“Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the wilderness, they presently saw a town before them, and the name of that town is Vanity.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
“Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the wilderness, they presently saw a town before them, and the name of that town is Vanity.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
“Ah! what a strange remembrance I shall always have of that old ruin!” exclaimed Charles, as again he drove past the well-known spot, in a carriage with post-horses, on his way to Castle Fontonore. But this time he had another companion beside him; Ernest, well wrapped up in cloak and furs—for the autumn was now advanced—was resting on the soft cushions of the luxurious vehicle.
“What will your remembrances be, compared to mine?” said Ernest, raising himself to look out, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the gray pile until it was lost to his sight.
“I went to pick up a stone as a keepsake, and I found a brother!” cried Charles.
“How much I owe you!” said Ernest, fervently. “I make you an ill return by taking away what you thoughtyour birth-right! And you, sir,” he added, turning towards the clergyman, “my debt to you I can never never repay; but my heart’s gratitude and love shall be yours as long as I breathe. All the honours and riches that I possess I value as nothing, compared with the blessing of having such a friend and such a brother.”
This was the first time that Ernest had been able to express so much; for, shy and retiring as he was by nature, and rendered more so by the manner in which all the warm feelings of his heart had hitherto been chilled and repressed, he had wrapped himself up in a cloak of reserve, and had few words to show how deep were these feelings. Mr. Ewart saw that in the boy’s present weak state he was easily agitated and excited, and, to change the subject of a conversation which made Ernest’s voice tremble with emotion, asked him how he liked the book which he had given him.
“I find it very interesting. I should have thought it so, if I had only read it as an amusing story; but what you said about its showing us things that happen in our own lives, has made it a thousand times more so. I could enter into so many of the feelings of Christian—his misery with his burden, his delight when it rolled away. I am almost sure that Mr. Worldly Wiseman once turned me aside, and I fancy that I have even known a little of the Slough of Despond!”
“The earlier children go on pilgrimage, the less theyusually know of the misery of that slough. As Bunyan, in his allegory, beautifully represents, there are stepping-stones across it all the way, and the feet of Christ’s little ones usually find these, so that many have reached the wicket-gate in safety, without one stain of the slough on their garments.”
“What a mercy it was to Christian to meet with Evangelist! Sir, you have been Evangelist to me.”
“And I must be your Faithful,” said Charles, smiling.
“Oh no! for then I should lose you in Vanity Fair,” replied Ernest, looking fondly on his brother, who was daily becoming dearer to his heart.
“Vanity Fair is not at all like what it was when Bunyan wrote,” said Charles. “There is no danger of my being put in prison, or stoned, or burned, because I may not like the ways of the place; so you are not in the least likely to lose me in that manner, and I may be your Faithful and your Hopeful both in one.”
“Is Vanity Fair quite done away with now?” said Ernest to Mr. Ewart.
“No, my boy, and never will be, as long as the three grand tempters of the world,the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, spread their attractive stalls to lure unwary pilgrims.”
“I am afraid that you will think me a very dull pupil,” said Ernest; “but I do not exactly understand who these tempters are of whom you speak.”
“The lust of the flesh is pleasure; the lust of the eye, covetousness; the pride of life is that fatal pride, whether of birth, riches, talent, or beauty, which is often viewed with indulgence by the world, but which is particularly hateful to God.”
“But must all pleasure be sinful?” asked Charles.
“By no means. Some pleasure springs directly from religion. Of heavenly wisdom it is written in God’s Word,Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. And other pleasure may be hallowed by religion; but it must be pleasure that has no connection withsin. We may gather life’s flowers, but we must be careful that they are those which have not the trail of the serpent upon them.”
“Is it wrong to enjoy the riches which God gives us?” asked Ernest. “Shall I sin if I look with joy on the noble estate and all the beautiful things which you tell me are mine?”
“God forbid,” replied the clergyman; “hath He notgiven us all things richly to enjoy? But we mustuse the world as not abusing it. There is a test by which we can easily find out if riches are not clogging and delaying us in our heavenward path. We must examine,first, if we receive them with gratitude, as coming from God;secondly, if we are watchful to spend them to the glory of God;thirdly, if we are ready to resign them, in obedience to God.”
“I think,” observed Charles, “that Ernest will be less in danger from the pride of life than I was.”
“Yes,” said Ernest, looking admiringly at his brother; “because I shall have so very much less to be proud of.”
