Days and weeks passed, but the instructions which he received seemed to make little impression on the obdurate spirit of Jack, who had one idea rooted in his mind, which neither example nor exhortation was able to shake—that it was a sort of injustice to him for one who had once been his equal to be so rich while he remained so poor. In vain both the folly and ingratitude of his conduct were shown to him; a proud, levelling spirit had taken possession of his heart, which would neither bend in submission to Heaven, nor thankfulness to those who did him kindness. Would that this feeling were more uncommon in the dwellings of the humbler classes, and that they to whom little of this world’s goods have been given would remember that, while the rich have duties towards the poor, the poor have also duties towards the rich.
The annoyance which it caused Ernest’s sensitive spirit to be the object of envy and ingratitude, and thenecessity of being ever on his guard to avoid expressing anger, or, which is much harder, feeling it, made him rather rejoice when the day arrived for the family’s removal to London. He was impatient to see that wonderful place of which he had heard so much. The winter, also, had come, and the coldness of the weather made the prospect of a journey southwards very agreeable. The boy’s only regret was leaving Mr. Ewart, whom they regarded more as a parent than a tutor.
“Good-bye, and Heaven watch over you!” said the clergyman, earnestly, as he stood at the door to witness their departure.
Charles pressed his tutor’s hand warmly between both his own; Ernest threw himself into his arms.
“You must not keep us, boys; we shall be late for the train,” called out Mr. Hope from the carriage.
“I can’t conceive what makes them so fond of that man,” observed Mrs. Hope in no amiable tone.
“You will see more of Vanity Fair,” said the clergyman, in a low voice; “I have but one word for you,—Watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation!”
The next moment the carriage dashed across the court-yard; Mr. Ewart followed it through the arched gateway, and stood on the drawbridge which crossed the moat, watching till he could no longer see his dear pupils standing up in the carriage and waving to him.
THE PARTING WITH MR. EWART.
THE PARTING WITH MR. EWART.
A railway journey was a new thing to Ernest, andraised many thoughts in his mind as the train rushed rattling along the line, sometimes raised on a causeway, sometimes sunk in a cutting, sometimes lost in the darkness of a tunnel; yet, whether above the surrounding country or below it, whether in brightness or whether in gloom, rushing on—on—on, with wondrous speed, towards the goal to which each hour brought it nearer.
“I, too, have had my dark portions of the journey, and now Heaven has been pleased to raise me,” thought Ernest, “and the sunshine is bright around me. But when I arrive at the end of my journey, how little I shall care whether it was long or short, through gloom or light, uncomfortable or pleasant, it will be enough if it has taken me to myhome!”
And now let us see our young pilgrims settled in London—in that wonderful assemblage of all that is noblest and all that is basest in the world; the abode of the greatest wealth and the most abject poverty; the seat of learning, arts, science, crime, misery, and ignorance; the city which contains at once perhaps more good and more evil than any other spot on the face of the globe. Ernest found his expectations more than realized as regards its size; there seemed no end to the wilderness of brick houses—street crossing street to form a mighty labyrinth which both astonishes and confuses the mind. The unceasing roll of carriages and stream of passers-by; the variety of vehicles of all kinds and shapes; the innumerable shops; the stately public buildings, churches, hospitals, schools, and places of amusement—all had the charm of novelty to the young noble, and fresh impressions were made upon his mind every hour.
Then came a round of all the diversions which London could offer at that period of the year. Days and nights,also, were crowded with amusements; and Ernest, at first in a whirl of pleasure, soon began to experience the weariness of a life devoted to gaiety. His mind felt clogged with the multitude of new ideas; his head ached from confinement in crowded rooms; his rest was broken in upon; he became almost knocked up by excitement, more tired than he had ever before been made by labour, without the satisfaction of gaining anything by his fatigue. He began to long for the quiet of Fontonore again, and to exchange the bustle of gaiety into which he was plunged, for calm study and the society of Mr. Ewart.
