In the service of mankind to be
A guardian god below; still to employ
The mind's brave ardour in heroic arms,
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd
And make us shine for ever--that is life.
THOMPSON.
It was with increasing uneasiness, that Mabel perceived the effects of
their common grief on the weakened constitution of her mother. Mrs.
Lesly, at first, insisted on being constantly with her sick child, but
day by day her cheek became more pale, and her low hollow cough more
frequent, until she could scarcely reach Amy's room without fatigue,
and, instead of being able to nurse her, required, herself, a further
exertion of Mabel's ever watchful care. Grateful indeed did the latter
feel for the strong health, and stronger nerves, which enabled her to
maintain the watching and waiting required of her--while the
consciousness of being loved taught her that each personal service rose
in value because she rendered it. Lucy still remained with them; she had
insisted on her services being received; and, though the idle girl was
rather giving trouble than making herself useful, Mabel did not refuse
her offer to continue with her, hoping that the wish to serve might be
the seed of better feelings and stronger self-denial.
But Lucy had not perhaps fully understood her motives, when she ascribed
her wish to stay to the desire to be of service.
Clair seemed entirely to have forgotten her, or only to make use of her
to deliver messages, or to convey grapes and other luxuries to the
little invalid; but it seemed entirely to have escaped his memory, that
any thing, even so interesting as a common flirtation, had ever taken
place between them; and indeed he seemed in every way altered, as if he
were trying to convince her that he was scarcely the same person.
However, she did not altogether give up the hope of regaining the
affections she had before so fully counted upon. Yet, having thrown
aside the light and fashionable gallantry which he had delighted to
display, he was now utterly impervious to all the common attacks of even
the most accomplished flirt; and, however clever she might be in
raillery, badinage, and spirited nonsense, Lucy had learned little of
that language which springs from heart to heart, in trouble and
suffering--or of those serious and elevating thoughts which alone bring
with them consolation to the deep thinking.
She was, then, entirely at a loss when she found her former companion,
rather annoyed than otherwise, by conversation which would formerly
have amused him for half a-day; but this change only increased her
affection, while it effectually removed him from her power; she
listened, waited, and watched for him, but, though she tried every
capricious art to bring him again to her side, she found that nothing
prevailed, and, at the close of the day, she had not even the lightest
word to treasure up, as an evidence of the love she had already spoken
of as certain, to her friends in Bath.
One evening, as events were progressing in a manner so unsatisfactory to
Lucy, Mr. Ware and his nephew might have been seen pacing up and down
the lane leading to Mrs. Lesly's house, which was rendered romantically
pretty, by the trees which overhung it, from the garden which was
considerably raised above it.
Clair had been for some time engaged in silently beating down the leaves
and branches, which grew most prominently in the hedge above their walk,
with a light cane he carried in his hand, when Mr. Ware, turning
kindly, yet with a slight tone of embarrassment, said to him--
"My dear boy, I would not wish to presume a moment either upon my age or
my relationship to you, but would rather gain an interest by favor, and
as a friend; may I then ask a question, which my anxiety for you alone
dictates."
His nephew looked slightly surprised at this address, but replied in a
depressed tone.
"You may say any thing you like uncle, without fearing that I shall
mistake the kindness which leads you to speak at all. You have been too
kind to me, ever since I have been with you, not to make me feel that
affection must ever second the duty and respect you deserve from me."
"Thank you," replied his uncle, "I feel that the late unhappy accident
has much changed you; and what you now say convinces me that the change
is one which, however it may sadden you, cannot be regretted."
