When he speaks
The air, a charter’d libertine, is still,
And the mute wonder lurketh in man’s ears
To steal his sweet and honey’d sentences.
KING HENRY THE FIFTH.
Blessings beforehand--ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears,
Without our shame, within our consciences,
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.
Yet all these fences and their whole array,
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
GEORGE HERBERT.
What a single word can do,
Making life seem all untrue.
MARY BARTON.
The months of the winter and the spring passed away, and the
beginning of June found Camilla on the eve of leaving her home for
the first time. The depression which a complication of feelings had
caused, had very swiftly passed away--and her thoughts, which for a
time had gone forth too anxiously and vehemently into the future,
had soon returned to occupy themselves with the present. During these
months, Reginald was continually coming and going; and his short
absences, and constant and unexpected returns, together with her
continued intercourse with Miss Vincent, prevented her from sinking
into weariness. Her mind and feelings, which had been in a state of
progress, appeared to stand still, and all things to have returned to
the calm and equable flow, and childish enjoyments of the previous
year.
Reginald meanwhile, having taken leave of Oxford, was preparing
himself to enter upon life. These months were devoted by him to
intense study--not the study of books, but man. He was endeavouring
to supply by observation,--observation ardent and intent, as were
all the exercises of his intellect,--that lack of experience and
practical knowledge of which he was conscious. With special ardour
and interest, he was also devoting himself to the study of oratory.
He felt stirring within him those breathing thoughts which _must_
communicate themselves; he was conscious of possessing the gift
of those burning words which _can_ communicate them; but he knew
himself to be wanting in the knowledge of those rules of art and
prudence, without which the loftiest genius may fail to make itself
heard. To this knowledge he applied himself. Day after day he sat
in that Assembly of which ere long he hoped to be a member, neither
nameless nor insignificant; day after day, not only when eloquence
might be heard, but during the longest and dullest debates; watchful,
observant,--gathering alike from failure and from success, the wisdom
and experience for which he sought. There he learned where the
flowers of rhetoric pall upon the hearers; there, where the multitude
of words oppress rather than convince,--there he learned the majesty
of truth, the weight of character, the might of temper, the wisdom
of forbearance, and how these things bear away the palm, from the
loftiest flights of thought which possess them not. Day after day his
young and stately form was observed to enter and take his accustomed
seat; hour after hour his beautiful countenance, so pure and glowing,
that it was described as being all spirit, to bend forward in
absorbed, entranced attention,--and many were the eyes that watched
him, and many the prophecies that were made, of the brilliancy of
the career that lay before him. Many too, in his purer and brighter
image, recalling a long-forgotten name, invaded the seclusion of Lord
Vere with kindly remembrance, and friendly congratulation; and the
heart of the father began to beat again with something of the hope
and fire of youth--and an ambition, it may be faulty still, yet of a
purer kind than that which animated his early day, began to go forth
upon the beaten path of the world. No word was said--little notice
was taken of these invasions of his solitude; but the gloomy solitude
was peopled again--the dull uninterested eye was raised again--and
again with a kindling glance he began to survey the distant theatre
he had forsaken.
It was during one of Reginald’s longest absences, that an invitation
arrived for Camilla to spend a fortnight with Mr. and Mrs. Vincent at
the seaside. Mrs. Vincent wrote kindly and pressingly. Mr. Vincent,
she said, was out of health, and change of air and scene had been
ordered; she had determined therefore to remove to a beautiful place,
about thirty miles from Clare Abbey. She apologized for the little
amusement or inducement she could offer--the time of year precluding
the hope of much society--but she had so often heard Miss St. Maur
express a wish to see the sea, that she could not let the opportunity
pass without attempting to persuade her to take advantage of it. She
concluded by assuring Lady Vere, that as much care should be taken of
Camilla as if she were her own daughter.
Nothing could be kinder or more respectful than the letter--nothing,
however, more certain than that the invitation ought to have been
refused.
But Camilla was in rapture, and not unnaturally so; her opening mind
was glowing with the desire to _see_--her vivid imagination to
realize some of the scenes and sights of beauty she was unceasingly
picturing; she made therefore an earnest petition, and with little
difficulty it was granted by both her parents.
That Reginald’s view of the matter would be different, she did not
then pause to consider; but his grave and displeased countenance when
he heard of the invitation and its acceptance smote her to the heart.
