REGRETS, BUT NOT DESPAIR.
“I have a key in my bosom, called Promise, that will, I am
persuaded open any lock in Doubting Castle.”—_Pilgrim’s
Progress._
“What has occurred? what could your uncle mean by speaking of deliberate
falsehood?” said Mr. Ewart, as soon as the three were alone in his room,
and the door closed behind them.
Ernest was too much agitated to speak. Charles told in a few words all
that had happened, omitting nothing but his brother’s greater share in
the fault. Mr. Ewart listened with a look of distress on his countenance,
which cut both the boys to the soul.
“We meant well,” said Charles in conclusion, “but everything has turned
out ill.”
“You should rather say,” observed the clergyman, in a mild but sad tone,
“that you meant well, but that you acted ill.”
“And you must suffer for our fault,” exclaimed Ernest, in bitter grief.
“What I suffer from most is the thought of your fault.”
“But that it should be laid at _your_ door, you who have never taught us
anything but what is right—oh! it is such cruelty, such injustice—”
“Hush,” said the tutor, laying his hand upon Ernest’s, “not a word must
you utter against your guardian; and remember that he had grounds for his
indignation.”
Ernest leant both his arms upon the table, and bending down his forehead
upon them, wept in silence.
“If you leave us on account of this,” cried Charles, with emotion, “we
shall never be happy again.”
“Not so,” said Mr. Ewart, soothingly; “though the Christian is commanded
to repent, he is forbidden to despair. Experience is precious, though it
may cost us dear: it will be worth even the sorrow which you are feeling
now, if this lesson is deeply imprinted on your soul, _Never do evil that
good may come_.”
“In no case?” inquired Charles.
“In no case,” replied the clergyman.—“We show want of faith in the power
of the Almighty, if we imagine that He needs one sin to work His own good
purposes. We can never expect a blessing on disobedience.”
“What I cannot endure,” exclaimed Ernest, raising his head, “is to think
what the world will say. I know the colouring that my uncle will put
upon the affair—how my aunt will talk to her fashionable friends. She
will speak of the danger of evil influence, of her anxiety for her dear
nephews, and the shock which it had been to her to find what principles
had been instilled into their minds. Oh, Mr. Ewart, best, dearest friend,
we have injured you indeed—we have brought disgrace upon your spotless
character!”
“God knows my innocence in regard to you,” replied the clergyman; “to Him
I commit my cause. To be the object of unjust accusation has often been
the appointed trial of His servants. He can make even this affliction
work for their good. And now, my dear boys, leave me. I have letters
to write, little preparations to make, and I need a brief space for
reflection.”
“Do you forgive us?” said Charles, pressing his tutor’s hand with a
mixture of affection and respect.
“Forgive you! you have erred but through kindness towards me. I have
nothing to forgive, dear Charles.”
Ernest rushed from the room without uttering a word. Charles followed
him through the long corridor, down the broad oaken staircase, to the
drawing-room, in which the family was still assembled.
Ernest came to confess, to plead, to entreat; and he pleaded, he
entreated, with the fervent eloquence of one who thinks his whole
happiness at stake. Mr. Hope listened with a rigid, unmoved look; his
lady, who sat at her desk, observed, with an unpleasant smile, that the
reverend gentleman had been evidently working upon the feelings of his
pupils. She interrupted Ernest’s most passionate appeal, by telling that
she was at that moment engaged in writing to her friend, Lady Fitzwigram,
about a very superior tutor, of whom she had spoken to her when in
London. “If Mr. Sligo should be still disengaged,” observed the lady,
“this affair may prove really a fortunate occurrence.”
[Illustration: THE CONFESSION AND ENTREATY.]
Fontonore and Charles left the room in despair. Bitterly reproaching
themselves for having wandered from the right path, they retired to the
chamber of the former, where they both remained for the remainder of the
night, for companionship in sorrow was their only consolation in this
time of bitter distress.
“It was I who led you into this trouble,” cried Ernest. “I have been
your tempter, your false guide; all that has happened has been owing
to me! How could I ever dare to call myself a pilgrim, after all that
has happened, after all the lessons which I have received, to fall away
thus, and disgrace my profession! Will not Clementina look upon me as a
hypocrite. I could speak to her of the joy of the Lord, of the pleasures
of devotion, of the glories of heaven! Ah, how different will she think
my actions to my words! She may even place my errors to the account of my
religion; my sin will be a stumbling-block in her way.”
“Ernest, brother, you must not give way thus. To fall once may not be to
fall for ever. God is merciful and ready to forgive; it is foolish, it is
wrong to despair.”