“I never meant that,” cried Charles, colouring; “but I fancy that you have been so tried and subdued, by suffering so much, that you will never be so foolish and flighty as I; you will not be so easily puffed up.”
“I am sure that I could not answer for myself,” replied Ernest, simply.
“No; and certainly you are very ignorant of the ways of Vanity Fair; that’s the part of your pilgrimage that you are coming to now.”
“Surely not till I go to London. I shall see nothing of it while we stay quietly studying at the castle.”
“Little you know!” exclaimed Charles, laughing. “My good Aunt Matilda, my pretty little cousin, and perhaps my business-like uncle himself, may introduce you—” Charles stopped, for he caught his tutor’s eye, and its grave expression silenced him at once.
“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” said the clergyman, impressively. “There is nothing so little becoming a young pilgrim as passing unkind judgment on his elders.”
“I’m afraid that it’s my besetting sin,” said Charles, “and one that it is very difficult to get rid of.”
“Like many others, I believe that it springs from pride,” observed his tutor. “When we are deeply sensible of our own imperfections, we have more mercy to show, or less attention to give to those of our neighbours and companions.”
The journey to Yorkshire took two days, travelling by post being so much slower than by railway. To Ernest they were days of almost unmixed delight: change of scene, unaccustomed comforts, the society of those whom he loved, all the hopes which naturally gild the prospect of youth—all the brighter for being so new—filled his cup of enjoyment very full. Though his manner was not so lively as that of his brother, it was easy to see that his happiness was not less.
We may be surprised that the bitter emotions which Charles had entertained when he first knew of the loss of his title seemed so soon to have entirely disappeared. But his was an open and generous heart—Ernest’s sufferings had roused his pity—his brother’s grateful affection had flattered his feelings—he was pleased with himself for his conquest over pride; and perhaps nothing tends to make us more cheerful than this. Then there had been nothing to make him painfully aware of a change—his tutor’s manner had been more kind than ever—Jones could never address him but as “my lord”—Ernest seemed unwilling to consider himself even as his equal—all his comforts appeared the same as ever.
It was therefore with unaffected pleasure that, as they approached near the Castle Fontonore, Charles pointed out the landmarks to his brother.
“There now, there’s the lodge; isn’t it a beauty? That’s Widow Grove who is standing at the gate. Why, there’s quite a little crowd; I knew that there would be one. Take off your cap, Ernest, they are cheering for us. Did you ever see such magnificent timber in your life? so glorious with the autumn tints still upon them! That tree to the right is five hundred years old. Just look at the deer as they bound through that glade; and now—yes—now you have a glimpse of the castle, and there’s the flag waving from the top of the tower. Is it not an inheritance worth having, Ernest? Does it not surpass your expectations?”
“It does, it does; I never saw, never dreamed of anything so beautiful!”
And now, exciting no small stir amongst the tenants, grooms, stable-boys, and others who on various pretexts were crowding the entrance, the horses, urged on to speed by the postilion, dashed over the drawbridge, through the arched gateway into the paved court-yard, and stood chafed and foaming before the door, where the Hopes stood ready to receive the young master. Ernest had no time to gaze round on the romantic pile of building which surrounded him—the tower, the mullioned windows, the walls of massive stone, almostcovered with various kinds of creepers; he was so anxious to have a sight of his new relations, who appeared at the entrance to welcome them. There was a rather stout gentleman, whom, from a family likeness to Charles, Ernest at once set down for his uncle; a tall, good-looking lady, in a superb silk dress that looked rich enough to stand upright by itself, and whose very rustle seemed to speak of formidable dignity; and a fairy-like young creature, a little older than himself, whom, at the first glance, Ernest thought exceedingly pretty.
Charles, accustomed from infancy to be a person of importance, sprang eagerly out of the carriage first, almost before the horses had stopped. He ran to his aunt. “Where is Lord Fontonore?” said she, passing him, and advancing to the door of the carriage. “Dear Clemmy!” exclaimed Charles, taking his cousin’s hand, “how long it is since we have met!” She returned his press indeed, but her eyes were not looking towards him; she had not even a glance to give her old companion, so eagerly was her gaze turned in another direction.
“Is this the reception that I meet with?” thought Charles, anger and disappointment boiling in his heart. “It was then the peer whom they flattered and caressed; I am now only Charles Hope, and I must be deserted for the first stranger who has a title;” and without attending to the greeting of his uncle, or to that of theservants, with whom he had always been a favourite, Charles hurried off impatiently to his own room.