A year ago, and this would have been sufficient; a year before and
his will and pleasure would have been hers also; but his influence
was no longer her sole guide. She loved him as much as ever, she
admired and reverenced him still more; but her intercourse with
Miss Vincent had not been entirely without effect. While Reginald’s
character was rising and perfecting itself, hers was in a slight
degree deteriorating. She could no longer follow him in the lofty
flights of his mind; she no longer shared in his best desires.
The very advance of his character,--the change from dreaminess
to practice,--the deepened seriousness of his mind, chilled
her. She was thirsting, for she knew not what--vague visionary
happiness--beauty, poetry, sympathy--an ideal Paradise;--and, more
often than once had been, she allowed herself to say that Reginald
was too severe, and more and more often the wish for freedom was in
her heart, and the picture of freedom before her eyes.
His displeasure, therefore, though it pained her, did not overcome
her will.
“My dear Reginald,” she said, in answer to some of his remonstrances,
“I wish you liked Miss Vincent better; you would, if you knew her
more. You really are unjust. She is not at all so bad as you think.
She is a great deal better than I am in many ways--a great deal
more religious. I could tell you a great many good things she says
and thinks.” Seeing that this assurance made little impression on
Reginald’s mind; she continued: “you are prejudiced, Reginald; and
you ought not to be prejudiced--you of all people ought not to be
prejudiced. I am sure I have read very often that a great man is
never prejudiced.”
“I am not a great man, Camilla, I wish I were; but even if I were,
I am not sure that you are right. There are some things one feels
so instinctively, that one has not time to reason upon them; but
though they look like prejudices, they are very correct judgments. I
certainly know too little of Miss Vincent to be able to give you very
definite reasons for my dislike. I may do her some injustice: but
whatever she may be in herself, I feel that she is not improving you
Camilla, and I am sorry, very sorry, to see this friendship increase.
Besides,” he continued after a moment, and his manner assumed an air
of haughtiness and contempt, “who are these Vincents; and why should
you associate with them so familiarly?”
A “besides,” in argument, is always fatal to conviction, and
especially so when a low motive follows a high one. Reginald’s
opinion, even in its pride, was certainly correct. However estimable
the Vincents might have been, they belonged to a different class;
their tone of mind and manner was different, and Camilla, unguarded
by other protectors, was too young to mix with them without danger.
But what he might have said with force was spoken from haughtiness,
and his cause was weakened by it.
As an opinion, Camilla would have agreed with him, but not in
practice when her will and fancy were concerned.
“Ah! Reginald,” she said, shaking her head at him with a
smile--“Pride, Pride and Prejudice.”
“Perhaps I am too proud, Camilla,” he said, with a sigh, conscious
immediately of the questionable motive that had prompted his words;
“and if proud, perhaps prejudiced also. I think I am right in this
case; but if you think otherwise, I will say no more, and will not
worry you with remonstrances you do not like. Only, dear Camilla,
be upon your guard; you may go into new, and, therefore, dangerous
society; do not let Miss Vincent tempt you to anything which your
own pure taste and clear judgment condemn.”
“Oh, Reginald! I will ...” she paused. “I will give it up,” was upon
her lips, but before the words could be said, there came dancing
before her such fascinating images of rugged rocks and dashing
waves, of moonlight on the waters and romantic adventures, that the
sacrifice was too much for her, and the better impulse evaporated in
vague, though very sincere, words. “I will, Reginald, I will indeed,”
she exclaimed, warmly, “and you need not be afraid, for I don’t
like Miss Vincent’s ways any more than you do. I wish I pleased you
better,” she continued sadly, distressed at having resisted him. “I
wish I never did anything you dislike. I wish I was more like you. I
don’t know how it is, but I think as you get better I get worse, and
I don’t know what will be the end of it. Oh, Reginald! I wish I were
your brother instead of your sister, and then you would see what I
should be.”
Reginald shook his head with a slight smile, and the subject
dropped. He was extremely annoyed, but his mind was not a worrying
mind: when a thing was to be, and he could not prevent it, he yielded
to it and disturbed himself no more. Camilla, therefore, was left in
peace, to the indulgence of her dreams and her will.
The day before her departure was Reginald’s twenty-first birth-day,
and the day was celebrated with especial signs of honour. Such signs
were foreign to Lord Vere’s character, but the birth of new feelings
dictated them now.