And how fared the spiritual health of the pilgrim?—was he making progress towards heaven, or falling back? Ernest had entered London forewarned and forearmed; circumstances, not choice, were leading him through the very midst of Vanity Fair, but he was walking as a pilgrim still. He had made a prayerful resolution from the very beginning, to devote the first hour of each morning to God. Sloth, increased by weariness, often tempted him to break this resolution on the cold wintry mornings, and suggested many an excuse for self-indulgence. But Ernest knew that he stood upon dangerous ground, and kept resolute to his purpose; and that quiet hour for communion with his own heart, for self-examination, reading of the Scripture, and prayer, was his great safeguard amidst the numerous temptationswhich encompassed him in his new path of life. Things which, only seen in the torch-glare of worldly excitement, must always have appeared in false colours, reviewed in the pure light of morning lost much of their dangerous attractions. I cannot too earnestly recommend to all, whether young or old, in high or low estate, thus to give their first hours to God.
The family assembled so late for breakfast, that Ernest found that, by a little self-denial, he might not only have time for devotion, but also for study in the morning. He was exceedingly anxious to cultivate his mind; he felt his deficiencies very painful, and he was sometimes even tempted to encroach on his “holy hour,” as he called it, to have more time for improving his intellect. This is a temptation which probably some of my readers have known, and which is all the more dangerous because it does not shock the conscience so much as other ways of passing the time. But still Ernest kept as free as he could from any earthly occupation the precious little space where, apart from the world, he could collect his strength and renew his good resolutions.
The only member of the family who gave him the least assistance in treading the heavenward way was his brother; and often did Ernest think of the wisdom and mercy of the Saviour in sending His disciples by two and two into the world. The characters of the boys were in some points very unlike, but there was onehope, one guiding principle, in both, and perhaps the very difference in their dispositions made them more able to support one another. Ernest was more shy and diffident than his brother, but had a deeper knowledge of his own heart. Charles had learned more, but Ernest had reflected more; Charles was in more danger from love of the world, Ernest from shrinking too much from its ridicule. Where Hope was impatient, Fontonore had learned to wait: their early life had been passed in different schools—one the child of luxury, the other of want; one tried by pleasure, the other by suffering; but both had passed through the strait wicket-gate; both were united in sincere love to the Saviour; both were anxious to struggle against their besetting sins, and to press onward to the prize set before them.
Would that we were ever as ready to help one another in the narrow path as these two young Christian pilgrims! If, instead of acting, as we too often do, the part either of tempters or tormentors, we employed all the influence which friendship and relationship give us to draw our companions nearer to heaven, what a blessing would rest on our intercourse below! How much would it resemble that which we hope to enjoy above!
One thing which the inexperienced Ernest soon discovered was, that money disappeared very rapidly in London. That which at first had seemed to him an inexhaustible fortune, appeared almost as though it meltedaway in his hand. One of his first cares on entering the capital was to procure a most beautiful Bible, and send it, with a grateful letter, to Miss Searle. This was at once a pleasure and a relief to his heart, for it had been burdened—not with a sense of owing kindness, for that is painful only to the proud spirit, but the feeling that he might appear ungrateful, and that those who had been his friends in adversity might think that in his prosperity he had forgotten them.
Then there were so many necessary things to be purchased—so many tempting books to be desired, for Ernest delighted in reading—so many charities which he wished to aid—so many objects of pity that he yearned to relieve, that the youthful nobleman’s once heavy purse soon became very empty.
Ernest had been some time in London before he went to visit Madge, in the asylum in which he was supporting her. He reproached himself with the delay; but, in truth, the conduct of her brothers had so disheartened him, that it was as a duty, and no pleasure, that he went there at all. Charles, as usual, was his companion, and his only one; for visiting charities was little in the way either of his uncle or his proud wife, though Mrs. Hope had once held a stall at a grand Fancy fair, which was patronized by duchesses and countesses. As for Clementina, she would never have dreamed of going; she had a vague connection in her mind between povertyand dirt, and thought it dreadful if a child of the lower classes ventured to approach within two yards of her. Many a tear had the young lady shed over a novel: for heroes and heroines she had ready sympathy; she considered that sentiment and feeling give an added charm to beauty; but common every-day sufferings had in them nothing “interesting.” She could be touched by the sorrow of a princess, but the real wants of a ragged child were quite beneath her regard.
