THE TOUCHSTONE OF TRIAL.
“Looking forward, he saw Faithful before him upon his
journey.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._
A few hours afterwards, as Charles was sitting in his own room, amusing
himself with his pencil, he was joined by his tutor, who looked weary and
pale, as if suffering from exertion and excitement.
“I hope that you have found out who beat the poor boy so cruelly, and
have given him up to justice,” exclaimed Charles.
“The man whom I suspect is in custody,” replied the clergyman, sinking
wearily down on a chair. “I find that Mark is asleep; ’tis the best thing
for him.”
“Yes, poor fellow, he has been sleeping for the last hour. The surgeon is
to call again in the evening. But you look exceedingly tired, dear sir;
let me bring you a glass of wine.”
“No, Charles, thank you; it is not wine that I require. I am full of
anxious thought, my dear boy.” And he passed his hand across his pale
forehead.
“Anxious thought for Mark?” inquired Charles.
“No; rather anxious thought concerning you.”
“Well, that’s odd,” said the boy, looking at him with a surprised smile;
“you seemed pretty easy about me in the morning, and I assure you that
I have been most harmlessly employed since you were away, first looking
after Mark, and then drawing a plan of a church.”
“Let me see it,” said the clergyman, holding out his hand.
“Oh, it is not finished, so you must make allowance,” replied Charles,
looking at his own performance, however, with no dissatisfied air. “I
shall very probably make plenty of alterations and improvements, as it
will be more than nine years before I can carry out my plans; but I’ve
such a glorious design in my head—something that I will do when I come of
age and have my own money!”
Charles was too much engrossed with his project to notice the grave,
almost sad, expression on the features of his tutor; so he ran on in his
animated manner,—
“You know what a long way my village is from the church, and how seldom
the clergyman can visit my poor people. Well, I am determined to build a
church of my own, a large, handsome church, with the sittings all free;
and you shall be the clergyman, my own dear Mr. Ewart, and live in the
Castle with me all my life! Do you not approve of my plan?” added the
boy, looking into his face with a bright smile.
“Man proposes, God disposes,” said Mr. Ewart, laying his hand
affectionately upon the shoulder of his pupil.
Charles felt disappointed. “I thought that you would have been so much
pleased,” cried he; “I am sure that you wish me to try to serve the Lord.”
“Most assuredly,” replied the clergyman; “but the Lord himself will
choose out the way in which we are to serve him. Do you remember the
young man who came to our Saviour, and asked him what he should do to
inherit eternal life?”
“Ah! the one who went away sorrowing, because he had great possessions.”
“I have little doubt,” said Mr. Ewart, “that had he been commanded to
build a place of worship, or to give liberal alms, he would at once have
willingly complied.”
“But he was told to give up _all_! Do you know, sir, that it has often
struck me that that was a command very hard to obey. I am glad that in
these days there is no need for such commands.”
“There is the same need now, Charles, that there was then for a spirit
of willing obedience. We may not now be called upon to give up all, but
every Christian must be _ready_ to do so. If there is anything on earth
on which we fix our hearts, so as to say, _I can yield to God anything
but this_, that thing from that moment is an idol and a snare, and we are
breaking the second commandment.”
Charles was silent for a few moments, thinking over his tutor’s words,
till Mr. Ewart began conversation on a different subject.
“You must sometimes have heard speak of an infant brother of your own.”
“Oh yes, little Ernest, who was drowned three days before I was born,
whose marble monument I so constantly see in church—a lovely baby,
sleeping amongst water-lilies.”
“His monument is there, but not his body.”
“No, poor little one, it never was found. I have heard all about his
death many a time: how his careless nurse set him down to crawl on the
grass, and was either called away or fell asleep, I forget which, and
the poor baby rolled into the river and was lost, nothing of him being
recovered but his little hat and plume, which was found floating on the
top of the water.”
“That was the story which was told at the time by one who shrank not from
adding falsehood to cruelty.”
“And the nurse was half wild with grief, and dared not wait till the
return of her master, who had gone to London with my poor mother on
account of her health; but she soon ran away, no one knew whither, and
never could be traced any more.”
“She fled the place,” said Mr. Ewart, “with a man who became her
husband—one who, for his bad conduct, had been dismissed by your father
from the office of gamekeeper, with a threat to send him into jail. This
wicked man never forgot or forgave the threat, and tempted the wretched
woman whom he made his wife to a crime, in order to gratify his revenge.
The babe was not drowned, but stolen. After much ill-treatment and
cruelty from the unprincipled pair, who brought him up as their own son,
his true birth was at length providentially discovered by the clergyman
who had baptized him more than twelve years before, from a most singular
mark on his shoulder.”
“You cannot mean Mark!” exclaimed Charles, in extreme surprise.
“I do mean Mark; the confession of Ann has confirmed my suspicions. I
have not the shadow of a doubt that the boy is your brother.”
It was strange to watch the various emotions fast succeeding one another
on the handsome countenance of Charles—astonishment, interest, doubt,
pity, succeeded by a grave, inquiring look, as he said, “Then, if Mark be
my brother, who is Lord Fontonore?”
“He is, as the eldest son of your late father.”
The face of Charles fell. “Then what am I?” said he.
“Charles Hope; the same as your uncle.”
“And the estate, and the castle, with its fine old hall, and all the
pictures, everything that I have so prized and looked on as my own—are
they all his?”