Though not a hard landlord he was a morose one, and he and all his
family were utter strangers to the peasantry thickly clustered around
his abode. Ernest De Grey, on his first return, had seen with pain
the banished and neglected state of those whom he in his childhood
had known familiarly; and, in the hope of effecting a double good,
had endeavoured to obtain Lady Vere’s permission for Camilla to
interest herself among the poor. A double good--for he felt that a
knowledge of some of the realities of life would be the best and
most certain cure for the few faults of Camilla’s character--faults
to which even his admiring eyes could not be blind. But he was met by
a resolute and animated refusal. It was one of the points on which
Lady Vere had an opinion. Shortly after her arrival at Cranleigh the
small-pox had been prevalent in the neighbourhood; and from that day
poor people and diseases were inseparably bound up in her mind.
Baffled in his first attempt, Ernest next endeavoured to draw
Reginald’s attention to the subject, and with him he had been
successful. Reginald had stood apart from no uncourteousness of
mind--from no lack of charity. He never spoke to his inferiors, but
his lightest actions always exhibited thoughtful consideration. The
poor had felt this instinctively; and, while they stood in awe of
Lord Vere, their feeling towards Reginald had been one of reverence
as towards a superior being. A curious instance of this had been
shown. Once on a breezy day, the shawl of a young girl whom he
passed, as he walked alone, was blown to a distance. He picked it up
and restored it to her, without a smile, without a word, but gravely
and courteously raising his hat as he gave it into her hand; and
as if his touch had been like the touch of an old saint, the shawl
was set apart by the parents of the girl from that day forward, as
a thing too bright and good for daily use. This had been before
Ernest’s arrival; under his influence he had approached them more
nearly; and while they reverenced him as much, they had learned to
love him more. Familiar, Reginald could not be; but familiarity is
not needful--none can give truly and from the heart except what they
possess; and the _efforts_ of condescension are alike unpleasing
to the rich and the poor. Many words and many smiles he could
not give; but he gave, under Ernest’s direction, that which was
possible--thought and care. Having obtained his father’s permission
to interest himself in the concerns of his tenantry, he endeavoured
to understand the circumstances of all classes; and he endeavoured
to show that he _was_ so doing. He was understood; and the upward
path of his life began to be followed by the eyes of the poor, and
his way to be strewed and sanctified by their good wishes, their
hopes, and their prayers.
Lord Vere saw,--and though he saw silently, saw with approval the
awakening interest in his son. His own life, his own self, his own
wrongs were beginning to pass from his mind, and his youth in a
better and purer form to live again in his son. It was partly to
strengthen this interest, partly to gratify Reginald himself, and
partly to satisfy, by a public expression, the feelings of his own
heart, that Lord Vere deviated from his usual conduct and decided on
the celebration of his son’s majority.
The arrangement of the festivities was intrusted to Ernest’s care,
and was singularly well conducted, all classes and all ages coming in
for their proper share of enjoyment. He had an art for such things;
for intense as was his own thirst for happiness, so great, and even
more intense, was his desire to see the happiness of others.
Late in the day a dinner was given to sixty or seventy yeomen of the
better class of tenantry; and at this dinner, at Ernest’s special
request, Lord Vere, accompanied by all his family, consented to
appear.
It was a lovely evening in June; the soft and serene close to a day
of sunny beauty. The table had been spread on a plot of green lawn,
immediately within the park, and overlooking the village; where large
oak trees bending around formed a kind of amphitheatre. The spot was
beautifully situated; the whole scene picturesque and interesting.
Dinner was nearly over when Lord Vere appeared. He paused at a
distance from the table; his coming had been an effort; a nearer and
more familiar approach would have been impossible. His presence,
however, was an unexpected condescension, and as all rose from their
seats it was acknowledged by a grateful though not enthusiastic
cheer. Lord Vere bowed stiffly and coldly as was his wont, and a
silence followed. It was broken by the pronouncing of Reginald’s
name--and that name was hailed with such a shout as is seldom heard,
except in Ireland. Reginald, disengaging himself from his mother
(who, supported by the unusual excitement, had walked above half a
mile without weariness), went forward to the head of the table, and
taking off his hat, in a few simple words, gracefully and gratefully
expressed his thanks. Again the shout arose, and while it was echoed
from far and near, and echoed more loudly in Lord Vere’s heart, he
suddenly left his place--laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, and
in a voice heard amidst the din, for it was the voice of authority,
said, “Speak to them, Reginald!”
