obtaining the benefit of his advice on some business of importance. And this morning he set off in his travelling-carriage and four post-horses with two out-riders, leaving word, as Judy told me, that he should not return till to-morrow. But, good heavens! what can Mrs. Cartwright have to say to Sir Gilbert? and how in the world did he come to admit her, Thomas?"

"Since you know so much, you may as well know all, ladies. The carriage, sure enough, did not venture to drive up even to the back door without leave asked of Sir Gilbert;--at least I suppose it was to ask leave, that one of the new Park servants brought a note for him first. I took it in myself to him, and said, as I was bid, that the man was to wait for an answer. Never did I see mortal face screw itself up funnier than Sir Gilbert's when he was reading that note: he looked for all the world as if he wanted to whistle; howsomever, he did no such thing, but only scrawled a bit of an answer as grave as a judge; and then it was, Miss Mowbray, that he ordered me to say no word whatever of the Park servant's coming, or of the carriage coming after, as it was likely to do; and he sealed up his answer, and told me to give it to the man, and then to go into the garden to look for you and the colonel, Miss Mowbray, and bid you come in, as you know I did, miss: and after a bit you went up stairs, miss, and the colonel's horse was ordered; and when he was off and all clear, then, and not before, the carriage drove into the stable-yard; and your poor mamma, Miss Mowbray, looking as white as a sheet, went tottering and trembling in to Sir Gilbert, and there she stayed till about ten minutes ago, when the bell rang and out she came again, but looking, I thought, a deal less miserable."

"Thank you, Thomas," said Helen. "This is, I believe, all we wish to know."

The venerable-serving man took the hint and departed.

"What can all this mean, Rosalind?" said her friend the moment the door closed behind him. "Has any thing happened at home that can account for it?"

"I hardly know how to answer you, my Helen, without appearing to know more than I really do--for in honest truth I know nothing. Your mother, it would be wrong to conceal it from you, Helen, is certainly very much out of health, and for some weeks past has appeared, I think, out of spirits and unhappy."

"Oh, Rosalind! Do you think it is I who have made her so? Do you think that my coming here has made her really unhappy?"

"Indeed I do not: on the contrary, I am firmly persuaded she rejoices at it. You know, dearest, that since her marriage I have never been in great favour; and no wonder, considering the very particular aversion I have ever felt, and perhaps manifested, towards her bridegroom. But more than once, since you left us, she has spoken to me in a manner which reminded me of the days that are gone; and once she said, when that hateful cause of all harm, her Tartuffe husband, was not in the room, 'You must greatly miss poor Helen, my dear Rosalind.' I involuntarily caught her hand and kissed it, earnestly fixing my eyes on hers, to discover, if possible, what she thought and felt about you. She guessed as much, I fancy, for she turned her head away from me; but she pressed my hand, and said, almost in a whisper, 'Dear Helen! I trust that the step she has taken will end in her happiness.' He entered just as she had uttered these words; and the manner in which she started, and withdrew her hand, when the handle of the door turned, told me plainly enough that her love for her holy spouse was not of that perfect kind which casteth out fear. There was, moreover, Helen, a tear in her eye when she named you."