DISTANT GLIMPSE OF VANITY FAIR.
“Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the
wilderness, they presently saw a town before them, and the name
of that town is Vanity.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._
“Ah! what a strange remembrance I shall always have of that old ruin!”
exclaimed Charles, as again he drove past the well-known spot, in a
carriage with post-horses, on his way to Castle Fontonore. But this time
he had another companion beside him; Ernest, well wrapped up in cloak and
furs—for the autumn was now advanced—was resting on the soft cushions of
the luxurious vehicle.
“What will your remembrances be, compared to mine?” said Ernest, raising
himself to look out, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the gray pile until
it was lost to his sight.
“I went to pick up a stone as a keepsake, and I found a brother!” cried
Charles.
“How much I owe you!” said Ernest, fervently. “I make you an ill return
by taking away what you thought your birth-right! And you, sir,” he
added, turning towards the clergyman, “my debt to you I can never never
repay; but my heart’s gratitude and love shall be yours as long as I
breathe. All the honours and riches that I possess I value as nothing,
compared with the blessing of having such a friend and such a brother.”
This was the first time that Ernest had been able to express so much;
for, shy and retiring as he was by nature, and rendered more so by the
manner in which all the warm feelings of his heart had hitherto been
chilled and repressed, he had wrapped himself up in a cloak of reserve,
and had few words to show how deep were these feelings. Mr. Ewart saw
that in the boy’s present weak state he was easily agitated and excited,
and, to change the subject of a conversation which made Ernest’s voice
tremble with emotion, asked him how he liked the book which he had given
him.
“I find it very interesting. I should have thought it so, if I had only
read it as an amusing story; but what you said about its showing us
things that happen in our own lives, has made it a thousand times more
so. I could enter into so many of the feelings of Christian—his misery
with his burden, his delight when it rolled away. I am almost sure that
Mr. Worldly Wiseman once turned me aside, and I fancy that I have even
known a little of the Slough of Despond!”
“The earlier children go on pilgrimage, the less they usually know
of the misery of that slough. As Bunyan, in his allegory, beautifully
represents, there are stepping-stones across it all the way, and the feet
of Christ’s little ones usually find these, so that many have reached the
wicket-gate in safety, without one stain of the slough on their garments.”
“What a mercy it was to Christian to meet with Evangelist! Sir, you have
been Evangelist to me.”
“And I must be your Faithful,” said Charles, smiling.
“Oh no! for then I should lose you in Vanity Fair,” replied Ernest,
looking fondly on his brother, who was daily becoming dearer to his heart.
“Vanity Fair is not at all like what it was when Bunyan wrote,” said
Charles. “There is no danger of my being put in prison, or stoned, or
burned, because I may not like the ways of the place; so you are not in
the least likely to lose me in that manner, and I may be your Faithful
and your Hopeful both in one.”
“Is Vanity Fair quite done away with now?” said Ernest to Mr. Ewart.
“No, my boy, and never will be, as long as the three grand tempters of
the world, _the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of
life_, spread their attractive stalls to lure unwary pilgrims.”
“I am afraid that you will think me a very dull pupil,” said Ernest; “but
I do not exactly understand who these tempters are of whom you speak.”
“The lust of the flesh is pleasure; the lust of the eye, covetousness;
the pride of life is that fatal pride, whether of birth, riches, talent,
or beauty, which is often viewed with indulgence by the world, but which
is particularly hateful to God.”
“But must all pleasure be sinful?” asked Charles.
“By no means. Some pleasure springs directly from religion. Of heavenly
wisdom it is written in God’s Word, _Her ways are ways of pleasantness,
and all her paths are peace_. And other pleasure may be hallowed by
religion; but it must be pleasure that has no connection with _sin_. We
may gather life’s flowers, but we must be careful that they are those
which have not the trail of the serpent upon them.”
“Is it wrong to enjoy the riches which God gives us?” asked Ernest.
“Shall I sin if I look with joy on the noble estate and all the beautiful
things which you tell me are mine?”
“God forbid,” replied the clergyman; “hath He not _given us all things
richly to enjoy_? But we must _use the world as not abusing it_. There
is a test by which we can easily find out if riches are not clogging
and delaying us in our heavenward path. We must examine, _first_, if we
receive them with gratitude, as coming from God; _secondly_, if we are
watchful to spend them to the glory of God; _thirdly_, if we are ready to
resign them, in obedience to God.”
“I think,” observed Charles, “that Ernest will be less in danger from the
pride of life than I was.”
“Yes,” said Ernest, looking admiringly at his brother; “because I shall
have so very much less to be proud of.”
“I never meant that,” cried Charles, colouring; “but I fancy that you
have been so tried and subdued, by suffering so much, that you will never
be so foolish and flighty as I; you will not be so easily puffed up.”
“I am sure that I could not answer for myself,” replied Ernest, simply.
“No; and certainly you are very ignorant of the ways of Vanity Fair;
that’s the part of your pilgrimage that you are coming to now.”
“Surely not till I go to London. I shall see nothing of it while we stay
quietly studying at the castle.”
“Little you know!” exclaimed Charles, laughing. “My good Aunt Matilda,
my pretty little cousin, and perhaps my business-like uncle himself, may
introduce you—” Charles stopped, for he caught his tutor’s eye, and its
grave expression silenced him at once.
“_Judge not, that ye be not judged_,” said the clergyman, impressively.
“There is nothing so little becoming a young pilgrim as passing unkind
judgment on his elders.”
“I’m afraid that it’s my besetting sin,” said Charles, “and one that it
is very difficult to get rid of.”
