CLARE ABBEY;
OR, THE
TRIALS OF YOUTH.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE, ETC.”
Awed and dazzled, bending I confess,
Life may have nobler ends than happiness.
KING ARTHUR.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
COLBURN AND CO., PUBLISHERS,
GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1851.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WM. TYLER, BOLT-COURT.
LIFE.
I made a posy while the day ran by;
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band;
But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
And wither’d in my hand.
My hand was next to them, and then, my heart;
I took without more thinking in good part
Time’s gentle admonition,
Which did so sweetly Death’s sad taste convey,
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,
Yet sugaring the suspicion.
Farewell, dear flowers! sweetly your time ye spent,
Fit while ye lived for health and ornament,
And after death for cures;
I follow straight, without complaint or grief,
Since if my scent be good, I care not if
It be as short as yours.
GEORGE HERBERT.
CLARE ABBEY;
OR,
THE TRIALS OF YOUTH.
CHAPTER I.
Our feelings and our thoughts
Tend ever on, and rest not in the present.
As drops of rain fall into some dark well,
And from below comes a scarce audible sound;
So fall our thoughts into the dark hereafter,
And their mysterious echo reaches us.
THE SPANISH STUDENT.
“Mamma! are you busy?” inquired a little boy, sliding down from his
chair, and approaching his mother’s seat with a pencil in his hand.
Mrs. De Grey laid down her book. “Is that unfortunate point broken
again?” she said, with a smile.
“Oh, no! mamma, it was not that; but if you are not busy, I want to
speak to you. I have something _very_ particular to say.”
The child was only six years old, but from his appearance you would
have supposed him to be older. His dress, the open jacket and
waistcoat (although the beautifully plaited frills of his falling
collar bespoke a nurse’s fanciful care), was the dress of a boy; his
brown hair curled close round his head, and the fresh and blooming
grace of his childhood was animated by an expression so resolute,
so boyish, even so manly, that you would already have dignified his
beauty with the manly epithet of handsome.
“What a little king!” was the hourly exclamation of his old nurse,
as the child left the nursery, terrifying her by his jumps down the
stairs; or when her keen glances caught sight of his youthful limbs
perilously perched on the topmost boughs of the old fir trees that
surrounded the house; and when you heard the exclamation you were
inclined to agree with her.
Of Mrs. De Grey more will be said hereafter. Now, only let my readers
picture her as one not young in years, and having in her appearance
other marks than those of time alone.
Struck by the seriousness of his countenance, the mother drew her son
towards her.
“What have you got to say, my dear boy?”
“I want to know, mamma, what trade I am to be?” He opened his large
blue eyes, and fixed them upon her face with an expression of intense
interest.
“That is rather a difficult question to answer, Ernest,” said his
mother, smiling. “If I were to tell you what I think, I am afraid you
would not understand me.”
“Oh! yes, I should, mamma. I understand those sort of things very
well. _Do_ tell me.”
“Well, then, Ernest, I don’t think it will be necessary that you
should have any trade or profession, as it is called. You will have
something else to do.”
“I thought everybody was something,” he remarked, with a puzzled and
disappointed air.
“What is your father, Ernest?”
The little boy pondered for some minutes.
“I don’t know, mamma, now: but I suppose he _was_ something when he
was young.”
“No; never a soldier, nor a sailor, nor a lawyer, nor a clergyman. He
was rich. He never had to work for his own living; all that you see
about here--this house, and the park, and the fields, and the trees,
all belong to him,--and if you live, Ernest,” she added, seriously,
“I suppose some day they will belong to you.”
“But what _shall_ I do then, mamma, when I am a man? Shall I do
nothing?”
“I should like you to try and think what ought to be the duty of
those to whom God has given riches. There are only a few in the world
who need not work for themselves. Perhaps you, my dear boy, will be
one of those few. Now, tell me what you think those few should do?”
“I suppose, give away all they have got,” the child replied; but he
spoke listlessly, and as if the subject did not much interest him.
“Not quite that, perhaps, Ernest,” she said, smiling, “but something
of the kind. You will not be idle, I hope, though you may not need to
work for your own living. Don’t you think you should like to work for
others?”