"I hope not," replied Clair, in the same tone of depression; "can you
understand what I mean, when I say that I feel, that, though I had no
intention the other evening beyond causing a momentary pain, which, in a
beautiful girl I thought charming, I yet feel that I have been so
thoughtless of the comfort of others, during my past life, that I have
deserved to be the agent of such a misfortune, in retribution, as it
were, for all that has before gone unpunished. Little Amy's sweet voice
rings in my ear wherever I go--such as it was when I first saw her, when
she looked up from the wild wreath she was twining, to give some kind
word to the laborers as they passed her, the morning after my coming
here. Her simple questions return to my memory, and her purity and
innocence have made a deeper impression on my mind, by the sad reverse
which has followed my acquaintance with her family--I cannot help
thinking what an interesting young woman she might have been, through
the careful training of such a sister, who has planted in her mind,
young as she is, her own childlike tenets of religion. When I reverse
the picture, I see her growing up a weak unhappy cripple, perhaps,
sinking under accumulated disease, the victim of an early grave. Can you
wonder that I am changed, uncle, and that I now find the follies and
amusements, in which I have too often sought forgetfulness of the
weakness of my own heart, now utterly repulsive to me? When I see Mabel
Lesly forgiving without reserve, and enduring without complaint, sorrow
which would have found me in a very different temper, can you doubt,
dear uncle, that, contemplating such rare and beautiful virtues, I have
been led to seek the cause, and to find out on what basis they are
founded; and, while raising my thoughts to the source and spring of
every true virtue, and pouring its healing waters on my soul, must I not
shudder to discover there, nothing but pollution, and feel depressed and
sad, with the sense of what I am, and what I have been.
"Yet do not think this dejection is attended with anything like despair;
no one, who had conversed with your sweet friend, would long retain such
a feeling. A few words, indeed, from her, while they convinced me of the
aimless existence I have been rather enduring, than living, gave me an
inspiring principle which spoke of better things. You may think I am
suddenly turned into an imaginary, but you can scarcely tell how deep an
impression this late accident has left upon me."
"Not so," replied Mr. Ware, "the heart that awoke to chivalry in other
days, is not dead because chivalry has assumed another form--and,
indeed, we too often try to be lukewarm in our feelings. But, to be
candid, my dear Arthur, I do think, as you say, that too much of your
time has been trifled away in the pursuits of garrison glory, and
watering-place amusements. I have been, for some weeks, patiently
waiting for some season or time, when I could enforce the necessity of
sowing a richer harvest for the decline of life, than you have hitherto
been doing. Could I have chosen some other less touching call to
wakefulness, I would have done so; but these things are not in our own
disposing--it only belongs to us, to use well the circumstances and
opportunities which are given us; and I was even now going to say what
you have anticipated. Grateful, indeed, am I to think, that, even so
trying a time, can yield its sweetness, for I hope you speak of your
feelings without any exaggeration."
Mr. Ware paused, but, as Clair did not seem disposed to reply, he
continued--
"There is one subject in which I feel particularly concerned--may I--I
ask it as a favor--may I speak candidly upon it?"
"You may speak with candour on any subject, sir, without fearing that I
shall be weak enough to take anything but in good part."
"Thank you for this confidence. May I then ask if you are quite sincere
in your attentions to Miss Villars? and, if so, why your behaviour has
so decidedly changed with regard to her? Forgive me for asking so
delicate a question, which nothing but the interest I take in your
happiness could excuse."
"Oh, do not be so alarmed on my account," said Clair, half smiling, "it
is only my tenth garrison flirtation, and you cannot think me seriously
entangled."
"Then," said Mr. Ware, with a tone of severity, which he very seldom
used, "what do you mean by becoming her constant companion--paying her
every attention, short of actually making love. Shame on your new-found
repentance--if this be the fruit of it."
"Do not be too hasty in forming your judgment," replied Clair. "I have
only done what most other young men would, under the same
circumstances--though, I own, my changed opinions have led me to
withdraw the attentions you condemn."
"I own that I would much rather have had your thoughts fix upon a girl
more like her cousin; but, when I believed you sincerely
attached--since you persisted in your attentions spite of my hints--I
thought it could not be helped; and, perceiving she returned your
attachment, I ceased to object, feeling that love corrects many faults.
Little knowing that all this time, you were acting a part which should
have made me blush for shame."