“Everything is entailed on the eldest son.”
“And have I nothing?” exclaimed Charles, his manner becoming excited;
“what is to become of me, then?”
“You will enter some profession, my dear boy, as your uncle did, and earn
your livelihood honourably, I trust.”
“But I am only a boy; how am I to be supported till then?”
“Doubtless either something will be allowed from the property of your
brother, or your uncle will—”
“Oh, I can’t stand this!” exclaimed Charles, passionately, springing from
his seat, and walking up and down the room in a state of excitement. “To
be dependent—that is more than I can bear! It is bad enough to be poor,
but to be dependent!”
“Oh, my almost son!” exclaimed the clergyman, with emotion, “does not
this very excess of grief at its loss prove that what is taken away would
have been a snare to you? May you not reckon in another world amongst
your chief mercies that which is now so painful to bear?”
“And all my schemes of usefulness, too!” cried Charles, flinging himself
down again upon his chair.
“None can say what a career of usefulness may be before you yet. You may
more glorify God, and more benefit man, than had your efforts never been
stimulated by the necessity for exertion.”
“If Mark had been the younger brother, it would have been far better; he
would have been more than contented, and I—”
[Illustration: CHARLES’S STRUGGLE.]
“Let us never, Charles,” said Mr. Ewart, laying his hand upon his
shoulder, “say that anything which man had no power to alter could be
better than as the Almighty ordained it. Could we see all that He sees,
past and future together; could we know all that He knows, both our
powers and our interests, we should not even wish such things other than
as they are; we should feel that whatever is, is right.”
But pride, arrogance, and love of worldly glory were speaking too loudly
in the heart of Charles to suffer him yet to listen quietly to the voice
of truth. “I little thought when I found Mark what I was bringing upon
myself,” said he; “and you, sir,” he added, bitterly, “you have thought
much more of your new friend than of your old.”
Unjust as was the reproach, it wounded Mr. Ewart. “What would you have
had me do, Charles?” he said sadly, but without anger. “Gross wrong had
been done, I could set it right; a much-injured boy had been long kept
from his birth-right, would you have had me join with his oppressors in
depriving him of it?”
Charles was silent, but felt ashamed of his own injustice.
“At present you and I are alone in possession of the secret. Ann’s
confession was made only to me; would you wish me, were the matter in
your own choice, to hush up the affair, let all things go on as before,
and leave you to enjoy—not enjoy, but possess—the title and estate, which
is the right of a brother?”
“Oh no; I am not quite so wicked as that!” cried Charles, throwing
himself into the arms of his friend, and burying his face in his bosom.
“Forgive me! oh, forgive me my impatience and injustice! You were right;
the things which it pains me so to part with, I was not fit to keep. They
must have been my idols, though I did not know it. But this trial seems
to have made me full of evil.”
“It has not made the evil, it has only shown it to you, my dear boy.
Water often looks clear until it is stirred; but the stirring does not
cause the sand which arises, it was there while the water looked purest.”
“This, then, is one of the uses of trial, I suppose, to make us know how
wicked we are. An hour ago I felt so good and so happy, I thought the way
to heaven so easy and delightful; and in the very first difficulty that I
met, all my goodness melted away in a moment.”
“But now that you are recalled to yourself—now that you remember that
as strangers and pilgrims upon earth, we must not cling too closely
to anything in a world through which we are but passing—I trust that,
by God’s help, you will show how cheerfully a Christian can submit to
the will of his Master. You will not go away, like the rich young man,
sorrowing, but, following the Saviour through all life’s changing scenes,
rejoice in the treasure laid up for you in heaven.”
“One thing I should like,” said Charles, his face brightening again, “may
I be the first to tell the news to Mark? If he is half as much delighted
as I was vexed—I should so like to see how he takes it!”
“Most readily do I accede to your wish,” said Mr. Ewart, “but we must say
nothing to excite him just now, while he is so feverish; and it is better
that he should know nothing of the change until all is more decided and
settled. I am just going to write to your uncle.”
“My uncle!” said Charles, looking again rather grave; “ah, how astonished
he will be, and Aunt Matilda, and Clementina! I wonder if it will make
them feel differently towards me—if I shall lose many friends with my
title.”
“There is one at least whom you will gain.”
“Ah, a brother! I daresay that Mark and I will love each other, only I
can never fancy him a lord.” Charles almost laughed at the idea.
“You must be to him what Jonathan was to David. One might have feared
that the son of King Saul, who must naturally have once hoped to succeed
to the throne of his father, would have beheld with jealousy the shepherd
boy who was chosen to rule in his stead. Yet between the two there was
only confidence and love, love which, however much we may admire it in
David, appears tenfold more beautiful in his friend.”
“We must be like Christian and Faithful in the Pilgrim’s Progress,” said
Charles, now quite regaining his usual cheerfulness of manner. “He has
been passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and struggling
under all manner of trials, and now the way is growing smooth beneath
his feet, and he will have a brother to walk beside him. He will teach
me something of the Valley of Humility, and I will tell him what I know
of Vanity Fair. I feel really ashamed of myself now—what a worldly,
self-seeking pilgrim I have been!”
“God be praised!” murmured the clergyman, as he quitted the room; “God be
praised, who has supported and strengthened my dear pupil in the hour of
his sore temptation.”