CHARLES AND HIS MOTHER’S PORTRAIT.
CHARLES AND HIS MOTHER’S PORTRAIT.
A beautiful room it was, all hung round with pictures. There was one which Charles especially valued, the portrait of his mother when she was a girl, with deep, thoughtful eyes, so much like Ernest’s that Charles wondered that he had not recognized the resemblance the first moment that he had seen his brother. This picture had often exercised a soothing effect over the boy; the thought of his gentle mother now in heaven drew hisown affections thither; the hope of meeting her there was so sweet, the desire of being worthy of her so strong—for his mind had invested her with all the qualities of an angel—and the parent who had died before he could know his loss, was the object of the deepest tenderness of the boy.
“She, at least, is not changed—she looks always the same!” exclaimed Charles, clasping his hands, and gazing upon the portrait till his eyes became dimmed with tears. He was disturbed by a low knock at the door.
“Come in!” exclaimed Charles in an impatient tone, hastily dashing the moisture from his eyes. It was the housekeeper who appeared at the door.
“Please, my lord, Master Charles, I am sorry to disturb you, but this room Mrs. Hope desired to be prepared for Lord Fontonore; the blue room has been made ready for you.”
Charles rushed out of the apartment without saying a word, in a passion of anger and resentment. The trial which he had seen but from a distance was now most keenly and bitterly felt. He locked his door, and paced backwards and forwards across the room, wishing that he could shut out all sound of voices and tread of feet, as he traced by it the progress of the party through the castle, which his relations were now showing to its new possessor. And thus he remained in his solitary misery, while Ernest painfully missed from his side one who wasmore to his affectionate heart than all the wealth of the world, and with an uncomfortable consciousness of his every motion being watched by those who regarded him rather with curiosity than interest, passed through long corridors, and stately apartments, which were expected to strike him with wonder.
“He is not so vulgar or funny as I expected that he would be,” whispered Clementina to some one beside her; “but it makes me laugh to see him look so shy and uneasy, as if he were half afraid to look at his own castle. He certainly has a very interesting air, but he is not half so handsome as Charles.”
“I wish to see no one!” exclaimed Charles, as again a knock was heard at his door.
“Will you not admit me?” said the voice of Mr. Ewart. In an instant the door was thrown open.
“I did not know that it was you, sir; but I might have guessed who was the only being likely to come near me.”
Mr. Ewart saw in a moment by the face of his pupil, as well as by the tone in which he spoke, that he was struggling—no, not struggling with, but rather overcome by his passions; and more grieved than displeased by the conduct of the boy, he led him quietly to a sofa, on which they both sat down together.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Ewart, “that you left us so soon; your brother may be hurt by your absence.”
“Oh, he’ll never miss me; he has plenty to take up his attention. Aunt Matilda will never let him out of her sight. Miss Clemmy will deck herself out evenfiner than usual to do honour to the lord of the castle. And of course he’ll be taken by all the flattery and fuss; he’ll believe all the nonsense of that worldly set; he’ll be everything now, and I shall be nothing, because he happened to be born a year before me. It’s very hard,” he added bitterly; “it’s very hard.”
“‘It’s very hard’ is one of the Evil One’s favourite suggestions,” said Mr. Ewart; “its meaning was contained in the very first words which he ever uttered to a human ear. He would have persuaded Eve that it wasvery hardthat she might not eat of every fruit in the garden; and now, surrounded as we are with manifold blessings, it is his delight to point to the one thing denied, and still whisper, ‘It’s very hardto be kept from that which you so much desire.’”
“I cannot help feeling,” murmured Charles; “things are so different now from what they were.”
“Did you ever expect them to remain the same? Did you suppose that your path would be always amongst flowers? Are you not forgetting that you are a stranger and a pilgrim—the follower of a Master who was a man of sorrows?”
Charles sighed heavily, and looked down.
“How often have you repeated the lines—
‘The greatest evil we can fear,Is to possess our portion here!’
‘The greatest evil we can fear,Is to possess our portion here!’
‘The greatest evil we can fear,
Is to possess our portion here!’
Had you the power of choice, would you enjoy thatportion in this life, were it even to bestow on you the crown of an emperor?”
“No,” replied Charles, with emphasis.
