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Title: The Vicar of Wrexhill

Author: Mrs [Frances] Trollope

Release Date: July 11, 2011 [EBook #36686]

Language: English

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STANDARD NOVELS.

No. LXXVIII.

"No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received by the many than graver productions, however important these latter may be. APULEIUS is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has outlived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author."

THE VICAR OF WREXHILL.

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.

BY FRANCES TROLLOPE

AUTHOR OF "JONATHAN JEFFERSON WHITLAW," "DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE AMERICANS," "ONE FAULT," ETC.

Les bons et vrais dévots qu'on doit suivre à la trace Ne sont pas ceux aussí qui font taut de grimace. Hé, quoi!... vous ne ferez nulle distinction Entre l'hypocrisie et la dévotion? Vous les voulez traiter d'un semblable langage, Et rendre même honneur au masque qu'au visage?

Molière.

NEW EDITION, REVISED.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET;
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1840.

London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.

"A sort of frozen blandishment smoothed the proud face of the Vicar as he stood with his lady beside him, to receive the sycophants."

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE VILLAGE OF WREXHILL.—THE MOWBRAY FAMILY.—A BIRTHDAY.
CHAPTER II. THE MORNING AFTER THE BIRTHDAY.
CHAPTER III. THE VICAR OF WREXHILL.
CHAPTER IV. THE WILL.
CHAPTER V. THE ARISTOCRACY OF WREXHILL.
CHAPTER VI. THE PRINCIPAL PERSON IN THE VILLAGE.—THE VICAR'S FAMILY.
CHAPTER VII. THE FIRST IMPRESSIONS MADE BY MR. CARTWRIGHT.—LETTER FROM LADY HARRINGTON.
CHAPTER VIII. MRS. RICHARDS AND HER DAUGHTERS.—THE TEA-PARTY.
CHAPTER IX. HELEN AND ROSALIND CALL UPON SIR GILBERT HARRINGTON
CHAPTER X. MRS. MOWBRAY CONSULTS MR. CARTWRIGHT UPON THE SUBJECT OF HER LATE HUSBAND'S WILL.
CHAPTER XI. HELEN'S MISERY AT HER MOTHER'S DISPLEASURE.—SIR G. HARRINGTON'S LETTER ON THE SUBJECT OF THE WILL.
CHAPTER XII. MR. CARTWRIGHT'S LETTER TO HIS COUSIN.—COLONEL HARRINGTON.
CHAPTER XIII. MRS. MOWBRAY'S DEPARTURE FOR TOWN.—AN EXTEMPORARY PRAYER.
CHAPTER XIV. AN INTERVIEW.—THE LIME TREE.—ROSALIND'S LETTER TO MR. MOWBRAY.
CHAPTER XV. ROSALIND'S CONVERSATION WITH MISS CARTWRIGHT.—MRS. SIMPSON AND MISS RICHARDS MEET THE VICAR AT THE PARK.—THE HYMN.—THE WALK HOME.

VOLUME THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I. CHARLES MOWBRAY'S ARRIVAL AT THE PARK.
CHAPTER II. CHARLES'S AMUSEMENT AT HIS SISTER'S APPEARANCE.—HE DISCUSSES HER CASE WITH ROSALIND.
CHAPTER III. CHARLES WALKS OVER TO OAKLEY.—THE VICAR IMPROVES IN HIS OPINION.
CHAPTER IV. MR. STEPHEN CORBOLD.
CHAPTER V. MR. STEPHEN CORBOLD RETURNS WITH MRS. MOWBRAY AND HELEN TO WREXHILL.
CHAPTER VI. THE RETURN.
CHAPTER VII. THE VICAR AND HIS COUSIN.
CHAPTER VIII. CHARLES'S SORROW.—MRS. SIMPSON IN HER NEW CHARACTER.—THE VICAR'S PROCEEDINGS DISCUSSED.
CHAPTER IX. DISCUSSION ON TRUTH.—MR. CORBOLD INSTALLED.
CHAPTER X. FANNY'S RELIGION.—A VISIT TO OAKLEY.
CHAPTER XI. CHARLES'S CONFERENCE WITH MRS. MOWBRAY.
CHAPTER XII. THE VICAR'S PROGRESS, AND HIS COUNSEL TO FANNY AS TO THE BEST MEANS OF ASSISTING THE POOR.
CHAPTER XIII. MRS. SIMPSON'S CHARITABLE VISIT.—CHARLES'S TROUBLES CONTINUE.
CHAPTER XIV. THE ENTRY.
CHAPTER XV. WALK TO OAKLEY—DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS—THE VILLAGE INN.

VOLUME THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I. MR. AND MRS. CARTWRIGHT'S LETTER.
CHAPTER II. THE WIDOW SIMPSON'S DISAPPOINTMENT.
CHAPTER III. CHARLES'S INTERVIEW WITH HIS STEPFATHER.—HIS SUDDEN DEPARTURE FROM WREXHILL.
CHAPTER IV. THE VICAR'S PROSPERITY.—HE SETS ABOUT MAKING SOME IMPORTANT REFORMS IN THE VILLAGE.
CHAPTER V. THE VICAR AT HOME.
CHAPTER VI. A SECOND VISIT TO THE LIME-TREE.
CHAPTER VII. THE WILL.
CHAPTER VIII. THE LETTER-BAG.
CHAPTER IX. THE WILL EXECUTED.
CHAPTER X. THE SERIOUS FANCY FAIR.
CHAPTER XI. THE "ELOPEMENT."
CHAPTER XII. MR. CORBOLD'S ADVENTURES.
CHAPTER XIII. A CHANGE COMES O'ER THE SPIRIT OF HER DREAM.
CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH SUNDRY VISITS ARE MADE.
CHAPTER XV. MRS. CARTWRIGHT'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.

THE VICAR OF WREXHILL.

"On the turf before the bench and with their backs towards the spot where Rosalind and Henrietta stood, knelt the Vicar and Fanny."

CHAPTER I.

THE VILLAGE OF WREXHILL.—THE MOWBRAY FAMILY.—A BIRTHDAY.

The beauties of an English village have been so often dwelt upon, so often described, that I dare not linger long upon the sketch of Wrexhill, which must of necessity precede my introduction of its vicar. And yet not even England can show many points of greater beauty than this oak-sheltered spot can display. Its peculiar style of scenery, half garden, half forest in aspect, is familiar to all who are acquainted with the New Forest, although it has features entirely its own. One of these is an overshot mill, the sparkling fall of which is accurately and most nobly overarched by a pair of oaks which have long been the glory of the parish. Another is the grey and mellow beauty of its antique church, itself unencumbered by ivy, while the wall and old stone gateway of the churchyard look like a line and knot of sober green, enclosing it with such a rich and unbroken luxuriance of foliage "never sear," as seems to show that it is held sacred, and that no hand profane ever ventured to rob its venerable mass of a leaf or a berry. Close beside the church, and elevated by a very gentle ascent, stands the pretty Vicarage, as if placed expressly to keep watch and ward over the safety and repose of its sacred neighbour. The only breach in the ivy-bound fence of the churchyard, is the little wicket gate that opens from the Vicarage garden; but even this is arched over by the same immortal and unfading green,—a fitting emblem of that eternity, the hope of which emanates from the shrine it encircles. At this particular spot, indeed, the growth of the plant is so vigorous, that it is controlled with difficulty, and has not obeyed the hand which led it over the rustic arch without dropping a straggling wreath or two, which if a vicar of the nineteenth century could wear a wig, might leave him in the state coveted for Absalom by his father. The late Vicar of Wrexhill, however,—I speak of him who died a few weeks before my story begins,—would never permit these graceful pendants to be shorn, declaring that the attitude they enforced on entering the churchyard was exactly such as befitted a Christian when passing the threshold of the court of God.

Behind the Vicarage, and stretching down the side of the little hill on which it stood, so as to form a beautiful background to the church, rose a grove of lofty forest-trees, that seemed to belong to its garden, but which in fact was separated from it by the road which led to Mowbray Park, on the outskirts of which noble domain they were situated. This same road, having passed behind the church and Vicarage, led to the village street of Wrexhill, and thence, towards various other parishes, over a common, studded with oaks and holly-bushes, on one side of which, with shelving grassy banks that gave to the scene the appearance of noble pleasure-grounds, was a sheet of water large enough to be dignified by the appellation of Wrexhill Lake. Into this, the little stream that turned the mill emptied itself, after meandering very prettily through Mowbray Park, where, by the help of a little artifice, it became wide enough at one spot to deserve a boat and boat-house, and at another to give occasion for the erection of one of the most graceful park-bridges in the county of Hampshire.

On one side of the common stands what might be called an alehouse, did not the exquisite neatness of every feature belonging to the little establishment render this vulgar appellation inappropriate. It was in truth just such a place as a town-worn and fastidious invalid might have fixed his eyes upon and said, "How I should like to lodge in that house for a week or two!" Roses and honeysuckles battled together for space to display themselves over the porch, and above the windows. The little enclosure on each side the post whence swung the "Mowbray Arms" presented to the little bay windows of the mansion such a collection of odorous plants, without a single weed to rob them of their strength, that no lady in the land, let her flower-garden be what it may, but would allow that Sally Freeman, the daughter, bar-maid, waiter, gardener at the "Mowbray Arms," understood how to manage common flowers as well as any Scotchman in her own scientific establishment.

Industry, neatness, and their fitting accompaniment and reward, comfort, were legible throughout the small domain. John Freeman brewed his own beer, double and single; Dorothy, his loving wife, baked her own bread, cured her own bacon, churned her own butter, and poached her own eggs, or roasted her own chicken, when they were called for by any wandering lover of woodland scenery who was lucky enough to turn his steps towards Wrexhill. The other labours of the household were performed by Sally, except indeed the watering of horses, and the like, for which services a stout, decent peasant-boy received a shilling a week, and three good meals a day: and happy was the cottager whose son got the appointment, for both in morals and manners the horse-boy at the Mowbray Arms might have set an example to his betters.

There are many other pretty spots and many more good people at Wrexhill; but they must show themselves by degrees, as it is high time the business of my story should begin.

The 2nd of May 1833 was a gay day at Wrexhill, for it was that on which Charles Mowbray came of age, and the fête given on the occasion was intended to include every human being in the parish, besides about a hundred more, neighbours and friends, who came from a greater distance to witness and share in the festivities.

A merrier, or in truth a happier set of human beings, than those assembled round the breakfast-table at Mowbray Park on the morning of that day, could hardly be found anywhere. This important epoch in the young heir's life had been long anticipated with gay impatience, and seemed likely to be enjoyed with a fulness of contentment that should laugh to scorn the croaking prophecy which speaks of hopes fulfilled as of something wherein doubtful good is ever blended with certain disappointment. The Mowbray family had hoped to wake upon a joyous morning, and they did so: no feeling of anxiety, no touch of disease, no shadow of unkindness to any being who shared with them the breath of life, came to blight the light-hearted glee which pervaded the whole circle.

Charles Mowbray senior had hardly passed the prime of life, though a constitutional tendency to something like corpulency made him look older than he really was. Throughout his fifty summers he had scarcely known an ailment or a grief, and his spirit was as fresh within him as that of the noble-looking young man on whom his eyes rested with equal pride and love.

Mrs. Mowbray, just seven years his junior, looked as little scathed by time as himself; her slight and graceful figure indeed gave her almost the appearance of youth; and though her delicate face had lost its bloom, there was enough of beauty left to render her still a very lovely woman.

Charles Mowbray junior, the hero of the day, was, in vulgar but expressive phrase, as fine a young fellow as ever the sun shone upon. His mind, too, was in excellent accordance with the frame it inhabited,—powerful, elastic, unwearying, and almost majestic in its unbroken vigour and still-increasing power.

"Aux cœurs heureux les vertus sont faciles," says the proverb; and as Charles Mowbray was certainly as happy as it was well possible for a man to be, he must not be overpraised for the fine qualities that warmed his heart and brightened his eye. Nevertheless, it is only justice to declare, that few human beings ever passed through twenty-one years of life with less of evil and more of good feeling than Charles Mowbray.

Helen, his eldest sister, was a fair creature of nineteen, whose history had hitherto been, and was probably ever doomed to be, dependant upon her affections. As yet, these had been wholly made up of warm and well-requited attachment to her own family; but few people capable of loving heartily are without the capacity of suffering heartily also, if occasion calls for it, and this strength of feeling rarely leaves its possessor long in the enjoyment of such pure and unmixed felicity as that which shone in Helen's hazel eye as she threw her arms around her brother's neck, and wished him a thousand and a thousand times joy!

Fanny Mowbray, the youngest of the family, wanted three months of sixteen. Poets have often likened young creatures of this age to an opening rose-bud, and it was doubtless just such a being as Fanny Mowbray that first suggested the simile. Any thing more bright, more delicate, more attractive in present loveliness, or more full of promise for loveliness more perfect still, was never seen.

In addition to this surprising beauty of form and feature, she possessed many of those qualities of mind which are attributed to genius. Meditative and imaginative in no common degree, with thoughts occasionally both soaring and profound, she passed many hours of her existence in a manner but little understood by her family—sometimes devouring with unwearying ardour the miscellaneous contents of the large library, and sometimes indulging in the new delight of pouring forth her own wild, rambling thoughts in prose or rhyme. Unfortunately, the excellent governess who had attended the two girls from the time that Helen attained her eighth year died when Fanny was scarcely fourteen; and the attachment of the whole family being manifested by a general declaration that it would be impossible to permit any one to supply her place, the consequence was, that the cadette of the family had a mind less well and steadily regulated than it might have been, had her good governess been spared to her a few years longer.

Though so many persons were expected before night to share the hospitalities of Mowbray Park, that, notwithstanding the ample size of its mansion, both the lady and her housekeeper were obliged to exert considerable skill in arranging their accommodation, there was but one person besides the family present at the happy breakfast-table; and she was not a guest, but an inmate.

Rosalind Torrington was a young Irish girl from the province of Ulster, who had passed the first seventeen years of her life in great retirement, in a village not far distant from the coast, with no other society than the immediate neighbourhood afforded. Since that time her destiny had undergone a great change. She was an only child, and lost both father and mother in one of those pestilential fevers which so frequently ravage the populous districts of Ireland. Her father was one of that frightfully-wronged and much-enduring race of Protestant clergy, who, during the last few years, have suffered a degree of oppression and persecution unequalled for its barefaced injustice by any thing that the most atrocious page of history can record.

Her mother, of high English descent, had been banished from all intercourse with her patrician family, because she refused to use her influence with her exemplary husband to induce him to abandon his profitless and often perilous preferment in Ireland, where he felt he had the power as well the will to do good, in order to place himself in dependence upon his wife's brother, a bachelor viscount who had invited the impoverished family to his house, and promised some time or other to do something for him in his profession—if he could. This invitation was politely but most positively refused, and for the last three years no intercourse of any kind had taken place between them. At the end of that time, Mr. Torrington and his exemplary wife, while sedulously administering to the sick souls of their poor parishioners, caught the fever that raged among them, and perished. Mrs. Torrington survived her husband three days; and during that time her thoughts were painfully occupied by the future prospects of her highly-connected but slenderly-portioned girl.

All she could do for her, she did. She wrote to her haughty brother in such a manner as she thought, from her deathbed, must produce some effect: but lest it should not, she addressed another letter to Mrs. Mowbray, the favourite friend of her youth, entreating her protection for her orphan child.

This letter enclosed a will fully executed, by which she left to her daughter whatever property she might die possessed of, (amounting at the utmost, as she supposed, to about five thousand pounds,) and constituting Mrs. Mowbray sole guardian of her person and property.

During the interval which had elapsed since Mrs. Torrington's estrangement from her noble brother, his lordship had contrived to quarrel also with his nephew and heir, and in the height of his resentment against him made a will, leaving the whole of his unentailed property, amounting to above eighty thousand pounds, to his sister. By a singular coincidence, Lord Trenet died two days before Mrs. Torrington; so that her will was made exactly one day after she had unconsciously become the possessor of this noble fortune. Had this most unexpected event been made known to her, however, it would probably have made no other alteration in her will than the addition of the name of some male friend, who might have taken care of the property during the minority of her child: and even this would only have been done for the purpose of saving her friend trouble; for such was her opinion of Mrs. Mowbray, that no circumstances attending her daughter's fortune could have induced her to place the precious deposit of her person in other hands.

The poor girl herself, while these momentous events were passing, was stationed at the house of an acquaintance at a few miles' distance, whither she had been sent at the first appearance of infection; and thus in the short space of ten days, from the cherished, happy darling of parents far from rich, she became an heiress and an orphan.

Rosalind Torrington was a warm-hearted, affectionate girl, who had fondly loved her parents, and she mourned for them with all her soul. But the scene around her was so rapidly and so totally changed, and so much that was delightful mixed with the novelty, that it is not wonderful if at her age her grief wore away, and left her, sooner than she could have believed the change possible, the gay and happy inmate of Mowbray Park.

About four months had elapsed since her arrival, and she was already greatly beloved by the whole family. In age she was about half-way between the two sisters; and as she did not greatly resemble either of them in temper or acquirements, she was at this time equally the friend of both.

In most branches of female erudition Miss Torrington was decidedly inferior to the Miss Mowbrays: but nature had given her a voice and a taste for music which led her to excel in it; and so much spirit and vivacity supplied on other points the want of regular study, that by the help of her very pretty person, her good birth, and her large fortune, nobody but Charles Mowbray ever discovered deficiency or inferiority of any kind in Rosalind Torrington: but he had declared vehemently, the moment she arrived, that she was not one quarter so pretty as his sister Fanny, nor one thousandth part so angelic in all ways as his sister Helen.

Such was the party who, all smiles and felicitations, first crowded clamorously round the hero of the fête which now occupied the thoughts of all, and then seated themselves at the breakfast-table, more intent upon talking of its coming glories than on doing justice to the good things before them.

"Oh, you lucky twenty-one!" exclaimed Miss Torrington, addressing young Mowbray. "Did any one ever see such sunshine!... And just think what it would have been if all the tents of the people had been drenched with rain! The inward groans for best bonnets would have checked the gratulations in their throats, and we should have had sighs perchance for cheers."

"I do not believe any single soul would have cared for rain, or thought for one moment of the weather, let it have been what it would, Rosalind," observed Helen. "Charles," she continued, "is so adored and doted upon by all the people round, both rich and poor, that I am persuaded, while they were drinking his health, there would not have been a thought bestowed on the weather."

"Oh!... To be sure, dear Helen.... I quite forgot that. Of course, a glance at the Mowbray would be worth all the Mackintosh cloaks in the world, for keeping a dry skin in a storm;—but then, you know, the hero himself might have caught cold when he went out to shine upon them—and the avoiding this is surely a blessing for which we all ought to be thankful: not but what I would have held an umbrella over him with the greatest pleasure, of course ... but, altogether, I think it is quite as well as it is."

"You won't quiz my Helen out of her love for me, Miss Rosalind Torrington," replied Charles, laughing; "so do not hope it."

"Miss Rosalind Torrington!" ... repeated the young lady indignantly. Then rising and approaching Mrs. Mowbray, she said very solemnly, "Is that my style and title, madam? Is there any other Miss Torrington in all the world?... Is there any necessity, because he is one-and-twenty, that he should call me Miss Rosalind?... And is it not your duty, oh! my guardianess! to support me in all my rights and privileges? And won't you please to scold him if he calls me Miss Rosalind again?"

"Beyond all question you are Miss Torrington, my dear," replied Mrs. Mowbray; "and were not Charles unfortunately of age, and therefore legally beyond all control, I would certainly command him never to say Rosalind again."

"That is not exactly what I said. Most Respected!" replied the young lady. "He may call me Rosalind if he will; but if I am Miss any thing, I am Miss Torrington."

"You certainly are a lucky fellow, Charles," said his Father, "and Rosalind is quite right in praising the sunshine. Helen with her coaxing ways may say what she will, but our fête would have been spoilt without it."

"Indeed I think so, sir.... Pray do not believe me ungrateful. Besides, I like to see everything accord—and your bright beaming faces would have been completely out of keeping with a dark frowning sky."

"Yon are quite right.... But come, make haste with your breakfast ... let us leave the ladies to give an inquiring glance to the decorations of the ball-room, and let you and I walk down to the walnut-trees, and see how they are getting on with the tents and the tables, and all the rest of it."

"I shall be ready in a minute, sir; but I have been scampering round the whole park already this morning, and I am as hungry as a hound. Give me one more egg, Helen, and then...."

"It is really a comfort to see what a fine appetite he has!—is it not, Helen?" said Rosalind, surrounding his plate with rolls of all sorts and sizes.

"I will call you 'Wild Irish Girl' in the very midst of the ball this evening if you do not behave better," said young Mowbray.

"And if you do, I will...."

"Come along, Charles," said his father; "her threats may put you out of heart for the whole day."

"And might not we too take a walk before any of the people arrive?" said Fanny. "I have heard the cuckoo this morning for the first time. He was certainly thanking God for the sunshine; and I really think we ought to go out, and then we shall do so too."

"A most delightful proposal!" cried Rosalind; "and if the birds should happen to introduce a jig movement, we can practise our dancing steps as we go along."

"Wait half an hour for me," said Charles, rising to accompany his father, "and I will join your party. Let us go to the Pebble-Ford, Rosalind; and you shall all three drink my health out of that dear pool beside it, that Ros.... Miss Torrington—admired so much the other day."

"No, no, we can't wait a moment, Char.... Mr. Mowbray—" said Rosalind. "Come, dear girls, let us be gone instantly."

"Not wait for him on his birthday!" cried Helen. "But you are not in earnest, Rosalind?"

"How you do labour and toil to spoil that man, Helen!" said Miss Torrington, raising her hands and eyes as he left the room. "It is a great blessing for him that I have come amongst you! If any thing can save him from utter destruction, it is I shall do it."

Charles however was waited for, and that for at least three times the period he had named; but he came at last, and the walk was taken, and the birds sang, and the brook sparkled, and the health was drunk cordially, even by Rosalind; and the gay party returned in time to see the first carriage approach, bearing guests invited to be present at the tenants' dinner in the Park. Their morning toilet was hastily readjusted, as another and another equipage rolled onwards towards the house; and then the business of the day began. Lords and ladies, knights and squires, yeomen and peasants, were seen riding, driving, running, and walking through the spacious park in all directions. Then followed the rustic fête and the joyous carouse, in which the name of Charles Mowbray made the welkin ring; and then, the company having retreated to the house, came the hurried steps of a dozen lady's-maids hastening to their various scenes of action, and valets converting closets of all sorts and sizes into dressing-rooms for unnumbered gentlemen; and then the banquet, and then the coffee and the short repose—and then the crowded ball.

All this came and went in order, and without the intervention of a single circumstance that might mar the enjoyment of a day long set apart for happiness, and which began and ended more exactly according to the wishes and intentions of those who arranged its festivities than often falls out at galas planned by mortals.

At five o'clock on the following morning the joyous din at length sank into silence, and as many as hospitable ingenuity could find room for lay down at Mowbray Park to enjoy again in dreams the untarnished gaiety of that happy day.

CHAPTER II.

THE MORNING AFTER THE BIRTHDAY.

Even the stable-boys deemed themselves privileged to sleep later than usual on the day after; and the ploughboy, as he went afield, missed the merry smile of the park dairy-maid, who, like her superiors, seemed to think on such an occasion time was made for very vulgar souls indeed, and that none who had joined in so illustrious a gala, could be expected to recover the full possession of their waking senses for some hours after the usual time.

By slow degrees, however, the different members of the establishment began to stretch themselves and give sign of reviving animation. The housemaids yawningly opened the window-shutters; the footmen crept after them to aid in removing from one room at least the traces of the jubilee, which, like the relics of a lamp that has burnt out, showed but the more unsightly from its past splendour; and at length, to a superficial eye, the breakfast-room looked like the breakfast-room of former years; though a more discriminating glance might have detected girandoles where no such things had ever glittered before, card-tables in the place of work-tables, and flowers, still blooming in situations as little usual to them as a bed of strawberries would have been the day before.

But it was long after these hireling efforts of forced labour had prepared the table for the morning meal, that any one of the favoured sleepers destined to partake of it left his or her downy pillow.... In short ... it was past mid-day before the family and their guests began to assemble; and even then many stragglers were still waited for before they appeared, and Mrs. Mowbray and Helen began at length to talk of breaking up the long session, and of giving orders to the butler to take care of all those who should come after.

"It is not very surprising that the Davenports, who never ceased dancing till long after the sun came to look at them," said Helen,—"it is not all wonderful that they should sleep late, and I believe Mr. Vivian makes it a principle to be the last on all occasions. But I am quite astonished that papa does not appear: was he asleep, mamma, when you came down this morning?"

"No, Helen, not quite asleep, for he spoke to me. But I think he was very sleepy, for I hardly understood what he said; and as he appeared extremely tired when he went to bed, I told Curtis to darken the room again, and leave him quiet."

Another half-hour brought forth the Davenports and Mr. Vivian; but still Mr. Mowbray did not appear, and Helen, though hitherto she had been quite satisfied by her mother's account of his prolonged slumbers, again began to feel uneasy about him.

"Do you not think, mamma," said she, "that I might venture to go up to him?"

"I see not the least objection to it, Helen; especially as we know, that if it were you who happened to wake him out of the soundest sleep he ever enjoyed, the pleasure of seeing you near him would quite atone for it."

"Very well mamma,—then I shall certainly let him sleep no longer now;" and, so saying, Helen left the room.

"Is not Helen Mowbray a charming creature!" said a gentleman who was seated next Miss Torrington, and who, being neither young, handsome, rich, nor noble, felt that he could wound no feelings by expressing his admiration of one young lady to another.

"I will tell you what she is," answered Rosalind warmly: "she is just as much better than every body else in the world, as her sister, there, is more beautiful."

"And you are...." said the middle-aged gentleman, fixing a pair of very intelligent eyes on her face,—"you are...."

But notwithstanding the look of curiosity with which Miss Torrington listened, the speaker suddenly stopped, for a bell was rung with that sort of sudden and continued vehemence which denotes haste and agitation in the hand that gives it movement.

"That is my father's bell!" said Charles in an accent of alarm; and starting up, he was out of the room in an instant.

Mrs. Mowbray immediately followed him, and for several minutes a sort of heavy silence seemed to have fallen on every individual present—not a word being uttered by any one, and the eyes of all fixing themselves on the face of Fanny, who kept her place as if spell-bound, but with a countenance that expressed a feeling approaching to terror.

"This is not to be borne!" exclaimed Rosalind abruptly. "Excuse us for a moment," she added, addressing those who still remained in the breakfast-room.—"Come with me, Fanny, and let us know the worst at once."

The two girls left the room together; and in a very few minutes afterwards a servant entered, the violent agitation of whose manner announced the news he brought before he spoke it.

"My master ... my poor master is dead!" were the words he uttered; and their effect upon a party assembled for an occasion of so much festivity, and who had so lately parted with their kind and happy host in perfect health, may be easily imagined.

One single word in reply to the eager chorus of inquiry told the manner of his death—

"Apoplexy!"

The scene which followed was what such an event must necessarily produce. No single creature present, except one pretty portionless young lady who thought it very likely that Mr. Charles might now fall in love with her, could by possibility be benefited by the death of the amiable man who had just breathed his last, and it is therefore probable that the universal expression of regret was sincere in quality, though its quantity might have been somewhat preternaturally increased by the circumstances in which the parties were relatively placed when the awful event was made known. Several tears were shed, and some glasses of cold water called for, while the carriages were getting ready; the gentlemen all looked grave, and many of the ladies pale; but in less than half an hour they had all left the house, not one of them, as it happened, being on terms of sufficient intimacy with the family to justify their offering to remain at such a moment.

It is easy enough to dismiss from the scene persons whose feelings were so slightly interested in it; but far different would be the task were I to attempt painting the heartfelt anguish of those who remained. Mr. Mowbray had been so deeply yet so tranquilly loved by every member of his family—his intercourse with them had been so uniformly that of constant endearment, unchequered by any mixture of rough temper or unreasonable caprice, that their love for him was so natural and inevitable, that they had never reasoned upon it, or were fully aware of its intensity, till the dreadful moment in which they learned that they had lost him for ever.

The feelings of Mrs. Mowbray for many hours amounted to agony; for till a medical gentleman who examined the body at length succeeded in convincing her that she was mistaken, she felt persuaded that her beloved husband owed his death to her neglect, and that if, when she mistook his unintelligible speech for sleepiness, she had discovered his condition, and caused him to be bled, his precious life might have been saved. It was evident, however, from many circumstances, that the seizure was of a nature not to be baffled or parried by art; and the relief this conviction at length afforded the widow was so great, that her having first formed a contrary opinion was perhaps a blessing to her.

The grief of Charles was that of a young, ardent, and most affectionate spirit; but his mother and his sisters now seemed to hang upon him wholly, and the Being who alone can read all hearts only knew how deep was the sorrow he felt. The young Fanny, stealing away to her chamber, threw herself, in an agony of tears, upon her bed, and, forgotten in the general dismay that had fallen upon all, wept herself into a sleep that lasted till she awakened on the following morning to a renewed sense of sorrow which came over her like the dreadful memory of some frightful dream.

But of all those whom poor Mowbray had left to deplore his loss, it was Helen—his darling Helen—who unquestionably felt it the most profoundly. His love for her had all that is most touching in partiality, without one atom of the injustice which renders such a feeling criminal; and its effect upon her loving and enthusiastic temper was stronger than any words can describe.

Miss Torrington was perhaps beyond any other member of the family aware of this, and the tenderest pity for the silent, suffering Helen took possession of her. She was in truth a looker-on upon the melancholy scene, and as such, was more qualified to judge how sorrow worked in each of them than any other could be. Her residence in the family, though sufficient to impress her with the kindest feelings towards its chief, and the deepest impression of his worth, had hardly been long enough to awaken thoroughly her affections towards him, and she wept more in pity for those around her than from any personal feeling of grief for the loss she had herself sustained. To soothe poor Helen, to lead her thoughts even for a moment from the subject that engrossed them, and to keep her as much as possible from gazing in vain tenderness and hopeless agony upon the body of her father, became the sole occupation of Rosalind during the dreadful interval between the real loss of the beloved being to whom the soul of his child still fondly clung, and the apparently more final separation still which took place when all that was left of him was borne from the house.

Helen made little apparent return to all these tender cares, but she was fully conscious of them. She felt that Rosalind read her heart, and knew how to pity her; and the conviction turned liking into love, of that enduring kind which such hearts as Helen's alone know how to give.

CHAPTER III.

THE VICAR OF WREXHILL.

On the day preceding that appointed for the funeral, Mrs. Mowbray received the following letter:—

"Madam,

"I trust that, as the minister of your parish, my venturing to break in upon your grief will not be considered as an intrusion. In the festivities which have ended so awfully, your hospitality invited me and my children to bear a part; and although I declined the invitation, I am most anxious to prove to you, madam, and to your family, that no deficiency of friendly feeling induced me to do so. But 'it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting,' and I now therefore ask your permission to wait on you, with the most earnest hope that the sacred office I hold may enable you to receive me rather with a feeling of comfort than of pain. Be assured, madam, that short as the period of my ministry in the Parish of Wrexhill has been, it is with deep sympathy in the grief that afflicts you that I subscribe myself, madam,

"Your humble servant and friend,

"William Jacob Cartwright.

"Wrexhill Vicarage, May 9th, 1833."

Little calculated as this letter may seem to excite violent emotion, it threw poor Mrs. Mowbray into an agony of renewed grief. The idea of seeing for the first time since her loss a person who, however well-meaning in his wish to visit her, must be classed as a stranger, was inexpressibly painful; and, unused to encounter difficulty or inconvenience of any kind, she shrank from receiving Mr. Cartwright with a degree of weakness which made her son, who had seldom left her side, tremble to think how little she was calculated to endure with firmness the desolation that had fallen upon her.

"Oh! no! no! no!" she exclaimed vehemently, "I cannot see him—I can see no one!—keep him from me, Charles,—keep every one from me, if you would not see me sink to the earth before your eyes!"

"My poor mother!..." said Charles, tenderly taking her hand, "do not let me see you tremble thus—you will make me tremble too! and we have need of strength—we have all great need of strength in this time of trial."

"But you will not let this clergyman come to me, Charles!... Oh no! you cannot be so cruel!"

"The very weakness which makes you shrink from this, my dearest mother, is the strongest proof that such a visit should be sought, and not avoided. Where, mother, are we any of us to look for the strength we want, except from Him whose minister now seeks to comfort us?"

"He cannot comfort me!... Can you, can Helen, can my pretty Fanny comfort me?... Then how should he?... Charles, Charles, there is no comfort in seeing this strange man; you cannot think there is: then why do you still stand with his note in your hand as if doubtful how you ought to answer it?"

"No, mother, I am not doubtful: my very soul seems to sink within me, when I think that he whose precepts...."

Tears—copious woman-like tears choked the utterance of the athletic youth, who looked as if he could fight and conquer in any strife to which fortune or misfortune could lead him. But the softness that now mastered him came not of weakness, but of strength—strength of every feeling that might do honour to a man. For a few moments he gave way to this burst of passionate sorrow, and the mother and son wept together.

"My own dear Charles!" said Mrs. Mowbray, taking his hand and pressing it to her heart, "how could I think for a moment that you would urge me to do what was so very painful!"

"It can hardly be so painful for you to do as for me to urge it, dearest mother; and yet I must do so ... because I think it right. There is no other person in the world, I think, of what rank or station soever, for whose admittance I would plead so earnestly, unless it were one who, like this gentleman, offered to visit you as the minister of God."

Mrs. Mowbray buried her face in her handkerchief, and turned from him with a movement of impatience. At this moment, Helen, and her constant attendant Rosalind, entered the room. Mr. Cartwright's note was still in Charles's hand, and he gave it to his sister, saying, "Helen, I think my mother ought not to refuse this visit; but she is very averse to it. I would not pain her for the world; but this is not a moment to refuse any one who offers to visit us as the minister of Heaven."

Helen read the note, and her pale cheeks were washed anew with tears as she did so.

"It is meant kindly," she said as she laid it upon the table; "but it is very soon for my poor mother to meet a stranger."

Rosalind's eyes rested on the folded note, and some feeling suggested by the consciousness that she too was almost a stranger brought a flush to her cheek, and led her to step back towards a distant sofa. Whether Charles observed or understood the movement, she knew not; but he followed and placed the letter in her hand.

The words of Helen seemed to comfort her mother, for she again looked up, and addressing Charles, almost reproachfully, said,

"Your sister Helen thinks as I do, Charles: it would almost be an outrage against decency to receive a stranger on such a day as this."

"Had the request to wait upon you come from our late clergyman, mother, would you have refused it?"

"Certainly not: but he was a friend of long standing, not a stranger, Charles."

"But had he not been a clergyman, mother, you would hardly have wished him to choose such a time to make a visit here; and our not having yet become familiar with Mr. Cartwright in the common intercourse of society, seems to me no sufficient reason for refusing to see him in the sacred character in which he has offered to come...."

Some powerful emotion checked his utterance; but in a moment he added,

"I would wish once more to pray beside my father before he goes hence to be no more seen by us on earth."

"Mother!..." cried Helen, dropping on her knees and throwing her arms round her.

The appeal was answered by an embrace in which their tears mingled, and poor Mrs. Mowbray, whose aching heart seemed to dread every new emotion, said, while something like a shudder ran through her frame, "Do with me as you will, my children.... I cannot bear much more.... But perhaps it would be better for me that I should sink to rest beside him!"

"My dearest friend!" exclaimed Rosalind, coming softly towards her and impressing a kiss upon her forehead, "you have not lost all for which you might wish to live."

"Oh, true ... most true!... Where is my poor Fanny, Rosalind? You will answer this letter for me, Charles?... I will be ready to see Mr. Cartwright whenever he chooses to come.... It will be a dreadful trial—but I am willing to endure it."

The young man left the room, and such an answer was returned to the clergyman's note as brought him to the door within an hour after it was despatched.

Rosalind, in obedience to Mrs. Mowbray's hint, had sought Fanny in her chamber, where she seemed to find a sad consolation in versifying all the tender recollections of her lost father that her memory could supply; but she instantly obeyed the summons, and when Mr. Cartwright arrived, the whole family were assembled in the drawing-room to receive him.

The person, voice, and address of this gentleman were singularly well calculated to touch and soothe hearts suffering from affliction; and after the first painful moment in which they raised their eyes to meet those of the first stranger who had been admitted to look upon their sorrow, there was nothing in the interview to justify the terror with which the thought of it had inspired the poor widow.

Either from tact or feeling, Mr. Cartwright seemed to avoid speaking to Mrs. Mowbray, and it was to her son that he addressed such words as the occasion called for. Meanwhile, from time to time his eyes rested with gentle pity on the three beautiful girls, whose tears flowed silently as they listened to him.

But though the manner of Mr. Cartwright was full of the tenderest kindness, it was apparently embarrassed. He evidently feared to touch or to dwell upon the agonising subject which occupied all their thoughts, and it was Charles who had the courage to turn this melancholy meeting to the only purpose for which it could be desirable, by saying—though with a faltering voice,—

"Mr. Cartwright ... may we ask you to pray with us beside the coffin that contains the body of my father?"

The clergyman started, and his countenance expressed a mixture of satisfaction and surprise, his manner instantly became more solemn—more devout, and he replied eagerly, rising from his chair as he spoke, as if willing to hasten to the scene to which he was called,

"Most gladly—most joyfully, my dear sir, will I kneel with you and your amiable family to implore the Divine grace. I did not know.... I had hardly dared to hope.... Indeed I feared from the festivities ... from the style in which...."

"I trust, sir," interrupted young Mowbray almost in a whisper, "that you do not suppose us unused to prayer, because we have rejoiced in the blessings which Heaven has bestowed?"

"I thank my God that it is not so," replied the clergyman, pressing the young man's hand affectionately; "and I will praise His holy name for every symptom I find that the world, my dear young friend, has not taken too strong a hold upon your heart. May we through His grace walk righteously together in the path in which it hath pleased Him to place us side by side!"

Charles Mowbray's heart was ever open to every expression of kindness; and now, softened by sorrow, and warmed by a feeling of the purest piety, he returned the friendly pressure with interest, and then, taking his poor mother's arm within his own, led the way to the chamber of death.

The mourning family knelt beside the coffin, and listened with suppressed sobs to an extempore prayer, by no means ill suited to the occasion, though it was not, as poor Charles had expected, chosen from among the many solemn and beautiful orisons which the Church has furnished or which the Scriptures might supply for such an hour of need. But he was not disposed at this moment to cavil at any words calculated to raise his thoughts and those of the beings he most fondly loved to that Power which had hitherto blessed their existence, and from whence alone they could hope for support under the affliction with which He had now visited them. Fervently and earnestly he prayed for them and for himself; and when he rose from his knees and again pressed his suffering mother to his heart, it was with a feeling of renovated hope and confidence in the future protection of Heaven which nothing but prayer uttered with genuine piety can give.

Mr. Cartwright did not take his leave till he had spoken an individual blessing to each of them, which was accompanied by a pressure of the hand that seemed to express more sympathy in what each felt than any words could have done.

Young Mowbray then retired with him to arrange everything respecting the ceremony which was to take place on the morrow. His mother expressed a wish to lie down for an hour; and the three girls, after attending her to her room, carefully shutting out the light in the hope that she might sleep, and each one bidding her do so, with a fond caress, retreated to the dressing-room of Helen, when their conversation naturally turned on Mr. Cartwright.

This gentleman had taken possession of the little living of Wrexhill only one month before the death of his most distinguished parishioner. During the week which followed his first performance of duty in the church, the family at the Park made a visit at the Vicarage: for though Mr. Cartwright was a widower, he had a daughter nearly twenty years of age, who, as mistress of her father's house, was of course visited by the ladies. When this visit was returned, the Mowbray family were all absent; and during the short interval which followed before the day on which young Mowbray came of age, the preparations for the fête by which this event was to be celebrated had prevented Mr. Cartwright and his family from receiving any other invitation than that which requested their attendance at it. This having been declined, he was as nearly as possible a personal stranger to the whole Mowbray family.

"What exquisite benevolence his countenance expresses!" exclaimed Fanny: "I never saw eyes so full of gentleness."

"His eyes are remarkably handsome," replied Rosalind; "but I am not quite sure that I like him."

"The moments we passed with him were moments of agony," said Helen: "it would hardly be fair to pronounce any judgment upon him from such an interview."

"Perhaps you are right, dear Helen, and I will endeavour to suspend mine," replied Rosalind. "But at least I may venture to remark that he is a very young-looking father for the full-grown son and daughter we have seen."

"I do not think he can be their father," observed Fanny. "Perhaps he is only the husband of their mother?... Don't you think that is most likely, Helen?"

"I don't know, dear," answered Helen: "I believe I hardly saw him."

"I really doubt if you did, my poor Helen," said Rosalind; "but if he speak sooth, he could not say the same of us. If the Reverend gentleman be given to sketching of portraits, he might, I think, produce a good likeness of either of us, for, like Hamlet when he looked at Ophelia, 'he fell to such perusal of our faces, as he would draw them'.... I do not think I shall like this Mr. Cartwright.... I do not mean now, Helen; I speak only of what I think I shall do when I know more of him."

"Do you call that suspending your judgment, Rosalind?" said Helen with a feeble smile.

"Well, then, do not try to make a hypocrite of me, dearest: it will never answer: Wisdom is of too slow a growth for my little unprofitable hotbed of an intellect, which forces every thought to run up to full growth, lanky and valueless, as soon as it is sown. But by-and-by you shall transplant some of my notions, Helen, into the fine natural soil of your brain; and then, if they flourish, we shall see what they are really worth."

For all reply, the pale Helen shook her head, as one who knows not well what has been said to him; and the conversation languished and dropped, as every other had done since the blow had fallen which had levelled her young and joyous spirit to the dust.

CHAPTER IV.

THE WILL.

The day which saw the honoured remains of Mr. Mowbray committed to the tomb was one of dreadful suffering to his family, and to none more than to his son, who with a heart swelling with the most genuine grief, was obliged to assume the garb of ceremony, and do the now gloomy honours of the mansion to many of the same friends and neighbours who had so recently received the joyous greeting of his father. Most thankful was he for the relief which followed the departure of the last of those who came to do honour to these splendid obsequies; and most soothing was it to his wounded and weary spirits to find himself once more surrounded only by those who could read in a look all he wished to express, and who required no welcome to share in the sorrow of that bitter day.

But, like all other periods of human life, whether marked by sorrow or by joy, it passed away with as even and justly-measured a pace as if no event distinguished it from its fellow days; and then, by slow but sure degrees, the little trifling ordinary routine of daily circumstance came with its invisible and unnoticed magic, to efface, or at least to weaken, feelings which seemed to have been impressed by the stamp of burning iron on their souls.

Charles Mowbray had not yet taken his degree, and wishing to do so as soon as possible, he was anxious to return to Christ Church without delay; but his father's will had not yet been opened, and, at the request of his mother, he postponed his departure till this could be done. This important document was in the hands of Sir Gilbert Harrington, an intimate friend and neighbour, who being in London at the time of Mr. Mowbray's death, had been unable to obey the summons sent to him in time to attend the funeral; but within a week after he arrived, and the following morning was fixed upon for this necessary business.

The persons present were Sir Gilbert Harrington, Mr. Cartwright, a respectable solicitor from the country town who had himself drawn the instrument, and Charles Mowbray.

It was dated rather more than ten years back, and, after the usual preamble, ran thus:

"In order that my children, or any other persons whom it may concern, may know the reason and motive of the disposition of my property which I am about to make, it is necessary that I should therewith state the manner of my marriage with Clara Helena Frances, my dearly-beloved wife. Notwithstanding her vast possessions, I wooed and married her solely because I loved her; and this she had the generosity to believe, though I was nearly penniless, having nothing but my true affection and good blood to offer in return for all the wealth she brought. For several months she withstood my earnest solicitations for an immediate union, because, had she married before she became of age, her guardian would have insisted upon settlements and restrictions, which would have deprived me of all control over her property; nor would she subsequently sign any document whatever previous to her marriage, thereby rendering me the sole possessor of her fortune. Wherefore, to show my sense of this unparalleled confidence and generosity, I hereby make her the sole inheritrix of all I possess, to be ultimately disposed of according wholly and solely to her own own will and pleasure...." And then followed, with every necessary and unnecessary technicality of the law, such a disposition of his property as left his children entirely dependent on their mother both for their present and future subsistence.

That this will was very different from anything that Charles Mowbray expected, is most certain, and there might perhaps have been some slight feeling of disappointment at finding himself dependent even upon his mother; but if such there were, it was not sufficiently strong to prevent his doing justice to the noble feeling which had led to it; and, in truth he felt so certain of the fond affection of his mother, that not a shadow of fear either for his own interest or that of his sisters crossed his mind.

The lawyer who read aloud the deed he had penned, had of course no observation to make upon it, and Mr. Cartwright only remarked that it was a proof of very devoted love and confidence.

Of the small party present at this lecture, Sir Gilbert Harrington was the only one who testified any strong emotion respecting it; and his displeasure and vexation were expressed in no very measured terms. His warmth was at length checked, not because he had uttered all he had to say, but because he met the eye of Mr. Cartwright fixed upon him with a sort of scrutiny that was unpleasing to his feelings. He therefore stopped short in the philippic he was pouring forth upon the infernal folly of a man's acting in matters of importance without consulting his friends, and taking the arm of Charles, walked through the hall into the grounds without appearing to remember that as he was left joint executor with Mrs. Mowbray to the will, it might be expected that he should make some notification of its contents to her before he left the house.

"Shall we not speak to my mother, Sir Gilbert?" said Mowbray, endeavouring to restrain the eager step of the Baronet as he was passing through the hall-door.

"No, sir," was the laconic reply; and on he stalked with a more rapid step than before.

The conversation which passed between them during the hour which intervened before Sir Gilbert clambered up to his saddle and galloped off, was made up of something between lamentation and anathema on his side, and the most earnest assurances that no mischief could ensue from his father's will on the part of Charles. The testy old gentleman could not, however, be wrought upon to see the widow, who, as he said, must have used most cursed cunning in obtaining such a will; of which, however, poor lady, she was as innocent as the babe unborn; and he at length left the Park, positive that he should have a fit of the gout, and that the widow Mowbray would marry within a year.

As soon as he had got rid of his warm-hearted but passionate old friend, Mowbray hastened to repair the neglect he had been forced into committing, and sought his mother in the drawing-room. But she was no longer there.

The room, indeed, appeared to be wholly untenanted, and he was on the point of leaving it to seek his mother elsewhere, when he perceived that Miss Torrington was seated at the most distant corner of it, almost concealed by the folds of the farthest window-curtain.

"Rosalind!" ... he exclaimed, "are you hid there?... Where are all the rest? and how come you to be left alone?"

"I am left alone, Mr. Mowbray ... because I wished it. Helen and Fanny are with your mother, I believe, in her room."

Charles wished to see them all, and to see them together, and had almost turned to go; but there was something in the look and manner of Rosalind that puzzled him, and going up to her, he said kindly, "Is anything the matter, Rosalind? You look as if something had vexed you."

To his great astonishment she burst into tears, and turning from him as if to hide an emotion she could not conquer, she said, "Go, go, Mr. Mowbray—go to your mother—you ought to have gone to her instantly."

"Instantly?... When?... What do you mean, Miss Torrington?"

"Miss Torrington means, Mr. Mowbray, that it would in every way have been more proper for you to have announced to your mother yourself the strange will it has pleased your father to leave, instead of sending a stranger to do it."

"Who then has told her of it, Rosalind? Was it the lawyer? was it Mr. Humphries?"

"No sir—it was Mr. Cartwright."

"But why should you be displeased with me for this, dear Rosalind? Sir Gilbert led me out of the library by force, and would not let me go to my mother, as I wished to do, and I have but this instant got rid of him; but I did not commission either Mr. Cartwright or any one else to make a communication to her which I was particularly desirous of making myself."

"You did not send Mr. Cartwright to her?" said Rosalind colouring, and looking earnestly in his face.

"No, indeed I did not. Did he say I had sent him?"

"How very strange it is," she replied after a moment's consideration, "that I should be perfectly unable to say whether he did or did not! I certainly do not remember that he explicitly said 'Madam, your son has sent me here;' but this I do remember—that somehow or other I understood that you had done so."

"And how did he announce to my mother that she.... I mean, how did he communicate to her the purport of my father's will?"

"Charles Mowbray!" exclaimed Rosalind passionately, clenching her small hands and stamping her little foot upon the ground—"I may be a very, very wicked girl: I know I am wilful, headstrong, obstinate, and vain; and call me also dark-minded, suspicious, what you will; but I do hate that man."

"Hate whom, Rosalind?" said Charles, inexpressibly astonished at her vehemence. "What is it you mean?... Is it Mr. Cartwright, our good friendly clergyman, that you hate so bitterly?"

"Go to your mother, Mr. Mowbray. I am little more than seventeen years old, and have always been considered less instructed, and therefore sillier of course than was to be expected even from my age and sex; then will it not be worse than waste of time to inquire what I mean—especially when I confess, as I am bound to do, that I do not well know myself?... Go to your mother, Charles, and let her know exactly all you feel. You, at least, have no cause to hide your faults."

"I will go—but I wish I knew what has so strangely moved you."

"Ask your sisters—they saw and heard all that I did; at least, they were present here, as I was;—ask them, examine them, but ask me nothing; for I do believe, Charles, that I am less to be depended on than any other person in the world."

"And why so, my dear Rosalind?" replied Mowbray, almost laughing. "Do you mean that you tell fibs against your will?"

"Yes ... I believe so. At least, I feel strangely tempted to say a great deal more than I positively know to be true; and that is very much like telling fibs, I believe."

"Well, Rosalind, I will go, for you grow more mysterious every moment; only, remember that I should greatly like to know all the thoughts that come into that strange little head of yours. Will you promise that I shall?"

"No," was the ungracious reply; and turning away, she left the room by a door that led into a conservatory.

On entering his mother's dressing-room, Mowbray found her seated between her two daughters, and holding a hand of each.

She looked up as he entered: the traces of tears were on her cheeks, and her eyes rested on him with an expression of melancholy reproach such as he had never read in them before.

"My dear, dear mother!" he exclaimed as he approached her, "has my absence then vexed you so grievously?... I could not help it, mother; Sir Gilbert literally made me his prisoner."

"Sir Gilbert, Charles, might have shown more respect to the memory of the friend he has lost, than by keeping his son to listen to his own wild invectives against the wife that friend so loved and trusted."

"Whoever has repeated to you the hasty expressions of Sir Gilbert, my dear mother, in such a manner as to leave a painful impression on your mind against him, has not acted well. You know his temper, but you know his heart also; and I should not have thought that it could have been in the power of any one to make you doubt the real friendship of Sir Gilbert for us all."

"Surely, Charles, it was no symptom of friendship to me, to say that your dear father had made an accursed will!"

"Good heavens!... what a strange misrepresentation, mother!... and all hanging, as it should seem, upon one little syllable!... Our friend, as you well know, is what Rosalind calls a manish man; he denies the supremacy of woman, and might, and I verily believe did say, that a will which vested power in her must be a cursed will. But we know too well his long-licensed coarseness of expression to greatly marvel at that; but for the solemn and most awful word ac-cursed, believe me, mother, he never said it."

"It matters little, my dear son, what particular words of abuse Sir Gilbert uttered against me, provided that your heart did not echo them."

"Mother! dearest mother!" cried Helen, rising and going towards her brother, who seemed petrified at the words he heard, "how for a single moment could you believe that Charles's heart could echo any word that spoke not honour and love towards you!"

"He might have been mistaken, Helen," replied her mother with a heavy sigh: "Charles could not indeed suspect that the mother his dear father so fully trusted should prove unworthy of the trust.—But let us quit this painful theme; and believe me, my children, that the first wish of my heart is to prove myself worthy of his trust and your love."

"Such words are just what we might expect to hear from you, mother," said Mowbray, "were any profession from you to us necessary; but I would gladly forget that you have ever thought such an assurance called for."

He bent down and kissed her fervently; and then making a sign to Helen, who seemed about to follow him, that she should remain where she was, he walked out for a couple of hours among the darkest thickets he could find, with more of melancholy feeling than had ever before rested on his spirits.

CHAPTER V.

THE ARISTOCRACY OF WREXHILL.

There was no longer any thing to prevent Charles Mowbray's return to Oxford, and the following day the time of his departure was canvassed, and at length fixed for the early part of the following week. During the few days that intervened, Mrs. Mowbray seemed quite to have forgotten their painful conversation respecting the will; she resumed all her former confiding tenderness of manner, and told him before they parted, that henceforward his liberal allowance would be doubled.

The day preceding his departure was Sunday, and for the first time since their heavy loss the whole family appeared at church. They had all dreaded the moment of reappearing before the eyes of the little village world, and of thus giving public notice, as it were, that they no longer required to be left to mourn in secret: but this painful ceremony came, and was endured, like those that had preceded it; and poor Helen, as she laid her head upon her pillow, exclaimed, "What is there that we could not bear, and live."

The sad parting of the next morning having also passed over them, they at once, and by necessity, fell into the mode of life which they were hereafter to pursue. But dreary and heavy was the change that had fallen on them, and it was long ere the mere act of assembling for their daily meals ceased to be a source of suffering—for fearful was the blank left by the absence of the kind, the gentle, the beloved, the venerated being, whose voice was used to speak a blessing and a welcome over every repast. But our natures seize with avidity the healing balm which time and occupation offer: much variety of disposition was, however, manifested in the manner in which each one of the family sought the consolation they needed.

