VEXATIONS OF VANITY FAIR.
“I wish to see no one!” exclaimed Charles, as again a knock was heard at
his door.
“Will you not admit me?” said the voice of Mr. Ewart. In an instant the
door was thrown open.
“I did not know that it was you, sir; but I might have guessed who was
the only being likely to come near me.”
Mr. Ewart saw in a moment by the face of his pupil, as well as by the
tone in which he spoke, that he was struggling—no, not struggling with,
but rather overcome by his passions; and more grieved than displeased by
the conduct of the boy, he led him quietly to a sofa, on which they both
sat down together.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Ewart, “that you left us so soon; your brother may
be hurt by your absence.”
“Oh, he’ll never miss me; he has plenty to take up his attention. Aunt
Matilda will never let him out of her sight. Miss Clemmy will deck
herself out even finer than usual to do honour to the lord of the
castle. And of course he’ll be taken by all the flattery and fuss; he’ll
believe all the nonsense of that worldly set; he’ll be everything now,
and I shall be nothing, because he happened to be born a year before me.
It’s very hard,” he added bitterly; “it’s very hard.”
“‘_It’s very hard_’ is one of the Evil One’s favourite suggestions,”
said Mr. Ewart; “its meaning was contained in the very first words which
he ever uttered to a human ear. He would have persuaded Eve that it was
_very hard_ that she might not eat of every fruit in the garden; and now,
surrounded as we are with manifold blessings, it is his delight to point
to the one thing denied, and still whisper, ‘_It’s very hard_ to be kept
from that which you so much desire.’”
“I cannot help feeling,” murmured Charles; “things are so different now
from what they were.”
“Did you ever expect them to remain the same? Did you suppose that your
path would be always amongst flowers? Are you not forgetting that you
are a stranger and a pilgrim—the follower of a Master who was a man of
sorrows?”
Charles sighed heavily, and looked down.
“How often have you repeated the lines—
‘The greatest evil we can fear,
Is to possess our portion here!’
Had you the power of choice, would you enjoy that portion in this life,
were it even to bestow on you the crown of an emperor?”
“No,” replied Charles, with emphasis.
“Let me refer you to your favourite Pilgrim’s Progress. Remember what
Christian beheld in the house of the Interpreter—that which we constantly
behold in daily life: Passion demanding his treasure at once; Patience
waiting meekly for a treasure to come. Which was the richest in the end?”
“You must not imagine that it was the sight of the dear old castle, and
all that I have lost, that has made me feel in this way,” exclaimed
Charles. “You saw how cheerful I was not an hour ago, and I knew then
that I was no longer Lord Fontonore.”
“Yes; you had seen your cross, but you had not taken it up; you had not
felt its weight. It is now that you must rouse up your courage.”
“What I feel,” exclaimed Charles impetuously, “is contempt for the mean,
heartless beings, who were all kindness to me when I bore a title, and
now have turned round like weathercocks! I do not believe that even you
can defend them.”
“I think that you may judge them hardly. You have too easily taken
offence; you have made no allowance for their natural curiosity to see
the hero of so romantic a tale as Ernest’s. Would not you yourself have
felt eager to meet him?”
Charles admitted that perhaps he might have done so.
“You have taken Passion and Pride for your counsellors, dear Charles: the
one has blinded your eyes that you should not see the straight path; the
other would bind your feet that you should not pursue it. And miserable
counsellors have you found them both; they have inflicted on your heart
more pain than the loss of both title and estate.”
“What would you have me do?” said Charles, more quietly; for he felt the
truth of the last observation.
“_First_, I would have you endeavour to bring yourself to _be content to
be of little importance_. Until your mind is in this state of submission,
you will be like one with a wound which is being perpetually rubbed.
“_Secondly_, I would have you seek your earthly enjoyment rather in
beholding that of others, than in any pleasure that comes direct to
yourself. Thus, in one way, Fontonore will be yours still.
“_Thirdly_, I would have you prayerfully on the watch against the
slightest feeling of jealousy towards Ernest. Never let your only brother
think for one moment that you feel that he stands in your way.”
“Oh, Mr. Ewart!” cried Charles, starting to his feet, “how could you
imagine such a thing?”
“It rests with you alone to prevent _his_ thinking it, and you have made
a bad beginning to-day.”
“I will go to Ernest at once,” said the boy, “and help to show him over
the place. He shall never say—he shall never think that I am envious of
his prosperity.”
In truth, on that first evening of his arrival in the castle, Ernest was
not much to be envied. He was uneasy about his brother—uncomfortable
with his new companions; one hearty grasp from the hand of Charles, or
approving word from his tutor, was worth all the smiles, and courtesies,
and bows, which he knew had nothing to do with the heart. Ernest felt
himself out of his natural place, and was constantly afraid of saying or
doing something that would shock the polished grandees around him. As far
as speaking was concerned, he was indeed tolerably safe, for he scarcely
opened his lips, which made his companions set him down as dull and
stupid; but he had been accustomed for so short a time to the refinements
of polished society, and was so likely, in his very anxiety to please,
to forget even the hints that he had received from Mr. Ewart, that there
was certainly some little danger of his doing something “shocking.” The
presence of half-a-dozen footmen in gay liveries in the room, was a
disagreeable piece of state to the young lord; so many eyes were turned
upon him whenever he moved; there were so many listeners if he uttered a
word!
Ernest made the serious mistake of eating fish with a knife. The shocked
look of his aunt made him sensible of his blunder, and covered his face
with blushes. At another time, Clementina pressed her lace handkerchief
over her lips, to stifle her too evident inclination to titter, at the
peasant-bred peer helping her to something from the dish before him with
his own spoon. Ernest was very glad when the dinner was over, which had
lasted, indeed, nearly twice as long as any of which he had ever partaken
before.
[Illustration: CLEMENTINA AT THE PIANO.]
After dinner, Clementina was desired by her mother to go to the piano
and play. She made so many excuses, said that she was tired, nervous,
out of practice, that Ernest, little practised in the ways of Vanity
Fair, was inclined to beg that the young lady might be let off. Great
would have been her mortification had he done so, however—the girl was
only refusing in order to be pressed; the virtue of sincerity, if she
had ever possessed it, had all been frittered away by folly. She sat
down to the instrument, determined to be admired; for admiration to her
was as the very breath of life. She played what might be called a very
brilliant piece—full of shakes, dashes, and runs, but with no melody at
all. Ernest, though fond of music, thought it certainly not pretty, and,
had he been more at his ease, could hardly have helped laughing at the
affected air of the young performer, and the manner in which she threw
up her hands, and sometimes her eyes also, in the slower movements of
the piece. Every motion appeared to be studied: self was never for a
moment forgotten. When the performance, rather to Ernest’s relief, was
concluded, with a satisfied look the stately mother turned to the young
peer, and asked him if that was not a beautiful piece. “Rather,” replied
Ernest, after a little hesitation, as much vexed with himself for
saying so much as Clementina was at his saying so little. Charles, who
was standing near, could not avoid laughing; and Ernest read in the eyes
of Mrs. Hope her unexpressed thought—“I have no patience for this low,
ill-bred boor!”
With a secret feeling of constraint, mortification, and disappointment,
poor Ernest retired at night to his own room. Two maids were preparing
it as he entered, and he could not help overhearing the words of one of
them,—
“’Tis a pity that Master Charles was not the eldest son.”
“I’m sure that I think so!” Ernest exclaimed, aloud, to the no small
surprise of the girl who had uttered the observation.