Poor Charles endeavoured to give comfort, which he much needed himself;
yet his grief was not so deep as his brother’s. Ernest felt more
strongly, what every Christian should feel, that he who has confessed
religion openly before men should, above all others, be watchful over
his own conduct. The world is ready, is eager to find faults in such;
to excuse its own errors by those of God’s children; to accuse of
inconsistency, and even of hypocrisy, those who profess to live by a
higher standard. Alas, the sins and failings of sincere Christians have
done more injury to the cause of the religion which they love than all
the open attacks of its enemies!
Ernest was also, perhaps, the most warmly attached to his tutor. Mr.
Ewart had been his friend at a time when he had no other: it was through
him that he had discovered his right to an earthly title; it was through
him that he had learned to hope for a heavenly one; and to have been the
means of inflicting deep injury on his benefactor wrung the spirit of the
boy with anguish, even greater than the pang of parting with his friend.
Long after Charles, weary and sad, had dropped asleep, Ernest lay
awake, revolving bitter thoughts in his mind, almost too miserable even
to pray. Never in the course of his whole life of trial had he passed
so wretched a night. The envied Lord of Fontonore, in his magnificent
castle, surrounded by all that could minister to his ease, was more
wretched than Mark Dowley had been in his cottage, hungry, despised, and
persecuted. Such are the pangs of a wounded conscience—such the misery of
a backsliding professor!
Ernest fell asleep at last, worn out by the conflict in his own mind,
and awoke in the morning with a weight on his heart which painfully
oppressed, even before he was sufficiently roused to remember what it
was that had caused it.
Mr. Ewart did not appear at breakfast, and neither of the boys could
taste the meal. The sound in the court-yard of the wheels of the carriage
which was to take their tutor away, and the sight of the neat black
trunk, labelled and corded, placed ready by the door in the hall, made
their hearts feel almost ready to burst.
The family of Mr. Hope avoided being present, but a number of the
servants assembled to witness the departure of one who was respected by
all. Even Jack and Ben were seen loitering on the drawbridge; and Lord
Fontonore could not help remarking that the former surveyed him with a
look of even greater insolence than was his wont; but poor Ernest was too
much humbled, too much depressed, to be roused to any feeling of anger.
Mr. Ewart came forth, looking pale and thoughtful, but he smiled as
soon as he saw his late pupils, and held out a hand to each. He bade
a kind farewell to the numerous attendants, with a word of advice or
encouragement to some. There were aprons lifted to tearful eyes, saddened
looks, and murmured blessings, as the clergyman passed through the
assembled throng to where the carriage was waiting. The boys grasped his
hands, and kept them within their own, reluctant to unloose that last,
firm clasp. He gave them his earnest, solemn blessing, and bade them put
their trust in Him who would never leave or forsake them.
“Shall we ever meet again?” faltered Ernest.
“I hope so—I believe so,” replied Mr. Ewart, cheerfully. “This very
morning I received a kind invitation from Mr. Searle. If I see no other
opening before me, I may possibly visit Silvermere early in the spring;
and if so—”
“Oh, if you were at the other end of the world, we should find some means
of meeting,” exclaimed Charles.
“There is one comfort which we may always make our own, when parting from
those whom we love,” said the clergyman, struggling to keep down his
emotions; “all pilgrims travelling the same road come to the same rest at
last; though circumstances and distance may divide them here, they may
look forward in sure hope to a meeting in heaven.”
And he was really gone!—the friend whom Ernest had loved, the guide
whom he had followed, the stay upon which he had leaned—all was like a
painful, bewildering dream. Again the young peer hastened to his chamber,
threw himself on his bed, and vainly sought for the relief of tears. He
was roused by feeling an arm thrown round his neck, and looking up, saw
Charles, whose flushed face and reddened eyes bore evident traces of
weeping.
“Leave me, Charley,” he cried; “the sight of your sorrow only makes mine
harder to bear. We can never, never bring back the past. We can never
recall the friend whom we have lost. I feel almost in despair.”
Charles uttered no reply. Perhaps he could hardly have trusted his voice
to make one; but he laid his open Bible on the pillow before Ernest,
and silently pointed to the words in Jeremiah: “_Return, ye backsliding
children, and I will heal your backslidings. Behold, we come unto Thee,
for Thou art the Lord our God._”
“Oh, Charley!” said Ernest, with emotion, “this is the second time that
you have opened the door of hope to your brother!”
“When did I ever do so before?”
“When a poor desolate boy stood beneath a yew-tree, and watched crowds
going into the church which he was almost afraid to enter. You came to
him then, and said a few simple words, which roused and encouraged at
that time; and often since, when I have felt low and fearful, I have
repeated those words to myself, ‘You must not stay outside.’ I have
thought of these words as applying to the gate of mercy open to all.
Oh, Charley! what a good, what a generous brother you have been to me!
Many in your place would have hated and despised me, taunted me with my
ignorance and with my early life; but you, even at a time when I have
done you great wrong, when I have deprived you of your friend, even led
you into sin, you come to comfort and to cheer me;—ever faithful, ever
hopeful, ever dear!”