Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 97
After he had remained for some time in the central pavilion, gazing, and gazed at, in a manner which it was extremely interesting to watch, some one well acquainted with the best method of carrying on the business of such a meeting as the present, suggested that it would be advisable that the acolyte should retire till the sale of the goods was pretty well completed; for if the feeling among the charitable crowd were permitted to exhaust itself in affectionate glances towards Mr. Isaacs, no more money would be collected: and it was also judiciously remarked, that it might be as well to circulate through the company the assurance, that as soon as the stalls were about two-thirds cleared, the banquet would be announced.
The effect of these suggestions was speedily visible; Mr. Isaacs stood in the enjoyment of space and fresh air before the entrance to the portico, engrossing the almost undivided attention of his great patron, while ladies peeped at him from a respectful distance; and Chivers himself, with a look as reverential as if he were waiting upon an apostle, approached him with Madeira and soda water.
The sale, meanwhile, benefited equally by his near presence and his actual absence. Enthusiasm was raised without being disturbed in that great object of all English Christian enthusiasm — the disbursing of money; and by four o’clock such a report was made of the general receipts, that the selling ladies were waited upon by as many clergymen as could be collected to hand them from their stands to the banquet, and, when these were all furnished with a fair partner, the most serious gentlemen among the company were requested to take charge of the rest.
Mrs. Cartwright herself was led to the great dining-room by Mr. Isaacs, and for this reason, or else because it was the great dining-room, the crowd which followed her became so oppressive that the doors of the room were ordered to be closed and strictly guarded. This measure was equally serviceable to those within and without; for no sooner was it fully understood that this decisive mode had been resorted to, than the other tables were instantly filled, and nothing could be more satisfactory than the activity with which eating and drinking proceeded in all directions.
The champagne flowed freely; and whether it were that the sacred cause for which the meeting was assembled appeared to justify, or at least excuse, some little excess, — or that nothing furnished at Mr. Cartwright’s board but must bring a blessing to him who swallowed it, — or that the fervent season led to thirst, and thirst to copious libations: — whatever the cause, it is certain that a very large quantity of wine was swallowed that day, and that even the most serious of the party felt their spirits considerably elevated thereby.
But, in recording this fact, it should be mentioned likewise, that, excepting in some few instances in which thirst, good wine, and indiscretion united to overpower some unfortunate individuals, the serious gentlemen of the party, though elevated, were far from drunk; and the tone of their conversation only became more animated, without losing any portion of the peculiar jargon which distinguished it when they were perfectly sober.
The discourse especially, which was carried on round Mr. Cartwright after the ladies retired, was, for the most part, of the most purely Calvinistical cast: though some of the anecdotes related might, perhaps, in their details, have partaken more of the nature of miracles than they would have done if fewer champagne corks had saluted the ceiling.
One clerical gentleman, for instance, a Mr. Thompson, who was much distinguished for his piety, stated as a fact which had happened to himself, that, in his early days, before the gift of extempore preaching was fully come upon him, he was one Sabbath-day at the house of a reverend friend, who, being taken suddenly ill, desired Mr. Thompson to preach for him, at the same time furnishing him with the written discourse which he had been himself about to deliver. “I mounted the pulpit,” said Mr. Thompson, “with this written sermon in my pocket; but the moment I drew it forth and opened it, I perceived, to my inexpressible dismay, that the handwriting was totally illegible to me. For a few moments I was visited with heavy doubts and discomfiture of spirit, but I had immediate recourse to prayer. I closed the book, and implored that its characters might be made legible to me; — and when I opened it again, the pages seemed to my eyes to be as a manuscript of my own.”
This statement, however, was not only received with every evidence of the most undoubting belief, but an elderly clergyman, who sat near the narrator, exclaimed with great warmth, “I thank you, sir, — I thank you greatly, Mr. Thompson, for this shining example of the effect of ready piety and ready wit. Though the cloth is removed, sir, I must ask to drink a glass of wine with you, — and may Heaven continue to you its especial grace!”