There was a dead silence at once. Reginald glanced around him--fixed
his eyes on his father, bent them for a moment to the ground: then
as if a sudden inspiration mastered him, with a glowing cheek and
kindling eyes, he turned to the expectant hearers and began.
It was as the pouring forth of his whole nature; in his advice,
in his exhortations, he pourtrayed only himself. Loyalty the most
chivalrous and devoted--the purest patriotism--a full and firm,
though not perhaps a perfect, faith. The lofty aspirations, the keen
and ardent thirst for reformation, and improvement, and progress,
which was the natural tendency of his mind--blended with the sound
and practical wisdom, and the more dutiful and reverential spirit
which he had lately caught.
It is possible, nay probable, that his words and even sometimes his
thoughts, were above the comprehension of the honest, but dull and
ignorant men whom he addressed; but as the sound of sweet and solemn
music stirs the hearts of even the uneducated and unthinking, so fell
upon these hearts the music of his voice, the music of his thoughts,
the music of his words; stirring, exalting, purifying them, lifting
them for that moment of time from the low desires and earthborn cares
which were the common element in which they dwelt. The effect of his
words might be read in the light of the countenances that gazed on
him, and heard in the sound, not of the cheer, but of the hush which
followed them. That instant’s silence might have furnished a speaking
picture for the pencil of a Wilkie. The long line of honest faces,
with wide opened eyes, all resting on one youthful form--Reginald,
his hat in his hand, his countenance flushed with feeling and
excitement, the soft evening breeze lifting the curls from his pure
and lofty brow--a few yards behind him his stern and careworn father
with crossed arms, and downcast eyes--his mother with a look of
startled intellect on her beautiful but inanimate face--and on the
other hand, two who stood side by side with eager looks and lips
apart; their eyes trembling and tearful with the excess of love and
admiration that he excited in their hearts.
Reginald had paused for an instant, then in a few touching words,
alluding to his past and present position among them, and expressing
his own deep acknowledgments to his teaching, he gave the health of
Ernest de Grey.
Shout rose upon shout, and both names--for both were loved--were
blended together in the voices, and, as it seemed, in the hearts
of the people. In the midst of the cheer Reginald returned to his
mother, and observing that Ernest was unable to do more than simply
and gratefully, by action rather than by words, to express his
thanks, he gave her his arm, and, obeying his father’s silent signal,
drew her away.
Ernest and Camilla stood for a moment longer, then slowly followed
them.
* * * * *
Moments of strong excitement are dangerous moments: they disturb,
they agitate; and under the influence of their agitation, reason,
judgment, even principle itself, is often shaken on its throne.
That the excitement proceeds from good feeling in no way detracts
from--rather, perhaps, as being more delusive, adds to the dangers of
the hour.
This day,--this celebration of Reginald’s birth-day,--had been
in many ways calculated to excite Ernest’s mind, and arouse his
feelings, ever too quick to arise. Dreams of a long-past, of a
once-pictured future, were thronging upon his fancy; and envy--no
base ungenerous feeling, but still an unspeakable, agitating
envy--was stirring the very depths of his heart. And this excitement
came upon a spirit in other ways strongly agitated.
During the flowing months of the past half-year, Ernest’s feelings
for Camilla had been lulled into quietness and repose. He saw her
continually, but rarely saw her alone; again, in Reginald’s ever
recurring returns, he was the companion of their rides and their
rambles; but it was the frank and fearless intercourse of their early
acquaintance, not the dangerous intimacy of those few winter months.
Happy in their presence, happy in the present hour, he yielded
himself to its influence, and suffered no forward fears of fancy
to obscure its brightness. The gladness of his heart shone on all
around him; Reginald’s interest in his duties ennobled them in his
eyes; he performed them with a more steadfast and willing heart: he
thought he had left warfare and reluctance behind;--he was, in short,
happy, and so much of the sunshine of youth was still about him,
that he _could_ live in the passing hour,--_could_ “feed on pleasant
thoughts, spite of conviction.” The announcement of Camilla’s
departure had been the knell to these hours of inconsiderate
enjoyment. Once again struggle and warfare came,--once again passion
stirred in his heart,--once again the clouds of fear gathered about
the future, and reluctance and distaste over his life. It was not
because during one fortnight his eyes would wander in search of her
in vain. Ernest was as much in love as man can be, but he was a man
even in love, too much a man to indulge in idle sentiment: it was not
her departure that agitated him,--it was the thought of her return.