“Let me refer you to your favourite Pilgrim’s Progress. Remember what Christian beheld in the house of the Interpreter—that which we constantly behold in daily life: Passion demanding his treasure at once; Patience waiting meekly for a treasure to come. Which was the richest in the end?”
“You must not imagine that it was the sight of the dear old castle, and all that I have lost, that has made me feel in this way,” exclaimed Charles. “You saw how cheerful I was not an hour ago, and I knew then that I was no longer Lord Fontonore.”
“Yes; you had seen your cross, but you had not taken it up; you had not felt its weight. It is now that you must rouse up your courage.”
“What I feel,” exclaimed Charles impetuously, “is contempt for the mean, heartless beings, who were all kindness to me when I bore a title, and now have turned round like weathercocks! I do not believe that even you can defend them.”
“I think that you may judge them hardly. You have too easily taken offence; you have made no allowance for their natural curiosity to see the hero of so romantic a tale as Ernest’s. Would not you yourself have felt eager to meet him?”
Charles admitted that perhaps he might have done so.
“You have taken Passion and Pride for your counsellors, dear Charles: the one has blinded your eyes that you should not see the straight path; the other would bind your feet that you should not pursue it. And miserable counsellors have you found them both; they have inflicted on your heart more pain than the loss of both title and estate.”
“What would you have me do?” said Charles, more quietly; for he felt the truth of the last observation.
“First, I would have you endeavour to bring yourself tobe content to be of little importance. Until your mind is in this state of submission, you will be like one with a wound which is being perpetually rubbed.
“Secondly, I would have you seek your earthly enjoyment rather in beholding that of others, than in any pleasure that comes direct to yourself. Thus, in one way, Fontonore will be yours still.
“Thirdly, I would have you prayerfully on the watch against the slightest feeling of jealousy towards Ernest. Never let your only brother think for one moment that you feel that he stands in your way.”
“Oh, Mr. Ewart!” cried Charles, starting to his feet, “how could you imagine such a thing?”
“It rests with you alone to preventhisthinking it, and you have made a bad beginning to-day.”
“I will go to Ernest at once,” said the boy, “andhelp to show him over the place. He shall never say—he shall never think that I am envious of his prosperity.”
In truth, on that first evening of his arrival in the castle, Ernest was not much to be envied. He was uneasy about his brother—uncomfortable with his new companions; one hearty grasp from the hand of Charles, or approving word from his tutor, was worth all the smiles, and courtesies, and bows, which he knew had nothing to do with the heart. Ernest felt himself out of his natural place, and was constantly afraid of saying or doing something that would shock the polished grandees around him. As far as speaking was concerned, he was indeed tolerably safe, for he scarcely opened his lips, which made his companions set him down as dull and stupid; but he had been accustomed for so short a time to the refinements of polished society, and was so likely, in his very anxiety to please, to forget even the hints that he had received from Mr. Ewart, that there was certainly some little danger of his doing something “shocking.” The presence of half-a-dozen footmen in gay liveries in the room, was a disagreeable piece of state to the young lord; so many eyes were turned upon him whenever he moved; there were so many listeners if he uttered a word!
Ernest made the serious mistake of eating fish with a knife. The shocked look of his aunt made him sensible of his blunder, and covered his face with blushes.At another time, Clementina pressed her lace handkerchief over her lips, to stifle her too evident inclination to titter, at the peasant-bred peer helping her to something from the dish before him with his own spoon. Ernest was very glad when the dinner was over, which had lasted, indeed, nearly twice as long as any of which he had ever partaken before.
CLEMENTINA AT THE PIANO.
CLEMENTINA AT THE PIANO.
After dinner, Clementina was desired by her mother to go to the piano and play. She made so many excuses, said that she was tired, nervous, out of practice, that Ernest, little practised in the ways of Vanity Fair, was inclined to beg that the young lady might be let off. Great would have been her mortification had he done so, however—the girl was only refusing in order to be pressed; the virtue of sincerity, if she had ever possessed it, had all been frittered away by folly. She sat down to the instrument, determined to be admired; for admiration to her was as the very breath of life. She played what might be called a very brilliant piece—full of shakes, dashes, and runs, but with no melody at all. Ernest, though fond of music, thought it certainly not pretty, and, had he been more at his ease, could hardly have helped laughing at the affected air of the young performer, and the manner in which she threw up her hands, and sometimes her eyes also, in the slower movements of the piece. Every motion appeared to be studied: self was never for a moment forgotten. Whenthe performance, rather to Ernest’s relief, was concluded, with a satisfied look the stately mother turned to the young peer, and asked him if that was not a beautiful piece. “Rather,” replied Ernest, after a little hesitation,as much vexed with himself for saying so much as Clementina was at his saying so little. Charles, who was standing near, could not avoid laughing; and Ernest read in the eyes of Mrs. Hope her unexpressed thought—“I have no patience for this low, ill-bred boor!”