There were some phrases too, which, though undoubtedly sanctioned by serious usage, sounded strangely when used in a scene apparently of such gay festivity.
One gentleman confessed very frankly his inability to resist taking more of such wine as that now set before them than was altogether consistent with his own strict ideas of ministerial propriety. “But,” added he, “though in so yielding, I am conscious of being in some sort wrong, I feel intimately persuaded at the same time, that by thus freely demonstrating the strength and power of original sin within me, I am doing a service to the cause of religion, by establishing one of its most important truths.”
This apology was received with universal applause; it manifested, as one of the company remarked, equal soundness of faith, and delicacy of conscience.
One of the most celebrated of the regular London speakers, known at all meetings throughout the whole evangelical season, having silently emptied a bottle of claret, which he kept close to him, began, just as he had finished the last glass, to recover the use of his tongue. His first words were, “My king has been paying me a visit.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Cartwright, whose attention was instantly roused by this very interesting statement; “where was the visit made, Mr. White?”
“Even here, sir,” replied Mr. White solemnly: “here, since I have been sitting silently at your hospitable board.”
“As how, sir?” inquired a certain Sir William Crompton, who was placed near him. “Do you mean that you have been sleeping, and that his Majesty has visited you in your dreams?”
“The Majesty that I speak of, sir,” replied Mr. White, “is the King of Heaven.”
“What other could it be!” exclaimed Mr. Cartwright, showing the whites of his eyes, and appearing scandalized at the blunder.
“I wonder, Mr. Cartwright,” said a young man of decidedly pious propensities, but not as yet considering himself quite assured of his election,— “I wonder, Mr. Cartwright, whether I shall be saved or not?”
“It is a most interesting question, my young friend,” replied the vicar mildly; “and you really cannot pay too much attention to it. I am happy to see that it leaves you not, even at the festive board; and I sincerely hope it will finally be settled to your satisfaction. But as yet it is impossible to decide.”
“I shall not fail to ride over to hear you preach, excellent Mr. Cartwright!” said a gentleman of the neighbourhood, who, though not hitherto enrolled in the evangelical calendar, was so struck on the present occasion with the hospitable entertainment he received, that he determined to cultivate the acquaintance.
“You do me great honour, sir!” replied the vicar. “If you do, I hope it will be on a day when you can stay supper with us.”
“You are excessively kind, my dear sir!” answered the guest; “but as my place is at least ten miles distant from yours, I fear, if you sup in the same style that you dine, it would be somewhat late before I got home.”
Mr. Cartwright bowed, dropped his eyes, and said nothing.
“Oh, sir!” said Mr. Hetherington, who, though he had drunk more than any man at table, excepting the cousin Corbold, had as yet in no degree lost his apprehension,— “Oh, sir! you quite mistake. The supper that the excellent Mr. Cartwright means, is to be taken at the table of the Lord!”
“Dear me!” exclaimed the squire, who really meant to be both civil and serious, “I beg pardon, I made a sad blunder indeed!”
“There is nothing sad but sin, Mr. Wilkins!” replied the vicar meekly. “A mistake is no sin. Even I myself have sometimes been mistaken.”
“What heavenly-minded humility there is in Mr. Cartwright!” said Mr. Hetherington in a loud whisper to his neighbour: “every day he lives seems to elevate my idea of his character. Is not this claret admirable, Mr. Dickson?”
Just at this moment Chivers the butler entered the room and whispered something in his master’s ear.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Cartwright, “a very disagreeable accident, upon my word.”
“What is it, sir?” inquired several voices at once.
“The head cook, gentlemen,” replied Chivers, “has fallen off the larder-ladder, and has put out his shoulder.”
“A very disagreeable accident indeed,” echoed the guests.
The butler whispered again.
“Certainly, Chivers, certainly. I am very glad Mr. Bird the surgeon happens to be on the premises. Let him immediately set the joint, and when this is done, and the poor fellow laid comfortably in bed, come for Mr. Hetherington, whom I will immediately order to awaken him.”