Ernest was agreeably surprised in the asylum. Everything so neat, so perfectly clean; such an appearance of respectability in the matron, of health and good discipline amongst the children. Poor little Madge, also, was so much delighted to see a face that she knew, after being only surrounded by strangers, that Ernest felt vexed with himself for not visiting her sooner, and emptied his purse of its last half-crown to place in the hand of the child. This still further opened the heart of Madge, and she talked to him almost as freely as if she had still regarded him as her brother, though without the insolent familiarity which was so repulsive in Jack.
She showed Ernest a letter which she had received from her unhappy mother, who had been sentenced to transportation, though for a shorter period than her husband, on account of being specially recommended to mercy. Ernest had, through Mr. Ewart, provided Ann with some little comforts; and to this, in her letter, she gratefullyalluded, though his kindness, she wrote, only made her feel more wretched, when she remembered how cruelly she had wronged him. She implored her daughter to shun the temptations which had led her astray, especially the love of dress, the beginning of all her errors and her misery—the vanity which had laid her open to flattery, and had made her take the first step in that downward course which had led her to prison and a convict-ship. There was deep remorse expressed in the letter, which gave Ernest hopes that the poor prodigal might yet repent and find mercy; but its tone of cheerless gloom showed but too well that the mire of the Slough of Despond was clinging to the unhappy one still.
Perfectly satisfied with Mr. Ewart’s choice of a home for the more than orphan girl, Ernest quitted the asylum with his brother, thankful that an opportunity had been granted him of repaying evil with good. He was enabled to provide for three children, whose parents had inflicted on him deep injuries, and from whom he had received, during the years of childhood, unkindness which had imbittered his life. It is easier to forgive one great wrong than a long course of petty provocations; and when both are united to rouse the spirit of revenge, nothing but grace given to us from Heaven can make us forgive as we have been forgiven.
As the brothers passed a bookseller’s shop, on their way home, Charles paused to look at a volume in the window.
“Oh, Ernest,” he exclaimed, “look what a beautiful copy is there of that work which Mr. Ewart so much wished to see! Do let us buy it for him, as a New-Year’s gift, to take back with us to Fontonore. My funds are rather low; but if we join purses, we shall easily make out the sum together.”
“I really cannot,” replied Ernest, looking wistfully at the beautiful book.
“Oh, but you must! You know,” said Charles, lowering his voice to a whisper, “that Mr. Ewart never procures these indulgences for himself. I believe, from what I heard my uncle say, that he entirely supports an aged mother. I never knew him spend an unnecessary shilling on himself.”
“Perhaps the book is in our library,” suggested Ernest.
“It is not; it was his hunting all over it for the work that made me know how much he wished to have it. I wonder, Ernest,” added Charles, with a little temper, “that one rolling in wealth like you should make such a fuss about a few shillings.”
“I am not rolling in wealth at present,” answered Ernest, rather vexed at his brother’s tone; “I have not a shilling left in my purse.”
“Then you must have been wondrously extravagant. Why, even I, on my half-allowance, have managed to keep a little silver, and I was never famous for economy.”
Ernest made no reply.
“We had better go on,” said Charles.
They walked on for some time in silence.
“I am afraid that I spoke rudely to you just now; will you forgive me?” said Hope, at last.
“Oh, do not talk about forgiveness,” replied Ernest, cheerfully. “I think that I could forgive you anything; and one should never take offence at a word.”
“I ought to have remembered,” observed Charles, “that the child whom we have just seen is a great expense to you; and yet you seem to spend so little, that I hardly fancied that you could have got through the allowance of a whole quarter. Do you not receive the same sum that I used to have when I imagined myself to be Lord Fontonore?”
“No,” replied his brother, and immediately changed the conversation.
They walked on for some distance, talking on other matters, when, as they were passing through one of the parks, Charles stopped, as if some thought had suddenly crossed his mind.
“Ernest,” said he, laying his hand on his brother’s arm, “just answer me one question: How is it that you do not receive the same allowance that I did?” Receiving no answer, he continued, “Is it possible that you are dividing yours with me?”
Ernest smiled. “I am not bound to answer questions,” said he.
THE CONVERSATION IN THE PARK.
THE CONVERSATION IN THE PARK.