Vague, dark presentiments flitted over his soul, and a voice was
ever whispering in his ear, that _his_ day of happiness was over.
Could others’ eyes see her, and fail to worship?--could other hearts
approach, and fail to be won?--must not all feel as he did, that
one smile of affection from her lips would make life Paradise? And
then--was _he_ anything to her?--was there one feeling towards him
which would bring her back in freedom should such other love assail
her? These were the racking fears and tossing doubts which, never
ending, still beginning, once more shook the innermost recesses of
his soul.
And now the last day was come, and the day was passed in
excitement. Around and about him there were scenes and sights of
happiness,--boyish amusements, boyish sports,--which made his
old boyish nature bound within him. Then came the evening--the
picturesque scene--the sight of Reginald--Reginald’s stirring
words--the touching mention of himself--the shout--the thrilling
music of human voices--that shout for him--and then....
The noise and the excitement were over, and in the still soft
evening,--in the much-loved scenes of his youthful joys,--he wandered
in silence and alone by Camilla’s side. It was a dangerous moment--a
moment of temptation,--and Ernest, agitated with conflicting
feelings,--thoughts that stirred him and drew him up to Reginald’s
height, and thoughts that weighed him down and laid him at Camilla’s
feet, was scarcely himself to bear it.
They walked for a time slowly and in silence,--for Camilla also was
in deep thought; and further and further Ernest’s higher thoughts
vanished, as every feeling began to gather around her, as every
faculty of his intellect appeared to be centred on the question,
“What feeling bowed her head and slackened her footsteps?”
The question was answered at length.
“Oh, Mr. De Grey!” she exclaimed, raising her lovely face, tearful
still, and full of unwonted emotion, to his; “What does Reginald make
you feel? Don’t you wish with all your heart that you were like him?”
“I do,” he replied; and all his heart was in the reply.
“No, I did not mean to say that to _you_,” she said, with a manner
that asked his forgiveness. “I only meant to say that I wished it
myself. You _are_ like Reginald--you are good, like him. I ought not
to have said that to you.”
“No more like your brother,” he replied, passionately, his voice and
words alike betraying the excitement of his mind, “than a glorious
angel is like a poor creeping worm.”
“Oh, Mr. De Grey, you should not say that, for it is not true; but
still I think you are so far right; there _is_ something in Reginald
unlike common human beings--something that makes one feel--at least,
that makes me feel, sad, and ashamed, and longing to be, I hardly
know what, but very different to what I am; not so low, so poor, so
selfish....” She paused, and sighed.
Ernest made no remark: he _could_ not speak calmly; and they walked
on in silence.
“I wish I was not going away to-morrow,” she began again, after
a pause, in a kind of musing tone. “I did wish so much to go, I
could not give it up, not even for Reginald; but now I am sorry,
very sorry....” She paused again, perhaps in hopes of consolation
from those ever-sympathizing lips, but it came not. “One feels so
differently,” she went on, “at different times. It did not seem wrong
to wish for amusement, or to see beautiful sights, and other places
besides this; but now....” Again she paused, and still no comment or
consolation came.
“Why don’t you speak, Mr. De Grey?” she exclaimed at last, a little
impatiently, and impatience banishing her sadder mood. “If you think
me very wrong to go, I would much rather you told me so.”
“Wrong!” he cried, startled. “Oh no; I had no such thought.”
“What, then!--what makes you so silent and so thoughtful?”
“I was thinking of myself--of what your going is to me.” He spoke
calmly; but self-control was giving way--he was entering into
temptation.
“To you?” and she looked up with a smile? “Why, I think you will be
able to bear it; I am to be back again in a fortnight.”
“But _how_?” He still spoke calmly; but irrepressible agitation was
beating beneath.
“_How?_” she said, smiling still. “What do you mean? Do you think a
fortnight can make any very wonderful change?”
If there had been one tone of feeling in her voice, he would have
been still; but to let her go forth thus--thus careless, thus
indifferent, thus unconscious of the love he bore her--he could not
do it.
The inward struggle was prolonged upon his lips; he hesitated. Once
and again his mouth was opened and closed again; but he spoke at
length.
