CONCLUSION.
It may not, perhaps, be uninteresting to the reader to trace a little of
the future career of those whom Ernest left behind him in the world.
Charles, of course, inherited the title and estate of his brother, and,
increasing in piety and virtue as he increased in years, became an
ornament to the high station in which he was placed, and a blessing to
the people amongst whom he dwelt. He carried out all Ernest’s projects
of charity with zeal; and when, on attaining the age of twenty-one, the
management of his own estate came into his hands, he erected the church
upon his grounds which he had designed so long before, and often listened
within its walls to the words of truth from the lips of his early
preceptor.
For Madge and Ben Charles procured respectable situations, and would have
done the same for their brother; but the wish of the boy was to be a
soldier, and accordingly, when old enough, he enlisted. Blunt and rough
as he remained, the conduct of the youth showed the power of Christianity
even in a hard, rugged nature. The life of Ernest had not been thrown
away, nor had his prayers been unheard.
After many years of service in his own country, Lawless embarked with
his regiment for the Crimea, and was present at the engagement of the
Alma. As he rushed on, one of the foremost in the action, he received a
musket-ball on his chest, and fell, as his comrades believed, never to
rise more. How was it that he sprang again from the ground, uninjured
and undismayed? The Russian ball had struck him, indeed, but had found a
bloodless resting-place—it had lodged in the Bible which he carried in
his breast, the dying gift of Ernest of Fontonore!
Mr. Hope sank under an attack of apoplexy, a few years after the death
of his nephew. The man of the world was called away in the midst of his
business, his schemes of ambition, at the time that he had attained the
object of his hopes, by being elected member for Allborough. The expenses
of his canvass, and residence in town, and the extravagance in which his
wife had indulged, had ruined a fortune which had never been a large one;
and Mrs. Hope had the misery, intolerable to her proud spirit, of passing
the rest of her days a dependant on the generosity of her nephew. Truly
might she say, in reviewing her past life, “_Vanity of vanities, all is
vanity!_”
And what was the fate of the pretty, affected Clementina, the butterfly
hovering over the blossoms of pleasure?
Let us pass over the space of nearly twenty years, and behold the vain
young beauty as she appears now that the first silver lines begin to
streak her auburn hair, and all the gay visions of her youth have faded
for ever.
Let us enter unseen that low parsonage house, from which comes the merry
sound of youthful voices. The snow on the ground, the chill in the air,
the red firelight flickering so cheerfully through the diamond-paned
window overhung with ivy, all tell that the season is winter. The room
in which we find ourselves seems all too small for the party of happy,
noisy children assembled within it. This is the first day of the new
year, and a merry day it is to the family in Oakdale parsonage. Unfailing
is the arrival of the welcome box, which at this season finds its way
from Fontonore, and every one is present to witness its opening, from the
ruddy schoolboy, home for the holidays, to the little infant in arms.
Even the pale-faced pastor himself has laid aside his book and closed his
desk, to join in the innocent mirth of his children: you might know him,
by the likeness which he bears to her, to be the brother of Ellen Searle.
But who is the thin, careworn-looking mother, who appears in the
centre of the merry group? Is it possible to recognize in that quiet
parson’s wife, in her simple cap, and her plain woollen dress, the once
gay Clementina? What a wondrous change has been wrought by change of
circumstances—or rather, by religious principles and domestic affection!
Clementina’s home is now her world, and the wants of her large family,
and the claims of the poor, leave little margin for show. Yet there
is a cheerfulness in her tone, and a sweetness in her smile, which in
earlier days neither had possessed; the merry voices of her children,
her husband’s kind words, and the blessings of the humble members of his
flock, far more than make up to her for the now half-forgotten flatteries
and follies of Vanity Fair.
To the eldest boy the post of honour is committed. He draws out parcel
after parcel from the depths of the box, and calling out aloud the name
labelled upon each, gives it to its eager proprietor.
“Mamma, this is for you,” and a square, flat parcel, was placed in the
hands of Clementina Searle. It contained two small framed paintings by
Charles, to adorn the bare walls of her humble little home. Perhaps there
was something in the subject of those drawings which recalled thoughts of
former days, for the lady’s eyes grew moist as she looked upon them.
The one represented a mossy ruin, gray with age, and near it a rustic
gate, on which leaned a youthful pilgrim. A staff was in his hand, a
burden on his back, and he was looking upwards, with an anxious eye, on
the cloudy, lowering sky above him.
[Illustration: THE WELCOME BOX.]
The other represented a clear broad river, glittering in the rays of
the setting sun. Beyond it were banks clothed with verdure and beauty,
with a rich, red glow over all, and the openings between the wreaths of
golden clouds seemed to give glimpses of brighter glories beyond. The
same pilgrim appeared, one foot still in the stream, the other on the
beautiful shore; his face could not be seen, but the sunny beams shone
like a halo round his head; the burden was gone, and instead of the staff
his hand grasped the conqueror’s palm.
“How fondly he is remembered yet,” thought Clementina; “the brother’s
love seems but to strengthen with time.” She was interrupted by the voice
of her son Ernest.
“Mamma, see what a beautiful book Mr. Ewart has sent me! It looks like an
old friend in a new dress, for I am sure that it is just the same as the
one that you read to us on Sundays, only that mine is so prettily bound
and illustrated, so I like it much better than yours.”
[Illustration: THE NEW BOOK.]
“No binding could add to the value of mine,” replied the mother, with
a gentle sigh; “it was given to me by a dear friend now in heaven, who
was the first to teach me from its pages the way to the Celestial City.
In the life and death of that young servant of God, early called to
his endless rest, but not until his work was done, I find pictures of
the scenes described in that book—they are to me ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE
PILGRIM’S PROGRESS!”
And now, dear Reader, you who have traced with me the steps of the Young
Pilgrim, through the various stages of his mortal life, suffer one word
from your friend ere we part. Do you know anything of the pilgrimage of
which you have here read? I ask not, Have you walked soberly through
Vanity Fair, keeping yourself _unspotted from the world_?—if you have
struggled with Apollyon, and been conqueror in the fight, or passed
with a firm and unflinching step through the Valley of the Shadow of
Death? But have you stood beneath the cross of the Saviour, and found
its power to remove the burden of sin? Have you ever even felt that sin
is a burden, and knocked earnestly at the gate of Mercy? Or are you yet
dwelling in the City of Destruction, thinking, caring nothing for the
things belonging to your peace, laughing at the idea of a pilgrimage to
Heaven, or putting it off for a more convenient season? Oh, for the sake
of your own immortal soul, awake to your danger ere it be too late! The
wicket-gate of Mercy is still opened to prayer; the blood which flowed
from the cross still can wash away sin; the Holy Spirit is still willing
to guide your steps on the narrow way, up the Hill of Difficulty, down
the Valley of Humiliation, through sunshine and darkness, through life
and through death—to the eternal mansions prepared for you in Heaven!