With a secret feeling of constraint, mortification, and disappointment, poor Ernest retired at night to his own room. Two maids were preparing it as he entered, and he could not help overhearing the words of one of them,—
“’Tis a pity that Master Charles was not the eldest son.”
“I’m sure that I think so!” Ernest exclaimed, aloud, to the no small surprise of the girl who had uttered the observation.
There was another matter that weighed upon the mind of Ernest, and was his first thought when he awoke in the morning. It was the request which he was to make to his uncle concerning bringing Jack and Ben to the castle. Mr. Ewart had declined making the request for him, and in this Ernest thought his tutor for the first time unkind. But Ernest was mistaken, as those usually are who judge others without entering into their feelings or position. The truth was that Mr. Ewart very well knew that no request made by him would be likely to be granted. He was almost disliked by Mr. Hope, whose character presented a remarkable contrast to his own, and who treated his nephews’ tutor with bare civility, though as well born and better educated than himself.
Mr. Hope was what is called a man of the world—one who made business his sole ambition; his worldliness, his pride, were in the sight of the Eternal but—vanity!
Ernest was beginning to more than waver in his wish to have the sons of Lawless living so near him. He felt since his arrival at Fontonore, more than he had ever done before, how disagreeable their presence might be. Had Ernest not been a sincere Christian, he would have tried as much as possible to banish from his mind all recollection of early days of humiliation and suffering, and would have endeavoured to keep far away from himself all that could remind him of his peasant life. But Ernest felt that this would be throwing away the lessons which God had taught him at the cost of so much pain; and that, in failing to bring those whom he had once considered his brothers to a place where they might benefit from the same instructions that had been so much blessed to himself, he might be neglecting the means of bringing them to God.
Ernest therefore resolved to speak to his uncle, much as he disliked doing so; and he found an opportunity the very first morning, as Mr. Hope sat alone in the library engaged in reading theTimes.
“Did you want a book, Ernest?” said his uncle, as the young nobleman stood hesitating and embarrassed before him. “You’ll have to make up for lost time, I suspect. Let’s see, how old are you now?”
“I was twelve last March,” replied Ernest.
“Ah, I remember—in your thirteenth year; you should have made some progress by that age. I supposethat your studies have been much neglected. May I ask what books you have read?”
“The Bible and Pilgrim’s Progress,” answered the boy.
Mr. Hope turned down the corners of his mouth with a contemptuous expression, little dreaming that all the treasures of learning and wit which the most talented mind ever grasped are useless—worthless, compared with the wisdom to be gathered from one sacred volume.
“A puritanical library, more select than comprehensive,” said the gentleman; “you must apply yourself to something else in future. You have a pretty long course of education before you ere you can be fit for the station which you hold—Latin, Greek, French, German, mathematics, algebra, natural philosophy, and a thousand other things, indispensable for a nobleman—all to be mastered in the next few years.”
Ernest felt himself at the foot of a new mountain of difficulty, with a humiliating sense of ignorance.
“But you wished to say something to me,” resumed Mr. Hope, leaning back in his chair, and laying down the paper with a formidable air of attention.
“Now for it!” thought Ernest, struggling against his shyness and his extreme disinclination to speak to his uncle. “Sir,” said he aloud, “I am very anxious to do something for my bro—— the sons of Lawless, I mean, with whom I passed the days of my childhood.”
“If I might advise, you would never allude to those days.”
Ernest coloured, yet encouraged himself by remembering that there is nothing but guilt which need cause us shame, and that we should blush for no situation in which Heaven has placed us. “I would wish, if you consent, to bring the boys here,” resumed he, “and place them under care of the gardener.”
“An extraordinary wish,” replied Mr. Hope, taking snuff. “Is it possible that this is really your desire?”
“I am most anxious for your leave to do it,” said Ernest.