Mrs. Mowbray became evidently, though perhaps unconsciously, better both in health and spirits from the time that her neighbours, according to their different ranks, resumed their visits of friendship, civility, and respect. She had testified outwardly, excepting to such an eye as Rosalind's, more intense suffering than any other member of the family. Nor was this in the smallest degree the result of affectation: she felt all, and more than all, that she had ever expressed, and would gladly, for the sake of her poor children, have concealed a part of it, had the fibre of her character permitted her doing so. But she was demonstrative by nature: with great softness and sweetness of temper, was joined that species of weakness which is often said to be the most attractive feature in the female character;—a weakness that induced her to seize gladly and gratefully any hand extended to lead her, and which, while it made her distrust herself, gave most sovereign sway and masterdom to any one ready and willing to supply the strength and decision of purpose which she wanted.

Many female philippics have been penned, I believe, against that manly passion for superiority which leads our masters to covet in a companion chosen for life the temper of mind here described; but I am tempted to think that this longing to possess a being that wants protection, far from demonstrating a disposition prone to tyranny, shows a nature disposed to love and to cherish, in a manner perfectly accordant to the most perfect beau idéal of married life. But, on the other hand, there may perhaps be more of fondness than judgment in those who make such mallability of mind their first requisite in a choice so awfully important.

Mrs. Mowbray, however, had a thousand good qualities to justify the devoted affection of her husband. Generous, unsuspicious, and confiding, she was almost as incapable of doubting the goodness of others, as of deserving such doubts herself. Though heiress to immense property, no feeling in the slightest degree approaching to pride had even for a single instant swelled her heart; and though good, beautiful, and accomplished, her estimate of herself was lower than that formed of her by any other human being. Her heart was now more than ever opened to every expression of sympathy and kindness, and she experienced the most salutary effects from admitting those who uttered such, yet she was still a mourner in her very heart and soul; and there were moments in which she felt so bitterly that all her youthful affections were buried, and every hope of earthly happiness past, that the fair young faces of the three affectionate girls who were ready to devote themselves to her seemed too bright and beautiful to be kept within the influence of her melancholy, and she often sent them from her to their music-room, their flower-gardens, or the Park, with a sort of feverish anxiety, lest their youth and health should be sacrificed to their affection for her.

Helen had all the tenderness with none of the weakness of her mother's character. She soon ceased to speak of her father, except occasionally, when walking or sitting quite alone with Rosalind, when sheltering boughs or thickening twilight might conceal the working features of her face even from her. At such a moment, if some kind caress from her young companion touched unawares the feelings over which she unceasingly kept guard, as if they were a secret treasure too precious to be exposed to vulgar eyes, she would from time to time give way to the sacred pleasure of discoursing on the character of the father she had lost.

But she had resumed all her former occupations, and added to them the far from unpleasing task of imparting to Rosalind much that had either been ill taught or altogether neglected in her early education. This, as well as their daily-increasing affection for each other, kept them much together, without any blameable desertion either of Mrs. Mowbray or Fanny: for the former was really wretched if she thought they confined themselves too much to her drawing-room and herself; and the latter was hourly becoming more devoted to solitary study, and to speculations too poetical and sublime to be shared by any one less romantic and imaginative than herself.

The neighbourhood was not a large one: Mowbray Park, and the estate attached to it, stretched itself so far in all directions, that Oakley, the residence of Sir Gilbert Harrington, the nearest landed proprietor, was at the distance of more than a mile. The little village of Wrexhill, however, had one or two pretty houses in it, inhabited by ladies and gentlemen of moderate but independent fortune, with whom the family at the Park associated on terms of intimacy.

Among these, the late Vicar and his family had been the decided favourites of the whole race of Mowbrays,—and most deservedly so; for the father was a man of piety, learning, and most amiable deportment; his wife, a being whose temper, to say nothing of sundry other good qualities, had made her the idol of the whole parish; and his two sons and two daughters, just such sons and daughters as such parents deserved to have. But, as Gregory Dobbs, the old parish clerk, observed, after officiating at the funeral of Mr. Mowbray, "Death seemed to have taken a spite against the village of Wrexhill, for within one short month he had mowed down and swept away the two best and most powerful men in the parish, and 'twas no easy matter to say how long the inhabitants might be likely to wear mourning."

The dispersion and departure of the good Vicar's family was an additional misfortune that his parishioners had not looked for. The living, more valuable for its pleasant house and pretty glebe than for its revenue, was in the gift of one who through life had been, not in appearance or profession only, but in most true sincerity, the attached friend of the late incumbent; and Edward Wallace, his eldest son, was bred to the church with the express understanding that the next presentation should be his. With this persuasion, the young man's first act on the death of his father was to tell his mother and sisters that they should continue to inhabit the home they had so long loved. But this arrangement was speedily overthrown; for in reply to the letter which announced the death of his father to Sir J. C. Blackhouse, the patron of the living, he received the following answer:

"My dear Fellow,

"As the devil would have it, I am now a cabinet minister, and I no more dare give the living to your Tory father's son, than I dare blow up Westminster Hall, or pull the Lord Chancellor's nose in public. I do assure you I am very sorry for this, for I believe you are likely to be as good a man as your excellent father, who, when he was my tutor, had certainly no notion that I should turn out such a first-rate Radical. However, there is no resisting destiny; and so here I am, just going to give my pretty little living to some Reverend Mr. Somebody that I don't care a straw about, because my Lord M—— says, that though a bit of a saint, he is a capital clerical Whig. I wish, Edward, you'd try to forget all the fusty old nonsense about Church and State,—upon my life I do. By-gones are by-gones, my dear fellow; and if you could get up a clever pamphlet on the Tithe Laws, or on the Protestant affinities to the Church of Rome, or anything else with a good rich vein of whiggery running through it, I really think I might still be able to do something for you. Do think of this, and believe me,

"My dear fellow,

"Very affectionately,

"Your friend,

"J. C. Blackhouse."

This most unlooked-for disappointment of course banished the Wallace family from Wrexhill; and the regret their departure left was so general, that it would be hardly saying too much to declare that no interference of the Whig government, however personal or tyrannical, ever produced a stronger sensation of disgust in the circle to which its influence extended than this.

It was greatly owing to the influence of Mr. Mowbray, that Mr. Cartwright, his son and daughter, were visited by the neighbourhood on their arrival; but the obvious injustice and impropriety of treating with indignity and disrespect the clergyman who was placed among them, solely because they would have preferred one of their own choosing, had led the benevolent owner of "the great house" to banish the painful feelings to which this unpopular appointment had given rise, and before he died, he had the satisfaction of knowing that those who looked up to him as authority had followed his example, and that the new Vicar had been called upon by all the visiting families of Wrexhill.

The handsomest house in the village was inhabited by a widow lady still young enough to be called handsome, and living with sufficient show to be supposed rich. She played a little, sang a little, sketched a little, and talked and dressed a great deal. Some people declared that when she was young, her complexion must have been as beautiful as that of Miss Fanny Mowbray: but these were only the young farmers, who did not know rouge when they saw it. This lady, whose name was Simpson, had one little girl, a pretty little creature of eight years old, who was sometimes petted and played with till she was completely spoiled, and sometimes left in the nursery for days together, while her mamma was absorbed in the perusal of a new novel or the fabrication of a new dress.

At the next turn of the village street was the entrance to a little place of much less pretension, but infinitely prettier, and in better taste: this also was tenanted by a fair widow, who, had she not been surrounded by three daughters, all taller than herself, might have passed for being as young and as handsome as Mrs. Simpson. She was, however, as little like her as possible in every other respect, being subject to no caprice, remarkably simple in her dress, and her hair and her cheeks always remaining of the colour that pleased God. This lady had been early left a widow by the gallant and unfortunate Colonel Richards, who lost a life in a skirmish with the native troops of India which might have done honour to his country in a nobler field. What his young widow endured in returning from a remote part of the country to Madras, with her three infants and very little means, had doubtless contributed, with the good gifts born with her, to make her what she was; for there was a firmness and strength of mind enveloped in her miniature frame, which seemed as if her brave husband had bequeathed to her the legacy of his dauntless spirit to sustain her under all the privations and misery his early death left her to encounter alone.

The character of her three girls will be easily understood hereafter.

Mrs. Richards's cottage was the only residence in Wrexhill except the Vicar's that did not open upon the village street, so that she had no immediate neighbour; but close to the corner of the pretty field that fronted her dwelling and fed her cow, lived a bachelor half-pay officer, who among many other excellent qualities possessed one which made him pre-eminently interesting in her eyes:—he had known Colonel Richards well, and less than half the reverence he felt for his memory has often sufficed to enrich the church of Rome with a saint. It was not Major Dalrymple's fault if the widow of his umqwhile commanding officer had not long ago exchanged her comparative poverty for his very comfortable independence; and considering that he was five years younger than the lady, was the presumptive heir to a noble Scotch cousin who was thought consumptive, played the flute exquisitely, and was moreover a tall and gentlemanly figure, with no other fault imputed to him than a somewhat obstinate pertinacity of attachment to herself, many people both in and out of Wrexhill wondered at her obduracy, especially as she had never been heard to say, even by her most intimate friends, "that her heart was buried in the grave of her dear Richards."

The remaining aristocracy of Wrexhill need hardly be enumerated, as they will not make any very considerable figure in the following pages. But there was an attorney, an apothecary, and a schoolmaster. The latter, indeed, was an excellent person, of whom we may hear more in the sequel; but a catalogue raisonné of names makes but a dull chapter.

CHAPTER VI.

THE PRINCIPAL PERSON IN THE VILLAGE.—THE VICAR'S FAMILY.

Two days after the Mowbray family appeared at church, the village gentry began to offer their visits of condolence, which, happily however for the tranquillity of the persons chiefly concerned, were performed in the improved manner of modern times; that is to say, every allusion to the recent event being by all but their intimate friends most cautiously avoided by all parties.

The first person who entered the drawing-room was Mrs. Simpson. On all occasions, indeed, this lady exerted herself to sustain the position of "the principal person in the village." She seldom gave an order for "the fly," which, weak as were its own springs, was, in truth, the main-spring of all the rural visitings; she seldom ordered this indispensable commodity without adding to her instructions, "Pray be punctual, Mr. Sims,—I say this for your sake as well as my own; for if the principal person in the village is made to wait, you may depend upon it an opposition will be started immediately, and in that case, you know, I should be obliged to give it my patronage." In like manner, the butcher and baker in the village, the ruddy-faced milkman out of it, the shoemaker, the dressmaker, the carpenter, the glazier, the dealer in small wares and all wares, were severally and collectively given to understand that Mrs. Simpson, as the principal person in the village, had a right to expect the first-fruits of their civility, attention, industry, and general stock-in-trade.

Her entrance into the presence of Mrs. Mowbray was as pregnant with sentiment and sympathy as the degree of intimacy to which she was admitted would permit. The hand-shaking was performed with a little pressure and a little sigh; every pause in the conversation was made to speak volumes by the sad tone in which the next sentence was spoken: in short, if the minds of Mrs. Mowbray, her eldest daughter, and her ward, who kindly volunteered to sustain this ordeal with her, had not been fully occupied by the recent event, almost every word, look, and gesture of the principal person of Wrexhill were calculated to recall it.

Mrs. Simpson was accompanied by her pretty little girl, flowered and furbelowed into as near a resemblance to a bantam chicken as it was possible for a pretty little girl to take.

The distance from the village to the Park was almost too great for so young a child to walk, and the poor little thing looked heated, cross, and weary; but her mamma declared that a ramble through those delicious fields was the greatest treat in the world. "I trust in Heaven," she continued, using her near-sighted eye-glass to look at a drawing which lay on the table, "that Mimima" (her abbreviation of Jemima) "will have my taste for sketching—I like to take her out with me, dear pet, she enjoys it so! but at this lovely season it is the most difficult thing in the world not to sketch as one goes. Indeed, when the mind is pre-occupied"—(a sigh)—"every object, however"—(a pause)—"I beg your pardon, but it is so difficult—"

"Come to me, Jemima," said Helen, holding out her hand, "and let me take your bonnet off."

The child put up her shoulder, and pressed with distressing closeness upon the delicate lilac of her mother's new silk dress.

"It is such a shy puss!" said Mrs. Simpson; "I often think what would become of her"—(a sigh). "I beg your pardon—but sad thoughts will press—"

"Little girl, do you love eau de Cologne?" said Rosalind, taking a bottle from the table and holding it towards her.

Either the look, the accent, or the action of Rosalind had attraction sufficient to draw the child towards her; when she good-humouredly relieved the glowing cheeks from the stifling encumbrance of a very close pink bonnet and thick green veil, and then copiously bedewed the pretty head with the fragrant and refreshing water.

"Do you like it, dear?"

"Yes, very much; do it again! again!" said the child, laughing aloud.

"Mimima!—what did I tell you, dear! Alas!—young heads—I beg your pardon—" (a sigh). "You are too good!—I fear you will spoil her, Miss Torrington."

"I am only trying to cool her a little, ma'am; she looks quite in a fever."

"She has sported along before me like a little fawn! I brought my maid and the man servant, as I thought they might carry her between them if she was tired; but she would not hear of it—the step of childhood is so elastic!—Alas!—I beg your pardon!—"

"Don't you like to ride a-cushion, Miss Jemima?" said Rosalind, struck by the idea of the maid and the man carrying the young lady between them.

"What is that?" inquired the child.

Rosalind laughed a little, and coloured a little, at being obliged to explain herself; but making the best of it, she took Mimima's little hands and interlaced them with her own, after the most approved manner of preparing to treat somebody with riding a-cushion.

No persons resent ridicule so much as those who are perpetually exposing themselves to it. Mrs. Simpson out-glowed her rouge as she said, "I did not mean, Miss Torrington, that my servants were to carry the child together,—I really wonder such a very droll idea.—I beg your pardon—but at such a time—"

Miss Torrington looked at her for a moment, and then rose and left the room.

Mrs. Simpson saw that she had offended the heiress, and from that moment conceived towards her one of those little feminine antipathies, which if they do not as often lead to daggers and bowls in the higher ranks of society as to black eyes and broken noses in the lower, are nevertheless seldom quite innoxious.

The conversation now began to languish, for the principal person in Wrexhill was decidedly out of humour, and Helen was painfully seeking for what she was to say next, when the door was thrown open, and Mr. and Miss Cartwright, and Mr. Jacob Cartwright, were announced.

No sudden and unexpected burst of sunshine ever produced a greater change in the aspect of a watery landscape, than the entrance of this party on the countenance of the handsome widow. Had Rosalind been present, she would have found some amusement, or at least some occupation, in seeking to discover whether it were the father or son who possessed this vivifying power. To the pale, hollow-eyed daughter she would certainly have attributed no such influence. But as we have not her help to decide the doubt, we must leave the matter to the slower hand of time.

Mr. Jacob Cartwright was a tall, straight, young man, but as yet a little inclining to that line of contour, which can only be described by the expressive word lanky. Neither was his hair handsome, for, designated as "light" by his particular friends and admirers, it was called "sandy" by the rest of the world. But the young gentleman had a finely-formed mouth, with a very beautiful set of teeth, and a large clear light blue eye, which many persons declared to be beautiful.

This young man was said to resemble greatly the mother he had lost: to his father he was certainly as unlike as possible. Mr. Cartwright, though somewhat above the middle height, was shorter than his son, and his person incomparably better built; his features were very regularly handsome, and the habitual expression of his countenance gentle and attractive. His eyes were large, dark, and very beautifully formed, and his hair and beard as black as those of a Spaniard, save here and there a silver line which about the temples began to mix itself with the sable. His mouth and teeth perhaps might have been said to resemble those of his son, had not the expression been so different. In the son these constituted merely a well-formed feature; to the father they seemed to give a power when he spoke that might work wonders either for good or evil.

Henrietta Cartwright resembled neither of them: of the two, she would have been said to be most like her father, because her hair and eyes were dark; but the form of the head and face, and above all, the cynic expression of the mouth, were in perfect contrast to his. Like her brother she was extremely thin; but she was not proportionably tall, and in her this ascetic form seemed rather the result of ill health than of make. She was moreover deadly pale, and seldom spoke in general society if she could possibly avoid it.

Mrs. Mowbray received all the party with cordial kindness. In Helen's manner there was a shade of coldness, especially to the father, whose offered hand she did not appear to see; but the whole trio shared the affectionate greetings of Mrs. Simpson.

"How very lucky I am to meet you! Such a dismal long walk, all alone!—but now we can return together. How are you, my dear Miss Henrietta? has your headache left you?—No?—Oh, how I grieve to see you suffer so! I need not inquire for you, Mr. Jacob—what a picture of youth and activity you are! Mimima, come here. Don't you remember your friend?—don't you remember Mr. Jacob Cartwright?—Ah! I thought you could not forget him! You would not be your mother's child, dearest, if you could ever forget kindness."

In her address to the elder gentleman there seemed to be a little more caution in the expression of her affectionate feelings; but she looked at him, and she listened to him, and more than once repeated what he said, as if to impress the precious words on her memory. In short, from the moment the Vicar and his family entered the room, it was evident the ladies of the Park were completely put

——"In non cale;"

and this, considering the undeviating respect which through life Mrs. Simpson had ever paid to wealth and station, was no trifling proof of the sincerity of that friendship which she professed for her new friends.

"I hope your youngest daughter is well, and Miss Torrington also?" said Mr. Cartwright.

"Quite well, thank you. Helen, do you know where your sister is?"

"In the library, I believe, mamma."

"Miss Cartwright, would you not like some refreshment?... Do ring the bell, Helen. I am sure, Mrs. Simpson, you ought to take some wine-and-water after your long walk."

It was not difficult to see that this civility was the result of a strong and painful effort on the part of Mrs. Mowbray, and Helen was provoked with the whole party for not declining it; but no choice was left her—the bell was rung, and the tray arrived. One comfort she had, and that no trifling one: neither herself nor her mother had any further occasion to seek subjects of conversation; Mrs. Simpson took the whole of this troublesome business upon herself, and for the period that the luncheon lasted was so completely engaged in eating and talking, that she had not time for a single sigh.

The two gentlemen and the little girl were very nearly as busily employed as herself; but Miss Cartwright sat silently apart, and a feeling as nearly allied perhaps to curiosity as politeness, induced Helen to change her place and seat herself near her.

"Will you not take some refreshment, Miss Cartwright?... Let me get you some grapes."

"I thank you—none."

"Not even a little soda-water and wine? The morning seems unusually warm."

"Nothing, I thank you."

"Are you a great walker?"

"Yes."

"This is a charming country for it—such a beautiful variety of lanes and fields."

"I seldom vary my walk."

"Indeed! And what is the favourite spot you have chosen?"

"The ugliest and most gloomy I could find, that I might be sure of never meeting any one."

Helen was silenced—she had not courage for another word, and in order to cover her retreat, moved towards the table, and bestowed her attention on the little girl, who, totally forgotten by her mamma, was quaffing long draughts of wine from a tumbler which Mr. Jacob had been preparing for himself, but which he had willingly yielded to her, and now seemed waiting for the inevitable effect of such excess with a sort of sly and covert glee that made Helen very angry.

"Your little girl will make herself ill, I am afraid, Mrs. Simpson, by the quantity of wine she is taking: I am afraid there is no water with it."

The lady, who was talking very earnestly in an under tone to Mr. Cartwright, started at this appeal, and with a glance of more anger than the age of the child could justify, drew her back from the table and made her stand at some distance from it.

"I really think that it is Mr. Jacob Cartwright who should be punished," said Helen: "for he knew a great deal more about the matter than the little girl herself."

"Oh no!... naughty little thing!"—said the mamma.

"I am very sorry if I have been the occasion of the little girl's doing what was wrong," said Mr. Jacob slowly and in a very gentle tone. "I did not think she would have taken so much; and she looked very tired and warm."

Mrs. Simpson made some civil answer, and turned to renew her conversation with the Vicar; but he was gone. She positively started, and looked about her with great interest to discover what had become of him. The windows of the room opened upon the lawn, and though she had not seen his exit, she very naturally guessed that it must have been made in that direction. After rising from the table, and making one or two unmeaning movements about the room, taking up a book and laying it down again without looking at its title, examining a vase on the chimney-piece and a rose on the flower-stand, she gradually drew towards the open window, and after pausing for half a minute, walked through it upon the grass.

The little girl trotted after her; Mr. Jacob followed, probably hoping to see her stagger about a little; and Helen, though sadly vexed at this new device to prolong the tedious visit, could do no less than walk after them.

The conservatory, drawing-room, and library, formed this side of the house, the whole range of windows opening uniformly upon the lawn. As Helen stepped out, she perceived that the party who had preceded her were entering by the window of the library, and she quickly followed them, thinking it probable that Fanny might be startled and vexed at this unexpected interruption, when, as was very likely, she might be in the very act of invoking the "sacred nine."

Upon entering the room, however, she found her sister, to her great surprise, conversing earnestly with Mr. Cartwright, and appearing to be hardly yet conscious of the presence of the others.

Mrs. Simpson gave a little, almost imperceptible toss of the head, at discovering how the gentleman was engaged.

"We could not think whither you had vanished, Mr. Cartwright," said she, in her sweetest voice; "but you really were very lucky to ramble in this direction. Miss Fanny ought to have her picture taken in this fine room, with all her books about her."

While she said this, Mr. Cartwright continued in a whisper to finish what he was addressing to Fanny; and having done so, he turned to the party which had followed him, saying, "The bright verdure of your beautiful lawn, Miss Mowbray, tempted me out; but I hope our intrusion has not disturbed your sister?"

Fanny answered eagerly that she was very glad to see him. At that moment Helen chanced to turn her eyes towards the window by which they entered; when she perceived that Miss Cartwright had followed them. She was, however, more than half concealed by a large orange tree which stood in a high square box beside the window; but her head was bent forward to look into the room, and a sneer of such very singular expression rested on her lip and in her eye as she looked at her father and Fanny, who were still standing close together, that Helen remained perfectly still, staring at her. In another moment Miss Cartwright changed the direction of her eyes, and encountered those of Helen fixed upon her with a look of unconcealed astonishment; but her own did not sink before them, and she turned away with a smile quite as strange and unintelligible as the look she had bestowed on Fanny.

At length this tedious visit was brought to its conclusion; the bonnet of the tipsy and now very pale little girl was replaced, a number of civil speeches spoken, and the whole party walked off together across the lawn to a gate which was to take them by a short cut through the Park.

"I quite envy Mrs. Simpson her walk home!" said Fanny. "I see she has taken Mr. Cartwright's arm: I really do think he is the very handsomest and most agreeable man I ever saw in my life!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE FIRST IMPRESSIONS MADE BY MR. CARTWRIGHT.—LETTER FROM LADY HARRINGTON.

The three girls rallied round Mrs. Mowbray as soon as the guests had departed, all kindly anxious to see how she bore this first step back into a world so wholly changed for her.

She looked pale, and there was an air of languor and weariness about her: nevertheless, to the great surprise of Helen, she expressed herself much pleased by the visit:

"Mr. Cartwright," said she, "appears to me to be one of the most amiable men I ever saw; every tone of his voice speaks kindness, and indeed, if he did not speak at all, one look of his has more feeling and pity in it than other people could express by a volume of words."

"Do you really think so, mamma?" said Helen eagerly, but suddenly stopped herself, aware that in truth she had no grounds whatever for the strong feeling of dislike towards him of which she was conscious. She remembered, too, that her father had expressed himself greatly pleased by the urbanity of his manners, and that the last act of the benign influence he was wont to exercise on those around him had been to conquer the prejudice against him, to which the exclusion of the Wallace family had unjustly given rise. Helen remembered all this in a moment; the colour mounted to her cheeks, and she was silent.

Rosalind, too, was silent, at least from words; but her eyes could speak as many volumes at a glance as Mr. Cartwright's, and she fixed them for an instant on Helen with a look that told her plainly her prejudices against their new neighbour, however unreasonable, were fully shared by her.

Meanwhile Fanny had thrown her arms round her mother's neck in a sort of rapture at hearing her own opinions confirmed by such authority. "Oh, how true that is, dearest mamma!" she exclaimed; "how exactly I feel the same when he speaks to me!... Such goodness, such gentleness, so much superiority, yet so much humility! Poor dear Mr. Wallace was an excellent good man, certainly, but no more to be compared to Mr. Cartwright than I to Hercules!"

"How many times have you seen Mr. Cartwright, Fanny?" said Rosalind.

"I have heard him preach three times," she replied, "and they were all the most beautiful sermons in the world; and I have seen and spoken to him four times more."

"Poor Mr. Wallace!" said Rosalind. "It was he who christened you, Fanny; and from that time to the hour of his death, you seldom passed many days together, I believe, without seeing and receiving affectionate words and kind looks from him: and yet four times speaking to this gentle gentleman has driven the memory of the poor old man from your heart!"

"No, it has not, Rosalind," replied Fanny, deeply blushing: "I am sure I did not say that, did I, mamma?—But my loving and remembering Mr. Wallace all the days of my life need not make me dislike everybody else, I suppose?"

"It would be a great misfortune to you if it did, Fanny," said Mrs. Mowbray. "I am delighted to see, both in you and many others, that the violent and most unjustifiable prejudice which was conceived against Mr. Cartwright before he was seen and known, is giving way before his amiable and excellent qualities: I have no doubt that he will soon be quite as popular in the parish as Mr. Wallace was."

"And Miss Cartwright, mamma?" said Helen; "do you think we shall love her as well as we did Emma Wallace?"

"I know nothing whatever of Miss Cartwright as yet, Helen; she appears very shy, but we must try to give her courage, my dear girls. I hope we shall be on terms of as great intimacy with our new Clergyman as with our former one: it was a sort of association that your dear father particularly approved, and that alone is a sufficient reason for our wishing to cultivate it."

This allusion was too solemn to admit any light conversation to follow it. Mrs. Mowbray strolled with Fanny into the conservatory, and Rosalind persuaded Helen that they should find the shrubberies infinitely cooler and more agreeable than the house.

But even under the thickest cover that the grounds could offer, Helen could not be tempted fully to open her heart upon the subject of Mr. Cartwright, an indulgence which Rosalind certainly expected to obtain when she proposed the walk; but the name of her father had acted like a spell on Helen, and all that she could be brought positively to advance on the subject of the Cartwright family was, that she did not think Miss Cartwright was shy.

Within the next fortnight nearly every one who claimed a visiting acquaintance with the Mowbray family, both in the village and the neighbourhood round it, had called at the Park.

"All the calling is over now," said Helen, "and I am very glad of it."

"Every body has been very kind and attentive," replied her mother, "and next week we must begin to return their calls. I hope nobody will be offended, for some of them must be left for many days; the weather is very hot, and the horses must not be overworked."

"I wonder why that charming little person that I fell in love with—the widow, I mean, that lives in the Cottage at Wrexhill," said Rosalind,—"I wonder she has not been to see you! She appeared to like you all very much."

"I have thought of that two or three times," replied Helen. "I think, if they had any of them been ill, we should have heard it; and yet otherwise I cannot account for such inattention."

"It is merely accidental, I am sure," said Mrs. Mowbray. "But there is one omission, Helen, that cuts me to the heart!" Tears burst from her eyes as she spoke.

Poor Helen knew not how to answer: she was well aware that the omission her mother alluded to was that of Sir Gilbert and Lady Harrington; and she knew too the cause of it. Lady Harrington, who, with one of the best hearts in the world, was sometimes rather blunt in her manner of showing it, had sent over a groom with a letter to Helen, her god-daughter and especial favourite, very fully explaining the cause of their not calling, but in a manner that could in no degree enable her to remove her mother's uneasiness respecting it. This letter, which by her ladyship's especial orders was delivered privately into the hands of Helen, ran thus:

"My darling Child!

"Can't you think what a way I must be in at being prevented coming to see you? Sir Gilbert excels himself this time for obstinacy and wilfulness. Every breakfast, every dinner, and every tea since it happened, William and I do nothing but beg and entreat that I may be permitted to go over and see your poor mother! Good gracious! as I tell him, it is not her fault—though God knows I do think just as much as he does, that no man ever did make such a tom-fool of a will as your father. Such a man as Charles! as Sir Gilbert says. 'Twas made at the full of the moon, my dear, and that's the long and the short of it; he was just mad, Helen, and nothing else. But is that any reason that your poor dear mother should be neglected and forsaken this way! God bless her dear soul! she's more like a baby than any thing I ever saw, about money; and as to her being an heiress, why I don't believe, upon my honour, that she has ever recollected it from the day she married to the time that your unlucky, poor dear distracted madman of a father threw all her money back at her in this wild way. He had much better have pelted her with rotten eggs, Helen! Such a friend as Sir Gilbert, so warm-hearted, so steady, and so true, is not to be found every day—old tiger as he is. But what on earth am I to do about it? I shall certainly go mad too, if I can't get at you; and yet, I give you my word, I no more dare order the coachman to drive me to Mowbray Park than to the devil. You never saw such a tyrannical brute of a husband as Sir Gilbert is making himself about it! And poor William, too—he really speaks to him as if he were a little beggar-boy in the streets, instead of a colonel of dragoons. William said last night something very like, 'I shall ride over to Wrexhill to-morrow, and perhaps I shall see the family at Mow....' I wish you had seen him—I only wish you had seen Sir Gilbert, Helen, for half a moment!—you would never have forgotten it, my dear, and it might have given you a hint as to choosing a husband. Never marry a man with great, wide, open, light-coloured eyes, and enormous black eyebrows, for fear he should swallow you alive some day before you know where you are. 'See them! 'roared Sir Gilbert. 'If you do, by G—d, sir, I'll leave every sou I have in the world to some cursed old woman myself; but it shan't be to you, madam,' turning short round as if he would bite me:—'laugh if you will, but go to Mowbray if you dare!'

"'But are we never to see any of the family again, sir?' said the colonel very meekly. 'I never told you so, Colonel Booby,' was the reply. 'You may see that glorious fellow Charles as often as you will, and the more you see of him the better; and I'll manage if I can, as soon as he has taken this degree that his heart's set upon, to get a commission for him in your regiment; so you need not palaver about my wanting to part you from him. And as for you, my lady, I give you full leave to kidnap the poor destitute, penniless girls if you can; but if I ever catch you doing any thing that can be construed into respect or civility to that sly, artful hussy who cajoled my poor friend Mowbray to make that cursed will, may I.... You shall see, old lady, what will come of it!'

"Now what on earth can I do, dear darling? I believe your mother's as innocent of cajoling as I am, and that's saying something; and as for your being destitute, sweethearts, you'll have fifty thousand pounds apiece if you've a farthing. I know all about the property, and so does Sir Gilbert too; only the old tiger pretends to believe, just to feed his rage, that your mother will marry her footman, and bequeath her money to all the little footboys and girls that may ensue: for one principal cause of his vengeance against your poor mother is, that she is still young enough to have children. Was there ever such a man!—But here have I, according to custom, scribbled my paper as full as it will hold, and yet have got a hundred thousand more things to say; but it would all come to this, if I were to scrawl over a ream. I am miserable because I can't come to see your mother and you, and yet I can't help myself any more than if I were shut up in Bridewell: for I never did do any thing that my abominable old husband desired me not to do, and I don't think I could do it even to please you, my pretty Helen; only don't fancy I have forgotten you: but for God's sake don't write to me! I am quite sure I should get my ears boxed.

"Believe me, darling child,

"Your loving friend and godmother,

"Jane Matilda Harrington."

"P. S. I am quite sure that the colonel would send pretty messages if he knew what I was about: but I will not make him a party in my sin. I was just going to tell him this morning; but my conscience smote me, and I turned very sublimely away, muttering, in the words of Macbeth—'Be innocent of this, my dearest chuck!'"

This coarse but well-meaning letter gave inexpressible pain to Helen. She dared not show it to her mother, who, she felt quite sure, would consider the unjust suspicions of Sir Gilbert as the most cruel insult: not could she, after Lady Harrington's prohibition, attempt to answer it, though she greatly wished to do it, in the hope that she might be able to place her mother's conduct and feelings in a proper light. But she well knew that, with all her friend's rhodomontade, she was most devotedly attached to her excellent though hot-headed husband, and that she could not disoblige her more than by betraying a secret which, under the present circumstances, would certainly make him very angry.

But the sight of her mother's tears, and her utter inability to say any thing that might console her very just sorrow, inspired Helen with a bold device. To Rosalind only had she shown Lady Harrington's letter, and to Rosalind only did she communicate her project of boldly writing to the enraged baronet himself.

"Do so, Helen," said Rosalind promptly: "it is the only measure to pursue—unless indeed you and I were to set off and surprise him by a visit."

"But my mother?..." replied Helen, evidently struck by the advantages of this bolder scheme over her own,—"what would my mother say to our going?"

"If she knew of it, Helen, I suspect it would lose all favour in Sir Gilbert's eyes, and you would have no chance whatever of softening his rage towards her. The expedition, if undertaken at all, must be a secret one. When he learns it is so, I think it will touch his tough heart, Helen, for he knows, I fancy, that such escapades are not at all in your line. I only hope that he will not find out that I proposed it, as that might lessen your merit in his eyes."

"No, no, that would do no harm. My doing it would be quite proof enough how near this matter is to my heart."

"Well, then, Helen, shall we go?"

"Let me sleep upon it, Rosalind. If we do go, it must, I think, be quite early in the morning, so as to have no questions asked before we set out. It is not a long walk. Shall we see if he will give us some breakfast?"

"A most diplomatic project!" replied Rosalind; "for it will enlist his hospitality on our side, and ten to one but the rough coating of his heart will thaw and resolve itself into a dew, as Fanny would say, by the mere act of administering coffee and hot cakes to us; and then the field is won."

"I think we will try," said Helen, smiling with a sort of inward strengthening, from the conviction that such would very probably be the result.

A few more words settled the exact time and manner of the expedition, and the friends parted to dress for dinner.

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. RICHARDS AND HER DAUGHTERS.—THE TEA-PARTY.

On the evening of that day, the three girls for the first time induced Mrs. Mowbray to go beyond the limits of the flower-garden, and walk under the avenue of beautiful elms in the Park. The simple and unostentatious tone of her character had influenced all her habits, and Mrs. Mowbray was a better and more constant walker than ladies generally who have two or three carriages ready to attend them. She appeared to enjoy the exercise from which for several weeks she had been debarred; and when the end of the avenue was reached, and Fanny almost mechanically opened the wide gate at the bottom, of it, her mother passed through it without making any observation, and in truth forgetting at that moment all that had happened since she had last done so. The gate opened upon a road, which, according to long-established custom, they crossed nearly at right angles, and then mounted and descended half a dozen steps, which conducted them into a wide and beautiful meadow, now fragrant with the new-made hay that several waggons were conveying to augment a lofty rick in a distant corner of it.

It was not till Mrs. Mowbray perceived another party seated round the base of a haycock which an empty waggon had nearly reached, that she remembered all the circumstances which made every casual meeting a matter of importance and agitation to her. The group which seemed a very merry one, retained their places, till two stout haymakers saucily but playfully presented their pitch-forks as if to dislodge them. They then started to their feet to the number of five; and the Park family recognized Mrs. Richards, her three daughters, and Major Dalrymple.

"I have not seen them yet, Helen!" said Mrs. Mowbray with nervous trepidation:—"how very wrong I have been to come so far!"

"Why so, my dearest mother?" replied Helen, "I am sure it is less painful to meet thus, than at those dreadful visits in the drawing-room."

"But they have not called, Helen ... certainly, we had better go back."

"Dear mamma, it is not possible," said Fanny, stepping forward to meet a favourite companion in the youngest Miss Richards: "you see Rosalind has got to them already."

It was indeed too late to retreat; nor did the wish to do so last long. Mrs. Richards pressed the hand of Rosalind, who had taken hers, but, throwing it off at the same moment, hastened forward to greet the widowed friend she had wanted courage to seek. Her colour was heightened, perhaps, from feeling it possible that the cause of her absence had been mistaken; but large tears trembled in her dark eyes, and when she silently took the hand of Mrs. Mowbray and pressed it to her lips, every doubt upon the subject was removed.

Major Dalrymple and the three girls followed; and the first moment of meeting over, the two parties seemed mutually and equally pleased to join. Mrs. Richards was the only person in the neighbourhood to whom Rosalind, during her six months' residence in it, had at all attached herself: there was something about her that had fascinated the young heiress's fancy, and the circumstance of her being the only good second in a duet to be found within the circle of the Mowbray Park visitings had completed the charm.

With the two eldest Misses Richards, Helen was on that sort of intimate footing which a very sweet-tempered, unpretending girl of nineteen, who knows she is of some consequence from her station, and is terribly afraid of being supposed to be proud, is sure to be with young ladies of nearly her own age, blessed with most exuberant animal spirits, and desirous of making themselves as agreeable to her as possible.

Louisa and Charlotte Richards were fine, tall, showy young women, with some aspirations after the reputation of talent; but they were neither of them at all like their mother, who was at least six inches shorter than either of them, and aspired to nothing in the world but to make her three children happy.

Little Mary, as her sisters still persisted to call her, approached much nearer to the stature, person, and character of Mrs. Richards; she was not quite so mignonne in size, but she

"Had her features, wore her eye, Perhaps some feeling of her heart,"

and was, spite of all the struggles which her mother could make to prevent it, the darling of her eyes and the hope of her heart. Moreover, little Mary was, as we have before hinted, the especial friend of Fanny Mowbray.

The delights of a balmy evening in the flowery month of June—the superadded delights of a hay-field, and above all, the supreme delight of unexpectedly meeting a party of friends, were all enthusiastically descanted upon by the two tall Misses Richards. They had each taken one of Helen's slight arms, and borne her along over the stubble grass with a degree of vehemence which hardly left her breath to speak.

"I do not think mamma is going any farther," she continued to utter, while Miss Louisa stopped to tie a shoe-string.

"Oh, but you must!" screamed Miss Charlotte, attempting to drag her onward singly.

"Stop, Charlotte!... stop!" cried the eldest sister, snapping off the shoe-string in her haste—"you shall not carry her away from me. What a shame! Isn't it a shame, when it is such an age since we met?"

There is nothing against which it is so difficult to rally, as the exaggerated expression of feelings in which we do not share. The quiet Helen could not lash herself into answering vehemence of joy, and having smiled, and smiled till she was weary, she fairly slipped from her companions, and hastened back with all the speed she could make to the tranquil party that surrounded her mother.

The lively young ladies galloped after her, declaring all the way that she was the cruellest creature in the world.

Mrs. Mowbray now said that she hoped they would all accompany her home to tea;—a proposal that met no dissenting voice; but it was some time before the whole party could be collected, for Fanny Mowbray and little Mary were nowhere to be seen. Major Dalrymple, however, who was taller even than the Misses Richards, by means of standing upon the last left haycock, at length discovered them sitting lovingly side by side under the shelter of a huge lime-tree that filled one corner of the field. He was dismissed to bring them up to the main body, and executed his commission with great gallantry and good-nature, but not without feeling that the two very pretty girls he thus led away captive would much rather have been without him; for as he approached their lair, he perceived, not only that they were in very earnest conversation, but that various scraps of written paper lay in the lap of each, which at his approach were hastily exchanged, and conveyed to reticules, pockets, or bosoms, beyond the reach of his eye.

They nevertheless smilingly submitted themselves to his guidance, and in order to prove that he was not very troublesome, Fanny so far returned to their previous conversation as to say,

"We must ask your judgment, Major Dalrymple, upon a point on which we were disputing just before you joined us: which do you prefer in the pulpit—and out of it—Mr. Wallace, or Mr. Cartwright?"

"You were disputing the point, were you?" he replied. "Then I am afraid, Miss Fanny, I must give it against you; for I believe I know Mary's opinion already, and I perfectly agree with her."

"Then I shall say to you, as I say to her," replied Fanny, eagerly "that you are altogether blinded, benighted, deluded, and wrapt up in prejudice! I have great faith both in her sincerity and yours, major; and yet I declare to you, that it does seem to me so impossible for any one to doubt the superiority of Mr. Cartwright in every way, that I can hardly persuade myself you are in earnest."

"What do you mean by every way, Miss Fanny?—you cannot surely believe him to be a better man than our dear old vicar?" said the major.

"We can none of us, I think, have any right to make comparisons of their respective goodness—at least not as yet," replied Fanny. "When I said every way, I meant in the church and in society."

"On the latter point I suppose I ought to leave the question to be decided between you, as in all cases of the kind where gentlemen are to be tried, ladies alone, I believe, are considered competent to form the jury;—not that Mary can have much right to pronounce a verdict either, for I doubt if she has ever been in a room with Mr. Cartwright in her life."

"Yes, I have," said Mary eagerly, "and he is perfectly delightful!"

"Indeed!—I did not know you had seen him."

"Yes—we met him at Smith's."

"Oh! you saw him in a shop, did you?—and even that was sufficient to prove him delightful?"

"Quite enough!" replied Mary, colouring a little as she observed Major Dalrymple smile.

"The more you see of him, the more you will be aware of his excellence," said Fanny, coming to the aid of her friend, and with an air of gravity that was intended to check the levity of the major. "I have seen him repeatedly at the Park, Major Dalrymple, and under circumstances that gave sufficient opportunity to show the excellence of his heart, as well as the charm of his friendly, affectionate, and graceful manner."

"He has certainly been a very handsome man," said the major.

"Has been!" exclaimed both the girls at once.

"He is still very well-looking," added the gentleman.

"Well-looking!" was again indignantly echoed by the ladies.

"You do not think the term strong enough? but when a man gets on the wrong side of forty it is, I think, as much as he can expect."

"I don't care a farthing what his age maybe," cried Mary; "do you, Miss Mowbray?... If he were a hundred and forty, with that countenance and that manner, I should still think him the handsomest and most perfect person I ever saw."

"Dear Mary!" replied Fanny affectionately, "how exactly we feel alike about him! I love you dearly for fighting his battles so warmly."

"There is surely no fighting in the case," said Major Dalrymple, laughing,—"at least not with me. But have a care, young ladies: such perfect conformity of taste on these subjects does not always, I believe, tend to the continuance of female friendship. What a sad thing it would be if those two little hands were some day to set pulling caps between their respective owners!"

"There is not the least danger of any such dismal catastrophe, I assure you. Is there Mary?"

"Good heavens, no!" replied little Mary in a voice of great indignation. "What a hateful idea!"

"One reason why it is so delightful to love and admire Mr. Cartwright," rejoined Fanny, "is, that one may do it and talk of it too, without any danger that rational people, Major Dalrymple, should make a jest of it, and talk the same sort of nonsense that every body is so fond of doing whenever a lady is heard to express admiration for a gentleman. But we may surely love and admire the clergyman of the parish; indeed I think it is a sort of duty for every one to do so."

"I assure you," replied the major, "that I both loved and admired Mr. Wallace exceedingly, and that I shall gladly pay the same homage to his successor as soon as I know him to deserve it. But

"Cautious age and youth....

you know the song, Mary?"

"I know your meaning, Major Dalrymple: you are always boasting of your age; but I don't know any one but yourself who thinks so very much of...."

"... My antiquity and my wisdom."

"Just that.... But, good heavens! Fanny Mowbray, who is that to whom your mother is speaking on the lawn?"

"It is Mr. Cartwright!" cried Fanny with animation; "and now, Major Dalrymple, you will have an opportunity of judging for yourself."

"I fear not," he replied, taking out his watch; "it is now eight o'clock, and Mrs. Richards seldom walks much after nine."

The two girls now withdrew their arms, and hastened forward to the group of which Mr. Cartwright made one. Fanny Mowbray held out her hand to him, which was taken and held very affectionately for two or three minutes.

"You have been enjoying this balmy air," said he to her in a voice sweetly modulated to the hour and the theme. "It is heaven's own breath, Miss Fanny, and to such a mind as yours must utter accents worthy of the source from whence it comes."

Fanny's beautiful eyes were fixed upon his face, and almost seemed to say,

"When you speak, I'd have you do it ever."

"I do not think he recollects me," whispered Mary Richards in her ear: "I wish you'd introduce me."

Fanny Mowbray started, but recovering herself, said, "Mr. Cartwright, give me leave to introduce my friend Miss Mary Richards to you. She is one of your parishioners, and one that you will find capable of appreciating the happiness of being so."

Mr. Cartwright extended his pastoral hand to the young lady with a most gracious smile.

"Bless you both!" said he, joining their hands between both of his. "To lead you together in the path in which we must all wish to go, would be a task that might give a foretaste of the heaven we sought!"

He then turned towards Mrs. Mowbray, and with a look and tone which showed that though he never alluded to her situation, he never forgot it, he inquired how far she had extended her ramble.

"Much farther than I intended when I set out," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "But my children, the weather, and the hay, altogether beguiled me to the bottom of Farmer Bennet's great meadow."

"Quite right, quite right," replied Mr. Cartwright, with something approaching almost to fervour of approbation: "this species of quiet courage, of gentle submission, is just what I expected from Mrs. Mowbray. It is the sweetest incense that you can offer to Heaven; and Heaven will repay it."

Mrs. Mowbray looked up at his mild countenance, and saw a moisture in his eye that spoke more tender pity than he would permit his lips to utter. It touched her to the heart.

Mrs. Richards, who was something of a florist, was examining, with the assistance of Rosalind, some new geraniums that were placed on circular stands outside the drawing-room, filling the spaces between the windows. As this occupation had drawn them from the rest of the party from the time Mr. Cartwright approached to join it, they had not yet received that gentleman's salutation, and he now went up to them.

"Miss Torrington looks as if she were discoursing of her kindred. Are these fair blossoms the children of your especial care?"

"They are the children of the gardener and the greenhouse, I believe," she replied carelessly, and stepped on to another stand.

"Mrs. Richards, I believe?" said the graceful vicar, taking off his hat to her.

"I hope you are well, Mr. Cartwright?" replied the lady, following the steps of Rosalind.

The two eldest Misses Richards were still assiduously besieging the two ears of Helen; but as the subjects of which they discoursed did not always require the same answers, she began to feel considerable fatigue from the exertion necessary for carrying on this double conversation, and was therefore not sorry to see Mr. Cartwright approach them, which must, she thought, produce a diversion in her favour. But she found that the parties were still personally strangers to each other; for though his bow was general, his address was only to herself.

"And have you, too, Miss Mowbray, been venturing upon as long a walk as the rest of the party?"

"We have all walked the same distance, Mr. Cartwright; but I believe we none of us consider it to be very far. We are all good walkers."

"I rejoice to hear it, for it is the way to become good Christians. Where or how can we meet and meetly examine the works of the great Creator so well as on the carpet he has spread, and beneath the azure canopy which his hands have reared above us?—The Misses Richards, I believe? May I beg an introduction, Miss Mowbray?"

"Mr. Cartwright, Miss Richards—Miss Charlotte Richards," said Helen, without adding another word.

"I need hardly ask if you are walkers," said the vicar, as he passed a smiling and apparently an approving glance over their rather remarkable length of limb. "Your friends, Miss Mowbray, look like young antelopes ready to bound over the fair face of Nature; and their eyes look as if there were intelligence within wherewith to read her aright."

"Mamma is going into tea, I believe," said Helen, moving off.

The whole manner and demeanour of the two Misses Richards had changed from the moment Mr. Cartwright approached. They became quite silent and demure; but as they followed Helen, one on each side of him, they coloured with pleasure as he addressed a gentle word, first to one, then to the other; and when, after entering the drawing-room, he left them for the purpose of making his farewell bow, or the semblance of it, to Mrs. Mowbray, Miss Louisa whispered to Miss Charlotte, "Little Mary is quite right: he is the most delightful man in the world."

"You are not going to leave us, Mr. Cartwright?" said Mrs. Mowbray kindly. "We are going to tea this moment."

"You are very obliging; but I had no intention of intruding on you thus."

"Pray do not call it an intrusion. We shall be always most happy to see you. I only wish your son and daughter were with us also."

"My daughter, thank you, is a sad invalid; and Jacob generally wanders farther afield in such weather as this.... Is that gentleman Major Dalrymple? May I ask you to introduce me?"

"I shall have much pleasure in doing so, I am sure. He is a very amiable and estimable person."

Mrs. Mowbray crossed the room towards him, followed by the vicar. The introduction took place, and the two gentlemen conversed together for a few minutes on the ordinary topics of Russia, the harvest, the slave-trade, and reform. On every subject, except the harvest, which Mr. Cartwright despatched by declaring that it would be peculiarly abundant, the reverend gentleman expressed himself with an unusual flow of words, in sentences particularly well constructed; yet nevertheless his opinions seemed enveloped in a mist; and when Mrs. Richards afterwards asked the major his opinion of the new vicar, he replied that he thought his manners very gentlemanlike and agreeable, but that he did not perfectly remember what opinions he had expressed on any subject.

At first the company seemed inclined to disperse themselves in knots about the room; but by degrees Mr. Cartwright very skilfully contrived, on one pretence or another, to collect them all round a table that was covered with the usual incitements to talk, and the conversation became general. At least Mr. Cartwright was very generally listened to; the major did not speak at all; and the ladies did little more than agree with and applaud from time to time the placid, even, dulcet flow of words which fell like a gentle rivulet from the lips of their new vicar. This description, indeed, would not apply quite generally to all the ladies; but the majority in his favour was five to three, and with this advantage,—that whereas his admirers were loud and eloquent in their expressions of approval, the minority contented themselves by preserving silence.

CHAPTER IX.

HELEN AND ROSALIND CALL UPON SIR GILBERT HARRINGTON

Helen Mowbray knew that the choleric friend whose gentler feelings she wished to propitiate was an early riser himself, and was never better disposed to be well pleased with others than when they showed themselves capable of following his example. She was therefore anxious to arrive at his house in time to have the conversation she sought, yet dreaded, before nine o'clock, the usual family breakfast-hour; though in the shooting-season Sir Gilbert generally contrived to coax my lady and her housekeeper to have hot rolls smoking on the table by eight. But, luckily for the young ladies' morning repose, it was not shooting-season; and they calculated that if they started about half past seven they should have time for their walk, and a reasonably long conversation afterwards, before the breakfast, to which they looked as the pacific conclusion of the negotiation, should be ready.

At half past seven, accordingly, the fair friends met at the door of Rosalind's dressing-room, and set off, fearless, though unattended, through the shrubberies, the park, the flowery lanes, and finally, across one or two hay-fields, which separated the two mansions.

Nothing can be better calculated to raise the animal spirits than an early walk in the gay month of June; and on those not accustomed to the elasticity, the freshness, the exhilarating clearness of the morning air, the effect is like enchantment. All the sad thoughts which had of late so constantly brooded round Helen's heart seemed to withdraw their painful pressure, and she again felt conscious of the luxury of life, with youth, health, and innocence, a clear sky, bright verdure, flowery banks, and shady hedge-rows, to adorn it.

Rosalind, by an irresistible impulse of gaiety, joined her voice to those of the blackbirds that carolled near her, till she was stopped by Helen's exclaiming, "Rosalind, I feel courage for anything this morning!"

"Yes," answered her companion, "let Sir Gilbert appear in any shape but that of the Vicar of Wrexhill, and I should great him with a degree of confidence and kindness that I am positive would be irresistible."

They were now within a short distance of the baronet's grounds, and another step brought their courage to the proof; for on mounting a stepping-stile which had originally been placed for the especial accommodation of the Mowbray ladies, they perceived the redoubtable Sir Gilbert at the distance of fifty paces, in the act of removing an offending dock-root with his spud.

He raised his eyes, and recognising his young visitors, stepped eagerly forward to meet them. To Rosalind, however, though usually a great favourite, he now paid not the slightest attention; but taking Helen in his arms, kissing her on both cheeks and on the forehead, and then looking her in the face very much as if he were going to weep over her, he exclaimed,

"My poor, poor child!... Why did not you bring poor Fanny too?... You are right to come away, quite right, my dear child: it's dreadful to live in dependence upon any one's caprice for one's daily bread! Your home shall be here, Helen, and Fanny's too, as long as you like. Come, my dear, take my arm: my lady will dance, you may depend upon it, when she sees you, for we have had dreadful work about keeping her from Mowbray! I'd just as soon keep a wild cat in order as your godmother, Helen, when she takes a fancy: but you know, my dear, her going to Mowbray was a thing not to be thought of, You are a good girl to come—it shows that you see the matter rightly. I wish Fanny were here too!"

All this was said with great rapidity, and without pausing for any answer. Meanwhile he had drawn Helen's arm within his, and was leading her towards the house.

Rosalind followed them quietly for a few steps; and then, either moved thereto by the feeling of courage her walk had inspired, or from some latent consciousness of the baronet's partiality to herself, she boldly stepped up and took his arm on the other side.

"Bless my soul, Miss Torrington!... by the honour of a knight, I never saw you; nor do I think I should have seen a regiment of young ladies, though they had been all as handsome as yourself, if they had happened to come with my poor dear Helen. It was very good of you to walk over with her, poor little thing!... Your fortune is quite safe and independent, my dear, isn't it? Nobody's doing a foolish thing can involve you in any way, can it?"

"Not unless the foolish thing happened to be done by myself, Sir Gilbert."

"That's a great blessing, my dear,—a very great blessing!... And you'll be kind to our two poor girls, won't you, my dear?"

"I have more need that they should be kind to me—and so they are,—and we are all very kind to one another; and if you will be but very kind too, and come and see us all as you used to do, we shall be very happy again in time."

"Stuff and nonsense, child!... You may come here, I tell you, and see me as much as you like, under my own roof,—because I know who that belongs to, and all about it; but I promise you that you will never see me going to houses that don't belong to their right owner,—it would not suit me in the least—quite out of my way; I should be making some confounded blunder, and talking to poor Charles about his estate and his property:—poor fellow! and he not worth sixpence in the world."

During all this time Helen had not spoken a word. They had now nearly reached the house; and drawing her arm away, she held out her hand to Sir Gilbert, and said in a very humble and beseeching tone,

"Sir Gilbert!... may I speak to you alone for a few minutes?"