“Oh, I see it all! generous, noble-hearted brother! And you suffered me to accuse you in my own mind of meanness—almost to reproach you to your face for it—while all the time it was your money that I have been spending, and you never even let me know my obligation!”
“Obligation is not a word for brothers,” replied Ernest; “what I have is yours; what you spend I enjoy; let us always have a common purse between us.”
“No, that must never be!” exclaimed Charles; “youhave burdens enough upon your hands already. My uncle must supply me.”
“Do not deprive your brother of his privilege,” said Ernest, who had seen enough of Mr. Hope by this time to know that it would be galling to Charles to be in any way dependent upon him. “You will hurt me if you deny me this favour; I shall think that you do not care for me, Charley.”
It was the first time that Ernest had ever used this familiar and endearing name to his brother. There was something in his tone, as he pronounced it, and in his manner, as he threw his arm round Charles, that raised a glow of affection in the heart of the boy, warmer than he had ever known before. Both felt the strength of that holy beautiful tie by which the members of every family should be united. Children of the same parents on earth, children of the same Father in heaven; with one common home both below and above—one path to tread and one goal to reach—how is it that pride and envy can ever disunite the hearts which God himself would join together?
One evening, after the family had been more than a month in London, Ernest sat alone in the drawing-room with his book. Mr. and Mrs. Hope were absent at a dinner party, which the lady was to leave early, in order to call for the young people, to take them to the long-expected ball in Grosvenor Square.
Clementina had been up-stairs for more than an hour, engaged in what was to her one of the most interesting occupations of life—decking out her little person in all the extravagance of fashion. Ernest sat by the window, not that the light by which he read was in any way derived from anything outside it; but it amused him to glance up occasionally from his page and look out upon what was to him a novel sight—a regular yellow London fog.
Of the long line of lamps which stretched down the street, only the two or three nearest were visible at all, and they looked like dim stars surrounded by a haze.Loud shouts, sometimes mixed with laughter, were occasionally heard from foot-passengers wishing to give notice of their presence. Now two lights, like a pair of eyes, would slowly approach, marking where a carriage moved on its dangerous way; then torches carried past would throw a strange red glare on the fog, scarcely sufficient to show who bore them.
“We see something like this in life,” said Ernest to himself. “I think that fog is the common weather of Vanity Fair. Let me see in how many points I can find a resemblance between nature’s mists and those raised by ‘the world.’ Both come not from heaven, but belong to things below; both shut out the pure light of day—make us in danger of falling—in danger of striking against others—hardly able to tell friend from foe. Yet people seem particularly merry in both, as if the very risk were a pleasure. They light those glaring torches, and walk cheerfully on, though they can see neither sun, moon, nor stars. Who would wish to pass all his life in a fog? Yet some choose to live and die amidst the mists of Vanity Fair.”
“Reading, moralizing, reflecting,” said Charles, in his own lively manner, as he entered the room. “Who would take you for a young nobleman going to a ball? It will be your last for a long time, I suspect; for Parliament, I hear, is dissolved, and if so, there will be a new election, and back we must fly to Fontonore.”
“I am not sorry for it,” replied Ernest.
“Nor I,” said Charles, more gravely. “I am afraid that this is a dangerous sort of life for me. You never seem to be in the same peril as myself; I suppose because you are a better pilgrim.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Ernest; “you cannot look into my heart; but every one knows his own temptations best. The truth is, that I cannot enjoy society so much, because I always feel that I am not sufficiently educated, and am in constant fear of exposing myself, and being laughed at. There is no possible merit in this.”
“No; if that is all your protection from worldliness, I should call it a very poor one.”
“Yes; for if it protects me on the one side, it exposes me to danger on the other. Do you know, Charles, that nothing astonishes me so much in myself, as the cowardice that I find that I possess.”
“You manage well, for no one finds it out but yourself.”
“I must care for the world, or I should not fear its ridicule. I was always thought rather courageous before I became a peer; I know that I used to speak out truth pretty boldly in our cottage; but there is nothing that I dread so much as the quiet sarcastic smile on well-bred lips. I sometimes fancy,” he added, laughing, “that I should mind it less if there were any chance of its being followed by a blow.”