“Bless my soul, sir!” exclaimed the good-natured Sir William Crompton; “won’t that be rather injudicious? If the poor fellow should get a nap, I should think it would be the worst thing in the world to awaken him.”
“Pardon me, Sir William,” replied the vicar with great respect, “but persons of the world do not well understand the language of those who are not of the world. No accident, no illness ever occurs in my house, Sir William, but my first effort is to awaken the soul of the sufferer to a proper sense of his sins. I always take care they shall be told that the jaws of the tomb are opening before them, and that, as death comes like a thief in the night, they should be watching for him. This, in the language of a pious and professing Christian, is called an awakening; and needful as it is at all times, it is of course more needful still in sickness, or danger of any kind.”
Sir William Crompton filled his glass with the wealthy vicar’s admirable wine, and said no more.
The time was now approaching at which the populace were to be admitted to the tents on the lawn; and Mr. Cartwright having looked at his watch, rose and said, “Gentlemen, — It is distressing to me to be forced to disturb you, but the business of the meeting requires that we should all repair to the lawn. The populace are about to be admitted, and it is expected that our estimable Mr. Isaacs will benefit very considerably by the eagerness with which the farmers’ wives and daughters will purchase the articles which remain of our Christian ladies’ elegant handiworks. One bumper to the success of the Reverend Isaac Isaacs! and to the conversion of the people of Fababo! — And now we will return to our duty in the tents.”
“To your tents, O Israel!” shouted a young man, with more of wine than wit, as he turned towards the converted Jew; “for myself,” he added, “I’ll be d — d if I stir an inch till I have finished this bottle.”
Mr. Cartwright stopped short in his progress towards the door. He turned a glance, more inquiring perhaps than stern, on the face of the intoxicated speaker, and perceived that he was the nephew of an earl; the sole reason indeed which had procured him the honour of a seat in that distinguished circle.
The vicar balanced for a moment whether he should reprimand him or not. Had he been the son, instead of the nephew of the noble lord, he would certainly have passed on in holy meditation, but, as it was, he stopped. There were many serious eyes upon him, notwithstanding the claret. He remembered that the earl had a “goodly progeny,” and that consequently his nephew would never be likely to succeed to his title; and therefore with great dignity, and much pious solemnity, he thus addressed his curate, who, in his capacity of domestic chaplain, was ever near him.
“Mr. Hetherington! you have heard the awful words spoken by Mr. Augustus Mappleton. Remember, sir, that his repentance and conversion be prayed for at our concluding service this evening, and also in your extempore prayer before sermon on next Sabbath morning.”
These words had a very sobering effect on the company, and the whole party made, all things considered, a very orderly exit from the dining-room, not however without Mr. Cartwright finding an opportunity of whispering in the ear of his cousin —
“Now is your time, Stephen, to go into the dressing-room.”
CHAPTER XI.
THE “ELOPEMENT.”
When the gentlemen reached the lawn, they found it already covered, not only with the company from all the other rooms, but likewise with crowds of people from the Park, who came rushing in through different entrances from all quarters.
In the midst of all this bustle and confusion, however, Mr. Cartwright remembered his engagement with Mr. Stephen Corbold, and, only waiting till he saw that the servants of his house were among the throng, he sought Mrs. Cartwright, and finding, as he expected, her daughter close beside her, whispered in her ear, “Oblige me, dearest Clara! by sending Helen to your dressing-room for a small packet of very important papers which I left on the chimney-piece. I cannot go myself; and there is not a servant to be found.”
Mrs. Cartwright immediately spoke the command to Helen, and the vicar had the satisfaction of watching her make her way through the crowd, and enter the window of the drawing-room.
Poor Helen was not happy enough to have enjoyed in any degree the splendid bustle of the day, and the total repose and silence of the house was quite refreshing to her. She passed through the drawing-room into the hall, from whence not even the loud buzz of the multitude without could reach her; and untying her bonnet, and throwing that and her scarf on a slab, she sat down to enjoy for a few moments the cool quiet of the lofty silent room.