"Speak to me, child?—what about? Is it about a sweet-heart? Is it about wanting pocket-money, my poor child?—I'm executor to your father's will, you know, Helen; and if you were starving in a ditch, and Fanny in another, and poor Charles begging his bread on the high road, I have not the power of giving either of ye a shilling of his property, though he has left above fourteen thousand a year!"

Sir Gilbert was now lashing himself into a rage that it was evident would render the object of Helen's visit abortive if she attempted to bring it forward now. She exchanged a glance with Rosalind, who shook her head, and the next moment contrived to whisper in her ear, "Wait till after breakfast."

Sir Gilbert was now striding up the steps to the hall-door: the two girls silently followed him, and were probably neither of them sorry to see Colonel Harrington coming forward to meet them.

This young man had for the two or three last years seen but little of the Mowbray family, having been abroad during nearly the whole of that time; but he returned with something very like a tender recollection of Helen's having been the prettiest little nymph at fifteen that he had ever beheld, and her appearance at this moment was not calculated to make him think she had lost her delicate beauty during his absence. Her slight tall figure was shown to great advantage by her mourning dress; and the fair and abundant curls that crowded round her face, now a little flushed by exercise and agitation, made her altogether as pretty a creature in her peculiar style as a young soldier would wish to look upon.

The coal-black hair and sparkling dark eyes of Rosalind, her ruby lips and pearl-like teeth, her exquisite little figure, and the general air of piquant vivacity which made her perfectly radiant when animated, rendered her in most eyes the more attractive of the two; but Colonel Harrington did not think so; and giving her one glance of curiosity,—for he had never seen her before,—he decided, that neither she, nor any other woman he had ever beheld, could compare in loveliness with his former friend and favourite.

His greeting to Helen was just what might be expected from a man who had known her with great intimacy when she was some half-dozen inches shorter, and who felt the strongest possible desire to renew the acquaintance with as little delay as possible.

"Helen Mowbray!" he exclaimed, springing forward and seizing her hand, "how delighted I am to see you! How is dear little Fanny?—how is Charles? I trust you have none of you forgotten me?"

Helen blushed deeply at the unexpected ardour of this address from a very tall, handsome, fashionable-looking personage, whose face she certainly would not have recognised had she met him accidentally: but a happy smile accompanied the blush, and he had no reason to regret the politic freedom of his first salutation, which had thus enabled him to pass over an infinity of gradations towards the intimacy he coveted, at one single step placing him at once on the footing of a familiar friend. It was indeed nearly impossible that Helen could be offended by the freedom; for not only was it sanctioned by the long-established union of their two families, but at this moment she could not but be pleased at finding another dear old friend in the garrison, who would be sure to add his influence to that of her godmother, that what she so greatly wished to obtain should not be refused.

Before they reached the breakfast-room, therefore, the most perfect understanding was established between them. Her friend Miss Torrington was gaily introduced, for her heart felt gladdened by this important addition to her supporters in the cause she had undertaken; and she was disposed to believe that Rosalind's proposal to make this alarming visit would turn out to have been one of the most fortunate things that ever happened.

Within the breakfast-room, and approachable by no other access, was a small room, known throughout the mansion, and indeed throughout the neighbourhood also, as "My Lady's Closet." This sacred retreat was an oblong room, about eighteen feet by eight; a large and lofty window occupied nearly one end of it, across which was placed a deal-dresser or table of three feet wide, filling the entire space between the walls. The whole room was lined with shelves and drawers, the former of which were for the most part sheltered by heavy crimson damask curtains. A few small tables stood scattered here and there; and the sole accommodation for sitting consisted of one high stool, such as laundresses use when ironing.

To the door of this apartment Sir Gilbert approached, and there reverently stopped; for by the law of the land, even he, though a pretty extensively privileged personage, was permitted to go no farther, unless licensed by an especial warrant from its mistress.

"My lady," he said, in the cheerful lusty voice that announces agreeable tidings,—"My lady, I have brought home company to breakfast."

"Have you, Sir Knight?" replied Lady Harrington, without turning her head, or otherwise interrupting herself in the performance of some apparently delicate process upon which she was occupied.

"I'd rather have Mrs. Bluebeard for a wife than such an incurious old soul as you are!" said the testy baronet.—"And so you have not even the grace to ask who it is?"

"Why, my dear Sir Tiger, I shall be sure to know within two minutes after Tomkins gives his passing thump to announce that he is carrying in the coffee; then why should I disturb this fairest of the Pentandria class?—my charming high-dried mirabilis?"

"The devil take you, and all your classes, orders, and tribes, to his own hothouse!—I'll be hanged if I don't lock you into your den while I breakfast with her;—you shan't see her at all!"

"Mother! mother!" exclaimed the colonel hastily, to anticipate the execution of the threat—"it is Helen Mowbray!"

"Helen Mowbray!" cried the old lady, thrusting her hot smoothing-iron on one side, and her blossom blotting-paper on the other, while the precious mirabilis fell to the ground; "Helen Mowbray!" and pushing aside the baronet by no very gentle movement of her tall and substantial person, she rushed forward, and Helen was speedily folded in a very close embrace.

"There, there, there! don't stifle the girl, old lady!—And supposing you were to bestow one little monosyllable of civility upon this pretty creature, Miss Torrington, who stands smiling at us all like an angel, though every soul amongst us is as rude as a bear to her.—I don't believe you ever found yourself so entirely neglected before, my dear?"

"I have never witnessed attention more gratifying to me than that which I have seen displayed this morning," replied Rosalind.

"You are a good girl, a very good girl, my dear, and I shall always love you for coming over with this poor dear disinherited child."

"Miss Torrington, I am delighted to see you, now and ever, my dear young lady," said Lady Harrington, who, when she chose it, could be as dignified, and as courteous too, as any lady in the land.

"You have walked over, I am sure, by the bright freshness of your looks. Now, then, sit down one on each side of me, that I may be able to see you without hoisting a lunette d'approche across this prodigious table."

"And so, because your ladyship is near-sighted," said Sir Gilbert, "William and I are to sit at this awful distance from these beautiful damsels? You are a tiresome old soul as ever lived!"

"And that's the reason you appear so profoundly melancholy and miserable at this moment," said Lady Harrington, looking with no trifling degree of satisfaction at the radiant good-humour and happiness which the unexpected arrival of Helen had caused to be visible in the countenance of her boisterous husband. "Do you find William much altered, Helen?" she continued. "I wonder if any one has had the grace to present Colonel Harrington to Miss Torrington?"

"Helen did me that kind office," said the colonel, "and I suppose she must do the same for me to little Fanny. I long to see if she continues as surpassingly beautiful as she was when I took my sad, reluctant leave of Mowbray Park."

Rosalind immediately became answerable for the undiminished beauty of Fanny, adding to her report on this point a declaration that the whole family were anxious to renew their acquaintance with him.

This was the nearest approach that any of the party ventured to make towards the mention of Mowbray Park or its inhabitants. Nevertheless, the breakfast passed cheerfully, and even without a word from Sir Gilbert in allusion to the destitute condition of Helen, and her brother and sister. But when even the baronet had disposed of his last egg-shell, pushed the ham fairly away from him, and swallowed his last bowl of tea, the beautiful colour of Helen began gradually to deepen; she ceased to speak, and hardly seemed to hear what was said to her.

Rosalind took the hint, and with more tact than is usually found in the possession of seventeen and a half, she said to Lady Harrington,

"If I promise to keep my hands not only from picking and stealing, but from touching, will your ladyship indulge me with a sight of your press, and your boxes, and a volume or two of your hortus siccus? for I feel considerable aspirations after the glory of becoming a botanist myself."

"My ladyship will show you something infinitely more to the purpose, then, if you will come to the hothouse with me," replied Lady Harrington, rising, and giving an intelligible glance to her son as she did so, which immediately caused him to rise and follow her. "I cannot take you where I should be sure to overhear them, my dear," she added in a whisper as she led Rosalind from the room; "for if my rough diamond should chance to be too rough with her, I should infallibly burst out upon them; and yet I know well enough that I should do nothing but mischief."

Helen was thus left alone with the kind-hearted but pertinacious baronet. He seemed to have a misgiving of the attack that was about to be opened upon him; for he made a fidgetty movement in his chair, pushed it back, and looked so very much inclined to run away, that Helen saw no time was to be lost, and, in a voice not over-steady, said,

"I want to speak to you, Sir Gilbert, about my dear mamma. I fear from what you said to Charles, and more still by nobody's coming from Oakley to see us, that you are angry with her.—If it is about the will, Sir Gilbert, you do her great injustice: I am very, very sure that she neither wished for such a will, nor knew any thing about it."

"It is very pretty and dutiful in you, Miss Helen, to say so, and to think so too if you can. Perhaps I might have done the same at nineteen; but at sixty-five, child, one begins to know a little better what signs and tokens mean.—There is no effect without a cause, Miss Helen. The effect in this affair is already pretty visible to all eyes, and will speedily become more so, you may depend upon it. The cause may be still hid from babes and sucklings, but not from an old fellow like me, who knew your poor father, girl, before you were hatched or thought of,—and knew him to be both a good and a wise man, who would never have done the deed he did unless under the influence of one as ever near and ever dear to him as your mother."

"You have known my mother too, Sir Gilbert, for many, many years:—did you ever see in her any symptom of the character you now attribute to her?"

"If I had, Miss Helen, I should not loathe and abominate her hypocrisy as I now do. I will never see her more—for all our sakes: for if I did, I know right well that I could not restrain my indignation within moderate bounds."

"Then certainly it would be better that you should not see her," said the weeping Helen: "for indeed, sir, I think such unmerited indignation would almost kill her."

"If you knew any thing about the matter, child, you would be aware that merited indignation would be more likely to disagree with her. Unmerited indignation does one no harm in the world, as I can testify from experience; for my lady is dreadfully indignant, as I dare say you guess, at my keeping her and William away from Mowbray Park: and it's ten to one but you will be indignant too, child;—but I can't help it. I love you all three very much, Helen; but I must do what I think right, for all that."

"Not indignant, Sir Gilbert;—at least, that would not be the prevailing feeling with me, though a sense of injustice might make it so with my poor mother. What I shall feel will be grief—unceasing grief, if the friend my beloved father most valued and esteemed continues to refuse his countenance and affection to the bereaved family he has left."

From the time this conversation began, Sir Gilbert had been striding up and down the room, as it was always his custom to do when he felt himself in a rage, or was conscious that he was about to be so. He now stopped opposite Helen; and while something very like tenderness almost impeded his utterance, he said,

"That's trash—abominable false trash! Miss Helen. After what's passed to-day, to say nothing of times past, you must know well enough that I'm not likely to refuse my countenance and affection to your father's children;—bereaved they are, sure enough! You know as well as I do, that I love you all three—for your own sakes, girl, as well as for his;—and your pretending to doubt it, was a hit of trumpery womanhood, Helen,—so never make use of it again: for you see I understand the sex,—and that's just the reason why I like my old woman better than any other she in the wide world;—she never tries any make-believe tricks upon me."

"Believe me, Sir Gilbert," said Helen, smiling, "I hate tricks as much as my godmother can: and if it were otherwise, you are the last person I should try them upon. But how can we think you love us, if you will not come near Mowbray?"

"You may think it, and know it, very easily, child, by the welcome you shall always find here. It is very likely that you may not be long comfortable at home; and before it happens, remember I have told you that you shall always have a home at Oakley: but it must not be on condition of bringing your mother with you; for see her I will not,—and there's an end."

Helen remained silent. She felt painfully convinced that, at least for the present, she should gain nothing by arguing the cause of her mother any farther; and after a long pause, during which Sir Gilbert continued to pace up and down before her, she rose, and sighing deeply, said,

"I believe it is time for us to return.—Good-b'ye, Sir Gilbert."

There was something in the tone of her voice which very nearly overset all the sturdy resolution of the baronet; but instead of yielding to the weakness, as he would have called it, like a skilful general he marched off the field with his colours still flying, and certainly without giving his adversary any reasonable ground to hope for victory.

"They are all in the hothouse, I believe," said he, walking before Helen to a door of the hall which opened upon the beautiful gardens. "You have not seen my lady's heaths for many a day, Helen:—she'll be savage if you go without taking a look at them."

Helen followed without saying a word in reply, for her heart was full; and when she joined the trio who had so considerately left her to the uninterrupted possession of Sir Gilbert's ear, there was no need of any questioning on their part, or answering on hers, to put them all in full possession of the result of the tête-à-tête.

It would be difficult to say which of the three looked most vexed: perhaps Lady Harrington gave the strongest outward demonstrations of what she felt on the occasion.

She glanced frowningly at Sir Gilbert, who looked as if he intended to say something amiable, and seizing upon Helen's two hands, kissed them both, exclaiming, "Dearest and best! what a heart of flint must that being have who could find the cruel strength to pain thee!"

Colonel Harrington, who, discomposed and disappointed, had thrown himself on a bench, gave his mother a very grateful look for this; while Rosalind, after examining her sad countenance for a moment, pressed closely to her friend and whispered, "Let us go, Helen."

Poor Helen had no inclination to delay her departure; and knowing that her partial godmother was fully capable of understanding her feelings, she said, returning her carresses,

"Do not keep me a moment longer, dearest friend, for fear I should weep! and then I am sure he would call it a trick."

"I will not keep you, Helen," replied Lady Harrington aloud. "You have come on a mission of love and peace; and if I mistake not that heavy eye and feverish cheek, you have failed. Poor child! she does not look like the same creature that she did an hour and a half ago—does she, William?"

"Adieu, Lady Harrington!" said Helen, the big tears rolling down her cheeks despite her struggles to prevent them. "Good morning, Colonel Harrington;—farewell, Sir Gilbert!"

"This is hard, Miss Torrington!" said the baronet, turning from Helen's offered hand; "this is confounded hard! I'm doing my duty, and acting according to my conscience as a man of honour, and yet I shall be made to believe that Nero was a dove, and Bluebeard a babe of grace, compared to me!"

But Miss Torrington being in no humour to answer him playfully, said gravely,

"I am very sorry we broke in upon you so unadvisedly, Sir Gilbert. It is plain our hopes have not been realised."

The young lady bowed silently to the colonel, and taking a short farewell of Lady Harrington, but one in which mutual kindness was mutually understood, she took the arm of her discomfited friend, and they proceeded towards a little gate in the iron fencing which divided the garden from the paddock in front of the house.

"And you won't shake hands with me, Helen!" said Sir Gilbert, following.

"Do not say so, sir," replied Helen, turning back and holding out her hand.

"And when shall we see you here again?"

"Whenever you will come and fetch me, Sir Gilbert," she replied, endeavouring to look cheerful. He took her hand, wrung it, and turned away without speaking.

"Your interdict, sir," said Colonel Harrington, "does not, I hope, extend beyond Mowbray Park paling?—I trust I may be permitted to take care of these young ladies as far as the lodges?"

"If you did not do it, you know very well that I should, you puppy!" replied his father: and so saying, he turned into a walk which led in a direction as opposite as possible from that which his ireful lady had chosen.

Colonel Harrington felt that it required some exertion of his conversational powers to bring his fair companions back to the tone of cheerful familiarity which had reigned among them all at the breakfast-table; but the exertion was made, and so successfully, that before the walk was ended a feeling of perfect confidence was established between them. When they were about to part, he said,

"My mother and I shall labour, and cease not, to work our way through the écorce to the kernel of my good father's heart; and there we shall find exactly the material we want, of which to form a reconciliation between your mother and him.—Farewell, Helen!—farewell, Miss Torrington! I trust that while the interdict lasts, chance will sometimes favour our meeting beyond the forbidden precincts."

He stepped forward to open the Park gate for them, shook hands, uttered another "Farewell!" and departed.

CHAPTER X.

MRS. MOWBRAY CONSULTS MR. CARTWRIGHT UPON THE SUBJECT OF HER LATE HUSBAND'S WILL.

The first person they encountered on entering the house was Fanny.

"Where have you been!" she exclaimed. "My mother is half frightened to death. Do go to her this moment, Helen, to set her heart at ease."

"Where is she, Fanny?" inquired Helen, with a sigh, as she remembered how little the answers she must necessarily give to the questions she would be sure to ask were likely to produce that effect.

"In her dressing-room, Helen. But where have you been?"

"To Oakley."

"Good gracious, Helen!—and without asking mamma's leave?"

"I did it with a good intention, Fanny. Do you think I was wrong in endeavouring to restore the intimacy that has been so cruelly interrupted? Do you think mamma will be very angry? I am sure it was chiefly for her sake that I went."

"No, I am sure she will not when you tell her that. But come directly: I do assure you she has been seriously uneasy.—Did you find Sir Gilbert very savage, Rosalind?"

"Pas mal, my dear."

Another moment brought them to Mrs. Mowbray. "Thank Heaven!" was her first exclamation on seeing them; and the repetition of Fanny's emphatic "Where have you been?" followed it.

"Dearest mother!" said Helen, fondly embracing her, "do not chide us very severely, even if we have been wrong; for indeed we meant to be very, very right; and when we set out the expedition appeared to us anything but a pleasant one. We have been to Oakley."

"I am too thankful at seeing you returned in safety, my dear girls, to be very angry at any thing. But do tell me, Helen, what could have induced you to volunteer a visit to the only people who have been unkind to us since your poor father's death?"

"In the hope, mamma, of putting an end to an estrangement which I thought was very painful to you."

"Dearest Helen! it was just like you! And have you succeeded, my love?"

"No, mamma, I have not."

Mrs. Mowbray coloured.

"And pray, Helen, have they explained to you the cause of their extraordinary and most unfeeling conduct?"

"Do not say they, dearest mother! Lady Harrington is greatly distressed at Sir Gilbert's conduct: so is the colonel, who is just come home. Whatever fault there may be, it is Sir Gilbert's alone."

"Did he, then, explain himself to you?"

Helen remained silent.

"I must request, Helen," resumed her mother, "that you make no farther mystery about the Harringtons. I am willing to excuse the strange step you took this morning; but I shall be seriously displeased if you refuse to tell me what passed during your visit. Of what is it that Sir Gilbert accuses me?"

"I pointed out to him, mamma, the injustice of being angry with you because papa made a will that he did not approve."

"Well, Helen! and what did he say to that?"

"Upon my word, mamma, I could not find a shadow of reason in any thing he said."

"You evade my questions, Helen. I insist upon knowing what it is that Sir Gilbert lays to my charge.—Helen!—do you refuse to answer me?"

"Oh no, mamma!—but you cannot think how painful it would be for me to repeat it!"

"I cannot help it, Helen: you have brought this pain on yourself by your very unadvised visit of this morning. But since you have gone to the house of one who has declared himself my enemy, you must let me know exactly what it is he has chosen to accuse me of; unless you mean that I should imagine you wish to shield him from my resentment because you think him right."

"Oh, my mother!" cried Helen; "what a word is that!"

"Well, then, do not trifle with me any longer, but repeat at once all that you heard him say."

Thus urged, poor Helen stated Sir Gilbert's very unjust suspicions respecting the influence used to induce Mr. Mowbray to make the will he had left. It was in vain she endeavoured to modify and soften the accusation,—the resentment and indignation of Mrs. Mowbray were unbounded; and Helen had the deep mortification of perceiving that the only result of her enterprise was to have rendered the breach she so greatly wished to repair a hundred times wider than before.

"And this man, with these base and vile suspicions, is the person your father has left as joint executor with me!—What a situation does this place me in! Did he make any allusion to this, Helen?—did he say any thing of the necessary business that we have, most unfortunately, to transact together?"

"No, mamma, he did not."

A long silence followed this question and answer. Mrs. Mowbray appeared to suffer greatly, and in fact she did so. Nothing could be farther from the truth than the idea Sir Gilbert Harrington had conceived, and its injustice revolted and irritated her to a degree that she never before experienced against any human being. That Helen should have listened to such an accusation, pained her extremely; and a feeling in some degree allied to displeasure against her mingled with the disagreeable meditations in which she was plunged.

"My head aches dreadfully!" she said at last. "Fanny, give me my shawl and parasol: I will try what a walk in the fresh air will do for me."

"May I go with you, mamma?" said Helen.

"No, my dear; you have had quite walking enough. Fanny has not been out at all: she may come with me."

These words were both natural and reasonable, but there was something in them that smote Helen to the heart. She fondly loved her mother, and, for the first time, she suspected that her heart and feelings were not understood.

Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny had just walked through the library windows into the garden, when they perceived Mr. Cartwright approaching the house. They both uttered an exclamation of pleasure at perceiving him, and Fanny said eagerly, "He must see us, mamma! Do not let him go all the way round to the hall-door! May we not walk across and meet him?"

"To be sure. Run forward, Fanny; and when he sees you coming to him, he will turn this way."

She was not mistaken: Fanny had not made three steps in advance of her mother, before Mr. Cartwright turned from the road, and passing through a gate in the invisible fence, joined her in a moment.

"How kind this is of you!" said he as he drew near;—"to appear thus willing to receive again an intruder, whose quick return must lead you to suspect that you are in danger of being haunted by him! And so I think you are, Miss Fanny; and I will be generous enough to tell you at once, that if you greet me thus kindly, I shall hardly know how to keep away from Mowbray Park."

"But mamma is so glad to see you," said Fanny, blushing beautifully, "that I am sure you need not try to keep away!"

Mrs. Mowbray now drew near to answer for herself; which she did very cordially, assuring him that she considered these friendly and unceremonious visits as the greatest kindness he could show her.

"It will be long, I think," said she, "before I shall have courage sufficient to invite any one to this mournful and sadly-altered mansion: but those whose friendship I really value will, I trust, have the charity to come to us without waiting for an invitation."

"I wish I could prove to you, my dear madam," replied Mr. Cartwright with respectful tenderness, "how fervently I desire to serve you: but, surrounded by old and long-tried friends as you must be, how can a new-comer and a stranger hope to be useful?"

This was touching a very tender point—and it is just possible that Mr. Cartwright was aware of it, as he was present at the reading of the will, and heard Sir Gilbert Harrington's first burst of rage on becoming acquainted with its contents. But Mrs. Mowbray had either forgotten this circumstance, or, feeling deeply disturbed at the fresh proof which Helen had brought her of the falling off of an old friend, was disposed to revert anew to it, in the hope of moving the compasssion and propitiating the kindness of a new one.

"Alas! my dear sir," she said feelingly, "even old friends will sometimes fail us; and then it is that we ought to thank God for such happy accidents as that which has placed near us one so able and kindly willing to supply their place as yourself.—Fanny, my love, the business on which I have to speak is a painful one: go to your sister, dearest, while I ask our kind friend's advice respecting this unhappy business."

"Good-b'ye then, Mr. Cartwright," said Fanny, holding out her hand to him.—"But perhaps I shall see you again as you go away, for I shall be in the garden."

"Bless you, my dear child!" said he fervently, as he led her a few steps towards the shrubberies; "God bless, and have you in his holy keeping!"

"What an especial blessing have you, my dear friend," he said, returning to Mrs. Mowbray, "in that charming child!—Watch over her, and guard her from all evil! for she is one who, if guided in that only path which leads to good, will be a saving and a precious treasure to all who belong to her: but if led astray—alas! the guilt that the downfall of so pure a spirit would entail on those whose duty it is to watch over her!"

"She is indeed an excellent young creature!" said the proud mother, whose darling the lovely Fanny had ever been; "but I think she wants less guiding than any child I ever saw,—and it has always been so. She learned faster than she could be taught; and her temper is so sweet, and her heart so affectionate, that I really do not remember that she has ever deserved a reprimand in her life."

"May the precepts of her admirable mother ever keep her thus!" said Mr. Cartwright, as they seated themselves in the library, into which they had entered. "But, oh! my dear lady! know you not that it is just such sweet and gifted creatures as your Fanny that the Evil One seeks for his own?—Nay, look not thus terrified, my excellent, my exemplary friend,—look not thus terrified: if it be thus, as most surely it is—think you that we are left without help to resist? My dear, my admirable Mrs. Mowbray! yours is the hand appointed to lead this fair and attractive being unspotted through the world. If great—awfully great, as assuredly it is, be the responsibility, great—unspeakably great, will be the reward. Then tremble not, dear friend! watch and pray, and this unmeasurable reward shall be yours!"

Mrs. Mowbray, however, did tremble; but her trembling was accompanied by a sweet and well-pleased consciousness of being considered by the excellent man beside her as capable of leading this darling child to eternal happiness and glory. The look, the accent of Mr. Cartwright went farther than his words to convince her that he believed this power to be hers, and she gazed at him with something of the reverence and humble love with which Catholics contemplate the effigies of the saints they worship.

"But what was the business, the painful business, my poor friend, upon which you wished to consult me, before that vision of light had drawn all our attention upon herself? What was it, my dear Mrs. Mowbray, you wished to say to me?"

"I am hardly justified, I fear, Mr. Cartwright, thus early in our acquaintance, in taking up your valuable time in listening to my sorrows and my wrongs; but in truth I have both to bear; and I have at this moment no friend near me to whom I can apply for advice how to proceed with business that puzzles almost as much as it distresses me. May I, then, my dear sir, intrude on your kindness for half an hour, while I state to you the singular predicament in which I am placed?"

"Were it not, as most assuredly it is—were it not, dearest Mrs. Mowbray, a true and deep-felt pleasure to me to believe that I might possibly be useful to you, it would be my especial and bounden duty to strive to be so. For what are the ministers of the Most High placed amidst the people? wherefore are their voices raised, so that all should hear them? Is it not, my friend, because their lives, their souls, their bodies, are devoted to the service of those committed by Providence to their care? And, trust me, the minister who would shrink from this is unworthy—utterly unworthy the post to which he has been called. Speak, then, dearest Mrs. Mowbray, as to one bound alike by duty and the most fervent good-will to aid and assist you to the utmost extent of his power."

The great natural gift of Mr. Cartwright was the power of making his voice, his eye, and the flexible muscles of his handsome mouth, echo, and, as it were reverberate and reiterate every word he spoke, giving to his language a power beyond its own. What he now said was uttered rapidly, but with an apparent depth and intensity of feeling that brought tears of mingled gratitude and admiration to the eyes of Mrs. Mowbray. After a moment given to this not unpleasing emotion, she said,

"It was from you, Mr. Cartwright, if I remember rightly, that I first heard the enactments of my husband's will. When I give you my word, as I now most solemnly do, that I had never during his life the slightest knowledge of what that will was to be, I think you will believe me."

"Believe you!" exclaimed Mr. Cartwright. "Is there on earth a being sufficiently depraved to doubt an assertion so vouched by you?"

"Oh, Mr. Cartwright! if all men had your generous, and, I will say, just confidence in me, I should not now be in the position I am! But Sir Gilbert Harrington, the person most unhappily chosen by Mr. Mowbray as joint executor with myself, is persuaded that this generous will was made in my favour solely in consequence of my artful influence over him; and so deeply does he resent this imputed crime, that instead of standing forward, as he ought to do, as the protector and agent of his friend's widow, he loads the memory of that friend with insult, and oppresses me with scorn and revilings, the more bitter because conveyed to me by my own child."

Mrs. Mowbray wept.—Mr. Cartwright hid his face with his hands, and for some moments seemed fearful of betraying all he felt. At length he fixed his eyes upon her—eyes moistened by a tear, and in a low, deep voice that seemed to indicate an inward struggle, he uttered, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!"

He closed his eyes, and sat for a moment silent,—then added, "Perhaps of all the trials to which we are exposed in this world of temptation, the obeying this mandate is the most difficult! But, like all uttered by its Divine Author, it is blessed alike by its authority and its use. Without it!—my friend! without it, would not my hand be grappling the throat of your malignant enemy?—Without it, should I not even now be seeking to violate the laws of God and man, to bring the wretch who can thus stab an angel woman's breast to the dust before her? But, thanks to the faith that is in me, I know that his suspicious heart and cruel soul shall meet a vengeance as much greater than any I could inflict, as the hand that wields it is more powerful than mine! I humbly thank Heaven for this, and remembering it, turn with chastened spirit from the forbidden task of punishing him, to the far more Christian one of offering aid to the gentle being he would crush.—Was it indeed from the lips of your child, my poor friend, that these base aspersions reached you?"

"It was indeed, Mr. Cartwright; and it was this which made them cut so deeply. Poor Helen knew not what she was about when she secretly left her mother's roof to visit this man, in the hope of restoring the families to their former habits of intimacy!"

"Did Helen do this?" said Mr. Cartwright, with a sort of shiver.

"Yes, poor thing, she did; and perhaps for her pains may have won caresses for herself. But, by her own statement—most reluctantly given, certainly,—she seems to have listened to calumnies against her mother, which I should have thought no child of mine would have borne to hear;" and again Mrs. Mowbray shed tears.

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Cartwright, fervently clasping his hands, "Dear, tortured Mrs. Mowbray, turn your weeping eyes to Heaven! those drops shall not fall in vain. It was your child—a child nurtured in that gentle bosom, who repeated to you this blasphemy? Oh, fie! fie! fie! But let us not think of this,—at least, not at this trying moment. Hereafter means must be taken to stay this plague-spot from spreading over the hearts of all whom nature has given to love and honour you. Your pretty, gentle Fanny! she at least will not, I think, be led to listen to any voice that shall speak ill of you:—sweet child! let her be near your heart, and that will comfort you.—But, alas! my poor friend, this maternal disappointment, grievous as it is, will not be all you have to bear from this wretch, whom Heaven, for its good but inscrutable purposes, permits to persecute you. There must be business, my dear Mrs. Mowbray, business of great importance that this man must be immediately called upon to execute with you,—the proving the will, for instance; he must either do this, or refuse to act."

"Would to Heaven he might refuse!" said Mrs. Mowbray eagerly; "what a relief would this be to me, Mr. Cartwright! Do you think there would be any possibility of leading him to it?"

"Of leading him,—certainly not; for it is very clear, from his conduct, that whatever you appeared to wish, that he would be averse to do. Your only hope of obtaining what would most assuredly be an especial blessing for you, his formal renunciation of the executorship, would, I think, be from writing to him immediately, and imperatively demanding his joining you forthwith in proving the will. In such a state of mind as he must be in before he would bear to utter his vile suspicions to your daughter, I think it very likely he may refuse."

"And what would happen then, Mr. Cartwright?"

"You must place yourself in the hands of a respectable lawyer, totally a stranger and unconnected with him, and he would put you in a way to prove it yourself; after which he could give you no further trouble of any kind: unless, indeed, your misguided children should continue to frequent his house, and so become the means of wounding your ears and your heart by repeating his calumnies. But this, I trust, the source of all wisdom and goodness will give you power to prevent."

"With your help and counsel, Mr. Cartwright, I may yet hope to weather the storm that seems to have burst upon me; but indeed it could hardly have burst upon any one less capable of struggling with it! In what language should I write to this, cruel man, who has so undeservedly become my enemy?"

"There is no difficulty there, my friend. The shortest and most strictly ceremonious form must be the best."

Mrs. Mowbray drew towards her materials for writing,—opened the portfolio, which between its leaves of blotting-paper contained sundry sheets of wire-wove, black-edged post,—placed one of them before her,—took a pen and curiously examined its tip—dipped it delicately in the ink, and finally turned to Mr. Cartwright, saying,

"How very grateful I should be if you would have the great kindness to write it for me!"

"But the handwriting, my dear lady, must be yours."

"Oh yes! I know. But it would be so much more satisfactory if you would sketch the form!"

"Then I am sure I will do it most readily." He drew the paper to him and wrote,

"Mrs. Mowbray presents her compliments to Sir Gilbert Harrington, and requests to know on what day it will suit him to meet her and her lawyer in London, for the purpose of proving her late husband's will at Doctors' Commons. The amount of the real property may be ascertained by the rent-roll; that of the personal, by means of papers left by the deceased, and a valuation of the effects made by competent persons. Mrs. Mowbray begs leave to intimate that she wishes as little delay as possible to intervene before the completion of this transaction."

Mr. Cartwright turned what he had written towards her, saying, "This is the sort of letter which I should think it advisable to send."

Mrs. Mowbray drew forth another sheet, and transcribed it so rapidly that it might be doubted whether she allowed herself time to read it as she did so.

"And this should be despatched instantly, should it not?" she said, folding and directing it.

"Indeed, I think so."

"Then will you have the kindness to ring the bell, Mr. Cartwright?"

"Bring me a lighted taper, John," said Mrs. Mowbray to the servant who entered; "and let Thomas get a horse ready to take this letter immediately to Oakley."

The taper was brought, the letter sealed and delivered, with instructions that the bearer was to wait for an answer.

This important business concluded, Mr. Cartwright rose to go, saying, "You have filled my heart and my head so completely by the communication of Sir Gilbert Harrington's conduct, that I protest to you I do not at this moment recollect why it was I troubled you with a visit this morning. I shall recollect it, I dare say, when I see you no longer; and if I do, you must let me come back before very long to tell you."

"But whether you recollect it or not," replied Mrs. Mowbray in a plaintive tone, "I trust you will not let it be long before I see you: otherwise, Mr. Cartwright, I shall not know how to proceed when I receive Sir Gilbert's answer."

This appeal was answered by an assurance, uttered in a tone of the most soothing kindness, that he would never be far from her when she wished him near; and then, with a pastoral and affectionate pressure of her hand, he left her.

Fanny kept her word, and was walking up and down about a dozen yards from that end of the shrubbery which terminated in the road leading to the house. Mr. Cartwright looked in that direction as he stepped from the library window, and walking quickly to the spot, conversed with her for several minutes as she stood leaning over the gate. Fanny smiled, blushed, and looked delighted: her hand, too, was pressed with affectionate kindness; and Mr. Cartwright returned to his vicarage and his early dinner.

CHAPTER XI.

HELEN'S MISERY AT HER MOTHER'S DISPLEASURE.—SIR G. HARRINGTON'S LETTER ON THE SUBJECT OF THE WILL.

When Miss Torrington and Helen retreated to the dressing-room appropriated to the former, which was the apartment in which they generally pursued their morning studies, they sat down disconsolately enough to review the results of their enterprise.

"Everything is ten times worse than it was before, Helen!" said her friend; "and it is all my fault!"

"Your fault?—Oh no! But I believe we are both of us too young to interfere, with any reasonable hope of doing good, between those who in age and wisdom are so greatly our superiors. Oh, Rosalind! I fear, I fear that my dearest mother is very angry with me!"

"I cannot believe it, Helen. I hardly know how far a dutiful daughter may be permitted to act like a rational human being; but to the best of my knowledge and belief, your conduct has been such as to ensure you the approbation and gratitude of any mother in the world—at least of any reasonable mother. You know, Helen, how truly fond I have become of my sweet-tempered guardianess.—Is there such a word?—I believe not;—of my guardian, then. During the eight months that I have made one of her family, I have never yet received a harsh word or unkind look from her, though I have not the slightest doubt that I have deserved many: but nevertheless, my own dear Helen, if she should blunder so egregiously as to be really angry with you for acting with such zealous, tender affection as you have done this morning merely because that obstinate old brute Sir Gilbert was not to be brought to reason; if she should really act thus—which I trust in God she will not—but if she should, I do verily believe, in all sincerity, that I should hate her."

"No, you would not,—you would not be so unjust, Rosalind. What right had we to volunteer our silly services? What right had I, in particular, to fancy that if Sir Gilbert would not listen to the remonstrances of his excellent and very clever wife, he would listen to mine?—I really am ashamed of my silly vanity and most gross presumption; and if my dear, dearest mother will but forgive me this once, as all naughty children say, I do not believe she will ever have cause to chide me for meddling again. Oh, Rosalind! if she did but know how I love her, she could never have looked so coldly on me as she did when she told me I had had walking enough!"

"I hope you are mistaken; I hope she did not look coldly on you. I hope she is not angry; for if she be ... I shall go over to the enemy, Helen, as sure as my name is Rosalind, and you may live to see me patting the rough hide of that very shaggy British bull-dog, Sir Gilbert, every time he says something impertinent against your mother."

"There is one thing," said Helen, slightly colouring, "that does in some little degree reconcile me to the unfortunate visit of this morning—and that this...."

"The having met Colonel Harrington!" cried Rosalind, interrupting her. "Is it not so?"

"You are right," replied her friend composedly. "William Harrington, when he was simply William Harrington, and not a dashing colonel of dragoons, was kindness itself to me, when I was a puny, fretful girl, that cried when I ought to have laughed. I cannot forget his good-natured protecting ways with me, and I should have been truly sorry if he had left the country again, as I suppose he will soon do, without my seeing him."

"Truly, I believe you, my dear," replied Rosalind, laughing. "And your plain William Harrington, too, seemed as willing to renew the acquaintance as yourself. To tell you the truth, Helen, I thought I saw symptoms of a mighty pretty little incipient flirtation."

"How can you talk such nonsense, when we have so much to make us sad! Don't you think I had better go and see if mamma is come in, Rosalind? I cannot express to you how miserable I shall be as long as I think that she is angry with me."

At this moment the bell which announced that the luncheon was ready, sounded, and poor Helen exclaimed, "Oh, I am so sorry! I ought to have sought her again, before meeting her in this manner. But come! perhaps her dear face will look smilingly at me again: how I will kiss her if it does!"

But the warm heart was again chilled to its very core by the look Mrs. Mowbray wore as the two girls entered the room. Fanny was already seated next her. This was a place often playfully contested between the sisters, and Helen thought, as she approached the door, that if she could get it, and once more feel her mother's hand between her own, she should be the happiest creature living.

But nothing could be less alike, than what followed her entrance, to the imaginings which preceded it. Mrs. Mowbray was unusually silent to them all, but to Helen she addressed not a single word. This was partly owing to the feeling of displeasure which had recently been so skilfully fastened in her breast, and partly to the anxiety she felt respecting the answer of Sir Gilbert to her note.

In the middle of the silent and nearly untasted meal, the poetical Fanny being in truth the only one who appeared to have much inclination to eat, a salver was presented to Mrs. Mowbray, from whence, with a heightened colour and almost trembling hand, she took a note. She instantly rose from table and left the room. Helen rose too, but not to follow her: she could no longer restrain her tears, and it was to hide this from Fanny, and if possible from Rosalind, that she hastened to leave them both, and shut herself in her own chamber to weep alone.

The present emotion of Helen cannot be understood without referring to the manner in which she had hitherto lived with her mother, and indeed to the general habits of the family. Mystery of any kind was unknown among them; and to those who have observed the effect of this, its prodigious influence on the general tone of family intercourse must be well known. To those who have not, it would be nearly impossible to convey in words an adequate idea of the difference which exists in a household where the parents make a secret of all things of important interest, and where they do not. It is not the difference between ease and restraint, or even that more striking still, between sweet and sour tempers in the chief or chiefs of the establishment; it is a thousand times more vital than either. Without this easy, natural spontaneous confidence, the family union is like a rope of sand, that will fall to pieces and disappear at the first touch of any thing that can attract and draw off its loose and unbound particles. But if it be important as a general family habit, it is ten thousand times more so in the intercourse between a mother and her daughters. Let no parent believe that affection can be perfect without it; and let no mother fancy that the heart of her girl can be open to her if it find not an open heart in return. Mothers! if you value the precious deposit of your dear girls' inmost thoughts, peril not the treasure by chilling them with any mystery of your own! It is not in the nature of things that confidence should exist on one side only: it must be mutual.

Never was there less of this hateful mildew of mystery than in the Mowbray family during the life of their father. Whatever were the questions that arose,—whether they concerned the purchase of an estate, or the giving or accepting an invitation to dinner,—whether it were a discussion respecting the character of a neighbour, or the flavour of the last packet of tea,—they were ever and always canvassed in full assembly; or if any members were wanting, it was because curiosity, which lives only by searching for what is hid, lacking its proper aliment, had perished altogether, and so set the listeners free.

This new-born secrecy in her mother struck therefore like a bolt of ice into the very heart of the sensitive Helen. "Have I lost her for ever!" she exclaimed aloud, though in solitude. "Mother! mother!—is it to be ever thus!—If this be the consequence of my poor father's will, well might Sir Gilbert deplore it! How happily could I have lived for ever, dependent on her for my daily bread, so I could have kept her heart for ever as open as my own!"

At this period, Helen Mowbray had much suffering before her; but she never perhaps felt a pang more bitter in its newness than that which accompanied the conviction that her mother had a secret which she meant not to communicate to her. She felt the fact to be what it really was, neither more nor less; she felt that it announced the dissolution of that sweet and perfect harmony which had hitherto existed between them.

The note from Sir Gilbert Harrington was as follows:

"Sir Gilbert Harrington presents his compliments to Mrs. Mowbray, and begs to inform her that he has not the slightest intention of ever acting as executor to the very singular and mysterious document opened in his presence on the 12th of May last past, purporting to be the last will and testament of his late friend, Charles Mowbray, Esquire.

"Oakley, June 59th, 1834."

"The lady had gone to her secret bower" to peruse this scroll; and it was fortunate perhaps that she did so, for it produced in her a sensation of anger so much more violent than she was accustomed to feel, that she would have done herself injustice by betraying it.

Mrs. Mowbray had passed her life in such utter ignorance of every kind of business, and such blind and helpless dependence, first on her guardians, and then on her husband, that the idea of acting for herself was scarcely less terrible than the notion of navigating a seventy-four would be to ladies in general. Her thoughts now turned towards Mr. Cartwright, as to a champion equally able and willing to help and defend her, and she raised her eyes to Heaven with fervent gratitude for the timely happiness of having met with such a friend.

That friend had pointed out to her the fault committed by Helen in a manner that made it appear to her almost unpardonable. To have doubted the correctness of his judgment on this, or any point, would have been to doubt the stability of that staff which Providence had sent her to lean upon in this moment of her utmost need. She doubted him not: and Helen was accordingly thrust out, not without a pang perhaps, from that warm and sacred station in her mother's heart that it had been the first happiness of her existence to fill. Poor Helen! matters were going worse for her—far worse than she imagined, though she was unhappy and out of spirits. She believed, indeed, that her mother was really angry; but, terrible as her forebodings were, she dreamed not that she was already and for ever estranged.

As soon as the first burst of passionate anger had been relieved by a solitary flood of tears, Mrs. Mowbray called a council with herself as to whether she should immediately despatch a messenger to request Mr. Cartwright to call upon her in the evening, or whether she should trust to the interest he had so warmly expressed, which, if sincere, must bring him to her, she thought, on the morrow.

After anxiously debiting this point for nearly an hour, and deciding first on one line of conduct, and then on the other, at least six different times within that period, she at last determined to await his coming; and concealing the doubts and fears which worried her by confining herself to her room under pretence of headach, the three girls were left to pass the remainder of the day by themselves, when, as may easily be imagined, the important events of the morning were fully discussed among them.

Fanny, after the motives of the visit to Oakley had been fully explained to her, gave it as her opinion that Helen was wrong in going without the consent of her mother, but that her intention might plead in atonement for it. But her indignation at hearing of the pertinacious obstinacy of Sir Gilbert was unbounded.

"Oh! how my poor father was deceived in him!" she exclaimed. "He must have a truly bad heart to forsake and vilify my mother at the time she most wants the assistance of a friend. For you know there is business, Helen, relative to the will, and the property, and all that—Sir Gilbert understands it all,—hard-hearted wretch! and I doubt not he thinks he shall crush poor mamma to the dust by thus leaving her, as he believes, without a friend. But, thank God! he will find he is mistaken."

"What do you mean, Fanny?" said Rosalind sharply.

"I mean, Rosalind, that mamma is not without a friend," replied Fanny with emphasis. "It has pleased God in his mercy to send her one when she most needed it."

"I trust that God will restore to her and to us the old, well known, and trusted friend of my father," said Helen gravely. "On none other can we rest our hope for counsel and assistance, when needed, so safely."

"Even if you were right, Helen," replied her sister, "there would be small comfort in your observation. Of what advantage to mamma, or to us, would the good qualities of Sir Gilbert he, if it be his will, as it evidently is, to estrange himself from us? What a contrast is the conduct of Mr. Cartwright to his!"

"Mr. Cartwright!" cried Rosalind, distorting her pretty features into a grimace that intimated abundant scorn,—"Mr. Cartwright! There is much consolation, to be sure, in what an acquaintance of yesterday can do or say, for the loss of such an old friend as Sir Gilbert Harrington!"

"It would be a sad thing for poor mamma if there were not," replied Fanny. "Of what advantage to her, I ask you, is the long standing of her acquaintance with Sir Gilbert, if his caprice and injustice are to make him withdraw himself at such a time as this?—And how unreasonable and unchristianlike would it be, Rosalind, were she to refuse the friendship of Mr. Cartwright, because she has not known him as long?"

"The only objection I see to her treating Mr. Cartwright as a confidential friend is, that she does not know him at all," said Rosalind.

"Nor ever can, if she treats him as you do, Miss Torrington," answered Fanny, colouring. "I believe Mr. Edward Wallace was an especial favourite of yours, my dear; and that perhaps may in some degree account for your prejudice against our good Mr. Cartwright.—Confess, Rosalind;—is it not so?"

"He was indeed an especial favourite with me!" replied Rosalind gravely; "and for the love I bear you all, and more particularly for your sake, Fanny, and your poor mother's, I would give much—much—much, that he were in the place which Mr. Cartwright holds."

"But if mamma is in want of a man to transact her business, why does she not write to Charles and desire him to return?" said Helen. "The taking his degree a few months later would be of little consequence."

"Charles?" said Fanny with a smile that seemed to mean a great deal.—"Charles is one of the most amiable beings in the world, but the most incapable of undertaking the management of business."

"How can you know any thing about it, Fanny?" said Helen, looking at her with surprise.

"I heard Mr. Cartwright say to mamma, that Charles was quite a boy, though a very charming one."

Helen looked vexed, and Rosalind fixed her eyes upon Fanny as if wishing she would say more.

"In short," continued Fanny, "if Sir Gilbert chooses to cut us, I don't see what mamma can do so proper and so right as to make a friend of the clergyman of the parish."

Her two companions answered not a word, and the conversation was brought to a close by Fanny's drawing from her pocket, her bag, and her bosom, sundry scraps of paper, on which many lines of unequal length were scrawled; and on these she appeared inclined to her fix whole attention. This was always considered by Helen and Rosalind as a signal for departure: for then Fanny was in a poetic mood; a word spoken or a movement made by those around her produced symptoms of impatience and suffering which they did not like to witness. Their absence was indeed a relief: for pretty Fanny, during the few moments of conversation which she had enjoyed at the gate of the shrubbery in the morning, had promised Mr. Cartwright to compose a hymn. To perform this promise to the best of her power was at this moment the first wish of her heart: for the amiable vicar had already contrived to see some of those numerous offerings to Apollo with which this fairest and freshest of Sapphos beguiled her too abundant leisure. He had pronounced her poetic powers great, and worthy of higher themes than any she had hitherto chosen: if was most natural, therefore, that she should now tax her genius to the utmost, to prove that his first judgment had not been too favourable: so the remainder of that long day passed in melancholy enough tête-à-tête between Rosalind and Helen, and in finding rhymes for all the epithets of heaven on the part of Fanny.

CHAPTER XII.

MR. CARTWRIGHT'S LETTER TO HIS COUSIN.—COLONEL HARRINGTON.

The intelligent reader will not be surprised to hear that Mr. Cartwright did not suffer himself to be long expected in vain on the following morning. Fanny, however, was already in the garden when he arrived; and as it so happened that he saw her as she was hovering near the shrubbery gate, he turned from the carriage-road and approached her.

"How sweetly does youth, when blessed with such a cheek and eye as yours, Miss Fanny, accord with the fresh morning of such a day as this!—I feel," he added taking her hand and looking in her blushing face, "that my soul never offers adoration more worthy of my Maker than when inspired by intercourse with such a being as you!"

"Oh! Mr. Cartwright!" cried Fanny, avoiding his glance by fixing her beautiful eyes upon the ground.

"My dearest child! fear not to look at me—fear not to meet the eye of a friend, who would watch over you, Fanny, as the minister of Heaven should watch over that which is best and fairest, to make and keep it holy. Let me have that innocent heart in my keeping, my dearest child, and all that is idle, light, and vain shall be banished thence, while heavenward thoughts and holy musings shall take its place. Have you essayed to hymn the praises of your God, Fanny, since we parted yesterday?"

This question was accompanied by an encouraging pat upon her glowing cheek; and Fanny, her heart beating with vanity, shyness, hope, fear, and sundry other feelings, drew the MS. containing a fairly-written transcript of her yesterday's labours from her bosom, and placed it in his hand.

Mr. Cartwright pressed it with a sort of pious fervour to his lips, and enclosing it for greater security in a letter which he drew from his pocket, he laid it carefully within his waistcoat, on the left side of his person, and as near, as possible to that part of it appropriated for the residence of the heart.

"This must be examined in private, my beloved child," said he solemnly. "The first attempt to raise such a spirit as yours in holy song has, to my feelings, something as awful in it as the first glad movement of a seraph's wing!... Where is your mother, Fanny?"

"She is in the library."

"Alone?"

"Oh yes!—at least I should think so, for I am sure she is expecting you."

"Farewell, then, my dear young friend!—Pursue your solitary musing walk; and remember, Fanny, that as by your talents you are marked and set apart, as it were, from the great mass of human souls, so will you be looked upon the more fixedly by the searching eye of God. It is from him you received this talent—keep it sacred to his use, as David did, and great shall be your reward!—Shall I startle your good mother, Fanny, if I enter by the library window?"

"Oh no! Mr. Cartwright—I am sure mamma would be quite vexed if you always went round that long way up to the door, especially in summer you know, when the windows are always open."

"Once more, farewell, then!"

Fanny's hand was again tenderly pressed, and they parted.

It would be a needless lengthening of my tale, were I to record all that passed at this and three or four subsequent interviews which took place between the vicar and Mrs. Mowbray on the subject of proving the will. Together with the kindest and most soothing demonstrations of rapidly increasing friendship and esteem, Mr. Cartwright conveyed to her very sound legal information respecting what it was necessary for her to do. The only difficulty remaining seemed to arise from Mrs. Mowbray's dislike to apply to any friend in London, either for their hospitality or assistance, during the visit it was necessary she should make there for the completion of the business. This dislike arose from the very disagreeable difficulties which had been thrown in her way by Sir Gilbert Harrington's refusing to act. It would have been very painful to her, as she frankly avowed to her new friend, to announce and explain this refusal to any one; and it was therefore finally arranged between them, that he should give her a letter of introduction to a most excellent and trustworthy friend and relation of his, who was distinguished, as he assured her, for being the most honourable and conscientious attorney in London,—and perhaps, as he added with a sigh, the only one who constantly acted with the fear of the Lord before his eyes.

Gladly did Mrs. Mowbray accede to this proposal, for in truth it removed a world of anxiety from her mind; and urged as much by a wish to prove how very easy it was to be independent of Sir Gilbert, as by the strenuous advice of Mr. Cartwright to lose no time in bringing the business to a conclusion, she fixed upon the following week for this troublesome but necessary expedition.

It may serve to throw a light upon the kind and anxious interest which the Vicar of Wrexhill took in the affairs of his widowed parishioner, if a copy of his letter to his cousin and friend Mr. Stephen Corbold be inserted.

"TO STEPHEN CORBOLD, ESQ. SOLICITOR, GRAY'S INN, LONDON.

"My dear and valued Friend and Cousin,

"It has at length pleased God to enable me to prove to you how sincere is the gratitude which I have ever professed for the important service your father conferred upon me by the timely loan of two hundred pounds, when I was, as I believe you know, inconvenienced by a very troublesome claim. It has been a constant matter of regret to me that I should never, through the many years which have since passed, been able to repay it: but, if I mistake not, the service which I am now able to render you will eventually prove such as fairly to liquidate your claim upon me; and from my knowledge of your pious and honourable feelings, I cannot doubt your being willing to deliver to me my bond for the same, should your advantages from the transaction in hand prove at all commensurate to my expectations."

[Here followed a statement of the widow Mowbray's business in London, with the commentary upon the ways and means which she possessed to carry that, and all other business in which she was concerned, to a satisfactory conclusion, much to the contentment of all those fortunate enough to be employed as her assistants therein. The reverend gentleman then proceeded thus.]

"Nor is this all I would wish to say to you, cousin Stephen, on the subject of the widow Mowbray's affairs, and the advantages which may arise to you from the connexion which equally, of course, for her advantage as for yours, I am desirous of establishing between you.

"I need not tell you, cousin Stephen, who, by the blessing of Heaven upon your worthy endeavours, have already been able in a little way to see what law is,—I need not, I say, point out to you at any great length, how much there must of necessity be to do in the management of an estate and of funds which bring in a net income somewhat exceeding fourteen thousand pounds per annum. Now I learn from my excellent friend Mrs. Mowbray, that her late husband transacted the whole of this business himself; an example which it is impossible, as I need not remark, for his widow and sole legatee to follow. She is quite aware of this, and by a merciful dispensation of the Most High, her mind appears to be singularly ductile, and liable to receive such impressions as a pious and attentive friend would be able to enforce on all points. In addition to this great and heavy charge, which it has pleased Providence, doubtless for his own good purposes, to lay upon her, she has also the entire management, as legal and sole guardian of a young Irish heiress, of another prodigiously fine property, consisting, like her own, partly of money in the English funds, and partly in houses and lands in the north part of Ireland. The business connected with the Torrington property is therefore at this moment, as well as every thing concerning the widow Mowbray's affairs, completely without any agent whatever; and I am not without hopes, cousin Stephen, that by the blessing of God to usward, I may be enabled to obtain the same for you.