“Well, this much I can say for you, Ernest—I have never yet seen this fear draw you one step from the narrow path.”
“I could not say as much for myself, dear brother. The world is a dangerous place.”
“Which would you call the principal temptations of Vanity Fair?” said Charles.
“Temptations to be insincere, ill-natured, and forgetful of God.”
“Oh, you have not numbered half. Think of all the extravagance, vanity, love of show, love of fashion, love of dress, love of trifles of all sorts.”
“Which do not make us happy,” added Ernest.
“Happy! no. They remind me of the beautiful enchanted money in the Eastern tale, which a man put so carefully by, and which he found, a short time after, all turned into leaves. Have you seen Clemmy on this evening of the ball, which she has been looking forward to for so long with such pleasure?”
“No; is she in very high spirits?”
“She is quite miserable, poor girl. I daresay that she would cry heartily, did she not know that red eyes are not becoming.”
“What is vexing her so much?”
“She has three terrible troubles, which she knows not how to bear. Firstly, she fears that Aunt Matilda may not find her way in the fog, so may never call to takeus to the ball; secondly, she fears that even if we should reach Grosvenor Square, we should find the rooms empty on such a night as this, and there would be few to admire her and her new dress; and, thirdly, she is afraid that her pearl ornaments will not come in time; and this is her worst misery of all.”
“Have they not arrived yet?”
“No; Clemmy has been in a fidget about them all day, starting at the sound of every bell with a cry of, ‘Oh, I hope that’s the jeweller at last?’ And since she went up to dress, Mrs. Clayton has been sent down three times at least to see if the ornaments have come; and as she has had always to return with the same unsatisfactory answer, Clemmy is doubtless by this time in a state of grief which might make her an object of pity to any beggar in the street.”
“Poor Clemmy!” murmured Ernest, with real compassion in his tone.
“You do not pity her, surely, for being unhappy at such trifles?”
“I pity her because such trifles can make her unhappy. Charles, do you know that my conscience is not quite easy about our cousin?”
“Your conscience! You have nothing to do with her folly.”
“We have a good deal to do with one another. I see more of her than of any one but yourself; she is one ofmy nearest relations; and yet I have never tried in any way to help her on in the right path.”
“I do not believe that she is in it,” replied Charles. “She is constantly trying to play us off against each other; nothing would delight her so much as to make us quarrel, all to gratify her selfish vanity.”
“If she is not in the right path, in which must she be? Where will she find herself if she remains as she is?”
“We cannot help her wanderings; they are no fault of ours.”
“Oh, Charles, we must not act in the spirit of those words, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ We who meet her so oftenmusthave some influence for evil or good; and think of the rapture of meeting in heaven with one whom we had been the means of helping to reach it!”
“I can hardly fancy any delight greater,” said Charles; “but I do not know anything that we could do for Clemmy. It is foolish in me, but when I look at her, and watch her affected manner, and hear her trifling talk, I never can realize to myself that she has a soul at all.”
“Yet she has one just as precious as our own.”
“I know that, but I cannot feel it; she seems just like a pretty plaything, made to be dressed up, admired—or laughed at.”
“Would that she could be raised to something nobler, something better!”
“I do not believe that we can raise her. She only thinks me provoking, and you tiresome. She never would listen to Mr. Ewart, and I do believe only goes to church to show off the fashions. I do not see what we could do for her.”
“We can pray, dear Charles, we can pray earnestly; if we have not done so before, we have neglected a duty.”
“My neglect has been greater than yours,” said his brother, “since we have been together for so many years. I have thought it enough if I were not led to folly by her society; I never dreamed that I had any other responsibility about her.”
“But now—”
“Now I feel that I have been wrong. I remember, Ernest, that Faithful roused some to become pilgrims even in Vanity Fair; Hopeful himself was one of them. Perhaps poor Clemmy—”
“Here she comes; I hear the rustle of her silk down the stairs.”
“Have not the pearls been sent yet? Oh, dear, how vexatious!” exclaimed the young lady on entering the room, most elegantly dressed. She seated herself in an affected attitude on the sofa, with a very melancholy expression on her face, as she played with her feather-tipped fan.
“I do believe they are,” cried Charles, as a loud ring was heard at the outer bell.
