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^f^^OG
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^'^^^dG^if^^^^^'^^^l
SIR ROLAND ASHTON.
SIR ROLAND ASHTON:
§, f aie 0f % f inits.
BT
LADY CATHAKINE LONG.
M He deemed it inenmbent upon every individiuJ* however humble, to
offer the tribute of his influence and example, if they amounted but to a
mite, on the altar of his God.**— Fuyati Lm.
EIQHTH THOUSAND.
LONDON:
GEO. ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON STREET.
NEW YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET.
1854.
^4^. ^' /<</'
NOTICE TO THE READER
The Pablishers have great satisfaction in issuing a
cheap edition of the Lady Catherine Long's " Sib Roland
AsHTOK." They have been induced to add this well^
known and valuable work to their list of publications, in
the full conyiction that the talent it displays, no less
than the piinicples it inculcates, will secure for it a
popularity quite as extensive as that which has been
accorded to Miss Wetherell's " Qubechy," and the
"Wide, Wide World;" — works which have equally
won their way in public estimation on both sides of the
Atlantic. The Publishers feel assured, indeed, thaff
" Snt Roland Ashton " wiU become even more popular
than Miss Wetherell's tales, not merely because the
authoress is a native of England, but because she has
evinced talent of the highest order, and a disposition
to advance the moral, intellectual, atxd religious cha-
racter of society.
lO
HENRIETTA ANNE,
COUimESS OF CAENABVOISr.
Mt dsas Lady Cabnasyoit,
I DEDICATE this Work to you as a memorial of the Mendflhip
and affection which haYC sahsisted between ns for so many yeais*
and which time, it is pleasant to feel, not only cements, but causes
continually to increase.
Your idea is also particularly associated with it in my mind, for
you are fully acquainted with the motiYC, wholly distinct from
personal considerations, which orig^inally induced me to think of
writing, and you were among the yc^ first to ezicourage me in the
undertaking.
I know there are many most ezoeUent people who do not approYe
of religious sentiments being brought forward through the medium
of fiction, and who think that works of that nature are Hot calcu-
lated to produce good efiects. But my experience has taught me
decidedly the contrary ; for not only haYC they often been instru-
mental in awakening and' exalting spiritual feelings, but in some
instances they haYe been the means, in God's hands, of couYeying
Yital truth to the soul.
I am folly aware that my hero is not perfect, nor haYe I en-
deaYOured to make him so, for perfection is not to be found in man ;
but I haYC endeaYOured to proYe, as far as fiction can proYC any
thing, that religion has power greatly to OYercome the natural
faults of dispositidn, and to strengthen and sustain the soul under
the trials and temptations of life. The tale flows on " irom graYO
to gay, from liYcly to seYcre," pretty much as real life does to those
who, though not of the worlds are constrained to Hyc much in it;
and I haye not thought it necessary, in the leasti to lower the tono
•ViH DBDICATlOir.
of innocent cheerfulness, or of natural feeling and aJBSsction i on
the contrary, I have endeavoured to represent loye in its very
highest degree, belieying that in the nohlest characters it will
always hold that place ; and also thinking that it giyes the loye of
€h>d a much higher triumph to represent it as capahle, which it
truly is, of subduing the lofty and yehement feelings of men, than.
as able merely to control the tame and placid emotions of common-
place character.
In dedicating my book to you, I am not afiraid of compromising
you in any way ; for though we may not always fed the same on
religious subjects, yetwe bothknow that the difference lies merely in
the depth of tone, and not in the nature of the colouring ; and you
therefore have not feared allowing yourself to be associated with
my wholly untried work, while I do not dread, by any sentiments
brought forward in it, bringing a shadow of discredit upon a name
80 justly dear to me.
Believe me ever.
My dear Lady Carnarvon,
Your truly affectionate
Cathajose LoNa.
Spa^ June 18» X84i.
SIR ROLAND ASHTON:
9 Sab 0f ti^e (S^hnes*
CHAPTER I.
** Now in thy yonth beseech of Him
Who giyeth, upbraiding not, ^
That His light in thy heart become not dim
And His love be uiforgot ;
And thy Qod in the darkest of days shall be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee."
Bebnabd Babtov.
" * VoTAGEB o'est tm tristeplaisir' " (travelling is a melancholy
pleasure), said Sir Eoland Ashton to Lady Constance Templeton,
as lie walked with her in the garden at Clayerton, just before he
started for the Continent.
Clayerton, the seat of Lord St. Enran, Lady Constance's father,
was situated in Cornwall, very near the coast. Only a few miles,
distant from it was Sir Roland Ashton's residence, Ilanaven,
which was a magnificent place, and surrounded by an immense
property ; which, tog[ether with an ancient baronetcy, Sir Roland
naa inherited from ms father when only fifteen years of age. Hia
mother had 'been a most intimate mend of the late Lady St.
Ervan's ; and a similarity in feeling and principles had drawn the
bonds of amity between the two families very close. Lady St»
Ervan's death (which took place when* her youngest child. Lady
"Florence, was about three yoars old) robbed Claverton of half it»
attractions for Lady Ashton; yet her friendship for Lord St»
Ervan continued unabated, wMLe the motherless state of his two
little cirls formed a new claim on her sympathy and kindness ;
and wnen, a few months afterwards, she lost her own husband,
her deep grief found a partial relief in the almost maternal care
she bestowed on the children of her friend, who, with her own twe
sons, Sir Roland and his younger brother Henry, formed the solace
and charm of her existence.
The children of the two families had grown up together on torma
of the fondest intimacy. Their homes were so near, that they
continually saw each other ; and during absence at school or col*
lege, or when Henry, who was in ^e navy, went to^ sea, constant
oommunioations between them had prevented their ever beinsr
separated in heart ; and letters were as frequently ezohangea
between Lady Constanoe and her absent Mends, as between them;
B
2 SIB BOIAITD ASHTOir.
and their mother. She had eyer felt for them the confiding love of
a sister, and Henry returned her affection in like manner ; bnt
8ir Roland's feelings hadgraduaUy deepened into one of exclusiye
love and attachment. Haying, howeyer, on one occasion, hinted
his wishes to Lord 8t. Eryan» the latter had begged him, for a
time, to defer making them known to their object, considering her
too young (she was but in her seyenteenth year) to know her own
mind on such a subject, finding it extremely irksome to con-
tinue near, and yet be obHged to remBs the feelings which were
ever hoyerin^ on his lips. Sir Roland determined to go abroad for
a year, trusting he should be permitted at the expiration of that
time, to open his heart to her in whom all his warmest affections
centred ; and the day on which this story opens was that on which
he was about to commence what he oonsidered a dreary exile.
After quitting Llanayen, he had to pass the park-gates of
Clayerton ; and, haying taken leaye of his mother at the former
place, he couldnot resist paying a farewell visit at Lord St. Ervan's.
He found Lady Constance in the garden, and was taking a last
walk with her, when he made the exdamation with which this
chapter commences, — "Voyager o'est xm tnste plaisir!" — *'At
least, so it seems to me," he continued, " when it begins with part-
ings such as these. Bear Constance, I cannot bear to go. Does it
not seem like madness to hurry away from, what one loves best on.
earth, ' pour aller U, oii i>er8onne ne TOffu stteoEid^' (to go tha«
where no one is expecting 70a.)"
" I am sure you will enjoy it when onee jou are abroad," said
Lady Constance ; " but parting is always sorrow, and neyer even.
* sweet sorrow,' I think, though Shakspeare calls it so. It is bitter
•orrow to me, I know, parting with youi, Roland ;" and she burst
into tears.
" Constance, dear," said Sir R<dand, in great agitation, " do not^
I beseech yon, — ^I cannot bear those tears !
'*0h! they are only for a moment," she answered, gmiH^g
through them ; " and selfish tears too, for I know you will enjoy
your travels so much ; but just at the time — ^" and again ner
tears burst forth.
Sir Roland abruptly left her, and threw himself down on a seat
in a summerhouse near ; he could not trust himself with her at
that moment. She soon, however, joined him with an April &ce,
and, sitting down by him^ —
" There, ' she said, smiling, " I have wiped my tears away, as
yon had no compassion on them."
Sir Roland could not answer.
" You will write very often," she oontmned ; " we shall delight
in tracing every step or your journey. It will be so dull when yoa
•8 well as Henry are away."
" Oh, yes ! I will write continually, and yon will write to me, —
aU.of yon. Do not forget me. Constance." he added, a deep
•enousness resting on his countenance, "will yon grant me one
»vour?"
"Gladly, if I can."
Then meet me eyery nighty at midndght^ bef<Mre the throne of
Sm BOLAITD ASHTOK. 3
Gk>d. It will be a solace to me to know that there, at least, we
shall be together."
•• I wiU, and pray for me, Roland— pray that my weak faith may
be strengthened, and that I may oontmnally grow in graoe. Ana
what shall I pray for specially, — ^for you ?**
** Pray, for me, that I may he preserved from, and in temptation.
I go where God is not much honoured or regarded ; pray, that my
love may not become cold. I do not fear it," he added with a
si^h, ** as regards my earthly feelings ; but I dread as the worst
evil, — ^yes, truly as the worst evil, ocddness of heart towards God.
1 rejoice that you have made this appointment with me, Con-
stance, it takes away some of the sting of parting ; God will surely
bless oar meeting m His presence, and I shall long for the quiet
night-hour, for then I shall know your heart is with me."
Lady Constance held out her hand to him, and smiled through
fresh-springing tears.
** Oh ! I hear those hateful wheels," she eried, starting up ; " why
did you order the carriage round so soon ?"
*'I must not be late, said 1^ Roland; *'and the sooner we
part, the sooner will this terrible pain be over. Do not come with
me ii) the carriage, Constance ; I cannot say farewell before others.
I shall like to think of my last look of you here in your own
flowery summerhouse. You will often 1hin£ of me, my dearest ?"
Lady Constance could not speak. Sir Roland looked at her for
one moment, then, kissing ihe hand she had held out to him,
tuned, and was gone.
CHAPTER n.
* So q^e tiie seraph Abdiel, £UthM found
Among tha fifdthle68| faithAil onlj he.
Among innumerable false unmoved.
Unshaken, nnsedueed, nnterrifled,
Uis loyally he k^, his love, his zeal ;
Kor nnmber, nor example, with him weigh'd
To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind.
Though single.'* Milton.
Of all the characters that the imafi:ination of cfenius had ever
sketched, the one that had most delignted Sir Roland, even from
his boyish days, was that drawn with the master-hand of Milton,
and quoted aboye; and often had he prayed that he might be
enabled to follow the bright example of the glorious being there
portrayed. Gt>d had heard and recorded the aspirations of his
youthhil servant, and had ffiven him a strength of character rarely
met with. Continual, indeed, were the failings and evils he
foToid in his own heart ; but the knowledge of his infirmities ever
led him to throw himself witii greater self-abandonment on Christ.
for all his strength and all his salvation ; and thus, like the fabled
Ante&us of old, he rose the stronger from every fall. The light of
holy truth had early shone upon him, and the blessing of God had
borne him, almost harmless, through scenes that too often wreck
B 2
SIB BOLAITD ASHTOIT.
both the vii'tae and the peace of youth. Though entering with the
kindest sympathy into the feelingrs of others, his own heart seemed 4
lifted above the world, and continually dwelling in the presence i
of God ; aad in him was realized, to a most unusual degree, the '
power of a livinpr faith ; eyidenoing the truth of Scripture, ** Thou <
ehalt keep him m perfect peace whose mind is stayed upon Thee."
The generality even of true Christians pay, as it were, but visits
to the throne of fiprace, and are too apt to suffer themselves at other
times to be overcharged with the cares and affections of this world;
but with Sir Roland the peace of God <ibode, for his soul was stayed
upon his heavenly Father.
On leaving ClavertonThe proceeded direct to London, where he
was joined by a Mend whose mind was wholly congenial to his
own, and who had agreed to accompany him in his travels. Mr.
Scott was three years younger than Sir Koland. He had not been ^
blessed, like him, with narents who had trained his youth in the |
ways of piety and usefoiness ; but, having been broug:ht up for the
world, he had pursued its pleasures and dissipations with eagerness .
and delight. His mother died early ; and his father, though he had
thrown his son into the society he thought most advantageous in
all worldly points of view, ^ret when he saw the evils it led him
into, mourned over that which his own hand had done. He died
when his son was about twenty, and during the previous seclusion
of a long illness, he learned the insufficiency of earthly things to
bring comfort and peace in the hour of death; and bitterly did he
then regret the life and strength he had wasted on the things of
this world. His son's dissipated life filled him with alarm and
self-upbraiding. When he spoke to him on the subject, he would
laugh, saying, **he must live as others did;" that "young men must
be young men," &c.
But when his father's illness assumed a dangerous aspect, it
seemed to sober him at once. H^ was most attentive and kind,
and seldom left the house. Tet there/ seemed no conviction of sin»
no awakening of the conscience, or turning of the heart to God ;
and the imhappy father had to leave the world under the agnizing ^
apprehension that the son, whose late imremitting attentions had
made him dearer to him than ever, was a stranger to God, and
wholly given to the follies of the world. He had neglected to com-
mend his young years to his Maker, and now he bad to leave him
alone in the world, without one human counsellor to assist him,
and wholly ignorant of Him in whose service alone there is true
wisdom.
^ After the first feeling of natural ^ef and mourning had sub-
sided, Mr. Scott, having nothing within to sustain and comfort
him, naturally fell back to the companions with whom his life had .
been sp^nt. In verv kindliness they tried to raise his spirits, after
their own fashion, by leading him to " drown care" in renewed
folly and dissipation ; and be entered into the snare with the gusi^
of one who takes up again a favourite enjoyment after having oeen
for a tune debarrea from its pursuit. But he soon became surprised
at finding that these things had not the charm for him that they
formerly possessed. He no longer retained from the haunts of fdly
SIB SOLAin) ASHTOV. 5
or yioe light-Hearted, reckless, and cheerM; but a iTBiglit and
oppression hung over him, and his heart, uneasy and disappointed*
felt no peaoe.
Still, noweyer, he went on, and even plun^ deeper and deeper
into sin and folly, in order to stifle the voice that was speaking
within. Though he had never been convinced by what his father
had said to him, yet his conversation had brought new subjects
before his mind ; and when he began affain to mix in the world,
the aspect of things seemed changed to nim, and he graduallv lost
all power of enioyment in scenes that had once seemed so enchant-
ing. Yet stiU he knew of nothing better, and his old associates
could in no way help him; they " oeing tied and bound with the
chain of those sins, which he began so earnestly to desire to
shake off.
Just when his mind was in this state, one of his cousins, who had
been abroad for some years, returned to England. He had seen but
little of him before that time*^ but, as soon as he became well
acquainted with him, he took an extreme liking to his society,
which his near relationship gave him frequent opportunities of
enjoying. Mr. Singleton was one whose principles and pursuits
were wholly at variance with those of his young[ cousin ; yet hoping
to do him food, and feeling a great regard for him notwithstandinfl^
his many niults, he let him be as much with him as he chose ; and
an extreme intimacy thus grew up between them. He was several
years older than Mr. Scott, and of a most commanding style of
countenance and character. He was very desirous to be of use to
his cousin, but he determined not to press the subject of religion
too much upon him. He felt sure, from what he saw, that his mind
was unsatiBfied with his present pursuits, and he thought it best to
let him feel his misery fully, before he tried to relieve nim from it,
by pointing out the only patli of peace and happiness. With every
one he would not have acted in this way ; but he was weU versed
in reading human character, and he saw so much of determination
and indomitable energy in Mr. Scotl^ that he felt convinced that if
he commenced the attack, the other would never wiUingly relin-
quish the defence of any point.
One morning thorough!^ out of humour with himself and aU the
world, Mr. Scott threw himself on a sofa in his cousin's room,
exclaiming that " he was a miserable wretch 1"
** I shouldn't wonder," said the other, cooUy, continuing a letter
he was writing.
" Whjr so ? ' said Mr. Scott, rather indignant at the readiness
with which his assertion had been received.
" You seem to me to labour under many disadvantages," said his
cousin.
" I am generally considered," returned Mr. Scott, now appa-
rently set upon making himself out to be remarkably happy, ^*to
be rather an enviable fellow, and to possess an unusual share of
advantages in the world."
His cousin was silent, and pertinaciously plied his pen.
'* Why should you fancy I was miserable ? * said Mr. Scott. ^
'* One retoon was, that you said you were," replied his cousin.
6 6nt BOLAlvI) ASHXOSr.
" Oh ! one often says things one doesn't mean.''
" Does one? — I don't.**
" What an odious fellow you are, Sinffleton !"
" I suppose ' one is saying what one doesn't mean' now," replied
his cousin, quietly sealing nis letter.
" No, I do mean it. I hate you when yon are in these humonrs."
"In what humours?" asked Mx. Singleton, extinguishing the
bougie, and turning to his cousin in an attitude of patient atten-
tion : " I have finished my letter now, and can attend to you and
to your misery — or happiness. Which is it to he ?* '
Mr. Scott was excessively provoked, — ^the more so, that he could
not help laughing.
" 1 shall not talk any more to you," he said, sfcarting up ; " but
leave you till you are in a better mood."
'* I assure you I am in quite a sweet mood," said Mr. Singleton ;
"so let US (mcuss leisurely this very interesting, and seemingly
rather obscure point."
"I wish it were made law," said Mr. Seott, " to strangle people
who provoke one, on the spot."
Mr. Singleton laughed loud and lon^ ; so loud and so long that
his cousin could not re&ain from joining him ; and all prelimi-
naries being thus brought .to a happy conclusion, they entered on
the business under discussion.
" Well, why, I ask you once more, should you take upon you to
imagine that I am miserable ; and why do you say that I labour
under disadvantages ? What are they ?"
** Tour misery we will let rest upon your own assertion. The
disadvantages rest on mine, and I am prepared to name and prove
them. You are young, rich, clever, agreeable, fashionable, idle»
and godless."
"1 am not going to dispute the latter points,** replied Mr. Scott,
with rather a neightened colour; " but how, with all your love of
paradoxes, will you make it out that being (as you obligingly
nctionise me to be) rich, clever, agreeable, and fashionable, is to be
labouring under disadvantages. They are things usually rather
coveted than otherwise.**
" My sayings,** replied Mr. Singleton, " are perfect as toholea ; I
cannot be answerable for them in fragments. I again assert, that
a man endowed with all the attributes and c^ualifications I have
named, united together, labours under great disadvantages."
" I suppose you mean, that to a godless man, as you are liberal
enough to call me, the things first on your list act as snares."
** 1 do mean that, my dear Willy,** said the ol^er, kindly ; " the
freight that would be very valuable if God were at the helm, tends
but the more to sink the snip when Satan steers."
This pious but eccentrio man then proceeded to lay before his
cousin many valuable views of himself^ and of God ; and the result
of many conversations, of many hard-fought battles, and of mnoh
patient exertion on his part, was that, by tiiie blessing of God, Mr.
Scott was brought to see things as the Almighty sees them ; and
not only to lament, but entirely to give un, his former mode of life.
The energy of- character which nad made mm go farther than many
esa. BOLAKD ASHTOir. 7
In the pursuits of the world, made him now surpass most others in
the diligence with which he subdued the evils of his own nature,
and sought ocoasioos of merc]^ and kindness towards his fellow-
creatures. It was after this great and happy change had
taken place, that he beoame acquainted with Bit Boland, whose
mind was not less energetic than his own in all good things ; and
tiie sinularity in their habits and feelings produced between them
a strong and lasting Mendship.
Though Sir Roland was so much attached to Lady Constance
TempletoD, yet his reserve was so great on this subject, that he and
Hr. Scott had travelled together for some time l!efore the latter
l)eoame at all aware of ^ state of his feelings ; and then it was by
accident more than intention that ^e secret of his heart escaped
him. He nursed it as a treasure too delightful, too sacred, to be
laid open to common eyes ; though, after it had once been men-
tioned, he often found a solace in speaking of his future hopes.
After spending some months in tiie more southern parts of
£iirox)e, the two mends went to pay a visit to Sir Roland s uncle.
Lord N , his mother's brother, who was then ambassador at
one of the northern courts, and who was delighted to see his nephew,
and invited both him and Mr. Scott to remain in his house during
their stay at .