"I know the pious habit of your mind, cousin, and that you, like myself, never see any remarkable occurrence without clearly tracing therein the immediate finger of Heaven. I confess that throughout the whole of this affair;—the sudden death of the late owner of this noble fortune; the singular will he left, by which it all has become wholly and solely at the disposal of his excellent widow; the hasty and not overwise determination to renounce the executorship on the part of this petulant Sir Gilbert Harrington; the accident or rather series of accidents, by which I have become at once and so unexpectedly, the chief stay, support, comfort, consolation, and adviser of this amiable but very helpless lady;—throughout the whole of this, I cannot, I say, but observe the gracious Providence of my Master, who wills that I should obtain power and mastery even over the things of this world, worthless though they be, cousin Stephen, when set in comparison with those of the world to come. It is my clear perception of the will of Heaven in this matter which renders me willing,—yea, ardent in my desire to obtain influence over the Mowbray family. They are not all, however, equally amiable to the wholesome guidance I would afford them: on the contrary, it is evident to me that the youngest child is the only one on whom the Lord is at present disposed to pour forth a saving light. Nevertheless I will persevere. Peradventure the hearts of the disobedient may in the end be turned to the wisdom of the just; and we know right well who it is that can save from all danger, even though a man, went to sea without art; a tempting of Providence which would in my case be most criminal,—for great in that respect has been its mercy, giving unto me that light which is needful to guide us through the rocks and shoals for ever scattered amidst worldly affairs.

"Thus much have I written to you, cousin Stephen, with my own hand, that you might fully comprehend the work that lies before us. But I will not with pen and ink write more unto you, for I trust I shall shortly see you, and that we shall speak face to face.

"I am now and ever, cousin Stephen, your loving kinsman and Christian friend,

"William Jacob Cartwright.

"Wrexhill Vicarage, 9th July, 1834."

"P.S. Since writing the above, the widow Mowbray has besought me to instruct the gentleman who is to act as her agent to obtain lodgings for her in a convenient quarter of the town; and therefore this letter will precede her. Nor can she indeed set forth till you shall have written in return to inform her whereunto her equipage must be instructed to drive. Remember, cousin, that the apartments be suitable; and in choosing them recollect that it is neither you nor I who will pay for the same. Farewell. If I mistake not, the mercy of Heaven overshadows you, my cousin."

Poor Mrs. Mowbray would have rejoiced exceedingly had it been possible for her kind and ever-ready adviser and friend to accompany her to London; but as he did not himself propose this, she would not venture to do it, and only asked him, such as an obedient child might ask a parent, whether he thought she ought to go attended only by a man and maid servant, or whether she might have the comfort of taking one of her daughters with her.

Mr. Cartwright looked puzzled; indeed the question involved considerable difficulties. It was by no means the vicar's wish to appear harsh or disagreeable in his enactments; yet neither did he particularly desire that the eldest Miss Mowbray should be placed in circumstances likely to give her increased influence over her mother: and as to Fanny, his conscience reproached him for having for an instant conceived the idea of permitting one to whom the elective finger of grace had so recently pointed to be removed so far from his fostering care.

After a few moments of silent consideration, he replied,

"No! my dearest lady, you ought not to be without the soothing presence of a child; and if I might advise you on the subject, I should recommend your being accompanied by Miss Helen,—both, because, as being the eldest, she might expect this preference, and because, likewise, I should deem it prudent to remove her from the great risk and danger of falling into the society of your base and injurious enemy during your absence."

"You are quite right about that, as I'm sure you are about every thing, Mr. Cartwright. I really would not have Helen see more of Sir Gilbert's family for the world! She has such wild romantic notions about old friendships being better than new ones, that I am sure it would be the way to make terrible disputes between us. She has never yet known the misery of having an old friend turn against her,—nor the comfort, Mr. Cartwright, of finding a new one sent by Providence to supply his place!"

"My dearest lady! I shall ever praise and bless the dispensation that has placed me near you during this great trial;—and remember always, that those whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth!"

"Ah! Mr. Cartwright, I fear that I have not been hitherto sufficiently mindful of this, and that I have repined where I ought to have blessed. But I trust that a more christian spirit is now awakened within me, and that henceforward, with your aid, and by the blessing of Heaven upon my humble endeavours, I may become worthy of the privilege I enjoy as being one of your congregation."

"May the Lord hear, receive, record, and bless that hope!" cried the vicar fervently, seizing her hand and kissing it with holy zeal.

Mrs. Mowbray coloured slightly; but feeling ashamed of the weak and unworthy feeling that caused this, she made a strong effort to recover from the sort of embarrassment his action caused, and said, with as much ease as she could assume,

"Rosalind and Fanny are both very young and very giddy, Mr. Cartwright. May I hope that during my short absence—which I shall make as short as possible,—may I hope, my kind friend, that you will look in upon them every day?"

"You cannot doubt it!—what is there I would not do to spare you an anxious thought!—They are young and thoughtless, particularly your ward. Miss Torrington is just the girl, I think, to propose some wild frolic—perhaps another visit to Sir Gilbert; and your sweet Fanny is too young and has too little authority to prevent it."

"Good Heaven! do you think so? Then what can I do?"

"An idea has struck me, my dear friend, which I will mention to you with all frankness, certain that if you disapprove it, you will tell me so with an openness and sincerity equal to my own.—I think that if my staid and quiet daughter Henrietta were to pass the short interval of your absence here, you might be quite sure that nothing gay or giddy would be done:—her delicate health and sober turn of mind preclude the possibility of this;—and her being here would authorize my daily visit."

"There is nothing in the world I should like so well," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "Any thing likely to promote an intimacy between my young people and a daughter brought up by you must be indeed a blessing to us. Shall I call upon her?—or shall I write the invitation?"

"You are very kind, dear lady!—very heavenly-minded!—but there is no sort of necessity that you should take the trouble of doing either. I will mention to Henrietta your most flattering wish that she should be here during your absence: and, believe me, she will be most happy to comply with it."

"I shall be very grateful to her.—But will it not be more agreeable for her, and for us also, that she should come immediately? I cannot go before Monday—this is Thursday; might she not come to us to-morrow?"

"How thoughtful is that!—how like yourself!—Certainly it will be pleasanter for her, and I will therefore bring her."

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of a servant with a note. But for the better understanding its effect both on the lady and gentleman, it will be necessary to recount one or two circumstances which had occurred to the anti-Cartwright party in the Mowbray family, subsequent to their visit to Oakley.

A few days after that which witnessed poor Helen's disgrace, after entering the drawing-room and receiving a hint from her mother (whom she found there in close conclave with the vicar) that she had better take her morning walk, it happened that she and Rosalind, as they were earnestly discoursing of their yesterday's visit, and enjoying the perfect shade of a lane leading to the village of Wrexhill, perceived a horseman approaching them as slowly as it was possible to make a fine horse walk. In the next moment, however, something appeared to have pricked the sides of his intent, as well as those of his horse; for with a bound or two he was close to them, and in the next instant dismounted and by their side.

The gentleman proved to be Colonel Harrington, who immediately declared, with very soldierly frankness, that he had been riding through every avenue leading to Mowbray Park, in the hope of being fortunate enough to meet them.

Rosalind smiled; while Helen, without knowing too well what she said, answered with a deep blush, "You are very kind."

Colonel Harrington carefully tied up his reins and so arranged them as to leave no danger of their getting loose; then giving his steed a slight cut with his riding-whip, the obedient animal set off at an easy trot for Oakley.

"He knows his way, at least, as well as I do," said the colonel. "It is my father's old hunter, and I selected him on purpose, that if I were lucky enough to meet you, I might have no trouble about getting rid of him. And now tell me, Helen, how did your mother bear the answer my father sent to her note?"

"An answer from Sir Gilbert?—and to a note from my mother?" said Helen. "Alas! it was kept secret from me; and therefore, Colonel Harrington, I had rather you should not talk of it to me."

"It is hardly reasonable that you should insist upon my keeping secret what I have to tell you, Helen, because others are less communicative. The letters he receives and writes are surely my father's business either to impart or conceal, as he thinks best; and he is extremely anxious to learn your opinion respecting your mother's letter, and his answer to it. He certainly did not imagine that they had been kept secret from you."

"Indeed I have never heard of either."

"Do you suppose, then, that she has mentioned them to no one?"

Helen did not immediately reply, but Rosalind did. "I am very particularly mistaken, Colonel Harrington," said she, "if the Reverend William Jacob Cartwright, vicar of Wrexhill, and privy counsellor at Mowbray Park, did not superintend the writing of the one, and the reading of the other."

"Do you really think so, Miss Torrington? What do you say, Helen? do you believe this to have been the case?"

"He is very often at the Park," replied Helen.

"But do you think it possible that Mrs. Mowbray would communicate to him what she would conceal from you?" said Colonel Harrington.

This question was also left unanswered by Helen; but Rosalind again undertook to reply. "You will think me a very interfering person, I am afraid, Colonel Harrington," said she; "but many feelings keep Helen silent which do not influence me; and, as far as I am capable of judging, it is extremely proper, and perhaps important, that Sir Gilbert should know that this holy vicar never passes a day without finding or making an excuse for calling at the Park. I can hardly tell how it is, but it certainly does happen, that these visits generally take place when we—that is, Helen and I—are not in the house; but ... to confess my sins, and make a clear breast at once, I will tell you what I have never yet told Helen, and that is, that I have ordered my maid to find out, if she can, when Mr. Cartwright comes. He slipped in, however, through the library window twice yesterday, so it is possible that he may sometimes make good an entry without being observed; for it is impossible that my Judy can be always on the watch, though she is so fond of performing her needlework in that pretty trellised summer-house in the Park."

"What an excellent vidette you would make, Miss Torrington," said the young man, laughing. "But will you tell me, sincerely, and without any shadow of jesting, why it is that you have been so anxious to watch the movements of this reverend gentleman?"

"If I talk on the subject at all," she replied, "it will certainly be without any propensity to jesting; for I have seldom felt less inclined to be merry than while watching the increasing influence of Mr. Cartwright over Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny. It was because I remarked that they never mentioned his having called, when I knew he had been there, that I grew anxious to learn, if possible, how constant his visits had become; and the result of my espionage is, that no day passes without a visit."

"But what makes you speak of this as of an evil, Miss Torrington?"

"That is more than I have promised to tell you," replied Rosalind; "but, as we have become so very confidential, I have no objection to tell you all—and that, remember, for the especial use of Sir Gilbert, who perhaps, if he knew all that I guess, would not think he was doing right to leave Mrs. Mowbray in such hands."

"And what then, Miss Torrington, is there, as you guess, against this gentleman?"

Rosalind for an instant looked puzzled; but, by the rapidity with which she proceeded after she began, the difficulty seemed to arise solely from not knowing what to say first. "There is against him," said she, "the having hurried away from hearing the will read to the presence of Mrs. Mowbray, and not only announcing its contents to her with what might well be called indecent haste, considering that there were others to whom the task more fitly belonged, and who would have performed it too, had they not been thus forestalled;—not only did he do this, but he basely, and, I do believe, most falsely, gave her to understand that her son, the generous, disinterested, warm-hearted Charles Mowbray, had manifested displeasure at it. Further, he has turned the head of poor little Fanny, by begging copies of her verses to send—Heaven knows where; and he moreover has, I am sure, persuaded Mrs. Mowbray to think that my peerless Helen is in fault for something—Heaven knows what. He has likewise, as your account of those secret letters renders certain, dared to step between an affectionate mother and her devoted child, to destroy their dear and close union by hateful and poisonous mystery. He has also fomented the unhappy and most silly schism between your pettish father and my petted guardian; and moreover, with all his far-famed beauty and saint-like benignity of aspect, his soft crafty eyes dare not look me in the face. And twelfthly and lastly, I hate him."

"After this, Miss Torrington," said the Colonel, laughing, "no man assuredly could be sufficiently hardy to say a word in his defence;—and, all jesting apart," he added very seriously, "I do think you have made out a very strong case against him. If my good father sees this growing intimacy between the Vicarage and the Park with the same feelings that you do, I really think it might go farther than any other consideration towards inducing him to rescind his refusal—for he has positively refused to act as executor—and lead him at once and for ever to forget the unreasonable cause of anger he has conceived against your mother, Helen."

"Then let him know it without an hour's delay," said Helen. "Dear Colonel Harrington! why did you let your horse go? Walk you must, but let it be as fast as you can, and let your father understand exactly every thing that Rosalind has told you; for though I should hardly have ventured to say as much myself, I own that I think she is not much mistaken in any of her conclusions."

"And do you follow her, Helen, up to her twelfthly and lastly? Do you too hate this reverend gentleman?"

Helen sighed. "I hope not, Colonel Harrington," she replied; "I should be sorry to believe myself capable of hating, but surely I do not love him."

The young ladies, in their eagerness to set the colonel off on his road to Oakley, were unconsciously, or rather most obliviously, guilty of the indecorum of accompanying him at least half the distance; and at last it was Rosalind, and not the much more shy and timid Helen, who became aware of the singularity of the proceeding.

"And where may we be going, I should like to know?" she said, suddenly stopping short. "Helen! is it the fashion for the Hampshire ladies to escort home the gentlemen they chance to meet in their walks? We never do that in my country."

Colonel Harrington looked positively angry, and Helen blushed celestial rosy red, but soon recovered herself, and said, with that species of frankness which at once disarms quizzing,

"It is very true, Rosalind; we seem to be doing a very strange thing: but we have had a great deal to say that was really important; yet nothing so much so, as leading Colonel Harrington to his father with as little delay as possible.—But now I think we have said all. Good-b'ye, Colonel Harrington: I need not tell you how grateful we shall all be if you can persuade Sir Gilbert to restore us all to favour."

"The all is but one, Helen; but the doing so I now feel to be very important. Farewell! Take care of yourselves; for I will not vex you, Helen, by turning back again. Farewell!"

The letter which interrupted the tête-à-tête between Mrs. Mowbray and the vicar was an immediate consequence of this conversation, and was as follows:—

"Madam,

"Upon a maturer consideration of the possible effects to the family of my late friend which my refusal to act as his executor may produce, I am willing, notwithstanding my repugnance to the office, to perform the duties of it, and hereby desire to revoke my late refusal to do so.

(Signed) "Gilbert Harrington.

"Oakley, July 12th, 1833."

"Thank Heaven," exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray as soon as she had read the note,—"Thank Heaven that I have no longer any occasion to submit myself to the caprices of any man!—And yet," she added, putting the paper into Mr. Cartwright's hands, "I suppose it will be best for me to accept his reluctant and ungracious offer?"

Mr. Cartwright took the paper, and perused it with great attention, and more than once. At length he said,

"I trust I did not understand you. What was it you said, dearest Mrs. Mowbray, respecting this most insulting communication?"

"I hardly know, Mr. Cartwright, what I said," replied Mrs. Mowbray, colouring. "How can I know what to say to a person who can treat a woman in my painful situation with such cruel caprice, such unfeeling inconsistency?"

"Were I you, my valued friend, I should make the matter very easy, for I should say nothing to him."

"Nothing?—Do you mean that you would not answer the letter?"

"Certainly: that is what I should recommend as the only mode of noticing it, consistently with the respect you owe yourself."

"I am sure you are quite right," replied Mrs. Mowbray, looking relieved from a load of difficulty.

"It certainly does not deserve an answer," said she, "and I am sure I should not in the least know what to say to him."

"Then let us treat the scroll as it does deserve to be treated," said the vicar with a smile. "Let the indignant wind bear it back to the face of the hard-hearted and insulting writer!"

And so saying, he eagerly tore the paper into minute atoms, and appeared about to consign them to the conveyance he mentioned, but suddenly checked himself, and with thoughtful consideration for the gardener added,

"But no! we will not disfigure your beautiful lawn by casting these fragments upon it: I will dispose of them on the other side of the fence."

CHAPTER XIII.

MRS. MOWBRAY'S DEPARTURE FOR TOWN.—AN EXTEMPORARY PRAYER.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening of this same day, that Mr. Cartwright was seen approaching across the lawn towards the drawing-room windows,—and that not only by Judy, but by the whole family, who were assembled there and preparing to take their tea. His daughter Henrietta was on his arm; yet still she rather followed than walked with him, so evidently did she hang back, while he as evidently endeavoured to quicken his pace and draw her forward.

The eyes of the whole party were attracted to the windows. Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny, approaching different sashes, each stepped out to welcome them; while Miss Torrington and Helen were content to watch the meeting from their places on a sofa.

"Did you ever see a man drive a pig to market, Helen?" said Rosalind. "In my country they do it so much more cleverly! for look you, if that man were half as clever as he thinks himself, he would just go behind the young lady and pull her backwards."

"I am not quite sure that the scheme would answer in this case," replied Helen. "Look at the expression of her face, and I think you will perceive that nothing but a very straightforward pull could induce her to approach at all."

"Perhaps she is disgusted at her odious father's presumption and forwardness?" cried Rosalind, starting up. "If that be so, I will patronise her.—Poor thing! look at her eyes; I am positive she has been weeping."

With this impression, Miss Torrington stepped forward, and, as the party entered, greeted the young lady very kindly: though she hardly appeared to perceive that her father entered with her.

She received in return a look which, with all her acuteness, she found it extremely difficult to interpret. There was a strong and obvious expression of surprise in it; and then, in the faint attempt at a smile about the corners of the mouth,—which attempt, however, was finally abortive,—Rosalind fancied that she traced a movement of gratitude, though not of pleasure; but over every feature a settled gloom seemed to hang, like a dark veil, obscuring, though not quite hiding every emotion.

The difficulty of understanding why and wherefore she looked as she did, was quite enough, with such a disposition as Rosalind's, to make her an object of interest; and therefore, when Mrs. Mowbray made her the speech that she was expressly brought to hear, expressive of hope that she would have the great kindness to console that part of her family who were to remain at home by affording them the pleasure of her company, Rosalind relieved her from the immediate necessity of replying, by saying gaily,

"She will and she must, Mrs. Mowbray, for we will take her prisoner; but I will promise, as far as I am concerned, that her durance shall be as gentle as possible."

It was now the vicar's turn to look astonished, which he certainly did in no small degree, and ran some risk of destroying the favourable impression which his daughter's look of misery had created, by saying, in the sweet tone that Miss Torrington relished so little,

"Henrietta, my love—I trust you will be sensible of, and grateful for, the amiable and condescending kindness of this young lady."

What the gloomy Henrietta answered, Rosalind did not stay to hear; for by a movement of that impatience with which she always listened to all that Mr. Cartwright spoke, she turned from him and walked out of the window. She only stayed, however, long enough to gather a bunch of geranium blossoms, which she put into the hand of Henrietta as she placed herself beside her on re-entering.

"Are they not superb, Miss Cartwright?"

Miss Cartwright again answered by a look which once more set all Rosalind's ingenuity at defiance. It now spoke awakened interest, and an almost eager desire to look at and listen to her; but the heavy gloom remained, while her almost total silence gave her an appearance of reserve greatly at variance with the expression which, for a moment at least, she had read in her eyes.

Helen was now, in full assembly, informed for the first time that she was to attend her mother to town. Had this been told her, as every thing was wont to be, in the dear seclusion of her mother's dressing-room, she would have hailed the news with joy and gratitude, and believed that it predicted a return of all the happiness she had lost: but now the effect was wholly different; and though she mastered herself sufficiently to send back the tears before they reached her eyes, and to declare, in the gentle voice of genuine unaffected obedience, that she should be delighted if she could be useful to her, the manner of the communication sank deeply and painfully into her heart.

An answer having arrived by return of post from Stephen Corbold, Esq., solicitor, stating that commodious apartments were secured in Wimpole-street, and himself ready, body and spirit, to do the lady's bidding, Mrs. Mowbray fixed on the following day for her journey. Miss Cartwright gave one mutter beyond a tacit consent to remain at the Park during her absence, and the party separated; Fanny however declaring, as she wrapped a shawl of her mother's about her head, that she must enjoy the delicious moonlight by accompanying the vicar and his daughter as far as the Park gates.

"And return alone, Fanny?" said her mother.

"Why not, dear lady?" replied Mr. Cartwright. "Her eye will not be raised to the lamp of night without her heart's rising also in a hymn to her Lord and Saviour; and I am willing to believe that her remaining for a few moments beside her pastor and her friend, while under its soft influence, will not be likely to make her thoughts wander in a wrong direction."

"Oh no, Mr. Cartwright," replied the mother; "I am sure, if you think it right, she shall go."

At this moment Miss Torrington was giving a farewell shake of the hand to Henrietta when, instead of receiving from her an answering "Good night!" something very like a groan smote her ear.

"How very strange!" she exclaimed aloud, after a silence that lasted till the vicar, with Fanny leaning on his arm, and his sulky daughter following, had half traversed the lawn towards the gate that opened upon the drive.

"What is strange, Miss Torrington?" said Mrs. Mowbray.

"Almost every thing I see and hear, ma'am," replied the young lady.

"At what hour are we to set off to-morrow, mamma?" inquired Helen.

"At ten o'clock, my dear. You had better give your orders to Curtis to-night, Helen, as to what she is to put up for you. I hope we shall not be obliged to remain in town above two or three days."

"If you have any thing to do in your room to-night, Helen, it is time to betake yourself to it," observed Rosalind; "for," looking at her watch, "it is very near midnight, though Miss Fanny Mowbray is walking in the Park.—Good night, Mrs. Mowbray." But Mrs. Mowbray did not appear to hear her.

"Good night, mamma," said Helen, approaching to kiss her.

She received a very cold salute upon her forehead, and a "Good night, Helen," in a tone that answered to it.

Rosalind took the arm of her friend within hers as they left the room together, and a silent pressure spoke her sympathy; but neither of them uttered a word that night, either concerning Mr. Cartwright's increasing influence, or Mrs. Mowbray's continued coldness to Helen. They both of them felt more than they wished to speak.

The following morning brought Mr. Cartwright and his daughter again to the Park a few minutes before the post-horses arrived for Mrs. Mowbray's carriage, and in a few minutes more every thing was ready for the departure of the travellers. Helen gave a farewell embrace to Fanny and Rosalind; while the attentive vicar stepped into the carriage before Mrs. Mowbray entered it, to see that as many windows were up and as many windows down as she wished, and likewise for the purpose of placing a small volume in the side pocket next the place she was to occupy. He then returned to her side, and as he handed her in, whispered, while he pressed her hand,

"Do not fatigue yourself with talking, my dear friend: it is a great while since you have taken a journey even so long as this. In the pocket next you I have placed a little volume that I wish—oh, how ardently!—that you would read with attention. Will you promise me this?"

"I will," replied Mrs. Mowbray, deeply affected by his earnestness—"God bless you!"

"The Lord watch over you!" responded Mr. Cartwright with a sigh. He then retreated a step, and Helen sprang hastily into the carriage without assistance; the door was closed, and before the equipage reached the lodges Mrs. Mowbray had plunged into a disquisition on regeneration and faith—the glory of the new birth—and the assured damnation of all who cannot, or do not, attain thereto.

Meanwhile the party left under the shade of the portico looked at each other as if to inquire what they were to do next. On all occasions of morning departure there is generally a certain degree of désœuvrement left with those who remain behind. In general, however, this is soon got over, except by a desperate idler or a very mournful residuary guest; but on the present occasion the usual occupations of the parties were put completely out of joint, and Rosalind, at least, was exceedingly well disposed to exclaim—

——"Accursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right!"

She remained stationary for a few minutes, hoping and expecting that the reverend gentleman would depart: but as this did not happen, she quietly re-entered the house and retired to her own dressing-room.

Fanny then made a motion to enter also, but took very hospitable care that it should include both her companions. Mr. Cartwright spoke not of going—he even led the way to the library himself, and having closed the door and put down the ever-open sash windows, he turned to Fanny, and, with a smile that might have accompanied a proposal to sing or dance, said,

"My dear Miss Fanny! does not your heart feel full of kind and tender wishes for the safety of your beloved mother during her absence from you?"

"It does indeed!" said Fanny, shaking back her chesnut ringlets.

"Then should we not," rejoined the vicar, assisting her action by gently putting back her redundant curls with his own hand,—"should we not, my dear child, implore a blessing upon her from the only source from whence it can come!"

"Oh yes," replied Fanny, with affectionate earnestness, but by no means understanding his immediate purpose,—"Oh yes, Mr. Cartwright; I am sure I never pray so heartily as when praying for mamma."

"Then let us kneel," said he, placing a chair before her, and kneeling down himself at the one that was next to it. Fanny instantly obeyed, covering her face with her hands, while her young heart beat with a timid and most truly pious feeling of fear lest the act was not performed with suitable deference; for hitherto her private devotions had been performed in strict obedience to the solemn and explicit words of Scripture—"When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly."

But though conscious that the mode of prayer in which she was now so unexpectedly invited to join was very unlike what she was used to, her unbounded love and admiration for Mr. Cartwright rendered it absolutely impossible for her to conceive it wrong, and she prepared herself to pray with all the fervour of her young and ardent spirit.

There was a moment's pause, during which a look was exchanged between the father and daughter unseen by Fanny; but had it met her eye, it would only have appeared to her as a mystery that she was incapable of comprehending. Had Rosalind caught a sight of it, she might perhaps have fancied that the glance of the father spoke command, accompanied by direful threatenings, while that of his daughter betrayed disgust and bitterest contempt mingled with fear.

Mr. Cartwright began, almost in a whisper, to utter his extemporary prayer. It first invoked a blessing on the little knot of united hearts that now offered their homage, and then proceeded to ask, in flowing periods, for exemption from all dangers likely to beset travellers by land for "our beloved sister who is this day gone forth." In a tone somewhat more loud he went on to implore especial grace for the not yet awakened soul of the child she led with her; and then, his rich and powerful voice resounding through the room, his eyes raised to the ceiling, and his clasped and extended hands stretched out before him, he burst into an ecstasy of enthusiastic rantings, in which he besought blessings on the head of Fanny.

It is impossible to repeat such language as Mr. Cartwright and those who resemble him think fit to use in their extemporary devotions, without offending against that sensitive horror of profanation which happily still continues to be one of the strongest feelings in the minds of Christians not converted—i. e. perverted from the solemn reverence our church enjoins in the utterance of every word by which we venture to approach the Deity. To such, the unweighed flippant use of those momentous words "LET US PRAY," followed as they often are, by turgid rantings, and familiar appeals to the most High God, in volumes of rapid, careless wordiness, is perhaps the most offensive outrage to which their religions feelings can be exposed. One might be almost tempted to believe that the sectarians who, rejecting the authorized forms in which the bishops and fathers of our church have cautiously, reverently, and succinctly rehearsed the petitions which the Scriptures permit man to offer to his Creator;—one might, I say, almost be tempted to believe that these men have so misunderstood the Word of God, as to read:—Use vain repetitions as the Heathen do, for they SHALL BE heard for their much speaking. But this "much speaking," with all its irreverent accompaniments of familiar phraseology, is an abomination to those who have preserved their right to sit within the sacred pale of our established church; and as it is among such that I wish to find my readers, I will avoid, as much as possible, offending them by unnecessary repetitions of Mr. Cartwright's rhapsodies, preserving only so much of their substance as may be necessary to the making his character fully understood.

While imploring Heaven to soften the heart of poor Fanny, who knelt weeping beside him like a Niobe, he rehearsed her talents and good qualities, earnestly praying that they might not be turned by the Prince of Darkness into a snare.

"Let not her gift—her shining gift of poesy, lead her, as it has so often done others, to the deepest pit of hell! Let not the gentle and warm affections of her heart cling to those that shall carry her soul, with their own, down to the worm that dieth not, and to the fire that cannot be quenched! Rather, fix thou her love upon those who will seek it in thy holy name. May she know to distinguish between the true and the false, the holy and the unholy!"

"Amen!" was here uttered by Henrietta, but in so low a whisper that only her father's ear caught it. He paused for half a moment, and then continued with still-increasing zeal, so that his voice shook and tears fell from his eyes.

Fanny was fully aware of all this strong emotion; for though she uncovered not her own streaming eyes, she could not mistake the trembling voice that pronounced its fervent blessing on her amidst sobs.

Meanwhile Miss Torrington, who had seated herself before a book in her dressing-room, began to think that she was not acting very kindly towards Fanny, who, she knew, was so nearly childish in her manners as to render the entertaining company a very disagreeable task to her.

"Poor little soul!" she exclaimed; "between the manna of the father, and the crabbishness of the daughter, she will be done to death if I go not to her rescue." So she closed her book and hastened to the library.

The sound she heard on approaching the door startled her, and she paused to listen a moment before she entered; for not having the remotest idea that it was the voice of prayer, she really believed that some one had been taken ill,—and the notion of convulsions, blended with the recollection of Henrietta's sickly appearance, took possession of her fancy. She determined, however, to enter; but turned the lock with a very nervous hand,—and on beholding the scene which the opening door displayed, felt startled, awed, and uncertain whether to advance or retreat.

She immediately met Henrietta's eye, which turned towards her as she opened the door, and its expression at once explained the nature of the ceremony she so unexpectedly witnessed. Contempt and bitter scorn shot from it as she slowly turned it towards her father; and a smile of pity succeeded, as she mournfully shook her head, when, for a moment, she fixed her glance upon the figure of Fanny. Had the poor girl for whose especial sake this very unclerical rhapsody was uttered—had she been a few years older, and somewhat more advanced in the power of judging human actions, she must have been struck by the remarkable change which the entrance of Rosalind produced in the language and manner of the vicar. He did not for an instant suspend the flow of his eloquence, but the style of it altered altogether.

"Bless her! bless this lovely and beloved one!" were the words which preceded the opening of the door, accompanied by the sobbings of vehement emotion.—"Bless all this worthy family, and all sorts and conditions of men; and so lead them home" ... &c. were those which followed,—uttered, too, with very decent sobriety and discretion.

Rosalind, however, was not quite deceived by this, though far from guessing how perfectly indecent and profane had been the impassioned language and vehement emotion which preceded her appearance.

After the hesitation of a moment, she closed the door, and walking up to the side of Fanny, stood beside her for the minute and a half which it took Mr. Cartwright to bring his harangue to a conclusion. He then ceased, rose from his knees, and bowed to the intruder with an air so meek and sanctified, but yet with such a downcast avoidance of her eye withal, that Rosalind shrank from him with ill-concealed dislike, and would instantly have left the room, but that she did not choose again to leave Fanny, who still continued kneeling beside her, to a repetition of the scene she had interrupted.

"Fanny!" she said, in an accent a little approaching to impatience.

But Fanny heeded her not. Vexed and disgusted at this display of a devotion so unlike the genuine, unaffected, well-regulated piety in which she had been herself brought up, she repeated her call,—adding, as she laid her hand lightly on her shoulder,

"This is not the sort of worship which your excellent father, or good Mr. Wallace either, would have approved."

Fanny now rose from her knees, and the cause of her not doing so before became evident. Her face was as pale as ashes, and traces of violent weeping were visible on her swollen eyelids.

"Good Heaven, Fanny! what can have affected you thus?—What, sir, have you been saying to produce so terrible an effect on Miss Mowbray? The prayers of the church, in the discipline of which she has been most carefully bred up, produce no such paroxysms as these, Mr. Cartwright.—Come with me, Fanny, and do endeavour to conquer this extraordinary vehemence of emotion."

Fanny took her arm; but she trembled so violently that she could scarcely stand.

"Mr. Cartwright," said Rosalind with a burst of indignation that she could not control, "I must beg of you not to repeat this species of experiment on the feelings of this young lady during the absence of her mother. At her return she will of course decide upon your continuance, or discontinuance, in the office you have been pleased to assume; but, till then, I must beg, in her name, that we may have no more of this."

"Oh! Rosalind!" exclaimed Fanny, while a fresh shower of tears burst from her eyes, "how can you speak so!"

"Tell me, my dear young lady," said Mr. Cartwright, addressing Miss Torrington in a voice of the gentlest kindness, "did good Mrs. Mowbray, on leaving home, place Miss Fanny under your care?"

"No, sir, she did not," replied Rosalind, a crimson flush of anger and indignation mounting to her cheeks; "but, being considerably older than Fanny, I deem it my duty to prevent her if possible from again becoming an actor in such a scene as this."

Fanny withdrew her arm, and clasping her hands together, again exclaimed, "Oh! Rosalind!"

"Do not agitate yourself, my good child," said the vicar; "I shall never suspect you of that hardening of the heart which would lead you to be of those who wish to banish the voice of prayer from the roof that shelters you. Nor shall I," he continued meekly, but firmly,—"nor shall I consider myself justified in remitting that care and attention which I promised your excellent mother to bestow on you, because this unhappy young person lifts her voice against the holy duties of my calling. I shall return to you in the evening, and then, I trust, we shall again raise our voices together in praise and prayer."

So saying, Mr. Cartwright took his hat and departed.

The three young ladies were left standing, but not in one group. Miss Cartwright, as soon as released from her kneeling position, had approached a window, and was assiduously paring her nails; Rosalind fixed her eyes upon the floor, and seemed to be revolving some question that puzzled her; and Fanny, after the interval of a moment, left the room.

Miss Torrington approached the window, and said coldly, but civilly, "I am sorry, Miss Cartwright, to have spoken so sternly to your father,—or rather, for the cause which led me to do so,—but I really considered it as my duty."

"Oh! pray, ma'am, do not apologise to me about it."

"I do not wish to offer an apology for doing what I believe to be right; but only to express my sorrow to a guest, in the house that is my home, for having been obliged to say any thing that might make her feel uncomfortable."

"I do assure you, Miss Torrington," replied the vicar's daughter, "that my feelings are very particularly independent of any circumstance, accident, or event, that may affect Mr. Cartwright ... my father."

"Indeed!" said Rosalind, fixing on her a glance that seemed to invite her confidence.

"Indeed!" repeated Henrietta, quietly continuing the occupation furnished by her fingers' ends, but without showing any inclination to accept the invitation.

Rosalind was disconcerted. The singularity of Miss Cartwright's manner piqued her curiosity, and though by no means inclined to form a party with her against her father, she had seen enough to convince her that they were far from being on very affectionate terms together. A feeling of pity, too, though for sorrows and sufferings suggested chiefly by her own imagination, gave her a kind-hearted inclination for more intimate acquaintance; but she began to suspect that the wish for this was wholly on her side, and not shared in any degree by her companion.

Chilled by this idea, and out of spirits from the prospect of being daily exposed to Mr. Cartwright's visits, Rosalind prepared to leave the room; but good-nature, as was usual with her, prevailed over every other feeling, and before she reached the door, she turned and said,

"Is there any thing, Miss Cartwright, that I can offer for your amusement? The books of the day are chiefly in our dressing-rooms, I believe—and I have abundance of new music—and in this room I can show you where to find a very splendid collection of engravings."

"I wish for nothing of the kind, I am much obliged to you."

"Shall I send Fanny to you? Perhaps, notwithstanding the ocean of tears you have seen her shed, she would prove a much more cheerful companion than I could do at this moment."

"I do not wish for a cheerful companion," said Henrietta.

"Is there any thing, then, that I can do," resumed Rosalind, half smiling, "that may assist you in getting rid of the morning?"

"You may sit with me yourself."

"May I?—Well, then, so I will. I assure you that I only thought of going because it appeared to me that you did not particularly desire my company."

"To say the truth, Miss Torrington, I do not think there is any thing on earth particularly worth desiring; but your conversation may perhaps be amongst the most endurable. Besides, it is agreeable to look at you."

"You are very civil," replied Rosalind, laughing. "Perhaps you would like me to hold a nosegay in my hand, or to put on a bonnet and feathers, that I might be still better worth looking at."

"No.—If I had a bunch of flowers before my eyes, I should not want you: no woman can be so beautiful as a collection of flowers. But I shall do very well, I dare say. Nothing, you know, lasts very long."

"Your father, then, I presume, has taught your thoughts, Miss Cartwright, to fix themselves altogether on a future and a better world."

"As to a future world, Miss Torrington, I must have better authority than Mr. Cartwright's before I pretend to know any thing about it."

"But I hope your distaste for that which we enjoy at present does not arise from its having been unkind to you?"

"When I was a child," answered Henrietta, "I had a kind of sickly longing for kindness; but now, that I am older and wiser, I cannot say that I think kindness or unkindness are matters of much consequence."

"That, indeed, is a feeling that must put one speedily either above or below sorrow."

"I am below it."

"It would be just as easy to say, above, Miss Cartwright; and if you really have reached to a state of such stoical indifference, I rather wonder you should not feel that it sets you above all the poor sensitive souls whom you must see longing for a smile, and trembling at a frown."

"Because, Miss Torrington, I have constantly felt that in approaching this state of mind I have been gradually sinking lower and lower in my own estimation: I am become so hatefully familiar with sin and wickedness, that I perfectly loathe myself—though assuredly it has ended by giving me a very pre-eminent degree of indifference concerning all that may hereafter happen to me."

"Is it in your own person," said Rosalind jestingly, "that you have become thus familiar with sin?"

"No. It is in that of my father."

Rosalind started. "You talk strangely to me, Miss Cartwright," said she gravely; "and if you are playing upon my credulity or curiosity, I must submit to it. But if there be any serious meaning in what you say, it would be more generous if you would permit me to understand you. I believe you are aware that I do not esteem Mr. Cartwright: an avowal which delicacy would have certainly prevented my making to you, had you not given me reason to suspect——"

"—That I do not very greatly esteem him either," said Henrietta, interrupting her.

"Exactly so: and as I am deeply interested for the welfare and happiness of the family amongst whom he seems disposed to insinuate himself upon terms of very particular intimacy, I should consider it as a great kindness if you would tell me what his character really is."

"The request is a very singular one, considering to whom it is addressed," said Miss Cartwright; "and besides I really cannot perceive any reason in the world why I should be guilty of an indecorum in order to do you a great kindness."

"The indecorum, Miss Cartwright, has been already committed," said Rosalind. "You have already spoken of your father as you should not have spoken, unless you had some strong and virtuous motive for it."

"How exceedingly refreshing is the unwonted voice of truth!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Rosalind Torrington, you are an honest girl, and will not betray me; for I do fear him—coward that I am—I do fear his cruelty, even while I despise his power. I think but lightly," she continued, "of the motes that people this paltry world of ours; yet there are gradations amongst us, from the pure-hearted kind fool, who, like you, Rosalind, would wish to spend their little hour of life in doing good, down to the plotting knave who, like my father, Miss Torrington, cares not what mischief he may do, so that his own unholy interest, and unholy joys, may be increased thereby: and so, look you, there are gradations also in my feelings towards them, from very light and easy indifference, down, down, down to the deepest abyss of hatred and contempt. I know not what power you may have here—not much, I should fear; for though you are rich, the Mowbrays are richer; yet it is possible, I think, that if the energy which I suspect makes part of your character be roused, you may obtain some influence. If you do, use it to keep Mr. Cartwright as far distant from all you love as you can. Mistrust him yourself, and teach all others to mistrust him.—And now, never attempt to renew this conversation. I may have done you some service—do not let your imprudence make me repent it. Let us now avoid each other if you please: I do not love talking, and would not willingly be led into it again."

Miss Cartwright left the room as soon as these words were spoken, leaving Rosalind in a state of mind extremely painful. Through all the strange wildness of Henrietta's manner she thought that she could trace a friendly intention to put her on her guard; but she hardly knew what the mischief was which she feared, and less still perhaps what she could do to guard against it. The most obvious and the most desirable thing, if she could achieve it, was the preventing Mr. Cartwright's making the constant morning and evening visits which he threatened; but she felt that her power was indeed small, and, such as it was, she knew not well how to use it.

Having remained for above an hour exactly in the place where Miss Cartwright had left her, inventing and rejecting a variety of schemes for keeping Mr. Cartwright from the house during the absence of Mrs. Mowbray, she at length determined to write to him, and after a good deal of meditation produced the following note:

"Miss Torrington presents her compliments to Mr. Cartwright, and begs to inform him, that having been very strictly brought up by her father, a clergyman of the established church, she cannot, consistently with her ideas of what is right, continue to make her residence in a house where irregular and extempore prayer-meetings are held. She therefore takes this method of announcing to Mr. Cartwright, that if he perseveres in repeating at Mowbray Park the scene she witnessed this morning, she shall be obliged to leave the house of her guardian, and will put herself under the protection of Sir Gilbert Harrington till such time as Mrs. Mowbray shall return.

"Mowbray Park, 13th July 1833."

This note she immediately despatched to the Vicarage by her own footman, who was ordered to wait for an answer, and in the course of an hour returned with the following short epistle:

"Mr. Cartwright presents his compliments to Miss Torrington, and respectfully requests permission to wait upon her for a few minutes to-morrow morning.

"Wrexhill Vicarage, July 13th, 1833."

Nothing could be less like the answer she expected than this note, and she might possibly have been doubtful whether to grant the audience requested, or not, had she not perceived, with very considerable satisfaction, that she had already obtained a remission of the evening rhapsody he had threatened in the morning, which inspired her with reasonable hope that her remonstrance would not prove altogether in vain. She determined therefore to receive Mr. Cartwright on the morrow, but did not deem it necessary to send another express to say so, feeling pretty certain that the not forbidding his approach would be quite sufficient to ensure its arrival.

The evening passed in very evident and very fidgetty expectation on the part of Fanny, who more than once strolled out upon the lawn, returning with an air of restlessness and disappointment. But Rosalind was in excellent spirits, and contrived to amuse Miss Cartwright, and even elicit an expression of pleasure from her, by singing some of her sweetest native melodies, which she did with a delicacy and perfection of taste and feeling that few could listen to without delight.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN INTERVIEW.—THE LIME TREE.—ROSALIND'S LETTER TO MR. MOWBRAY.

At about eleven o'clock the following morning, Miss Torrington was informed that Mr. Cartwright requested to speak to her for a few minutes in the drawing-room. Henrietta was with her when the message was delivered, and seemed to await her reply with some curiosity.

"I will wait upon him immediately," was the civil and ready answer; and as Rosalind gave it, and at the same moment rose from her chair to obey the summons, she looked in the face of her companion to see if there were any wish expressed there that the silence so strictly enjoined should be broken. But Miss Cartwright was occupied by a volume of engravings which lay before her, and Rosalind left the room without having met her eye.

It is impossible to imagine a demeanour or address more perfectly gentlemanlike and respectful than those of Mr. Cartwright as he walked across the room to receive Miss Torrington. Strong as her feelings were against him, this still produced some effect; and as she seated herself, and motioned to him to do the same, her mental soliloquy amounted to this:—"At any rate, I will listen patiently to what he has to say."

"I have taken the liberty of requesting to speak to you, Miss Torrington, because I feel persuaded that my conduct and principles have from some accident been misunderstood; and I cannot but hope that it may be in my power to explain them, so as in some degree to remove the prejudice which I fear you have conceived against me."

"It is my duty, sir, both as a matter of courtesy and justice, to hear whatever you wish to say in justification or excuse of the scene I witnessed yesterday morning. Miss Fanny Mowbray is not yet recovered from the effects of the agitation into which she was thrown by it; and I have no objection, Mr. Cartwright, to repeat to you in person my fixed determination not to continue in the house if that scene be repeated."

"It is impossible," replied Mr. Cartwright "to find a lady of your age so steadfast in adhering to what she believes to be right, without feeling both admiration and respect for her; and I should think—forgive me if I wound you—I should think that such an one cannot altogether condemn the offering of prayer and thanksgiving?"

"Mr. Cartwright," replied Rosalind, her colour rising, and her voice expressive of great agitation, "you talk of having been misunderstood; but it is I, sir, who have reason to make this complaint. From which of my words, either written or spoken, do you presume to infer that I contemn the offering of prayer and thanksgiving?"

"I beseech you to bear with me patiently," said Mr. Cartwright with a look and tone of the most touching mildness; "and be assured that by doing so, we shall not only be more likely to make ourselves mutually understood, but finally to arrive at that truth which, I am willing to believe, is equally the object of both. And the theme, my dear young lady, on which we speak should never be alluded to,—at least, I think not,—with any mixture of temper."

Poor Rosalind! Honest as her vehemence was, she felt that she had been wrong to show it, and with an effort that did her honour she contrived to say "You are quite right, sir. As far as manner is concerned, you have greatly the advantage of me by your self-possession and calmness. Herein I will endeavour to imitate you, and assure you, with a sang froid as perfect as your own, that I consider the offering of prayer and thanksgiving as the first duty of a Christian. It is in consequence of the reverence in which I hold this sacred duty, that I shrink from seeing it performed irreverently. I have been taught to believe, sir, that the deepest learning, the most deliberative wisdom, and the most grave and solemn meditation given to the subject by the fathers and founders of our church, were not too much to bestow on the sublime and awful attempt to address ourselves suitably to God in prayer. Prayers so framed, and fitted for every exigency that human nature can know, have been prepared for us with equal piety and wisdom; and while such exist, I will never join in any crude, unweighed, unauthorised jargon addressed to the Deity, however vehement the assumption of piety may be in the bold man who uses it."

"It is seldom that so young a lady," replied the vicar with a kind and gentle smile, "can have found time to give this important question so much attention as you appear to have done. Yet, perhaps,—yet, perhaps, Miss Torrington, when a few years more of deep consideration have been given by you to the subject, you may be led to think that fervour of feeling may more than atone for imperfection in expression."

"If you imagine, sir," replied Rosalind, in a voice as tranquil and deliberate as his own, "that I have dared to regulate my conduct and opinions on such a point as this by any wisdom of my own, you do me great injustice. Such conduct, if general, would make as many churches upon earth as there are audacious spirits who reject control. My father, Mr. Cartwright, was one whose life was passed in the situation which, perhaps, beyond all others in the world, taught him the value of the establishment to which he belonged. To those of another and an adverse faith he was a kind friend and generous benefactor; but he could not be insensible, nor did he leave me so, of the superior purity and moral efficacy of his own;—and I hope not to live long enough to forget the reverence which he has left impressed upon my mind for all that our church holds sacred."

"Not for worlds, my excellent young lady," exclaimed Mr. Cartwright with warmth, "would I attempt to shake opinions so evidently sustained by a sense of duty! Respect for such will assuredly prevent my again attempting to perform the office which offended your opinions this morning, as long as you continue, what you certainly ought to be at this time, the mistress of this family. I will only ask, Miss Torrington, in return for the sincere veneration I feel for your conscientious scruples, that you will judge me with equal candour, and will believe that however we may differ in judgment, I am not less anxious to be right than yourself."

Rosalind answered this appeal by a silent bow.

"May I, then, hope that we are friends?" said he, rising and presenting his hand; "and that I may venture to call, as I promised Mrs. Mowbray I would do, on yourself, Miss Fanny, and my daughter, without driving you from the house?"

"Certainly, sir," was Rosalind's cold reply. The request appeared as reasonable in itself as it was politely and respectfully made, and to refuse it would have been equally churlish, presumptuous and unjust. Nevertheless, there was something at the bottom of her heart that revolted against the act of shaking hands with him; and feigning to be occupied by arranging some flowers on the table, she suffered the offered hand to remain extended, till at length its patient owner withdrew it.

Though well pleased that her remonstrance had put a stop to the vicar's extempore prayings at the house, Rosalind was not altogether satisfied by the result of the interview. "We are still upon infinitely too civil terms," thought she: "but I see that just at present it would be an Herculean labour to quarrel with him:—if I smite him on one cheek, he will turn himself about as unresistingly as a sucking pig upon the spit, and submit to be basted all round without uttering a single squeak. But when Mrs. Mowbray returns I suspect that it will be my turn to be basted:—n'importe—I am sure I have done no more than my father would have thought right."

With this consolation she returned to her dressing-room and applied herself to her usual occupations. Henrietta was no longer there; but as the fashion of the house was for every one to find employment and amusement for themselves during the morning, she did not think it necessary to pursue her in order to prove her wish to be agreeable.

At luncheon the three young ladies met as usual in the dining-room: Fanny appeared to have recovered her spirits and good-humour, and Henrietta seemed to wish to be more conversable than usual. They then strolled into the gardens, visited the hothouses, and finally placed themselves in a shady and fragrant bower, where they discoursed of poetry and music for an hour or two.

When these subjects seemed to be wellnigh exhausted, Miss Cartwright rose and slowly walked towards the house without intimating to her companions what it was her purpose to do next.

Rosalind and Fanny being thus left tête-à-tête, the former said, "What do you think of our new acquaintance, Fanny?—How do you like Miss Cartwright?"

"I do not think she seems at all an amiable girl," replied Fanny. "With such advantages as she has, it is quite astonishing that her manners are so little agreeable."

"She is not remarkably conversable, certainly," said Rosalind; "but I suspect that she has very bad health. How dreadfully sallow she is!"

"I suspect that she has a worse infirmity than bad health," answered Fanny;—"she has, I fear, an extremely bad temper."

"She has not a violent temper, at any rate," observed Rosalind; "for I never remember to have seen any one who gave me a greater idea of being subdued and spirit-broken."

"That is not at all the impression she makes upon me," said Fanny: "I should call her rather sullen than gentle, and obstinate instead of subdued. But this gossiping is sad idle work, Rosalind: as Miss Henrietta has fortunately taken herself off, I may go on with what I was doing before luncheon."

Late in the evening, Mr. Cartwright and his son Jacob paid the young ladies a visit. The vicar's conversation was chiefly addressed to Miss Torrington; and if she had never seen him before, she must have agreed with Fanny in thinking him one of the most agreeable persons in the world—for he spoke fluently and well upon every subject, and with a person and voice calculated to please every eye and every ear. There were probably, indeed, but few who could retain as steady a dislike to him as our Rosalind did.

The young man got hold of a purse that Fanny was netting, and did his best to entangle her silks; but his chief amusement was derived from attempts to quiz and plague his sister, who treated him much as a large and powerful dog does a little one,—enduring his gambols and annoying tricks with imperturbable patience for a while, and then suddenly putting forth a heavy paw and driving him off in an instant.

The following day passed very nearly in the same manner, excepting that the three girls separated immediately after breakfast, and did not meet again till luncheon-time. On the third, Fanny was the first to leave the breakfast-room; and Miss Cartwright and Rosalind being left together, the former said,

"I suppose we owe our repose from morning and evening ranting to you, Miss Torrington?"

"I certainly did not approve it, Miss Cartwright, and I took the liberty of telling your father so."

"You were undoubtedly very right and very wise, and I dare say you feel some inward satisfaction at your success. Mr. Cartwright has really shown great deference to your opinion by so immediately abandoning, at your request, so very favourite an occupation."

Rosalind was about to reply, when Miss Cartwright changed the conversation by abruptly saying,

"Will you take a stroll with me this morning, Miss Torrington?"

"Yes, certainly, if you wish it;—but I think we shall find it very warm."

"Oh! no. I will lead you a very nice shady walk to the prettiest and most sheltered little thicket in the world. Let us put on our bonnets directly;—shall we?"

"I will not delay you a moment," said Rosalind. "Shall I ask Fanny to go with us?"

"Why no," replied Miss Cartwright; "I think you had better not;—the chances are ten to one against her finding it convenient. You know she is so fond of solitary study——"

"I believe you are right," said Rosalind; and the young ladies parted, to meet again a few minutes after, with bonnets and parasols, at the hall-door.

"And which way are we to go to find this welcome shade?" said Rosalind, holding her parasol low down to shelter her pretty face. "The sun is almost intolerable."

"This way," said Henrietta, turning aside from the drive in a direction which soon brought them to a thickly-planted ride that surrounded the Park. "We shall find it delightful here."

It was an hour which, in the month of July, few ladies would choose for walking; but Miss Torrington politely exerted herself to converse, though she secretly longed to be lying silent and alone on the sofa in her own dressing-room, with no greater exertion than was necessary for the perusal of—

"The dear pages of some new romance."

Henrietta, however, only answered her dryly and shortly, and presently said,

"I should be really very much obliged to you, Miss Torrington, if you would not speak to me any more. Just listen to the blackbirds, will you?—depend upon it we can neither of us express ourselves one half so well as they do."

Rosalind willingly submitted to this request; and the young ladies walked onward, producing no other sound than the occasional brushing of their dresses against the underwood, which at every step became thicker, rendering the path almost too narrow for two to walk abreast.

"Now, let us just turn down through this little opening," said Henrietta in a whisper; "and pray do not speak to me."

Rosalind, who began to believe that she must have some meaning for her strange manner of proceeding, followed her in perfect silence; and they had not gone far into the intricacies of the tangled copse, before she heard the sound of a human voice at no great distance from her. Henrietta, who was in advance, turned round and laid her finger on her lips. The caution was not needed: Rosalind had already recognised the tones of Mr. Cartwright, and a few more silent steps brought them to a spot thickly surrounded on all sides, but from whence they could look out upon a small and beautiful opening, in the centre of which a majestic lime-tree stretched its arms in all directions over the soft green turf.

Rosalind instantly recognised the spot as one frequently resorted to in their evening rambles, for the sake of its cool and secluded beauty, and also because a bench, divided into commodious stalls, surrounded the capacious tree, from whence opened a vista commanding a charming view across the Park.

On the turf before this bench, and with their backs turned towards the spot where Rosalind and Henrietta stood, knelt Mr. Cartwright and Fanny. His eyes were fixed upon her with passionate admiration, and the first words they distinctly heard were these, spoken with great vehemence by the vicar:—

"Persecuted—trampled on—turned forth from every other roof, let thy blue vault spread over us, and while I struggle to snatch this precious brand from the eternal fire of thy wrath, pour upon our heads the dew of thy love! Grant me power to save this one dear soul alive, though it should seem good in thy sight that millions should perish around her! Save her from the eternal flame that even now rises to lick her feet, and if not stayed by prayer—the prayer of thy saints,—will speedily envelope and consume her!"

Rosalind remained to hear no more. Heartsick, indignant, disgusted, and almost terrified by what she saw and heard, she retreated hastily, and, followed by Henrietta, rapidly pursued her way to the house.

Her companion made an effort to overtake her, and, almost out of breath by an exertion to which she was hardly equal, she said,

"I have shown you this, Miss Torrington, for the sake of giving you a useful lesson. If you are wise, you will profit by it, and learn to know that it is not always safe to suppose you have produced an effect, merely because it may be worth some one's while to persuade you into believing it. Having said thus much to point the moral of our walk in the sun, you may go your way, and I will go mine. I shall not enter upon any more elaborate exposition of Mr. Cartwright's character."