“Yes, mamma, in some ways very much,”--but he looked puzzled.
“We will talk these matters over another time; run back to your
drawing now, my boy. I don’t think you are quite old enough yet to
understand me.”
The child obeyed, took up his pencil, and began to draw without
making any further observation. He was engaged upon a battle-scene;
and, however strange in some respects the youthful composition might
be, he certainly had contrived to give a vivid picture of the horrors
and confusion of a field of battle. He now added a few more wounded
men to his heaps of dead and dying, and mercilessly condemned them
to be trampled upon by gigantic horses, and officers, whose waving
plumes were considerably higher than themselves.
These new features of horror occupied him for about ten minutes. He
then again laid down his pencil, and gazed at his mother.
“Mamma, why do all the Leslies have trades? Harry is going to be a
sailor, and George is to be a clergyman, and Leopold, oh! mamma, do
you know, he is going to be a soldier?”
“Mr. Leslie has a great many children, my dear Ernest. He means them
all to work for their own living.”
“Then, mamma, I wish you had a great many children besides me. I wish
...” The little boy paused, for the names of many little brothers
and sisters, whom his eyes had never seen, crowded upon his memory.
He stopped, sorry and ashamed, and seizing his pencil, bent down his
head, to conceal his crimson cheeks and starting tears.
His mother called him to her side, and kissed him with her tenderest
smile.
“What have you got in your mind to-day, Ernest, that I am not to
know?”
“Oh, mamma!” exclaimed the child, as if the words were bursting from
his heart, “I do so wish to be a soldier. Do you think you ever will
let me? I wish it so much, so very much.”
A cloud came over his mother’s pale brow, and she averted her eyes
from his countenance. He was gazing up into her face, with such
flashing eyes, such an ardent glance, as she remembered to have seen
once, and but once before.
“No, Ernest,” she replied, at last, gently but firmly.
The little boy stood aghast at the decision of the reply. This
question had for months,--it would scarcely be too much to say for
years,--been agitating his childish heart with hope and fear, and had
only been withheld in dread of the fatal “No,” which now had been
spoken.
“_Never_, mamma?” he repeated, after gazing at her with open eyes and
lips apart.
“No, Ernest, _never_. I am sure you would not wish to make me
unhappy; and it would make me more unhappy than I can tell you now.
You must not set your mind on being a soldier.”
“Don’t you wish me to be great and brave?” asked the child, with
something of sadness in his voice.
“Yes, Ernest, I do indeed wish you to be brave; but there are many
ways of being brave, many ways of being a hero. It is very great and
very good to be a brave soldier; always think so, my dear boy: but do
you know, there is something quite as great, and even better still?”
“What, mamma?” and he gazed eagerly at her.
“Fighting a harder fight than against a foreign enemy,” she said,
smiling; “conquering our own wishes, our own will. Do you understand
me, Ernest?”
“I don’t know,” the little boy answered, sadly.
“I think you may be something of a hero now,” she continued, stooping
and kissing his fair open brow, “if you try to give up your first
great wish, because I ask you to do so.”
The child looked in her face for a moment without speaking; then
returned to his seat, took up his drawing, walked steadily and
resolutely to the fireplace, and tore his battle-scene into twenty
pieces.
That same evening, as his old nurse sate at work in the outer
nursery, she heard a sob from the adjoining room, where Ernest slept.
She took up a candle, and pushing open the door, which was just ajar,
stole softly to his bedside.
The little boy betrayed his wakefulness, by the violent movement with
which he drew his sheet over his head, and completely buried himself
beneath it.
“Mr. Ernest!” she called gently, again and again; but he remained
silent.
She was not one, however, to be baffled; and, excited and troubled
by the unwonted sound of weeping from Mr. Ernest, set herself very
determinedly to discover “what the matter could be.”
She put down her candle and entered into conflict with the little
vigorous fingers that pinned the sheet tightly round his head. It was
a work of some difficulty, but experience conquered at last; and,
although the child immediately concealed his face, his glowing and
tear-stained cheek was not to be hidden from her scrutinizing gaze.