On Sir Roland's arrival, he found that the secretary of embassy,
Mr. Anstruther, an old acquaintance of his, had been dangerously
ill, and was consequently unable to fulfil the duties of his office.
He had, indeed, wholly resigned his employment, as he had been
told that his best chance of recovery was going to a warmer climate,
which he purposed doin^ as soon as he should have regained a
little more strength. This was a great trouble to Lord N , who
had been long accustomed to him, and who had none but young
thoughtless aUachis about him, in whom he could place but smaU
veliance. The person >vho was appointed to the vacant post was at
that time in a distant part of the world, and some months must
neoessarilv elapse before lie could enter on his new situation, and,
in this dilemma. Lord K asked Sir Roland to act &s secretary
till the one newlj* appointed should arrive, if government would
consent to his doing so.
Sir Roland, anxious to continue his journey, and longing to be
again at home, felt very averse to complying with this proposal ;
but his uncle was not youn^, and had much important business on
his hands, and he felt that it would be selfish to refuse his assist-
ance in such an emergency ; so he sacrificed, as was his wont, his
own pleasure to the gratification of others, and yielded to his
nncle s wish for him to remain for awhile with him at .
He expected to find his new situation extremelv irksome, ac-
customed as he was to perfect freedom of action, ana to associating
chiefiy with such friends as he liked ; but it was ^railing to him
beyond all that he could have conceived. In the midst of a dissi-
pated capital, and living in the ambassador's house, he found that
a very different course of life and of conduct was expected from lum
than any to which he had ever before been accustomed, and which
it was totally impossible for bim to adopt. His upright mind waa
8 SIE BOLAITD ASHTOIT.
shocked continually at things which occnrred in the course of the
business he had to transact ; and he ventured to mention to his
uncle several matters, which seemed to him to bear far away from
tiie open, truthful conduct, which had hitherto been his only line
of action. Lord N smiled at his nephew's " unnecessary scru-
pulosity," as he called it, and which he attributed solely to his
inexperience in the ways of the world ; for long as he had known
Sir Roland, he had not yet nenetrated into the recesses of his noble
mind. He was, perhaps, of a rather reserved temper ; but this,
though proceeding paitlv from natural disposition, was much in-
creased Dy finding tew who could understand the exalted Christian
characters written on his heart. They were like hieroglyphics to
the people of the world, therefore to such he unconsciously closed
the volume ; while to those who knew him well, and were able to
appreciate his feelings, every line of his bright and godly character
was open for perusal.
The old Machiavellian style of policy is now happily much ex-
ploded from our councils ; out Lord N , though of an upright,
npnourable character in ordinary life, was a man of the world, and
retained much of the old routine of conduct which formerly was
thought necessary in his situation. To diseuise his wishes, rather
than make them plain, was, he thought, the grand desideratum ;
while no art was considered dishonourable that could tend to the
discovery of the secret intentions of the powers with whom he had
to act. Sir Roland, however, stated at once that it would be im-
possible for him to use falsehood or deceit in any way. He didnot,
of course, fancy that he was to dictate what mpasures were to be
adopted, such thing[8 depending on persons much bigher in power
than himself; but in carrying out those measures, as far as he was
intrusted with their conduct, he assured his uncle he could not act
otherwise than with candour and honesty ; and he felt convinced,
lie added, "that openness would, in the end, be found to answer
the best, even in this world's estimation."
" I mustlist you take your own way, I suppose," said LordN ,
good-humouredly ; " but you will soon have had enough of truth-
telling in this lying world."
Now, without approving the morality ki my friend of the single j
lie, yet the correctness of his position is, we well know, matter of
history and experience." I
"It may be so," returned his uncle ; "but the first lie in diplo- \
macy was told such centuries ago, that I confess that I quail under ^
the attempt of cleansing this Augean stable. If Diogenes was i,
forced to take a lantern to find an honest man in his day, I am siure •
it would need a Bude light to discover one now, at least amongst our ^
tanks. And I suspect you wiU find one very necessary, too, in i
Tour pertinacious search after truth, which lies, they say, at the »
tottomofaweU." !
" ' Thy word is a lamp unto my feet,' " said Sir Roland ; " that is J
the only light which guides to truth-— all others lead astray ; and J
I
Snt BOLAITD A0HTOB. 9
Scriptnre warns ns that it were better to out off the right hand
tiian to let it cause 110 to offend."
** Cut off your own hand, by all means," answered Lord N ,
"if you have any particular predilection that way ; but pray re-
znember that you naye your country to consult as well as your own
fancies ; and don't be like the lady, who, determining to nave her
own Way with the loaf, cut herself through, and the footman behind
her."
Sir Roland laughed, and was about to speak, but his uncle con-
tinued, " Your country will not feel very grateful, I can tell you,
if you sacrifice her interests to follow some phantasm of your own,
which no one can understand when they have got it, prooably not
even yourself. You may, perhaps, think it your duty in pnvate
life, to go about telling people how frightful and disagreeable you
think them ; but that will not do here. When there are conflicting
duties, we must reconcile them as well as we can."
There was much in the contemptuous tone of his uncle which
was unpleasant to Sir Roland, but nis usual self-command did not
desert him. His uncle's age would have prevented any quick
reply, even if otherwise he might have been tempted to have given
way to one, and with great temperance he answered, " I cannot but
thiiik it is an error, thousfh I know it is a common one, to talk of
' conflicting duties ;' sucn cannot surely exist. There can be but
(be line of action at one time that is nght; all others, tibierefore,
liust necessarily be wrong."
"AU that sounds vastly pretty, and amazingly conclusive,*'
answered Lord N ; "but 1 conceive, with all due deference to
your greater experience, that it may so happen that what is well to
do at one time is iU to do at another. Truth is a very good thing,
where it will achieve the purpose we have in hand ; but even the
truth will not bear telling at all times, or in all placeb. If these
rascally fellows saw we had set our hearts upon any thing, do you
think they would let us have it ? Not they. It would be putting
whip, spur, and bit into their hands, to use as they pleased on usw
No, no, depend upon it, it is not your four-footed piff alone who
must be tola we are taking him to Fermoy if we woula get bim to
Elkenny."
*' But if all act on the same plan," replied Sir Roland, " we may
also find ourselves at Kilkenny, some fine day, without intending it,
" There is that danger, to be sure," answered Lord N ; " but
we must have our wits about us, and only sleep with one eye at a
time. It is useless, if you really want a thing, to act in such a
way as to cut up your own project by the roots. In the prosecution
of a great end, smaller interests must give way."
" As was the case with the unfortunate Princes Mediatis4» attlM
time of the peace, I suppose," said Sir Roland, archly.
Lord N — p shook his head at him, though a smile lurked at the
comers of his mouth. '* You are quick enough at finding out the
faults of your betters, I see," he said ; ** but if you are so mida-
pert, I shall give you double work to do to keep you quiet. But
rU answer for it you are just like your father ; there never was any
perguading him to do a thing like other people. Sometimes, when
10 fiE BOLiJn> AfiHXOV.
we were boys togetiier— and a bold boy he was— aye, and a noble
fellow, too — ^he would be wanting^ perhaps to do, or to have, some-
thing or other, (reasonable enough, I dare say,) and would be
always for goin^ directly to adc hu father about it, who was one
of the most capncions bodies that ever liyed. I used to say to him
sometimes, ' Wait a little, and see what s(»t of a humour he is
in.' But, ' ^o,' he would answer, looking very fierce and virtuous,
* if it is a right thing to do, it is a right thing to ask for at all times!
I hate your deceit.' So off he went, goinff bolt up to his father —
at a time whan no man iahis senses would have ventured to have
spoken to him, even to tell him that he had had a fortune of twenty
thousand a-year left him, — and out he comes at once with his re-
q^st. ' It needs no ghost' to tell what was the invariable result.
^W eU,* I would say, when he returned, * you have got your wish,
of course.' ' No,' with a si^h of resignation, * but I dare say there
is some good reason why it is refused me.' "
'*My dear father 1" exclaimed Sir Boland involuntarily, his
heart glowing at the reoollection of him.
'* Yes, he was a very dear father, and a very good father," said
Lord N ; " and a good husband, and a good man. And vour
mother is just such another spirit. Honest, open, truth-teUing
people, both— worthy and excellent — and intellectual too, especially
your father; but they would have ruined the interests of any
nation in a fortnight. Happy thing that they settled quietly in the
country ! |I cannot wonder, he contLuued, looking slily but kindly
at his nephew, " that you are no better than you are, considering
from whom you spring.
Sir Roland, smiled gratei^y at the implied compliment to him-
self and to his parents, while his countenance lighted up with the
beauty of filial love. " The thought of them is, indeed, most cheer-
ing tome" he said, "showing what single-minded faith in Christ
will do. Tet I must confess I do not quite a^e in my father's
boyish sentiment ; for if you do want a thing, it is best to take all
lawful measures to obtain it, if it is a matter of indifference, it
.were best not to irritate the other party by mooting the point at
all. I think he should have waited till his father was in a mood,
quietly and reasonably, to judge of his request ; and not have asked
it of a person who, to all intents and purposes, was at the time non
compos. We are told to use the wisdom of the serpent as well as
the simplicity of the dove."
" Well, well, my dear boy, that is just what I have been saying.
If you have a point at heart, gain it— honestly of course, if you
oan."
" Nay, nay, my dear uncle," replied Sir Boland ; " I say, be
honest, and gain your point, if you can. A Christian does not
reckon that he can gain a point with other than honest weapons."
"My young Solomon," said Lord N , "we must beat our
enemies with their own weapons, if we expect to beat them at all."
" ' Duties are ours, events are God's,' " said Sir Boland, gravely ;
** no Jesuit should be allowed to creep into our councils. It was
one of my father's sayings, I remember well, 'that the path of
duly is generally clear to those who have no secret wish to turn
aside from it.' "
gnt XOLABD AflttTOA. 11
** Well, hove it your own way, for a beadatrong, wOM boy, as
yon are," said Lord IS , wiio, nevertheless, oonld not nelp
■eeretly admiring what he considered his nephew's chivalroiu
romance of character; '* ask the ligbt, titien, of your diosen lamp on
the subject."
*' You will think I am determined to gainsay all yonr advice/'
said Bir Roland, ^pood-hnmonredly ; "bnt I eannot ask coimsel on
a point where plain oommands have been laid down. It would be
like Balaam, going to inquire of 6k)d, in hopes of being allowed to
<nirse, where God had pronounced his determination to oless."
** Upon my word, young gentleman, you are rather strong in
your language," said Lord li- .
** 1 beg your jMurdon, my dear unde," said Sir Roland ; '* I did
not at the moment peroeiye the strict application of the words ; for
nothinj? would induce me wilfully to say a disrespectfial word to
Iou. But still, dear sir, if you would but only consider the matter,
am sure you would [see it ia this light ; we know that all insin-
eerity is condemned by God, and He oertainly pronounces anything
but a blessing upon it."
•* No one, as you well knowr Roland," said Lord N , mildly*
'' disdains a lie more, as man to man, than I do ; but I assure you,
in public business yon will find it absolutely impossible to do
-without it."
'* I cannot beHeye it," said Sir Roland ; " nay, it is impossible it
should be the case. Is it not God's intention that nation should
have intercourse witii nation ? Most assuredly, then, such inter-
course can be, and should be, carried on in accordance with fib
most truthful laws."
" Well, I see you are determined to beat me out of the field,"
said Lord N , puckering up bis cTebrows into a tremendous
frown, from beneau which his quick, clear, grey eye twinkled with
tile most good-humoured expression ; " there is no such thing as
reverenoe for the wisdom of age in these degenerate days ; so I
shall hand you over to George Anstruther. There's a scholar who
lias £eu* outstripped his master ! and you will be quick, indeed, if
you are able at all times to give him a ' Rowland for hiis Oliver.' "
So saying, and shaking hands kindly with his nephew, he left
the room.
" Strange," thought Sir Roland, when alone, " that Satan should
iunre such unlimitea range through this world ! Well is he called
the ' prince of this world,' ' the prince of the power of darkness.'
But a day will come, and that soon I trust, when his power shall be
ca£t down, and the Lord of truth shall reign throughout His earth."
CHAPTER in,
** That keen sareastic levity of tongue.
The stiDging of a heart the world has stung.'*
JPhanta8Tnagoria.
Mb. AirsTXirrsEB was, indeed, an ai>t pupil of Lord K ^'s in
ihe oarts of diplomaoy ; or zather, he might prq^ly be called^ his
12 SIB BOLAim ASHTOir.
aetiye master ; for bold, tmscrapTilous, and Ml of reflonrce, he led,
rather than followed, his nomum chief. Lord N— ^ made use of
deceit in his way of carrying on affairs, in submission to the sup-
posed necessities of the case ; out Mr. Anstruther rejoiced in it as in
an exercise of ability and ingenuity. To him the Keen encounter
of wits in these matters was a most exhilarating exercise ; and he
seemed to have little amusement at anytime, but in placing with
the weaknesses and sins of his fellow creatures. Tet, notwithstand-
ing that this was his well-known character, he possessed such a
power of fascination that, when he chose it, he could unlock almost
eyer^ heart: and wind its most secret feelings from the imsus-
pectmg mind. Penetrating to the keenest degree, he delighted in
reading the thoughts of others. He quickly perceived if there
existed in any one a dislike towards another ; and by a judicious
throwing in of now a little praise, now a little censure, of the ob-
noxious personage, would brmg out all the unkindly feelings that
lurked in the heart of his companion, and not unfrequently create
a vast deal more than had before existed.
He amused himself, too, in diving into the heart's secrets, as
regarded its likings, as well as its dislikinga; and it might be said
truly of him, " qu*il aimait planter le couteau dans le coeur d'un
homme, pour en laire sortir ce qu'il y avait." (He delighted in
planting a knife in the heart of a man, that he might find out what
was in it) . If he wished to ascertain the state of any one's feelings,
he would casually mention the name of the person towards whom
he suspected a preference ; or more frequently, perhaps, say some-
thing disparaging of them, in order to elicit a burst of feehng. If
he were aesirous of observing secretly the ejffect of his woros, he
would let his eyes fall vacantly upon his companion, in the midst
of the conversation, gathering at that one, apparently listless glance,
worlds of knowledge ; or if he wished to obtain power over mm, by
letting him see he was master of his secret, he would, when he was
in the height of the turmoil his observations occasioned, suddenly
fix his dbark, keen eye upon him, in a way from which there was i
no retreat, and with an expression which told him plainly that his I
heart was wholly open betore him. He delighted in boasting of -^
the various acts he practised ; yet such was the ability with which
he made use of them, that few were aware of his designs when
directed against themselves.
His mother had been a great friend of Lady Ashton's, for they
were kindred spirits. Not so their sons ! If there was a being in
the world who was distasteful to Sir Roland— if there was one
whom he could have looked upon with a well-defined wish of never
looking on him again, it was George Anstruther ! For his mother's
sake he had kept up his acquaintance with him, though chosen com-
panions they had ceased to be for many years. As well might the
frozen Laplander and the heated denizen of the tropics expect to ^
flourish in the same temperature, as George Anstruther and Sir
Eoland Ashton to find breathing-space in the same moral atmo-
sphere, — each poisoned the air for the other. There was something
in the reckless want of principle — the daring disregard of all things
sacred— the wily reasonings, and cool, playful contempt, of 1£t.
A2istrathe]>— mingled too, with a careless, gaily good-humoorfid
SZB BOLAirO ASEIQV. 13
manner, tinder coyer of which he gfave Tent to tiie most hiUng sar-
casms,— that seemed to paralyse Sir BolAnd|s yery heart and soul;
while there was that in Sir Koland's real dignity of mind and up-
rightness of principle — ^in his keen discernment, and dalm, pene-
trating eye, under which Mr. Anstruther writhed and shrunk like
a yictim under the knife.
There was one point, and one only, which seemed to be a link
between their common natures; and that was the deyoted loye
which Mr. Anstruther bore to the memory of his mother. She had
died when he was yet a child, and he seldom spoke of her ; but
when he did so, the whole current of his being appeared for the
moment changed ; the eyils of his nature seemed driyen back to
their own dark abodes, and feelings, scarcely natural, almost
angelic, for an instant flooded his mind. To the yery outward eye
his appearance was changed at these times, and his marked and
handsome features wore a heayenly expression, in place of the
repellent, harsh restlessness, which was their p^eneral character.
It was strange, that to Sir IU>land alone did he oyer show these
intense workings of feeling. Neyer would he yoluntarily haye
reyealed them to any liying soul, — it was no relief to him to do so ;
— ^no comfort did he seek, in speaking of her he had loyed with so
intense a loye ; but when the remembrance of her took full possession
of his mind, he seemed to realize her yery presence, and to be borne
away as by a resistless flood ; and though old recollectioiis, by as-
sociating Sir Roland's idea with the loyed remembrance of his
mother, might haye somewhat to do in accounting for his confidence
with him, we must seek its chief cause in the secret, unacknow-
ledged, eyen unsuspected influence, which his truthful character
ana deep feeling exerted oyer him. He felt, intuitiyely, that with
him all secrets would be safe— -that he would neyer make his feel-
ings subjects of ridicule, or eyen of conyersation with others ; and
therefore, though in the presence of any one else he would |)robably
haye preferred dying in the effort to suppress emotion, yet with him,
the restraint being a shade less powemd, the sluice-gates of his
soul would at times giye way, and all the feelings of a naturally
affectionate heart would "burst forth in one wild, flood;*' though
•when he regaiaed power to pen them back again, he hated him the
more for haying been witness to their outflowin^s.
But on Sir Koland these scenes had a far different effect ; they
awakened in him an interest which not aU the horror he felt of Mr.
Anstruther's general tone of feeling could wholly do away. They
kept aliye a hope within his heart that the awful flat might not
yet haye gone mrth against him as against Ephraim of old: "He
IS joined to his idols—let him alone."
He therefore determined to keep up a kindly intercourse with
him, how disajg^reeable soeyer to himself, in the hope that, sooner
or later, he might be enabled to show him " the way, the truth, and
the life," which were now so wholly hidden from his eyes. He
knew what must be his eternal portion unless his heart were
chanffed and his sins pardoned through the blood of Christ \ and,
not for eyen his worst enemy, could he haye brooked to think of
ih» horror of ererlasting death.
14 8IB soiliin) ASHTdor.
*** Then marrd not if soolk M teak
In parMt light of hmooenee,
Hope against hope in love'b deertaA,
Spite of all dark oifenoe.
If they who hate the tvespaie moit.
Yet, when all other lore is lost»
liore the poor sinner, marvel not ;
Christ's mark outwears the rankest hlot"
Yet, ior all his Idndly wishes, it was with a heavy step that he
now proceeded to pay the inyalid a ■visit, which he feared would be
a ramfol one in every way.
Mr. Anstruther had been so weak hitherto, that he had been un-
able to see any one ; but the interdict was now taken off, and a few
of his most intimate acquaintances were allowed to visit him. He
lived in Lord N 's house, in apartments jurt over Sir Roland's ; so
ascertaining from his servant that he was ready to receive Mm, the
latter mounted the stairs and entered his room. It was nartiallv
darkened, and Mr. Anstrulher, who was reolininff on a sofa, lay with
his back to the light. Serious and almost fatal, as had been his
illness, his vanity was stUl in fall exercise, and he could not endure
the idea of any one's nerceiving the ^^eat ravages that sickness had
made in his looks. One point of his ambition had ever been to be
supposed superior to the common weaknesses of human nature;
therefore to nave been sick and ill, like any ordinary man, was a
terrible downfal to his vanity, and galled immenselv his arrogant
spirit. In receiving the visits of his acquaintance (mends he nad
none — Sir Roland and Lord N forming probably the sum-total
of those who took any real interest in him) he assumed the most
animated spirits, though often suffering severely afterwards for Hie
efforts he was so ill calculated to sustain.