So saying, she fell back among the bushes, and Rosalind reached the house alone.

On entering her dressing-room, Miss Torrington sat herself down, with her eau de Cologne bottle in one hand and a large feather fan in the other, to meditate—coolly, if she could, but at any rate to meditate—upon what she ought to do in order immediately to put a stop to the very objectionable influence which Mr. Cartwright appeared to exercise over the mind of Fanny.

Had she been aware of Sir Gilbert Harrington's having written to recall his refusal of the executorship, she would immediately have had recourse to him; but this fact had never transpired beyond Mrs. Mowbray and the vicar; and the idea that he had resisted the representation which she felt sure his son had made to him after the conversation Helen and herself had held with him, not only made her too angry to attempt any farther to soften him, but naturally impressed her with the belief that, do or say what she would on the subject, it must be in vain.

At length it struck her that Charles Mowbray was the most proper person to whom she could address herself; yet the writing such a letter as might immediately bring him home, was a measure which, under all existing circumstances, she felt to be awkward and disagreeable. But the more she meditated the more she felt convinced, that, notwithstanding the obvious objections to it, this was the safest course she could pursue: so having once made up her mind upon the subject, she set about it without farther delay, and, with the straightforward frankness and sincerity of her character, produced the following epistle:—

"Dear Mr. Mowbray,

"Your last letter to Helen, giving so very agreeable an account of the style and manner of your Little-go, makes it an ungracious task to interrupt your studies—and yet that is what I am bent upon doing. You will be rather puzzled, I suspect, at finding me assuming the rights and privileges of a correspondent, and moreover of an adviser, or rather a dictator: but so it is—and you must not blame me till you are quite sure you know all my reasons for it.

"Mrs. Mowbray is gone to London, accompanied by Helen, for the purpose of proving (I think it is called) your father's will; a business in which Sir Gilbert Harrington has, most unkindly for all of you, refused to join her. This journey was so suddenly decided upon, that dear Helen had no time to write to you about it: she knew not she was to go till about nine o'clock the evening preceding.

"The Vicar of Wrexhill was probably acquainted with the intended movement earlier; for no day passes, or has passed for some weeks, without his holding a private consultation with your mother.

"Oh! that vicar, Charles! I think I told you that I hated him, and you seemed to smile at my hatred as a sort of missish impertinence and caprice; but what was instinct then has become reason now, and I am strangely mistaken if your hatred would not fully keep pace with mine had you seen and heard what I have done.

"When I decided upon writing to you I intended, I believe, to enter into all particulars; but I cannot do this—you must see for yourself, and draw your own inferences. My dislike for this man may carry me too far, and you must be much more capable of forming a judgment respecting his motives than I can be. Of this however I am quite sure,—Fanny ought at this time to have some one near her more capable of protecting her from the mischievous influence of this hateful man than I am. I know, Mr. Charles, that you have no very exalted idea of my wisdom; and I am not without some fear that instead of coming home immediately, as I think you ought to do, you may write me a very witty, clever answer, with reasons as plenty as blackberries to prove that I am a goose. Do not do this, Mr. Mowbray. I do not think that you know me very well, but in common courtesy you ought not to believe that any young lady would write you such a summons as this without having very serious reasons for it.

"As one proof of the rapidly-increasing intimacy between the family of the vicar and your own, you will, on your arrival, find the daughter, Miss Cartwright, established here to console us for your mother's (and Helen's!) absence. She is a very singular personage: but on her I pass no judgment, sincerely feeling that I am not competent to it. If my opinion be of sufficient weight to induce you to come, Mr. Mowbray, I must beg you to let your arrival appear the result of accident; and not to let any one but Helen know of this letter.

"Believe me, very sincerely,

"Your friend,

"Rosalind Torrington."

CHAPTER XV.

ROSALIND'S CONVERSATION WITH MISS CARTWRIGHT.—MRS. SIMPSON AND MISS RICHARDS MEET THE VICAR AT THE PARK.—THE HYMN.—THE WALK HOME.

In the course of the morning after this letter was despatched, Miss Cartwright and Rosalind again found themselves tête-à-tête. The nature of Rosalind Torrington was so very completely the reverse of mysterious or intriguing, that far from wishing to lead Henrietta to talk of her father in that style of hints and innuendos to which the young lady seemed addicted, she determined, in future, carefully to avoid the subject; although it was very evident, from the preconcerted walk to the lime-tree, that, notwithstanding her declaration to the contrary, Miss Cartwright was desirous to make her acquainted with the character and conduct of her father.

Whether it were that spirit of contradiction which is said to possess the breast of woman, or any other more respectable feeling, it may be difficult to decide, but it is certain that the less Rosalind appeared disposed to speak of the adventure of yesterday, the more desirous did Henrietta feel to lead her to it.

"You were somewhat disappointed, I fancy, Miss Torrington," said she, "to discover that though you had contrived to banish the conventicle from the house, it had raised its voice in the grounds."

"Indeed I was," replied Rosalind.

"I rather think that you are addicted to speaking truth—and perhaps you pique yourself upon it," resumed Miss Cartwright. "Will you venture to tell me what you think of the scene you witnessed?"

"You are not the person I should most naturally have selected as the confidant of my opinions respecting Mr. Cartwright," said Rosalind; "but since you put the question plainly I will answer it plainly, and confess that I suspect him not only of wishing to inculcate his own Calvinistic doctrines on the mind of Fanny Mowbray, but moreover, notwithstanding his disproportionate age, of gaining her affections."

"Her affections?" repeated Henrietta. "And with what view do you imagine he is endeavouring to gain her affections?"

"Doubtless with a view to making her his wife; though, to be sure, the idea is preposterous."

"Sufficiently. Pray, Miss Torrington, has Miss Fanny Mowbray an independent fortune?"

"None whatever. Like the rest of the family, she is become by the death of her father entirely dependent upon Mrs. Mowbray."

"Your fortune is entirely at your own disposal, I believe."

Rosalind looked provoked at the idle turn Miss Cartwright was giving to a conversation which, though she had not led to it, interested her deeply.

"Do not suspect me of impertinence," said Henrietta in a tone more gentle than ordinary. "But such is the case, is it not?"

"Yes, Miss Cartwright," was Rosalind's grave reply.

"Then, do you know that I think it infinitely more probable Mr. Cartwright may have it in contemplation to make you his wife."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Cartwright," said Rosalind, "but I really thought that you were speaking of your father seriously; and it seems you are disposed to punish me for imagining you would do so, to one so nearly a stranger."

"I never jest on any subject," replied the melancholy-looking girl, knitting her dark brows into a frown of such austerity as almost made Rosalind tremble. "A reasoning being who has nothing to hope among the realities on this side the grave, and hopes nothing on the other, is not very likely to be jocose."

"Good Heavens! Miss Cartwright," exclaimed Rosalind, "what dreadful language is this? Are you determined to prove to me that there may be opinions and doctrines more terrible still than those of your father?"

"I had no meaning of the kind, I assure you," replied Henrietta, in her usual quiet manner, which always seemed to hover between the bitterness of a sneer, and the quietude or indifference of philosophy. "Pray do not trouble yourself for a moment to think about me or my opinions. You might, perhaps, as you are a bold-spirited, honest-minded girl, do some good if you fully comprehended all that was going on around you; though it is very doubtful, for it is impossible to say to what extent the besotted folly of people may go. But don't you think it might on the whole be quite as probable that Mr. Cartwright may wish to marry the mother as the daughter?"

"Mrs. Mowbray!—Good gracious! no."

"Then we differ. But may I ask you why you think otherwise?"

"One reason is, that Mrs. Mowbray's recent widowhood seems to put such an idea entirely out of the question; and another, that he appears to be positively making love to Fanny."

"Oh!—is that all? I do assure you there is nothing at all particular in that. He would tell you himself, I am sure, if you were to enter upon the subject with him, that it is his duty to influence and lead the hearts of his flock into the way he would have them go, by every means in his power."

"Then you really do not think he has been making love to Fanny?"

"I am sure, Miss Torrington," replied Henrietta very gravely, "I did not mean to say so."

"Indeed! indeed! Miss Cartwright," said Rosalind with evident symptoms of impatience, "these riddles vex me cruelly. If your father does make love to this dear fanciful child, he must, I suppose, have some hope that she will marry him?"

"How can I answer you?" exclaimed Henrietta with real feeling. "You cannot be above two or three years younger than I am, yet your purity and innocence make me feel myself a monster."

"For Heaven's sake do not trifle with me!" cried Rosalind, her face and neck dyed with indignant blood; "you surely do not mean that your father is seeking to seduce this unhappy child?"

"Watch Mr. Cartwright a little while, Rosalind Torrington, as I have done for the six last terrible years of my hateful life, and you may obtain perhaps some faint idea of the crooked, complex machinery—the movements and counter-movements, the shiftings and the balancings, by which his zig-zag course is regulated. Human passions are in him for ever struggling with, and combating, what may be called, in their strength, superhuman avarice and ambition.

"To touch, to influence, to lead, to rule, to tyrannise over the hearts and souls of all he approaches, is the great object of his life. He would willingly do this in the hearts of men,—but for the most part he has found them tough; and he now, I think, seems to rest all his hopes of fame, wealth, and station on the power he can obtain over women.—I say not," she added after a pause, while a slight blush passed over her pallid cheek, "that I believe his senses uninfluenced by beauty;—this is far, hatefully far from being the case with Mr. Cartwright;—but he is careful, most cunningly careful, whatever victims he makes, never to become one in his own person.

"You would find, were you to watch him, that his system, both for pleasure and profit, consists of a certain graduated love-making to every woman within his reach, not too poor, too old, or too ugly. But if any among them fancy that he would sacrifice the thousandth part of a hair's breadth of his worldly hopes for all they could give him in return—they are mistaken."

"The character you paint," said Rosalind, who grew pale as she listened, "is too terrible for me fully to understand, and I would turn my eyes from the portrait, and endeavour to forget that I had ever heard of it, were not those I love endangered by it. Hateful as all this new knowledge is to me, I must still question you further, Miss Cartwright: What do you suppose to be his object in thus working upon the mind of Fanny Mowbray?"

"His motives, depend upon it, are manifold. Religion and love, the new birth and intellectual attachment—mystical sympathy of hearts, and the certainty of eternal perdition to all that he does not take under the shadow of his wing;—these are the tools with which he works. He has got his foot—perhaps you may think it a cloven one, but, such as it is, he seems to have got it pretty firmly planted within the paling of Mowbray Park. He made me follow him hither as a volunteer visiter, very much against my inclination; but if by what I have said you may be enabled to defeat any of his various projects among ye,—for he never plots single-handed,—I shall cease to regret that I came."

"My power of doing any good," replied Rosalind, "must, I fear, be altogether destroyed by my ignorance of what Mr. Cartwright's intentions and expectations are. You have hinted various things, but all so vaguely, that I own I do not feel more capable of keeping my friends from any danger which may threaten them, than before this conversation took place."

"I am sorry for it," said Henrietta coldly, "but I have really no information more accurate to give."

"I truly believe that you have meant very kindly," said Rosalind, looking seriously distressed. "Will you go one step farther, and say what you would advise me to do, Miss Cartwright?"

"No, certainly, Miss Torrington, I will not. But I will give you a hint or two what not to do. Do not appear at all better acquainted with me than I show myself disposed to be with you. Do not make the slightest alteration in your manner of receiving Mr. Cartwright; and do not, from any motive whatever, repeat one syllable of this conversation to Fanny Mowbray. Should you disobey this last injunction, you will be guilty of very cruel and ungrateful treachery towards me." Having said this, with the appearance of more emotion than she had hitherto manifested, Henrietta rose and left the room.

"At length," thought Rosalind, "she has spoken out; yet what are we likely to be the better for it? It seems that there is a great net thrown over us, of which we shall feel and see the meshes by-and-by, when he who has made prey of us begins to pull the draught to shore; but how to escape from it, the oracle sayeth not!"

On the evening of that day, Mrs. Simpson and the eldest Miss Richards walked over from Wrexhill to pay a visit at the Park. They were not aware of the absence of Mrs. Mowbray, and seemed disposed to shorten their visit on finding she was not at home; but Rosalind, who for the last hour had been sitting on thorns expecting Mr. Cartwright to make his evening call, most cordially and earnestly invited them to stay till after tea, feeling that their presence would greatly relieve the embarrassment which she feared she might betray on again seeing the vicar.

"But it will be so late!" said Miss Richards. "How are we to get home after it is dark? Remember, Mrs. Simpson, there is no moon."

"It is very true," said Mrs. Simpson. "I am afraid, my dear Miss Torrington, that we must deny ourselves the pleasure you offer;—but I am such a nervous creature! It is very seldom that I stir out without ordering a man-servant to follow me; and I regret excessively that I omitted to do so this evening."

"I think," said Rosalind, colouring at her own eagerness, which she was conscious must appear rather new and rather strange to Mrs. Simpson, with whom she had hardly ever exchanged a dozen words before,—"I think Mr. Cartwright will very likely be here this evening, and perhaps he might attend you home. Do you not think, Miss Cartwright," she added, turning to Henrietta, "that it is very likely your father will call this evening?"

"Good gracious!—Miss Cartwright—I beg your pardon, I did not know you. I hope you heard that I called;—so very happy to cultivate your acquaintance!—Oh dear! I would not miss seeing Mr. Cartwright for the world!—Thank you, my dear Miss Torrington;—thank you, Miss Fanny: I will just set my hair to rights a little, if you will give me leave. Perhaps, Miss Fanny, you will permit me to go into your bed-room?" Such was the effect produced by the vicar's name upon the handsome widow.

Miss Richards coloured, smiled, spoke to Henrietta with very respectful politeness, and finally followed her friend Mrs. Simpson out of the room, accompanied by Fanny, who willingly undertook to be their gentlewoman usher.

"Mr. Cartwright has already made some impression on these fair ladies, or I am greatly mistaken," said Henrietta. "Did you remark, Miss Torrington, the effect produced by his name?"

"I did," replied Rosalind, "and my reasonings upon it are very consolatory; for if he has already found time and inclination to produce so great effect there, why should we fear that his labours of love here should prove more dangerous in their tendency?"

"Very true. Nor do I see any reason in the world why the Mowbray is in greater peril than the Simpson, or the Fanny than the Louisa,—excepting that one widow is about twenty times richer than the other, and the little young lady about five hundred times handsomer than the great one."

At this moment the Mr. Cartwrights, father and son, were seen turning off from the regular approach to the house, towards the little gate that opened from the lawn; a friendly and familiar mode of entrance, which seemed to have become quite habitual to them.

Rosalind, who was the first to perceive them, flew towards the door, saying, "You must excuse me for running away, Miss Cartwright. I invited that furbelow widow to stay on purpose to spare me this almost tête-à-tête meeting. I will seek the ladies and return with them."

"Then so will I too," said Henrietta, hastily following her. "I am by no means disposed to stand the cross-examination which I know will ensue if I remain here alone."

The consequence of this movement was, that the vicar and his son prepared their smiles in vain; for, on entering the drawing-room, sofas and ottomans, footstools, tables, and chairs, alone greeted them.

Young Cartwright immediately began peeping into the work-boxes and portfolios which lay on the tables.

"Look here, sir," said he, holding up a caricature of Lord B——m. "Is not this sinful?"

"Do be quiet, Jacob!—we shall have them here in a moment;—I really wish I could teach you when your interest is at stake to make the best of yourself. You know that I should be particularly pleased by your marrying Miss Torrington; and I do beg, my dear boy, that you will not suffer your childish spirits to put any difficulties in my way."

"I will become an example unto all men," replied Jacob, shutting up his eyes and mouth demurely, and placing himself bolt upright upon the music-stool.

"If you and your sister could but mingle natures a little," said Mr. Cartwright, "you would both be wonderfully improved. Nothing with which I am acquainted, however joyous, can ever induce Henrietta to smile; and nothing, however sad, can prevent your being on the broad grin from morning to night. However, of the two, I confess I think you are the most endurable."

"A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool's back," said Jacob in a sanctified tone.

"Upon my honour, Jacob, I shall be very angry with you if you do not set about this love-making as I would have you. Don't make ducks and drakes of eighty thousand pounds:—at least, not till you have got them."

"Answer not a fool according to his folly, least he be wise in his own conceit," said Jacob.

Mr. Cartwright smiled, as it seemed against his will, but shook his head very solemnly. "I'll tell you what, Jacob," said he,—"if I see you set about this in a way to please me, I'll give you five shillings to-morrow morning."

"Wherefore is there a price in the hand of a fool to get wisdom, seeing he hath no heart to it?" replied Jacob. "Nevertheless, father, I will look lovingly upon the maiden, and receive thy promised gift, even as thou sayest."

"Upon my word, Jacob, you try my patience too severely," said the vicar; yet there was certainly but little wrath in his eye as he said so, and his chartered libertine of a son was preparing again to answer him in the words of Solomon, but in a spirit of very indecent buffoonery, when the drawing-room door opened, and Mrs. Simpson, Miss Richards, and Fanny Mowbray entered.

It appeared that Rosalind and Miss Cartwright on escaping from the drawing-room had not sought the other ladies, but taken refuge in the dining-parlour, from whence they issued immediately after the others had passed the door, and entering the drawing-room with them, enjoyed the gratification of witnessing the meeting of the vicar and his fair parishioners.

To the surprise of Rosalind, and the great though silent amusement of her companion, they perceived that both the stranger ladies had contrived to make a very edifying and remarkable alteration in the general appearance of their dress.

Miss Richards had combed her abounding black curls as nearly straight as their nature would allow, and finally brought them into very reverential order by the aid of her ears, and sundry black pins to boot,—an arrangement by no means unfavourable to the display of her dark eyes and eyebrows.

But the change produced by the castigato toilet of the widow was considerably more important. A transparent blond chemisette, rather calculated to adorn than conceal that part of the person to which it belonged, was now completely hidden by a lavender-coloured silk handkerchief, tightly, smoothly, and with careful security pinned behind, and before, and above, and below, upon her full but graceful bust.

Rosalind had more than once of late amused herself by looking over the pages of Molière's "Tartuffe;" and a passage now occurred to her that she could not resist muttering in the ear of Henrietta:—

"Ah, mon Dieu! je vous prie, Avant que de parler, prenez-moi ce mouchoir"—&c.

The comer of Miss Cartwright's mouth expressed her appreciation of the quotation, but by a movement so slight that none but Rosalind could perceive it.

Meanwhile the vicar approached Mrs. Simpson with a look that was full of meaning, and intended to express admiration both of her mental and personal endowments. She, too, had banished the drooping ringlets from her cheeks, and appeared before him with all the pretty severity of a Madonna band across her forehead.

Was it in the nature of man to witness such touching proofs of his influence without being affected thereby? At any rate, such indifference made no part of the character of the Vicar of Wrexhill, and the murmured "Bless you, my dear lady!" which accompanied his neighbourly pressure of the widow Simpson's hand, gave her to understand how much his grateful and affectionate feelings were gratified by her attention to the hints he had found an opportunity to give her during a tête-à-tête conversation at her own house a few days before.

Nor was the delicate attention of Miss Richards overlooked. She, too, felt at her fingers' ends how greatly the sacrifice of her curls was approved by the graceful vicar, who now sat down surrounded by this fair bevy of ladies, smiling with bland and gentle sweetness on them all.

Mr. Jacob thought of the promised five shillings, and displaying his fine teeth from ear to ear, presented a chair to Miss Torrington.

"I wish you would let us have a song, Miss Rosalind Torrington," said he, stationing himself at the back of her chair and leaning over her shoulder. "I am told that your voice beats every thing on earth hollow."

His eye caught an approving glance from his father as he took this station, and he wisely trusted to his attitude for obtaining his reward, for these words were audible only to the young lady herself.

"You are a mighty odd set of people!" said she, turning round to him. "I cannot imagine how you all contrive to live together! There is not one of you that does not appear to be a contrast to the other two."

"Then, at any rate, you cannot dislike us all equally," said the strange lad, with a grimace that made her laugh, despite her inclination to look grave.

"I do not know that," was the reply. "I may dislike you all equally, and yet have a different species of dislike for each."

"But one species must be stronger and more vigorous than the others. Besides, I will assist your judgment. I do not mean to say I am quite perfect; but, depend upon it, I'm the best of the set, as you call us."

"Your authority, Mr. Jacob, is the best in the world, certainly. Nevertheless, there are many who on such an occasion might suspect you of partiality."

"Then they would do me great injustice, Miss Torrington. I am a man, or a boy, or something between both: take me for all in all, it is five hundred to one you ne'er shall look upon my like again. But that is a play-going and sinful quotation, Miss Rosalind, like your name: so be merciful unto me, and please not to tell my papa."

"You may be very certain, Mr. Jacob, that I shall obey you in this."

"Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,— Such a nut is Rosalind."

responded the youth; and probably thinking that he had fairly won his five shillings, he raised his tall thin person from the position which had so well pleased his father, and stole round to the sofa on which Fanny was sitting.

Fanny was looking very lovely, but without a trace of that bright and beaming animation which a few short months before had led her poor father to give her the sobriquet of "Firefly." He was wont to declare, and no one was inclined to contradict him, that whenever she appeared, something like a bright coruscation seemed to flash upon the eye. No one, not even a fond father, would have hit upon such a simile for her now. Beautiful she was, perhaps more beautiful than ever; but a sad and sombre thoughtfulness had settled itself on her young brow,—her voice was no longer the echo of gay thoughts, and, in a word, her whole aspect and bearing were changed.

She now sat silently apart from the company, watching, with an air that seemed to hover between abstraction and curiosity, Mrs. Simpson's manner of making herself agreeable to Mr. Cartwright.

This lady was seated on one side of the vicar, and Miss Richards on the other: both had the appearance of being unconscious that any other person or persons were in the room, and nothing but his consummate skill in the art of uttering an aside both with eyes and lips could have enabled him to sustain his position.

"My sisters and I are afraid you have quite forgotten us," murmured Miss Richards; "but we have been practising the hymns you gave us, and we are all quite perfect, and ready to sing them to you whenever you come."

"The hearing this, my dear young lady, gives me as pure and holy a pleasure as listening to the sacred strains could do:—unless, indeed," he added, bending his head sideways towards her, so as nearly to touch her cheek, "unless, indeed, they were breathed by the lips of Louisa herself. That must be very like hearing a seraph sing!"

Not a syllable of this was heard save by herself.

"I have thought incessantly," said Mrs. Simpson, in a very low voice, as soon as Mr. Cartwright's head had recovered the perpendicular,—"incessantly, I may truly say, on our last conversation. My life has been passed in a manner so widely different from what I am sure it will be in future, that I feel as if I were awakened to a new existence!"

"The great object of my hopes is, and will ever be," replied the Vicar of Wrexhill almost aloud, "to lead my beloved flock to sweet and safe pastures.—And for you," he added, in a voice so low, that she rather felt than heard his words, "what is there I would not do?" Here his eyes spoke a commentary; and hers, a note upon it.

"Which is the hymn, Mr. Cartwright, that you think best adapted to the semi-weekly Sabbath you recommended us to institute?" said Miss Richards.

"The eleventh, I think.—Yes, the eleventh;—study that, my dear child. Early and late let your sweet voice breathe those words,—and I will be with you in spirit, Louisa."

Not even Mrs. Simpson heard a word of this, beyond "dear child."

"But when shall I see you?—I have doubts and difficulties on some points, Mr. Cartwright," said the widow aloud. "How shamefully ignorant—I must call it shamefully ignorant—did poor Mr. Wallace suffer us to remain!—Is it not true, Louisa? Did he ever, through all the years we have known him, utter an awakening word to any of us?"

"No, indeed he never did," replied Miss Louisa, in a sort of penitent whine.

"I am rather surprised to hear you say that, Miss Richards," said Rosalind, drawing her chair a little towards them. "I always understood that Mr. Wallace was one of the most exemplary parish priests in England. Did not your father consider him to be so, Fanny?"

"I—I believe so,—I don't know," replied Fanny, stammering and colouring painfully.

"Not know, Fanny Mowbray!" exclaimed Rosalind;—"not know your father's opinion of Mr. Wallace! That is very singular indeed."

"I mean," said Fanny, struggling to recover her composure, "that I never heard papa's opinion of him as compared with—with any one else."

"I do not believe he would have lost by the comparison," said Rosalind, rising, and walking out of the window.

"Is not that prodigiously rich young lady somewhat of the tiger breed?" said young Cartwright in a whisper to Fanny.

"Miss Torrington is not at all a person of serious notions," replied Fanny; "and till one is subdued by religion, one is often very quarrelsome."

"I am sure, serious or not, you would never quarrel with any one," whispered Jacob.

"Indeed I should be sorry and ashamed to do so now," she replied. "Your father ought to cure us all of such unchristian faults as that."

"I wish I was like my father!" said Jacob very sentimentally.

"Oh! how glad I am to hear you say that!" said Fanny, clasping her hands together. "I am sure it would make him so happy!"

"I can't say I was thinking of making him happy, Miss Fanny: I only meant, that I wished I was like any body that you admire and approve so much."

"A poor silly motive for wishing to be like such a father!" replied Fanny, blushing; and leaving her distant place, she established herself at the table on which the tea equipage had just been placed, and busied herself with the tea-cups.

This remove brought her very nearly opposite Mr. Cartwright and the two ladies who were seated beside him, and from this moment the conversation proceeded without any "asides" whatever.

"At what age, Mr. Cartwright," said Mrs. Simpson, "do you think one should begin to instil the doctrine of regeneration into a little girl?"

"Not later than ten, my dear lady. A very quick and forward child might perhaps be led to comprehend it earlier. Eight and three-quarters I have known in a state of the most perfect awakening; but this I hold to be rare."

"What a spectacle!" exclaimed Miss Richards in a sort of rapture. "A child of eight and three-quarters! Did it speak its thoughts, Mr. Cartwright?"

"The case I allude to, my dear young lady, was published. I will bring you the pamphlet. Nothing can be more edifying than the out-breakings of the Spirit through the organs of that chosen little vessel."

"I hope, Mr. Cartwright, that I shall have the benefit of this dear pamphlet also. Do not forget that I have a little girl exactly eight years three-quarters and six weeks.—I beg your pardon, my dear Louisa, but this must be so much more interesting to me than it can be to you as yet, my dear, that I trust Mr. Cartwright will give me the precedence in point of time. Besides, you know, that as the principal person in the village, I am a little spoiled in such matters. I confess to you, I should feel hurt if I had to wait for this till you had studied it. You have no child, you know."

"Oh! without doubt, Mrs. Simpson, you ought to have it first," replied Miss Richards. "I am certainly not likely as yet to have any one's soul to be anxious about but my own.—Is this blessed child alive, Mr. Cartwright?"

"In heaven, Miss Louisa,—not on earth. It is the account of its last moments that have been so admirably drawn up by the Reverend Josiah Martin. This gentleman is a particular friend of mine, and I am much interested in the sale of the little work. I will have the pleasure, my dear ladies, of bringing a dozen copies to each of you; and you will give me a very pleasing proof of the pious feeling I so deeply rejoice to see, if you will dispose of them at one shilling each among your friends."

"I am sure I will try all I can!" said Miss Richards.

"My influence could not be better employed, I am certain, than in forwarding your wishes in all things," added Mrs. Simpson.

Young Jacob, either in the hope of amusement, or of more certainly securing his five shillings, had followed the indignant Rosalind out of the window, and found her refreshing herself by arranging the vagrant tendrils of a beautiful creeping plant outside it.

"I am afraid, Miss Rosalind Torrington," said he, "that you would not say Amen! if I did say, May the saints have you in their holy keeping! I do believe in my heart that you would rather find yourself in the keeping of sinners."

"The meaning of words often depends upon the character of those who utter them," replied Rosalind. "There is such a thing as slang, Mr. Jacob; and there is such a thing as cant."

"Did you ever mention that to my papa, Miss Rosalind?" inquired Jacob in a voice of great simplicity.

Rosalind looked at him as if she wished to discover what he was at,—whether his object were to quiz her, his father, or both. But considering his very boyish appearance and manner, there was more difficulty in achieving this than might have been expected. Sometimes she thought him almost a fool; at others, quite a wag. At one moment she was ready to believe him more than commonly simple-minded; and at another felt persuaded that he was an accomplished hypocrite.

It is probable that the youth perceived her purpose, and felt more gratification in defeating it than he could have done from any love-making of which she were the object. His countenance, which was certainly intended by nature to express little besides frolic and fun, was now puckered up into a look of solemnity that might have befitted one of the Newman-street congregation when awaiting an address in the unknown tongue.

"I am sure," he said, "that my papa would like to hear you talk about all those things very much, Miss Torrington. I do not think that he would exactly agree with you in every word you might say: but that never seems to vex him: if the talk does but go about heaven and hell, and saints and sinners, and reprobation and regeneration, and the old man and the new birth, that is all papa cares for. I think he likes to be contradicted a little; for that, you know, makes more talk again."

"Is that the principle upon which you proceed with him yourself, Mr. Jacob? Do you always make a point of contradicting every thing he says?"

"Pretty generally, Miss Torrington, when there is nobody by, and when I make it all pass for joke. But there is a law that even Miss Henrietta has been taught to obey; and that is, never to contradict him in company. Perhaps you have found that out, Miss Rosalind?"

"Perhaps I have, Mr. Jacob."

"Will you not come in to tea, Miss Torrington?" said Henrietta, appearing at the window, with the volume in her hand which had seemed to occupy her whole attention from the time she had re-entered the drawing-room with Rosalind.

"I wish, sister," said Jacob, affecting to look extremely cross, "that you would not pop out so, to interrupt one's conversation! You might have a fellow feeling, I think, for a young lady, when she walks out of a window, and a young gentleman walks after her!"

Rosalind gave him a look from one side, and Henrietta from the other.

"Mercy on me!" he exclaimed, putting up his hands as if to guard the two sides of his face. "Four black eyes at me at once!—and so very black in every sense of the word!"

The young ladies walked together into the room, and Jacob followed, seeking the eye of his father, and receiving thence, as he expected, a glance of encouragement and applause.

When the tea was removed, Mr. Cartwright went to the piano-forte, and run his fingers with an appearance of some skill over the keys.

"I hope, my dear Miss Fanny, that you intend we should have a little music this evening?"

"If Mrs. Simpson, Miss Richards, and Miss Torrington will sing," said Fanny, "I shall be very happy to accompany them."

"What music have you got, my dear young lady?" said the vicar.

Miss Torrington had a large collection of songs very commodiously stowed beneath the instrument; and Helen and herself were nearly as amply provided with piano-forte music of all kinds: but though this was the first time Mr. Cartwright had ever approached the instrument, or asked for music, Fanny had a sort of instinctive consciousness that the collection would be found defective in his eyes.

"We have several of Handel's oratorios," she replied; "and I think Helen has got the 'Creation.'"

"Very fine music both," replied Mr. Cartwright; "but in the social meetings of friends, where many perhaps may be able to raise a timid note toward heaven, though incapable of performing the difficult compositions of these great masters, I conceive that a simpler style is preferable. If you will permit me," he continued, drawing a small volume of manuscript music from his pocket, "I will point out to you some very beautiful, and, indeed, popular melodies, which have heretofore been sadly disgraced by the words applied to them. In this little book many of my female friends have, at my request, written words fit for a Christian to sing, to notes that the sweet voice of youth and beauty may love to breathe. Miss Torrington, I have heard that you are considered to be a very superior vocalist:—will you use the power that God has given, to hymn his praise?"

There was too much genuine piety in Rosalind's heart to refuse a challenge so worded, without a better reason for doing it than personal dislike to Mr. Cartwright; nevertheless, it was not without putting some constraint upon herself that she replied,

"I very often sing sacred music, sir, and am ready to do so now, if you wish it."

"A thousand thanks," said he, "for this amiable compliance! I hail it as the harbinger of harmony that shall rise from all our hearts in sweet accord to heaven."

Rosalind coloured, and her heart whispered, "I will not be a hypocrite." But she had agreed to sing, and she prepared to do so, seeking among her volumes for one of the easiest and shortest of Handel's songs, and determined when she had finished to make her escape.

While she was thus employed, however, Mr. Cartwright was equally active in turning over the leaves of his pocket companion; and before Miss Torrington had made her selection, he placed the tiny manuscript volume open upon the instrument, saying, "There, my dear young lady! this is an air, and these are words which we may all listen to with equal innocence and delight."

Rosalind was provoked; but every one in the room had already crowded round the piano, and having no inclination to enter upon any discussion, she sat down prepared to sing whatever was placed before her.

The air was undeniably a popular one, being no other than "Fly not yet!" which, as all the world knows, has been performed to millions of delighted listeners, in lofty halls and tiny drawing-rooms, and, moreover, ground upon every hand-organ in Great Britain for many years past. Rosalind ran her eyes over the words, which, in fair feminine characters, were written beneath the notes as follow:

Fly not yet! 'Tis just the hour When prayerful Christians own the power That, inly beaming with new light, Begins to sanctify the night For maids who love the moon. Oh, pray!—oh, pray!

'Tis but to bless these hours of shade That pious songs and hymns are made; For now, their holy ardour glowing, Sets the soul's emotion flowing. Oh, pray!—oh, pray!

Prayer so seldom breathes a strain So sweet as this, that, oh! 'tis pain To check its voice too soon. Oh, pray!—oh, pray!

An expression of almost awful indignation rose to the eyes of Rosalind. "Do you give me this, sir," she said, "as a jest?—or do you propose that I should sing it as an act of devotion?"

Mr. Cartwright withdrew the little book and immediately returned it to his pocket.

"I am sorry, Miss Torrington, that you should have asked me such a question," he replied with a kind of gentle severity which might have led almost any hearer to think him in the right. "I had hoped that my ministry at Wrexhill, short as it has been, could not have left it a matter of doubt whether, in speaking of singing or prayer, I was in jest?"

"Nevertheless, sir," rejoined Rosalind, "it does to me appear like a jest, and a very indecent one too, thus to imagine that an air long familiar to all as the vehicle of words as full of levity as of poetry can be on the sudden converted into an accompaniment to a solemn invocation to prayer—uttered, too, in the form of a vile parody."

"I think that a very few words may be able to prove to you the sophistry of such an argument," returned the vicar. "You will allow, I believe, that this air is very generally known to all classes.—Is it not so?"

Rosalind bowed her assent.

"Well, then, let me go a step farther, and ask whether the words originally set to this air are not likely to be recalled by hearing it?"

"Beyond all doubt."

"Now observe, Miss Torrington, that what you have been pleased to call levity and poetry, I, in my clerical capacity, denounce as indecent and obscene."

"Is that your reason for setting me to play it?" said Rosalind in a tone of anger.

"That question again, does not, I fear, argue an amiable and pious state of mind," replied Mr. Cartwright, appealing meekly with his eyes to the right and left. "It is to substitute other thoughts for those which the air has hitherto suggested that I conceive the singing this song, as it now stands, desirable."

"Might it not be as well to leave the air alone altogether?" said Rosalind.

"Decidedly not," replied the vicar. "The notes, as you have allowed, are already familiar to all men, and it is therefore a duty to endeavour to make that familiarity familiarly suggest thoughts of heaven."

"Thoughts of heaven," said Rosalind, "should never be suggested familiarly."

"Dreadful—very dreadful doctrine that, Miss Torrington! and I must tell you, in devout assurance of the truth I speak, that it is in order to combat and overthrow such notions as you now express, that Heaven hath vouchsafed, by an act of special providence, to send upon earth in these later days my humble self, and some others who think like me."

"And permit me, sir, in the name of the earthly father I have lost," replied Rosalind, while her eyes almost overflowed with the glistening moisture her earnestness brought into them,—"permit me in his reverenced name to say, that constant prayer can in no way be identified with familiarity of address; and that of many lamentable evils which the class of preachers to whom you allude have brought upon blundering Christians, that of teaching them to believe that there is righteousness in mixing the awful and majestic name of God with all the hourly, petty occurrences of this mortal life, is one of the most deplorable."

"May your unthinking youth, my dear young lady, plead before the God of mercy in mitigation of the wrath which such sentiments are calculated to draw down!"

"Oh!" sobbed Miss Richards.

"Alas!" sighed Mrs. Simpson.

"How can you, Rosalind, speak so to the pastor and master of our souls?" said Fanny, while tears of sympathy for the outraged vicar fell from her beautiful eyes.

"My dear children!—my dear friends!" said Mr. Cartwright in a voice that seemed to tremble with affectionate emotion, "think not of me!—Remember the words 'Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake!' I turn not from the harsh rebuke of this young lady, albeit I am not insensible to its injustice,—nor, indeed, blind to its indecency. But blessed—oh! most blessed shall I hold this trial, if it lead to the awakening holy thoughts in you!—My dear young lady," he continued, rising from his seat and approaching Rosalind with an extended hand, "it may be as well, perhaps, that I withdraw myself at this moment. Haply, reflection may soften your young heart.—But let us part in peace, as Christians should do."

Rosalind did not take his offered hand. "In peace, sir," she said,—"decidedly I desire you to depart in peace. I have no wish to molest you in any way. But you must excuse my not accepting your proffered hand. It is but an idle and unmeaning ceremony perhaps, as things go; but the manner in which you now stretch forth your hand gives a sort of importance to it which would make it a species of falsehood in me to accept it. When it means any thing, it means cordial liking; and this, sir, I do not feel for you."

So saying, Rosalind arose and left the room.

Fanny clasped her hands in a perfect agony, and raising her tearful eyes to Heaven as if to deprecate its wrath upon the roof that covered so great wickedness, exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Cartwright! what can I say to you!"

Mrs. Simpson showed symptoms of being likely to faint; and as Mr. Cartwright and Fanny approached her, Miss Richards, with a vehemence of feeling that seemed to set language at defiance, seized the hand of the persecuted vicar and pressed it to her lips.

Several minutes were given to the interchange of emotions too strong to be described in words. Female tears were blended with holy blessings; and, as Jacob afterwards assured his sister, who had contrived unobserved to escape, he at one time saw no fewer than eight human hands, great and small, all mixed together in a sort of chance-medley heap upon the chair round which they at length kneeled down.

It will be easily believed that Miss Torrington appeared no more that night; and after an hour passed in conversation on the persecutions and revilings to which the godly are exposed, Mrs. Simpson, who declared herself dreadfully overcome, proposed to Miss Richards that they should use such strength as was left them to walk home. A very tender leave was taken of Fanny, in which Mr. Jacob zealously joined, and the party set out for a star-lit walk to Wrexhill, its vicar supporting on each arm a very nervous and trembling hand.

Mr. Cartwright soon after passing the Park-lodge, desired his son to step forward and order the clerk to come to him on some urgent parish business before he went to bed. The young man darted forward nothing loth, and the trio walked at a leisurely pace under the dark shadows of the oak-trees that lined the road to the village.

They passed behind the Vicarage; when the two ladies simultaneously uttered a sigh, and breathed in a whisper, "Sweet spot!" Can it be doubted that both were thanked by a gentle pressure of the arm?

The house of Mrs. Simpson lay on the road to that of Mrs. Richards, and Miss Louisa made a decided halt before the door, distinctly pronouncing at the same time,

"Good night, my dear Mrs. Simpson!"

But this lady knew the duties of a chaperon too well to think of leaving her young companion till she saw her safely restored to her mother's roof.

"Oh! no, my dear!" she exclaimed: "if your house were a mile off, Louisa, I should take you home."

"But you have been so poorly!" persisted the young lady, "and it is so unnecessary!"

"It is right," returned Mrs. Simpson with an emphasis that marked too conscientious a feeling to be further resisted. So Miss Richards was taken home, and the fair widow languidly and slowly retraced her steps to her own door, with no other companion than the Vicar of Wrexhill.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

CHARLES MOWBRAY'S ARRIVAL AT THE PARK.

Never had Rosalind Torrington so strongly felt the want of some one to advise her what to do, as the morning after this disagreeable scene. Had she consulted her inclination only, she would have remained in her own apartments till the return of Mrs. Mowbray and Helen. But more than one reason prevented her doing so. In the first place, she was not without hope that her letter would immediately bring young Mowbray home; and it would be equally disagreeable to miss seeing him, by remaining in her dressing-room, or to leave it expressly for the purpose of doing so: and secondly, however far her feelings might be from perfect confidence and esteem towards Miss Cartwright, she felt that she owed her something, and that it would be ungrateful and almost cruel to leave her tête-à-tête with the bewildered Fanny, or en tiers with her and the vicar.

She therefore determined to run the risk of encountering Mr. Cartwright as usual, but felt greatly at a loss how to treat him. Their last démêlé had been too serious to be forgotten by either; and her opinion of him was such, that far from wishing to conciliate him, or in any way to efface the impression of what she had said on leaving him, her inclination and her principles both led her to wish that it should be indelible, and that nothing should ever lessen the distance that was now placed between them. But Rosalind felt all the difficulty of maintaining this tone towards a person not only on terms of intimate friendship with the family, but considered by part of it as a man whose word ought to be law. She began to fear, as she meditated on the position in which she was placed, that Mowbray Park could not long continue to be her home. The idea of Helen, and what she would feel at losing her, drew tears from her eyes; and then the remembrance of her Irish home, of her lost parents, and the terrible contrast between what she had heard last night, and the lessons and opinions of her dear father, made them flow abundantly.

The day passed heavily. Miss Cartwright appeared to think she had done enough, and devoted herself almost wholly to the perusal of a French metaphysical work which she had found in the library, Fanny was silent and sad, and seemed carefully to avoid being left for a moment alone with Rosalind. Mr. Cartwright made no visit to the house during the morning: but Judy informed her mistress, when she came to arrange her dress for dinner, that the reverend gentleman had been walking in the shrubberies with Miss Fanny; and in the evening he made his entrance, as usual, through the drawing-room window.

It was the result of a strong effort produced by very excellent feeling, that kept Rosalind in the room when she saw him approach; but she had little doubt that if she went, Miss Cartwright would follow her, and she resolved that his pernicious tête-à-têtes with Fanny should not be rendered more frequent by any selfishness of hers.

It was evident to her from Mr. Cartwright's manner through the whole evening, that it was his intention to overload her with gentle kindness, in order to set off in strong relief her harsh and persecuting spirit towards him. But not even her wish to defeat this plan could enable her to do more than answer by civil monosyllables when he spoke to her.

Miss Cartwright laid aside her book and resumed her netting as soon as she saw him approach; but as usual, she sat silent and abstracted, and the conversation was wholly carried on by the vicar and his pretty proselyte. No man, perhaps, had a greater facility in making conversation than the Vicar of Wrexhill: his habit of extempore preaching, in which he was thought by many to excel, probably contributed to give him this power. But not only had he an endless flow of words wherewith to clothe whatever thoughts suggested themselves, but moreover a most happy faculty of turning every thing around him to account. Every object, animate or inanimate, furnished him a theme; and let him begin from what point he would, (unless in the presence of noble or influential personages to whom he believed it would be distasteful,) he never failed to bring the conversation round to the subject of regeneration and grace, the blessed hopes of himself and his sect, and the assured damnation of all the rest of the world.

Fanny Mowbray listened to him with an earnestness that amounted to nervous anxiety, lest she should lose a word. His awful dogmas had taken fearful hold of her ardent and ill-regulated imagination; while his bland and affectionate manner, his fine features and graceful person, rendered him altogether an object of the most unbounded admiration and interest to her.

As an additional proof, probably, that he did not shrink from persecution, Mr. Cartwright again opened the piano-forte as soon as the tea equipage was removed, and asked Fanny if she would sing with him.

"With you, Mr. Cartwright!" she exclaimed in an accent of glad surprise: "I did not know that you sang. Oh! how I wish that I were a greater proficient, that I might sing with you as I would wish to do!"

"Sing with me, my dear child, with that sweet and pious feeling which I rejoice to see hourly increasing in your heart. Sing thus, my dearest child, and you will need no greater skill than Heaven is sure to give to all who raise their voice to it. This little book, my dear Miss Fanny," he continued, drawing once more the manuscript volume from his pocket, "contains much that your pure and innocent heart will approve. Do you know this air?" and he pointed to the notes of "Là ci darem' la mano."

"Oh yes!" said Fanny; "I know it very well."

"Then play it, my good child. This too we have taken as spoil from the enemy, and instead of profane Italian words, you will here find in your own language thoughts that may be spoken without fear."

Fanny instantly complied; and though her power of singing was greatly inferior to that of Rosalind, the performance, aided by the fine bass voice of Mr. Cartwright, and an accompaniment very correctly played, was very agreeable. Fanny herself thought she had never sung so well before, and required only to be told by the vicar what she was to do next, to prolong the performance till considerably past Mr. Cartwright's usual hour of retiring.

About an hour after the singing began, Henrietta approached Miss Torrington, and said in a whisper too low to be heard at the instrument, "My head aches dreadfully. Can you spare me?"

As she had not spoken a single syllable since the trio entered the drawing-room after dinner, Rosalind could not wholly refrain from a smile as she replied "Why, yes; I think I can."

"I am not jesting; I am suffering, Rosalind. You will not leave that girl alone with him?"

"Dear Henrietta!" cried Rosalind, taking her hand with ready sympathy, "I will not, should they sing together till morning. But is there nothing I can do for you—nothing I can give you that may relieve your head?"

"Nothing, nothing! Good night!" and she glided out of the room unseen by Fanny and unregarded by her father.

It more than once occurred to Miss Torrington during the two tedious hours that followed her departure, that Mr. Cartwright, who from time to time stole a glance at her, prolonged his canticles for the purpose of making her sit to hear them; a species of penance for her last night's offence by no means ill imagined.

At length, however, he departed; and after exchanging a formal "Good night," the young ladies retired to their separate apartments.

Rosalind rose with a heavy heart the following morning, hardly knowing whether to wish for a letter from Charles Mowbray, which it was just possible the post might bring her, or not. If a letter arrived, there would certainly be no hope of seeing him; but if it did not, she should fancy every sound she heard foretold his approach, and she almost dreaded the having to answer all the questions he would come prepared to ask.

This state of suspense, however, did not last long; for, at least one hour before it was possible that a letter could arrive, Charles Mowbray in a chaise with four foaming post-horses rattled up to the door.

Rosalind descried him from her window before he reached the house; and her first feeling was certainly one of embarrassment, as she remembered that it was her summons which had brought him there. But a moment's reflection not only recalled her motives, but the additional reasons she now had for believing she had acted wisely; so, arming herself with the consciousness of being right, she hastened down stairs to meet him, in preference to receiving a message through a servant, requesting to see her.

She found him, as she expected, in a state of considerable agitation and alarm; and feeling most truly anxious to remove whatever portion of this was unnecessary, she greeted him with the most cheerful aspect she could assume, saying, "I fear my letter has terrified you, Mr. Mowbray, more than I wished it to do. But be quite sure that now you are here every thing will go on as it ought to do; and of course, when your mother returns, we can neither of us have any farther cause of anxiety about Fanny."

"And what is your cause of anxiety about her at present, Miss Torrington? For Heaven's sake explain yourself fully; you know not how I have been tormenting myself by fearing I know not what."

"I am bound to explain myself fully," said Rosalind gravely; "but it is not easy, I assure you."

"Only tell me at once what it is you fear. Do you imagine Mr. Cartwright hopes to persuade Fanny to marry him?"

"I certainly did think so," said Rosalind; "but I believe now that I was mistaken."

"Thank Heaven!" cried the young man fervently. "This is a great relief, Rosalind, I assure you. I believe now I can pretty well guess what it is you do fear; and though it is provoking enough, it cannot greatly signify. We shall soon cure her of any fit of evangelicalism with which the vicar is likely to infect her."

"Heaven grant it!" exclaimed Rosalind, uttering a fervent ejaculation in her turn.

"Never doubt it, Miss Torrington. I have heard a great deal about this Cartwright at Oxford. He is a Cambridge man, by the way, and there are lots of men there who think him quite an apostle. But the thing does not take at Oxford, and I assure you he is famously quizzed. But the best of the joke is, that his son was within an ace of being expelled for performing more outrageous feats in the larking line than any man in the university; and in fact he must have been rusticated, had not his pious father taken him home before the business got wind, to prepare him privately for his degree. They say he is the greatest Pickle in Oxford; and that, spite of the new light, his father is such an ass as to believe that all this is ordained only to make his election more glorious."

"For his election, Mr. Mowbray, I certainly do not care much; but for your sister—though I am aware that at her age there may be very reasonable hope that the pernicious opinions she is now imbibing may be hereafter removed, yet I am very strongly persuaded that if you were quite aware of the sort of influence used to convert her to Mr. Cartwright's Calvinistic tenets, you would not only disapprove it, but use very effectual measures to put her quite out of his way."

"Indeed!—I confess this appears to me very unnecessary. Surely the best mode of working upon so pure a mind as Fanny's is to reason with her, and to show her that by listening to those pernicious rhapsodies she is in fact withdrawing herself from the church of her fathers; but I think this may be done without sending her out of Mr. Cartwright's way."

"Well," replied Rosalind very meekly, "now you are here, I am quite sure that you will do every thing that is right and proper. Mrs. Mowbray cannot be much longer absent; and when she returns, you will perhaps have some conversation with her upon the subject."

"Certainly.—And so Sir Gilbert has absolutely refused to act as executor?"

"He has indeed, and spite of the most earnest entreaties from Helen. Whatever mischief happens, I shall always think he is answerable for it; for his refusal to act threw your mother at once upon seeking counsel from Mr. Cartwright, as to what it was necessary for her to do; and from that hour the house has never been free from him for a single day."

"Provoking obstinacy!" replied Mowbray: "yet after all, Rosalind, the worst mischief, as you call it, that can happen, is our not being on such pleasant terms with them as we used to be. And the colonel is at home too; I must and will see him, let the old man be as cross as he will.—But where is your little saint? you don't keep her locked up, I hope, Rosalind? And where is this Miss of the new birth that you told me of?"

Young Mowbray threw a melancholy glance round the empty room as he spoke, and the kind-hearted Rosalind understood his feelings and truly pitied him. How different was this return home from any other he had ever made!

"The room looks desolate—does it not, Mr. Mowbray?—Even I feel it so. I will go and let Fanny know you are here; but what reason shall I assign for your return?"

"None at all, Miss Torrington. The whim took me, and I am here. Things are so much better than I expected, that I shall probably be back again in a day or two; but I must contrive to see young Harrington."

Rosalind left the room, heartily glad that Fanny's brother was near her, but not without some feeling of mortification at the little importance he appeared to attach to the information she had given him.

A few short weeks before, Rosalind would have entered Fanny's room with as much freedom as her own; but the schism which has unhappily entered so many English houses under the semblance of superior piety was rapidly doing its work at Mowbray Park; and the true friend, the familiar companion, the faithful counsellor, stood upon the threshold, and ventured not to enter till she had announced her approach by a knock at the dressing-room door.

"Come in," was uttered in a gentle and almost plaintive voice by Fanny.

Miss Torrington entered, and, to her great astonishment, saw Mr. Cartwright seated beside Fanny, a large Bible lying open on the table before them.

She looked at them for one moment without speaking. The vicar spread his open hand upon the volume, as if to point out the cause of his being there; and as his other hand covered the lower part of his face the expression of his countenance was concealed.

Fanny coloured violently,—and the more so, perhaps, because she was conscious that her appearance was considerably changed since she met Miss Torrington at breakfast. All her beautiful curls had been carefully straightened by the application of a wet sponge; and her hair was now entirely removed from her forehead, and plastered down behind her poor little distorted ears as closely as possible.

Never was metamorphosis more complete. Beautiful as her features were, the lovely picture which Fanny's face used to present to the eye required her bright waving locks to complete its charm; and without them she looked more like a Chinese beauty on a japan skreen, than like herself.

Something approaching to a smile passed over Rosalind's features, which the more readily found place there, perhaps, from the belief that Charles's arrival would soon set her ringlets curling again.

"Fanny, your brother is come," said she, "and he is waiting for you in the drawing-room."

"Charles?" cried Fanny, forgetting for a moment her new character; and hastily rising she had almost quitted the room, when she recollected herself, and turning back, said,

"You will come too, to see Charles, Mr. Cartwright?"

"I will come, as usual, this evening, my dear child," said he, with the appearance of great composure; "but I will not break in upon him now. Was his return expected?" he added carelessly, as he took up his hat; and as he spoke Rosalind thought that his eye glanced towards her.

"No indeed!" replied Fanny: "I never was more surprised. Did he say, Rosalind, what it was brought him home?"

"I asked him to state his reason for it," replied Miss Torrington, "and he told me he could assign nothing but whim."

Rosalind looked in the face of the vicar as she said this, and she perceived a slight, but to her perfectly perceptible, change in its expression. He was evidently relieved from some uneasy feeling or suspicion by what she had said.

"Go to your brother, my dear child; let me not detain you from so happy a meeting for a moment."

Fanny again prepared to leave the room; but as she did so, her eye chanced to rest upon her own figure reflected from a mirror above the chimney-piece. She raised her hand almost involuntarily to her hair.

"Will not Charles think me looking very strangely?" said she, turning towards Mr. Cartwright with a blushing cheek and very bashful eye.

He whispered something in her ear in reply, which heightened her blush, and induced her to answer with great earnestness, "Oh no!" and, without farther doubt or delay, she ran down stairs. Miss Torrington followed her, not thinking it necessary to take any leave of the vicar, who gently found his way down stairs, and out of the house, as he had found his way into it, without troubling any servant whatever.

CHAPTER II.

CHARLES'S AMUSEMENT AT HIS SISTER'S APPEARANCE.—HE DISCUSSES HER CASE WITH ROSALIND.

Rosalind and Fanny entered the drawing-room together; and young Mowbray, at the sound of their approach, sprang forward to meet them; but the moment he threw his eyes on his sister he burst forth into a fit of uncontrollable laughter; and though he kissed her again and again, still, between every embrace, he broke out anew, with every demonstration of vehement mirth.