“Do you indeed ask me what I mean? And if I were to dare to tell,
would you hear me speak?”
As if in calmness there were strength and resistance, he still spoke
calmly, and his calmness failed to enlighten Camilla. Something--some
expression of regret--something which might have been called a pretty
speech she did expect, but no more.
She blushed deeply, and turned away her head; but there was nothing
forbidding in the movement. He might have been pardoned if it was
misunderstood. Ernest paused no longer: he had led himself to the
brink of temptation, and now, dizzy with excitement, he plunged in.
As he began to speak, scales fell from Camilla’s eyes, and she
attempted faintly to stop him; but passionately saying, “No, it is
done, and you must hear me now,” he poured forth his love, and--for
it was nothing less--idolatry.
Shrinking into herself, terrified and affrighted, Camilla heard
him. Not one thought of what he felt towards her--not one idea of
what it was to be loved as he loved her, had ever entered into her
imagination to conceive. A mere child in mind, Miss Vincent had
filled her fancy with tales of sentiment; and, without a dream of
accompanying feeling, she had fancied it a toy to play with, amusing
herself with the thought of Ernest’s love as with one of the idle
tales she read.
There came a pause--hopeless, and yet his heart beating with
hope--fearful, and yet his heart agitated with the joy of having
“told his love,” Ernest hung upon her lips. And how was he awakened
from his bewildering trance of feeling? Too much terrified to be
penitent or to feel, too shy and shrinking to enter on the question
of his love or her indifference, it was the petulant voice of a child
that answered him.
“Don’t, Mr. De Grey,--pray, don’t say such things. I don’t like them.”
“You don’t like them,” he repeated, as if the words conveyed nor
sound nor sense to his ears.
“I don’t, I don’t indeed,” she said, shrinking from him. “I hope you
never will say them again.”
“Forgive me,” after a long pause, murmured a voice beside her,--a
voice changed and altered, of unutterable sadness,--“forgive my
madness, and forget my--despair. It is all over now, for ever!”
He seemed hardly conscious that still he walked beside her: he was
bowed alike with shame and misery--his broken vows--his shattered
dream.
Camilla’s heart swelled. His voice, his words had touched a place
hitherto sealed and hidden within her. Childhood was passing away;
she was beginning to think and to feel; the past was assuming its
true colours, her own thoughtless conduct to awaken her to pity and
remorse. She would have spoken if she could,--she would have unsaid
her petulant words,--she would have asked him to pardon her, but she
dared not.
A few moments brought them to the enclosed lawn and the broad gravel
walk, and then Ernest came to himself. The others had far outstripped
them, and had already entered the house. He stopped, and held out his
hand in silence.
Touched and subdued, Camilla forced herself to speak.
“Won’t you come in, Mr. De Grey?” she said softly, even tenderly.
“Reginald expects you, and I am sure he will wish it.”
“No,” he replied, mournfully; “none can wish for the sight of one
like me.” He paused, as if to gain the strength to speak calmly;
then, holding the hand she had given him, continued, “You must
forgive me if you can,--you must forget, if you can, that I have
spoken words which duty, truth, and honour forbade me to speak. I
have grieved and pained you, whom I would die to save from one hour’s
uneasiness. I do not deserve your pity, but you may pity me; for I am
lost for ever in your and my own esteem. And now, God bless you!”
He wrung her hand; and, without waiting for word or answer,
disappeared.
With an aching heart, with tearful eyes, with a deep-drawn sigh,
Camilla looked after him; but these signs of regret and repentance
were unseen and unknown by him. He hurried on in bitterness of spirit
through the tranquil wood, through the scenes of festivity, the
sounds of mirth and gaiety falling maddening upon his ear, till he
reached his lonely home. There, burying his head in his arms, he gave
himself up to despair;--despair, because the stings of conscience
wounded more sharply and bitterly than the pangs of despised love.
How had he fallen! Where were his solemn vows?--where was his truth,
his duty?--where was a ray of trust in himself, or confidence for the
future. Despair; because even then, when humbled in the dust, no vows
of amendment, no prayers for strength were in his heart or on his
lips! It was the old tempting, repining voice, that was murmuring,
“Why was he singled out for disappointment?--why was every cherished
hope of his heart to be doomed to destruction?--was it to be ever
thus--ever and ever must he love in vain?”