"Roland, my fine fellow, how are you?" he said, holding out
two fingers as Sir Roland approached him ; " where have you oeen
disposing your person since last we met ? You see me here in a
new character. I had got tired of all the old ways, or rather they
of me, I suppose, and so they tossed me over to a sick-bed by way
of something new. However, they knew their man, and gave me
the only really gentlemanlike, aristocratic illness in the world— the *
only illness I could endure to die of. ' Inflammation on the lungs'
has something really romantic in its sound ; as if one had nothing
more gross or material about one than the breath of life — ^the
ethereal and only point on which one was vulnerable. Theii the
* sleepless night/ the ' fluttering^ pulse,' the ' hectio colour,'— are all
80 interesting ! The very sounds are euphonious, and flow so well
from the lips of the Clementinas and Seraphinas who hover about
2 our door in spasms of anxiety, and mourn your untimely fate in
iced and scented handkerchiefs. But now, 8ir Baronet, recount
allyonr exploits since last we parted."
He waited for Sir Roland's answer, slad to avail himself of the
opportunity of rest ; for even such sxnall exertion nearly overcame
mm.
" I have been travelling very soberly,'* answered Sir Roland,
"over many kings' highways, tiirough France, Italy, &c., * t' '
ant BOULSD Asannr. 15
all the (dffhts,' that other people do.*' He then proceeded to ** sblj
where he d been, and whut faoes he'd seen," as far as he thought it
miffht amuse his auditor, who lay with his eyes shaded by his hand,
loolJng the picture of death. He was much shocked by his appear-
ance, and in a short time rose to depart, saying he thought he nad
alr^idy stayed too long.
*' Not at all, my dear fdlow," said the sick man, in the most
TiTadous tone. " Channed to see jom, only those stupid fellows of
doctors have kept the room so dark for some time that tiie light
oppresses my eyes now. Bit still as long as ever you like. What !
you will go ? Well, come in whenever you choose—do not stand oa
any ceremony with me."
Sir Roland could scarcely repress a smile at the condescensioii
with which he was given the entrie to a stifling sick-room in the
bloomy time of sprinpr, when everything without oSered him fresh-
ness and fragrance ; m company too, with the man least tolerable to
him of any on earth ; (though that perhaps, was not known to his
Satronising Mend, though probably suspected ; for we seldom cor«
lally hate another without having some faint idea of the dislike
being reciprocal.) But controlling his features, he merely said that
he would come and visit him again the next day ; and glad of the
release, he returned to his own apartment.
CHAPTER 17.
'*Sprisg, on thy nsthre bills agatai
ShaU Ud negleeted i¥ild flowen ite;
And call forth, in each gnuny glen.
Her brightest emerald dyes I
Then shall the lovely moimtaln iW6b
Wrestti of the cliA, again disclose.
« • • •
The mooDftain rose may bloom and die,
— ^It will not meet thy smiling eye I**
HB8.HBKA1IS.
When jSir Roland entered his room, he was glad to find Mr.
Scott waitinfl: for him. " Put on your hat and come out with me,"
he said; ana they strolled together out on the ramxiarts. Taking a
lonff deep breath of the heav^y air, "What a relief!*' he said;
"what a change of atmosphere, moral as well as physical."
" Why, where have you been ?"
** In Anstruther^s room, oppressive to botii soul and body. But
now — idiall we ride ?" And ordering their horses, they were soon
fat from the city, amidst scenes where mere existence was
luxnry, and where their young buoyant hearts swelled up with
earth's ten thousand voices to the Giver of all the beautiful things
which surrounded them. It was spring-time ; and the very hedge-
rows were pictures, with the red shoots of the rose, the early honey-
Bockle^ the hawthorn, and maple, with all their various tints of
green.
'* If God has made such a world for His enemies^ what must be-
16 SIB BOLAim ASBTOV.
that world he has prepared for His Mends !" Such, or some 8uch»
were the feelings of the two beings who, with their reins upon
their horses' necks, wandered about through woods fragrant with,
the smell of the early foliage ; where the larch hung its slight
pensile boughs like verdant fountains all around, and the beech
unfurled its fairy banners to the breeze, with many other trees,
all adding beau^ to the weaie, and sending out their leaves so
f&st, in the warm Dursting air, that the shade seemed reallv deeper
when they quitted the precincts of the woods than when they had
«ntered them. Deep, indeed, it might scarcely yet be called, for
the young silken leaves but mintly obstructed the rays of the sun,
— it was softened light rather than shade.
But lovely was that bright spring day, and fcdly did the two
friends enjoy it, though Sir Roland's fancy would often turn to his
own. deep woods, now in their first flush of green, with the spark-
ling ocean seen between; and to his mother — ana to her who was
to nis heart as " April dews, that softest fall, and first;" and that
sick yearning of the spirit for those we love, ever felt most, per-
haps, at such seasons, began to steal over him, and turn his enjoy-
ment into regret. "How irksome it is," he exclaimed, ''to be
kept away nom home at this season ! for I had hoi>ed to see my
own leaves unfold this year ; and instead of being with those who
are aU truth and sweetness, I am kept perpetually battling with,
the falseness and selfishness of these people. I feel as if my mind
were stifi-— as one's arms become with swimming against a current.
I long to be at rest and peace, and to be at home tL^aia. But it is
a shame," he added, rousing himself, ** to sully this pure air with
one breath of discontent; so let us gallop across the plain, and
leave all gloom behind.
• Shflme on the heart tliat dreams of blessings gone,
• • • •
When nature sings of Joy and hope alone,
"Beading her oheerftil lesson in her own sweet time.'"
" I must beg to decline your obliging offer of violent exercise
this hot day,' said Mr. Scott; "but if you wish for it, don't let
me detain you; you can play at El Djereed around me, u it please
you, * but leave, oh ! leave me to repose.' "
" You are the idlest dog I ever saw, Scott, and always like bask-
ing in the sun."
^* I'll be revenged for that," said Mr. Scott ; " and tell you I
heard you very much abused the other day, and by a lady too. A
quotation you made a minute affo just reminds me of it in good
time for that purpose ; though, alter all, I dare say you are one of
those vain fellows who had rather be abused than forgotten."
" Perhaps I am," said Sir Boland ; '* but now, what was I abused
for? and by whom?"
** Oh, ho ! you can ride quietly now, can you, and bask like
others in the sun?"
" I can always be quiet if Hiere is anything to be got by it,"
•aid Sir Boland« good-humouredly ; " so now tell me."
SOL JBOLAin) A8HT0K. 17
^I ihon^bt you felt no interest abont any one here ?" said Mr. .
Scott, in a quiet way.
" I feel interested about myself eyerywhere, at all times, and
all seasons," replied Sir Roland.
" Well, that is honest, aad a great exertion for a hot da^, so I
think I will tell you ; though I am afraid you will be disappointed,
when I say that your fair traducer was only my respected aunt»
Lady Wentworth !"
" Only Lady Wentworth ! But Lady Wentworth is one of the
last people here I should wish to be abused by, being one of the
very few whose good opinion I think worth having; or rather, I
should say, one of the few who is capable of forming one (for
eveij one s good opinion is worth haying). Good old lady ! though
she is rather yehement in her anathemas, sometimes, I would fain
not deserve them £rom her. But what did she abuse me for ?"
" She abused you— but only to me, be it observed — for doing
what you did just now, and what you frequently do."
" What I quoting from the * Christian Year r"
" Yes. ^iCean't conceive,* she said— ^and she waxed quite wroth
— *how Sir Koland Ashton can quote anything from such an
author. I trust I haye not been mistaken in him ; that he has no
tendency to Pusevism !' But I assured her that she need bo under
no alarm about her fayourite ; I was sure you were as much op-
posed to those doctrines as she was herself."
" I am, indeed, no Fuseyite," replied Sir Roland ; " but I quote
from the * Christian Year, because ' out of the abundance of the
heart the mouth speaketh;' and I not only haye much of the
' Christian Year' by heart, but I trust I haye many of the senti-
ments it contains continually at heart. It is a lovely book of
petry, and was my deUght long before I thought anything about
Pusevism, and indeed, before that fearful evu had shown itself
openly to any extent. I always loved poetry; but amidst thtf
beauties of the Greek and Latin authors, there was oyer a some-
thing which, while it pleased, never satisfied me. Their writings
have a beauty that ' plays round the head, but touches not the
heart;' to say nothing of the many portions of them that had
better never have been written at all. But in Eeble's poems there .
breathes a spirituality of mind, which stretches from the height*
of heavenly love to tne humblest walks of practical Christianit> .
In it, the love of Qod, and love of man, are so forcibly, and so
beautifully, pressed on the heart, that I have found it a ntost
valuable «dook to me. I can despise no good thing, let it cc^mo
from what quarter it may; and I think, I confess, that toe are
often too apt to forget, that though salyation is a free — thank God,
wholly free rift — ^yet that labour and love are the appointed paths
to heaven. Too many of us are satisfied with being safe, without
striving sufficiently to be holy. Satan is sleepless and bus>, whilst
we are slothful and idle; and to me, therefore, these poems of
ieble's are particularly animating and arousing, for they bring
otff duties as well as our consolations continually before us. I
always felt that there were in them expressions and sentiments
ihm meaning was not clear to me, but I left those for what was
18 SIB BOLAiri) ASHTOK.
distinct in its truth, its dentil of piety, and hesveoly bve. I can
now trace x>ortions of the leaven which has since worked so £ear-
fiillj in their auth(»r's mind; bat still I cannot reject the rest on
their account, nor cease to value what God has so often blessed to
me. But oh ! to think of sach a mind as that being brought
again to look to outward things, to be involved in the mms of such
error! It seems scarcely *less than archangel ruined;' it shows
the dire malignity of that poison, which can reach and corrode a
mind like his. It makes my heart wretched, and my soul sick, to
see this work of ruin going on !"
" Well, if my good aunt heard yon now, ahe would be satisfied,
I think."
"I had quite forgotten what brought me on the subject; for,
when it takes possession of my mind, I seem to lose thought of all
else. It is so terrible to me to see Satan striving to satisfy the
craving souls of men with something short of the righteousness of
Christ, leading them to trust to their own wi^ks, and making them
satisfied with a mere form of godliness. Bveadfnl it is to hear
men, permitted to remain in the Church of England too, saying,
* that the Atonement is to be preached with reserve.' Thie Atone-
ment preached with reserve ! What, then, would thev preaoh ?
Where else can they find tiie ' glad tidings of great joy mat are to
be unto all people.' Grievously have thev, spito of ucir oheriahed
' succession, forgotten the jninciple of the apostle : " 1 1
'. am deter-
mined henceforth, to know nothing amongst you but Christ Jesus,
and Him crucified.' Do they forget that ^out of Christ'— 'without
His atonement—' our God is a consuming fire ?' Their doctrine,
too, enforces no holy separation from the world in its vanities and
folHes, no consecration of the whole being to God. In the momisA:
at church — at the midnight hour with tiie God-forgetting worlds
in the dissipations and vanities of the ball-room. Pasting one
day — ^the next at all the abominations of the theatre. What a
sickening mixture ! How contrary to the spirit of the Gospel !
how destroying to the souls of men ! setting oomnletoly arade our
Lord's declarations, *Ye cannot serve God and Mammon' — *the
friendship of the worid is enmity against God.' "
" You nave reason to thank God, my dear Ashton, from your
inmost heart," said Mr. Scott (and a shade of sadness crossed his
brow^, ** that though you speak so justly of tiie things of this
world, you know them only by report. Its foolish dissipations eat
out the very heart of spirituality; and truly, though in happy
is:norance of them, do you speak of the * abominatioms of tne
tneatre.' They are amongst Satan's most anproved workshops;
and you may be most thankfol that you haa guardians of your
young days mithful, and pious, and wise enough, to keep you from
ever entering their unhallowed walls. Yours is, 'indeed, the whitest
page of the numan mind I ever met with, * the princely heart of
innocence,' and that it is whioh mi^es you so particularly de-
lightful to me."
*' I thank you, Scott," said Sir Eoland, with pleased emotion;
" but do not write vain things on the tablet you mncy so pure, by
your kindly flatteries. Bemember that the heart within gives ona
Sm BOLASD ASEIOK. 19
enoQg^ to do ; and this experienoe it is which makes Puseyism flo
fearful to ^e, for it leads nuuai» from the inward spiritual graoe, to
rest in outward forms and ceremonies. The only comfort I can
deriye from these things is the additional proof they afford that
the end of this dispensation is at hand. The increased power per-
mitted to Satan to deceiye the nations, is one of the predicted
signs of the Lord's second coming; and the rapid strides of this
fearful apostasy make it, I cannot oat think, evident, that the evil
one is exerting himself a thonsand-fohi, * knowing that his time is
short.' One would almost think that £eble prophesied of this
very thing (in the fulfilment of which he himself is aiding) when
he said,
' Foe armanldnd, tOQ txdd thy Tsoe,
Thou ni]ui*kt, at suoh a reckless pace
Thine own dixe work thoa surely wilt QOofoimd:
'Twas but one little drop of sin
We saw this motning enter in.
And, Ic! St eren-tide the world is drowned.'
It seems snch a delusion, so monstrous! and of such rapid
growth, too, that I feel lost in astonisfament at it. Yet," he
added, looking earnestly up, ** Thou, God, art in the midst of ns,
and we are called by Thy name ; leave ns not !"
" I was perfectly sure that you did not agree with these doc-
trines," said Mr. Scott; '* hut I reaUy did not know that you felt
so strongly upon the subject."
" I feel more strongly on the subject to-day than I did yester-
day, and yesterday than the day before; for the evil hourly
increases, and each time I hear of it, or think of it, it assumes a
more awful aspect than before. But I have not of late much
canvassed these things with tou, for I like best to dwell on the
bright and sunny side of all subjects; and there are so many
pleasant views to take of the present times that I turn to gaze on
them rather than dwell upon the deepening shades of the twihght
of error."
" It is certainly delightful," said Mr. Soott, " to have encourage-
ment to beHeve that the ' time of the restitution of all things is at
hand;' it makes even these dark spots bring comfort with them,
thou^ brighter and better things also tena to produce the same
conviction. Good, as well as evil,, is a sign of the Lord's coming,
and certainly true religion flourishes now to an unprecedented
degree ; and more has been done for the spread of the Gospel
within the last forty years than in the eighteen hundred which
had ^psed before. That reminds me of £!eble, where he says, in
tbat splendid stanza, —
* Thus bad and good their sereral warnings give
Of his approach, whom none may see and live ;
Faith's car, with awM, still delight,
Coonts them like minute-bells at night.
Keeping the heart awake till dawn of mom.
While to her ftmeral pile this aged world is borne.'"
"They are magnificent Unas," said Sir Koland; '*and one can
c 2
30 SIB BOlAITD ASHTOir.
Imt earnestly hope that a mind so gifted as his must be who wrote
them — a heart that seems really to have been touched with *a live
<x)al from the altar* — ^may be led to see the whole * truth of Grod ;'
and not be permitted to use his heavenly powers to lead astray the
souls of men. Well, we may, perhaps, nelp in his rescue from
«rror as well as in the general furtheratice of God's glory on earth.
* The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man,' let us remember,
Scott, 'availeth much.' We are, I trust, both of us, though
sinners in ourselves, amon'^st those who are ' counted righteous
before God,' for Christ's sake; let us use our high privileges, and
* offer up our supplications out of a pure heart fervently.' *
They passed on, through cheerful meadows, where the field-
flqwers sent forth an almost overpowering fragrance ;. and through
stilly woods, where all was hushed, except the thronging notes of
the innumerable birds, which at that season
** Poor their foigofcten multitades, and catch
New life, new rapture, fh>m the anile of spring.**
^en, issuing forth again, they crossed the plain, and entering the
city — ^where their horses' feet echoed with ringing sound through
the almost empty streets — ^they at length dismounted at the gate of
the Embassy-house.
What was there in those two young beings to distinguish them
from the generality of those around them ? The one was certainly
pre-eminently handsome ; his tall figure, fine countenance, and
dark meditative eye might have caught the attention of tho
passer-by; but his companion had nothing but the bright ani-
mation of his look to attract a moment's notice : they might both
have passed even as others. Yet on their youthful brows was set
the *' signet of the Lord," unseen indeed by man, but recognised
by Him who had Himself sealed them by His Spirit.
Side by side the children of God and the children of the world
go through life ; together perchance they quit this mortal scene ;
these tranquillized by the comforts of me Gt>spel, those sleeping
under the delusive spells of Satan ; but oh ! what a difference ia
the awakening ! We may see two young sisters who, thoug-h
brought up under the same roof, are totally different in their
spiritual views and feelings. We may behold them, perhaps, in
the same chamber, stretched by the same disease, in the repose of
the same death ! ITieir last words may have been words of love
and sweet affection for each other ; ana they may have (.Med each
with the other's hand clasped fondly in her own. As far, there-
fore, as regarded each other, they may have been ** lovely and
pleasant in their lives," but in their deaths they are divided— the
one soars to the realms of eternal day, tho otiier sinks to endless
night ; for to the one the " Saviour was precious," while to the
other His " cross was foolishness."
Or look, where a little space from the bloody plain of battle
(Span's much-loved work) two soldiers drag their wounded,
suffering forms to the stream, to slake the agonies of their dying
thirst. Tog^ether they stoop and drink— together die ! The im-
press of pain is alike stamped on each contracted brow; but the
Sm BOLANB ASHTOK. 2t
one loved the '* Lord Ms righteousness," while the other would not
have Him for his God. Therefore, between them thenoeforth^
'* there is a spreat milph fixed/' which neither can pass. On the
one side hell " heaves her floods of ever-dnring fire, while on the
other are the realms of eternal life !
And when the day of the Lord comes, "as a thief in the night,"
of such — 80 undistinguished in outward appearance, but so dif-
fering m the " inward man"—- the " one shall be taken and the
other left*'— left, to be swept away by the fiames that must dwir
the path of the Lord of all those " who would not Imve Him to
rule over them ;" whilst the other is " taken" — " caught up to
meet the Lord in the air, and so to dwell with Ti\m for ever."
" Oh ! think of this, ye that lorget God, lest He pluck you away,
and there be none to deliver !*'
CHAPTER V.
* It is a weary and a bitter task
Back from the lip the burning word to keep,
And to shut oat heaven's air with falsehood's mask."
Mrs. Heicans.
SrB HoLANB made a point of goin^ to Mr. Aostruther once at
least every day; for he knew, notwithstanding the indifference
which the latter pretended to feel, that his visits were, in fact»
freat resources to him. Solitude, to a mind like his, was anything
ut exhilarating; and few of his gay acquaintance cared to
waste their time on one whom thev neither esteemed nor liked.
His health continued to improve, though he was unable to leave
his room.
One day he said to Sir Roland — '
" Yoiir respected uncle has handed you over to me, to be in-
itiated in the noble art of diplomacy. !^ow, what are the points
on which you wish to be enlightened ?"
Sir Roland smiled, and said, " I shall be much obliged by your
explaining some things to me — some matters which I have to
take up in the middle. '
" The beat advice I have to give," continued Mr. Anstruther,
taking no notice of Sir Roland s answer, "is that you should
conceal your own thoughts, meanings, and feelings, and set all
your wits to work to find out the thoughts, meanings, and feelinga
of others. That, in few words, is the concentration of diplomacy ;
like the poor &:entleman's thirty Westphalia hams, reduced to one
small bottle of essence; take it, and use it <k discretion"
Sir Roland smiled, and shook his head.
"Now, pray don't affect to be sanctimonious," continued Mr.
Anstruther ; for that is acting as well as speaking a lie. We all
lie— we all know that we lie ; and the only one who speaks any*
truth at all is he who confesses that he lies ; as to making faoes
about it, Ihat is childish— ridiculous !"
'^I can understand its being extremely diiHcult," said Sor
22 SIE XOLAND ASQSTOir.
Bolfind, '* to keep u^rigflit under msk enubing buxthens ; but it u
certaiolv not imposeible, and I hope l^ere are those who do so."