“Why, Mr. Ernest, what _is_ the matter?” she cried.
“Go away, nurse,” he said, peevishly, “I don’t want you; I want to go
to sleep.”
“But, my dear, I must just settle your things, for you have got your
sheet all of a ruck, and your hand is quite hot. Are you ill, my
dear?”
“No, nurse, not a bit.”
“Well, to be sure, something must be the matter. Are you hungry, my
dear?”
“No, nurse, not a bit,” more petulantly.
“Then, are you afraid, my dear? Shall I leave the door open?”
“No, nurse, not a bit,” he cried, with vehemence and indignation.
The old woman had her own peculiar acuteness; she saw that if she
pressed upon this string, she should penetrate the mystery of his
tears.
“I’d better leave the door open, I believe; many a one finds it
lonesome to be in the dark. There, my dear, lay down your little
head, and you shall see the glimmering of my candle upon the wall, to
help you to go to sleep.”
“I don’t want your candle, nurse. I tell you I’m not afraid.”
“Then, what is it, my king?” she said, coaxingly.
“I’m not such a coward as to be afraid,” cried the little boy,
vehemently. “I was thinking.... Oh, nurse! do you know, mamma says
that I never, never am to be a soldier,” and his voice died away in a
low sob.
“Bless him!” remarked the old woman, partly in surprise, partly in
affection.
Having conquered his first shame at having been found in tears, the
little boy was ready enough to pour out his griefs. “Oh, nurse,” he
continued, “I have thought of it for such a long, long time, and now
it never can be. Mamma says it will make her unhappy, and she says
I must bear it; and I thought I could bear it, but I can’t, I can’t
indeed. Nurse, why should mamma be unhappy? wouldn’t she like me to
be a great, great soldier, like all the people she tells me about?”
“No, Mr. Ernest,” replied the old woman shaking her head; “it would
go very near to break your mamma’s heart if you was to think of such
a thing; and I will tell you a story about it to-morrow.”
“Tell me now, nurse; do tell me now.”
“Well then, my dear, you must promise to go to sleep as soon as ever
I have done, and not to cry any more.” And she sat down on a chair by
his bedside.
“I will try to go to sleep as fast as ever I can, nurse, and I don’t
think I ever shall be such a baby as to cry again; now do nurse tell
me a nice story.” And the child fixed his bright wakeful eyes upon
her face.
“Well, my dear, it is a great many years ago now; but I must tell you
first, that when your mamma was a little girl, she lived in a happy
home with her papa and mamma, just as you do now, only that perhaps
she was a bit happier, for she had a brother born the very same day
that she was born; such a beautiful merry boy as Mr. Henry was,--just
such another as you, Mr. Ernest; I often think I sees him come back
again when I looks at you, my dear; and they two was as fond of one
another as turtle doves, as I heard a lady say. And they played about
together all the day long, and at times Mr. Henry was as gentle as a
young lady, and at times Miss Gertrude was clambering about like a
little tom-boy. I was a girl then, I was the nursery-maid Mr. Ernest;
and I used to have such work with Miss Gertrude at times.” And she
made a pitying sound as if she recalled the black hands and torn
frocks of her former charge. “Well, my dear, your mamma’s papa was
a great general; they said he was the bravest man in all the king’s
army, and he had been in I don’t know how many battles, and he was
wounded ... but my dear, how red your cheeks are, and how your eyes
do sparkle! I don’t know what your mamma would say to me for telling
these tales over-night. Better....”
“Go on nurse,” said the child, raising himself on his arms. “I won’t
go to sleep all night, if you stop; tell me about these battles.”
“Well, well,” said the old woman, nothing loth, “just for this
onest.... Well, my dear, and so at last Miss Gertrude came to be a
woman.”
“But the battles, nurse, and the wounds?”
