I pray not, dearest, thou mayst be
For ever as I see thee now,
Unruffled as the summer sea
Without a care to cloud thy brow;
I know that thou wert sent to share
Life’s mingled cup of good and ill;
Child of a Holy Father’s care,
Submit thee to His Sovereign will.
SEWELL’S SACRED THOUGHTS.
Ideas on education are so various, that the system pursued by Mrs. De
Grey in the education of her child would probably have been liable to
objections of opposite kinds. Some, because of the high principles,
religious and moral, which she instilled, would have called it
strict; but the larger number perhaps in the present day, seeing her
attention to his wants and wishes,--her earnest care to encircle his
young life with an atmosphere of happiness, would have pronounced it
to be over-indulgent.
There is no doubt that, provided the great principles of reverence,
obedience, and self-denial are properly instilled, the early years
of a child can hardly, for its future good, be too happy;--the
strictness that brings discomfort and unhappiness in its train is a
false and perilous strictness; nevertheless there might have been
some truth in the accusation of over-indulgence. Content with feeding
his mind with high and noble thoughts, the mother may have been less
careful to bring those thoughts into action. Satisfied with acting
steadily for his good in great points, she may in those lesser things
which far more than great ones form the character, have been too
desirous to gratify his wishes, to guard him from disappointment, to
make the earth he trod a flowery way, and the sky above his head a
cloudless one. Such at least was the reproach that conscience made
when the time drew near to speak,--to speak those words which would
blight his sunny, sanguine dreams for ever.
Mrs. De Grey had delayed the disclosure till the last moment: she
shrank from it. None knew as she did how great the trial to her
son would be; for it was she herself who had twined the thoughts
of his home with his very heartstrings. Shrinking, with something
perhaps of weakness, from his first wish, so warmly and passionately
expressed, she had woven the idea of his home into all the plans for
his education,--into all his visions of the future,--she had made
it at once the motive for exertion and its reward: Clare Abbey had
become--and it was she herself who had made it so--the idol of her
son’s heart.
Something to blame, no doubt, there was in this, but it was rather
an excess of a right principle than the enforcement of a wrong
one. In such strong early local attachments there is so much of
good,--such concentrated affections are so powerful as weapons in a
future warfare with evil,--that praise and blame might almost equally
be distributed;--we might almost say, that even in its excess the
failing leans to virtue’s side.
Again the mother and son sat alone, towards the close of an August
day. It was three weeks since the evening of the fatal announcement,
and those three weeks of glorious summer weather had been passed by
Ernest in a state of intense enjoyment. To his numerous active sports
and pleasures he had lately added a love of boating; and as day after
day he returned from his excursions on the water, with companions
gay and eager as himself, his mother had averted her eyes from his
sunburnt cheek and dazzling smile, and to the promptings of her
inward monitor had still replied, “Not to-day! let me spare him yet;
the time will come all too soon.” The time, however, at length had
come, and could no more be delayed. Mr. De Grey was gone to London to
complete his arrangements for the sale of his property, and before
his return the disclosure was to be made.
Ernest had been at home all day; his young companions, the Leslies,
younger in years, though not in nature, than himself, had returned to
school. Fulfilling, at length, of his own will, an often postponed
promise, he had been engaged for many hours of the afternoon in
making a catalogue of some curious old prints for his mother, and had
devoted himself to his task with unusual quietness and diligence.
“There, mother!” he exclaimed at last, closing a large portfolio
which lay before him, laying down his pen, and stretching out his
arms, with a slight sigh of weariness--“There, it is done at last!
and I hope, for once, you will tell me that I have really been
industrious.”
“You really have,” she replied with a smile. After a moment she
continued affectionately, but gravely--“I hardly expected you to
persevere in such a long and tiresome task, and I have been watching
you with pleasure. Patience and industry may be necessary even for
you, Ernest.”