Mr. Anstruther turned bis head, and looked at him with an
adapted smile of surpdae and inquiry. *' Are you so young, so
very young, as to suppose that }" he said. ** Well, I thouffht even
you had more sense ; though I know, as Willy Soott said the otiier
day, ' that the making you a diplomat was more hopeless than
looking for the needle at the pole L-4he most amusing idea he ever
heard of !' Yet I was foolish enough, I confess, to have some hope
of you; but I see I am wrong, decidedly wrong. Not that you
will be a jot better than others— that I never expected" (with a
contemptuous smile) ; " but I perceive, if ever you do become like
them at all, it will be a sort of caricature likeness— a somethinjg
which one perceives is meant to resemble something^ but is mam*
festly a failure. I am sorry for you, for it is no use resisting : the
world will turn and twist you ner own way, do what you will;
and if you will only go through the process quietly, there may still
be a chance for you. But. if you are to plunge and kick all the
way through, you will be mutilated in all manner of ways,
monung,
shape of roast mutton and men's coats? So will you be trans-
formedr— pure lamb, that you doubtless think yourself at present^
in you must go, and out you must come : only your mutton will
be worse roasted, and your coat worse out, than others— that's all I
But now to enter a little more into particulars, after my fa^on ;
for it would reall y g ive me prodigious satisfaction to mould you &
little into form. We must hrst consider the ends we have in view,
and then the means whereby they are to be attained. Without
joking, what you have first to master is the secret intentions of
your enemy; for- all the people you have to do with must be
considered as enemies— poUtiimlly, I mean : that is, all of them
will pursue their own interest, without the aUghteet regard to
yours, preferring, indeed, rather to rise on your ruins than other-
wise/'
'* It is a pity," said Sir Edland, " that people have not as yet»
in general, found out that what benefits one will probably in the
end benefit another too ; and that, on the other hand, by outraging
others, we are sure, finally to injure ourselves : as a man, sowing
thistles in his neighbour's field will find that in time the seeds
blow over into his own."
*' We leave such vulgar con8iderati(»i8 for those whom they may
suit," replied Mr. Anstruther, oontemptuously ; " what we have
to do is to set our point before us, and follow it, * coute qui coute'
(cost what it may). The pace is too good to stop and * pick up the
bits' of those who are overthrown in the scramble : indeed, if our
horses' hoofs were wholly to obliterate the features of a Mend, I
am afraid— it is very horrid ! but I really am afraid— it would be
rather a pleasant thin^ than otherwise."
"'Hateful and hatmg one another,'" said SirBoland, indig-
Biintly.
SOL SOLAKD ASBTOS. 23
" Just 80, if that is the view it omnses yon to take of it. But as
I was 8a3ring, your first point must be to find out what are the
nartioular things which the enemy wishes you not to find out.
K^ow, one very good way is just to observe the subject which, in
your intercourse together, l^ey treat as trifling, insignificant mat-
ters. Depend on it those are their hidden tr^isures — there lie the
golden eggs they are trying to hatch. From them they will
endeavour to draw off your thoughts, just as the partridge flaps
and flutters away to draw you fnnn her nest. There fix your eye,
and never take it off; tear, sooner or later, yon will find the root of
the matter to be in that quarter. But, nrobably, you would not be
up to all thatr— at least not at first," ne added, oondesoendingly ;
*' so your best way will be to get round somebody, to tell you all
about it. I dare say you are a great adept in the arts of jpleasing V
"I have never yet put them to the proof," said Sir Koland,
laughing.
'* You expect that I should believe tiiat» of oourse }" said Mr.
Anstrutiier.
" I do," replied Sir Bokmd.
'* Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, my good sir, for
the neglect of the goods bestowed upon you ! "Wny ! with that
' preux chevalier' face of y;ours I would have broken all the hearts
in Christendom before this, and have joined the expedition to
Central AMca, to find out new worlds to conquer. However, if
you have so long neglected to manufaotnre your raw— I am afraid
very raw— mat^ial, to meet the demand of civilized society, it is
time you begin ; so I advise you to make your apprenticeship with
' la heUe Louise,' the young French minister's Qhannins' little sister.
Her brother makes her the dioice depository of all he knows,
suspects, and invents; and a Uttle judicious attention on your
part will soon win all from her."
** Your first recommendation I am really much obliged to you
for," said Sir Boland ; ** but the other I beg to decline, as I have
no wish to carry home a foreign wife, and have, moreover, no liking
&r*la belle Louise.'"
" You are really most unpleasantly matter-of-fact and obtuse of
inteUeot!" said Mr. Anstruther — " distressingly so, indeed ! Who
talked of your liking — or even marrjring — any one ? I suggested
neither of those paiimil predicaments. I merely proposed that you
should do what many others of your calibre have found very useful."
"And then leave the poor victim to die of a broken heart; as
George Stanley did last year to that pretty girl at ."
"As to dying, that is a matter of choice or accident, I imagine,"
replied Mr. Anstruther. "People do not die of love now-a-days,
even if they ever did— which I consider rather apocryphal. I sus-
pect there was a * feverish cold,' or something of that sort, added
to the love, in that case. I do not give George Stanley credit for
producing * une si belle passion ;' and I should not much fear for ' la
jolie Louise,' I confess, in this instancy. I really advise you to try.
A little show of attention, a few * petits scans' (nttle attentions) to-
wards the sisters or daughters of a minister, help those imoom-
monly who cannot help themselves."
24 SIB BOLANS ASHT0I7.
Mr. AnstrutHer said this without the .slightest idea of Sir Roland's
adopting his suggestions, but merely witn the desire of moi-tifying
him, by appearing to think him no oetter than the common run of
Tmprincipled men of the world.
** Your code is mightilv at variance with mine on all subjects,"
answered Sir Eoland^ cololy. ** I wonder you can exist, Anstru-
ther, with such a lining to the heart and imagination as you must
have."
" My codes and my linings have nothing to do with the case,"
rejoined the diplomat. ** I never encage in matters of that kind,
for I do not need such resources and assistances. I love no one —
nor do I affect it." And a sardonic smile curled his lip.
" I almost think that with you, Anstruther, the will to love is
wanting more than the power," replied Sir Roland, with a kindly
smile.
A strong emotion rushed suddenly over Mr. Anstruther's mind ;
but with a great effort subduing it, he replied, coldly and care-
lessly : " Will and jyower are, I imagine, pretty well synonymous
with me. As regards love, however," ne continued, with a vivacity
evidently affected, " I have a thorough contempt of the article as
imjyorteQ into high life ; what it is amongst your boors and savages
I have yet to learn. But I rdther like, when I am * desceuvr^,* and
trouble myself at all about such light matters, to amuse myself
with contravening the littie outbreaks, and manifestations of liking,
between the young and foolish of the world. The old I leave to
themselves, as best qualified to work out their own absurdities, and
to expose themselves unbidden in all the shapes of folly which
long use and experience enable ^em to command. But the ' chasse
i rhomme' diverts me in everyway. Now you, I dare say, would
rather foster all those pretty weaknesses, and would think them un-
commonly amiable! Apropos," he added, fixing his quick eye
full on Sir Roland, ** how is my old friend, the pretty Constance ?
Does she favour your suit ? or are you wandering here in hoi)elesd
exile?*'
Sir Roland's colour mounted to his temples, and his dark eye
flashed with a sudden expression of anger, as he replied quickly, —
** If you mean Ladv Constance Templeton, you must speak with
respect of her, as of all my friends ; and not affect an intimacy
witn those who have scarcely ever honoured you even with a bow."
"I really beg your pardon," replied Mr. Anstruther, in an
affectedly soothing voice ; " I spoke quite at random, I had no idea
of there being anything so serious. I am exceedingly sorry to
have annoyed you ; but I assure you it shall go no farmer — ^your
secret is perfectly safe in my keeping."
The confidential air with which this was said was beyond mea-
sure annoying to Sir Roland,who rose and went to the window;
he soon, however, replied in a calm tone, —
"I especially oisliKe the impertinent familiarity of the present
day; where men think it a mark of importancai I suppose, to
* Susan,* and * Mary,' and 'Arabella* everybody whom they know
by sight or name."
*' 1 am sorry to have rofflled you, my dear fellow," rejoined Mr.
SIB BOHUri) ASHTOV. 25
Anstmtliei ; " really very sorry. I liad no idea the fimbject was of
80 tender a nature ; but as I see now how the land lies, I will be
more cautious for the future."
Sir Roland was about to reply hastily; but checking himself, he
said, after a few moments' silence, —
*' I do not mind whom you talk of, only let it be in a proper tone.
But my horses must be waiting for me now, so I must go, and will
send my servant up with that Dook you wi^ed to see."
Mr. Anstruther threw a compassionate smile into his countenance,
as Sir Koland crossed the room to depart, in hopes l^at the latter
would turn and perceive it ; but as he failed to do so, he let it fade
away ; and as the door closed, and he listened to his steps rapidly
descending the stair, a sigh, involuntarily, broke &om nim. ** I
am half sorry I vexed him," he thought, "for there are few like
him !"
Though. Mr. Anstruther had delighted in harassing Sir iLoland
on a noint on which he knew he would be particularly suscei>tible,
yet tnere was a feeling within him which would have made it im-
possible for him to have betrayed the knowledge he had so un-
generously obtained, to any other human being. His mind paid
an involuntary tribute of respect to the noble qualities of his late
companion, though he would not on any account that this feeling
should have been perceived. He did not, indeed, acknowledge it
even to himself; for like many in this world, in order to deceive
others, he tried first to deceive himself.
Sir Eoland, having escaped from what was tp him as a scorpion's
nest, gladly exchanged Mr. Anstruther's society for that of Mr.
Scott, with whom he generally rode at that hour.
"It is very wise of me," he said, as they naSsed into the pure and
fragrant air, " to ^ through my * purgatono just before my hour for
goin^ out and being with you. I arrays ffo to Anstruther before
mynde, for I do not think I could sit down to my papers im-
mediately on leaving his room. My mind always feels as if it had
been rubbed up the wrong way, and I need "uie air to smooth it
down again ; and you gain, too, prodigiously by the contrast,
Scott— the foil sets you off to admiration."
" I, am much obliged both to him and to you; but you seem more
than usually * rubbed up* to-day, Ashton; you look gloomy and
wrathful. It is very odd, but though eyery one that knows An-
struther agrees, that not a word he says is worth attending to, yet
every one does attend to it; and he is so full of those 'reckless
sarcasms, those jests which scald like tears,' that he has the power
of sending every one from his presence with a sting in their
mind— a something which spite of themselves irritates tnem when-
ever it recurs, fretting the mental cuticle, as the needle arrows of
the Lilliputians tormented the corporeal epidermis of the unfor-
tunate Gulliver. He either abuses your mother — or praises your
father with a *but* — or tells some pleasant story of some one, * who
made himself so very ridicubus,* quite forgetting, of course, till
the end, that it was all about your own brother, — laments the
•nropensity' tiiat the person he fancies you like *has to flirting,'
«c.»— or repeats, or rather invents for the occasion, something that
26 SOL BOLAJTD AflSTOV.
yotir best friend bfts said against yDu— qtiite i&ocked, nvhen lie has
done so, at his inadYertenee-^as He was ' particularly charged not
to repeat it/ **
" Yes ; he pretended to rraeat sometSiing that yon had said of me
to-day; but il volpe sopranno' (the over-cnnnine fo:0 overleaped
tiie mark there. Had he put it upon any one else, I might h&ve
fancied it tme ; but I ceitainly did not as coming £rom you."
"What was it?"
"Oh ! merely scmething about my not being a perfect Mettemich
— ^nothin|f of any consequence; merely thrown out to give the
pleasing impression that you talked to him conten^ituously of me.'*
**Was it that which gave voa your unwonted rufliing? or had
our experienced fciend been nshing in deeper waters ?" asked Mr.
Scott.
" They must be deep waters, indeed, if they ate deeper than those
yon swim in, as regards me," returned his companion, with a kindly
glance, which, however, gave immediate place to a look' of annoy-
ance and displeasure, as he continued, " but, perhaps, truth makes
me confess it was the deepest depths that he disturbed to-dav, for
he spoke of her. But he did not abuse her, and that was being
very gracious, and I was a fool to be so annoyed. But don't you
know what a bore it is, for a person suddenlv, with great eyes
watching jou, to name anything^—fuiy one of that kind— and the
light full m your face,— no retreat— no burying yourself in a folio,
or * bending over embroidery-frames,' as distressed damsels in
novels always do on such occasions ? "
" No ; I don't know what a bore it is ; for I never had * any thinsr,
or any one of that kind,' whom I cared about being mentioned,
even in the brightest sunshine. I often wish I had ; for though
your friendship satisfies me now, yet 'Vfhen you are at home agam,
I might be one of the ^
*Scot8 idia hae wi' Wallsee Ued,'
for aught you would care."
" You are fishing for compliments now," said Sir Roland ; " but
you may as well put up your rod, for you will catch nothing to-day,
nor get even a single nse out of me. The waters of my mind are
muddy, and altogether at their lowest ebb. But without joking,
I do feel greatly annoyed at having that feeUng— which it was long
before I could name even to you— touched by hands so rude
as his."
" Ay, I remember it was a long time before you mentioned the
subject to me, — and then it was more by accident than good will, —
for which I owe you a special grudge, dotted down duly— with
mem. : * tQ be paid off wim aggravation, some fine day/ **
filB SaLABS JSHSQOr* St
GHAPTEEYL
« Her lot is on yoit— lUeitt tean to w«ep»
And patient smiles to wear throagh suffering's hour ;
And somless riches ftom alfection's deep.
To poor on broken reeds, a muted shower ;
And to make idols, and to find them dajr.
And to hewaa that worships— tfaeretee pragr r
Mas. HkHAiffl.
<* Plant with eailiest eare
The seeds yon most desire should flll the soiL**
WaUainaForett. [
" I gire tiiee to thy God— the God that gaye thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart t
And, predoos as thoa art.
And pore as dew of Hermon, He shall have tliee^
My own, my beavdltal, my vndellled !
And thoa shalt he Jffis ehild."— Mas. Bskaxb*
jDat after day did Qk Bokad inroseoate Ms labour of love towards
}b. Anstmther ; and a labour of heavenly love it was — often a most
irksome one. The physicians had informed Lord N , l^at even
if the invalid regained sufficient strength to enable him to remove
to a wazmer climate, and thus prolong his life for a time» yet that
his lungs, natorally weak,' had been so mnoh afBooted by the violent
ftttaokhehadhad, tnatit waaimpossiblehecouldeverwliolljiecover ;
and that they thought, indeed, that any fresh oold, or excitement of
the chest, might roeedily beoome fatal. With this knowledge Sir
Boland could not Dear to neglect any means that might rouse tiie
beinsr, whose mortal life was so precarious, to a sense of his lost
oondnion before Qod.
A character like Mr. Anstmther's is hajipily rare; but unhappily
not wholly unknown in this world of vaded sins. Some there ar»
who even exceed him in intentional malice; for, thoug-h he took &
ftline pleasure in playing with the feelings of his victims, yet he
was not always fully aware of the degree of pain he occasioned.
There was a perpetual spnng of irritation and virulence witiiin
biinself, which vented itself recklessly on others, just as the Cathe-
rine-wheel, fretting round its own oentre, diqpiensSs its burning
sparks on all around.
In order to account for the peculiaritieBin his diaracter, we must
look a little to his early years; for in his case, as in most others,,
Ihe bitter fruits of evil nroceeded more from tiie training than from
the natural quality of tne tree which produced them.
His mother, amiable and sweet by nature, had been educated in
the purest school of Christianity, and had early learned its life-
givinff lessons ; but £Eir different was her husband in every way,
though his real character was, for a length of time, wholly unsus*
peeted by her. Her parents had died some years before, and she.
an only child, had been left to the guardianship of her maternal
paodfather, whose age and retired habits had long kept him aloof
b&L all thoae who could have opened hia eyes as to the oharaoter of
'^ em BOLAJTD ASHTOir.
the man who sought his grandchild's hand. Exceedingly handsome,
and very prepossessing where he wished to please, Mr. Anstruther
won upon the old man by his kind and deferential manners. His
conversation, too, was full of animation and anecdote; and he
would often lament, with apparent candour and sincerity, the de-
ficiencies of his own education in matters of religion. But little did
the old man or yotmg maiden suspect that these pleasing qualities
were but cloaks to hide the darkness of his heart; and that his
hours, when absent from them, were spent in the society of persons
of the worst and most imprincipled descrit)tion.
When in love with the rich and beautiful Miss Gascoigne, he
could with tolerable patience hearken to her earnest conversation
on religions subjects j for a man, in such a case, will listen with
pleasure to anything from the yoice that is to him all melody! and
the attention thus yielded ia often attributed* with ill-placed
modesty, to the weigfiit of the ar^ment rather than to the charm
of the preaehcrp " Affection is very hopeful ; " acd Miss Gascoigne,
with a facility, which in more cases than her$ has been fraught
with misery, though she felt Mr. Anstruther was not a thorough
Christian in principle, yet beUeviDg that be was well inclined, and
that^ under her iniluence and admonitioQSp he would soon become
all she could wish, in an ill-fated hour consented to bt) his wife.
For some time aU went on smoothly ; and bright was the dawn
of the married Efe of this ill-assorted pair. Mr, xinstruther still
for a time continued to listen patiently to the words of his wife ;
for it was hard to refuse attention to one so lovely » and so earnest
in her ^eal I But when the novelty of the thing wore off, his
patient endurance of themes so uncongenial to his mind departed
The birth of George, their first and onlv child, soon formed an
excuse to the hitherto tolerably attentive nusband to absent him-
self more than he had before done from his home ; for, with his
sweetest smile, he would tell his wife, that now, as she would not
be alone, he would go again a little among friends he had lon^(>
neglected, and who nad often reproached him for his continued
absence.
The joun^ mother sighed to think that what had doubled the
attraction of home to her should prove a reason for her husband's
more frequently leaving her ; but, strong in her confidence in him,
she felt it merely as a loss of pleasure and comfort to herself.
Soon, however, she began to find a sensible alteration in his man-
ner when he was with her ; for he no lon^r exerted himself to be
agreeable, or made any effort to restrain his naturally irritable dis-
position. He was indifferent to his chUd, and morose to her ; and
she began to feel, with fearful force, the effects of her unfaithfulness
to God in having united herself to one of an tmconverted spirit.
Her doting fondness for her child served at times to beguile her
from her sorrows; and in her husband's presence she always
exerted herself to be cheerful. She rarely now, however, ven-
tured to speak to him on the subject of religion ; but one day,
when she nad unconsciously adverted to it, she was surprised to
see him not only appear calm, but with somewhat of his old accus-
SEB BOUUn> ASHIOir. 29
tomed kindness of manner, enconrage her to proceed; and her
heart beat with a flatter of happiness not to be expressed, when, as
she continued with animated hope to speak on the subject, she saw
him take her Bible in his hand, and, oarefoUy taming its pages,
seem to search for some particular passage. His long dark laeiies
completely hid the expression of his eye as he examined the holy
volume ; out after a few minutes, he raised his head, and turning
the book to her, he pointed to the passage he had been seeking.
There was a bland smile on his lips as he did so ; but the look of
dark malignitv which glared from nis eye so terrified his trembling
wife, that she nad scarcely power or senses left to see the words he
marked.
" Read it," he said, in a suppressed tone.
She read:- "Be ye not unequally yoked together with un-
believers."
" May I ask," said Mr. Anstruther, in his smoothest manner,
"whether those words had ever met your eye when you married
me?"
Mrs. Anstruther, oast down as by a stanning blow from the
bright happiness in which she had been indulging, was nearly
fainting with terror as he asked the <;(uestLon. ana was whoUy
unable to reply. Her husband^ triumphing in the pain he was in-
flicting, again addressed her in his sweetest tone. She gave a
trembling answer in the affirmative.
" And did you," he continued in the same voice, " consider me
at that time what pious and excellent people would call — a be^-
liever? Answer me candidlv, I shall not be offended." Still hia
unhappy wife could command no word.
"Did you," he resumed, in a restrained and concentrated voice»
"consider me, at the time of our happy marris«e, as deserving to
be ranked by the devout amongst the number of believers ?"
Mrs. Anstruther covered her face with her hands, and, bursting
into an agony of tears, answered, " No."
He grasped her arm with violence, and his voice trembled with
passion, as he exclaimed, —
" Then never again dare to speak on the subject of religion, or
intrude your accursed cant upon me. You should learn to obey
before you preach, and not attempt hypocritically to force on otherts.
the dull m<n^ty you chose to spurn at your own convenience."*
So saying, he cast her from him, and left the room with thunder-
ing tread. Mrs. Anstruther, more dead than alive, sat rooted to
her chair ; her mind was in a state of complete bewilderment ; for
unprincipled as she had discovered her husband to be, ha had till
then been tolerably respectful in his behaviour to her, and she was
little prepared for this outbreak of passion and cruelty.
