----Men
Can counsel and give comfort to that grief,
Which they themselves not feel.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
Augustus met with his usual kind reception at the parsonage; nor was it
long before he found the opportunity he wished of consulting his
earliest and most revered friend; for Mrs. Temple quickly perceived,
that something hung heavy on the bosom of this young man, whom she loved
almost as a son, and therefore soon retired from the dinner-table,
leaving the two gentlemen _tÍte ‡ tÍte_, believing that he would find as
much comfort as she ever did, from conversing freely with him who was
"her guide, her head;" for, like our first parents, they lived, "he for
God only, she for God in him."
No sooner did Augustus find himself alone with Mr. Temple, than his
oppressed heart found a ready vent, and he poured into the sympathetic
ear of his reverend auditor a full detail of all his feelings. He had
first discovered how ardently he loved Selina, at the moment he had
learned she was destined for another; and he described, with all the
eloquence of passion, the agony, the despair he now experienced. Mr.
Temple had not yet forgotten what it was to love; and, "though time had
thinn'd his flowing hair," his feelings had not yet become torpid under
its benumbing influence. He could listen with patience, and even pity,
to the wild effusions of his favourite's grief, while he waited calmly
till the first burst of passion should subside, and leave room for the
exercise of sober reason.--"Come, come, my dear Augustus," said he, at
last, "your case is neither a singular nor a desperate one: there are
very few young men of your age, that do not fancy themselves as deeply
in love as you do now, and, of the number, not one in five hundred marry
the object of their first choice: indeed it is often very fortunate for
them they do not."--"But Selina Seymour! where is such another woman to
be found?" exclaimed Augustus: and then, with all a lover's vehemence,
did he expatiate on her "matchless charms." "I grant you," replied Mr.
Temple, "she is a very delightful girl; and, as far as we can judge, is
likely to make a most estimable woman. But you know her disposition is
naturally volatile in the extreme, and much of her future character will
depend on her future guides. Well, well, we will not dispute on the
degree of her merits," continued Mr. Temple, seeing Mordaunt ready to
take up the gauntlet in her defence;--"hear me only with calmness, and I
will promise to confine my observations as much as I can to yourself.
You know, my dear boy, you are yet very young, and very inexperienced.
It is true you have been three years at Oxford. But of the world you may
literally be said to know nothing. Selina is now certainly the most
charming woman you have yet seen; but how can you be sure she will
always hold her pre-eminence in your estimation? Aye, my dear fellow,
you need not tell me;--I know you are at this moment perfectly convinced
of your own inviolable constancy, and so forth. But let me tell you, you
do not yourself know yet what would, and what would not, constitute your
happiness in a wedded life. The girl, whose vivacity and animation we
delight in at seventeen, may turn out a frivolous and even contemptible
character at seven and twenty. And can you picture to yourself a greater
calamity, than being obliged to drag on the lengthened chain of
existence with a companion, to whose fate yours is linked for ever,
without one tone of feeling in unison with yours; to whom your pleasures
and your griefs are alike unknown, or, if known, never comprehended; and
where every misery is aggravated by a certainty that your fate is
irremediable--when
'Life nothing blighter or darker can bring;'
when
'Joy has no balm, and affliction no sting?'
