DISAPPOINTMENT.
“You are not hurt, I hope,” exclaimed both cousins, hastening to
Clementina’s assistance, and raising her; for, in her ball-dress, she was
more helpless than ever.
“She is hurt, I fear,” cried Ernest, as he saw red drops trickling from
her brow, and falling on her lace dress. “Oh, Charles, do call Mrs.
Clayton directly.”
The lady’s maid was instantly summoned, and the hurts of the trembling,
sobbing, almost hysterical Clementina examined. She had received rather a
deep cut on the forehead, and a little contusion under the eye. There was
nothing to alarm, but much to disfigure. Charles proposed sending at once
for the doctor, but this the young lady would not hear of: she had some
vague, terrible idea, of wounds being sewn up, and much preferred the
mild surgery of Mrs. Clayton.
In the midst of the confusion occasioned by the accident, two lamps
were seen to stop before the door, and the thundering double rap which
succeeded announced the return of Mrs. Hope.
The servant who came to say that his mistress was waiting, laid at the
same time a box on the table: it contained the much-wished-for pearls.
“I had better go down and tell what has happened,” said Charles, quitting
the drawing-room. In two or three minutes he returned with Mrs. Hope.
“My darling child! my sweet Clemmy! what a sad business this is! How
could it have happened? Why, you look as though you had been to the wars!
you will never be able to go to the ball.”
Clementina leaned her head on the sofa, and sobbed piteously.
“Dear me! I hope, Clayton, that you have put on the plaster carefully. I
only dread her being marked for life,” said the mother.
The poor girl’s grief became more violent.
“You must compose yourself, my dear; you will make yourself ill. A fall
is a great shock to the nerves.”
Ernest had left the room as the lady entered, and now silently offered to
his cousin’s trembling hand a glass of sal volatile and water.
“You had better go to bed at once,” said Mrs. Hope. “’Tis such a pity;
all ready dressed for the ball! I must go, for I could not disappoint
Lady Fitzwigram, and I believe that the Duchess is to be there. Clayton
will take excellent care of you, I am sure. Come, Ernest and Charles, I
see that you are ready.”
“And I am to be left all alone, and on this night, just when I expected
to be so happy!” sobbed Clementina.
“I should like to stay with her, I should indeed,” said Ernest to his
aunt; “I hope that you will not object to my doing so.”
“Why, what will Lady Fitzwigram say?”
“She will not care; she has never seen me but once. You will be so kind
as to make my excuses.”
“Well, it is very considerate of you, certainly. I don’t know what
to say,” replied Mrs. Hope, very well pleased to be able to tell a
fashionable circle that Lord Fontonore had stayed behind because her
daughter could not come. So the matter was soon decided; the carriage
moved off slowly with Mrs. Hope and Charles, and Ernest and his weeping
cousin were left behind, to spend the rest of the evening quietly
together.
Never before had Clementina found her cousin half so agreeable as now.
He was so gentle, so considerate, so ready to sympathize with her, that
she began suddenly quite to change her opinion of him, and think the
young peer a very delightful companion. She had hitherto been rather
provoked at his indifference towards her; now, as she had little idea
of the nature of Christian courtesy, she attributed all his kindness to
admiration. She thought that the white bandage across her brow might have
an “interesting” effect; and Ernest’s gentle consideration would have
lost half its power to please, had Clementina been aware that it would
have been equally shown to one in a humbler class of life of the age of
forty instead of fourteen.
As she reclined on the sofa, and Ernest sat beside her, it was a great
comfort to her to be able to pour out her complaints to him. “There never
was anything so unfortunate,” said she; “you can’t imagine what it is to
have such a disappointment.”
[Illustration: CLEMENTINA AND ERNEST.]
“I think that I can, Clementina, for I was once most bitterly
disappointed myself.”
“Oh, but you are such a sober creature, such a philosopher. I daresay
that you scarcely gave it a thought.”
“On the contrary, I felt myself almost overwhelmed. I could hardly speak,
I could hardly keep from tears.”
“You!” exclaimed Clementina in surprise.
“I thought,” continued Ernest, “that there was no one on earth so unhappy
as I—that all happiness in this world was gone.”