“Like many others, I believe that it springs from pride,” observed his
tutor. “When we are deeply sensible of our own imperfections, we have
more mercy to show, or less attention to give to those of our neighbours
and companions.”
The journey to Yorkshire took two days, travelling by post being so
much slower than by railway. To Ernest they were days of almost unmixed
delight: change of scene, unaccustomed comforts, the society of those
whom he loved, all the hopes which naturally gild the prospect of
youth—all the brighter for being so new—filled his cup of enjoyment very
full. Though his manner was not so lively as that of his brother, it was
easy to see that his happiness was not less.
We may be surprised that the bitter emotions which Charles had
entertained when he first knew of the loss of his title seemed so
soon to have entirely disappeared. But his was an open and generous
heart—Ernest’s sufferings had roused his pity—his brother’s grateful
affection had flattered his feelings—he was pleased with himself for his
conquest over pride; and perhaps nothing tends to make us more cheerful
than this. Then there had been nothing to make him painfully aware of a
change—his tutor’s manner had been more kind than ever—Jones could never
address him but as “my lord”—Ernest seemed unwilling to consider himself
even as his equal—all his comforts appeared the same as ever.
It was therefore with unaffected pleasure that, as they approached near
the Castle Fontonore, Charles pointed out the landmarks to his brother.
“There now, there’s the lodge; isn’t it a beauty? That’s Widow Grove who
is standing at the gate. Why, there’s quite a little crowd; I knew that
there would be one. Take off your cap, Ernest, they are cheering for us.
Did you ever see such magnificent timber in your life? so glorious with
the autumn tints still upon them! That tree to the right is five hundred
years old. Just look at the deer as they bound through that glade; and
now—yes—now you have a glimpse of the castle, and there’s the flag waving
from the top of the tower. Is it not an inheritance worth having, Ernest?
Does it not surpass your expectations?”
“It does, it does; I never saw, never dreamed of anything so beautiful!”
And now, exciting no small stir amongst the tenants, grooms, stable-boys,
and others who on various pretexts were crowding the entrance, the
horses, urged on to speed by the postilion, dashed over the drawbridge,
through the arched gateway into the paved court-yard, and stood chafed
and foaming before the door, where the Hopes stood ready to receive the
young master. Ernest had no time to gaze round on the romantic pile of
building which surrounded him—the tower, the mullioned windows, the walls
of massive stone, almost covered with various kinds of creepers; he was
so anxious to have a sight of his new relations, who appeared at the
entrance to welcome them. There was a rather stout gentleman, whom, from
a family likeness to Charles, Ernest at once set down for his uncle; a
tall, good-looking lady, in a superb silk dress that looked rich enough
to stand upright by itself, and whose very rustle seemed to speak of
formidable dignity; and a fairy-like young creature, a little older than
himself, whom, at the first glance, Ernest thought exceedingly pretty.
Charles, accustomed from infancy to be a person of importance, sprang
eagerly out of the carriage first, almost before the horses had stopped.
He ran to his aunt. “Where is Lord Fontonore?” said she, passing him,
and advancing to the door of the carriage. “Dear Clemmy!” exclaimed
Charles, taking his cousin’s hand, “how long it is since we have met!”
She returned his press indeed, but her eyes were not looking towards him;
she had not even a glance to give her old companion, so eagerly was her
gaze turned in another direction.
“Is this the reception that I meet with?” thought Charles, anger and
disappointment boiling in his heart. “It was then the peer whom they
flattered and caressed; I am now only Charles Hope, and I must be
deserted for the first stranger who has a title;” and without attending
to the greeting of his uncle, or to that of the servants, with whom he
had always been a favourite, Charles hurried off impatiently to his own
room.
[Illustration: CHARLES AND HIS MOTHER’S PORTRAIT.]
A beautiful room it was, all hung round with pictures. There was one
which Charles especially valued, the portrait of his mother when she was
a girl, with deep, thoughtful eyes, so much like Ernest’s that Charles
wondered that he had not recognized the resemblance the first moment that
he had seen his brother. This picture had often exercised a soothing
effect over the boy; the thought of his gentle mother now in heaven drew
his own affections thither; the hope of meeting her there was so sweet,
the desire of being worthy of her so strong—for his mind had invested her
with all the qualities of an angel—and the parent who had died before he
could know his loss, was the object of the deepest tenderness of the boy.
“She, at least, is not changed—she looks always the same!” exclaimed
Charles, clasping his hands, and gazing upon the portrait till his eyes
became dimmed with tears. He was disturbed by a low knock at the door.
“Come in!” exclaimed Charles in an impatient tone, hastily dashing the
moisture from his eyes. It was the housekeeper who appeared at the door.
“Please, my lord, Master Charles, I am sorry to disturb you, but this
room Mrs. Hope desired to be prepared for Lord Fontonore; the blue room
has been made ready for you.”
Charles rushed out of the apartment without saying a word, in a passion
of anger and resentment. The trial which he had seen but from a distance
was now most keenly and bitterly felt. He locked his door, and paced
backwards and forwards across the room, wishing that he could shut out
all sound of voices and tread of feet, as he traced by it the progress of
the party through the castle, which his relations were now showing to its
new possessor. And thus he remained in his solitary misery, while Ernest
painfully missed from his side one who was more to his affectionate
heart than all the wealth of the world, and with an uncomfortable
consciousness of his every motion being watched by those who regarded him
rather with curiosity than interest, passed through long corridors, and
stately apartments, which were expected to strike him with wonder.
“He is not so vulgar or funny as I expected that he would be,” whispered
Clementina to some one beside her; “but it makes me laugh to see him look
so shy and uneasy, as if he were half afraid to look at his own castle.
He certainly has a very interesting air, but he is not half so handsome
as Charles.”