Bitterly did she, indeed, feel that the inconsistency of her con-
duct had brought upon her this terrible trial ; and, also, that it
had done discredit to -the holy cause she had so much at heart ;
and with deep humiliation did she confess that it was "right she
• An incident, aomewhat similar to the one here supposed, occurred in real
^ and is in print somewhen.
30 ea. SOLASD iLBHTDir.
riiotdd be humbled/' and by him, too, fioar Trhom shiB had offended
Many had been l^e etaruff glee she had had -with her consdenoe be-
fore she had detenninea to marry Mr. Anstnd^ier ; but affiBction
had triomphed over failii and pzinoiple, and now she had to eat
the bitter fruits of her own planting*
From that time she saw but little of her husband ; and* when he
did oome home, it was but to harass and torment the gentle creature,
whose oppressed spiiit fast sunk beneath liis unkindness. Her boy
was her only eartmy comfort, and richly did he return the love that
was BO ovemowin^y lavished on him. Yet, even oSi this last re-
maining spot of bhss, did the blight seem in yaxt to have fallen.
The child was often present when his father came home, and was
therefore a frequent witness to the cruelty with which his mother
was treated ; and Mrs. Anstrather was terrified when she saw the
effect of these things on his appearance. An expression of fierce
anger would shoot from beneath his lowering brows, while he sat
with dosed teel^ and denohed hand, as if ready to spring upon his
father ; and well as she appreciated the love that made mm feel so
strongly, jret her heart gneved to see in one so young the evidence
of such violent feelings. He never, however, mentioned these
things to her, for he early showed symptoms of Ihat tad which in
after-life was so remarkable a feature in his character ; but after
scenes of this kind, he would go to her, and strive to soothe her un-
happiness by redoubling his own caresses.
Hls little couch was ^aoed by hers at night; but often would he
'Steal into her arms and slumber there. Her restlessness— the rest-
lessness of an unhappy heart— 4»ught him to be wakeful too ; and
often would he, in the darkness of night, put out his hand to stroke
her face, and try with childi^ art to discover whether there were
tears unon her cheek; and, when he found thran there, he would
creep closer still, and, putting his soft arms round her neck, mur-
mur words of love and fondness, till sleep again closed his weary
eyes.
His mother loved him with an intensity soarcely to be imagined
by a happier spirit, and delighted in early teaddnghim the things
oi God, and seeking to fill his heart with the love of his Heavenly
Father. She delighted, long after the sweet days of babyltood
were passed, to be with him at that happy time when the little
wearied body seeks joyfully the repose to pe found in a mother's
cradling arms ; and whoi me tranquil heart, soothed into forget-
fulness of the more boisterous pleasures dme day, is open to all
the sweetest emotions of love and tenderness— and Uien would she
speak to him of God.
In all the outward and visible soenes of creation there is a voioe
which may remind us of inward spiritual things. God does not
send his gentle dews upon the earth, when the noontide ray, with
fervid heat, would exhale them ere they had had time to refireah
the parched and drooping herb ; but He sends them silently down
at the calm evening hour, when the sun has ceased to exercise its
burning force, and the hushed winds are gone ; and there they rest,
sinking deep into the heart of l^e grass and fiowers, till, with
gentle infiuence, they have refreshed and nourished aU around. And
en soLAim ASHTOir. SI
finis Aonld fahihfal parents iratoh for the stilly hoim of life to
drop sweet, holy ivoidb into their yoimgr babesMiearts, ere yet the
wond has made them all its own !
Amongst the other evil habits in which Qecfrge Anstmther^s
£ither indnlged, gambling' found a place ; and before many years of
his married life were x>ast, he had dissipated almost all the large
fortune which he had obtained with his wife. Without a moment's
warning, that unhappy woman found herself hurled from affluence
to almost absolute penurr; and she retired with her child to a
small, obscure house in toe country. Her Mends, however, did
not desert her; and amongst the most constant and attached was
Lady Ashton, and many a month did she spend at UanaTcn. But
when George Aostruther was about six years old, grief and anxiety
had made such fearful ravages in his mother's delicate constitution^
tiiat it became evident that ner life would soon eome to a close ; and
for above a year before her death she was wholly conJBned to her
own home, and was, therefore, entirely separated from all her
friends. Her husband seldom visited her; and, when he did so, it
was only to vent upon her and her child that spleen which he dared
not openlv indulge in the world.
Preclud.ed from the society of others of his age, the leading
characteristics of G«orge Anstruther's disposition became morbidly
developed. His love for his mother was almost idolatry ; yet it
was scarcely a stronger feeling than his hatred ibr his father ; and
between these two s^ng passions his heart seemed completely di-
vided. Hehadbutfewoftneoccupationsandpur8uitsofchildhood,for
his mother' s extreme weakness made her unequal to the task of carry-
ing on his education ; so that at seven years old he was an infant in
learning, though a giant in feeling. At length, the sad day of his
mother's death arrived ; " where the wicked cease from troubling,
and the weary are at rest," there did that meek and suffering
creature find ^ace and happiness at last.
For some time after this event Mr. Anstruther was obli^d to
have his child with him ; but, finding that toogreat a restraint on
his usual habits, he soon sent niin to school. .The place he selected
was not one where much that was valuable was tai^ht ; and there
were none there who could in any way excite feelines of afiection
in the boy ; so that, though snrronnoBd by a crowd, he still felt
alone. His heart, finding nothing to satisfy it, became bitter in its
feelings ; and tiie lessons of heavesoly love and wisdom he had heard.
from ms mother gradually died away from his memory now that
her voice was no longer there to enforce them. During his holidays,
his most unnatural father used to amuse liinfi«ft1f by taking ^^tn
with him into the haunts of foUy and vice, and in teaching mm to
ffamble and drink, and take the oatiis and words of older sinners in
his lips. But his ever-increasing detestation of his father was so
ur a happy thing, that it made him hate all tiiat he heard him
indse, and taught him to avoid through all his after years, the
sinfiil excesses which he had witnessed in him ; but it filled his
whole heart with a root of bitterness so intense and engrossing, that
he seemed almost incapable of any other feeling; and the hatred
vliieh one being deserved from him bat too well, extended itself to
32 SIB BOLAKD ASHIOir..
tlie whole human race. It migrlit, indeed, be said to readi even to
the Almighty ; for his soul rebelled continuallv at His decrees, and
ever regarded the death of his mother as a dispensation fraught
•with tyrannic cruelty. Could he have borne to have cherished her
remembrance in his mind, it might have soothed his lacerated feel-
ings, and calmed his proud and troubled heart ; and her heavenly
words, returning upon his soul, might have won him back to love
and peace. But the thought of her brought with it an agony too
great to be endured; he kuew nothing of her happiness in heaven —
nothing of the love of God — so no consolation came to mitigate the
intensity of his grief. A dark misanthropy took possession of his
breast; and, if he could ever be said to paxtake of any pleasure, it
was when he was disturbing in others that peace which seemed to
have fled his own unhappy spirit for ever.
Such was the being with whose wayward mood Sir Roland bore
so patiently; for he knew somewhat of his history from Lady
Asnton, and felt a deep commiseration for him.
Mr. Anstruther's father had so far done him justice as to give
him a ^ood education at school and college : and Lady Ashton,
interestmg herself in him for his mother's sake, had induced her
brother to take him abroad as one of his * * attaches.' ' His uncommon
talents and discerning mind made him most useful to Lord N ;
who, on a vacancy occurring, obtained for him the appointment of
secretary of embassy.
There was little in the present which could encourage Sir Roland
in his self-denying task ; but from his knowledge of the past he drew
hope for the future; and knowing from Lady Ashton's account, of
the many prayers which the devoted mother had oifered up for her
child, he looked forward with the hope of faith to the fruition of those
prayers — ^to the time when this now daxk heart should be turned to
&oa. Mr. Anstruther's occasional bursts of feeling — coming forth like
the flash of the volcano from the cold bosom of the earth — ^revealed the
existence of good and strong feeling somewhere in the depths of his
bein^ ; and Sir Roland trusted that he mi?ht be enabled, by the
blessmg of God, to open that fount of fire, and see its flame, purified
and sanctified, rise even unto heaven !
Impatient of his long confinement, Mr. Anstruther took advan-
tage of one warm, lovely day to go out, and once again see the
beauties of nature, from tne enjoyment of which he had been so
long debarred ^ but though balmy and soft, the outward air was
too keen for his lungs, and brought on an increase of cough and
of feverish excitement, which sent him again to his room and sofa.
Sir Roland now saw that he must press on the work of the Lord.
He had hitherto waited for an opening to be made visibly before
him ; but now he resolved boldly to brmg forward the subject, and
force it upon the attention of the being whose mortal span was so
evidently coming to a dose.
His uncle had not at that time much pressing business on hia
hands, and he might have obtained leave to visit England for a
few weeks ; but ardently as he desired to see his mother, and to
rstum to Lady Constance, he could not at that juncture bear to
dfisert one who seemed so wholly dependent upon him. He knew
SIB BOLANB ASHTOK. 33
i2iat he was the only person whose presence was at all yalaed bj
hizn, or who would si>eak to him anything that ydght benefit hia
soul ; and though it cost him a bitter struggle, yet he felt (like his
great Master) that he came into this world, " not to do nis own
will, but the will of Him who sent him ;*' and resigning his own.
pleasure, he gave himself wholly to the work that Qod seemed to
naye set before him.
On visiting the invalid a few days after the exposure which had
brought on so severe a relapse, he found him much exhausted,
but still endeavouring to assume an appearance of gaiety and un-
concern; though the expression of his countenance, when not
speaking, evidently betrayed that both mind and body were iU
at ease.
Sir Roland, who began perfectly to understand his character,
was aware that the ordinary mode of entering on religious subjects
always utterly failed with him. Keen-sicphted and wily, he de-
tected from afar any attempt to introauce the subject inci-
dentally into conversation, and instantly defeated the purpose of
the speaker.
The regular attack, too, was not more successful than the '* sap
and mine ;*' for he would not meet the enemy, but peremptorily
refused to enter on the subject. Sudden and stronj^ ftmarks, and
sayin^fs which could neither be anticipated nor parried, were there-
fore tne means Sir Eoland determined to use, noping that — ^Hke a
shell thrown into a citadel— -(to follow out the military simile)
they might fall and burst upon him unawares, scattering the
inmates that had too long held possession of the place.
The sick man, in whose countenance there was already more of
death than life, was running on in his usual reckless manner,
when Sir Roland, with his eye firmly, yet in sorrow, fixed upon
him, said, —
" How can you, Anstruther, with the grave open before you —
which you know must so soon receive you — * death, and after that
the judgment !' — ^how can you bear to think and talk on in such a
way?*'
]ftr. Anstruther had sometimes had a misgiving that there was
danger in his case, but his mind had ever repelled the thought the
instant it had arisen ; and worldly friends, whose " tender mer-
cies" are, indeed, in such oases most ** cruel,** had contributed to
keep apprehension from him, by talking of " the things he would
soon be able to do" — of "the places he would soon visit with
them," &c. ; and though his physician, more faithful, had often
insinuated his fears, yet with desperate self-delusion he would
never give credit to what he said. When, therefore, he heard Sir
Roland speak in so startlinp: a manner, the shock which his mind
received was to great too allow of his uttering a sound in reply.
He knew him too well to suspect him of saying willingly one harsh
or unfeeling word ; and a voice from within his hollow and aching
breast also rose up in accents that would not be silenced, and told
W that it was all too true — that his days indeed were numbered !
Drops of agony burst from his brow, and the intense anxiety of his
oonntenoaoe was more than Sir Roland could bear to look at. In
34 SIB BOLAlffD ASSTGF.
a few moments, howeyer, he had mastered his stronff emotioiB. ;
and asking Sir Roland for the " eau de Ince" which stood near him»
he remarked, with a faint hut calm voice, that the heat was very-
great; adding that a pain sometimes passed through his ches^
which for a time quite took away his oreath, but ** it was gone
now," he said : " it was onlv a spasm, and of no consequence. '
Sir Roland busied himself with a book which was before him,
and desired him not to mind him, bat to keen himself quiet. He
saw that the bolt had sped ; and be was thankfol that the effort,
80 painful to himself, had not been in vain. After awhile he read
aloud a passage from the book he was looking at, which afforded
an opportunity of saying[ something of the ccmcems of eternity ;
but Mr. Ansl^ther, again assuming his reckless manner, turned
his head away with affected nausea, and waving his hands
deprecatingly, said, —
" No preaching, my good fellow, if you love me ! I have the
greatest possible aversion to your preachers and sermonizers. Bad
enough in the open air, where one may be lucky enough to lose
half mat is said ; but in this confined space, to till the atmosphere
with lugubrious wa];p^ngs, and amiable consignments of your
friends to wrdition, is quite overpowering, and enough to * vex
the sick man dead.' Positively, my dear fellow, if I am to have
you here at all, it must be on the well-understood condition that
thero are to be no distasteful, and to me unprofitable, lecturing.
The thing is so very vulgar and methodistioal^— quite discredit-
able ! Do oblige me, and keep all that sort of thin? for the exqui-
site, the evangelical Scott ! I am quite unworthy of it ; and indeed,
I must repeat, that if I have you here at all, it must be on oon-
dition of these subjects being entirely excluded. Charmed to see
you ! but cannot have any preaohing."
Sir Eoland had walked to the window, and was gazing at the
beauty of the scene before him.
" If your eyes can bear the full li^ht, Anstruther, turn them this
way a moment," he said, as he withdrew the blind that shaded
the landscape from his view. The sun shone brightly, and it
was indeed a lovely scene he looked upon. Mr. Aiistruther
gazed for a moment; then turned away with a sigh of sickening
regret.
** Why," he exclaimed sullenly, " am I to be shown the charm
of things I cannot enjoy ? — ^Butit is, I suppose, one of your saintly
practices to aggravate men's suffSerings; — ^for the good of their
souls doubtless. ' And he smiled with bitter scorn.
"No," replied Sir Roland, " it was not for that ; but, if I am to
continue visiting you at all, our intercourse must be put upon a
right footing. Your know that our dispositions have never suited ;
oiir feelings — ^in most respects, — our thoughts, opinions, and x>rin-
ciples — are diametrically opposed to each other; you have for
years been one whose society! have avoided, as you have avoided
mine. I bring these things before you on the one hand, and I
show you the enchanting loveliness of nature at this moment on.
the other, in order that you may dearly and fully imderstand, that
it cannot be for my Gwn personal jdeasure that I leave the free m i< ^
SIB BOiAin) Atmroir. 35
perfamed air, and tHe sociely congenial to me, for tMs sick room|
with one — an alien from God, a self-doomed stranger to peace and
hope. If, therefore, there are to he conditions respecting my
visiting you, I think it is for me to dictate them."
Mr. Anstruther's countenance underwent the most yiolent
changes while Sir Roland was speaking. The firm, and even stem
tenor of his speech, so unlike his usual tone, completely thun-
derstruck him. Surprise, pride, indignation, alternately swayed
his mind ; and his heightened colour and furious look showed the
anger that he felt. At length, with a hitter smile of derision, he
said, "I might have expected this, knowing you were one of those
who proverbially kick at the sick lion."
Sir Eoland's colour rose in his turn, and his eye flashed with
an^er at this insolent speech ; hut restraining himself till his irri-
tation had subsided (which, in his well-regulated mind, it did not
take many instants to effect), and looking with sorrow on the worn
heing before him, he answered calmly, —
" 1 ou are no Hon, Anstruther — nor am I — ^an ass ;" and an Irre-
pressible smile played over his countenance. ** We are both men
of like passions, though not of like principles !"
Mr. Anstruther's own gentlemanlike mind and feelings had
made him f«el shocked at the intemperanee of his last speech the
moment it had passed his lips ; but he was too proud to apologize —
so merely aniswered Sir Boland's quiet reply hj saying, —
'* I wonder, then, that you cast your precious pearls befdre sneh
a lemrdbate as, doubtless, you consider me !"
'^ Par &om it," said Sir jRoland ; '*it is because I yet hope that
yoa may prove not to be a reprobate, in the Scripture sense of the
word, uiat I continue to visit you ; for, as has been truly said,
*heftveidv love, though it makes one prefer to dwell with the chil-
dren &£ God, yet makes one also yearn over the godless and pro-
lane.' I leave you now; but ii I eomse againr-remember the
<xmditk>ns must be of my making."
' »»
16 STB BOLAim ASETOIT.
CHAPTER Vn.
<* Where shalt thon tnni ? It is not thine to raise
To yon pure heayen thy cahn confiding gaze;
"So gleam reflected firom that realm of rest
Ste^ on the darkness of thy troubled breast.
« « « «
Oh I while the doom impends, not yet decreed ;
While yet the Atoner hath not ceased to plead ;
While still, suspended by a single hair,
The sharp, bright sword hangs qnirering in the air ;
Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break
The bmised reed, — e'en yet awake, awake t
Patient, because Eternal, He may hear
The prayer of agony with pitjring ear;
And send his chastening Spirit from abore,
> ' O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move.
« « « «
But seek thou mercy through His name alone.
To whose unequalled sorrows none was shown.
« « « «
Call thon on Him, for He, in human form.
Hath walk'd the wares of life and still'd the storm."
Mbs. Hemaks.
Mb. Ai7STBT7TH£B's mind, when lie was left alone, was in a peist
feot whirl of agitation and passion. Notwithstanding his abuse o|
Sir Boland's principles, he had always internally respected hiui
for them, andT for the consistency with which he nad maintained
them. Bnt he had been used of late rather to consider him as one
whose spirit wanted energy and courage ; (being little aware that
his patient forbearance towards him was like that which a mother
shows to the wayward humours of a sick child ;) and he had, con-
sequently, been in the frequent habit of si)eaking to him in a con-
temptuous and oyerbearing manner. But Ms last speech had been
80 unlike what he had ever heard from him before, that he felt the
current of his feelings towards him suddenly and strangely changed ;
and amid the tumult of his other contending emotions, the convic-
tion pressed itself upon his mind, that this kist stem remonstrance
had been dictated, not by impetuous passion, but by calm, delibe-
rate ludgment ; and that Sir Koland, in fact, had said nothing in
which he was not folly justified ; and with this couTiction his
respect for him rose inmieasurably.
Sir Boland, indeed, had found that it was needful to assert a
supremacy over Mr. Anstruther's temper, before he could hope to
obtain a patient hearing of those things to which he was so anxious
to draw his attention ; and it was that which caused him to speak
as he had done; for ne knew that if he were despised— so would
also be the message he had to deliyer.
After a time — and when all indignation had died away from Mr.
Anstruther's mind— what had been said on the subject of his dan^r
took Ml j>ossession of him; and the many words of warning which
his plysician had spoken from time to time, and which, till now,
he had always endeayonred to disbelieye, returned to his memory^
sot BOLAKD ASHTON*. 37
confirming tHe fatal fear which rose before him, and filling his soul
■with terror. Sir Roland's words, " The grave open before you ! —
the grave open before you!" sounded again and again in his ears,
and run^ like a knell through his heart. He heard it in his hollow
cough— ne felt it in the throbbing of his fevered temples—he saw it
in his almost transparent hands ! Like scorching lightning the
conviotionglared upon him— ^that he was dying ! His brain seemed
on fire ! He clasped his hands to his head, and buried his face in
the cushions as if to shut out from sight and hearing the terrific '
image that pursued him. But there it was — " Death !— and after
that— the judgment !"
How long he lay there, he knew not, for a torpor of horror took
possession of him. — He was aroused, however, after a time, by the
sound of Sir Roland's voice out on the ramparts. It was faint, but
it came with thrilling power to him; and starting up, in spite of
his weakness, he humed to the window. It was open, for the heat
was oppressive ; and leaning against it to support mmself , he gazed
on the world before him. The sun had about an hour longer to run
his course, and was streaming in fioods of golden light through an
openingin dark and heavy thunder-clouds, which had begun already
to send forth their indistinct mutterings. The mountains were crimson
with the settingrays, and stood out in bright relief against the leaden
sky ; whilst the majestic river rolled its ample waters in light be-
jieath ; and nearer, and just below the walls, the glacis extended its
lovely groves aad gardens, lying in deepest shade. But these, and
many other lovely things, were scarcely noted by the dying man,
whose whole soul seemed riveted on one individual on the ramparts
below. Sir Roland was standing there alone ; but the sound of re-
treating steps showed that some one had just been with him. He
had taken on his cap, which with his riding- whip lay by his side
on the grass, and he looked unusually pale, while, from time to
time, he passed his hand across his brow to tmrow back his wa vine
liair, as if to cool himself. The beauties of the scene around seeme?
lost also upon him, for his eyes were raised above tiiem all ;— yet no
as in prayer, but as in abstraction— and his thoughts seemed
troubled, for a sad expression rested on his fine features. -He
liad had letters from England, and they had brought all home
before his heart, and had left a feeling of depression on his mind.