DRESSED FOR THE BALL.
DRESSED FOR THE BALL.
Clementina sprang up eagerly, and hurried to the door—so eagerly, so impatiently, that her little feet tripped, and she fell with some violence to the ground!
“You are not hurt, I hope,” exclaimed both cousins, hastening to Clementina’s assistance, and raising her; for, in her ball-dress, she was more helpless than ever.
“She is hurt, I fear,” cried Ernest, as he saw red drops trickling from her brow, and falling on her lace dress. “Oh, Charles, do call Mrs. Clayton directly.”
The lady’s maid was instantly summoned, and the hurts of the trembling, sobbing, almost hysterical Clementina examined. She had received rather a deep cut on the forehead, and a little contusion under the eye. There was nothing to alarm, but much to disfigure. Charles proposed sending at once for the doctor, but this the young lady would not hear of: she had some vague, terrible idea, of wounds being sewn up, and much preferred the mild surgery of Mrs. Clayton.
In the midst of the confusion occasioned by the accident, two lamps were seen to stop before the door, and the thundering double rap which succeeded announced the return of Mrs. Hope.
The servant who came to say that his mistress was waiting, laid at the same time a box on the table: it contained the much-wished-for pearls.
“I had better go down and tell what has happened,” said Charles, quitting the drawing-room. In two or three minutes he returned with Mrs. Hope.
“My darling child! my sweet Clemmy! what a sad business this is! How could it have happened? Why, you look as though you had been to the wars! you will never be able to go to the ball.”
Clementina leaned her head on the sofa, and sobbed piteously.
“Dear me! I hope, Clayton, that you have put on the plaster carefully. I only dread her being marked for life,” said the mother.
The poor girl’s grief became more violent.
“You must compose yourself, my dear; you will make yourself ill. A fall is a great shock to the nerves.”
Ernest had left the room as the lady entered, and now silently offered to his cousin’s trembling hand a glass of sal volatile and water.
“You had better go to bed at once,” said Mrs. Hope. “’Tis such a pity; all ready dressed for the ball! I must go, for I could not disappoint Lady Fitzwigram, and I believe that the Duchess is to be there. Clayton will take excellent care of you, I am sure. Come, Ernest and Charles, I see that you are ready.”
“And I am to be left all alone, and on this night, just when I expected to be so happy!” sobbed Clementina.
“I should like to stay with her, I should indeed,” said Ernest to his aunt; “I hope that you will not object to my doing so.”
“Why, what will Lady Fitzwigram say?”
“She will not care; she has never seen me but once. You will be so kind as to make my excuses.”
“Well, it is very considerate of you, certainly. I don’t know what to say,” replied Mrs. Hope, very well pleased to be able to tell a fashionable circle that Lord Fontonore had stayed behind because her daughter could not come. So the matter was soon decided; the carriage moved off slowly with Mrs. Hope and Charles, and Ernest and his weeping cousin were left behind, to spend the rest of the evening quietly together.
Never before had Clementina found her cousin half so agreeable as now. He was so gentle, so considerate, so ready to sympathize with her, that she began suddenly quite to change her opinion of him, and think the young peer a very delightful companion. She had hitherto been rather provoked at his indifference towards her; now, as she had little idea of the nature of Christian courtesy, she attributed all his kindness to admiration. She thought that the white bandage across her brow might have an “interesting” effect; and Ernest’s gentle consideration would have lost half its power to please,had Clementina been aware that it would have been equally shown to one in a humbler class of life of the age of forty instead of fourteen.
As she reclined on the sofa, and Ernest sat beside her, it was a great comfort to her to be able to pour out her complaints to him. “There never was anything so unfortunate,” said she; “you can’t imagine what it is to have such a disappointment.”
CLEMENTINA AND ERNEST.
CLEMENTINA AND ERNEST.
“I think that I can, Clementina, for I was once most bitterly disappointed myself.”
“Oh, but you are such a sober creature, such a philosopher. I daresay that you scarcely gave it a thought.”
“On the contrary, I felt myself almost overwhelmed. I could hardly speak, I could hardly keep from tears.”
“You!” exclaimed Clementina in surprise.