"I am very glad to see you, Charles," said Fanny, with a little sanctified air that certainly was very amusing; "but I should like it better if you did not laugh at me."

"But, my dear, dear, dearest child! how can I help it?" replied her brother, again bursting into renewed laughter. "Oh, Fanny, if you could but see yourself just as you look at this moment! Oh! you hideous little quiz! I would not have believed it possible that any plastering or shearing in the world could have made you look so very ugly. Is it not wonderful, Miss Torrington?"

"It certainly alters the expression of her countenance in a very remarkable manner," replied Rosalind.

"The expression of a countenance may be changed by an alteration from within, as well as from without," said Fanny, taking courage, and not without some little feeling of that complacency which the persuasion of superior sanctity is generally observed to bestow upon its possessors.

"Why, you most ugly little beauty!" cried Charles, again giving way to merriment; "you don't mean to tell me that the impayable absurdity of that poor little face is owing to any thing but your having just washed your hair?"

"It is owing to conviction, Charles," replied Fanny with great solemnity.

"Owing to conviction?—To conviction of what, my poor little girl?"

"To conviction that it is right, brother."

"Right, child, to make that object of yourself? What in the world can you mean, Fanny?"

"I mean, brother, that I have an inward conviction of the sin and folly of dressing our mortal clay to attract the eyes and the admiration of the worldly."

"By worldly, do you mean of all the world?" said Rosalind.

"No, Miss Torrington. By worldly, I mean those whose thoughts and wishes are fixed on the things of the earth."

"And it is the admiration of such only that you wish to avoid?" rejoined Rosalind.

"Certainly it is. Spiritual-minded persons see all things in the spirit—do all things in the spirit: of such there is nothing to fear."

Young Mowbray meanwhile stood looking at his sister, and listening to her words with the most earnest attention.

At length he said, more seriously than he had yet spoken, "To tell you the truth, little puritan, I do not like you at all in your new masquerading suit: though it must be confessed that you play your part well. I don't want to begin lecturing you, Fanny, the moment I come home; but I do hope you will soon get tired of this foolery, and let me see my poor father's daughter look and behave as a Christian young woman ought to do. Rosalind, will you take a walk with me? I want to have a look at my old pony."

Miss Torrington nodded her assent, and they both left the room together, leaving Fanny more triumphant than mortified.

"He said that my persecutions would begin as soon as my election was made sure! Oh! why is he not here to sustain and comfort me! But I will not fall away in the hour of trial!"

The poor girl turned her eyes from the window whence she saw her brother and Rosalind walking gaily and happily, as she thought, in search of the old pony, and hastened to take refuge in her dressing-room, now rendered almost sacred in her eyes by the pastoral visit she had that morning received there.

The following hour or two gave Fanny her first taste of martyrdom. She was, or at least had been, devotedly attached to her brother, and the knowing him to be so near, yet so distant from her, was terrible. Yet was she not altogether without consolation. She opened the volume, that volume that he had so lately interpreted to her (fearful profanation!) in such a manner as best to suit his own views, and by means of using the process he had taught her, though unconsciously perhaps, she contrived to find a multitude of texts, all proving that she and the vicar were quite right, and all the countless myriads who thought differently, quite wrong. Then followed a thanksgiving which might have been fairly expressed in such words as "I thank thee, I am not like other men!" and then, as the sweet summer air waved the acacias to and fro before her windows, and her young spirit, panting for lawns and groves, sunshine and shade, suggested the idea of her brother and Rosalind enjoying it all without her, her poetical vein came to her relief, and she sat down to compose a hymn, in which, after rehearsing prettily enough all the delights of summer rambles through verdant fields, for four stanzas, she completed the composition by a fifth, of which "sin," "begin," and "within," formed the rhymes.

This having recourse to "song divine" was a happy thought for her, inasmuch as it not only occupied time which must otherwise have hung with overwhelming weight upon her hands, but the employment soon conjured up, as she proceeded, the image of Mr. Cartwright, and the pious smile with which he would receive it from her hands, and the soft approval spoken more by the eyes than the lips, and the holy caress—such, according to his authority, as that with which angel meets angel in the courts of heaven.

All this was very pleasant and consoling to her feelings; and when her hymn was finished she determined to go down stairs, in order to sing it to some (hitherto) profane air, which she might select from among the songs of her sinful youth.

As she passed the mirror she again glanced at her disfigured little head; but at that moment she was so strong in "conviction," that, far from wishing to accommodate her new birth of coiffure to worldly eyes, she employed a minute or two in sedulously smoothing and controlling her rebellious tresses, and even held her head in stiff equilibrium to prevent their escape from behind her ears.

"Good and holy man!" she exclaimed aloud, as she gave a parting glance at the result of all these little pious coquetries. "How well I know what his kind words would be if he could see me now! Such" she added with a gentle sigh, "will I strive to be, though all the world should join together to persecute me for it."

While Mr. Cartwright's prettiest convert was thus employed, Miss Torrington and Charles Mowbray, far from being engaged in chasing a pony, or even in looking at the summer luxury of bloom which breathed around them as they pursued their way through the pleasure-grounds, were very gravely discussing the symptoms of her case.

"It is a joke, Rosalind, and nothing more," said the young man, drawing her arm within his. "I really can do nothing but laugh at such folly, and I beg and entreat that you will do the same."

"Then you think, of course, Mr. Mowbray, that I have been supremely absurd in sending you the summons I did?"

"Far, very far otherwise," he replied gravely. "It has shown me a new feature in your character, Miss Torrington, and one which not to admire would be a sin, worse even than poor Mr. Cartwright would consider your wearing these pretty ringlets, Rosalind."

"Poor Mr. Cartwright!" repeated Rosalind, drawing away her arm. "How little do we think alike, Mr. Mowbray, concerning that man!"

"The chief difference between us on the subject, I suspect arises from your thinking of him a great deal, Rosalind, and my thinking of him very little. I should certainly, if I set about reasoning on the matter, feel considerable contempt for a middle-aged clergyman of the Church of England who manifested his care of the souls committed to his charge by making their little bodies comb their hair straight, for the pleasure of saying that it was done upon conviction. But surely there is more room for mirth than sorrow in this."

"Indeed, indeed, you are mistaken!—and that not only as regards the individual interests of your sister Fanny,—though, Heaven knows, I think that no light matter,—but as a subject that must be interesting to every Christian soul that lives. Do not make a jest of what involves by far the most important question that can be brought before poor mortals: it is unworthy of you, Mr. Mowbray."

"If you take the subject in its general character," replied Charles, "I am sure we shall not differ. I deplore as sincerely as you can do, Miss Torrington, the grievously schismatic inroad into our national church which these self-chosen apostles have made. But as one objection against them, though perhaps not the heaviest, is the contempt which their absurd puritanical ordinances have often brought upon serious things, I cannot but think that ridicule is a fair weapon to lash them withal."

"It may be so," replied Rosalind, "and in truth it is often impossible to avoid using it; but yet it does not follow that the deeds and doctrines of these soi-disant saints give more room for mirth than sorrow."

"Well, Rosalind, give me your arm again, and I will speak more seriously. The very preposterous and ludicrous manner which Fanny, or her spiritual adviser, has chosen for showing forth her own particular regeneration, has perhaps led me to treat it more slightly than I should have done had the indications of this temporary perversion of judgment been of a more serious character. That is doubtless one reason for the mirth I have shown. Another is, that I conceive it would be more easy to draw poor little Fanny back again into the bosom of Mother Church by laughing at her, rather than by making her believe herself a martyr."

"Your laughter is a species of martyrdom which she will be taught to glory in enduring. But at present I feel sure that all our discussions on this topic must be in vain. I rejoice that you are here, though it is plain that you do not think her situation requires your presence; and I will ask no further submission of your judgment to mine, than requesting that you will not leave Mowbray till your mother returns."

"Be assured I will not; and be assured also, that however much it is possible we may differ as to the actual atrocity of this new vicar, or the danger Fanny runs in listening to him, I shall never cease to be grateful, dearest Miss Torrington, for the interest you have shown for her, and indeed for us all."

"Acquit me of silly interference," replied Rosalind, colouring, "and I will acquit you of all obligation."

"But I don't wish to be acquitted of it," said Charles rather tenderly: "you do not know how much pleasure I have in thinking that you already feel interested about us all!"

This was giving exactly the turn to what she had done which poor Rosalind most deprecated. The idea that young Mowbray might imagine she had sent for him from a general feeling of interest for the family, had very nearly prevented her writing at all—and nothing but a sense of duty had conquered the repugnance she felt at doing it. It had not been a little vexing to perceive that he thought lightly of what she considered as so important; and now that in addition to this he appeared to conceive it necessary to return thanks for the interest she had manifested, Rosalind turned away her head, and not without difficulty restrained the tears which were gathering in her eyes from falling. She was not in general slow in finding words to express what she wished to say; but at this moment, though extremely desirous of answering suitably, as she would have herself described the power she wanted, not a syllable would suggest itself which she had courage or inclination to speak: so, hastening her steps towards the house, she murmured, "You are very kind—it is almost time to dress, I believe," and left him.

Charles felt that there was something wrong between them, and decided at once very generously that it must be his fault. There is nothing more difficult to trace with a skilful hand than the process by which a young man and maiden often creep into love, without either of them being at all aware at what moment they were first seized with the symptoms. When the parties fall in love, the thing is easy enough to describe: it is a shot, a thunderbolt, a whirlwind, or a storm; nothing can be more broadly evident than their hopes and their ecstasies, their agonies and their fears. But when affection grows unconsciously, and, like a seed of minionette thrown at random, unexpectedly shows itself the sweetest and most valued of the heart's treasures, overpowering by its delicious breath all other fragrance, the case is different.

Something very like this creeping process was now going on in the heart of young Mowbray. Rosalind's beauty had appeared to him veiled by a very dark cloud on her first arrival from Ireland: she was weary, heartsick, frightened, and, moreover, dressed in very unbecoming mourning. But as tears gave place to smiles, fears to hopes, and exhausted spirits to light-hearted cheerfulness, he found out that "she was very pretty indeed"—and then, and then, and then, he could not tell how it happened himself, so neither can I; but certain it is, that her letter gave him almost as much pleasure as alarm; and if, after being convinced that there was no danger of Mr. Cartwright's becoming his brother-in-law, he showed a somewhat unbecoming degree of levity in his manner of treating Fanny's case, it must be attributed to the gay happiness he felt at being so unexpectedly called home.

As for the heart of Rosalind, if any thing was going on therein at all out of the common way, she certainly was not aware of it. She felt vexed, anxious, out of spirits, as she sought her solitary dressing-room: but it would have been no easy task to persuade her that LOVE had any thing to do with it.

CHAPTER III.

CHARLES WALKS OVER TO OAKLEY.—THE VICAR IMPROVES IN HIS OPINION.

At the time Miss Torrington observed to Mr. Mowbray that it was near dressing-time, it wanted about four hours of dinner; so, having followed her with his eyes as she mounted the steps and entered the house, he drew out his watch, and perceiving that he had quite enough time for the excursion before "dressing-time" would be over, set off to walk to Oakley.

How far Rosalind might have been disposed to quarrel with him for the very small proportion of meditation which he bestowed on Fanny during his delightful stroll through the well-known shady lanes, or how far she might have been tempted to forgive him for the much greater portion devoted to herself, it is impossible to say; but he arrived at Sir Gilbert's hall-door in that happy state of mind which is often the result of a delicious day-dream, when Hope lends the support of her anchor to Fancy.

Sir Gilbert and the colonel were out on horseback, the servant said—but "my lady is in the garden." And thither Mowbray went to seek her.

He was somewhat startled at his first reception; for the old lady watched his approach for some steps, standing stock-still, and without giving the slightest symptom of recognition. At length she raised her glass to her eye and discovered who the tall stranger was; upon which she sent forth a sound greatly resembling a view "hollo!" which immediately recalled the servant who had marshalled Mowbray to the garden, and without uttering a word of welcome, gave the following order very distinctly:

"Let Richard take the brown mare and ride her sharp to Ramsden. Sir Gilbert is gone to the post-office, the bank, the sadler's, and the nursery-garden. Let him be told that Mr. Mowbray is waiting for him at Oakley—and let not a single instant be lost."

The rapid manner in which "Very well, my lady," was uttered in reply, and the man vanished out of sight, showed that the order was likely to be as promptly executed as spoken.

"My dear, dear Charles!" cried the old lady; then stepping forward and placing her hands in his, "What brings you back to Mowbray? But never mind what it is—nothing very bad, I hope, and then I must rejoice at it. I am most thankful to see you here, my dear boy. How is my sweet Helen?—could you not bring her with you, Charles?"

"She is in London, my dear Lady Harrington, with my mother. Where is the colonel?"

"With his father;—they will return together; no grass will grow under their horses' feet as they ride homeward to meet you, Charles! But how comes it that you are at home? If you have left Oxford, why are you not with your mother and Helen?"

A moment's thought might have told Mowbray that this question would certainly be asked, and must in some manner or other be answered; but the moment's thought had not been given to it, and he now felt considerably embarrassed how to answer. He lamented the estrangement already existing, however, too sincerely, to run any risk of increasing it by ill-timed reserve, and therefore, after a moment's hesitation, very frankly answered—"I can tell you, my dear lady, why I am here, more easily than I can explain for what purpose. I returned post to Mowbray this morning, because Miss Torrington gave me a private intimation by letter, that she thought the new Vicar of Wrexhill was obtaining an undue influence over the mind of Fanny. She did not express herself very clearly, and I was fool enough to imagine that she supposed he was making love to her; but I find that her fears are only for poor little Fanny's orthodoxy. Mr. Cartwright is one of, I believe, the most mischievous sect that ever attacked the established Church; and Miss Torrington, not without good reason, fears that Fanny is in danger of becoming a proselyte to his gloomy and unchristianlike doctrine. But, at her age, such a whim as this is not, I should hope, very likely to be lasting."

"I don't know that," replied Lady Harrington sharply. "Miss Torrington has acted with great propriety, and exactly with the sort of promptitude and decision of character for which I should have given her credit. Beware, Mr. Mowbray, how you make light of the appearance of religious schism among you: it is a deadly weapon of discord, and the poison in which it is dipped seldom finds an antidote either in family affection or filial obedience."

"But Fanny is so nearly a child, Lady Harrington, that I can hardly believe her capable of manifesting any very dangerous religious zeal at present."

"You don't know what you are talking about, Charles! Of every family into which this insidious and most anti-christian schism has crept, you would find, upon inquiry, that in nine instances out of ten, it has been the young girls who have been selected as the first objects of conversion, and then made the active means of spreading it afterwards. Don't treat this matter lightly, my dear boy! Personally I know nothing of this Mr. Cartwright;—we never leave our parish church and our excellent Dr. Broughton, to run after brawling extempore preachers;—but I have been told by one or two of our neighbours who do, that he is what is called a shining light; which means, being interpreted, a ranting, canting, fanatic. Take care, above all things, that your mother does not catch the infection."

"My mother!—Oh no! Her steady principles and quiet good sense would render such a falling off as that quite impossible."

"Very well! I am willing to hope so. And yet, Charles, I cannot for the life of me help thinking that she must have had some other adviser than her own heart when she left my good Sir Gilbert's letter without an answer."

"Of what letter do you speak, Lady Harrington?" said young Mowbray, colouring;—"of that whereby he refused to execute the trust my father bequeathed him?"

"No, Charles! Of that whereby he rescinded his refusal."

"Has such a letter been sent?" inquired Mowbray eagerly. "I never heard of it."

"Indeed! Then we must presume that Mrs. Mowbray did not think it worth mentioning. Such a letter has, however, been sent, Mr. Mowbray; and I confess, I hoped, on seeing you arrive, that you were come to give it an amicable, though somewhat tardy answer, in person."

"I am greatly surprised," replied Charles, "to hear that such a letter has been received by my mother, because I had been led to believe that Sir Gilbert had declared himself immoveable on the subject; but still more am I surprised that I should not have heard of it. Could Helen know it, and not tell me? It must have been to her a source of the greatest happiness, as the one which preceded had been of the deepest mortification and sorrow."

"Your sister, then, saw the first letter?"

"She did, Lady Harrington, and wrote me word of it, with expressions of the most sincere regret."

"But of the second she said nothing? That is not like Helen."

"So little is it like her, that I feel confident she never heard of the second letter."

"I believe so too, Charles. But what, then, are we to think of your mother's having shown the first letter, and concealed the second?"

"It cannot be! my mother never conceals any thing from us. We have never, from the moment we left the nursery, been kept in ignorance of any circumstance of general interest to the family. My poor father's constant phrase upon all such occasions was—'Let it be discussed in a committee of the whole house.'"

"I cannot understand it," replied the old lady, seating herself upon a bench in the shade; "but, at any rate, I rejoice that you did not all think Sir Gilbert's recantation—which was not written without an effort, I promise you—so totally unworthy of notice as you have appeared to do."

Charles Mowbray seated himself beside her, and nearly an hour was passed in conversation on the same subject, or others connected with it. At the end of that time, Sir Gilbert, booted and spurred, appeared at the door of the mansion, followed by his son. There was an angry spot upon his cheek, and though it was sufficiently evident that he was eager to meet young Mowbray, it was equally so that he was displeased with him.

Lady Harrington, however, soon cleared the way to the most frank and cordial communication, rendering all explanation unnecessary by exclaiming, "He has never seen nor heard of your second letter, Sir Gilbert—nor Helen either."

The baronet stood still for a moment, looking with doubt and surprise first at his wife, and then at his guest. The doubt, however, vanished in a moment, and he again advanced, and now with an extended hand towards Charles.

A conversation of some length ensued; but as it consisted wholly of conjectures upon a point that they were all equally unable to explain, it is unnecessary to repeat it. The two young men met each other with expressions of the most cordial regard, and before they parted, Colonel Harrington related the conversation he had held with Helen and Miss Torrington, the result of which was his father's having despatched the letter whose fate appeared involved in so much mystery.

Lady Harrington, notwithstanding they who did not love her called her masculine, showed some feminine tact in not mentioning to Sir Gilbert that it was a letter from Miss Torrington which had recalled Charles. It is probable that when her own questionings had forced this avowal from him, she had perceived some shade of embarrassment in his answer; but she failed not to mention the serious turn that Fanny Mowbray appeared to have taken, and her suspicions that the new Vicar of Wrexhill must have been rather more assiduous than was desirable in his visit at the Park.

"The case is clear—clear as daylight, my lady: I understand it all. Stop a moment, Charles: if you won't stay dinner, you must stay while I furnish you with a document by means of which you may, I think, make a useful experiment."

Without waiting for an answer, Sir Gilbert left the party in the garden, and hurried into the house, whence he returned in a few minutes with a scrap of paper in his hand.

"Fortunately, Charles, very fortunately, I have kept a copy of my last note to your mother. I am sure I know not what induced me to keep it: had such a thing happened to Mr. Cartwright, he would have declared it providential—but I, in my modesty, only call it lucky.—Take this paper, Charles, and read it if you will: 'tis a shame you have not read it before! You say, I think, that the vicar is expected at Mowbray this evening: just put this scrap of paper into his hand, and ask him if he ever read it before. Let him say what he will, I give you credit for sufficient sharpness to find out the truth. If he has seen it, I shall know whom I have to thank for the insolent contempt it has met with."

"But my mother!" cried Charles with emotion. "Is it possible that she could conceal such a note as this from her children, and show it to this man? Sir Gilbert, I cannot believe it."

"I don't like to believe it myself, Charles; upon my life I don't. But what can we think? At any rate, make the experiment to-night; it can do no harm; and come here to dinner to-morrow to tell us the result."

"I will come to you with the greatest pleasure, and bring you all the intelligence I can get. My own opinion is, that the note was lost before it reached my mother's hands. The usual hour, I suppose, Sir Gilbert,—six o'clock?"

"Six o'clock, Charles,—and, as usual, punctual to a moment."

When Mowbray reached his home, it was, in truth, rather more than time to dress; but he kept the young ladies waiting as short a time as possible. Fanny presented him in proper style to Miss Cartwright as soon as he appeared in the drawing-room; and he had the honour of giving that silent young lady his arm to the dining-room.

Charles thought her deep-set black eyes very handsome; nevertheless, he secretly wished that she were a hundred miles off, for her presence, of course, checked every approach to confidential conversation.

Nothing, indeed, could well be more dull and unprofitable than this dinner. Miss Cartwright spoke not at all; Fanny, no more than was necessary for the performance of her duty at the head of the table; and Rosalind looked pale and languid, and so completely out of spirits, that every word she spoke seemed a painful effort to her. She was occupied in recalling to mind the tone and air of the party who dined together in that same room about six months before, when Charles had last returned from Oxford. The contrast these recollections offered to the aspect of the present party was most painful; and as Rosalind turned her eyes round the table with a look of wistful melancholy, as if looking for those who were no longer there, her thoughts were so legibly written on her countenance, that Mowbray understood them as plainly as if they had been spoken.

"Rosalind, will you take wine with me?—You look tired and pale." This was said in a tone of affectionate interest that seemed to excite the attention of Henrietta; and when Miss Torrington raised her eyes to answer it, she observed that young lady's looks fixed on Mr. Mowbray's countenance with an expression that denoted curiosity.

The whole party seemed glad to escape from the dinner-table; and the young ladies, with light shawls and parasols, had just wandered out upon the lawn, when they met Mr. Cartwright approaching the house.

Fanny coloured, and looked at her brother. Miss Cartwright coloured too; and her eyes followed the direction of Fanny's, as if to see how this familiar mode of approach was approved by Mr. Mowbray.

Charles certainly felt a little surprised, and did not take much pains to conceal it. For a moment he looked at the vicar, as if not quite certain who it was, and then, touching his hat with ceremonious politeness, said, haughtily enough, "Mr. Cartwright, I believe?"

It would have been difficult for any one to find fault with the manner in which this salutation was returned. In a tone admirably modulated between profound respect and friendly kindness, his hat raised gracefully from his head to greet the whole party, and his handsome features wearing an expression of the gentlest benevolence, Mr. Cartwright hoped that he had the happiness of seeing Mr. Mowbray well.

Charles felt more than half ashamed of the reception he had given him, and stretched out his hand as if to atone for it. The vicar felt his advantage, and pursued it by the most easy, winning, yet respectful style of conversation. His language and manners became completely those of an accomplished man of the world; his topics were drawn from the day's paper and the last review: he ventured a jest upon Don Carlos, and a bon mot upon the Duke of Wellington; took little or no notice of Fanny; spoke affectionately to his daughter, and gaily to Miss Torrington; and, in short, appeared to be as little deserving of all Rosalind had said of him, as it was well possible for a gentleman to be.

"Fair Rosalind has certainly suffered her imagination to conjure up a bugbear in this man," thought Charles. "It is impossible he can be the violent fanatic she describes."

After wandering about the gardens for some time, Fanny proposed that they should go in to tea; but before they reached the house, Mr. Cartwright proposed to take his leave, saying that he had an engagement in Wrexhill, which was to prevent his lengthening his visit.

The adieu had been spoken on all sides, and the vicar turned from them to depart, when Charles recollected the commission he had received from Sir Gilbert, and that he had promised to report the result on the morrow. Hastily following him, therefore, he said, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Cartwright; hut, before you go, will you have the kindness to read this note, and tell me if you know whether my mother received such a one before she went to London?"

Mr. Cartwright took the note, read it attentively, and then returned it, saying, "No, Mr. Mowbray, I should certainly think not: not because I never saw or heard of it, but because I imagine that if she had, she would not have proceeded to London without Sir Gilbert. Was such a note as that sent, Mr. Mowbray?"

Charles had kept his eye very steadily fixed on the vicar, both while he read the note, and while he spoke of it. Not the slightest indication, however, of his knowing any thing about it was visible in his countenance, voice, or manner; and, again as he looked at him, young Mowbray felt ashamed of suspicions for which there seemed to be so little cause.

"Such a note as this was sent, Mr. Cartwright," he frankly replied: "but I suspect that by some unlucky accident it never reached my mother's hands; otherwise, as you well observe, she would not, most assuredly, have set off to London on this business without communicating with Sir Gilbert Harrington."

"I conceive it must be so, indeed, Mr. Mowbray; and it is greatly to be lamented, for the receiving it would have saved poor Mrs. Mowbray much anxiety and trouble."

"She expressed herself to you as being annoyed by Sir Gilbert's refusing to act?"

"Oh yes, repeatedly; so much so, indeed, that nothing but the indispensable duty of my parish, prevented my offering to accompany her to London myself. I wished her very much to send for you; but nothing would induce her to interrupt your studies."

It is not in the nature of a frank-hearted young man to doubt statements thus simply uttered by one having the bearing and appearance of a gentleman; and Charles Mowbray reported accordingly at the dinner-table of Sir Gilbert, assuring him that the test had proved Mr. Cartwright's innocence on this point most satisfactorily.

CHAPTER IV.

MR. STEPHEN CORBOLD.

We must now follow Mrs. Mowbray and Helen to London, as some of the circumstances which occurred there proved of importance to them afterwards. The journey was a very melancholy one to Helen, and her feelings as unlike as possible to those which usually accompany a young lady of her age, appearance, and station, upon a visit to the metropolis. Mrs. Mowbray spoke very little, being greatly occupied by the volume recommended to her notice, at parting, by Mr. Cartwright; and more than once Helen felt something like envy at the situation of the two servants, who, perched aloft behind the carriage, were enjoying without restraint the rapid movement, the fresh air, and the beautiful country through which they passed; while she, like a drooping flower on which the sun has ceased to shine, hung her fair hand and languished for the kindly warmth she had lost.

They reached Wimpole Street about eight o'clock in the evening, and found every thing prepared for them with the most sedulous attention in their handsome and commodious apartments.

Mrs. Mowbray was tired, and, being really in need of the refreshment, blessed the hand, or rather the thought, which had forestalled all her wants and wishes, and spread that dearest of travelling banquets, tea and coffee, ready to greet her as she entered the drawing-room.

"This letter has been left for you, ma'am, by the gentleman who took the apartment," said the landlady, taking a packet from the chimney-piece; "and he desired it might be given to you immediately."

Mrs. Mowbray opened it; but perceiving it enclosed another, the address of which she glanced her eye upon, she folded it up again, and begged to be shown to her room while the tea was made.

Her maid followed her, but was dismissed with orders to see if Miss Mowbray wanted any thing. As soon as she was alone, she prepared to examine the packet, the receipt of which certainly startled her, for it was in the handwriting of Mr. Cartwright, from whom she had parted but a few hours before.

The envelope contained only these words:

"Mr. Stephen Corbold presents his respectful compliments to Mrs. Mowbray, and will do himself the honour of waiting upon her to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock."

"Gray's Inn, July 13th, 1833."

Mrs. Mowbray ran her eyes very rapidly over these words, and then opened the enclosed letter. It was as follows:—

"Do not let the unexpected sight of a letter from your minister alarm you, my dear and much-valued friend. I have nothing painful to disclose; and my sole object in writing is to make you feel that though you are distant from the sheltered spot wherein the Lord hath caused you to dwell, the shepherd's eye which hath been appointed to watch over you is not withdrawn.

"I am no longer a young man, my dear Mrs. Mowbray; and during the years through which I have passed, my profession, my duty, and my inclination have alike led me to examine my fellow-creatures, and to read them, as it were, athwart the veil of their mortal bodies. Habit and application have given me, I believe, some skill in developing the inward character of those amongst whom I am thrown: nor can I doubt that the hand of Heaven is in this, as in truth it is in all things if we do but diligently set ourselves to trace it;—I cannot, I say, but believe that this faculty which I feel so strong within me, of discerning in whom those spirits abide that the Lord hath chosen for his own,—I cannot but believe that this faculty is given me by his especial will and for his especial glory. I wish well, sincerely well, to the whole human race: I would never lose an opportunity of lifting my voice in warning to them, in the hope that peradventure there may be one among the crowd who may turn and follow me. But, my friend, far different is the feeling with which my heart clings with stedfast care and love to those on whom I see the anointing finger of Heaven. It is such that I would lead, even as a pilot leadeth the vessel intrusted to his skill, into the peaceful waters, where glory, and honour, and joy unspeakable and without end, shall abide with them for ever!

"Repine not, oh! my friend, if all your race are not of these. Rather rejoice with exceeding great joy that it hath pleased Heaven to set its seal on two. To this effect, look round the world, my gentle friend, and see what myriads of roofs arise beneath which not one can be found to show forth the saving power. Mark them! how they thread the giddy maze, and dance onward down the slippery path that leads to everlasting perdition! Mark this, sweet spirit! and rejoice that you and your Fanny are snatched from the burning! My soul revels in an ecstasy of rapture unspeakable, as I gaze upon you both, and know that it is I, even I, am chosen to lead you. What are all the victories and glories of the world to this? Think you, my gentle friend, that if all the worldly state and station of Lambeth were offered me on one side, and the task of leading thy meek steps into the way of life called me to the other, that I should hesitate for one single instant which to choose?

"Oh no! Trust me, I would meet the scorn and revilings of all men—aye, and the bitterest persecutions that ever the saints of old were called upon to bear, rather than turn mine eyes from thee and the dear work, though princedoms, principalities, and powers might be gained thereby!

"Be strong then in faith, be strong in hope; for thou art well loved of Heaven, and of him whom it hath been its will to place near thee as its minister on earth!

"Be strong in faith! Kneel down, sweet friend!—even now, as thine eye reads these characters traced by the hand of one who would give his life to guard thee from harm, kneel down, and ask that Heaven may be with thee,—well assured that he who bids thee to do so will at the same moment be kneeling, likewise, to invoke blessings on thy fair and virtuous head!

"At a moment when the heart is drawn heavenward, as mine is now, how hateful—I may say, how profane, seem those worldly appellations and distinctions with which the silly vanity of man has sought to decorate our individual nothingness! How much more befitting a serious Christian is it, in such a moment as this, to use that name which was bestowed by a higher authority! You have three such, my sweet friend. The two first are now appropriated, as it were, to your daughters; but the third is more especially your own.—Clara! On Clara may the dew of Heaven descend like healing balm!—Kneel then, sweet Clara—thou chosen handmaid; kneel down, and think that William Cartwright kneels beside thee!

"Written on my knees in the secret recesses of my own chamber—W. C."

No sooner did Mrs. Mowbray's eye reach the words "kneel down," than she obeyed them, and in this attitude read to the end of the epistle. Mrs. Mowbray's feelings whenever strongly excited, either by joy, sorrow, or any other emotion, always showed themselves in tears, and she now wept profusely—vehemently; though it is probable she would have been greatly puzzled to explain why, even to herself. She would certainly, however, have declared, had she spoken on the subject to any one, that those tears were a joy, a blessing, and a comfort to her. But as she had nobody to whom she could thus open her heart, she washed her eyes with cold water, and descended with all the composure she could assume to Helen and the tea-table.

Notwithstanding this precaution, Helen's watchful eye perceived that her mother had been weeping, and, forgetting the unnatural coldness which a breath more fatal than pestilence had placed between them, she exclaimed with all her wonted tenderness,

"What is the matter, dear mamma?—I trust that no bad news has met you?"

If all other circumstances left it a matter of doubt whether evangelical influence (as it is impiously called) were productive of good or evil, the terrible power which it is so constantly seen to have of destroying family union must be quite sufficient to settle the question. Any person who will take the trouble to inquire into the fact, will find that family affection has been more blighted and destroyed by the workings of this fearful superstition than by any other cause of which the history of man bears record.

The tone of Helen's voice seemed for a moment to recall former feelings, and her mother looked at her kindly: but before she could give utterance to any word of affection, the recollection of all Mr. Cartwright had said to prove that Helen deserved not the affection of her mother, and that the only chance left to save herself was to be found in the most austere estrangement, till such time as her hard heart should be softened; the recollection of all this came across the terrified mind of Mrs. Mowbray, and she resumed the solemn and distant bearing she had of late resumed, with a nervous sensation of alarm at the great crime she had been on the point of committing.

Poor Helen saw the look, and listened with her whole soul in her eyes for the kind words which had so nearly followed it; but when they came not, her heart sank within her, and pleading fatigue, she begged to be shown to her own room, where she spent half the night in weeping.

Most punctually at eleven o'clock on the following morning, Mr. Stephen Corbold was announced, and a stiff priggish-looking figure entered the drawing-room, who, though in truth a "special attorney," looked much more like a thorough-bred methodistical preacher than his friend and cousin Mr. Cartwright. In age he was a few years that gentleman's junior, but in all outward gifts most lamentably his inferior; being, in truth, as ill-looking and ungentlemanlike a person as any congregation attached to the "Philo-Calvin Frybabe" principles could furnish.

The footman might have announced him in the same words as Lépine did Vadius:

"Madame, un homme est là, qui veut parler à vous. Il est vètu de noir, et parle d'un ton doux."

For, excepting his little tight cravat, he appeared to have nothing white about him, and he seldom raised his cautious voice above a whisper.

"I am here, madam," he began, addressing himself to Mrs. Mowbray, who felt rather at a loss what to say to him, "at the request of my cousin, the Reverend William Jacob Cartwright, Vicar of Wrexhill. He hath given me to understand that you have business to transact at Doctors' Commons, relative to the last will and testament of your late husband. Am I correct, madam?"

"Quite so, Mr. Corbold. I wish to despatch this business as quickly as possible, as I am anxious to return again to my family."

"No delay shall intervene that I can prevent," replied the attorney. "Is there any other business, madam, in which my services can be available?"

"You are very kind, sir. I believe there are several things on which I shall have to trouble you. Mr. Mowbray generally transacted his own business, which in London consisted, I believe, solely in receiving dividends and paying tradesmen's bills: the only lawyer he employed, therefore, was a gentleman who resides in our county, and who has hitherto had the care of the estates. But my excellent minister and friend Mr. Cartwright has written upon this sheet of paper, I believe, what it will be necessary for me to do in order to arrange things for the future."

Mrs. Mowbray put the paper into the lawyer's hands, who read it over with great attention, nodding his head slightly from time to time as any item struck him as particularly interesting and important.

"Three per Cents—very good. Bank Stock—very good. Power of Attorney.—All right, madam, all right. It hath pleased the Lord to give my cousin, his servant, a clear and comprehending intellect. All shall be done even as it is here set down."

"How long, sir, do you think it will be necessary for me to remain in town?"

"Why, madam, there are many men would run this business out to great length. Here is indeed sufficient to occupy a very active professional man many weeks: but by the blessing of Heaven, which is often providentially granted to me in time of need, I question not but I may be able to release you in a few days, madam, provided always that you are prepared to meet such expenses as are indispensable upon all occasions when great haste is required."

"Expense will be no object with me, Mr. Corbold; but a prolonged absence from home would be extremely inconvenient. Pray remember that I shall be most happy to pay any additional sum which hastening through the business may require."

"Very good, madam, very good. That Heaven will be good unto me in this business, I cannot presume to doubt; for it hath been consigned unto me by one of its saints on earth, and it is for the service of a lady who, I am assured by him, is likely to become one of the most favoured agents that it hath ever selected to do its work on earth."

Mrs. Mowbray coloured from a mixed feeling of modesty and pleasure. That Mr. Cartwright should have thus described her, was most soothing to her heart; but when she recollected how far advanced he was, and how very near the threshold she as yet stood, her diffidence made her shrink from hearing herself named in language so flattering.

"Is that fair young person who left the room soon after I entered it your daughter, madam?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. I rejoice to hear it: that is, I would be understood to say, that I rejoice with an exceeding great joy that the child of a lady who stands in such estimation as you do with a chosen minister of the elected church, should wear an aspect so suitable to one who, by especial Providence, will be led to follow her example."

Mrs. Mowbray sighed.

"I lament, madam," resumed Mr. Corbold, "I may say with great and bitter lamentation, both for your sake, and that of the young person who has left the room, that the London season should be so completely over."

"Sir!" said Mrs. Mowbray in an accent of almost indignant surprise, "is it possible that any friend and relation of Mr. Cartwright's can imagine that I, in my unhappy situation—or indeed, without that, as a Christian woman hoping with fear and trembling to become one of those set apart from worldly things,—is it possible, sir, that you can think I should partake, or let my daughter partake, in the corrupt sinfulness and profane rioting of a London season!"

"May Heaven forgive you for so unjust a suspicion, most respected madam!" cried Mr. Corbold, clasping his hands and raising his eyes to Heaven. "The language of the saints on earth is yet new to you, most excellent and highly to be respected convert of my cousin! The London season of which I speak, and which you will hear alluded to by such sinful creatures as, like me, have reason to believe by an especial manifestation of grace that they are set apart,—the London season of which I and they speak, is that, when during about six blessed weeks in the spring, the chosen vessels resort in countless numbers to London, for the purpose of being present at all the meetings which take place during that time, with as much ardour and holy zeal as the worldly-minded show in arranging their fêtes and their fooleries at the instigation of Satan—in anticipation, as it should seem, poor deluded creatures! of the crowds that they shall hereafter meet amidst fire and brimstone in his realms below. The season of which I speak, and of which you will hear all the elect speak with rapture and thanksgiving, consists of a quick succession of splendid and soul-stirring meetings, at which all the saints on whom the gift of speech hath descended, some for one, some for two, some for three, some for four—ay, some for five hours at a time, sustained, as you may suppose, by a visible resting of the Divine power upon them. This, madam, is the season that, for your sake, and for the sake of the fair young person your daughter, I wished was not yet over."

Mrs. Mowbray made a very penitent and full apology for the blunder she had committed, and very meekly confessed her ignorance, declaring that she had never before heard the epithet of "London season" given to any thing so heavenly-minded and sublime as the meetings he described.

The discovery of this species of ignorance on the part of Mrs. Mowbray, which was by no means confined to the instance above mentioned, was a very favourable circumstance for Mr. Corbold. There was, perhaps, no other subject in the world upon which he was competent to give information (except in the technicalities of his own profession); but in every thing relating to missionary meetings, branch-missionary meetings' reports, child's missionary branch committees, London Lord's day's societies, and the like, he was quite perfect. All this gave him a value in Mrs. Mowbray's eyes as a companion which he might have wanted without it. At all conversations of this kind, Mrs. Mowbray took great care that Helen should be present, persuaded that nothing could be so likely to give her that savour of righteousness in which, as yet, she was so greatly deficient.

The consequence of this arrangement was twofold. On Helen's side, it generated a feeling compounded of contempt and loathing towards the fanatical attorney, which in most others would have led to the passion called hatred; but in her it seemed rather a passive than an active sentiment, which would never have sought either nourishment or relief in doing injury to its object, but which rendered her so ill at ease in his presence that her life became perfectly wretched from the frequency of it.

On the part of the gentleman, the effect of these frequent interviews was different. From thinking Mrs. Mowbray's daughter a very fair young person, he grew by gradual, but pretty rapid degrees, to perceive that she was the very loveliest tabernacle in which had ever been enshrined the spirit of a woman; and by the time Mrs. Mowbray had learned by rote the names, titles, connexions, separations, unions, deputations, and endowments of all the missionary societies, root and branch, and of all the central and eccentric establishments for the instruction of ignorance in infants of four months to adults of fourscore, Mr. Stephen Corbold had made up his mind to believe that, by fair means or foul, it was his bounden duty, as a pious man and serious Christian, to appropriate the fair Helen to himself in this life, and thereby ensure her everlasting happiness in the life to come.

It must not be supposed that while these things passed in London the Vicar of Wrexhill was forgotten. Mrs. Mowbray's heart and conscience both told her that such a letter as she had received from him must not remain unanswered: she therefore placed Helen in the drawing-room, with a small but very closely-printed volume on "Free Grace," recommended by Mr. Corbold, and having desired her, in the voice of command, to study it attentively till dinner-time, she retired to her own room, where, having knelt, wept, prayed, written, and erased, for about three hours, she finally signed and sealed an epistle, of which it is unnecessary to say more than that it conveyed a very animated feeling of satisfaction to the heart of the holy man to whom it was addressed.

CHAPTER V.

MR. STEPHEN CORBOLD RETURNS WITH MRS. MOWBRAY AND HELEN TO WREXHILL.

Mrs. Mowbray's business in London, simple and straightforward as it was, might probably under existing circumstances have occupied many weeks, had not a lucky thought which visited the restless couch of Mr. Stephen Corbold been the means of bringing it to a speedy conclusion.

"Soyez amant, et vous serez inventif," is a pithy proverb, and has held good in many an illustrious instance, but in none, perhaps, more conspicuously than in that of Mr. Stephen Corbold's passion for Miss Mowbray. One of the earliest proofs he gave of this, was the persuading Mrs. Mowbray that the only way in which he could, consistently with his other engagements, devote to her as much time as her affairs required, would be, by passing every evening with her. And he did pass every evening with her: and poor Helen was given to understand, in good set terms, that if she presumed to retire before that excellent man Mr. Stephen Corbold had finished his last tumbler of soda-water and Madeira, not only would she incur her mother's serious displeasure, but be confided (during their absence from Mowbray) to the spiritual instruction of some earnest minister, who would teach her in what the duty of a daughter consisted.

And so Helen Mowbray sat till twelve o'clock every night, listening to the works of the saints of the nineteenth century, and exposed to the unmitigated stare of Mr. Stephen Corbold's grey eyes.

The constituting himself the guide and protector of the ladies through a series of extemporary preachings and lecturings on Sunday, was perhaps too obvious a duty to be classed as one of love's invention: but the ingenuity shown in persuading Mrs. Mowbray that it would be necessary for the completion of her business that he should attend her home, most certainly deserves this honour.

Though no way wanting in that quality of mind which the invidious denominate "impudence," and the judicious "proper confidence,"—a quality as necessary to the fitting out of Mr. Stephen Corbold as parchment and red tape,—he nevertheless felt some slight approach to hesitation and shame-facedness when he first hinted the expediency of this measure. But his embarrassment was instantly relieved by Mrs. Mowbray's cordial assurance that she rejoiced to hear such a manner of concluding the business was possible, as she knew it would give their "excellent minister" pleasure to see his cousin.

There is no Christian virtue, perhaps, to which a serious widow lady is so often called (unless she belong to that class invited by the "exemplary" in bevies, by way of charity, when a little teapot is set between every two of them,)—there is no Christian virtue more constantly inculcated on the minds of rich serious widows than that of hospitality; nor is there a text that has been quoted oftener to such, or with greater variety of accent, as admonitory, encouragingly, beseechingly, approvingly, jeremiadingly in reproach, and hallelujahingly in gratitude and admiration, than those three impressive and laudatory words,—

"GIVEN TO HOSPITALITY!"

During a snug little morning visit at the Park, at which only Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny were present, Mr. Cartwright accidentally turned to these words; and nothing could be more touchingly eloquent than the manner in which he dwelt upon and explained them.

From that hour good Mrs. Mowbray had been secretly lamenting the want of sufficient opportunity to show how fully she understood and valued this Christian virtue, and how willing she was to put it in practice toward all such as her "excellent minister" should approve: it was, therefore, positively with an out-pouring of fervent zeal that she welcomed the prospect of a visit from such a man as Mr. Stephen Corbold.

"It is indeed a blessing and a happiness, Mr. Corbold," said she, "that what I feared would detain me many days from my home and my family should be converted into such a merciful dispensation as I must consider your coming to be. When shall you be able to set out, my dear sir?"

"I could set out to-morrow, or, at the very latest, the day after, if I could obtain a conveyance that I should deem perfectly safe for the papers I have to carry."

Helen shuddered, for she saw his meaning lurking in the corner of his eye as he turned towards her one of his detested glances.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Mowbray, hesitatingly, and fearful that she might be taxing his great good-nature too far,—"perhaps, upon such an urgent occasion, you might have the great goodness Mr. Corbold, to submit to making a third in my travelling-carriage?"

"My gratitude would indeed be very great for such a permission," he replied, endeavouring to betray as little pleasure as possible. "I do assure you, my dear lady, such precautions are far from unnecessary. Heaven, for its own especial purposes, which are to us inscrutable, ordains that its tender care to usward shall be shown rather by giving us prudence and forethought to avoid contact with the wicked, than by any removal of them from our path: wherefore I hold myself bound in righteousness to confess that the papers concerning your affairs—even yours, my honoured lady, might run a very fearful risk of being abducted, and purloined, by some of the many ungodly persons with whom no dispensation of Providence hath yet interfered to prevent their jostling its own people when they travel, as sometimes unhappily they must do, in stage-coaches."

"Ah, Mr. Corbold!" replied the widow, (mentally alluding to a conversation which she had held with Mr. Cartwright on the separation to be desired between the chosen and the not-chosen even in this world; such being, as he said, a sort of type or foreshowing of that eternal separation promised in the world to come;)—"Ah, Mr. Corbold! if I had the power to prevent it, none of the chosen should ever again find themselves obliged to submit to such promiscuous mixture with the ungodly as this unsanctified mode of travelling must lead to. Had I power and influence sufficient to carry such an undertaking into effect, I would certainly endeavour to institute a society of Christians, who, by liberal subscriptions among themselves, might collect a fund for defraying the travelling expenses of those who are set apart. It must be an abomination, Mr. Corbold, that such should be seen travelling on earth by the same vehicles as those which convey the wretched beings who are on their sure and certain road to eternal destruction!"

"Ah, dearest madam!" replied the attorney, with a profound sigh, "such thoughts as those are buds of holiness that shall burst forth into full-blown flowers of eternal glory round your head in heaven! But, alas! no such society is yet formed, and the sufferings of the righteous, for the want of it, are truly great!"

"I am sure they must be, Mr. Corbold," replied the kind Mrs. Mowbray in an accent of sincere compassion; "but, at least in the present instance, you may be spared such unseemly mixture, if you will be good enough not to object to travelling three in the carriage. Helen is very slight, and I trust you will not be greatly incommoded."

Mr. Corbold's gratitude was too great to be expressed in a sitting attitude; he therefore rose from his chair, and pressing his extended hands together as if invoking a blessing on the meek lady's holy head, he uttered, "Heaven reward you, madam, for not forgetting those whom it hath remembered!" and as he spoke, he bowed his head low, long, and reverently. As he recovered the erect position on ordinary occasions permitted to man, he turned a little round to give a glance of very lover-like timidity towards Helen, who when he began his reverence to her mother was in the room; but as he now turned his disappointed eyes all round it, he discovered that she was there no longer.

After this, the business which could, as Mr. Corbold said, be conveniently transacted in London, was quickly despatched, and the day fixed for their return to Mowbray, exactly one week after they left it.

Mr. Stephen Corbold was invited to breakfast previous to the departure; and he came accompanied by so huge a green bag, as promised a long stay among those to whose affairs the voluminous contents related.

When all things in and about the carriage were ready, Mr. Stephen Corbold presented his arm to the widow, and placed her in it. He then turned to Helen, who on this occasion found it not so easy as at setting off to avoid the hand extended towards her; that is to say, she could not spring by it unheeded: but as she would greatly have preferred the touch of any other reptile, she contrived to be very awkward, and actually caught hold of the handle beside the carriage-door, instead of the obsequious ungloved fingers which made her shudder as she glanced her eyes towards them.

"You will sit in the middle, Helen," said Mrs. Mowbray.

"I wish, mamma, you would be so kind as to let me sit in the dickey," replied the young lady, looking up as she spoke to the very comfortable and unoccupied seat in front of the carriage which, but for Mrs. Mowbray's respectful religious scruples, might certainly have accommodated Mr. Corbold and his bag perfectly well. "I should like it so much better, mamma!"

"Let me sit in the middle, I entreat!" cried Mr. Corbold, entering the carriage in haste, to prevent farther discussion. "My dear young lady," he continued, placing his person in the least graceful of all imaginable attitudes,—"my dear young lady, I beseech you——"

"Go into the corner, Helen!" said Mrs. Mowbray hastily wishing to put so exemplary a Christian more at his ease, and without thinking it necessary to answer the insidious petition of her daughter, which, as she thought, plainly pointed at the exclusion of the righteous attorney.

Helen ventured not to repeat it, and the carriage drove off. For the first mile Mr. Stephen Corbold sat, or rather perched himself, at the extremest edge of the seat, his hat between his knees, and every muscle that ought to have been at rest in active exercise, to prevent his falling forward on his nose; every feature, meanwhile, seeming to say, "This is not my carriage." But by gentle degrees he slid farther and farther backwards, till his spare person was not only in the enjoyment of ease, but of great happiness also.

Helen, as her mother observed, was "very slight," and Mr. Corbold began almost to fancy that she would at last vanish into thin air, for, as he quietly advanced, so did she quietly retreat till she certainly did appear to shrink into a very small compass indeed.

"I fear I crowd you, my dearest lady!" he said, addressing Mrs. Mowbray at least ten times during as many miles; and every time this fear came over him he gave her a little more room, dreadfully to the annoyance of the slight young lady on the other side of him. Poor Helen had need to remember that she was going home—going to Rosalind, to enable her to endure the disgust of her position; but for several hours she did bear it heroically. She thought of Mowbray,—of her flower-garden,—of the beautiful Park,—of Rosalind's snug dressing-room, and the contrast of all this to the life she had led in London. She thought too of Oakley, and of the possibility that some of the family might, by some accident or other, be met in some of the walks which Rosalind and she would be sure to take. In short, with her eyes incessantly turned through the open window towards the hedges and ditches, the fields and the flowers by the road-side, she contrived to keep herself, body and soul, as far as possible from the hated being who sat beside her.

On the journey to London, Mrs. Mowbray had not thought it necessary to stop for dinner on the road, both she and Helen preferring to take a sandwich in the carriage; but, from the fear of infringing any of the duties of that hospitality which she now held in such high veneration, she arranged matters differently, and learning, upon consulting her footman, that an excellent house was situated about half-way between London and Wrexhill, she not only determined on stopping there, but directed the man to send forward a note, ordering an early dinner to be ready for them.

This halt was an agreeable surprise to Mr. Stephen Corbold. It was indeed an arrangement such as those of his peculiar sect are generally found to approve; for it is a remarkable fact, easily ascertained by any who will give themselves the trouble of inquiry, that the serious Christians of the present age indulge themselves bodily, whenever the power of doing so falls in their way, exactly in proportion to the mortifications and privations with which they torment their spirits: so that while a young sinner would fly from an untasted glass of claret that he might not lose the prologue to a new play, a young saint would sip up half-a-dozen (if he could get them) while descanting on the grievous pains of hell which the pursuit of pleasure must for ever bring.

The repast, and even the wine, did honour to the recommendation of the careful and experienced Thomas: and Mrs. Mowbray had the sincere satisfaction of seeing Mr. Corbold ("le pauvre homme!") eat half a pound of salmon, one-third of a leg of lamb, and three-quarters of a large pigeon-pie, with a degree of relish that proved to her that she was "very right to stop for dinner."

Nothing can show gratitude for such little attentions as these so pleasantly and so effectually as taking full advantage of them. Mr. Corbold indeed carried this feeling so far, that even after the two ladies had left the room, he stepped back and pretty nearly emptied the two decanters of wine before he rejoined them.

The latter part of the journey produced a very disagreeable scene, which, though it ended, as Helen thought at the time most delightfully for her, was productive in its consequences of many a bitter heart-ache.

It is probable that the good cheer at D——, together with the final libation that washed it down, conveyed more than ordinary animation to the animal spirits of the attorney, and for some miles he discoursed with more than his usual unction on the sins of the sinful, and the holiness of the holy, till poor dear Mrs. Mowbray, despite her vehement struggles to keep her eyes open, fell fast asleep.

No sooner was Mr. Stephen Corbold fully aware of this fact, than he began making some very tender speeches to Helen. For some time her only reply was expressed by thrusting her head still farther out of the side window. But this did not avail her long. As if to intimate to her that a person whose attention could not be obtained through the medium of the ears must be roused from their apathy by the touch, he took her hand.

Upon this she turned as suddenly as if an adder had stung her, and fixing her eyes, beaming with rage and indignation, upon him, said,

"If you venture, sir, to repeat this insult, I will call to the postillions to stop, and order the footman instantly to take you out of the carriage."

He returned her glance, however, rather with passion than repentance, and audaciously putting his arm round her waist, drew her towards him, while he whispered in her ear, "What would your dear good mamma say to that?"

Had he possessed the cunning of Mephistophiles, he could not have uttered words more calculated to unnerve her. The terrible conviction that it was indeed possible her mother might justify, excuse, or, at any rate, pardon the action, came upon her heart like ice, and burying her face in her hands, she burst into tears.

Had Mr. Stephen Corbold been a wise man, he would have here ceased his persecution: he saw that she was humbled to the dust by the reference he had so skilfully made to her mother; and perhaps, had he emptied only one decanter, he might have decided that it would be desirable to leave her in that state of mind. But, as it was, he had the very exceeding audacity once more to put his arm round her, and, by a sudden and most unexpected movement, impressed a kiss upon her cheek.

Helen uttered a piercing scream; and Mrs. Mowbray, opening her eyes, demanded, in a voice of alarm, "What is the matter?"

Mr. Corbold sat profoundly silent; but Helen answered, in great agitation, "I can remain in the carriage no longer, mamma, unless you turn out this man!"

"Oh, Helen! Helen! what can you mean by using such language?" answered her mother. "It is pride, I know, abominable pride,—I have seen it from the very first,—which leads you to treat this excellent man as you do. Do you forget that he is the relation as well as the friend of our minister? Fie upon it, Helen! you must bring down this haughty spirit to something more approaching meek Christian humility, or you and I shall never be able to live together."

It seems almost like a paradox, and yet it is perfectly true, that had not Mrs. Mowbray from the very first, as she said, perceived the utter vulgarity, in person, language, and demeanour, of the vicar's cousin, she would have been greatly less observant and punctilious in her civilities towards him; nor would she have been so fatally ready to quarrel with her daughter for testifying her dislike of a man who, her own taste told her, would be detestable, were not the holiness of his principles such as to redeem every defect with which nature, education, and habit had afflicted him.

