Time is Nature’s faithful messenger,
That brings up all we wish as well as all we fear.
DE FOE.
There are often calm fair days without storm, though it be not
clear sunshine.
ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON.
A. Oh! Lady, would the past had never been.
L. Not so! there is a lesson in the past,
That nothing else can teach us.
“Well, Edward, and so it’s all over, I suppose.”
“Yes, mother, all over;” and having so replied, Mr. Hervey sat down
in silence in the window-seat of the little drawing-room.
“Well, Edward, don’t be so short about it,” Mrs. Hervey exclaimed,
with some irritation, after waiting in vain for a further
communication.
“There is not much to tell, mother,” he said; an expression of
unusual thought and feeling resting on his good but common-place
countenance; “though a good deal to think about.”
The usual position of the mother and son was for a short time
reversed, and the new dignity of speaker sat as uneasily on Mr.
Hervey, as the inferior position of listener did on his mother.
“Plenty to tell, Edward, if you would but speak. Poor, sweet thing! I
would have given twenty pounds to be there--but it was not to be. Now
tell me, Edward, was it as private as they wished?”
“Yes, mother; there was not a creature to be seen but Lord Vere and
two or three of the maids and servants. Mrs. Mitford and old Herbert
came down half an hour before the rest, to make sure there was no
crowd. But they need not have been afraid. Mr. St. Maur was too much
beloved--there’s not a soul would have set a foot outside the door,
if it looked like disrespect to him.”
“And poor Lady Vere--she couldn’t come, of course.”
“No, mother; as I told you, there was but Lord Vere. I inquired of
Mrs. Mitford how Lady Vere was to-day, and she said there was no
change. She said as you say, mother, ‘she never will hold up her head
again.’”
“Never, Edward; that I thought from the first. I saw her in the
carriage the week after Mr. St. Maur died, and I tell you fifty years
couldn’t have made such a change. She might have gone on young and
beautiful to her dying day, if she had not found her heart. But when
once those simple creatures,--for simple she was, Edward,--feel a
thing in their hearts, it takes all their life away. She may linger
on a while,--but she never will grow on the earth again. Well,
well,--it was a heavy trial even to the strong, and it is no wonder
the weak sink under it.”
“Heavy indeed, mother,” Mr. Hervey said, and he sighed. “Even to me
the world is a changed place. I never was tired of watching that
young St. Maur; and proud as he once was, it made me watch him the
more; and I thought I should have watched him till he stood as one
of the great ones of the land. But now it’s all over,”--and he fell
into abstraction again.
There is no mind so dull and dry--none even so shallow and
common-place--that has not, in some hidden corner, a note of music,
a fount of higher and brighter feeling. If the chord can be found,
it speaks. Mr. Hervey’s had been touched this day, and he was unlike
himself.
“Come, Edward, how was it all?” asked Mrs. Hervey, a little teazed by
her son’s pensiveness. “Miss St. Maur came down with her father, I
suppose?”
“Yes, mother; Lord Vere led her in, and Mr. De Grey followed, and
they were not a moment waiting. I was glad to do it, mother. You know
how proud I felt when Mr. De Grey told me I should be wanted; but
when the time came, I should have been glad to have been spared. I
felt it, mother, more than I ever felt anything before. That proud
Lord Vere, so soft and so trembling; and that young lady, who used
to be so gay and so thoughtless, looking as still and as sad as a
crushed flower; and the church, all fresh and bright--the work of
_his_ hands; and then the servants, all crying, and ...” Mr. Hervey
paused, and looked out of the window.
“And was she in white, Edward, like a bride?”
“Yes, mother, she could not have worn her mourning, you know;--just
in white, with a veil over her head--no flowers, nothing grand.”
“Poor, sweet young thing! She looked the very picture of Amy Mills,
I’ll venture to say.”
“I don’t know, mother,” Mr. Hervey said, absently.
“No, indeed, Edward, how should you? for she died before I was
married. But I can see her in her white veil, looking as like as
could be to poor Amy Mills in her shroud. There was a strange
likeness between them, there’s no doubt of that; and when she looked
as gay as a young bird, it used to come over me and make me tremble,
for I thought death must come and tame her.... Well, and so it has;
she’s tame enough now, they say. Well, well! No doubt, it’s all for
good; all the ways of God are good; but I would give a hundred golden
guineas for one of her old smiles again. I used to feel them in my
heart--they used to carry me back to my bright young days ... but
that might have been because of Amy Mills.”
“Talking of likenesses, mother, do you observe how strangely like Mr.
De Grey has grown of late to poor young St. Maur?”
“Mr. De Grey and Mr. St. Maur!” exclaimed Mrs. Hervey, putting on
her spectacles to examine her son. “There’s no more likeness between
them than between me and Lady Vere, and that’s not much. You have the
strangest fancies, Edward.”
This, by the way, was an extremely inappropriate observation of Mrs.
Hervey’s; for no one ever had fewer or simpler fancies than her son.
The very word “fancy” expressed something far too original for his
mind. He had plain reasons for his assertion now.
“I don’t mean in point of feature, mother,--there is, of course, no
change there; but there used to be a kind of inspired look about
Mr. St. Maur, and Mr. De Grey has it now. I have thought of it once
or twice, when he has been preaching of late, and it struck me more
particularly yesterday when he was talking to me of his future life;
his eyes seemed to shine as if there were lights behind them, and he
made me feel ... I don’t know, mother, how it is, I have always liked
Mr. De Grey,--none could but like him; but I never used to feel about
him as I do now. I used to think of him as one of ourselves,--I never
felt raised by his notice as I did with poor young St. Maur; but
there is a change now. I like him as well; but I don’t feel with him
as I did. It is more like young St. Maur.”