"Uncle, you are passing a stern judgment--sterner far than I deserve;
give me your patience for a few minutes, and I will convince you that I
am not so much to blame. Lucy Villars is one of that class of girls
called flirts, and, for a flirt, she possesses all the necessary
qualifications. She is chatty, thoughtless, and good-humoured--and,
better than all, has no heart. She is, however, something more than a
flirt--she is a husband hunter, and set her would-be affections on me,
before she knew a single feature of my face, much less a quality of my
mind--so that I do not flatter myself with possessing anything in her
eyes beyond an average fortune and family. Had I been a man of no
discrimination, I might have fallen a victim to a very bold game; but,
as I happen to have seen a little of the world, I have spent a few weeks
more pleasantly than ordinarily. And now may I ask you, uncle, would
you, even with your high sentiments of right, expect me to marry a girl
whom I could never trust--who would jilt me for a richer man to-morrow,
and if not so, granting even that she loved me, would form but an
insipid companion at the best."
"You are wrong," said Mr. Ware, who had been listening with great
impatience, "and you know that you are wrong, or you would not use so
much sophistry to convince me you are right. Let me ask you, if she be
the girl you describe her to be, was she a fit companion even for your
idlest moments? If she be the designer you would prove her to be, was it
right to place yourself in daily temptation, by communion with one whose
sentiments must be corrupt, if they rise from such a polluted spring?
Were you right in choosing for the object of your admiration, one whom
you despised in your heart? Sorry am I that you had not courage to
withhold your countenance from one whom you did not approve, but could
rather act so deceitful, so mean a part. But, think again, your judgment
may have deceived you, and, if she be not what you say, may she not have
given you a heart, which (if it be so) you have obtained in so unworthy
a manner."
"Could I think so," replied Clair, "I should be more vexed than you will
give me credit for; but I am too well acquainted with the world, to
believe anything like real affection can be hidden under such open and
daring encouragement as I have received from her; and, really, my dear
sir, you must not be grieved on her account, or my own. I feel too much
the frivolity of my past character, to try such amusements again; but,
at the same time, no chivalrous principle tells me that I should do
right to bring into my confidence, or to unite myself in, the holiest of
self-formed ties that can exist on earth, with a girl whose character
is so feathery. Far different would my choice be when thinking seriously
of marriage. The woman I should choose for a wife would be one who would
inspire me with higher thoughts and lead me to better things. One, who
pure as sensible, would make my home a paradise, and while, by her zeal,
she led me to heaven, would, by her womanly attentions to my wishes,
make a happy road to it. Such a woman would as much excel a flirt as a
small piece of gold would one double its size in tinsel."
"Arthur, your eloquence and sophistry are carrying you away altogether.
Had you acted thoughtlessly only it would have been easier to excuse;
but, now, I see, that with proper ideas and the most worthy sentiments,
you have yet been capable of acting a part as unlike to them as your own
comparison of gold to tinsel. Your excuses are common ones, and I fear
will not privilege you to minister to the follies of others by indulging
your own. How much kinder would it be to withhold undeserved
admiration, and to shew that yours is only to be earned by what really
deserves it. Would you not in this way, perhaps, find an opportunity of
reading a lesson without words, to many, who are still young enough to
improve by it. By refraining altogether from such deceitful flirtations,
you might tend to discourage those mothers who educate their daughters
for display, and force them to try for an advantageous settlement."
"And how many do you think would follow my example?" enquired the young
man with a smile.
"It is a consideration of no weight when making up your mind to do
right--though it sweetens a good conscience and embitters an evil
one--to remember that no one is so mean as to give no impulse to virtue
or vice by his example. One great mistake is, that men unfortunately
forget that they are christians, when in the fashionable world, as if
our duties were altogether banished by an evening dress, or the light
of conscience entirely eclipsed by the brilliant and fantastic tapers of
a ball-room. It is for this reason that so many turn anchorites:
forgetful that the world may be enjoyed with a christian's dress, and a
christian's thoughts, they only remember, that when they visited the gay
scenes they have resigned, they did so with a conscience peculiar to the
occasion, and entirely different from the one they were familiar with in
retirement."
"You speak severely," said Clair.
"I speak with the courage which arises from my knowing, that, though you
are thoughtless enough to err, you possess sufficient candour to bear
reproof without reproach to him who offers it, and, however scrupulous I
may in general be about offering advice, or venturing to find fault, I
cannot allow such sentiments as you have just expressed to be uttered in
my presence without testifying my sense of that error, if heard in any
company and from any person, much less from one so dear to me as
yourself, and I have spoken boldly, hoping to lead you to refine your
sense of honor, till it reaches a standard which a christian soldier may
not justly be ashamed to acknowledge."