"It is very true that you think now, because Selina's pursuits have
hitherto been similar to yours, that her character must likewise be in
sympathy with yours. But, though I grant that it appears so now, I deny
that it is in any way so formed as to be safely depended on. She is very
young and very docile; and, believe me, her disposition, chameleon-like,
will, most probably, take the shade of whomsoever she associates
with:--'_Dimmi con chi vai, e vi diso quel che fai_[6].' You say, if
you were her husband you would be her guide; and that similitude of
character, now faintly traced, would be confirmed for ever. But without
dwelling on the argument, that your own is yet scarcely formed, let me
remind you, that Selina is even still more ignorant of the world than
yourself. Let me ask you, even in this moment of unrestrained passion,
would you consent to accept that dear innocent girl's hand, without a
certainty that with it you received her heart? And how could you be
certain of her affection, till time and experience, by maturing her
judgment, had confirmed her feelings? How, Augustus, would you support
the conviction, nay the bare suspicion, that when, as your wife, you
first introduced her to that world from which she has hitherto lived so
totally secluded, she should meet with another, whom she even thought
she could have preferred to you; and, while you continued to gaze on her
with the eye of tenderest love, you found your heart's warm offering
received with the cold petrifying glance of indifference? You shudder at
the very thought. Think, then, how the arrow that wounded you would be
doubly sharpened, if the slanderous tooth of envy galled your fair fame,
by accusing you of having secured to yourself Sir Henry Seymour's
property by marrying his heiress, before the poor girl was old enough to
judge for herself. What, then, my dear boy," said Mr. Temple, grasping
his hand with a fervour almost paternal, whilst his eyes swam in tears,
"What, then, Augustus, is the result of these observations, more painful
to me to make than to you to hear? You acknowledge you would not even
wish to marry Selina under these existing circumstances. What then is
your misery? Look at it boldly in the face; and, trust me, few are the
anticipated evils of life, which, by being steadily gazed at, do not
dwindle into insignificance. Lord Eltondale has proposed his son to be
Miss Seymour's husband; and the match is sufficiently desirable, in a
worldly point of view, to obtain Sir Henry Seymour's consent. But
Selina, you say, knows nothing of it yet, and has never seen Mr. Elton.
What then does it all come to? Why, when she does see him, if she does
not like him, do you think her father would force her to marry him? and
if she should like him, would you accept her hand, even if it were
offered to you?"
[Footnote 6: Tell me with whom she goes, and I'll tell you what she
does.]
Mr. Temple had not so long continued his discourse without frequent
interruptions from Augustus, who could not at first easily be persuaded
to assent to assertions, which tended to destroy the fairy dream of
bliss that floated in his imagination. By degrees, however, as his
judgment cooled, he acceded to the plain but severe truths which Mr.
Temple uttered; while the deference and regard, which his pupil had
always felt for the excellent old man, served still more effectually to
obtain the conviction he aimed at, than even the logical strength of his
reasoning.
By degrees, Mordaunt not only confessed the truth of his remarks, but
submitted to the wise plan of conduct, which Mr. Temple laid down for
him.
He proposed that Augustus should immediately leave the hall, and return
to the prosecution of his studies at Oxford, leaving to time not only
the development of Selina's character, but also the proof of to what
extent he was actually attached to her.
Their conversation was prolonged to a late hour; and when Mordaunt
returned home, the family had all retired to rest, and the door was
opened by a servant, who, at the same time, shaded with his hand the
glimmering candle, which but partially illuminated the darkly
wain-scotted hall. Augustus felt a chill creep through his veins as he
quickly traversed it; and walking mechanically into the empty
drawing-room, stopped a few minutes in melancholy silence. The music
Selina had been playing was carelessly strewed over the harpsichord; the
sermon book, in which Mrs. Galton had been reading, was laid open on the
table; and Sir Henry's knotted cane had fallen down beside the chair, in
which he usually took his evening nap. A sort of involuntary reflection
passed through the mind of Augustus, that he might never again meet
those three beloved individuals in that room, which had hitherto been to
him the scene of his happiest hours; and shrinking from the melancholy
train of ideas which this reflection gave birth to, he hastily retired
to his room, though not to rest. Many a time, during that wakeful night,
did the same reflection cross his mind; and many a time, in his future
life, did it recur to his recollection with a poignant force. So often
does it happen that melancholy fancies, occasioned in the mind by the
temporary pressure of sorrow, are recalled to the memory by subsequent
events, and, dignified by the accidental confirmation of casual
circumstances, receive the name of _prophetic warnings_.