“Nay, Edward, there is no pride about Mr. De Grey, I am sure. He was
here yesterday, as kind and as tender to me as if I had been his own
mother, because he thought I might take the not going to his wedding
amiss.”
“Oh no, mother, no pride; it was not that I meant. But it’s no
matter.” Mr. Hervey might have remarked with the Frenchman, “_Vous
ne me comprenez pas. Cela m’est égal; je me comprends très bien
moi-même._”
“Well, Edward, and then they went home to the Abbey, I suppose?”
asked Mrs. Hervey, pursuing her catechism.
“No, mother. They went from the church-door to the old place at
Evesham. Mrs. Mitford told me that it was Lord Vere’s wish; he
thought it best for Miss St. Maur.”
“And how did she behave, poor thing? Did she bear up well?”
“She was very quiet, mother, at first, and followed me in a low sweet
voice; and, though she looked very sad, I thought she seemed quite
composed. But when the service was over, almost before she had risen
from her knees, Lord Vere took her in his arms and kissed her,--and
it overset her. I thought it ill-judged, though it affected me; for
she could not recover herself again. She was crying very bitterly
when she signed her name, and so she was the last I saw of her, as
Mr. De Grey put her into the carriage.”
“Poor thing! poor young thing!” sighed Mrs. Hervey, shaking her head,
and taking off her spectacles to wipe them. “I don’t know how you
feel, Edward, but these melancholy weddings don’t please me. I hope
it may all come to good.”
“It must come to good, mother: there is no doubt but it will,” Mr.
Hervey said, with some vehemence.
“Well, Edward, I hope it may; if it was my own daughter, I could not
wish it more. But old women will have fancies. She is but young to
marry where she does not love; and I never thought she cared for Mr.
De Grey,--never. I have said so a hundred times. Love was another
kind of thing when I was young. And then this dismal wedding,--the
sound of the funeral bells, I may say, still ringing in our
ears,--for it is but three months since. Well, well,--God grant she
may be happy.”
“She _must_ be happy, mother,” Mr. Hervey exclaimed, and he started
from his seat in some excitement as he spoke. “To be loved as he
loves her must in itself be happiness. If you had heard his voice
to-day, as he held her hand at the altar,--I don’t know what, mother,
it made me feel; but envy, I think, and ... and then, if you had
seen him look at her,--his eyes, just bright with tears, as they
often are,--making them shine the more, and resting on her so fondly
and so tenderly,--it was like the look of a guardian angel, as if
nothing should ever grieve her heart while he was near. No, mother,
it is not foolish young love that makes people happy, but love like
his. I don’t care for your romantic tales.”
“Well, well, Edward,” Mrs. Hervey said, a little astonished at her
son’s excitement, “you may be right, after all; and if the wedding
has not been as bright as wedding-days should be, I remember what I
used to read long, long ago, ‘Many a cloudy morning turns out a fine
day.’”
* * * * *
Gifted with his heart’s desire--happy in the perfect love of one whom
he so perfectly had loved,--restored to the possession of a loved and
lost inheritance,--was there a danger that Ernest’s heart would turn
again to build its home, and lay up its treasures upon the earth?
Danger there must ever be--watchfulness must be ever needed--for
in St. Augustine’s words, “It needs great virtue to struggle with
happiness, and great happiness not to be overcome by happiness;” yet
in truth his safeguards were many. There _are_ lessons which the
heart cannot forget--there are impressions which leave ineffaceable
seals on the soul. The joy that comes after long trial, is like the
sweetness of an autumnal day; sweet indeed, yet fuller of memory than
of promise, and bearing even in its brightness a voice of warning
sadness, which makes the joy of its presence a chastened one.
Ernest might have used--we may use for him--the beautiful concluding
words of Silisco, in the Virgin Widow:--
Grace defend my heart!
That now it bound not back to what it was
In days of old--forgetting all that since
Has tried and tamed it. No, Rosalba, no.
Albeit yon waves be bright as on the day
When dancing to the shore from Procida
They brought me a new joy. Yet fear me not;
The joy falls now upon a heart prepared
By many a trouble, many a trial past,
And striking root, shall flourish and stand fast.
* * * * *
In the twofold character, the temporal as well as spiritual
authority, with which already in a degree he is invested, and ere
long circumstances will wholly invest him--influence of no ordinary
kind is placed in his hands.
For his natural disposition the responsibility might have been too
arduous, but he has been prepared for it now. Something of human
imperfection may cling to him; failures on one side and the other be
imputed to him; now his zeal may outrun his prudence; now earthly
feeling cloud the clearness of his sight,--but these things, though
occasionally they impede, cannot arrest his upward course.
His truth, his humility, his boundless charity, never fail--and where
these qualities are taught by the wisdom of experience, guided by
obedience to the declared laws of God, and submitted to His will,
they are in very deed the links of that golden chain which draws many
souls to Heaven.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged, as were
jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings. Five misspelled
words were corrected.
Obvious printing errors, such as partially printed or missing letters
and punctuation, were corrected. Final stops missing at the end of
sentences and abbreviations were added.