A few weeks since Clair might have smiled at the simplicity and
unworldliness of his uncle's remarks, but there was something within him
then that told him they were stamped with the irresistible force of
truth.
He walked on in silence, pushing aside with his feet, the few withered
leaves which were straggling in his path. It was one of those dark,
mysterious days, when the wind blows sullenly amongst the trees,
speaking strange words, in its own wild tones, of the year that is past;
and the withered leaves as they spin round in the eddying wind, seem to
call attention to themselves, and to ask what men have been doing since
they budded forth in the gay spring, full of hope and promise to the
sons of earth. They had played their part well and merrily, they had
gladdened the heart and delighted the eye, they had made fair and
beautiful the spots where their short day of life had been spent, and
now, as they fell with their fantastic motion to the ground, their
rustling music seemed to speak in forcible language to the heart of him,
who had idled away part of the glowing summer of his life with few
thoughts but of selfish amusement.
With some such thoughts as these the two continued their short walk,
which had been confined to the dry bit of road under the trees, which in
damp or dirty weather was often chosen as a sort of promenade.
Mr. Ware was not sorry to see his nephew's unusual silence, for he was
naturally too ready to act without thinking, and often, by the readiness
of his professions in favor of any new idea of improvement, cheated his
conscience of its performance, and he now watched him, with the grave
interest which a good man feels, when he looks on the struggles of
conscience, and does not know on which side the victory will lie.
"Even you, sir," exclaimed Clair, rather suddenly, "would not wish me to
marry Lucy Villars! fool as I have been, you do not think I deserve so
great a punishment, as the possession of such a wife."
"I wish you," replied Mr. Ware, "to do neither more nor less then your
own sense of honor and good feeling may dictate, under the difficult
circumstances in which you have placed yourself."
"I cannot--I never can do that!" exclaimed Clair, vehemently.
"Neither will I ever ask you to approach so sacred a rite with
lightness, much less with repugnance; but, at the same time, you ought
to understand, that your attentions have been sufficiently pointed, to
make people suppose that you only wanted a convenient opportunity of
declaring yourself."
"Impossible! Who ever heard of a man's making serious love in such a
manner. You at least do not believe it."
"Now, certainly I do not, for your words bear a different
interpretation, and, if I mistake not, the opinion you now entertain of
her, arises from comparison with another character of a higher
standard."
Clair colored, but he answered quickly.
"If you have so far read my thoughts, do you find it possible to blame
me. Could I be insensible to the attractions of a girl of such uncommon
excellence?"
"Alas, I do blame you," replied Mr. Ware, sadly, "for you have been
acting a doubly deceitful part, but I cannot withhold my pity, for you
must meet the difficulties with which you have entangled yourself."
"I must think uncle, I must think," said Clair, stopping, "you put my
mind into complete confusion--I believed I was going to act for the
best; now, I do not know what to be at, though my chief consolation is
that Lucy Villars never cared a straw for me. I know you lay bare the
wounds of conscience only to heal them, and though you have spoken
severely I know you feel for me. What am I to do under these
circumstances? I feel I have been wrong, and would willingly make any
atonement, but remember, how many struggles there are in the world to
make us wretched, without our adding a desolate hearth, and a miserable
home to make everything else doubly hard. I must go and think alone."
"And remember," said Mr. Ware, "that Miss Lucy may deserve some
allowance for her feelings. I am not quite certain that she is so much a
trifler as you would make yourself believe."
"Why you will drive me out of my senses, uncle, I cannot increase my
difficulties by thinking that to be possible. I know women too
well--but, for the present, good bye," he said, laying his hand on the
stile which divided the path to the Aston woods from the road, "but do
not, at least till we meet again, think even so hardly of me as I
deserve," he added, in a tone of gentle persuasion, which often screened
him from blame, or, if not altogether so, had obtained the love of
those with whose esteem he often trifled.
Then, with a light bound, he cleared the stile, and, walking quickly
onwards, he was soon lost in the windings of the path he had chosen for
the scene of his meditations.