The more Mrs. Mowbray felt disposed to shrink from an intimate association with the serious attorney, the more strenuously did she force her nature to endure him; and feeling, almost unconsciously perhaps, that it was impossible Helen should not detest him, she put all her power and authority in action, not only to prevent her showing it, but to prevent also so very sinful and worldly-minded a sentiment from taking hold upon her young mind.

Helen, however, was too much irritated at this moment to submit, as she had been ever used to do, to the commands of her mother; and still feeling the pressure of the serious attorney's person against her own, she let down the front glass, and very resolutely called to the postillions to stop.

The boy who rode the wheeler immediately heard and obeyed her.

"Tell the servant to open the door," said she with a firmness and decision which she afterwards recalled to herself with astonishment.

Thomas, who, the moment the carriage stopped, had got down, obeyed the call she now addressed to him,—opened the door, gave her his arm; and before either Mrs. Mowbray, or the serious attorney either, had fully recovered from their astonishment, Helen was comfortably seated on the dickey, enjoying the cool breeze of a delicious afternoon upon her flushed cheek.

The turn which was given to this transaction by Mr. Stephen Corbold during the tête-à-tête conversation he enjoyed for the rest of the journey with the young lady's mother was such as to do credit to his acuteness; and that good lady's part in it showed plainly that the new doctrines she had so rapidly imbibed, while pretending to purify her heart, had most lamentably perverted her judgment.

CHAPTER VI.

THE RETURN.

On reaching Mowbray, the first figure which greeted the eyes of the travellers was that of Charles, stationed on the portico steps waiting to receive them. A line from Helen to Rosalind, written only the day before, announced their intended return; but the appearance of Charles was a surprise to them, and to Helen certainly the most delightful that she could have experienced.

Mr. Cartwright had written a long and very edifying letter to Mrs. Mowbray, informing her of the unexpected arrival of her son from the scene of his studies, and making such comments upon it as in his wisdom seemed good. But though this too was written in the secret recesses of his own chamber, with many affecting little circumstances demonstrative of his holy and gentle emotions while so employed, it was, nevertheless, under the influence of still riper wisdom, subsequently destroyed, because he thought that the first surprise occasioned by the young man's unwonted appearance would be more likely to produce the effect he desired than even his statement.

Neither Rosalind nor Charles himself had written, because they were both unwilling to state the real cause of his coming, and thought the plea of whim would pass off better in conversation than on paper. That Fanny should write nothing which good Mr. Cartwright did not wish known, can be matter of surprise to no one.

Helen, who had descried Charles before the carriage stopped, descended from her lofty position with dangerous rapidity, and sprang into his arms with a degree of delight, greater, perhaps, than she had ever before felt at seeing him.

The exclamation of Mrs. Mowbray certainly had in it, as the wise vicar predicted, a tone that indicated displeasure as well as surprise; and the embrace, which she could not refuse, was so much less cordial than it was wont to be, that he turned again to Helen, and once more pressed her to his heart, as if to console him for the want of tenderness in his mother's kiss.

Meanwhile, Mr. Stephen Corbold stood under the lofty portico, lost in admiration at the splendid appearance of the house and grounds. Mrs. Mowbray, with a sort of instinctive feeling that this excellent person might not altogether find himself at his ease with her family, hastened towards him, determined that her own Christian humility should at least set them a good example, and putting out both her hands towards him, exclaimed, with an earnestness that sounded almost like the voice of prayer, "Welcome, dear, DEAR, Mr. Corbold, to my house and home! and may you find in it the comfort and hospitality your exemplary character deserves!" Then turning to her son, she added, "I know not how long you are likely to stay away from college, Charles; but while you are here, I beg that you will exert yourself to the very utmost to make Mowbray agreeable to this gentleman; and remember, if you please, that his religious principles, and truly edifying Christian sentiments, are exactly such as I would wish to place before you as an example."

Charles turned round towards the serious attorney, intending to welcome him by an extended hand; but the thing was impossible. There was that in his aspect with which he felt that he could never hold fellowship, and his salutation was turned into a ceremonious bow; a change which it was the less difficult to make, from the respectful distance at which the stranger guest placed himself, while preparing to receive the young man's welcome.

Though Rosalind had purposely remained in her own apartment till the first meeting with Charles was over, Helen was already in her arms; having exchanged a hasty kiss with Fanny, whom she met in the hall, hastening to receive her mother.

"Oh! my dearest Rosalind! How thankful am I to be once more with you again! I never, I think, shall be able to endure the sight of London again as long as I live. I have been so very, very wretched there!"

"Upon my word, Helen, I have not lived upon roses since you went. You can hardly be so glad to come back, as I am to have you. What did your mother say on seeing Charles?"

"I hardly know. She did not, I think, seem pleased to see him: but I am more delighted at the chance that has brought him, let it be what it will, than I have words to express. Oh! it is such a blessing to me!—dear, dear, Charles! he knows not what a treasure he is. The very sight of him has cured all my sorrows—and yet I was dreadfully miserable just now."

"Then, thank Heaven! he is here, my own Helen! But tell me, dearest, what is it has made you miserable? Though you tell me it is over, the tears seemed ready to start when you said so."

"Oh! my woes will make a long story, Rosalind; and some of them must be for your ear only; but this shall be at night, when nobody is near to hear us:—but, by the way, you must have a great deal to tell me. How comes it that Charles is here? And, what seems stranger still, how comes it that, as he is here, you have not been living upon roses?"

"My woes may make a story as well as yours, Helen; and a long one too, if I tell all: but it must come out by degrees,—a series of sketches, rather than an history."

"Have you seen any body from Oakley, Rosalind?"

"Ah, Helen!" said Rosalind smiling, as she watched the bright colour mounting even to the brows of her friend; "your history, then, has had nothing in it to prevent your remembering Oakley?"

"My history, as you call it, Rosalind, has been made up of a series of mortifications: some of them have almost broken my heart, and my spirit too; but others have irritated me into a degree of courage and daring that might perhaps have surprised you; and every thing that has happened to me, has sent my thoughts back to my home and to my friends,—all my friends, Rosalind,—with a degree of clinging and dependent affection such as I never felt before."

"My poor Helen! But look up, dearest! and shed no tears if you can help it. We all seem to be placed in a very singular and unexpected position, my dear friend; but it is not tears that will help us out of it. This new man, this vicar, seems inclined to go such lengths with his fanatical hypocrisy, that I have good hopes your mother and Fanny will ere long get sick of him and his new lights, and then all will go right again. Depend upon it, all that has hitherto gone wrong, has been wholly owing to him. I certainly do not think that your poor father's will was made in the spirit of wisdom; but even that would have produced none of the effects it has done, had not this hateful man instilled, within ten minutes after the will was read, the poison of doubt and suspicion against Charles, into the mind of your mother. Do you not remember his voice and his look, Helen, when he entered the room where we were all three sitting with your mother? I am sure I shall never forget him! I saw, in an instant, that he intended to make your mother believe that Charles resented the will; and that, instead of coming himself, he had sent him to your mother to tell her of it. I hated him then; and every hour that has passed since has made me hate him more. But let us take hope, Helen, even from the excess of the evil. Your mother cannot long remain blind to his real character; and, when once she sees him as he is, she will again become the dear kind mother you have all so fondly loved."

"Could I hope this, Rosalind, for the future, there is nothing I could not endure patiently for the present,—at least nothing that could possibly happen while Charles is here; but I do not hope it."

There was a melancholy earnestness in Helen's voice, as she pronounced the last words, that sounded like a heavy prophecy of evil to come, in the ears of Rosalind. "Heaven help us, then!" she exclaimed. "If we are really to live under the influence and authority of the Vicar of Wrexhill, our fate will be dreadful. If your dear father had but been spared to us a few years longer,—if you and I were but one-and-twenty Helen,—how different would be the light in which I should view all that now alarms us; my fortune would be plenty for both of us, and I would take you with me to Ireland, and we would live with——"

"Oh Rosalind! how can you talk so idly? Do you think that any thing would make me leave my poor dear mother?"

"If you were to marry, for instance?"

"I should never do that without her consent; and that, you know, would hardly be leaving her."

"Well! 'Heaven and our innocency defend and guard us!' for I do think, Helen, we are in a position that threatens vexation, to say the least of it. I wonder if Miss Cartwright's visit is to end with your absence? She is the very oddest personage! sometimes I pity her; sometimes I almost admire her; sometimes I feel afraid of her, but never by any chance can I continue even to fancy that I understand her character."

"Indeed! Yet in general you set about that rather rapidly, Rosalind. But must we not go down? I have hardly seen Fanny, and I long to talk a little to my own dear Charles."

"And you will like to have some tea after your journey. Mrs. Mowbray, I think, never stops en route?"

"In general she does not; but to-day——" a shudder ran through Helen's limbs as she remembered the travelling adventures of the day, and she stopped.

"You look tired and pale, Helen! Come down, take some tea, and then go to bed directly. If we do not act with promptitude and decision in this matter, we shall set up talking all night."

As they passed Miss Cartwright's door, Rosalind knocked, and that young lady immediately opened it.

"Oh! you are come back then? I fancied, by Mr. Cartwright's not coming this evening, that something might have occurred to prevent you?"

"If it had," said Helen, smiling, "it must have been announced by express, for you can only have had my letter this morning."

"True!" replied Miss Cartwright.

When the three young ladies entered the drawing-room, they found nobody in it but Mr. Stephen Corbold; Mrs. Mowbray having gone with Fanny to her own room, and Charles ensconced himself in the library, to avoid a tête-à-tête with the unpromising-looking stranger.

Rosalind gave him a glance, and then looked at Helen with an eye that seemed to say, "Who in the world have you brought us?" Helen, however, gave no glance of intelligence in return; but, walking to a table which stood in that part of the room which was at the greatest distance from the place occupied by Mr. Corbold, she sat down, and began earnestly reading an old newspaper that she found upon it.

Miss Cartwright started on recognising her cousin, and though she condescended to pronounce, "How do you do, Mr. Corbold?" there was but a cold welcome to him expressed either by her voice or manner. No one presented him to Rosalind, and altogether he felt as little at his ease as it was well possible for a gentleman to do, when the door opened, and Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny appeared. From that moment he became as much distinguished as he was before overlooked. Fanny, who knew that it was Mr. Cartwright's cousin who stood bowing to her, delighted at the honour of being told that she was "Miss Fanny Mowbray," received him with a kindness and condescension which soothed her own feelings as much as his, for she felt that every word she spoke to him was a proof of her devotion to her dear, good Mr. Cartwright! and that, when he heard of it, he could not fail to understand that it was for his sake.

The party retired early, ostensibly for the sake of the travellers; but perhaps the real cause of this general haste to separate, was, that they all felt themselves singularly embarrassed in each other's company. Before Mrs. Mowbray had been five minutes in her house, she had ordered a splendid sleeping apartment to be made ready for Mr. Corbold; and the first half-hour after retiring to it, was spent by him in taking an accurate survey of its furniture, fittings-up, and dimensions: after which, he very nearly stifled himself (forgetful of the dog-days) by striving to enjoy the full luxury of the abounding pillows with which his magnificent couch was furnished.

Mrs. Mowbray and Fanny separated after a short but confidential colloquy. Miss Cartwright took her solitary way to her chamber, where, as the housemaids asserted, she certainly spent half the night in reading, or writing, or something or other, before she put out her light: and Rosalind and Helen, spite of their good resolutions, not only sat up talking in the library themselves, but permitted Charles to share their watch with them; so that, before they separated, every fact, thought, or opinion, treasured in the minds of each, were most unreservedly communicated to the others,—excepting that Helen did not disclose at full length all the reasons she had for detesting Mr. Corbold, and Charles did not think it necessary to mention, that Rosalind grew fairer to his eyes, and dearer to his heart, every hour.

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.

It should be observed that, during the few days which intervened between the arrival of Charles and the return of his mother, the vicar had greatly relaxed in his attentions to Fanny, and indeed altogether in the frequency of his pastoral visitations at the Park. He had explained this in the ear of his pretty proselyte, by telling her that he was much engaged in pushing forward the work of regeneration in his parish, to the which holy labour he was the more urgently incited by perceiving that the seed was not thrown upon barren ground. Nor indeed was this statement wholly untrue. He had taken advantage of the leisure which the present posture of affairs at the Park left upon his hands, in seeking to inflame the imaginations of as many of his parishioners as he could get to listen to him.

Among the females he had been particularly successful; and, indeed, the proportion of the fair sex who are found to embrace the tenets which this gentleman and his sect have introduced in place of those of the Church of England, is so great, that, as their faith is an exclusive one, it might be conjectured that the chief object of the doctrine was to act as a balance-weight against that of Mahomet, who, atrocious tyrant as he was, shut the gates of heaven against all woman-kind whatsoever; were it not that an occasional nest of he-saints may here and there be found,—sometimes in a drum-profaned barrack, and sometimes in a cloistered college, which show that election is not wholly confined to the fair. There are, however, some very active and inquiring persons who assert, that upon a fair and accurate survey throughout England and Wales, Ireland, Scotland, and the Town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, no greater number of this sect can be found of the masculine gender than may suffice to perform the duties of ministers, deputy ministers, missionaries, assistant missionaries, speech-makers both in and out of parliament, committee-men, and such serious footmen, coachmen, butchers, and bakers, as the fair inhabitants of the Calvinistic heaven require to perform the unfeminine drudgery of earth.

It was in consequence of this remission in the vicar's labours for the regeneration of Fanny, that Charles Mowbray still treated him with the respect due to the clergyman of his parish. Rosalind felt it quite impossible to describe to him all she had seen, and her promise to Henrietta forbade her to repeat what she had heard; so that young Mowbray, though he disapproved of the puritanic innovations of Fanny's toilet, and so much disliked Mr. Cartwright's extempore preaching as to have decided upon attending divine service at Oakley church for the future, to avoid hearing what he considered as so very indecent an innovation, he was still quite unaware of Rosalind's real motives for recalling him, though extremely well inclined to think her right in having done so.

Miss Torrington and Helen left the room very soon after the two gentlemen entered it. Henrietta, with the stealthy step of a cat, followed them, and young Mowbray felt strongly tempted to do the like; but was prevented, not so much by politeness perhaps, as by curiosity to ascertain, if possible, the terms on which both these gentlemen stood with his mother.

But it was not possible. As long as he remained with them, the very scanty conversation which took place was wholly on uninteresting subjects; and Charles at length left the room, from feeling that it was not his mother's pleasure to talk to the attorney of the business that he presumed must have brought him there, as long as he remained in it.

There is in the domestic history of human life no cause productive of effects so terrible as the habit of acting according to the impulse, or the convenience, of the moment, without fully considering the effect what we are doing may produce on others.

Mrs. Mowbray, in waiting till Charles left the room before she spake to Mr. Corbold of the title-deeds and other papers which she was to put into his hands, was almost wholly actuated by the consciousness that the attorney she was employing (though a serious) was a very vulgar man. She knew that her son was rather fastidious on such points; and she disliked the idea that a man, whose distinguished piety rendered him so peculiarly eligible as a man of business, should, at his first introduction to the confidential situation she intended he should hold, lay himself open to the ridicule of a youth, who, she sighed to think, was as yet quite incapable of appreciating his merit in any way.

If any secondary motive mixed with this, it arose from the averseness she felt, of which she was not herself above half conscious, that any one should hear advice given by Mr. Cartwright, who might think themselves at liberty to question it; but, with all this, she never dreamed of the pain she was giving to Charles's heart. She dreamed not that her son,—her only son,—with a heart as warm, as generous, as devoted in its filial love, as ever beat in the breast of a man, felt all his ardent affection for her,—his proud fond wish of being her protector, her aid, her confidential friend—now checked and chilled at once, and for ever!

This consequence of her cold, restrained manner in his presence, was so natural,—in fact, so inevitable,—that had she turned her eyes from herself and her own little unimportant feelings, to what might be their effect upon his, it is hardly possible that she could have avoided catching some glimpse of the danger she ran,—and much after misery might have been spared; as it was, she felt a movement of unequivocal satisfaction when he departed; and, having told Fanny to join the other young ladies while she transacted business, she was left alone with the two gentlemen, and, in a few minutes afterwards, the contents of her late husband's strong-box, consisting of parchments, memoranda, and deeds almost innumerable, overspread the large table, as well as every sofa and chair within convenient reach.

The two serious gentlemen smiled, but it was inwardly. Their eyes ran over the inscription of every precious packet; and if those of the professional man caught more rapidly at a glance the respective importance of each, the vicar had the advantage of him in that prophetic feeling of their future importance to himself, which rendered the present hour one of the happiest of his life.

Meanwhile, Charles sought Helen and her friend. Far, however, from wishing to impart to them the painful impression he had received, his principal object in immediately seeking them was, if possible, to forget it. He found the four girls together in the conservatory, and, affecting more gaiety than he felt, exclaimed, "How many recruits shall I get among you to join me in a walk to Wrexhill? One, two, three, four! That's delightful! Make haste; bonnet and veil yourselves without delay: and if we skirt round the plantations to the lodge, we shall escape being broiled, for the lanes are always shady."

When he had got his convoy fairly under weigh, they began to make inquiries as to what he was going to do at Wrexhill. "I will tell you," he replied, "if you will promise not to run away and forsake me."

They pledged themselves to be faithful to their escort, and he then informed them, that it was his very particular wish and desire to pay sundry visits to the beau monde of Wrexhill.

"It is treason to the milliner not to have told us so before, Charles," said Helen; "only look at poor Fanny's little straw-bonnet, without even a bow to set it off. What will Mrs. Simpson think of us?"

"I assure you, Helen," said Fanny, "that if I had known we were going to visit all the fine people in the county, I should have put on no other bonnet; and as for Mrs. Simpson, I believe you are quite mistaken in supposing she would object to it. I hope she has seen the error of her ways, as well as I have, Charles; and that we shall never more see her dressed like a heathenish woman, as she used to do."

"Oh Fanny! Fanny!" exclaimed Charles, laughing. "How long will this spirit vex you."

Fortunately, however, for the harmony of the excursion, none of the party appeared at this moment inclined to controversy, and the subject dropped. Instead, therefore, of talking of different modes of faith, and of the bonnets thereunto belonging, the conversation turned upon the peculiar beauty of the woodland scenery around Wrexhill; and Miss Cartwright, as almost a stranger, was applied to for her opinion of it.

"I believe I am a very indifferent judge of scenery," she replied. "The fact is, I never see it."

"Do you not see it now?" said Rosalind. "Do you not see that beautiful stretch of park-like common, with its tufts of holly, its rich groups of forest-trees, with their dark heavy drapery of leaves, relieved by the light and wavy gracefulness of the delicate and silvery birch? and, loveliest of all, do you not see that stately avenue of oaks, the turf under them green in eternal shade, and the long perspective, looking like the nave of some gigantic church?"

Rosalind stood still as she spoke, and Henrietta remained beside her. They were descending the bit of steep road which, passing behind the church and the vicarage, led into the village street of Wrexhill, and the scene described by Miss Torrington was at this point completely given to their view.

Henrietta put her arm within that of Rosalind with a degree of familiarity very unusual with her, and having gazed on the fair expanse before her for several minutes, she replied, "Yes, Rosalind, I do see it now, and I thank you for making it visible to me. Perhaps, in future, when I may perchance be thinking of you, I may see it again."

Rosalind turned to seek her meaning in her face, and saw that her dark deep-set eyes were full of tears. This was so unexpected, so unprecedented, so totally unlike any feeling she had ever remarked in her before, that Rosalind was deeply touched by it, and, pressing the arm that rested on hers, she said: "Dear Henrietta! Why are you so averse to letting one understand what passes in your heart? It is only by an accidental breath, which now and then lifts the veil you hang before it, that one can even find out you have any heart at all."

"Did you know all the darkness that dwells there, you would not thank me for showing it to you."

Having said this, she stepped hastily forward, and drawing on Rosalind, who would have lingered, with her, till they had overtaken the others, they all turned from the lane into the village street together.

They had not proceeded a hundred yards, before they were met by a dozen rosy and riotous children returning from dinner to school. At sight of the Mowbray party, every boy uncapped, and every little girl made her best courtesy; but one unlucky wag, whose eyes unfortunately fixed themselves on Fanny, being struck by the precision of her little bonnet, straight hair, and the total absence of frill, furbelow, or any other indication of worldly-mindedness, restrained his bounding steps for a moment, and, pursing up his little features into a look of sanctity, exclaimed—"Amen!"—and then, terrified at what he had done, galloped away and hid himself among his fellows.

Fanny coloured, but immediately assumed the resigned look that announceth martyrdom. Charles laughed, though he turned round and shook his switch at the saucy offender. Helen looked vexed, Rosalind amused, and Henrietta very nearly delighted.

A few minutes more brought them to the door of Mrs. Simpson. Their inquiry for the lady was answered by the information that she "was schooling miss; but if they would be pleased to walk in, she would come down directly." They accordingly entered the drawing-room, where they were kept waiting for some time, which was indeed pretty generally the fate of morning visitors to Mrs. Simpson.

The interval was employed as the collectors of albums and annuals intend all intervals should be, namely, in the examination of all the morocco-bound volumes deposited on the grand round table in the middle of the room, and on all the square, oblong, octagon, and oval minor tables, in the various nooks and corners of it.

On the present occasion they seemed to promise more amusement than usual to the party, who had most of them been frequently there before,—for they were nearly all new. Poor little Fanny, though she knew that not one of those with her were capable of enjoying the intellectual and edifying feast that almost the first glance of her eye showed her was set before them, could not restrain an exclamation of—"Oh! How heavenly-minded!"

The whole collection indeed, which though recently and hastily formed, had evidently been brought together by the hand of a master of such matters, was not only most strictly evangelical, but most evangelically ingenious.

Helen, however, appeared to find food neither for pleasantry nor edification there; for having opened one or two slender volumes, and as many heavy pamphlets, she abandoned the occupation with a sigh, that spoke sadness and vexation. Miss Cartwright, who had seated herself on the same sofa, finished her examination still more quickly, saying in a low voice as she settled herself in a well-pillowed corner—

"Surfeit is the father of much fast."

Miss Torrington and young Mowbray got hold of by far the finest volume of all, whose gilt leaves and silken linings showed that it was intended as the repository of the most precious gifts, that, according to the frontispiece, Genius could offer to Friendship. Having given a glance at its contents, Charles drew out his pencil, and on the blank side of a letter wrote the following catalogue of them, which, though imperfect as not naming them all, was most scrupulously correct as far as it went:

"Saint Paul's head, sketched in pen and ink; 'Here's the bower,' to words of grace; The death-bed talk of Master Blink; Lines on a fallen maiden's case. Sonnet upon heavenly love; A pencil drawing of Saint Peter. Emblems—the pigeon and the dove. Gray's Odes, turned to psalm-tune metre. A Christian ode in praise of tea, Freely translated from Redi."

He had just presented the scrap to Rosalind when Mrs. Simpson entered, leading her little girl in her hand; but the young lady had leisure to convey it unnoticed to her pocket, as the mistress of the house had for the first few minutes eyes only for Fanny. In fact, she literally ran to her the instant she perceived her little bonnet, and, folding her arms round her, exclaimed—

"My dear, dear child! My dear, dear sister! This is providential! It is a blessing I shall remember alway! Our minister told me that I should read at a glance the blessed change wrought upon you: I do read it, and I will rejoice therefore! I beg your pardon, ladies. Mr. Mowbray, pray sit down—I beg your pardon: I rejoice to see you, though as yet——"

Her eyes fixed themselves on the bonnet of Rosalind, which, besides being large, had the abomination of sundry bows, not to mention a bunch of laburnum blossoms.

"Ah! my dear Miss Helen! The time will come—I will supplicate that it may—when you too, like your precious sister, shall become a sign and example to all men. How the seed grows, my sweet Miss Fanny!" she continued, turning to the only one of her guests whom, strictly speaking, she considered it right to converse with. "How it grows and spreads under the dew of faith and the sunshine of righteousness. It is just three months, three little blessed months, since the beam first fell upon my heart, Miss Fanny; and look at me, look at my child, look at my albums, look at my books, look at my card-racks, look at my missionary's box on one side, and my London Lord-days' society box on the other. Is not this a ripening and preparing for the harvest, Miss Fanny?"

Fanny coloured, partly perhaps from pride and pleasure; but partly, certainly, from shyness at being so distinguished, and only murmured the word "Beautiful!" in reply.

Miss Mowbray felt equally provoked and disgusted; but, while inwardly resolving that she would never again put herself in the way of witnessing what she so greatly condemned, she deemed it best to stay, if possible, the torrent of nonsense which was thus overwhelming her sister, by giving another turn to the conversation.

"Have you seen Mrs. Richards lately, Mrs. Simpson?" she said.

"Mrs. Richards and I very rarely meet now, Miss Mowbray," was the reply. "The three young ladies indeed, I am happy to say, have wholly separated themselves from their mother in spirit, and are all of them becoming shining lights. Oh, Miss Fanny! how sweetly pious are those lines written between you and little Mary!"

Fanny suddenly became as red as scarlet.

"The alternate verses, I mean, in praise and glory of our excellent minister. He brought them to me himself, and we read them together, and we almost shed tears of tender blessing on you both, dear children!"

Charles, who thought, and with great satisfaction, that whatever stuff his poor little sister might have written, she was now very heartily ashamed of it, wishing to relieve her from the embarrassment, which nevertheless he rejoiced to see, rose from his chair, and approaching a window, said, "What a very pleasant room you have here, Mrs. Simpson; it is almost due east, is it not? If the room over it be your apartment, I should think the sun must pay you too early a visit there, unless your windows are well curtained."

"Oh, Mr. Mowbray! Sunrise is such a time of praise and blessing, that, even though the curtains are drawn, I always try, if I am awake, to think how heavenly it is looking outside."

"Are you an early riser, Mrs. Simpson?" said Helen.

"Not very,—at least not always; but since my election I have been endeavouring to get down to prayers by about half-past eight. It is so delightful to think how many people are coming down stairs to prayers just at half-past eight!"

"Your little girl is very much grown, Mrs. Simpson," said Miss Torrington, willing to try another opening by which to escape from under the heels of the lady's hobby; but it did not answer.

"Hold up your head, Mimima dear!" said the mamma; "and tell these ladies what you have been learning lately. She is still rather shy; but it is going off, I hope. Precious child! she is grown such a prayerful thing, Miss Fanny, you can't imagine. Mimima, why did you not eat up all your currant-pudding yesterday? tell Miss Fanny Mowbray!"

"Because it is wicked to love currant-pudding," answered the child, folding her little hands one over the other upon the bosom of her plain frock, no longer protruding in all directions its sumptuous chevaux-de-frise of lace and embroidery.

"Darling angel! And why, my precious! is it wicked?"

"Because it is a sin to care for our vile bodies, and because we ought to love nothing but the Lord."

"Is not that a blessing?" said Mrs. Simpson, again turning to Fanny. "And how can I be grateful enough to the angelic man who has put me and my little one in the right way?"

It was really generous in good Mrs. Simpson to give all the praise due for the instruction and religious awakening of her little girl to the vicar, for it was in truth entirely her own work; as it generally happened, that when Mr. Cartwright paid her a visit, fearing probably that the movements of a child might disturb his nerves, she dismissed her little Mimima to her nursery.

One or two more attempts on the part of Helen to bring the conversation to a tone that she should consider as more befitting the neighbourly chit-chat of a morning visit, and, in plain English, less tinctured with blasphemy, having been made and failed, she rose and took her leave, the rest of her party following; but not without Fanny's receiving another embrace, and this fervent farewell uttered in her ear:

"The saints and angels bless and keep you, dear sister!"

After quitting the house of this regenerated lady, the party proposed to make a visit to that of Mrs. Richards; but Miss Cartwright expressed a wish to go to the Vicarage instead, and begged they would call at the door for her as they passed. Miss Torrington offered to accompany her, but this was declined, though not quite in her usual cynical manner upon such occasions; and, could Rosalind have followed her with her eye up the Vicarage hill, she would have seen that she stopped and turned to look down upon the common and its trees, just at the spot where they had stood together before.

On entering Mrs. Richards's pretty flower-scented little saloon, they were startled and somewhat embarrassed at finding that lady in tears, and Major Dalrymple walking about the room with very evident symptoms of discomposure. Helen, who, like every body else in the neighbourhood, was perfectly aware of the major's unrequited attachment, or, at any rate, his unsuccessful suit, really thought that the present moment was probably intended by him to decide his fate for ever; and felt exceedingly distressed at having intruded, though doubtful whether to retreat now would not make matters worse. Those who followed her shared both her fears and her doubts; but not so the widow and the major; who both, after the interval of a moment, during which Mrs. Richards wiped her eyes, and Major Dalrymple recovered his composure, declared with very evident sincerity that they were heartily glad to see them.

"We are in the midst of a dispute, Mowbray," said the major, addressing Charles; "and I will bet a thousand to one that you will be on my side, whatever the ladies may be. Shall I refer the question to Charles Mowbray, Mrs. Richards?"

"Oh yes! I shall like to have it referred to the whole party!" she replied.

"Well then, this it is:—I need not tell you, good people, that the present vicar of Wrexhill is—but holt là!" he exclaimed, suddenly stopping himself and fixing his eyes on Fanny; "I am terribly afraid by the trim cut of that little bonnet, that there's one amongst us that will be taking notes. Is it so, Miss Fanny? Are you as completely over head and ears in love with the vicar, as your friend little Mary? and, for that matter, Louisa, Charlotte, Mrs. Simpson, Miss Mimima Simpson, Dame Rogers the miller's wife, black-eyed Betsey the tailor's daughter, Molly Tomkins, Sally Finden, Jenny Curtis, Susan Smith, and about threescore and ten more of our parish, have all put on the armour of righteousness, being buckled, belted, and spurred by the vicar himself. Are you really and truly become one of his babes of grace, Fanny?"

"If it is your intention to say any thing disrespectful of Mr. Cartwright," replied Fanny, "I had much rather not hear it. I will go and look at your roses, Mrs. Richards;" and, as Mrs. Richards did not wish her to remain, she quietly opened the glass-door which led into the garden, let her pass through it, and then closed it after her.

"Pretty creature!" exclaimed Major Dalrymple; "what a pity!"

"It will not last, major," said Charles. "He has scared her conscience, which is actually too pure and innocent to know the sound of its own voice; and then he seized upon her fanciful and poetic imagination, and set it in arms against her silly self, till she really seems to see the seven mortal sins, turn which way she will; and I am sure she would stand for seven years together on one leg, like an Hindoo, to avoid them. She is a dear good little soul, and she will get the better of all this trash, depend upon it."

"I trust she will, Mowbray; but tell me, while the mischief is still at work, shall you not think it right to banish the causer of it from your house? For you must know this brings us exactly to the point at issue between Mrs. Richards and me. She is breaking her heart because her three girls—ay, little Mary and all—have been bit by this black tarantula; and because she (thank Heaven!) has escaped, her daughters have thought proper to raise the standard of rebellion, and to tell her very coolly, upon all occasions, that she is doomed to everlasting perdition, and that their only chance of escape is never more to give obedience or even attention to any word she can utter."

The major stopped, overcome by his own vehemence; and Charles would have fancied that he saw tears in his eyes, if he had dared to look at him for another moment.

Rosalind, who had more love and liking for Mrs. Richards than is usually the growth of six months' acquaintance, had placed herself close beside her, and taken her hand; but, when Major Dalrymple ceased speaking, she rose up, and with a degree of energy that probably surprised all her hearers, but most especially Charles and Helen, she said: "If, Major Dalrymple, you should be the first in this unfortunate parish of Wrexhill to raise your voice against this invader of the station, rights, and duties of a set of men in whose avocations he has neither part nor lot, you will deserve more honour than even the field of Waterloo could give you! Yes! turn him from your house, dear friend, as you would one who brought poison to you in the guise of wholesome food or healing medicine. Let him never enter your doors again; let him preach (if preach he must) in a church as empty as his own pretensions to holiness; and if proper authority should at length be awaked to chase him from a pulpit that belongs of right to a true and real member of the English church, then let him buy a sixpenny licence, if he can get it, to preach in a tub, the only fitting theatre for his doctrines."

"Bravo!" cried the major in a perfect ecstasy; "do you hear her, Mrs. Richards? Charles Mowbray, do you hear her? and will either of you ever suffer Cartwright to enter your doors again?"

"I believe in my heart that she is quite right," said Charles: "the idiot folly I have witnessed at Mrs. Simpson's this morning; and the much more grievous effects which his ministry, as he calls it, has produced here, have quite convinced me that such ministry is no jesting matter. But I have no doors, Dalrymple, to shut against him; all I can do is to endeavour to open my mother's eyes to the mischief he is doing."

Helen sighed, and shook her head.

"Is, then, your good mother too far gone in this maudlin delirium to listen to him?" said the major in an accent of deep concern.

"Indeed, major, I fear so," replied Helen.

"I told you so, Major Dalrymple," said Mrs. Richards; "I told you that in such a line of conduct as you advise I should be supported by no one of any consequence, and I really do not feel courage to stand alone in it."

"And it is that very want of courage that I deplore more than all the rest," replied the major. "You, that have done and suffered so much, with all the quiet courage of a real heroine—that you should now sink before such an enemy as this, is what I really cannot see with patience."

"And whence comes this new-born cowardice, my dear Mrs. Richards?" said Rosalind.

"I will tell you, Miss Torrington," replied the black-eyed widow, her voice trembling with emotion as she spoke,—"I will tell you: all the courage of which I have ever given proof has been inspired, strengthened, and set in action by my children,—by my love for them, and their love for me. This is over: I have lost their love, I have lost their confidence. They look upon me,—even my Mary, who once shared every feeling of my heart,—they all look upon me as one accursed, separated from them through all eternity, and doomed by a decree of my Maker, decided on thousands of years before I was born, to live for countless ages in torments unspeakable. They repeat all this, and hug the faith that teaches it. Is not this enough to sap the courage of the stoutest heart that ever woman boasted?"

"It is dreadful!" cried Helen; "oh! most dreadful! Such then will be, and already are, the feelings of my mother respecting me,—respecting Charles. Yet, how she loved us! A few short months ago, how dearly she loved us both!"

"Come, come, Miss Mowbray; I did not mean to pain you in this manner," said the major. "Do not fancy things worse than they really are: depend upon it, your brother will take care to prevent this man's impious profanation of religion from doing such mischief at Mowbray as it has done here. Had there been any master of the House at Meadow Cottage, this gentleman, so miscalled reverend, would never, never, never, have got a footing there."

"Then I heartily wish there were," said Charles, "if only for the sake of setting a good example to the parish in general; but, for the Park in particular, it is as masterless as the cottage."

"I believe," said Mrs. Richards, "that amongst you I shall gain courage to be mistress here; and this, if effectually done, may answer as well. You really advise me, then, all of you, to forbid the clergyman of the parish from entering my doors?"

"Yes," replied the major firmly; and he was echoed zealously by the rest of the party.

"So be it then," said Mrs. Richards. "But I would my enemy, for such indeed he is, held any other station among us. I could shut my doors against all the lords and ladies in the country with less pain than against the clergyman."

"I can fully enter into that feeling," said Helen: "but surely, in proportion as the station is venerable, the abuse of it is unpardonable. Let this strengthen your resolution; and your children will recover their wits again, depend upon it. I would the same remedy could be applied with us! but you are so much respected, my dear Mrs. Richards, that I am not without hope from your example. Adieu! We shall be anxious to hear how you go on; and you must not fail to let us see you soon."

The Mowbray party, having recalled the self-banished Fanny, then took leave, not without the satisfaction of believing that their visit had been well-timed and useful.

CHAPTER IX.

DISCUSSION ON TRUTH.—MR. CORBOLD INSTALLED.

Having called at the Vicarage for Miss Cartwright, they proceeded homeward along the pleasant paths they had so often trod with light-hearted gaiety; but now there was a look of care and anxious thoughtfulness on each young brow, that seemed to say their happiness was blighted by the fear of sorrow to come.

Though not at all able to understand Henrietta, and not above half liking her, there was yet more feeling of intimacy between Miss Torrington and her than had been attained by any other of the family. It was she, therefore, who, after preceding the others by a few rapid steps up the hill, rang the bell of the Vicarage, and waited in the porch for Miss Cartwright.

During these few moments the trio had passed on, and Miss Torrington, finding herself tête-à-tête with the vicar's daughter, ventured to relate to her pretty nearly all that occurred at the house of Mrs. Richards; by no means omitting the resolution that lady had come to respecting Mr. Cartwright.

"I am very sorry for it," said Henrietta.

"You regret the loss of their society? Then for your sake, Henrietta, I am sorry too."

"For my sake? I regret the loss of their society! Are you not mocking me?"

"You know I am not," replied Rosalind in a tone of vexation; "why should you not regret the loss of Mrs. Richards' society?"

"Only because there is no society in the world that I could either wish for,—or regret."

"It is hardly fair in you, Miss Cartwright," said Rosalind, "to excite my interest so often as you do, and yet to leave it for ever pining, for want of a more full and generous confidence."

"I have no such feeling as generosity in me; and as to exciting your interest, I do assure you it is quite involuntarily; and, indeed, I should think that no human being could be less likely to trouble their fellow creatures in that way than myself."

"But is there not at least a little wilfulness, Henrietta, in the manner in which from time to time you throw out a bait to my curiosity?"

"It is weakness, not wilfulness, Rosalind. I am ashamed to confess, even to myself, that there are moments when I fancy I should like to love you; and then I would give more than my worthless life, if I had it, that you should love me. When this contemptible folly seizes me, I may, perhaps, as you say, throw out a bait to catch your curiosity, and then it is I utter the words of which you complain. But you must allow that this childishness never holds me long, and that the moment it is past I become as reasonable and as wretched again as ever."

"Will you tell me whether this feeling of profound contempt for yourself, whenever you are conscious of a kindly sentiment towards me, arises from your conviction of my individual despicability, or from believing that all human affections are degrading?"

"Not exactly from either. As for you, Rosalind,—is it not the weak and wavering Hamlet who says, in one of those flashes of fine philosophy that burst athwart the gloom of his poor troubled spirit,

'Give me that man that is not passion's slave?'

My wits are often as much diseased as his, I believe; but I too have my intervals; and, when the moon is not at the full, I sometimes sketch the portrait of a being that one might venture to love. I, however, have no quarrel against passion,—it is not from thence my sorrows have come;—but I would say,

'Give me that friend That is not falsehood's slave, and I will wear him (or her, Rosalind,) In my heart's core,—ay, in my heart of heart.'

And if after all my hard schooling I could be simple enough to believe that any thing in human form could be true, I should be more likely to commit the folly about you than about any one I ever saw in my life."

"But still you believe me false?"

"I do."

"And why, Henrietta?"

"Because you are a woman;—no, no, because you are a human being."

"And you really, without meaning to season your speech with pungent crystals of satire—you really do not believe that truth can be found in any human being?"

"I really do not."

"Heaven help you, then! I would rather pass my life in a roofless cabin, and feed on potato-parings, than live in such a persuasion."

"And so would I, Rosalind."

"Then why do you nourish such hateful theories? I shall begin to think your jesting words too true, Henrietta; and believe, indeed, that your wits are not quite healthy."

"Would I could believe it! I would submit to a strait-waistcoat and a shaven crown to-morrow if I could but persuade myself that I was mad, and that all that I have fancied going on around me were but so many vapours from a moon-sick brain."

"And so they have been, if you construe every word you hear, and every act you see, into falsehood and delusion."

"Rosalind! Rosalind!—how can I do otherwise? Come, come, enough of this: do not force me against my will, against my resolution, to tell you what has brought me to the wretched, hopeless state of apathy in which you found me. Were I to do this, you would only have to follow the weakness of your nature, and believe, in order to become as moody and as miserable as myself."

"But you do not mean to tell me that I should be proving my weakness in believing you?"

"Indeed I do. You surely cannot be altogether so credulous as to suppose that all you see in me is true, sincere, candid, open, honest?"

"Are you honest now in telling me that you are false?"

"Why, partly yes, and partly no, Rosalind; and it is just such a question as that which sets one upon discovering how contrary to our very essence it is, to be purely and altogether true. But were I one of those who fancy that pincushions are often made by the merciful decrees of an all-wise Providence, I should say that we were ordained to be false, in order to prevent our being straightforward, undisguised demons. Why, I,—look you,—who sit netting a purse that I hope will never be finished, as diligently as if my life would be saved by completing the last stitch by a given time, and as quietly as if I had no nails upon my fingers, and no pointed scissors in my netting-case,—even I, all harmless as I seem, would be likely, were it not for my consummate hypocrisy, to be stabbing and scratching half a dozen times a day."

"And, were you freed from this restraint, would your maiming propensities betray themselves promiscuously, or be confined to one or more particular objects?"

"Not quite promiscuously, I think. But, hypocrisy apart for a moment, do you not perceive that Mr. Charles Mowbray has been looking round at us,—at both of us, observe,—about once in every second minute? Do you know that I think he would like us,—both of us, observe,—to walk on and join the party."

"Well, then, let us do so," said Rosalind.

As they drew near the house, they perceived Mr. Stephen Corbold wandering round it, his hands behind his back and under his coat, and his eyes now raised to the stately portico, now lowered to the long range of windows belonging to the conservatory; at one moment sent afield over the spacious park, and in the next brought back again to contemplate anew the noble mansion to which it belonged. During one of the wanderings of those speculating orbs, he spied the advancing party; and immediately settling himself in his attire, and assuming the more graceful attitude obtained by thrusting a hand in each side-pocket of his nether garments, he resolutely walked forward to meet them.

Fanny, his friends and kinsfolk being ever in her memory, made an effort which seemed to combat instinct, and put out her little hand to welcome him; but before he was fully aware of the honour, for indeed his eyes were fixed upon her elder sister, she coloured, and withdrew it again, satisfying her hospitable feelings by pronouncing simply his name, but with a sort of indistinctness in the accent which seemed to signify that something more had either preceded or followed it.

This word, the only one which greeted him, brought him instantly to her side, and even gave him the prodigious audacity to offer his arm, which, however, she did not accept; for at that moment the hook of her parasol became entangled in the fringe of her shawl, and it seemed to require vast patience and perseverance to extricate it. Still, notwithstanding this little disappointment, he kept close to her side, for Helen leaned upon the arm of her brother; and, though still persuaded that by the aid of his reverend cousin he should be able to obtain her, and pretty nearly every thing else he wished for, he had no particular inclination to renew the courtship he had begun on the journey in the presence of Charles.

Fanny, therefore, and her attendant entered the house together; while the rest wheeled off in order to avail themselves of a postern entrance, by which the ladies might reach their rooms without any risk of again encountering Mr. Corbold, who by a sort of tacit consent seemed equally avoided by all.

The survey which this person was taking of the premises when the walking party returned was neither the first, second, third, nor fourth which he had had the opportunity of making since their setting out; for, in obedience to Mr. Cartwright's hint, he had no sooner received from Mrs. Mowbray, under the instructions from that reverend person, the orders necessary for the new arrangements about to be made, than he retired,—the vicar remaining with the widow and the keys of her title-deeds, which perhaps he had reason for thinking would be as safe anywhere else as in his cousin Stephen's pocket.

The tête-à-tête which followed the attorney's departure was long, interesting, and very confidential. On the part of the gentleman great skill was displayed by the manner in which the following subjects were made to mix and mingle together, till, like to a skilfully composed ragout, no flavour of any kind was left distinctly perceptible, but the effect of the whole was just what the artist intended it should be. The subjects leading to and composing this general effect, were: first, the deep interest raised in the breast of every good man by the sight of a gentle and heavenly-minded woman in want of assistance to carry her through the wearying and unspiritual cares incident to our passage through this world of sin; secondly, the exceeding out-pouring of mercy to be traced in such dispensations as led the unawakened to look for such aid and assistance from those who have been called and elected; thirdly, the blessed assurance of everlasting joy that never failed to visit those who left husband or child for the Lord's sake; fourthly, the unerring wisdom of Providence in the placing the tender consciences of the newly-chosen in the keeping of those who best know how to lead them aright; fifthly, the damnable and never-to-be-atoned-for wickedness of struggling against Heaven for the sake of any worldly feelings or affections whatever; and sixthly, the saving merit, surpassing all the works that our sinful nature could ever permit us to perform, which is found in such as cling to the spoken word, and who hold fast to the persecuted and oppressed who preach it. On these themes, blended and harmonised together so as completely to mystify the mind of the weak and nervous Mrs. Mowbray, and accompanied with just so much gentle demonstration of affectionate tenderness as might soften, without alarming her, did the Vicar of Wrexhill discourse for the three hours that they were left alone.

It would lead my narrative into too great length were every step recorded by which all Mrs. Mowbray's other feelings were made to merge in the one overwhelming influence of Calvinistic terror on one side, and Calvinistic pride at presumed election on the other. The wily vicar contrived in the course of a few months so completely to rule the heart and head of this poor lady, that she looked upon her son Charles as a reprobate, who, unless speedily changed in spirit by severe discipline and the constant prayers of Mr. Cartwright, must inevitably pass from this mortal life to a state of endless torture in the life to come. For Helen she was bade to hope that the time of election, after much wrestling, would come; in Fanny she was told to glory and rejoice; and for Miss Torrington, quietly to wait the appointed time, till Heaven should make its voice heard, when it would be borne in upon his mind, or upon that of some one of the elect, whether she must be given over to eternal destruction, or saved with the remnant of the true flock which he and his brother shepherds were bringing together into one fold.

But with all this, though eternally talking of mystical and heavenly love, which was ever blended with insidious demonstrations of holy, brotherly, and Christian tenderness, Mr. Cartwright had never yet spoken to the widow Mowbray of marriage.

She had been six months a widow, and her deep mourning weeds were exchanged for a dress elegantly becoming, but still marking her as belonging to what Mr. Cartwright constantly called, in the midst of all his prosperous intrigues, the "persecuted church." Mr. Stephen Corbold was comfortably settled in a snug little mansion in the village, and though he had never yet got hold of the title-deeds, he had begun to receive the rents of the Mowbray estates. He too was waiting the appointed time,—namely, the installing of his cousin at the Park,—for the fruition of all his hopes in the possession of Helen, and in such a fortune with her as his report of her progress towards regeneration might entitle her to. Mrs. Richards had been refused bread by a converted baker; beer, by an elected brewer; and soap and candles, by that pious, pains-taking, prayerful servant of the Lord, Richard White, the tallow-chandler. Her daughters, however, still held fast to the faith, though their poor mother grew thinner and paler every day, and continued to meet the vicar sometimes in the highways, sometimes in the byways, and sometimes in the exemplary Mrs. Simpson's drawing-room. Colonel Harrington had returned to his regiment without ever again seeing Helen, who had been forbidden with such awful denunciations in case of disobedience from ever holding any intercourse direct or indirect with the family at Oakley, that though she pined in thought, she obeyed, and was daily denounced by Sir Gilbert and his lady, though happily she knew it not, as the most ungrateful and heartless of girls. Fanny was growing tall, thin, sour-looking, and miserable; for having a sort of stubborn feeling within her which resisted the assurances she almost hourly received of having been elected to eternal grace, she was secretly torturing her distempered conscience with the belief that she was deluding every one but her Creator,—that he alone read her heart and knew her to be reprobate, hardened, and unregenerate, and that she must finally and inevitably come to be the prey of the worm that dieth not and the fire that is never quenched. The sufferings of this innocent young creature under this terrible persuasion were dreadful, and the more so because she communicated them to none. Had she displayed the secret terrors of her soul to Mr. Cartwright or her mother, she knew she should be told with praises and caresses that she was only the more blessed and sure of immortal glory for feeling them. Had she opened her heart to her sister, her brother, or Rosalind, her sufferings would probably have soon ceased; but from this she shrank as from degradation unbearable.

Poor Rosalind, meanwhile, was as profoundly unhappy as it was well possible for a girl to be who was young, beautiful, rich, talented, well-born, sweet-tempered, high-principled, not crossed in love, and moreover in perfect health.

Young Mowbray had just taken a distinguished degree at Oxford, and having given a farewell banquet to his college friends, returned home with the hope of speedily obtaining the commission in a regiment of horse for which his name had been long ago put down by his father.

It was at this time that several circumstances occurred at Wrexhill sufficiently important to the principal personages of my narrative to be recorded at some length.

CHAPTER X.

FANNY'S RELIGION.—A VISIT TO OAKLEY.

It was towards the end of November that young Mowbray returned from Oxford to his mother's house in Hampshire. As usual, the first three or four hours' chat with Helen and Rosalind put him au fait of all that had taken place during his absence. The retrospect was not a cheering one; yet most of the circumstances which tended to annoy him were of that minor kind which none but a very gossiping correspondent would detail—and Helen was not such. Besides, since the mysterious letter which had recalled Charles to keep watch over Fanny, (the full and true purpose of which letter he had never yet discovered,) Miss Torrington had not written to him; and as she was now the chief historian, her round and unvarnished tale made him acquainted with many particulars to which Helen had scarcely alluded in her correspondence with him.

Helen Mowbray's was not a spirit to exhaust itself and its sorrows by breathing unavailing complaints; and though her brother had pretty clearly understood from her letters that she was not happy or comfortable at home, it was from Rosalind he first learned how many circumstances were daily occurring to make her otherwise.

The only point on which he blamed her, or in which, according to Rosalind's account, she had shown more yielding, and, as he called it, weakness than her helpless and most unhappy position rendered unavoidable, was in the never having attempted to see Lady Harrington. This he declared was in itself wrong, and rendered doubly so by her situation, which would have rendered the society and counsel of such a friend invaluable. But he did not know—even Rosalind did not know—that this forbearance for which he blamed her was the result of those qualities for which they most loved her. But Helen knew, though they did not, that if she had gone to Oakley, she should have thought more of hearing news of Colonel Harrington than of any advice her godmother could have given her, and have been infinitely more anxious to learn if he ever mentioned her in his letters, than to know whether Lady Harrington thought it best that she should be civil, or that she should be rude, in her demeanour towards the Vicar of Wrexhill.

It was this conscious weakness which lent strength to the unreasonable violence of her mother on this point. Had Helen been quite fancy-free and altogether heart-whole, she would have had courage to discover that a passionate prohibition, originating, as she could not doubt it did, with a man for whom she entertained no species of esteem, ought not to make her abandon one of the kindest friends she had ever known. But there is a feeling stronger than reason in a young girl's breast; and again and again this feeling had whispered to Helen,

"'It is not maidenly—'

to go to the house of a man that I fear I love, and that I hope loves me, for the chance of hearing his name mentioned—and that too when my mother forbids me to enter his father's doors."

But there was an authority in Charles's voice when he said, "You have been wrong, Helen," which seemed to have power even over this, and she promised that if after he paid the visit to Oakley, which he was fully determined to do on the morrow, he should report that her friends there were not too angry to receive her, she would consent to volunteer a visit to them, assigning as her reason for doing so, to her mother, that it was Charles's wish.

This conversation took place on the night of his arrival, and lasted for some hours after every individual of the household, excepting those engaged in it, were in bed. Poor Fanny was among those who had the earliest retired, but she was not among the sleepers. She too had once loved Charles most dearly, and most dearly had she been loved in return. But now she felt that they were separated for ever in this world, and that if they were doomed to meet in the world to come, it could only be amidst torturing and devouring flames. As she knelt for long hours beside her bed before she dared to lay her aching head on the pillow, her thoughts reverted to her early youth, and to all the innocent delights she had enjoyed with him and the now avoided Helen; and as she remembered the ecstasy with which she once enjoyed the bloom of flowers, the songs of birds, the breath of early morning, and all the poetry of Nature, tears of silent, unacknowledged, but most bitter regret, streamed from her eyes. But then again came the ague fit of visionary remorse and genuine Calvinistic terror, and she groaned aloud in agony of spirit for having suffered these natural tears to fall.

This dreadful vigil left such traces on the pale cheek and heavy eye of the suffering girl, that her brother's heart ached as he looked at her; and though with little hope, after what he had heard, of doing any good, he determined to seek half an hour's conversation with her before he went out.

When she rose to leave the breakfast-table therefore, Charles rose too, and following her out of the room, stopped her as she was in the act of ascending the stairs by putting his arms round her waist and saying, "Fanny, will you take a walk with me in the shrubbery?"

Fanny started, and coloured, and hesitated, as if some deed of very doubtful tendency had been proposed to her. But he persevered "Come, dear! put your bonnet on—I will wait for you here—make haste Fanny! Think how long it is since you and I took a walk together!"

"Is Helen going?" The question was asked in a voice that trembled; for the idea that Charles meant during this walk to question her concerning her faith occurred to her, and she would have given much to avoid it. But before she could invent an excuse for doing so, her conscience, always ready to enforce the doing whatever was most disagreeable to her, suggested that this shrinking looked like being ashamed of her principles; and no sooner had this idea suggested itself, than she said readily, "Very well, Charles; I will come to you in a moment."

But the moment was rather a long one; for Fanny, before she rejoined him, knelt down and made an extempore prayer for courage and strength to resist and render of no effect whatever he might say to her. Thus prepared, she set forth ready to listen with the most determined obstinacy to any argument which might tend to overthrow any part of the creed that was poisoning the very sources of her life.

"You are not looking well, my Fanny," said her brother, fondly pressing her arm as they turned into the most sheltered part of the garden. "Do you think the morning too cold for walking, my love? You used to be such a hardy little thing, Fanny, that you cared for nothing; but I am afraid the case is different now."

This was not exactly the opening that Fanny expected, and there was a tenderness in the tone of his voice that almost softened her heart towards him; but she answered not a word,—perhaps she feared to trust her voice.