“You always speak like that, mother,” he said, colouring slightly,
for his conscience took her praise rather in the light of a reproof:
“I know you think I care for nothing but my own pleasure, and perhaps
you are right. Ever since our conversation the other night I have
been thinking of what you said, and trying to find out if it was
true; and I am afraid it is true ... rather ... but I don’t mean it
to be true. I hate selfishness.” He sat for a moment thoughtful, then
laughed as he spoke--“Didn’t some old heathen say something about
knowing oneself being a great object? if so, I have made a great
attainment these last few weeks. I always used to think I was a hero,
something very superior indeed,--made to sacrifice myself, and to
delight in it, and now....”--he paused.
“And now ... what?” and his mother watched him with a smile, but an
anxious one.
“And now, mother, I am afraid that I should prefer doing what I
please to any sacrifice whatever.”
“You do not, I hope, look upon yourself as _incapable_ of a
sacrifice?” she asked, with a gravity that made him dwell upon the
subject.
“No,” he said, after some consideration; “I don’t think I should mind
one great sacrifice,--even if it were a very great one. I think, on
the contrary, I should rather like the excitement of it: but what I
mean that I have discovered is this,--I never thought before that I
was very fond of having my own way, and my own wishes gratified, but
after thinking of it, I am afraid I am. I am afraid I never could
bear to go through a long course of sacrifices. I am afraid, I think,
that always to do what one disliked, as some people do, would be very
hard.”
Mrs. De Grey took a book from the table, and opening it, read aloud
the following sentence:
“I have no doubt that happiness is to be found rather in renouncing
one’s own will, than in gratifying it. Looking back from the eminence
of a long life on the valley through which I have passed, I have no
hesitation in saying, that those spots which now shine the brightest,
are not those which were illuminated by enjoyment; but rather those
which were hallowed by sacrifice.”
“Well, mother, I can understand that to a degree,” Ernest said, after
listening to her with attention. “I dare say when one looks _back_
one had rather think of what one has given up, than of what one has
merely enjoyed; but looking _forward_ is quite another thing. Giving
up in _expectation_ one’s hopes and wishes is a melancholy thought;
don’t you think so, mother?”
She was bending over her work,--she did not appear to hear him.
“I am afraid, mother,” he said, looking at her with some earnestness,
“you expect me to wish to be disappointed. I can’t do that.”
“No, indeed, my dear boy; I have heard some people express a wish
for trial, and I have always considered such a wish both unwise and
presumptuous; but if trial came, dear Ernest, I hope you would not
shrink from it.”
“I hope not,” he said, thoughtfully, struck by something unusual in
his mother’s manner; but the cloud of momentary gravity, was not of
long duration. A few minutes afterwards he walked towards the window,
and leaning out of it, continued playfully, “I think that gentleman,
mother, must have been rather melancholy in his mind, for I disagree
with him about looking back. _I_ think there is something very
bright about a place where one has once been happy--merely simply
happy without doing any good to anybody. Now those bushes, mother,”
pointing to a large clump of underwood on one side of the lawn,
“you will laugh at me, I dare say, but I never go by them without a
particular feeling of happiness; and that comes from a remembrance
of the house that Harry Leslie and I built there a hundred years ago
now; and just in the same way Clare Abbey will always look bright.
I fancy that when I am a horridly old man, I shall still feel happy
while I can creep about it, and think of all I did in ... my dear
mother, in my _happy_ youth,” and he came suddenly towards her and
put his arm round her neck.
She rose up hastily from her seat, and gently repulsed his embrace;
she could not bear it at that moment.
“Will you walk with me this evening, Ernest?” she asked with a
gravity and meaning in her manner which he could not understand.
“Yes, mother; I should like it very much;” but while he spoke he was
examining her countenance.
Mrs. De Grey was quickly ready, and they set off together. Her
health, though good, was not strong, and Ernest’s arm was the common
support of her languid footsteps when she made any unusual exertion.
Now, without expressing any definite purpose, she insensibly guided
him up the ascent, to the brow of the hill, from whence the finest
view of Clare Abbey was to be obtained. In sight of all its beauty
she wished him to give it up.