“Oh, of course, if you have no objection, I can have none; this is your own property, and it is only reasonable that you should have a voice in choosing your dependants. But all that I can say is, that I believe that you’ll repent it, and the young rogues would be better in the poor-house.”
Ernest left his uncle’s presence rather in spirits, from having accomplished his object more easily than he had expected. He cheerfully pursued his studies with Charles, under the tuition of Mr. Ewart; and the consideration which they showed—never laughing at his mistakes, ever ready to help him to understand what was new to him—still further endeared them both to the boy.
After luncheon, feeling a little more at his ease, asMrs. Hope sat busy at her writing-desk, and her husband was not in the room, Ernest amused himself with his pretty little cousin, Clementina, in looking over a large volume of prints.
“What a pity that she is so affected!” thought he; “she would be so charming if she did not think herself so.”
On a sudden Ernest jumped up with an exclamation of pleasure, as he saw from the window a little open carriage approaching through the park.
“Oh, I’m so glad!—there are good, kind Mr. and Miss Searle; it will be such a pleasure to see them!”
“The old horrors!” exclaimed Clementina, leaning back on her cushions, and lifting her hands in affected alarm.
“The Searles!” cried Mrs. Hope, looking up hastily. “We’re not at home to them. I’m surprised at their coming. People like them never know their proper place. I must request, Ernest,” she continued, seeing him about to leave the room, “that you’ll not bring such company about the castle. When you are of age, of course, you’ll do what you please; but while I and my daughter remain under this roof, I must be careful not to expose her to vulgar society. Mr. Searle’s father kept a shop in Cheapside!”
“Vulgar!” thought Ernest, “some of the excellent of the earth! The Lord’s jewels, at whose feet we mayone day be thankful to be found! Is this castle too grand, its inhabitants too good, for those whose home will be heaven, whose companions the angels?”
Mrs. Hope, as the reader may have observed, was a very proud woman, one ready to worship rank, whoever might possess it. She was of rather low origin herself, which was perhaps one reason why she always avowed herself most particular in regard to the company that she kept. No virtue, with her, could weigh against a coronet; she valued her acquaintance—for such characters have fewfriends—according to their position in society. To be a companion of the nobility was her delight; to become one of them was the object of her highest ambition. For this she encouraged her husband’s efforts for advancement, and had been delighted to see him a Member for Parliament. Her own poor relations were, of course, kept at a distance; no one bearing her maiden name of Briggs had ever been known to cross the threshold of Castle Fontonore except her brother, an attorney, who once ventured in, but was never even asked to break bread in the house, and who left his sister’s presence with a clouded brow, and a determination never to trouble her again. The proud worldly woman never reflected that in another state, where the high and the low, the great and the humble, shall meet together, her love of distinction, her pride of display, should appear as lighter than vanity.
What could be expected from the daughter of such a parent? Even a strong mind might have been ruined by the education which she received; and Clementina, who was naturally of but slender intellect, was quite spoiled by the society in which she was brought up. At a fashionable school she had learned a few accomplishments, and a great deal of folly: admiration, amusement, excitement, these were the three things upon which her whole heart was set; all that she lived for was comprised in these three words. The quiet serenity of a soul that rests on one unchanging object, was of course never known to her. The slightest incident was sufficient to raise her spirits to a wild height, or sink them to the point of misery; she was transported at an invitation to a ball, wretched if a dressmaker failed her. She was like a fluttering butterfly, shining in its gay colours, driven about by every breeze on its unsteady, uncertain course. But I wrong the insect in making the comparison. The butterfly fills its allotted place in creation—it does all that its Maker intended it to do; while the frivolous, silly, selfish girl remains a blank, or rather a blot, in God’s world, when she who is called to the work and the destiny of angels makes that of a butterfly her deliberate choice.
It is just possible that some thoughtless girl, whose education and character may resemble Clementina’s, may in some vacant hour of leisure turn over the leaves ofmy little book. Oh, that I had an angel’s voice, to rouse her to a sense of what she is and what she might be! to make her feel that she is not her own, butbought with a price, such a price as the world could not have paid;—that a soul which must exist for ever and ever—that a soul for which a God bled, agonized, and died—is a thing too noble, a thing too precious to be thrown away at Vanity Fair.
The Sabbath came, God’s holy day, and the family attended a church which was at some little distance. Mr. and Mrs. Hope and their daughter, the ladies arrayed in all the splendour of fashion, went in state in the carriage, with two footmen in attendance, while the boys preferred walking over the fields with their tutor.