"I wish you would tell me, dearest, if any sorrow or vexation has chased away the bloom and the gladness that we all so loved to look upon. Tell me, Fanny, what is it that has changed you so sadly? You will not?—Then you do not love me as I love you; for I am sure if I had a sorrow I should open my heart to you."

"When a Christian has a sorrow, brother Charles, he should open his heart to Heaven and not to a poor sinful mortal as wicked and as weak as himself."

"But surely, my dear Fanny, that need not prevent a brother and sister from conversing with the greatest confidence together. How many texts I could quote you in which family unity and affection are inculcated in the Bible!"

"Pray do not quote the Bible," said Fanny in a voice of alarm, "till the right spirit has come upon you. It is a grievous sin to do it, or to hear it."

"Be assured, Fanny, that I feel quite as averse to quoting the Bible irreverently as you can do. But tell me why it is you think that the right spirit, as you call it, has not come upon me."

"As I call it!" repeated Fanny, shuddering, "It is not I, Charles,—it is one of Heaven's saints who says it; and it is a sin for me to listen to you."

"It is doubtless Mr. Cartwright who says it, Fanny. Is it not so?"

"And who has so good a right to say it as the minister of your parish, and the friend and protector that Heaven has sent to your widowed mother?"

Poor Mowbray felt his heart swell. It was difficult to hear the man who had come between him and all his best duties and affections named in this manner as his own maligner, and restrain his just and natural indignation;—yet he did restrain it, and said in a voice of the utmost gentleness,

"Do you think, my beloved Fanny, Mr. Cartwright's influence in this house has been for our happiness?"

"May the Lord forgive me for listening to such words!" exclaimed Fanny, with that look of nervous terror which her beautiful face now so often expressed. "But he can't! he can't!—I know it, I know it! It is my doom to sin, and you are only an agent of that enemy who is for ever seeking my soul to destroy it.—Leave me! leave me!"

"Fanny, this is dreadful! Can you really believe that the God of love and mercy will hold you guilty for listening to the voice of your brother? What have I ever done, my Fanny, to deserve to be thus driven from your presence?"

The unhappy girl look bewildered. "Done!" she exclaimed. "What have you done?—Is not that works?—is not that of works you speak, Charles?—Oh! he knew, he foretold, he prophesied unto me that I should be spoken to of works, and that I should listen thereunto, to my everlasting destruction, if I confessed not my soul to him upon the instant. I must seek him out: he said IF,—oh, that dear blessed IF! Let go my arm, brother Charles!—let me seek my salvation!"

"Fanny, this is madness!"

She looked at him, poor girl, as he said this, with an expression that brought tears to his eyes. That look seemed to speak a dreadful doubt whether the words he had spoken were not true. She pressed her hand against her forehead for a moment, and then said in a voice of the most touching sadness, "Heaven help me!"

"Oh, Fanny!—darling Fanny!" cried the terrified brother, throwing his arms round her: "save us from the anguish of seeing you destroyed body and mind by this frightful, this impious doctrine! Listen to me, my own sweet girl! Think that from me you hear the voice of your father—of the good and pious Wallace—of your excellent and exemplary governess, and drive this maddening terror from you. Did you live without God in the world, Fanny, when you lived under their virtuous rule? How often have you heard your dear father say, when he came forth and looked upon the beauty of the groves and lawns, bright in the morning sunshine, 'Praise the Lord, my children, for his goodness, for his mercy endureth for ever!' Did not these words raise your young heart to heaven more than all the frightful denunciations which have almost shaken your reason?"

"Works! works!—Oh, Charles, let me go from you! Your voice is like the voice of a serpent: It creeps dreadfully near my heart, and I shall perish, everlastingly perish, if I listen to you. IF:—is there yet an IF for me now? Let me go, Charles: let me seek him;—if you love me, let me seek my salvation."

"Do you mean that you would seek Mr. Cartwright, Fanny? You do not mean to go to his house, do you?"

"His house? How little you know him, Charles! Think you that he would leave me and my poor mother to perish! Poor, poor Charles, you do not even know that this shepherd and guardian of our souls prays with us daily?"

"Prays with you? Where does he pray with you?"

"In mamma's dressing-room."

"And who are present at these prayers?"

"Mamma, and I, and Curtis, and Jem."

"Jem? Who is Jem, Fanny?"

"The new stable-boy that our minister recommended, Charles, when that poor deluded Dick Bragg was found walking in the fields with his sister Patty on the Sabbath."

"You don't mean that Dick Bragg is turned away? He was, without exception, the steadiest lad in the parish."

"Works! works!" exclaimed Fanny, wringing her hands. "Oh, Charles! how your poor soul clings to the perdition of works!"

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Mowbray with great emotion, "where will all this end? What an existence for Helen, for Rosalind? Is there no cure for this folly,—this madness on one side, and this infernal craft and hypocrisy on the other?"

On hearing these words, Fanny uttered a cry which very nearly amounted to a scream, and running off towards the house with the fleetness of a startled fawn, left her brother in a state of irritation and misery such as he had never suffered before.

The idea of seeing Sir Gilbert Harrington immediately had perhaps more comfort and consolation in it than any other which could have suggested itself, and the lanes and the fields which divided Oakley from Mowbray were traversed at a pace that soon brought the agitated young man to the baronet's door.

"Is Sir Gilbert at home, John?" he demanded of an old servant who had known him from childhood; but instead of the widely-opened door, and ready smile which used to greet him, he received a grave and hesitating "I don't know sir," from the changed domestic.

"Is Lady Harrington at home?" said Charles, vexed and colouring.

"It is likely she may be, Mr. Mowbray," said the old man relentingly. "Will you please to wait one moment, Master Charles? I think my lady can't refuse—"

Charles's heart was full; but he did wait, and John speedily returned, saying almost in a whisper, "Please to walk in, sir; but you must go into my lady's closet,—that's the only safe place, she says."

"Safe?" repeated Charles; but he made no objection to the taking refuge in my lady's closet, and in another moment he found himself not only in the closet, but in the arms of the good old lady.

"Oh!—if Sir Gilbert could see me!" she exclaimed after very heartily hugging the young man. "He's a greater tiger than ever, Charles, and I really don't know which of us would be torn to pieces first;—but only tell me one thing before I abuse him any more:—how long have you been at home?"

"The coach broke down at Newberry," replied Charles, "and I did not get to Mowbray till nine o'clock last night."

"Thank Heaven!" ejaculated Lady Harrington very fervently. "Then there's hope at least for you.—But what on earth can you say to me of my beautiful Helen? Three months, Charles, three whole months since she has been near me—and she knows I dote upon her, and that Sir Gilbert himself, untameable hyena as he is, has always been loving and gentle to her, as far as his nature would permit. Then why has she treated us thus? You can't wonder, can you, that he swears lustily every morning that ingratitude is worse than all the mortal sins put together?"

"I dare not throw the charge back upon you, my dear lady; and yet it is being ungrateful for poor Helen's true affection to believe it possible that she should so long have remained absent from you by her own free will. You know not, dearest Lady Harrington, what my poor Helen has to endure."

"Endure? What do you mean, Charles? Surely there is nobody living who dares to be unkind to her? My poor boy,—I am almost ashamed to ask the question, but you will forgive an old friend: is there any truth, Charles, in that abominable report? that horrid report, you know, about your mother?"

"What report, Lady Harrington?" said Mowbray, colouring like scarlet. "I have heard no report, excepting that which is indeed too sure and certain to be called a report;—namely, that she has become a violent Calvinistic Methodist."

"That's bad enough, my dear Charles,—bad enough of all conscience; and yet I have heard of what would be worse still: I have heard, Charles, that she is going to be weak and wicked enough to marry that odious hypocritical Tartuffe, the Vicar of Wrexhill."

Mowbray put his hand before his eyes, as if he had been blasted by lightning, and then replied, as steadily as he could, "I have never heard this, Lady Harrington."

"Then I trust—I trust it is not true, Charles. Helen, surely, and that bright-eyed creature Miss Torrington, who have both, I believe, (for, Heaven help me, I don't know!)—both, I believe, been staying all the time at Mowbray;—and surely—and surely, if this most atrocious deed were contemplated, they must have some knowledge of it."

"And that they certainly have not," returned Charles with recovered courage; "for I sat with them both for two or three hours last night, listening to their miserable account of this man's detestable influence over my mother and Fanny; and certainly they would not have concealed from me such a suspicion as this, had any such existed in the breast of either."

"Quite true, my dear boy, and I can hardly tell you how welcome this assurance is to me—not for your mother's sake, Charles; if you cannot bear the truth, you must not come to me,—and on this point the truth is, that I don't care one single straw about your mother. I never shall forgive her for not answering Sir Gilbert's note. I know what the writing it cost him—dear, proud, generous-hearted old fellow! And not to answer it! not to tell her children of it! No, I never shall forgive her, and I should not care the value of a rat's tail if she were to marry every tub preacher throughout England, and all their clerks in succession—that is, not for her own sake. I dare say she'll preach in a tub herself before she has done with it; but for your sakes, my dear souls, I do rejoice that it is not true."

"That would indeed complete our misery; and it is already quite bad enough, I assure you. The house, Helen says, is a perfect conventicle. The girls are ordered to sing nothing but psalms and hymns; some of the latter so offensively ludicrous, too, as to be perfectly indecent and profane. A long extempore sermon, or lecture as he calls it, is delivered to the whole family in the great drawing-room every night; missionary boxes are not only hung up beside every door, but actually carried round by the butler whenever any one calls; and a hundred and fifty other absurdities, at which we should laugh were we in a gayer mood: but this farce has produced the saddest tragedy I ever witnessed, in the effect it has had upon our poor Fanny. I have had some conversation with her this morning, and I do assure you that I greatly fear her reason is unsettled, or like to be so."

"Heaven forbid, Charles! Pretty innocent young thing! that would be too horrible to think of."

The old lady's eyes were full of tears, a circumstance very unusual with her, but the idea suggested struck her to the heart; and she had not yet removed the traces of this most unwonted proof of sensibility, when a heavy thump was heard at the door of the closet.

"Who's there?" said her ladyship in a voice rather raised than lowered by the emotion which dimmed her eyes.

"Let me in, my lady!" responded the voice of Sir Gilbert.

"What do you want, Sir Gilbert? I am busy."

"So I understand, my lady, and I'm come to help you."

"Will you promise, if I let you in, not to hinder me, instead?"

"I'll promise nothing, except to quarrel with you if you do not."

"Was there ever such a tyrant! Come in then; see, hear, and understand."

The door was opened, and Sir Gilbert Harrington and Charles Mowbray stood face to face. Charles smiled, and held out his hand. The baronet knit his brows, but the expression of his mouth told her experienced ladyship plainly enough that he was well enough pleased at the sight of his unexpected guest.

"He only got to Mowbray at nine o'clock last night," said Lady Harrington.

Sir Gilbert held out his hand. "Charles, I am glad to see you," said he. "Thank Heaven!" ejaculated the old lady.

"My dear Sir Gilbert," said Charles, "I have learnt your kind and friendly anger at the prolonged absence of my poor sister. The fault is not hers, Sir Gilbert; she has been most strictly forbidden to visit you."

"By her mother?"

"By her mother, Sir Gilbert."

"And pray, Charles, do you think it her duty to obey?"

"I really know not how to answer you. For a girl just nineteen to act in declared defiance of the commands of her mother, and that mother her sole surviving parent, is a line of conduct almost too bold to advise. And yet, such is the lamentable state of infatuation to which my mother's mind appears to be reduced by the pernicious influence of this Cartwright, that I think it would be more dangerous still to recommend obedience."

"Upon my life I think so," replied Sir Gilbert, in an accent that showed he thought the proposition too self-evident to be discussed. "I have been devilish angry with the girls,—with Helen, I mean,—for I understand that little idiot, Fanny, is just as mad as her mother; but that Helen, and that fine girl, Rosalind Torrington, should shut themselves up with an hypocritical fanatic and a canting mad woman, is enough to put any man out of patience."

"The situation has been almost enough to put Helen in her grave; she looks wretchedly; and Miss Torrington is no longer the same creature. It would wring your heart to see these poor girls, Sir Gilbert; and what are they to do?"

"Come to us, Charles. Let them both come here instantly, and remain here till your mother's mad fit is over. If it lasts, I shall advise you to take out a commission of lunacy."

"The madness is not such as a physician would recognise, Sir Gilbert; and yet I give you my honour that, from many things which my sister and Miss Torrington told me last night, I really do think my mother's reason must be in some degree deranged. And for my poor little Fanny, six months ago the pride and darling of us all, she is, I am quite persuaded, on the verge of insanity."

"And you mean to leave her in the power of that distracted driveller, her mother, that the work may be finished?"

"What can I do, Sir Gilbert?"

"Remove them all. Take them instantly away from her, I tell you."

The blood rushed painfully to poor Mowbray's face. "You forget, Sir Gilbert," he said, "that I have not the means: you forget my father's will."

"No, sir; I do not forget it. Nor do I forget either that, had I not in a fit of contemptible passion refused to act as executor, I might, I think it possible,—I might have plagued her heart out, and so done some good. I shall never forgive myself!"

"But you could have given us no power over the property, Sir Gilbert. We are beggars."

"I know it, I know it!" replied the old gentleman, clenching his fists. "I told you so from the first: and now mark my words,—she'll marry her saint before she's six months older."

"I trust that in this you are mistaken. The girls have certainly no suspicions of the sort."

"The girls are fools, as girls always are. But let them come here, I tell you, and we may save their lives at any rate."

"Tell them both from me, Charles, that they shall find a home, and a happy one, here; but don't let them chill that old man's heart again by taking no notice of this, and keeping out of his sight for another three months. He'll have the gout in his stomach as sure as they're born; just tell Helen that from me."

Mowbray warmly expressed his gratitude for their kindness; and though he would not undertake to promise that either Helen or Miss Torrington would immediately decide upon leaving his mother's house, in open defiance of her commands, he promised that they should both come over on the morrow, to be cheered and supported by the assurance of their continued friendship. He was then preparing to take his leave when Lady Harrington laid her hand upon his arm, saying, "Listen to me, Charles, for a moment. Those dear girls, and you too, my dear boy, you are all surrounded with great difficulties, and some consideration is necessary as to how you shall meet them best. It won't do, Sir Gilbert; it will be neither right nor proper in any way for Helen to set off at once in utter and open defiance of Mrs. Mowbray. What I advise is, that Charles should go home, take his mother apart, and, like Hamlet in the closet scene, 'speak daggers, but use none.' It does not appear, from all we have yet heard, that any one has hitherto attempted to point out to her the deplorable folly, ay, and wickedness too, which she is committing. I do not believe she would admit Sir Gilbert; and, to say the truth, I don't think it would be very safe to trust him with the job."

"D—n it! I wish you would," interrupted Sir Gilbert. "I should like to have the talking to her only just for an hour, and I'd consent to have the gout for a month afterwards; I would, upon my soul!"

"Do be tame for a moment, you wild man of the woods," said her ladyship, laying her hand upon his mouth, "and let me finish what I was saying. No, no, Sir Gilbert is not the proper person; but you are, Charles. Speak to her with gentleness, with kindness, but tell her the truth. If you find her contrite and yielding, use your victory with moderation; and let her down easily from her giddy elevation of saintship to the sober, quiet, even path of rational religion, and domestic duty. But if she be restive—if she still persist in forbidding Helen to visit her father's oldest friends, while making her own once happy home a prison, and a wretched one,—then, Charles Mowbray, I would tell her roundly that she must choose between her children and her Tartuffe, and that if she keeps him she must lose you."

"Bravo! capital! old lady; if Charles will just say all that, we shall be able to guess by the result as to how things are between them, and we must act accordingly. You have your allowance paid regularly, Charles? I think she doubled it, did'nt she, after your father died?"

Charles looked embarrassed, but answered "Yes, Sir Gilbert, my allowance was doubled."

"Come boy, don't answer like a Jesuit.—Is it regularly paid?—That was my question, my main question."

"The first quarter was paid, Sir Gilbert; but before I left the University, instead of the remittance, I received a letter from my mother, desiring me to transmit a statement of all my debts to Stephen Corbold, Esq. solicitor, Wrexhill; and that they should be attended to; which would, she added, be more satisfactory to her than sending my allowance without knowing how I stood with my tradesmen."

"And have you done this, my fine sir?" said Sir Gilbert, becoming almost purple with anger. "No, Sir Gilbert, I have not."

The baronet threw his arms round him, and gave him a tremendous hug.

"I see you are worth caring for, my boy; I should never have forgiven you if you had. Audacious rascal! Why, Charles, that Corbold has been poking his snuffling, hypocritical nose, into every house, not only in your parish but in mine, and in at least a dozen others, and has positively beat poor old Gaspar Brown out of the field. The old man called to take leave of me not a week ago, and told me that one after another very nearly every client he had in this part of the world had come or sent to him for their papers, in order to deposit them with this canting Corbold; and, as I hear, all the little farmers for miles round, are diligently going to law in the name of the Lord. But what did you do, my dear boy, for money?"

"Oh! I have managed pretty well. It was a disappointment certainly, and at first I felt a little awkward, for the letter did not reach me till I had ordered my farewell supper; and as in truth I had no tradesmen's bills to pay, I gave my orders pretty liberally, and of course have been obliged to leave the account unpaid,—an arrangement which to many others would have had nothing awkward in it at all; but as my allowance has been always too liberal to permit my being in debt during any part of the time I have been at college, the not paying my last bill there was disagreeable. However the people were abundantly civil, and I flatter myself that, without the assistance of Mr. Corbold, I shall be able to settle this matter before long."

"What is the sum you have left unpaid, Charles?" inquired the baronet bluntly. "Seventy-five pounds, Sir Gilbert."

"Then just sit down for half a moment, and write a line enclosing the money; you may cut the notes in half if you think there is any danger."

And as he spoke he laid bank-notes to the amount of seventy-five pounds on her ladyship's botanical dresser.

Young Mowbray, who had not the slightest doubt of receiving his allowance from his mother as soon as he should ask her for it, would rather not have been under a pecuniary obligation even for a day; but he caught the eye of Lady Harrington, who was standing behind her impetuous husband, and received thence a perfectly intelligible hint that he must not refuse the offer. Most anxious to avoid renewing the coldness so recently removed, he readily and graciously accepted the offered loan, and thereby most perfectly re-established the harmony which had existed throughout his life between himself and the warm-hearted but impetuous Sir Gilbert.

"Now, then," said the old gentleman with the most cordial and happy good-humour, "be off, my dear boy; follow my dame's advice to the letter, and come back as soon as you conveniently can, to let us know what comes of it."

Cheered in spirit by this warm renewal of the friendship he so truly valued, young Mowbray set off on his homeward walk, pondering, as he went, on the best mode of opening such a conversation with his mother as Lady Harrington recommended; a task both difficult and disagreeable, but one which he believed it his duty not to shrink from.

CHAPTER XI.

CHARLES'S CONFERENCE WITH MRS. MOWBRAY.

Strolling in the shrubbery near the house, where for some time they had been anxiously awaiting his return, he met his eldest sister and Miss Torrington. Helen's first words were "Are they angry with me?" and the reply, and subsequent history of the visit, filled her heart with gladness. "And now, my privy counsellors," continued Charles, "tell me at what hour you should deem it most prudent for me to ask my mother for an audience."

"Instantly!" said Rosalind.

"Had he not better wait till to-morrow?" said Helen, turning very pale.

"If my advisers disagree among themselves, I am lost," said Charles; "for I give you my word that I never in my whole life entered upon an undertaking which made me feel so anxious and undecided. Let me hear your reasons for thus differing in opinion? Why, Rosalind, do you recommend such prodigious promptitude?"

"Because I hate suspense,—and because I know the scene will be disagreeable to you,—wherefore I opine that the sooner you get over it the better."

"And you, Helen, why do you wish me to delay it till to-morrow?"

"Because,—oh! Charles,—because I dread the result. You have no idea as yet how completely her temper is changed. She is very stern, Charles, when she is contradicted; and if you should make her angry, depend upon it that it would be Mr. Cartwright who would dictate your punishment."

"My punishment! Nonsense, Helen! I shall make Miss Torrington both my Chancellor and Archbishop, for her advice has infinitely more wisdom in it than yours. Where is she? in her own dressing-room?"

"I believe so," faltered Helen.

"Well, then,—adieu for half an hour,—perhaps for a whole one. Where shall I find you when it is over?"

"In my dressing-room," said Helen.

"No, no," cried Rosalind; "I would not have to sit with you there for an hour, watching you quiver and quake every time a door opened, for my heiresship. Let us walk to the great lime-tree, and stay there till you come."

"And so envelop yourselves in a November woodland fog, wherein to sit waiting till about four o'clock! The wisdom lies with Helen this time, Miss Torrington; I think you have both of you been pelted long enough with falling leaves for to-day, and therefore I strongly recommend that you come in and wait for my communication beside a blazing fire. Have you no new book, no lively novel or fancy-stirring romance, wherewith to beguile the time?"

"Novels and romances! Oh! Mr. Mowbray,—what a desperate sinner you must be! The subscription at Hookham's has been out these three months; and the same dear box that used to be brought in amidst the eager rejoicings of the whole family, is now become the monthly vehicle of Evangelical Magazines, Christian Observers, Missionary Reports, and Religious Tracts, of all imaginable sorts and sizes. We have no other modern literature allowed us."

"Poor girls!" said Charles, laughing; "what do you do for books?"

"Why, the old library supplies us indifferently well, I must confess; and as Fanny has changed her morning quarters from thence to the print-room, which is now converted into a chapel of ease for the vicar, we contrive to abduct from thence such volumes as we wish for without difficulty. But we were once very near getting a book, which, I have been told, is of the most exquisite interest and pathos of any in the language, by a pleasant blunder of Mrs. Mowbray's. I chanced to be in the room with her one day when she read aloud an old advertisement which she happened to glance her eye upon, stitched up in a Review of some dozen years standing I believe, 'Some passages in the life of Mr. Adam Blair, Minister of the Gospel.' 'That's a book we ought to have,' said she very solemnly; 'Rosalind, give me that list for Hatchard's, I will add this.' I took up the advertisement as she laid it down and, not having it before her eyes, I suspect that she made some blunder about the title; for, when the box came down, I took care to be present at the opening of it, and to my great amusement, instead of the little volume that I was hoping to see, I beheld all Blair's works, with a scrap of paper from one of the shopmen, on which was written, 'Mrs. Mowbray is respectfully informed that the whole of Blair's works are herewith forwarded, but that J. P. is not aware of any other life of Adam than that written by Moses.' This was a terrible disappointment to me, I assure you."

They had now reached the house; the two girls withdrew their arms, and, having watched Charles mount the stairs, they turned into the drawing room,—and from thence to the conservatory,—and then back again,—and then up stairs to lay aside their bonnets and cloaks,—and then down again; first one and then the other looking at their watches, till they began to suspect that they must both of them stand still, or something very like it, so creepingly did the time pass during which they waited for his return.

On reaching the dressing-room door, Charles knocked, and it was opened to him by Fanny.

The fair brow of his mother contracted at his approach; and he immediately suspected, what was indeed the fact, that Fanny had been relating to her the conversation which had passed between them in the morning.

He rather rejoiced at this than the contrary, as he thought the conversation could not be better opened than by his expressing his opinions and feelings upon what had fallen from her during this interview. He did not however, wish that she should be present, and therefore said,

"Will you let me, dear mother, say a few words to you tête-à-tête. Come, Fanny; run away, will you, for a little while?"

Fanny instantly left the room, and Mrs. Mowbray, without answering his request, sat silently waiting for what he was about to say.

"I want to speak, to you, mother, about our dear Fanny. I assure you I am very uneasy about her; I do not think she is in good health, either of body or mind."

"Your ignorance of medicine is, I believe, total, Charles," she replied dryly, "and therefore your opinion concerning her bodily health does not greatly alarm me; and you must pardon me if I say that I conceive your ignorance respecting all things relating to a human soul, is more profound still."

"I am sorry you should think so, dearest mother; but I assure you that neither physic nor divinity have been neglected in my education."

"And by whom have you been taught? Blind guides have been your teachers, who have led you, I fear, to the very brink of destruction. When light is turned into darkness, how great is that darkness!"

"My teachers have been those that my dear father appointed me, and I have never seen any cause to mistrust either their wisdom or their virtue, mother."

"And know you not that your poor unhappy father was benighted, led astray, and lost by having himself listened to such teaching as he caused to be given to you? But you, Charles, if you did not harden your heart, even as the nether millstone, might even yet be saved among the remnant. Put yourself into the hands and under the training of the pious, blessed minister whom the Lord hath sent us. Open your sinful heart to Mr. Cartwright, Charles, and you may save your soul alive!"

"Mother!" said Charles with solemn earnestness, "Mr. Cartwright's doctrines are dreadful and sinful in my eyes. My excellent and most beloved father was a Protestant Christian, born, educated, and abiding to his last hour in the faith and hope taught by the established church of his country. In that faith and hope, mother, I also have been reared by him and by you; and rather than change it for the impious and frightful doctrines of the sectarian minister you name, who most dishonestly has crept within the pale of an establishment whose dogmas and discipline he profanes,—rather, mother, than adopt this Mr. Cartwright's unholy belief, and obey his unauthorised and unscriptural decrees, I would kneel down and implore that my bones might be at once laid beside my father's."

"Leave the room, Charles Mowbray!" exclaimed his mother almost in a scream; "let not the walls that shelter me be witness to such fearful blasphemy!"

"I cannot, and I will not leave you, mother, till I have told you how very wretched you are making me and my poor sister Helen by thus forsaking that form of religion in which from our earliest childhood we have been accustomed to see you worship. Why,—why, dearest mother, should you bring this dreadful schism upon your family? Can you believe this to be your duty?"

"By what right, human or divine, do you thus question me, lost, unhappy boy? But I will answer you; and I trust that I shall be forgiven for intercommuning with one who lives in open rebellion to the saints! Yes, sir; I do believe it is my duty to hold fast the conviction which Heaven in its goodness has sent me. I do believe it is my duty to testify by my voice, and by every act of my life during the remaining time for which the Lord shall spare me for the showing forth of his glory, that I consider the years that are past as an abomination in his sight; that my living in peace and happiness with your unawakened and unregenerate father was an abomination in the sight of the Lord; and that now, at the eleventh hour, my only hope of being received rests in my hating and abhorring, and forsaking and turning away from, all that is, and has been, nearest and dearest to my sinful heart!"

Charles listened to this rant with earnest and painful attention, and, when she ceased, looked at her through tears that presently overflowed his eyes.

"Have I then lost my only remaining parent?" said he. "And can you thus close your heart against me, and your poor Helen, my mother?"

"By the blessing of providence I am strong," replied the deluded lady, struggling to overcome Heaven's best gift of pure affection in her heart. "By its blessing, and by the earnest prayers of its holiest saint, I am able, wretched boy, to look at thee, and say, Satan avaunt! But I am tried sorely," she continued, turning her eyes from the manly countenance of her son, now wet with tears. "Sorely, sorely, doomed and devoted boy, am I tried? But he, the Lord's vicar upon earth, the chosen shepherd, the anointed saint,—he, even he tells me to be of good cheer, for whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth."

"Can you then believe, mother, that the merciful God of heaven and of earth approves your forsaking your children, solely because they worship him as they have been taught to do? Can you believe that he approves your turning your eyes and heart from them to devote yourself to a stranger to your blood, a preacher of strange doctrine, and one who loves them not?"

"I have already told you, impious maligner of the holiest of men, that I know where my duty lies. I know, I tell you, that I not only know it, but will do it.—Torment me no more! Leave me, leave me, unhappy boy! leave me that I may pray for pardon for having listened to thee so long."

She rose from her seat and approached him, as if to thrust him from the chamber; but he suffered her to advance without moving, and when she was close to him, he threw his arms round her, and held her for a moment in a close embrace. She struggled violently to disengage herself, and he relaxed his hold; but, dropping on his knees before her, at the same moment he exclaimed with passionate tenderness, "My dear, dear mother! have I then received your last embrace? Shall I never again feel your beloved lips upon my cheeks, my lips, my forehead? Mother! what can Helen and I do to win back your precious love?"

"Surely I shall be rewarded for this!" said the infatuated woman almost wildly. "Surely I shall be visited with an exceeding great reward! and will he not visit thee too, unnatural son, for art not thou plotting against my soul to destroy it?"

"There is, then, no hope for us from the voice of nature, no hope from the voice of reason and of truth? Then hear me, mother, for I too must act according to the voice of conscience. Helen and I must leave you; we can no longer endure to be so near you in appearance, while in reality we are so fearfully estranged. You have been very generous to me in the sum which you named for my allowance at my father's death; and as soon as my commission is obtained, that allowance will suffice to support me, for my habits have never been extravagant. May I ask you to assign a similar sum to Helen? This will enable her to command such a home with respectable people as may befit your daughter; and you will not doubt, I think, notwithstanding the unhappy difference in our opinions on points of doctrine, that I shall watch over her as carefully as our dear father himself could have done."

"He is a prophet! yea, a prophet!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray; "and shall I be blind even as the ungodly, and doubt his word into whose mouth Heaven hath put the gift of prophecy and the words of wisdom? He hath spoken, and very terrible things are come to pass. Can your heart resist such proof as this, Charles?" she continued, raising her eyes and hands to heaven:—"even what you have now spoken, that did he predict and foretell you should speak!"

"He guessed the point, then, at which we could bear no more," replied Charles with bitterness: "and did he predict too what answer our petition should receive?"

"He did," returned Mrs. Mowbray either with real or with feigned simplicity; "and even that too shall be verified. Now, then, hear his blessed voice through my lips; and as I say, so must thou do. Go to your benighted sister, and tell her that for her sake I will wrestle in prayer. With great and exceeding anguish of spirit have I already wrestled for her; but she is strong and wilful, and resisteth alway.—Nevertheless, I will not give her over to her own heart's desire; nor will I turn mine eyes from her. For a while longer I will endure; and for you, unhappy son, I must take counsel from the same holy well-spring of righteousness, and what he shall speak, look that it come to pass."

"You have denounced a terrible sentence against Helen, mother! for nearly two years, then, she must look forward to a very wretched life; but, without your consent, I cannot till she is of age remove her. Dear girl! she has a sweet and gentle spirit, and will, I trust, be enabled to bear patiently her most painful situation. But as for myself it may be as well to inform Mr. Cartwright at once, through you, that any interference with me or my concerns will not be endured; and that I advise him, for his own sake, to let me hear and see as little of him as possible."

Mrs. Mowbray seemed to listen to these words in perfect terror, as if she feared a thunderbolt must fall and crush at once the speaker and the hearer of such daring impiety. But the spirit of Charles was chafed; and conscious perhaps that he was in danger of saying what he might wish to recall on the influence which his mother avowed that the vicar had obtained over her, he hastened to conclude the interview, and added: "I will beg you ma'am, immediately to give me a draft for my quarter's allowance, due on the first of this month. I want immediately to send money to Oxford."

"Did I not tell you, Charles, to inform my man of business,—that serious and exemplary man, Mr. Corbold,—what money you owed in Oxford, and to whom? And did I not inform you at the same time that he should have instructions to acquit the same forthwith?"

"Yes, mother, you certainly did send me a letter to that effect; but as my father permitted me before I came of age to pay my own bills, and to dispose of my allowance as I thought fit, I did not choose to change my usual manner of proceeding, and therefore left what I owed unpaid, preferring to remit the money myself. Will you please to give me the means of doing this now?"

"May Heaven be gracious to me and mine, as I steadily now, and for ever, refuse to do so great iniquity! Think you, Charles, that I, guided and governed, as I glory to say I am, by one sent near me by providence to watch over me now in my time of need,—think you that I will hire and pay your wicked will to defy it."

"Do you mean, then, mother, to withdraw my allowance?" said Charles.

"I thank Heaven that I do!" she replied, uplifting her eyes: "and humbly on my knees will I thank it for giving me that strength, even in the midst of weakness!"

As she spoke, she dropped upon her knees on the floor, with her back towards her unhappy son. He remained standing for a few moments, intending to utter some nearly hopeless words of remonstrance upon the cruel resolution she had just announced; but as she did not rise, he left the room, and with a heavy heart proceeded to look for Helen and her friend; though he would gladly have prepared himself by an hour of solitude for communicating tidings which had very nearly overthrown his philosophy. But he had promised to see them and to tell them all that passed; and he prepared to perform this promise with a heavier heart than had ever before troubled his bosom. He shrank from the idea of appearing before Rosalind in a situation so miserably humiliating, for at this moment fears that the report mentioned by Lady Harrington might be true pressed upon him; and though his better judgment told him that such feelings were contemptible, when about to meet the eye of a friend he could not subdue them, and as he opened the drawing-room door, the youthful fire of his eye was quenched and his pale lip trembled.

"Oh! Charles, how dreadfully ill you look!" exclaimed Helen.

"What can have passed?" said Miss Torrington, looking almost as pale himself.

"Much that has been very painful," he replied; "but I am ashamed at being thus overpowered by it. Tell me, both of you, without any reserve, have you ever thought—has the idea ever entered your heads, that my unfortunate mother was likely to marry Cartwright?"

"No,—never," replied Helen firmly.

"Yes," said Rosalind falteringly;—but less with the hesitation of doubt, than from fear of giving pain.

"Lady Harrington told me it was spoken of," said Mowbray with a deep sigh.

"It is impossible!" said Helen, "I cannot:—I will not believe it. Rosalind! if you have had such an idea, how comes it that you have kept it secret from me?"

"If instead of darkly fearing it," replied Rosalind, "I had positively known it to be true, I doubt if I should have named it, Helen;—I could not have borne that words so hateful should have first reached the family from me."

"Has she told you it is so?" inquired Helen, her lips so parched with agitation that she pronounced the words with difficulty.

"No, dearest, she has not; and perhaps I am wrong both in conceiving such an idea, and in naming it. But her mind is so violently, so strangely wrought upon by this detestable man, that I can only account for it by believing that he is——"

There was much filial piety in the feeling that prevented his finishing the sentence.

"It is so that I have reasoned," said Rosalind. "Heaven grant that we be both mistaken!—But will you not tell us, Charles, what it is that has suggested the idea to you? For Heaven's sake relate, if you can, what has passed between you?"

"If I can!—Indeed I doubt my power. She spoke of me as of one condemned of Heaven."

Rosalind started from her seat.—"Do not go on, Mr. Mowbray!" she exclaimed with great agitation; "I cannot bear this, and meet her with such external observance and civility as my situation demands. It can do us no good to discuss this wicked folly,—this most sinful madness. I, at least, for one, feel a degree of indignation—a vehemence of irritation on the subject, that will not, I am sure, produce good to any of us. She must go on in the dreadful path in which she has lost herself, till she meet something that shall shock and turn her back again. But all that can be done or said by others will but drive her on the faster, adding the fervour of a martyr to that of a convert."

"You speak like an oracle, dear Rosalind," said poor Mowbray, endeavouring to smile, and more relieved than he would have avowed to himself at being spared the task of narrating his downfall from supposed wealth to actual penury before her.

"She speaks like an oracle, but a very sad one," said Helen. "Nevertheless, we will listen and obey.—You have spoken to my mother, and what you have said has produced no good effect: to me, therefore, it is quite evident that nothing can. Were it not that the fearful use which we hear made of the sacred name makes me tremble lest I too should use it irreverently, I would express the confidence I feel, that if we bear this heavy sorrow well, his care will be with us: and whether we say it or not, let us feel it. And now, Rosalind, we must redeem our lost time, and read for an hour or so upstairs. See! we have positively let the fire go out;—a proof how extremely injurious it is to permit our thoughts to fix themselves too intensely on any thing:—it renders one incapable of attending to the necessary affairs of life.—There, Charles, is a sermon for you. But don't look so miserable, my dear brother; or my courage will melt into thin air."

"I will do my best to master it, Helen," he replied; "but I shall not be able to make a display of my stoicism before you this evening, for I must return to Oakley."

"Are you going to dine there? Why did you not tell me so?"

"If my conversation with my mother had ended differently, Helen, I should have postponed my visit till to-morrow; but as it is, it will be better for me to go now. I will drive myself over in the cab. I suppose I can have Joseph?" He rang the bell as he spoke.

"Let the cab be got ready for me in half an hour: and tell Joseph I shall want him to go out with me to dinner."

"The cab is not at home, sir," replied the servant.

"Is it gone to the coach-maker's?—What is the matter with it."

"There is nothing the matter with it, sir; but Mr. Cartwright has got it."

"Then let my mare be saddled. She is in the stable, I suppose?"

"Mr. Corbold has had the use of your mare, Mr. Charles, for more than a month, sir: and terribly worked she has been, Dick says."

"Very well—it's no matter: I shall walk, William."

The servant retired, with an expression of more sympathy than etiquette could warrant. Helen looked at her brother in very mournful silence; but tears of indignant passion started to the bright eyes of Rosalind. "Is there no remedy for all this?" she exclaimed. "Helen, let us run away together. They cannot rob me of my money, I suppose. Do ask Sir Gilbert, Charles, if I am obliged to stay here and witness these hateful goings-on."

"I will—I will, Miss Torrington. It would, indeed, be best for you to leave us. But my poor Helen,—she must stay and bear it."

"Then I shall stay too: and that I think you might guess, Mr. Mowbray."

Rosalind's tears overflowed as she spoke; and Charles Mowbray looked at her with that wringing of the heart which arises from thinking that all things conspire to make us wretched. When he was the reputed heir of fourteen thousand a year he had passed whole weeks in the society of Rosalind, and never dreamed he loved her;—but now, now that he was a beggar, and a beggar too, as it seemed, not very likely to be treated with much charity by his own mother,—now that it would be infamy to turn his thoughts towards the heiress with any hope or wish that she should ever be his, he felt that he adored her—that every hour added strength to a passion that he would rather die than reveal, and that without a guinea in the world to take him or to keep him elsewhere, his remaining where he was would expose him to sufferings that he felt he had no strength to bear.

CHAPTER XII.

THE VICAR'S PROGRESS, AND HIS COUNSEL TO FANNY AS TO THE BEST MEANS OF ASSISTING THE POOR.

When the family assembled at dinner, and Mrs. Mowbray perceived the place of her son vacant, she changed colour, and appeared discomposed and absent during the whole time she remained at table. This, however, was not long; for, a very few minutes after the cloth was removed, she rose, and saying, "I want you, Fanny," left the room with her youngest daughter without making either observation or apology to those she left. The result of this conference between the mother and daughter was the despatching a note to the Vicarage, which brought the vicar to join them with extraordinary speed.

Mrs. Mowbray then related with a good deal of emotion the scene which had taken place between herself and her son in the morning; concluding it with mentioning his absence at dinner, and her fears that, in his unregenerate state of mind, he might be led to withdraw himself altogether from a home where godliness had begun to reign, and where, by the blessing of heaven, it would multiply and increase every day that they were spared to live.

When she had concluded, Mr. Cartwright remained for several minutes silent, his eyes fixed upon the carpet, his arms folded upon his breast, and his head from time to time moved gently and sadly to and fro, as if the subject on which he was meditating were both important and discouraging. At length he raised his eyes, and fixed them upon Fanny.

"My dear child," he said, "withdraw yourself, and pray, while your mother and I remain together. Pray for us, Fanny!—pray for both of us, that we may so do the duty appointed unto us, as what we may decide to execute shall redound to the glory of heaven, and to our everlasting salvation, world without end, amen!"

Fanny rose instantly, and clasping her innocent hands together, fervently exclaimed "I will!—I will!"

Having opened the door, and laid his delicate white hand upon her head, whispering an ardent blessing as she passed through it, he watched her as she retreated with a rapid step to her chamber anxious to perform the duty assigned her; and then closing and bolting it after her, he returned to the sofa near the fire, and seated himself beside Mrs. Mowbray.

"My friend!" said Mr. Cartwright, taking her hand; "my dear, dear friend! you are tried, you are very sorely tried. But it is the will of the Lord, and we must not repine at it: rather let us praise his name alway!"

"I do!" ejaculated the widow with very pious emotion; "I do praise and bless his holy name for all the salvation he hath vouchsafed to me, a sinner—and to my precious Fanny with me. Oh, Mr. Cartwright, it is very dear to me to think that I shall have that little holy angel with me in paradise! But be my guide and helper"—and here the good and serious lady very nearly returned the pressure with which her hand was held,—"oh! be my guide and helper with my other misguided children! Tell me, dear Mr. Cartwright, what must I do with Charles?"

"It is borne in upon my mind, my dear and gentle friend, that there is but one chance left to save that deeply-perilled soul from the everlasting gulf of gnawing worms and of eternal flame."

"Is there one chance?" exclaimed the poor woman in a real ecstasy. "Oh! tell me what it is, and there is nothing in the wide world that I would not bear and suffer to obtain it."

"He must abandon the profession of arms and become a minister of the gospel."

"Oh! Mr. Cartwright, he never will consent to this. From his earliest childhood, his unhappy and unawakened father taught him to glory in the thought of fighting the battles of his country; and with the large fortune he must one day have, is it not probable that he might be tempted to neglect the cure of souls? And then, you know, Mr. Cartwright, that the last state of that man would be worse than the first."

Mr. Cartwright dropped the lady's hand and rose from his seat. "I must leave you, then," he said, his rich voice sinking into a tone of the saddest melancholy. "I must not—I may not give any other counsel; for in doing so, I should betray my duty, and betray the confidence you have placed in me. Adieu, then, beloved friend! adieu for ever! My heart—the weak and throbbing heart of a man is even now heaving in my breast. That heart will for ever forbid my speaking with harshness and austerity to you. Therefore, beloved but too feeble friend, adieu! Should I stay longer with you, that look might betray me into forgetfulness of every thing on earth—and heaven too!"

The three last words were uttered in a low and mournful whisper. He then walked towards the door, turned to give one last look, and having unfastened the lock and shot back the bolt, was in the very act of departing, when Mrs. Mowbray rushed towards him, exclaiming "Oh, do not leave us all to everlasting damnation! Save us! save us! Tell me only what to do, and I will do it."

In the extremity of her eagerness, terror, and emotion, she fell on her knees before him, and raising her tearful eyes to his, seemed silently to reiterate the petition she had uttered.

Mr. Cartwright looked down upon her, turned away for one short instant to rebolt the door, and then, raising his eyes to heaven, and dropping on his knees beside her, he threw his arms around her, impressed a holy kiss upon her brow, exclaiming in a voice rendered tremulous, as it should seem, by uncontrollable agitation, "Oh, never! never!"

After a few moments unavoidably lost by both in efforts to recover their equanimity, they rose and reseated themselves on the sofa.

The handkerchief of Mrs. Mowbray was at her eyes. She appeared greatly agitated, and totally unable to speak herself, sat in trembling expectation of what her reverend friend should say next.

It was not immediately, however, that Mr. Cartwright could recover his voice; but at length he said, "It is impossible, my too lovely friend, that we can either of us any longer mistake the nature of the sentiment which we feel for each other. But we have the comfort of knowing that this sweet and blessed sentiment is implanted in us by the will of the Lord! And if it be sanctified to his honour and glory, it becometh the means of raising us to glory everlasting in the life to come. Wherefore, let us not weep and lament, but rather be joyful and give thanks that so it hath seemed good in his sight!"

Mrs. Mowbray answered only by a deep sigh, which partook indeed of the nature of a sob; and by the continued application of her handkerchief, it appeared that she wept freely. Mr. Cartwright once more ventured to take her hand; and that she did not withdraw it, seemed to evince such a degree of Christian humility, and such a heavenly-minded forgiveness of his presumption, that the pious feelings of his heart broke forth in thanksgiving.

"Praise and glory to the Lord alway!" he exclaimed, "your suffering sweetness, dearest Clara, loveliest of women, most dearly-beloved—your suffering sweetness shall be bruised no more! Let me henceforward be as the shield and buckler that shall guard thee, so that thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day. And tell me, most beloved! does not thy spirit rejoice, and is not thy heart glad, even as my heart, that the Lord hath been pleased to lay his holy law upon us—even upon thee and me?"

"Oh, Mr. Cartwright!" replied the agitated Mrs. Mowbray, "I know not what I can—I know not what I ought to do. May Heaven guide me!—for, alas! I know not how to guide myself!"

"And fear not, Clara, but he will guide thee! for he hath made thee but a little lower than the angels, and hath crowned thee with glory and honour. And tell me, thou highly-favoured one, doth not thy own heart teach thee, that heart being taught of him, that I am he to whom thou shouldst look for comfort now in the time of this mortal life? Speak to me, sweet and holy Clara. Tell me, am I deceived in thee? Or art thou indeed, and wilt thou indeed be mine?"

"If I shall sin not by doing so, I will, Mr. Cartwright; for my spirit is too weak to combat all the difficulties I see before me. My soul trusts itself to thee—be thou to me a strong tower, for I am afraid."

"Think you, Clara, that he who has led you out of darkness into the way of life would now, for the gratification of his own earthly love, become a stumbling-block in thy path? My beloved friend! how are you to wrestle and fight for and with that misguided young man, who hath now, even now, caused you such bitter sufferings? He is thine; therefore he is dear to me. Let me lead him, even as I have led thee, and his spirit too, as well as thine and Fanny's, shall rejoice!"

"Then be it so!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. "Promise me only to lead Helen also into life everlasting, and not to leave the poor benighted Rosalind for ever in darkness, and I will consent, Mr. Cartwright, to be your wife!"

Nothing could be more satisfactory than the vicar's answer to this appeal, and had not the good Mrs. Mowbray been too generous to exact a penalty in case of failure, there can be little doubt but that he would willingly have bound himself under any forfeiture she could have named, to have ensured a place in heaven, not only to all those she mentioned, but to every individual of her household, the scullion and stable-boys included.

The great question answered of "To be or not to be the husband of Mrs. Mowbray?" the vicar began to point out to her in a more composed and business-like manner the great advantages both temporal and spiritual which must of necessity result to her family from this arrangement; and so skilfully did he manage her feelings and bend her mind to his purpose, that when at length he gave her lips the farewell kiss of affianced love, and departed, he left her in the most comfortable and prayerful state of composure imaginable. In about ten minutes after he was gone, she rang her bell, and desired that Miss Fanny might come to her; when, without exactly telling her the important business which had been settled during the time she passed upon her knees, she gave her to understand that Mr. Cartwright had probably thought of the only means by which all the unhappy disagreements in the family could be settled.

"Indeed, mamma, I prayed for him," said Fanny, lifting her eyes to Heaven; "I prayed most earnestly, that Heaven might bring him wisdom to succour you according to your wish, and therein to heal all our troubles."

"And your prayers have been heard, my dear child; and it hath sent him the wisdom that we all so greatly needed.—Have they had tea in the drawing-room, Fanny?"

"I don't know, mamma. I have been kneeling and praying all the time."

"Then, my dear, you must want refreshment. Go down and tell them that I am not quite well this evening, and shall therefore not come down again; but they may send me some tea by Curtis."

"I hope you are not very ill, my dearest mother?" said Fanny, looking, anxiously at her.

"No, dear,—not very ill—only a little nervous."

While these scenes passed at Mowbray Park, poor Charles was relieving his heart by relating, without reserve, what had passed between him and his mother. His first words on entering the library, where Sir Gilbert and Lady Harrington were seated, were, "Have you sent that letter to Oxford, Sir Gilbert?"

"Yes, I have," was the reply. "But why do you inquire, Charles?"

"Because, if you had not, I would have begged you to delay it."

"And why so?"

In reply to this question, young Mowbray told all that had passed; observing, when his painful tale was ended, that such being his mother's decision, he intended to apply immediately to Corbold for the money he wanted.

"Not you, by Jove, Charles! You shall do no such thing, I tell you! What! knuckle and truckle to this infernal gang of hypocrites! You shall do no such thing. Just let me know all that is going on in the garrison, and if I don't counterplot them, I am a Dutchman."

"Puff not up your heart, Sir Knight, with such vain conceits," said Lady Harrington. "You will plot like an honest man, and the Tartuffe will plot like a rogue. I leave you to guess which will do the most work in the shortest time. Nevertheless, you are right to keep him out of the way of these people as long as you can."

Notwithstanding the heavy load at his heart which Mowbray brought with him to Oakley, before he had passed an hour with his old friends his sorrows appeared lighter, and his hopes from the future brighter and stronger. Sir Gilbert, though exceedingly angry with Mrs. Mowbray, still retained some respect for her; and, spite of all his threatening hints to the contrary, he no more believed that the widow of his old friend would marry herself to the Reverend William Jacob Cartwright, than that he, when left a widower by my lady, should marry the drunken landlady of the Three Tankards at Ramsden. He therefore spoke to Charles of his present vexatious embarrassments as of all evils that must naturally clear away, requiring only a little temporary good management to render them of very small importance to him. Of Helen's situation, however, Lady Harrington spoke with great concern, and proposed that she and Miss Torrington should transfer themselves from the Park to Oakley as soon as Charles joined his regiment, and there remain till Mrs. Mowbray had sufficiently recovered her senses to make them comfortable at home.

Before the young man left them, it was settled that Colonel Harrington should immediately exert himself to obtain the commission so long promised; a service in the performance of which no difficulty was anticipated, as the last inquiries made on the subject at the Horse Guards were satisfactorily answered.

"Meanwhile," said the baronet as he wrung his hand at parting, "give not way for one single inch before the insolent interference of these canters and ranters: remember who and what you are, and that you have a friend who will make the county too hot to hold any one, male or female, who shall attempt to shake or shackle you in your natural rights. Treat your mother with the most perfect respect and politeness; but make her understand that you are your father's son, and that there is such a thing as public opinion, which, on more occasions than one, has been found as powerful as any other law of the land. Cheer the spirits of the poor woe-begone girls as much as you can; and tell Helen that her duty to her father's memory requires that she should not neglect her father's friends. And now good night, Charles! Come to us as often as you can; and God bless you, my dear boy!"

By this advice young Mowbray determined to act; and wishing to escape any discussion upon lesser points, he avoided all tête-à-tête conversations with his mother, kept as much out of Mr. Cartwright's way as possible, turned his back upon the serious attorney whenever he met him, and devoted his time to walking, reading, and singing, with Miss Torrington and his sister Helen, while waiting to receive the news of his appointment. When this should arrive, he determined once more to see his mother in private, and settle with her, on the best footing he could, the amount and manner of his future supplies.

This interval, which lasted nearly a month, was by no means an unhappy one to Charles. He had great confidence in the judgment of Sir Gilbert Harrington, and being much more inclined to believe in his mother's affection than to doubt it, he resolutely shut his eyes upon whatever was likely to annoy him, and gave himself up to that occupation which beyond all others enables a man, or a woman either, to overlook and forget every other,—namely, the making love from morning to night.

The manner in which this undeclared but very intelligible devotion of the heart was received by the fair object of it was such, perhaps, as to justify hope, though it by no means afforded any certainty that the feeling was returned. Even Helen, who fully possessed her brother's confidence, and had hitherto, as she believed, fully possessed the confidence of Rosalind also,—even Helen knew not very well what to make of the varying symptoms which her friend's heart betrayed. That Miss Torrington took great pleasure in the society of Mr. Mowbray, it was impossible to doubt; and that she wished him to find pleasure in hers, was equally clear. His favourite songs only were those which she practised in his absence and sang in his presence; he rarely praised a passage in their daily readings which she might not, by means of a little watching, be found to have read again within the next twenty-four hours. The feeble winter-blossoms from the conservatory, of which he made her a daily offering, might be seen preserved on her toilet in a succession of glasses, and only removed at length by a remonstrance from her maid, who assured her that "stale flowers were unwholesome; though, to be sure, coming out of that elegant conservatory did make a difference, no doubt." Yet even then, the bouquet of a week old was not permitted to make its exit till some aromatic leaf or still green sprig of myrtle had been drawn from it, and deposited somewhere or other, where its pretty mistress, perhaps, never saw it more, but which nevertheless prevented her feeling that she had thrown the flowers he had given her on Sunday in the breakfast-room, or on Monday in the drawing-room, &c. &c. &c., quite away.

Yet, with all this, it was quite impossible that Charles, or even Helen, who knew more of these little symptomatic whims than he did, could feel at all sure what Rosalind's answer would be if Mr. Mowbray made her a proposal of marriage.

From time to time words dropped from Rosalind indicative of her extreme disapprobation of early marriages both for women and men, and declaring that there was nothing she should dread so much as forming a union for life with a man too young to know his own mind. When asked by Charles at what age she conceived it likely that a man might attain this very necessary self-knowledge, she answered with a marked emphasis,

"Decidedly not till they are many years older than you are, Mr. Mowbray."

Even to her own heart Rosalind would at this time have positively denied, not only that she loved Charles Mowbray, but that Charles Mowbray loved her. She was neither insensible nor indifferent to his admiration, or to the pleasure he took in her society; but she had heard Charles's judgment of her on her arrival more than once repeated in jest. He had said, that she was neither so amiable as Helen, nor so handsome as Fanny. To both of these opinions she most sincerely subscribed, and with such simple and undoubting acquiescence, that it was only when she began to read in his eyes the legible "I love you," that she remembered his having said it. Then her woman's heart told her, that inferior though she might be, it was not her husband that must be the first to discover it; and superior as he was,—which she certainly was not disposed to deny,—it was not with such disproportionate excellence that she should be most likely to form a happy union.

Had Mowbray guessed how grave and deeply-seated in Rosalind's mind were the reasons which would have led her decidedly to refuse him, this flowery portion of his existence would have lost all its sweetness. It was therefore favourable to his present enjoyment that, confident as he felt of ultimately possessing the fortune to which he was born, he determined not to propose to Rosalind till his mother had consented to assure to him an independence as undoubted as her own. The sweet vapour of hope, therefore,—the incense with which young hearts salute the morning of life,—enveloped him on all sides: and pity is it that the rainbow-tinted mist should ever be blown away from those who, like him, are better, as well as happier, for the halo that so surrounds them.