They walked along in silence. There are ways and means independent
of any outward sign or expression by which those between whom there
is a strong bond of sympathy communicate their impressions to each
other. Such a power was used now by Mrs. De Grey. She said no more;
her countenance was serious, but no more: all around was calm and
quiet, as it was wont to be; and yet Ernest, as they pursued their
silent way, plunged in deep though unconscious reflection, felt as if
he stood on the brink of some extraordinary event.
They reached the brow of the hill, and there Mrs. De Grey paused
and turned to gaze. The sun was setting, and such streams of
rose-coloured light were falling from the sky and bathing the woods
and waters, that a landscape poor in natural advantages would have
been transformed into a fairy land. Its effect on the peculiar and
romantic scenery around and about the Abbey, is easier for the fancy
to imagine than the pen to picture.
Mrs. De Grey turned, however, from the landscape to gaze on the
living beauty of her son’s countenance, glowing and sparkling with
admiration and pride.
“You are very fond of Clare Abbey, Ernest?” she said, with a grave
inquiring sadness.
“My dear mother, do you doubt it?” he said, reproachfully; “why do
you look at me so strangely? You cannot misunderstand me, surely?
you cannot suppose that because I said the other day I wished to
travel, I care for travelling or anything else in the world compared
to being at home, here, at Clare Abbey with you? You must have
misunderstood me most strangely!”
“No, I did not doubt it; I know very well what you feel; but in my
weakness, Ernest, I postpone the tale of tidings heavy to your ear. I
have something to tell you, my dearest boy; you may have discovered
that I have spoken much of the necessity of sacrifice; it was to
prepare you to make one. I must ask you now, are you capable of a
great sacrifice--a sacrifice of that which is very dear to you! can
you give up all the hopes and dreams you have pictured for your
future life, and not murmur?”
He looked at her in vacant astonishment.
“I am speaking the truth, dear Ernest; you will have indeed much to
give up! Your father has lost all--nothing remains for him or for
you. This place, Clare Abbey, must be given up into the hands of
strangers.”
“But how, mother?” he asked, wonderingly, too much amazed to realize
or to feel.
“You shall know all in time, Ernest. There has been error--I do not
shrink from telling you so--error on your father’s part, and through
error this misfortune comes; but it is not for us, for you or for me
to blame: your own heart will tell you that, dear Ernest. I would
rather have you feel that though human conduct and human error may be
the cause, it is not less the hand of God that sends the trial and
asks from you submission.”
He stood by her side in silence, his eyes fixed upon the ground. His
thoughts were not of his father’s error, nor his own submission; but
flitting before him there came the past joys of his childhood, the
present joys of his youth, the pictured joys of his future days, all
centered and treasured in that one spot before him; and vaguely fell
the words that it must be given up, Ernest was right; he was _not_ a
hero.
“Will you not speak, Ernest?” his mother asked, gently; “will you not
tell me how you will bear the change?”
He gave a rapid glance around, then said hurriedly, “If you can bear
it, mother, surely I can!” But in his heart he felt as if the glory
of life was ebbing from the spot where he stood.
She said no more, neither in exhortation nor in sympathy. She saw
that even _she_ had scarcely estimated the weight of the blow that
had fallen; but there is a time for all things, and it seemed to her
then to be a time not to speak, but to keep silence. She left him to
his own thoughts.
“Shall we go home, Ernest?” she said at last; “it is getting dark.”
“So it is,” he replied, looking around him,--with a half smile
adding, “how changed it is since we came up here.”
They retraced their steps, and walked in silence till they approached
the house. As they were entering it Ernest said,
“I will talk to you to-morrow, mother. I am afraid I have
disappointed you; you expected me to speak more nobly, more bravely,
but I am not quite sure yet what I do feel. It is very easy to speak,
but I should be sorry to speak well now, and to fail afterwards. I
must think. I can only say, mother, that I hope you will never have
reason to be ashamed of me.”
And without saying or waiting to hear more, he left her; appeared at
dinner with a smiling countenance, and talked cheerfully on other
subjects during the whole evening.