Ernest, as he entered the church, drew the eyes of the whole congregation upon himself, which made him more uncomfortable than ever. “Am I not to escape even here from Vanity Fair?” thought he; “cannot even these walls shut out the world!”
Straight in front of the seat which he occupied was a marble monument of singular beauty, which naturally attracted his attention. It represented the figure of a very lovely babe, sleeping amongst water-lilies, the attitude and countenance depicting the peaceful slumber of innocence. Below was an inscription, which the boy read with strange emotion:—
IN MEMORY OFERNEST,ELDEST SON OF THE FIRST LORD FONTONORE,WHO WAS ACCIDENTALLY DROWNEDBEFORE HE HAD COMPLETED THEFIRST YEAR OF HIS AGE.
“’Tis thus the snow-flake from the skies,Touching the sod, dissolves and dies;Ere mists of earth can its whiteness stain,Raised by the sunbeams to heaven again.“Though parted now on life’s thorny way,’Twere weak, ’twere cruel, to wish his stay;We must toil on through trials, griefs, alarms—He was borne to the goal in his Saviour’s arms.”
“’Tis thus the snow-flake from the skies,Touching the sod, dissolves and dies;Ere mists of earth can its whiteness stain,Raised by the sunbeams to heaven again.“Though parted now on life’s thorny way,’Twere weak, ’twere cruel, to wish his stay;We must toil on through trials, griefs, alarms—He was borne to the goal in his Saviour’s arms.”
“’Tis thus the snow-flake from the skies,Touching the sod, dissolves and dies;Ere mists of earth can its whiteness stain,Raised by the sunbeams to heaven again.
“’Tis thus the snow-flake from the skies,
Touching the sod, dissolves and dies;
Ere mists of earth can its whiteness stain,
Raised by the sunbeams to heaven again.
“Though parted now on life’s thorny way,’Twere weak, ’twere cruel, to wish his stay;We must toil on through trials, griefs, alarms—He was borne to the goal in his Saviour’s arms.”
“Though parted now on life’s thorny way,
’Twere weak, ’twere cruel, to wish his stay;
We must toil on through trials, griefs, alarms—
He was borne to the goal in his Saviour’s arms.”
After service was over, Clementina took a fancy—for she was always governed by fancies—to walk home with her cousins instead of driving with her parents. She therefore pursued the path across the fields with Ernest, whilst Charles and his tutor walked a little way behind.
“I was so much diverted at church,” said the young lady, in the flippant manner which she mistook for wit, “I was so much diverted to see you looking so seriously at the inscription upon your own monument. It was so funny, I could hardly help bursting out laughing, only that would have been very improper, you know.”
“The inscription made me feel anything but inclined to laugh,” observed Ernest.
“Well, I would give the world,”—had the world belonged to Clementina, she would have given it away ten times a-day,—“I would give the world to know what you were thinking when you read those fine verses upon yourself.”
“I was thinking whether it would indeed have been happier for me to have died when I was a little one, before I had known anything of the world and sin.”
“Oh, dear me! those are the dreadful, gloomy notions which you get from your horrid, methodistical tutor.”
“Clementina, I will not hear him spoken of in that manner,” said Ernest, with a decision of tone which the young lady had never heard him make use of before. She was either offended, or thought it pretty to look so, for stopping as they reached a very low stile, she called to Charles to help her over it. She wished to vex Ernest, and raise a feeling of jealousy toward his brother; but she was successful in neither of her designs, as Ernest very contentedly turned back to Mr. Ewart, and left the fair lady to pursue her walk with the companion whom she had chosen.
“I am so sorry for you, dear Charles!” said Clementina, in a voice rather more affected than usual; “it is so dreadful to be turned out of your right by a low, vulgar creature like that.”
“But you see I don’t think him either low or vulgar,” replied Charles, good humouredly. “He has highfeelings, and high principles; and as for being vulgar, a boy who thinks so much, and upon such subjects as he does, can never, as Mr. Ewart said to me once, have a vulgar mind.”
RETURNING FROM CHURCH.
RETURNING FROM CHURCH.
“I find him intolerably dull,” said Clementina.
“I am sorry for it,” was her cousin’s dry reply.