“I thought,” continued Ernest, “that there was no one on earth so unhappy as I—that all happiness in this world was gone.”
“What could have made you so wretched?” cried the girl, her curiosity so much roused that her own troubles were for the moment forgotten.
“I had lost what I greatly desired.”
“And what could that have been, Ernest?”
“A situation so much below my real rank, that I smile now to think that I could ever have wished for it. Had no difficulties been in my way, had I had what I desired, I probably never should have possessed my birth-right. How glad I am now of what so much distressed me then!”
“And what was it you were so miserable at losing?”
“A place in the service of Mr. Searle.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Clementina, opening her eyes to their widest extent. “That was below you indeed; what an escape you made!”
“Perhaps nothing that ever happened to me caused me more pain.”
“Oh! that was because you did not know what you really were, or you would have looked a good deal higher.”
“Now, Clemmy, it seems to me that this is the very reason why you are so unhappy this evening.”
“What! that I do not know what I really am? what can you mean!” exclaimed the girl, yet more astonished than before.
“If you discovered that you were a king’s daughter, would you fret for a ball, or care for a blow?”
“Really, Ernest,” cried Clementina, half curious, half inclined to think him jesting, though he did not look so, “I wish you would speak so that I could understand you.”
“I wish you to look higher, dear cousin; you set your thoughts and your hopes too low, on things far more beneath your real station and privileges than the office of a servant was beneath mine. Are you not the child of the King of kings; is not a mansion in heaven offered to you; may not the white robes and golden crown be preparing for you now; and yet you seem as though you knew not of the bliss set before you—you are content to be a servant?”
“To whom?” interrupted Clementina.
“To the world; and oh, my cousin, the world is a bad master! you have tasted this night what wages it can give; God grant that you know not much more of their bitterness hereafter.”
“Why, Fontonore, what is the matter? why do you speak so?” cried Clementina, looking half frightened at her cousin’s earnest face; for it cost him no small effort to address her thus, and he warmed with his own words as they flowed on.
“I speak thus because I long to see you happy, really happy. Now you are only, as it were, blowing bubbles of pleasure: you touch them and they break, and are gone for ever. Oh, let us seek that which is lasting and sure—that which will be ours when these frail bodies are dust.”
“It is very unkind in you to talk of such things to me when I am weak and nervous, it makes one so horribly gloomy.”
“Does it make one gloomy to hear of sins being pardoned; does it make one gloomy to hear of a Father in heaven; to know that treasures are laid up for us where neither moth nor rust can corrupt, where happiness is as lasting as it is perfect. Did it make me gloomy to hear that I had a rich inheritance?”
“Oh, that was quite a different thing!” cried Clementina, “from becoming one of your pious saints. You talk to me now only about happiness in religion, but I know very well all the lectures upon holiness, and unworldliness, and repentance that will follow.”
“Still my comparison holds,” pursued the young peer, “for I have not yet entered into full possession of my estate; I have yet many a difficult lesson to learn, nor can I spend but a portion of what is my own.”
“You have a good deal of enjoyment in the meantime.”
“I have, Clementina, and in this, most of all, may myposition be compared to a Christian’s. He has great enjoyment, pure, present enjoyment, a beginning of his pleasures even here. Does not the Bible command us to rejoice without ceasing?—who can rejoice if the Christian does not? Yes,” continued Ernest, his eyes sparkling with animation, “how very, very happy those must be who have gone a long way on their pilgrimage, when I, who am only struggling at the entrance, can say that I have found no pleasure to equal it! Oh, Clementina! my joy when I heard that I was raised from being a poor peasant, forced to toil for my bread, to become one of the nobles of the land—the joy which I felt then was as nothing compared to my delight when I first felt assured that my sins were forgiven me.”
Clementina made no reply, and soon after expressed her wish to retire to rest. Those who have never known the happiness of religion find it difficult to believe that it really bestows any. A blind man cannot understand the beauty of light, nor the man deaf from his birth the delight of music. Yet music and light are around us still, and such to the soul is “the joy of the Lord.”
“Perhaps some day she may reflect over what has passed,” thought Ernest, as he bade his cousin a courteous good-night; “and at least one thing is left that I can do for her still—I will never cease to pray.”