Mr. Anstruther would have given worlds to have spoken to him —
to have called him up — ^to have clasped in kindness a hand, which
till then had been almost valueless to him. Hie yearning of his
heart was inexpressible, and his strong desire to speak to him
almost made him involuntarily pronounce his name, for he felt as
if he held life and death iu his hands for him. He controlled him-
self, however, and kept silence ; but it was not without a feeling
almost of desjpair that ne saw Sir Roland turn away without raising
his eyes to his window, and walk slowly across the little bridge
whica connected the rampart with the ambassador's house.
He went early to rest that night, for he was quite exhausted; but
he could not sleep.' As he tossed upon his feverish couch, how de-
solate he felt ! Strong emotion had passed away ; but as his mind>
S6 am BOLAlfS ASHTON.
in ihe Tagme Hgitt-headedness of fever, wandered from thoxtglit to
thought, all seemed dull, and dark, and dreary ! He was alone in
the world ! no human being loved him !— he had cut himself off by
his own will and choice from all the sympathies of his kind. For
the first time in his life he felt a terror at being alone;— ^he
flickering la^p sent up strange figures and shadows through the
room, wmch his distempered wandering fancy shaped into demon*
and ill spirits brooding over him. Once and again he had his hand
upon the bell to summon his servant to him, wishing that something
living might be near ! but ashamed of betraying ms weakness, he
withdrew it and bore on, till at length a heavy, troubled slumber
fell upon his eyes. His mind however, still continued working ;
and the agitation of his countenance, and his knit brow, showed
that strife was going on within.
The elements too, without, were busy. The storm, which had
been threatening for some hours, drew nearer and nearer; and
peals of continuous thunderings rolled round and. round the city,
like the roar of distant artillery. Still the sleeper was not aroused,
though the sounds seemed to mingle with the ima^s in his mind,
adding to their fearful and oppressive nature. His frame became
convulsed, and the damp dews stood upon his brow : and tremors
idiook him frcmi head to foot, as the thunder ^w louder and
nearer; till at length one tremendous cra^, which seemed as if
the welkin itself were rent asunder, burst over the city. He
fltarted up wildly, and clasping his hands above his head he
shrieked —
" He comes ! Oh, God ! Not yet, not yet— have mercy— yet a
little V And he sunk back again breathless.
His servant, who had also been awakened by the storm, hearing
his master's voice, hurried into his room, and advanced to i^e bed-
side.
" Who are you !" said Mr. Anstruther, in alarm; for his mind
▼as still wandering and unsettled.
The servant spoke ; and on recognising him the invalid breathed
a deep sigh of relief, and said, "The storm awoke me, and my
head 18 distracted."
The man gave him something, and asked if he should stay with
him; but the proposal was made in so cold and unwilling a tone^
that he could not bear to accept it ; so dismissing him, ne again
laid his throbbing and fevered head on his pillow. "Yes, 1 am
alone," he thought ; " not even he cares for me! And why should
he ? I have never considered him but as one paid to do unwilling
service — as a tool of my convenience ; why should he care for me V'
Yet the thought added somewhat more of bitterness to his feelings.
He was too much shaken to get up early the next day ; and had,
indeed, but just risen to his sofa wnen Sir Roland's well-known,
and now most welcome footstep sounded on the stair. How did his
approach agitate him ! The blood rushed so quickly through his
name that he could scarcely breathe ; and no sound could he oistin-
ffuish but the rapid beatings of his pulse. There was the beins^
far whose presence he had so much longed ; who had seemed au
filE BOLAin) ASHXOK. 9»
the world to him ! he was at the door-Hui the TOOBi--fliid how was
he received ? While his hand was yet oa the mLtazned lock, Mr.
Aastrath^ felt as if he could haye flown to his feet ; but the mo-
ment their eyes met— kind and gentle as was Sir Sxdand's look— >
pride, indomitable pride, unexpected even by himself, rose in Mr.
Anstruther's breast, and cold and repellent was the glance he gaT«
him in return. His ap:itation, however, he could not qodl, aw
stoip the quivering of his lip. His utterance seemed choked ; and*
to cover his ^nbarrassment, he affected a coufrh, which soon be-
came but too natural, and it was long befoM his debilitated frame
recovered from its e£S&cts. Sir Rolaiid was deeply distressed afe
witnessing his sufferings, and did all in his power to alleviate
Ihem ; but when the pcuroxysm was over, Mr. Anstruther thanked
him coldly, and kept his head averted from him.
Sir Boland had, howev^, marked the ieeiinrs which agitated
him at his first entrance, and was not daunted by his subsequent
repulsive manner ; he saw his own line of ooudoct now, and was
determined steadily to pursue it.
** I was afraid the storm might have disturbed you last night,"
he began, after a while ; " did you hear much of it ?'*
** No, not much ; just the last clap or two ; they were very loud."
" They were indeed terrific," said Sir Eoland, "I never heard so
awful a storm. The lightning was incessant ; and I could not help
thinking of the fire that must go forth at the coming of our Lord
to destroy his enemies, and to deanse this earth from 'all things
that offend ;' though doubtless it was but a faint image of that
tremendous hour."
Mr. Anstruther shook with agitation, but he determined, if pos-
sil^e, not to betray it. After a few minutes he began, in a hght
tome, —
" It is lucky the storm came last night instead of this evening ;
such a display would be rather awkward amongst all the horses
and carriages at CJount 's to-night. What costume do yon
ado^t i&c the occasion?"
"I am not going; I dine out of town with Lord Wentworth."
•* Oh, ay ! I suppose a select circle of the saints are to meet there,
to shake their heads over the pomps and vanities of this wicked
world ; and to comfort themselves with the pleasing assurance, that
all who dance to-night will be sure of suffering for it hereafter.
You stay away frcmi tliose innocent and cheeitul amusements, I
suppose, by way of what you call * confessing God before men.' "
**No," said Sir Roland, **I have given that up; — on considera-
tion, I do not think that that will answer."
Mr. Anstruther looked round with unfeigned astonishment.
"You see," continued Sir Roland, "there are two parties to
all agreements. Now our Lord has said, * Whosoever wul confess
me before men, him will I confess before the angels of my Father
who is in heaven.' Now I am not quite sure that that is the sort
of company I should like to have about me through an endless
eternity,-— I rather think there would be something more piquant
in the other — and only alternative. The company of lobt souls —
the lake of fire~-evil spirits, 'the smoke of whose tennent goeth
40 SIB BOLAND ASITTON.
up for ever and ever' — such are tlie things I choose for eternity;
and in order to secure them, I have determined to enrol myself now
in the ranks of the * Prince of this world,' who is also the * Prince
of the power of darkness/ *'
Though Mr. Anstruther perceived in an instant that Sir Eoland
spoke ironically, yet he had no newer to interrupt him ; the fearfii
images he presented to his mina, as he spoke in a rapid yet solemn
manner, recalled so terribly the awful visions that nad oppressed
him during the past night, that his blood curdled in his veins.
The fiery dart oi conviction was in his heart, and every touch,
renewed its agonizing torture. Yet still he attempted to speak
lightly and contemptuously, endeavouring to hide from Sir Roland
the effect of his words.
" Do vou suppose," he said, "that you are speaking to a fool ?"
"No, replied Sir Roland, in the deep earnestness of his fine
voice ; " * the fool hath said in his heart there is no God ;* you,
Anstruther, say so only with your lips. Tour heart acknowledge*
that there is a Gk)d, and at this moment you are feeling His tre-
mendous power. ' The arrows of the Lord stick fast in you, and
his hand presseth you sore.' "
"I will not tolerate this!" exclaimed Mr. Anstruther, with
violent agitation ; " what right have you to speak to me in this way
— of these things ?"
" I have," replied Sir Roland, " the right, which Christ gives to
all who know His love, to proclaim it to others. Ejiowing, jQso, the
terrors of the Lord, I would endeavour to persuade you ; and as
though Christ did speak to you by me at this moment, I do beseech
you to be reconciled to God."
"I cannot endure this, — ^I cannot — cannot endure this!" ex-
claimed Mr. Anstruther, in frightful agitation. After a pause,
however, he murmured, in a low and touching tone, "There was
but one voice — ^but one — ^from which I could brook to hear sudi
words ; and that voice — ^those words — are lost for ever."
"Not lost," exclaimed Sir Roland; "a Christian mother's holy
words and prayers cannot be lost. They are treasured up in heaven
as purest things overbad in remembrance before God; and must
bring down, in God's good time, a blessing on the being so fondly,
faithfully cared for."
He spoke with deep emotion ; and approaching: Mr. Anstruther,
who lay on the sofa with his face tmnea from him, kindly put his
hand on his shoulder. Mr. Anstruther buried his face in his nands,
while his whole frame trembled with excessive agitation. Both
were silent. At length Mr. Anstruther said, with much feeling, —
" I cannot speak to you now, Ashton, but will you come again ?'*
He held out his hand and grasped that of Sir Roland, who, pro-
mising soon to return, left the room.
As he could not well avoid fulfilling his dinner engagement, Sir
Roland gave up his ride that day in order to be aWe soon again
to return to Mr. Anstruther; and he sent to Mr. Scott to desire that
he would not wait for him. He regretted this trifling act of self-
denial the less, because he felt extremely averse at ttiat moment
to speaking about Mr. Anstruther even to Mr Scott ; for though he
SIB BOLiLND ASHTOK. 41
liad often lamented to the latter the ohdnxate averdon of the other
to the things of God, yet that was matter of common notoriety,
and what any one might have remarked ; but what had just passed
he felt was wholly between himself and the dying man ; and, with
proper delicacy, he could not endure at that moment to make it
matter of discussion with any one else.
Mr. Anstruther, when Sir iloland had left him, felt like one in a
dream. Indistinct images floated before his troubled imagination ;
— ^thought chased thought— feeling crowded on feeling, in wild con-
fusion. Remorse — ^hope — ^fear — ^horrible forebodings — softened re-
collections — all in turn rushed over his bewildered mind, and almost
maddened him. After many fearful conflicts, however, the terrors
of avenging wrath seemed to give way to feelings of some undefined
tenderness which overflowed IrU soul. For the first time for many
years he allowed the thought of his mother to remain with him ;
and resting his crossed arms iipon the table, he leant his head on
them, and tears — ^long, deep floods of tears— -burst irrepressibly
£?om his very heart.
When he grew more composed, though much exhausted, there
was a calm in his breast to which he had long been a stranger ; for
the God who knew what manner of spirit he was of, in mercy had
sent earthly affliction as a messenger, " to make ready his way be-
fore him," in a soul that would else, humanly speaking, soon nave
jiven way to the demon of despair, or to a spirit of proud defiance.
Undoubtedly the whole work of salvation is of God ; from first to
last it is tho work of His Spirit ! But, in the prosecution of His
great and good designs, our Heavenly Father almost invariably
makes use of means ; preparing first the ground of the heart, and
then cultivatinff it accordmg to the nature of the soil he has formed.
Some He draws by love — others He compels to come by fear. To some
He makes His voice to sound above the storms of earthly affliction;
while others, again, He wins from amid the fulness of earthly joy
and aflection ; speaking to them of a love greater than earth s — of
a tenderness sun>assing even that which a mo^er bears her child.
And thus should those, who desire to promote His glory on the
earth, endeavour to make themselves, as St. Paul says, ** all things
to all men, so that they may anj/ how win some."
When Sir Eoland returned to Mr. Anstruther's room, the latter
• received him with grateful kindness ; though he could not naturally,
as yet, brook to show him the full workings of his mind, and even
strove to hide from him all traces of his recent strong emotion.
"it is most kind of you," he said, after an uneasy pause, "to
come again so soon. I fear you have sacrificed your ride for me ;
and I know by old experience, how pleasant that is, after such frk-
Bome work as you have to do."
" I shall get some fresh air in driving down to Lord Wentworth's
to dinner," answered Sir Roland, " so 1 shall do very well."
There was another pause : for though the heart qf each was very
full of the other, and a strong bond of sympathy had arisen between
them, yet both were oppressed by that embarrassment which any
strong display of feehng invariably leaves, when the excitement
which drew it forth has died away.
•• Your disturbed night," at length Sir Roland said, ** has left
i2 Sm BOLOnD ASBXOV.
70a lang^d to-day, Aiustnitlier, and talldiig is too much for yon*
%all I read a littler
This coasidefate offer -was a great relief to Mr. Anstrather, who
eladlT aooepted it, saying, ^he was indeed, unfit for any exertion
Siat day."
"What shall I read?"
*' Any iMngr you like," he replied.
He coidd not hiing himself U say "tibe Bihle," thoiurh he
thirsted for its hitJterto almost mitasted waters. Hs also reooUected
with shame, that he aetually did not possess a copy of the Holy
8crii>tures, so «itirdy had he neglected even Ihe appearance of
relinon ; and he could not have home to haye confessed this fact to
Sir Koland. He was much vexed however, when the latter, taking
up a commonplace book of fiction which was lying on the table,
a&ed, *' if he should read that."
** If you like it," he replied, in a tone of disappdntment.
Sir Koland rianced his eye over a few pages, and then read some
passages, whidi described one of the characters as labouring under
great trial and sorrow. The author of the work (evidently knowing
of no higher source of comfort) fed the mind oi his hero with the
flimsv consolations of earth, teachinfir him to torn again to the
world for that peace which, thoi^ the world can take away, yet
Aever can it give.
" How completely, even in a book like this," observed Sir Roland^
** one fedls the instlfficiency of such modes of comfort as these !
Often, in reading even works of fiction, getting interested in those
I read about, I feel an ardent longing to show them the only source
of real comfort—to lead them to that God who is 'mighty to save,
and also fadghty to console ;' and though the next moment I feel
that what I am reading is but imaginary, yet I cannot but remem-
ber, that there are thousands of real cases of anguish and unutter-
able sorrow, in which the afflicted soal knows not where to go for
oomfc^. Many, under the tortures of a late remorse, seem ready
to exclaim, like Milton's Satan,
<He ]iii8«nUel which wwj shAli I llj
Inflaite wntth Old iofinite dcapak ?*
yet find no hand to point to the cross of Christ— no voice to pour
His soothing, pardomnjg words within their ear. Even this poor
tempest-tossed child of fiction of ^om we have been reading,
when one is carried away by the interest so as to forget that it ts
fiction, how does one yearn to tell him that there is provided for him
freely— pard(«L for his sins, strength for his weakness, comfort for
his griefs ! How different from the woiid's, are the consolations which
the C^ospel offers to those who sorrow, either for earthly natural
griefs, or of that 'godly sorrow which worketh repentance.' "
He drew from^ his pocket a small Bible, and read several passaffes,
stnking for th^ beauty, and for the comfort they conveyed. Mr.
Anstruther's eyes became riveted on his eloquent countenance as he
read these thines. so applicable to his own case: and his mind in-
wardly thanked him tor the delicacy with which he touched Ihe
flIB SOiaND ASKTOir. 43
wwrndfl of fais heaxt, ^rioie speakbig of the wmAs of often. He
held out his hand for the hook, saying. —
'* Will you mark those passages, and let me see tiiem ?"
** WiUingl^," said Sir Roland, who suspected t^t Mr. Anstmliier
might iK>t himself possess the Tolume; "I have marked many
Mssages, in different ways, as you will see ;" and lising, he went to
him. " All marked f Aim— are for ocMsolation ; and witg—^or tbe
necessity of holiness; and ^ti9— and tkus — for different suhjects.
This plan assists me much, either when I want these terts for my
own ocmifort and instmction, or when I require them quickly in
gttpport of amiment with others. I have a had memory, and these
ood-lookiiig Gmdmarks easily catdh the eye. Tou have, prohahly,
not been in the habit of classing tiiese things in this way, or of
proving Scripture thus by Scripture, so keep this book, you will
perhaps find it usefdl, and I can get another ; and perhaps, if I
haTe much business to occupy me, you will copy these marks into
tiiA new one for me ; and add any observations of your own tiiat
JWL like, for they will be valoaMe to me. Two heads are often
fetter than one, even in heavenly things," he added* smilii^
kindly.
He then left him, but said he would inquire of his servant if he
w«ie still up when he returned from Lord Wentworth's, and if so,
«ee him agam for a few moments, if he liked it j " for he knew," he
said, " that a little visit was often a relief in times of sickness and
sc^tude."
Mr. Anstruther thanked him, and said be was sure to be awake
ioT that he seldom slept till the night was &r gone.
*' And is this the man whom I have so long tried to hate and
despise ?" he thought, wiien the door closed upon Sir Roland, and
lie was again left to the stillness of his lonely chamber : " this the
loan wh(nn I have tried in every way to wound and distress ?" He
sghed heavily, as the contradt between himself and Sir Roland
woed itself upon his mind.
" He knows my heart, and yet how geady does he bear with me,.
and talk of pardon and of peace ! But what is the little which he
knows, compared to what I must appear in the sight of God, —
o£ that Bdng whom I have so long reviled, and striven to deny—
even to myself— though vainly !"
Mr. Anstruther's mind, as regarded religions knowledge, was in
the utmost darkness. The sacared books were almost ^olly un-
known to him, as for many years he had never willingly opened
them ; and after the days of coercive attendance at church, when
he was at school and college, he had seldom even entered a sacred
edifice. The history of Christianity, and^of the life and acts of its
great founder, were therefore, excepting m their roughest outlines,
almost novel matter to him : and as now, for liie first time for
nearly twenty years, he read to himself the inspired word of God,
his mind was overwhelmed with the immensity of the subjects
presented to it.
It is not, perhaps, in the power of any to whom the Bible is at
c& fiuniliar^ to form an adequate idea ox the sensations tiius pro-
dnoed in lam; to most persons of tolerable edneation, however
44 SIB SOLAKD ASHTOS*.
dead they may be to the spirituality contained in the Soriptnies,
are at least tolerably familiar with its holy words ; and when these
are presented, for the first time, to the mind of one in full maturity,
it is generally in the case of the illiterate savaffe, the ignorant
heathen, or the still more debased occuf)ant of the lowest erades of
ignorance and vice in a nominally Christian land. But here was
one of refined habits, most cultivated intellect, and naturally warm
and generous affections, upon whom the glorious Gospel broke for
the first time, in all the fullness of its light and beauty. True, he
sdid not— could not, fully comprehend ail its spirituality, its high,
requirements, and its unbounded blessings; but enou^n of these
was revealed, to make him aware that ». new and glorious region
was opened to him, of which he had hitherto been m total ignor-
ance.
Yet the feeling of admiration thus produced in his soul was
painfolly mingled with a sense of deep denression on his own
account. He felt astounded at the magnitude of his guilt ! and
the more gracious the promises— the freer tiie invitations he met
with in the scriptures, the more heinous did his own sin appear in
having so long neglected to accept them. He felt as if the day of
grace were jpast for him— as if, for him, all hope was gone ; and
file very things that should have poured ^eace and comfort into his
heart simk mm into the deepest despair. The wilderness — ^the
dreary wilderness of unsanctined feeling, bitter hatred, and mur-
muring discontent, was indeed past ; but (like Moses at tiie end of
hia wanderings) though he saw from afar the blessed land of joy
and promise, yet he felt that he was never to enter it, — ^never to
enjoy its " green pastures, and its still waters of comfort."
Yet this state of mind was preferable far, even as regarded his
own sensations, to that in whicn he had existed for so many years :
for though a sad despondency sunk his spirits beyond what he haa
ever bemre experienced, yet his bitter enmity against God was
gone ; and he felt that he could now love and adore that Almighty
Being whom he had begun to know, only, as he fancied, to lose for
ever.