At length she reluctantly rose to perform her mother’s bidding, walked slowly and languidly up the stairs, along the spacious corridor, and into Mrs. Cartwright’s dressing-room. This little apartment was no longer the dear familiar scene of maternal fondness that it once was, or Helen might here again have been tempted to sit down for the enjoyment of temporary repose. But, in truth, she no longer loved that dressing-room; and walking straight to the chimney-piece, she took the packet she found there, and turned to retrace her steps.
It was with a start of disagreeable surprise, though hardly of alarm, that she saw Mr. Stephen Corbold standing between her and the door. The persevering impertinence of his addresses had long ago obliged her to decline all communication with him, and it was therefore without appearing to notice him that she now pursued her way towards the door. But hardly had she made a step towards it, when the odious wretch enclosed her in his arms. She uttered a loud shriek, and by a violent effort disengaged herself; but ere she could reach the door, he had closed, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.
A dreadful sensation of terror now seized upon her; yet even then she remembered that she was in her mother’s house, and a feeling of confidence returned.
“You are intoxicated, sir!” said she drawing back from him towards the bell. “But you surely cannot be so mad as to insult me here!”
“I will insult you nowhere, Miss Helen, if you will behave as you ought to do to the man whom Heaven hath chosen for your husband. But as for your ringing the bell, or screeching either, I’ll fairly tell you at once, it is of no use. There is not a single human being left in the house but our two selves; so you may as well give me satisfaction at once, and promise to marry me without more trouble, or else, I will make you thankful for the same, without my ever asking you again.”
“Open that door, sir, and let me out instantly,” said Helen, pale as death, yet still not believing that the monster before her would dare to attempt any outrage. “Even Mr. Cartwright,” she added, “would resent any impertinence offered to me under my mother’s roof. Let me pass, sir: believe me, you had better.”
“Believe me; I had better not, Miss Helen. You have been playing the fool with me long enough; and as to my cousin Cartwright, he is quite of the same opinion, I assure you. Charming Helen!” he exclaimed, again stretching out his arms to enclose her, “be only half as kind as you are beautiful, and we shall be the happiest couple in the world!”
“At least, sir, you must let me consult my mother about it,” said Helen, contriving to keep the table between them, and believing that he was there only in consequence of his being intoxicated. “Let me ask my mother’s consent, Mr. Corbold.”
Corbold laughed aloud. “You think me tipsy, my sweet girl; but if I am, trust me it’s no more than just to give me courage to teach you your duty. My charming Helen! let go the table, and understand the thing at once. My cousin. Mr. Cartwright is under some obligations to me, and he means to settle them all by giving me a pretty fortune with you; and as he knows that unhappily you are not converted as yet, and have shown yourself not over christian-like in return for my love, it is he himself who invented this scheme of having you sent up here when all the servants were out of the house — and of my being here ready to meet you, and to teach you your duty to him, and to your mother, and to your heavenly father, and to me; — and so now you know all and every thing, and I have got the key of the room in my pocket. — And will you consent to be my wife, beginning from this very minute?”
Dreadful as Helen’s terror was, her senses did not leave her; on the contrary, all the strength of her mind seemed to be roused, and her faculties sharpened, by the peril that beset her. She doubted not for a moment that his statement respecting Mr. Cartwright’s part in this villany was true, and that she was indeed left in the power of this detested being, with no help but the protection of Heaven and her own courage. She fixed her eye steadily on that of Corbold, and perceived that as he talked, the look of intoxication increased; she therefore skilfully prolonged the conversation by asking him, if indeed she must be his wife, where they were to live, whether her sister Fanny might live with them, whether he ever meant to take her to London, and the like; contriving, as she did so, to push the table, which still continued between them, in such a direction as to leave her between it and the door of her mother’s bed-chamber. Corbold was evidently losing his head, and appeared aware of it; for he stopped short in his replies and professions of passionate love that he was making: and exclaiming with an oath that he would be trifled with no longer, he suddenly thrust the table from between them, and again threw his arms round Helen’s waist.