“What could have made you so wretched?” cried the girl, her curiosity so
much roused that her own troubles were for the moment forgotten.
“I had lost what I greatly desired.”
“And what could that have been, Ernest?”
“A situation so much below my real rank, that I smile now to think that
I could ever have wished for it. Had no difficulties been in my way,
had I had what I desired, I probably never should have possessed my
birth-right. How glad I am now of what so much distressed me then!”
“And what was it you were so miserable at losing?”
“A place in the service of Mr. Searle.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Clementina, opening her eyes to their
widest extent. “That was below you indeed; what an escape you made!”
“Perhaps nothing that ever happened to me caused me more pain.”
“Oh! that was because you did not know what you really were, or you would
have looked a good deal higher.”
“Now, Clemmy, it seems to me that this is the very reason why you are so
unhappy this evening.”
“What! that I do not know what I really am? what can you mean!” exclaimed
the girl, yet more astonished than before.
“If you discovered that you were a king’s daughter, would you fret for a
ball, or care for a blow?”
“Really, Ernest,” cried Clementina, half curious, half inclined to think
him jesting, though he did not look so, “I wish you would speak so that I
could understand you.”
“I wish you to look higher, dear cousin; you set your thoughts and
your hopes too low, on things far more beneath your real station and
privileges than the office of a servant was beneath mine. Are you not the
child of the King of kings; is not a mansion in heaven offered to you;
may not the white robes and golden crown be preparing for you now; and
yet you seem as though you knew not of the bliss set before you—you are
content to be a servant?”
“To whom?” interrupted Clementina.
“To the world; and oh, my cousin, the world is a bad master! you have
tasted this night what wages it can give; God grant that you know not
much more of their bitterness hereafter.”
“Why, Fontonore, what is the matter? why do you speak so?” cried
Clementina, looking half frightened at her cousin’s earnest face; for it
cost him no small effort to address her thus, and he warmed with his own
words as they flowed on.
“I speak thus because I long to see you happy, really happy. Now you are
only, as it were, blowing bubbles of pleasure: you touch them and they
break, and are gone for ever. Oh, let us seek that which is lasting and
sure—that which will be ours when these frail bodies are dust.”
“It is very unkind in you to talk of such things to me when I am weak and
nervous, it makes one so horribly gloomy.”
“Does it make one gloomy to hear of sins being pardoned; does it make one
gloomy to hear of a Father in heaven; to know that treasures are laid up
for us where neither moth nor rust can corrupt, where happiness is as
lasting as it is perfect. Did it make me gloomy to hear that I had a rich
inheritance?”
“Oh, that was quite a different thing!” cried Clementina, “from becoming
one of your pious saints. You talk to me now only about happiness in
religion, but I know very well all the lectures upon holiness, and
unworldliness, and repentance that will follow.”
“Still my comparison holds,” pursued the young peer, “for I have not yet
entered into full possession of my estate; I have yet many a difficult
lesson to learn, nor can I spend but a portion of what is my own.”
“You have a good deal of enjoyment in the meantime.”
“I have, Clementina, and in this, most of all, may my position be
compared to a Christian’s. He has great enjoyment, pure, present
enjoyment, a beginning of his pleasures even here. Does not the Bible
command us to rejoice without ceasing?—who can rejoice if the Christian
does not? Yes,” continued Ernest, his eyes sparkling with animation,
“how very, very happy those must be who have gone a long way on their
pilgrimage, when I, who am only struggling at the entrance, can say that
I have found no pleasure to equal it! Oh, Clementina! my joy when I heard
that I was raised from being a poor peasant, forced to toil for my bread,
to become one of the nobles of the land—the joy which I felt then was as
nothing compared to my delight when I first felt assured that my sins
were forgiven me.”
Clementina made no reply, and soon after expressed her wish to retire
to rest. Those who have never known the happiness of religion find it
difficult to believe that it really bestows any. A blind man cannot
understand the beauty of light, nor the man deaf from his birth the
delight of music. Yet music and light are around us still, and such to
the soul is “the joy of the Lord.”
“Perhaps some day she may reflect over what has passed,” thought Ernest,
as he bade his cousin a courteous good-night; “and at least one thing is
left that I can do for her still—I will never cease to pray.”