He was still intently studying the Scriptures when Sir Roland
returned at night ; but the latter, thinking that rest would be better
for him than exciting conversation at that late hour, merely said a
few kind and encouraging words, and then left him; promising to
be with him again early the next day.
CHAPTER Vm.
** Bnt never, never, when the mind once wakes ;
Charmed back to slumber can it never be 1
When from the toils th' immortal spirit breaks ;
Tain is the attempt to bind—it must be free."
Sib Abchibald Edmovstoit.
SiE Roland made the utmost despatch with his business the
following monung, and hastened to go up to Mr. Anstruther. On
SIB BOLAIO) ASHTOir. 4d
inqtiiry, lie found lie Had alept rather better tlian usual, but he was
struck -with the increased pallor and langnior of his countenance.
" Have you found my marks of any use ?" he asked.
"Not yet; I have been too much interested in reading: straight
iiirough. Ashton, my mind has made rapid strides in the last two
days. I have lived years in them ! — ^years of sorrow — ^years of regret !
yet 80 unlike the sorrow and regret of former times, that they seem
scarcely allied to them — scarcely of the same nature ; only that it
has all been pain. My life has been one drear reality of pain-—!
have known no happiness, or joy, or repose ! A great change, too,
has been made in my heart, hj nnding that the man whom I nave
ever treated most unworthily, is my best— perhaps, my only friend.
This is much for me to say," and the blood mounted in nis pal&
cheek, " but I have done with pride, and I shall be happier —
easier at least, when I can speak freely and without reserve.
There is but little time now remains to me, and I feel to have much
to say; I seem filled with sensation of some kind, thoug-h I can
scarcely say what, for it appears to settle down upon my mind with
the shadowy weight of an oppressive dream."
" My dear Anstruther," said Sir Roland, "why is this? Surely
you find no gloom in the briffht and glorious volume you hold in:
your hand. * Joy unspeakable' shines forth from its every page."
" To you, doubtless it does — doubtless it does," replied Mr. An-
Btruther, quickly ; "but what does it say to me — ^to me who have
so long neglected even to read it ? Ashton," he added, throwiiwr
himself back on his cushions, and covering his eyes with his hand,
" you will scarcely believe me when I tell you, that it* is nearly-
twenty years since I voluntarily took that book into my hands."
Sir Koland could not speak for a moment ; the thought of that
Saviour, whose love is so infinite, so imspeakable, being still sf '
" despised and rejected of men" — struck him to the very heart.
" I knew you would cease to hope for me," said the dying man,
misconstruing his silence, and fixing his anxious eyes uiwn him.
with a look in which the despondency of his soul was painfully
depicted — " I knew you must cease to hope for me when you knew
all; thouflfh who can know all— aU the frightful secrets of the^
heart (and he shuddered as he spoke) but Gk)d alone ?"
" I do not despair of you, Anstruther ; I never did, and do so-
less now than ever. * The wicked have no bands in their death ;'
they are not troubled, or I should rather say, blessed with thoughts
like yours ; they have no godly sorrow for sin, and no craving de-
sire after God. But what is it that weighs so heavily on your
mind ? what is it forms the chief subject of your bitter regrets r"
" I can scarcely say," replied Mr. Anstruther — " I can scarcely
define my feeliogs, or bring to my mind any one thing that stands
forward particularly as an object of regret ; but my whole life, ex-
cepting, perhaps, a little ghmmer at its early dawn, seems one
black offence against God. I cannot look into my former self, and
see one thought that was not opposed to God. I know therefore,
that my condemnation is just ; but still-— to be cut oS for ever! to
be appointed my portion with the oondenmed— Ashton, it is moxo-
than X can endtire !"
46 SIB TU&XJJSm AfiSTOaf .
*' But hgLY^ y<w not/' asked Sir Bioland, ''ibtind in ike Ooepd,
^ a refoge from the wrath to come ?' Have von not read of Him who
took your sins upon Him, and suffered, 'the just for the ui^ust/
that you might be saved ?"
**r read of Him who died for His people," replied Mr. Anrtra-
ther, " but how can I think that I am one of them ? Wherein has
my spirit been like His ? What one thought of my wretched heart
has ever been such as He could have aM)roved ?"
"But whom does it say that Chiist Jesus came t^o ' seek and to
save ?' " asked Sir Eoland.
** Eemember, Ashton, I am stdU a novice in these things," said
Mr. Anstruther, with somewhat of embarrasanent ^ " I am not
ready to answer every question."
'* Me came," continued Sir Roland, " to * seek and to save that
which was lost,' Now are you not one of those who were lost ^"
"Surely— too surdy.**
" Then are you not one whom he came to seek and to save ?"
" It should seem so indeed," replied Mr. Anstruther, looking up-
with earnest attention.
Sir Roland continued, " * The blood of Christ cleanseth from all
sasL* — ^£rom all sin, Anstruther. ' This is a true saying, and w<Nrthy
of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save
sinners.' I came not,' says our Lord, * to call the righteous, but
sixmers to repentaooe ;' ' He that cometh unto me, I wiU in no wise
€ast out.' "
The light of hope had begun to dawn in Mr. Anstruther' s heart,
as Sir Roland repeated the three first of tiiiese texts; but when he
<}ame to the fourth, he exclaimed bitterly, —
"But I have never gone to Him— never believed in him— never
soud^t Him !"
"But you believe in Him now, Anstruther; why not seek him
now?"
" I believe in Him as the Saviour of those who have done His will,
but not as my Saviour— not as mine !"
" Anstrutilier, listen to me while I speak to you of the glories of
the Gospel — of the greatness of Christ's salvation ; for though your
soul is convinced of its sinfulness — though you are fuJly aware of
your own lost estate, yet you do not see the plan and extent of the
redemption procured ibr you by Christ. His sufferings and death
form one great sacrifice, of such infinite value as to satisfy eternal
justice for the sins of the whole world ; and all who believe in Him,
and seek pardon for His sake will undoubtedly be saved."
" But yet," said Mr. Anstruther, after a few minutes' silence,
" this doctrine seems to o^en a wide field for sin."
" It opens no field for sin, Anstruther ; none. The same word
which tdls us that, by Christ's merits alone can we be saved, also
affirms that 'without holiness no man shall see the Lord.' The
love of Christ which the Holy Spirit imjplants in the heart of
every redeemed being. * constrains us to live, not unto ourselves,
but unto hjm who hatn loved us and given himself for us;' and the
people of God are called * a peculiar people, zealous of good works.*
When you are better acquainted witt the Scriptures, you inll per-
am BOLAJin) ashtoit. 47
«exve how inseparable are a true faith in Cbrist» and a desire after
righteousness ; now completely free salvation and personal holiness
to hand in hand. Neither have we the least encouragement to
efer the time of turning to Grod. Christ never invites us to come
to him on ^^ morro«(7. He says, ' Behold nota is the accepted time ;
l)eliold now is the day of salvation/ * We know not what one day
may brin^ forth ;' and we are also given to understand that^ even
while yet in the body, we may for ouar hardened neglect be ' delivered
over to a reprobate mind/ God says, ' My Spirit shaU not always
strive with man ;* and we are told tnat * Satan entered into Judas'
while yet he was alive in the fiLesh, taking full possession of his
miseraole soul even in this world."
" How can I know that such is not the case with me }** exclaimed
Mr. Anstruther, despairingly ; " scarcely Judas betrayed his Lord
more than I have done. I have rebelkd continually against Him,
despised His people, and set at nought His commandments. Oh ! I
have done the work of a demon on the earth, and I feel that I am
now justly abandoned of my God."
"I feel sure that such is not the ease with you," returned Sir
Eoland, " for those who are abandoned of Qtod, feel not as you feeL
As I said before, * they have no ^odly sorrow for sin,* no love for
their Heavenly Father, no yearning Kir His favour ; and you have
aU these."
** You try to pour balm into my wounded spirit, Ashton, and
God knows the xmutterable love it makes me feel for you," and the
large tears gushed into his eyes. " But I cannot feel ike hope you
do — I cannot think that the iniquity of so many years can be can-
celled in a moment."
" It is not cancelled at this moment," said Sir B^land, who had
been much affected by Mr. Anstruther's expressions ; "it was can-
celled when Christ bowed His head upon the cross, and said, ' It is
finished.' Nay, it was virtually cancelled when the promise of the
Saviour was made to our first parents. The whole work of salva-
tion was accomplished when Christ died ; for the whole work is
Christ's — ^the wnole power — ^the whole glory ! God is 9. reconciled
father through Him ; our pardon is signed and sealed by His
blood ; and we have only ' to open our worthless hands, and to re-
receive it* And will you not receive it, Anstruther ?**
" God knows how willingly, could I really believe it offered to
me.**
" If you sincerely trust for all your salvation to Him, and to Him
alone,' replied Sir Boland, "then His word is passed— to save
yon ; ' Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.* ' Behold,'
He says, *I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear my
voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with
him, and he with me.' Mark the word, * sup.'* The Lord does
not mention the first meal of the day, which would denote, figura-
tively, the morning of life ; not the second, which would point
to the time of energetic health and manhood , but He says * sup,'
the last m6alof the dosing day, in order to show that if» even at
* Bead the Ser. Henry Blunt's explaxiatio&.
48 Snt BOLAJim ASHTOIir.
the last lionr of life—* the eleventli hoiir*— we will open our hearts
to receive Him as our Lord and Saviour, He will enter in and claim
possession of those hearts, and ' no man shall pluck them out of '
&8 hand.' "
"Mighty love! wondrous mercy !'\ sighed Mr. Anstruther;
** I can adore it, though I dare not realize it as for myself. Yoa
must pray for me, Ashton, that my faith may be enlightened, and
that 1 may indeed be enabled to see inCrod a Father and a Saviour.
I can feel Him now to be only a Judge and a Sovereign, * who for
my sins is justly displeased.* '
" I have often besought the Lord for you, and shall, doubt it
not, continue most earnestly so to do. But your own prayers will
be of more avail than mine."
" I cannot pray— I dare not lift my voice to God."
** Do you, then, never pray ?" asked Sir Roland in astonishment.
" I have not for years. What could a heart, seared as mine has
been, ask from Croa ? What could so rebellious a soul seek at Hia
hands?"
" But now, Anstruther, you surely now desire His pardon and
favour ; and why not, then, now ask Him for them ?"
" I can only again repeat that I dare not. My eyes often, indeed,,
involuntarily turn to heaven, and my thoughts dart upwards to the
mercy-seat ; but they seem inexorably repeUed, and a chill falls on
my heart as if all hope for me were passed. A soul like yours,
Ashton, cannot judge of mine. You can look back, young as you
are, to a life of godliness, peace, and virtue, and to a trusting faith
in Christ. But I can only look back to — sin ! Memory to me ia a
destroyer of rest, and peace, and hope I"
" But God says to the true jpenitent, that * He retaineth not his
anger for ever, because He dehghteth in mercy.* "
" When you speak, Ashton, and repeat the gracious promises of
God, my heart for a moment springs up, and a bright entrancing
hope seems set before it, which, at times, I feel almost able to
take hold of; but then a hand, as from behind, seems to draw me
back, and a voice to whisper in my ear, * Not for you.' "
" That hand is Satan's, yield not to it, Anstruther ; the voice is
that of the enemy of your souL who seeks to drive you from your
salvation. Oh ! resist him, I beseech you, by earnest prayer ;
* Believe in Christ and you must be saved,' spite of all the powers
of darkness !"
Sir Roland spoke with passionate energy, for his spirit was stirred
within him at seeing the so evident work of the evil one ; and he
felt almost as if he were combating with him hand to hand. His
animated assurances seemed to breathe somewhat of hope into the
heart of his friend, whose eyes kindled, and whose expressive' conn*
tenance lighted up with eagerness — ^though his lip quivered, as he
exclaimed, —
" And can it be — can it really be — that a simple belief in Christ
as our Saviour can rescue from destruction !".
"It is Christ who rescues from destruction, my dear Anstruther,"
said Sir Roland, earnestly ; " but it is belief in Him which, as tiie
SIR BOLAND ASHTOK. 49
arm stretched out, lays Lold on the salvation which He sets be-
fore us."
" But how, in this poor remnant of life that remains to me,
how can I prove that my faith is sincere, that my repentance is
genuine ?"
" GK)d sees the heart, and knows what He writes in it," replied
Sir Roland. " But unless His Spirit teach," he added, with a sigh,
" all my words are vain."
He paused for a moment, inwardly imploring Gk)d's help, then
continued —
•* Your own soul will be able to tell you whether you are really —
truly enabled to believe that Christ, when dying on the cross, bore
the punishment you deserve ?"
** Oh, that I could believe it !*' exclaimed Mr. Anstruther . " Yet
else, why did He take my nature upon Him ?"
" Have you read St. Luke's account of the thief on the cross V
asked Sir Koland.
" I do not remember it. "
" Then let me read it to you.*' And taking the book, he read
ihat touching portion of Scripture.
When he came to the earnest appeal of the repentant malefactor,
" Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom," Mr.
Anstruther involuntarily rose from his recumbent posture, and lean-
ing upon his elbow — scarcely breathing — ^he fixed his eyes upon Sir
it^and with agonized earnestness, as if he felt the answer were to
be addressed to himself. And so, indeed, it was ! God directed
the words, " Verily I say tmto thee, To-day shalt thou be with Me
in Paradise," straight to his heart. He felt that the Saviour of
that penitent was ms Saviour ! — that the gates of the same Paradise
that were opened to him, were ready also to receive his pardoned
soul ! He si)oke no word as this blessed conviction rushed over
him, but gazing upwards for a moment, with a look that seemed to
enter the very heavens, he sunk back, and closing his eyes, as if
the prospect overpowered him, muraiured, " Too great — ^too bright
— ^too joyful I" while an expression of heavenly happiness rested on
his countenance !
ITiere was silence in that chamber for a time ! but in heaven
there was "joy amongst the angels of Q-od over that one sinner that
repented." And. though their hymns of thanksgiving reached not
the outward ears, yet were they echoed in the inmost souls of those
two redeemed beings, who then poured forth the fulness of their
hearts to God in love and praise.
It was long before Sir Bioland spoke, for he saw what had passed
in Mr. Anstruther's mind, and he would not interrupt the blissful
emotions — ^the "joy and peace in believing" — ^whioh he knew his
pardoned Soul was then enjoying. But as he looked on the worn
features and wasted frame of tne man — once so uncongenial to
him, now bound to him by so many ties — and felt how soon they
must be separated for ever in this world, an uucoutrollable gush
of earthly sorrow mingled itself with the rejoicings of his spirit,
and unwonted tears sprung to his eyes. His heart yearned over
60 SIK BOLASD ASHTON.
tha being he liad been the blessed moans, in God's hands, of
reselling from everlasting destruction, and whose love to himself
-was, he knew, so strong. But repelling the "wish that would
have kept hki here/' he raised his thoughts to that world where
death and separation are imknown, and where Satan can no more
deceive, nor sin distress, the perfected soul !
** Blest home I no foe can enter,
And no friend departeth thence !"
CHAPTER IX.
** Hf sonl had drawn
Light from the Book whose words are graved in light I
There at its well-head had I found the dawn,
And day, and noon of freedom.**
Mrs. Hemams.
Whsn Sir B^land had left Mr. Anstruther and returned to his
own apartment, he poured forth his heart in warmest gratitude to
God for the change which had taken place in the soul of hU friend.
He had never wholly despaired for nim, though, for a long time,
it had seemed " through moonless skies" that ne was gazing; but
now a dawn of no uncertain nature had appeared above ttie horizon ;
and never did the light of this material world give to shipwrecked
mariner a joy more true, more full, than that which this zeaJous
and devoted servant of the Lord felt, when he saw " the Sun of
righteousness arise with healing on his wings" on the once benighted
being in whom he felt so deep an interest.
when next he visited him, he found him in the happiest state of
mind, and ready to receive him with the warmest aflfection.
" Ashton," he began, holding out his hand, " I wish I had some
new and imaccustomed words with which to thank you for your
excessive kindness to me; — a kindness which might well nave
warmed a colder breast than mine. How can I ever sufficiently
bless you for it— you, by whom God has led my erring soul from
death to lifer
" God has sufficiently blessed me by blessing you, Anstruther,"
replied Sir Eoland, with much emotion. " You can now fully
trust your salvation to Christ, — can you not ?*'
"Fully— fully; I feel that He is my only— niy all-sufficient
Saviour. And oh ! how great a change does that conviction bring
with it ! I seem like one from before whose eyes a wall has been cast
down, revealing a prospect of unutterable beauty ! I feel as if this
world were nothing ; eternity everything ! Well might you tell
me, Ashton, that * m Christ «Jesus we were new creatures;' for most
surely do 1 feel changed in every pulse and feelin?. Oh ! marvellous
is the change ! though to you it could never have Ibeen the same as to
me ; for though, doubtless, light increased continually in your soul,
yet you never knew the blackness of darkness that I nave known."
" Perhaps not," replied Sir Roland, " for I was ear>7 trained in
the knowledge of God. Yet weU do I remember (and it was-
SIB BOLAITD AS&TOIT. 51
aoooinx>aiued by somewliat of the same sensations yon describe) the
moment when X first felt the sense of pardon in my heart."
" When was it ? — do you mind telling me ?"
" I had long had something of the fear and love of Gh)d in me,
and had chosen His service in preference to that of tiie world ; for
I had lived with those in whom I saw the hapmness as weU as the
beauty of holiness. Even in my early youth I remember it used
to surprise me, that when such pure and fresh springs of happiness
were offered to men, they could slake the thirst of the soul in the
foul and stagnant pools by the wayside; or, in plainer language,
that they could choose the Mvolous, and often aebasing and vile
pleasures of this world, rather than the exalted joys of companion-
ship with God. Yet it was present happiness and present peace
tiiat I thought of, more than the glory of God, or the immortal
well-being of my soul. But after a time (it was about eight years
a^) my mind became much awakened on the subject of vital reli-
gion — of the real union of the soul with Christ. I found that I
was far from being what I ou^ht to be in God's si^ht; and not
knowing the freeness of salvation, a miserable disqiuet took pos-
session of me, and I longed for something to rest upon. How vivid
still is the remembrance of that hour when the Lo»i revealed Him-
self to me as the all-sufficient atonem^ot, for whose aaike God
would accept and bless me !
" You have not been at Uanaven for many years, Anstruther;
but you remember it is near the sea, with downs and woods that
feather, in parts, almost to t^e shore ? I was one day lying on the
grass, with that listless enjoyment which fine weather and beautifdl
scenery are so apt to produce, and my eye roved delightedly over
the scene, so beautiful ! that was spread out before me. I thought
with delight, and with a strong admixture, I fear, of vanity and
earthly pride, of being the possessor of that lovely spot, and felt
very great in my own estimation ; when, just at that time, the
passing bell rung out from the tower of our old church. I had
heard it, of course, often before, when it had brought with it only
a momentarv sadness to my heart. But now it seemed so at
varinnce with the bright look of life that shone on all around, and
taught a lesson so contrary to the proud eartiily thoughts I had
been inlulging, that it produced a sudden and psunful revulsion of
leeling witiiin me. Some lines on the subject came into my
mind: —
* There is a sound of sadness on onr hill !
Beard ye the moan of yon ill-omen'd hell,
Solemn and slow, like messenger of ill
Who weeping comes a heavy tale to tell?
List to its lingering eadence, how it awes.
Holding the spirit in a holy thrall I
And what light heart thus questioned would not pause
For though one answer, tis addressed to all!
« « « • «
It warns a being from this troubled sphere.
It calls a mortal to its parent clay,
It rings the knell of hope's best promise here,
It hymns a spirit on its heavenward way 1*
B2 -
1)2 SIE BOLAJTB ASHTOK.
" * Its heavenward way !' " I tkought, " would it he sucli to me?
My mind was much liouhled, hut Satan hegan suggesting^—
what the self-sufficiency of the natural heart is ever too ready to
plead— its own merits. * Did I not love God ? was I not, in soma
respects, hotter than my companions }* with many other such insuf-
ficient sources of consolation. But a spirit answered from within,
* That I had not loved the Lord my God with all my heart, nor
with all my soul ; and that I could not answer to Him for one of a
thousand of the things that I had said, or thought, or done.' This
conviction humhled my very soul, and filled me with dismay ; an
undefined fear took possession of me, and the hlood rushed throhhing^
to my head, till all which had hefore api)eared so clear and cahn
around, seemed disturhed and dizzy hefore my eyes ; and I remem-
her shivering from head to foot even imder that summer sun.