“We shall come to the battles, Mr. Ernest, if you be patient; and
so, as I was saying, Miss Gertrude came to be a young lady. Sweet
seventeen! oh! she was a rosebud--she was;--and Mr. Henry he was
seventeen too, because they was both born on the very same day,--and
Mr. Henry was like you, Mr. Ernest, and he had set his mind on being
a soldier, ever since he was a child so high,--and the general, _he_
thought there was nothing in all the world like the king’s armies,
and he was as ready to make a soldier of Mr. Henry as Mr. Henry was
himself; and his mamma too, she thought they was noble fellows them
military. Only Miss Gertrude, the tear was in her sweet eye when the
thing was settled; she could not a-bear to lose her brother; and I
was a bit sad myself; but then he comed to see us in his grand dress,
and he did look like a prince, with his fine feathers tossing in the
air, and his sword that he swung about, and his bright blue eyes
dancing like the very stars themselves, just as yours do now--lay
down, my dear, lay down.... Well, it’s no matter now; he went away
and we never see’d him again. I dare say you knows about Boney, as
we called him then; nobody thought of anything but Boney; and he was
for taking to himself all the kingdoms of the earth as they said,
and he was for making himself I don’t know what beside; but it’s no
matter now, for he’s dead and gone with all his greatness. Well, at
that time there was great work in Spain, a country you knows about I
dare say my dear; and the Dooke of Wellington, he weren’t a dooke
then, he went off to the war, and Mr. Henry he went with him, and the
general too, for all his wounds, he went off to the war. Oh! that was
a day; I thought Miss Gertrude would have broken her heart; though
young Mr. De Grey, your papa, my dear, he was coming a courting even
then; but Mr. Henry he was full of fun and spirits to the last; bless
his heart! only just at last, when he kissed Miss Gertrude, there was
a tear shining in his bright eye; I see’d it myself, but he dashed it
away and said he know’d he soon should see her again; and so he went
off to the wars.” The old woman stopped and wiped away a tear with
the corner of her apron, and the little boy said nothing but gazed
more earnestly into her face.
“Well, my dear,” she began again, “the time went by and there came a
day at last when there was a great victory; it was a bloody victory
they said; and we heard there was a victory, and we heard that many
was killed and many was wounded, and we feared and feared, and Miss
Gertrude, poor dear, she became as white as any pale white rose, and
we did not know whether _they_ was dead or alive; and then there came
the firing for the victory. Oh! how well I remember that night; how
the guns shouted in the air so triumphant like, and yet so sorrowful,
for they was firing over a thousand of the dead. Poor Miss Gertrude
sate so white and so trembling, and she held her poor mamma’s hand,
and she never shed a tear, though she knew, as she said afterwards,
that they was firing over her brother’s death; and so they was; we
heard all after a bit. The General he was wounded, but _he_ came
back to us to die; but Mr. Henry he never comed again. They said,
‘He had died as a young hero should die,’ them was the words; ‘and
he sold his life dear, they said, for his country’s sake;’ and they
said, ‘Never was a young arm so strong, or a young heart so full of
bravery,’--them was the words; and so Mr. Henry died.”
She paused, and the little boy pulled the sheet over his face; but
the next moment he threw it back, and looking up, his eyes sparkling
with tears, he said, “Oh! nurse, how I should like to die as Mr.
Henry died.”
“No, Mr. Ernest, my dear,” she said, rising from her chair and
beginning to arrange his disordered bed, “you must not die as Mr.
Henry died; your mamma has never been herself since that day. Afore
that she was as merry as a lark; bless you her voice sounded like a
bird, as she sang about the house; but I never heard her sing since
that day; and my belief is she could not abear such a grief again.
No, Mr. Ernest, you must stay at home and make her happy; won’t you,
my dear?”
The child sighed--a real heavy sigh; “One battle, nurse, if I could
have _one_.”
“Well you must think of this, my dear, you or your mamma must give up
your will--you must think which will be the best. But now, my dear,
go to sleep as you promised me you would; there’s ten o’clock I do
declare.”
“Yes, nurse,” he said, turning obediently on his side and closing
his eyes--but as she was leaving the room he started up again,
“Nurse, will you tell it me all again to-morrow?”
“Well, well, go to sleep, my dear--we will see when to-morrow comes.
What a little king it is!” she murmured, as she took her place again
before the large nursery work-basket.