Clementina was now offended with Charles in his turn, and had there been a third party less unmanageable than Mr. Ewart, she would doubtless have chosen him to accompany her, in the delightful hope of annoying both her cousins. The silly girl was almost unconsciously forming a plan to separate the brothers, andmake them jealous of each other, by sometimes favouring the elder, sometimes the younger, so as to draw their whole attention towards herself. You may think that it was some unkind and bitter feeling that made her wish thus to destroy their happiness and union, and act the part of a tempter towards her companions; but it was nothing but selfish vanity and folly—so that she was amused, she cared not who suffered; the power to give pain she considered as a triumph—it is reckoned so in Vanity Fair.
She turned round to see if Ernest were watching her movements, but was extremely provoked to find him so deeply engaged in serious conversation with the clergyman, that her presence seemed altogether forgotten. Clementina had therefore no resource but to walk on with Charles, doing her best to put all the sermon out of his head, by rattling on about her delight at the prospect of soon going to London, her distress at its not being the gay season, her conviction that young ladies ought to come out at fourteen, how she was charmed at the prospect held out of a child’s ball in Grosvenor Square, but in despair at the dear countess not being in town! Such is the conversation of Vanity Fair.
In the afternoon Mrs. Hope informed Ernest of the intended move, which circumstances had led her to make earlier than she had intended. “I propose remaining in London till after Christmas,” she said; “of course you and your brother will accompany us.”
“And Mr. Ewart?”
“There is no room in our town house for him,” replied the lady, who, like her husband, had little love for one, the unworldliness of whose character seemed a silent reproach upon her own.
“It would surely be a great pity that I should leave my studies,” said Ernest; “pray remember how much time I have lost already.”
“Oh, I’ve quite decided on your coming. To acquire a fashionable air, and the good breeding of thehaut-ton, is quite as indispensable as any book-learning.”
The truth was that the lady had no idea of losing an opportunity of displaying to her acquaintance her nephew, the young peer.
On the following evening Charles came to his brother, who was engaged in the dry study of a Latin grammar, to announce to him the arrival of Jack and Ben, who had just been landed at the gardener’s cottage.
“I must go and see them at once,” said Ernest, rising.
“’Tis late and cold; I think that you might wait till to-morrow.”
“Oh no; they are strangers here, poor boys, they have none but me to bid them welcome.”
“Then I’ll go with you to see the meeting,” said Charles, taking down his cap from its peg.
There was something of awkwardness, a little mixedwith fear, in the manner of Ben, as the young nobleman kindly held out his hand to him; but Jack had lost none of his own reckless, impudent air, and strangely did his voice remind Ernest of former days as he called out, as if still in his cottage on the common, “I say, Mark, here’s a fine change for you!”
“I don’t believe that the boy knows how to blush,” whispered Charles.
“But I hope that you don’t mean to keep us long here,” continued Jack, looking round rather contemptuously on the clean little dwelling.
“What do you mean?” replied Ernest; “surely you prefer it to the poor-house!”
“Why, you don’t think that I’ll stand living in a cottage, while my brother is in a castle! That would be rather a good joke I should say.”
“He’s no brother of yours,” cried Charles, angrily.
“I’m as good as he any day,” muttered the boy, glancing at Ernest with mingled envy and dislike. The young peer mastered his temper, though it cost him an effort. “I have placed you,” said he, “where one much wiser than either of us thinks that you will be best; I hope that you will be comfortable, and learn your work, and never have real cause to regret coming here.” With these words Ernest and Charles quitted the cottage, overhearing as they passed out Ben’s disappointed exclamation, “I thought he’d have made us gentlefolk too!”
“How hard it is to do good!” said Ernest, with a sigh of mortification, when they had walked a few steps from the place. “I see the wisdom of Mr. Ewart’s doubts, when he said that he believed that there might be objections to this plan.”
“Well, you’ve acted kindly, and you’ll have your reward,” observed Charles.
“Not in the gratitude of these boys.”
“Did you do it to purchase their gratitude?” asked his brother. “Mr. Ewart says that some do good actions to buy praise, and some to buy gratitude, but both look for an earthly reward, and, therefore, for one which can never be sure. It is the cup of cold water given for the Lord’s sake which is remembered and rewarded above.”
“True,” replied Ernest, “and if we do good only in order to be loved, the many, many disappointments which we meet with, will soon make us weary in well-doing. That benevolence only will be steady and sure which comes from a wish to please that Master in heaven who never can change or forget.”