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Vicar of Wrexhill, The

<h2>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> <h3>IN WHICH SUNDRY VISITS ARE MADE.</h3> 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. <hr style="width: 45%;" /> 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." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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