Still the hell went swinging on, remorselessly, as it seemed to me,
for every stroke shook me to the heart, and I longed to escape from
its sound— hut seemed chained to the spot. At length the words,
* Thou hast destroyed thyself, hut in Me is thy help,' came to my
recollection; and then passage after passage of comfort and hope
flowed in upon me, till the Holy Spirit opened my soul to the joy-
ful reception of the free, unpurdiaseahle salvation of Christ. 1 can
never forget the sensation I experienced at that moment ! Before
I had heen, as it were, walking on the earth, though looking up to
heaven ; now I felt as if in heaven and looking down upon l^e
earth ! For a time I was lost to everything around me. I no
longer heard the knell of death, or the splashmg of the waves, or
saw any of the ohjects that before had so much charmed me ; my
heart and whole spirit seemed with God !"
He paused : while his upward glance appeared again to seek the
presence of his heavenly Father ; but after a few minutes' silence,
which Mr. Anstruther imderstood too well to wish to break, he
resumed, with a sigh, —
" Frail creatures we are here — incapable of retaining heavenly
light ! We can recal the remembrance of such feeUngs ; but the
excesvsive happiness they produced will not ^low again within us
in this world — ^though enough remains to fill these treacherous
hearts of ours with peace and joy."
" If such, then, was the effect of these things on your mind,
Ashton, think what it must have been on mine — ^mine which was
brought out of such darkness ! You had ever had the love of God
in your heart, thourfi He had not been fully revealed to you as
your Saviour ; but 1 — ^my heart had been at bitter enmity with
Him. You may be thankful that you were led to Him by the
force of love, without seeing Hell opened beneath you as I did.
Oh ! what I suffered that night ! But it has made Christ's salva-
tion, if possible, the more valuable to me, by showing from what
depths of misery it has saved me. Would that my voice had a
trumpet's power to arouse the souls of men, to warn them to fly
from misery, and to turn to Him who is mighty and willing to
save ! But those who have known me through lite, who have wit-
nessed my cold contempt of everything sacred, would think, per-
Sra BOLAITD ASHTON. 53
haps naturally, that it was only the fear of death which had made
me now alter my expressions and feelings : so that when I would
— oh ! how gladly — serve the Lord, I am justly shown that He
does not need me, and will not use me. But it is not fear that has
changed me — ^I feel it is not fear."
" I believe you, Anstruther, for fear would not give you the
jBace and joy jrou seem to have," said Sir Roland.
" I did feel it once," continued Mr. Anstruther ; " sunk under
i; nearly ; but it is gone uow, quite gone. Regret, indeed— deep,
ieep regret — do I feel for having so long offended one so merciftu,
to easy to be entreated ; and I have a sorrow for sin which humbles
me continually. And I would not have it otherwise : such feelings
seem to befit one who has been so long and fearfully alienated
£n>m God; but far from teaching me now to despair or fear, they
serve only to enhance my sense of God's long-suffering patience.
The more I think of them, the deeper is my love for Him.
" I am veiy thankful, my dear Anstruther, to see you in this
£rame of mind," said Sir Roland ; " and I know your joy is not the
less deep and full for being chastened with regret ; out still you
must remember that all your sins are washed out, that Christ nas
borne them all in His own body on the cross."
** You are a gentle comforter, Ashton, — ^true servant of your
Lord, — ^true, true servant of your Lord. And if ever," he con-
tinued with the most earnest energy, " in the course of this uncer-
tain life, trial or sorrow beset your path, think of this scene of
death — of him whom you have been the means of leading to salva-
tion, and you will find comfort." He paused, exhausted with his
own emotions, but, after a minute, he added, "I re^'oice in the
thoughts of your beinc: high in the kingdom of God; for myself, I
feel sufficiently blessed, in the hope of sitting on its threshold. It
will be happiness enough through all eternity simply to dwell in the
presence of the Lord, to see you employed about Sis throne — and
again to behold — ^my mother."
His heart thrilled with joy as the last idea passed through it;
and he closed his eyes, that their softened expression might not be
read, even b;^ Sir Roland. It was a feeling too sacred to brook the
scrutiny of aught but heavenly eyes.
"It is strange," he said, after a time, " how completely all my
feelings and thoughts are changed. I, who never, in former times,
eould Dear to think of my mother, now dwell on her remembrance
-with the most delighted happiness, whilst it is the thought of my
f atiier now that is painful. 1 do not know where he is ? but, Ashton,
if ever you should meet him, try, will you? for my sake, to persuade
Mm — speak to him, as you nave to me, and may God open his eyes
as He has mine."
" I will surely do it if I can," replied Sir Roland.
" Woidd it be too much to ask of you," continued Mr. Anstruther,
** now even, if you have any friends on the continent (for I have
reason to believe he is not in England), to write and ask them if they
have ever heard of him or known him. I have been very neglectfiu
in this matter; for he may be wanting my assistance, and, God
64 iflOtB SOLAITD ASHTOir.
knows I would willing-ly give it now, if I knew bnt where to find
kim ; and he might, perhaps, when he hears how near I am to death,
come and see me once more."
" I will write this very evening," said Sir Roland, " for I have
many Mends abroad, and I hope I maybe snGcessfol indiscoveringr
kim. But tell me, Anstruther, have no thoughts of God ever since
you were a child — ^no convictions of sin, ever crossedyour mind?"
" Often and often, but I repelled them instantly, x et amidst all
Biy seeming indifference, spite of all the rhodomontade nonsense I
used to talk, so miserable have I been at times, that more than onoe
(I shudder at thinking of it now) I thought of putting an end to
sty existence ; but I was kept from it by an intuitive feeling that I
should then never again behold my mother.* And thus mercifully
did God restrain niy impious hand by the thoughts of her whose
vn.jer8 for me had, doubtless, ' eome up as a memorial before
'* I know the ontlise ci jfnxt history, Anstruther : but what was
it that preyed so particularly on your heart ? — ^Yet do not talk if it
kurte you, you seem so veiy weak."
" It is a pleasure to speak te you while I can," said Mr. Anstru-
ther ; ** for my lips will soon be dosed in death." And a quiet smile
played over them as he spoke.
ie then repeated as much as he himself knew of the history ef
his parents (with which the reader is already acquainted), and de-
scribed the effect his early trials had upon his heart. He said he
was not with hia mother when she died — ^her death took place in the
iught--and that when in the morning he was teld that she was
dead, and entered her room, he felt relieved to find her so little
X used to go," he continued, *' and read in the room where she
lay, and take my playthings there, and sit for hours, for no one
eared to disturb me. 1 had no fear of death, for I had never wit-
nessed it tUl now, in her who, dead, was worth all the liying world
to mc ! I would amuse myself, I remember well, in building, with
my playthings, bridges and towers, and things of that sort, whioh
seexned very beautiful to my childish fancy, and then would look up
for praise and kind words ; but finding all remained still, as before, I
would take them down quietly one by one, inst^d of the noisy over-
throw which before used to be the crowning joy of all : for, withoot
knowing why, I felt there was a hush over everythinff around ; and
the least noise seemed to jar in that quiet room of death. An<>
tiius I went on for some days, and was scarcely to say unhappy,
though I wearied for her sweet looks and gentle voice. Strange it
is, that though I have not dared to recal these things to my mind
for years, yet now that I speak of them, the smallest circumstamee
flows back upon my reooUection with a force and clearness that
* Tha t gifted, but eeeeatiic being, ITgo Foeoolo, while pouring forth the
sorrows of his heart on one occasion, said that he had, indeed, thooght of
potting an end to himself; bnt, he added, in a peculiarlf touching manner^
* Je Grains de ne Jamais reroir ma mUre." (I fear the never seeing my matber
again.)
filB BOLAKD ASHTOir. 05
makes the whole seem as but of yesterday ; and all my chlidish but
intense feelings return to my heart, fresh and natural as when first
they came. It is like turnmg over the pages of a long-forgotten,
volume !
" We were in the country, in a poor little house, suited, I sup-
pose, to our ruined fortunes, and we had no Mends near. The ser-
vants were kind to me, but they spoke to each other in whispers,
and often with tears, and I did not care to ask them questions. I
Icnew my mother was dead, but I had then but faint, indistinct
ideas of what death was, and I dreaded hearing of something worse
than what I saw. One day — oh! can Etermty wash out the re-
membrance of that hour !— K)n that day my father came down ; he
Lad not been to the house before since my mother's death. He
must have felt I imagine, as if everything and everybody re-
proached him, and that probably chafed Ms temper. The saoness
of the people about made him, perhaps, irritable and sensitive,
knowing what their thoughts must be ; for they were all aware of
Ids neglect of my mother, and of her many sorrows. He inquired
where I was, ana being told I was in her room, he entered in a sul-
len mood (for he always resented any mark of affection shown to
her), and bade me leave the place, frightened at his angry look,
I ran to the bedside and clung to my mother's hand, taking refuge
with the quiet dead from the violence of the living. He advanced
— ^I see him now, his eyes flashing with anger— and seizing me, or-
dered me to quit my mother's hand. I could not do so, and he
dragged me away, I grasping her hand still with the strength of
despair. Oh, what I £elt at that moment ! " And he pressed his
clasped hands crushingly across his eyes, as if to destroy the recol-
lection. '* The action made her move ; she seemed to follow me,
and I thought she lived. I called on her to save me ! but with
frantic violence my father tore my hand from hers ; I heard her
arm fiall heavily on the bed — and I heard no more. When I awoke
1 was in my own room, and a kind servant of my mother's was
watching by me, and in tears.
" I saw my mother once again. I was feverish, and was kept in
bed ; but having been left alone, I crept out and stole into her
room. I did not see her at the first moment, for they had nlaced her
in her ooffln. The sight of that mournful object fillea me with
alarm, but 1 could not bear to return without seeing her ; so I got
on the bed on which the coffin rested, and leaned over to look once
more at that still, pale face, so ineznressibly dear to me. She was
surrotinded with flowers — ^the brignt, gay flowers of Spring. I
stooped to kiss her, and felt a rising agony I had never known
before, for I was sure they were going to carry her away ; but my
terror was so great lest my father should return and find me there
again, that sorrow had not— happily perhaps — full sway over me*
I took up a flower which lay on her tranquil breast — ^that breast,
my precious mother, where I had been so often hushed to rest ! — and
in haste and fear crept back to my own room. I never saw her
after that ; but dearly did I cherish my stolen flower, and pre-
served it with the greatest care. I have it now — it is in my
desk, sealed up with my mother's picture. Yearsr— many, many
SS SIB SOIAND ASKTOS.
years have passed since I have borne to look on either ; but, Ashton^
shall you thiiJc me quite a child still, if I beg you to let that faded
flower be placed with, me in my coflSn ? I feel it is a childish re-
?uest," he added, as deep emotion flushed his coimtenance, " but
somehow wish that what I have so much treasured, should not be
cast away as a worthless thin?. "Will you keep the picture ? it is
very lovely — as she was ; — and it may serve to remind you perhaps
of me ; for though I had not her features, or her beauty, yet some
who knew her have said that at times they saw a likeness between
us. We have, indeed, been alike in some things," and he sighed
heavily; "for we have both suffered much, though from what
different causes ! and she, too, died at seven-and-twenty, cut off in
her lovely prime. I think I should like," he added, while his lip
quivered, " to look once more on those dear memorials ! Will you
kindly get them for me ? — ^But no, I will not disturb and melt my
heart with the sight of them. — ^I shall need no remembrance to
recognise her in the realms of peace."
He paused for some time much exhausted, then continued : —
"Atter a few days (during which I never saw him) my father
took me away with him, and soon after sent me to school ; but mv
heart found no resting-place in any of my companions, nor, indeed,
ever has found one till now." And he turned to SirHolandwitkan
expression of the deepest gratitude.
** I can scarcely wonder at the state of mind you used to be in,
Anstruther," said Sir Roland; "yours was a terrible childhood!
How different to mine ! nursed as I was in the very lap of love and
kindness ! and, while I was early trained in the ways of God, I
have heard that you were exposed to every evil and temptation. It
is surprising that your outward conduct should have been so free
from reproach as it has been."
" My natred of my father, I am sorry to say, served moie tokeep
me from his vices than anything else," replied Mr. Anstruther;
** besides which, I ever had a vamty in seeming to be above the
weaknesses of other men ; and should have lost my power of hum-
bling them — ^my great delight I am sorry to say— had I debased
myself to their level. But if I have had less, perhaps, than some,
of open audacious vice to reproach myself with, my heart, I feel,
has been worse than mortal can conceive. It is appalling to me
now to look back to what it was ; my * hand has, indeed, been
against every man,' and justly has * every man's hand been against
me,* excepting yours, Ainton, and amongst all my companions or
acquaintcuice, you were the only one I never could despise; I
affected to do so— but I never reofly did. I tried, too, to aespise
your principles, but there, also, I could never succeed; the still
small voice of other years echoed them in my heart, though so
faintly that its tones were almost lost."
He paused, for his voice faltered; but after a few moments he
continued, " I cannot now bear to think of what my feeHng to-
wards you used to be, Ashton, and happily I need net do so, and
the finest animation glowed over his features; " for the deep heart-
lelt love I bear you now has, I feel sure, blotted out the remem^
• . SIB BOLAKD ASHTON. 57
,< brance of it from your mind ; and, thanks be to God, ' the blood of
^ Christ cleanseth from all sin.' "
" The7'e is, indeed, the point of comfort for ns all," said Sir
Eoland ; "for "without that, * who could abide the day of His coming,
^ or who could stand when He appeareth?* But I have now no
' feeling but that of pleasure in thinking of you, Anstruther," and
he kindly grasped the hand which the other had held out to him,
" for our hearts and souls are now one, and will be so for ever.
But I ought to leave you now, for you must need rest after the-
kind exertions you have been making to gratify my curiosity ; you*
have talked too much I fear."
" It does not signify," said Mr. Anstruther ; " I shall soon be
quite at rest,"
Wlien next Sir Eoland visited him, Mr. Anstruther, during their
conversation, expressed a strong desire to see Mr. Scott.
"It is strange," he said, " how much one's heart feels drawn
towards those who have the same hope with^ oneself. Scott, whom
formerly I so much disliked— because I disliked his Master — ^Inow
feel so great a regard for."
" It is not strange," said Sir Roland, " for all true Christians are
members of one body, of which Christ is the head. * By this,' says
OUT Lord, ' shall men know that ye axe my disciples, if ye have
love one to another.' "
" I have then, at least, that testimony of being His disciple,'"
said Mr. Anstruther ; " for I feel my heart warm up towards even
strangers whom you name as being real Christians. Do you think
Scott will mind coming again to this sick room ? — ^that he will for-
get my former cold rudeness to him ?"
•* He would rejoice in nothing more, I am sure, than in seeing
you as you are now, my dear Anstruther," replied- Sir Eoland:
" all but that pale countenance. And yet we must not mourn for
that either, when we know how near you are to your rest."
** I have often in former times," said Mr. Anstruther, " heard of
the bitterness and harshness of religious men ; but you, Ashton,.
hare certainly none of that spirit; you are one of * Comfort's true
sons.' But there is one other thing I wished to speak of, which i»
— ^the Sacrament: I should much like to take it; though," he
added, with some embarrassment, while a flush passed over his
pale features, "it will be for the first time, volxmtarily in my life.
^ut our Lord's words, * Do this in remembrance of me,' haunt my
snind, for I would fain obey him in aU things."
" It is, indeed, a Clunstian'^ privilege to do so," said Sir
Boland.
" But there is one thing," continued Mr. Anstruther, " though I
fear it is a weakness ; but I have a ^great dislike to the idea of
taking the Sacrament from Eoberts. Iknow, indeed, that the act
is entirely between God and my own soul — ^that none can forward
His blessing to me, or withhold it from me; but still, I confess, I
zevolt from the idea of having, at that solemn moment, such a man
as Roberta to administer to me even outward thiuffs. You know
what he is— always was at least— frivolous, worldly, dissipated I
^ Sm BOLAITD ASfiTCnr.
and I oannot STEfficiently diyest myaelf of natural wealmess to tole-
rate the idea of the feelings which I am sure would oreroome me^
being: witnessed by him.
" I can ijerfectly understand you," said Sir Roland ; " and I con-
fess that his presence with us here would much interfere with my
enjoyment also; j^et God's blessing rests on duty performed, not
on enjoyment received ; but stiU I ftiink, if we could get a spiri-
tually minded man to officiate, it would be far better. Do you
know Singleton— Scott's cousin? He is a true Christian, and I
know Scott expected kim here to-^day or to-morrow ; would you
like me to ask nim to come V*
'* I should very much," replied Mr. Anstruther ; " and his being*
a relation of Scott's would take away any appearance of rudeness
•or unkindness to Eobertsj as he being ehaplam to the Embassy it
miffht seem otherwise, as if I ought to hare sent to him. !But»
Ashton, if Mr. Singleton does not come, it ought not to be delayed.
---^I haye a monitor within whioh tells meM£at time is not muoh
longer for me."
Sir Boland soon after, when he saw Mr. Scott, told him of Mr.
Anstruther's desire to see him. He had some time before informed
Mm of the change whidi had taken plaoe in the mind of his friend,
which had greatly rejoiced Mr. Scott, who now said he should be
most happy to go and yisit him.
Sir Roland then mentioned Mr. Anstruther's wish, that if Mr.
Singleton arriyed in time, he should be asked to administer Hm
Sacrament to them.
" Sing-leton left this room not ten minutes ago," said Mr. Soottj
'*^ he arriyed this morning, and is gone to look after his things, I
fancy. I am sure he will be happy to be of use an3rwhere and
anyhow. I often think it is a yery good thing* that that man has
no settled ayocation in life--or rather no liying to settle down in;
for his yocation evidently seems to be that of wandering oyer the
face of the globe, doing good amongst the upper classes of society.
He had an excellent Hyinr once, but gave it up for some reason or
other which he never would explain. He is acceptable everywheie,
even with the most worldly and unprincipled ; and he always leaves
them something to reflect on when ne is gone. I have traced more
good to him than to any man I ever knew, for he waits for no
opportunity to be olBSsrea to him. but makes it for himself ; yetwil^
such judgment and such gentle earnestness, that what one would
be almost tempted at first to call rash courage, is so invariably
crowned with success, that it loses its rash character, and becomes
matter of certain calculation. His playful, radelong smile, too,
seems to make it impossible for him ever to offend."
" I know him but little," said Sir Roland, '* but that little makee
me desirous of seeing more of him."
" I know him well," said Mr. Scott, with a glowing countenanoe ;
" and have as deep reason to love him as poor Anstmther has to
love you."
"So I have heard you say," replied Sir Roland; " and it is a
bond strong as delightful. One can imagine — or ratJier one cannot
cm XOLAKD IfflCTOV. 69
imagiiie--wliat two souls, imited hf that tie, mnit feel wheiL
ranging the wide fields of eternity together ! Ah ! how little do
those possess of real, ennobling happiness, who do not Imow their
high inheritanoe. How strange it seems that Satan's power shonld
he so strong; that he should be permitted so much to delude the
souls of men, and tempt tliem to forsake their real bliss for the
painted ffewgaws of an hour» Truly does our Lord say, ' What I
do now taou knowest not;' — and how gracious is the ooiidescen^on
which makes fiim add, 'But thou wait know hereafter.' How
comfortins: and animating to be assured, that all which our insa-
tiate minoiB would lain know now, shall hereafter be spread out
dear and plain before us ; and our powers be so enlarged as to
enable us to understand, approye, ana admire all."
"Our powers will then be boundless," said Mr. Scott— " bound-
less to suffer — ^boundless to enjoy ! An awful thought as regarcU
lost souls; but how delightful as regards those who are made per-
fect in glory ! Here, a yery little joy suffices us, the least excess
becomes painful — ^indeed, the only expression of happiness at tunes
is tears. But there our happiness will be pure, pmeot, and un-
tinged by a single shade that could sully it.
** We naye indeed a glorious hope, ' full of immortality,' " said
Sir Eoland; " 'Heirs of God and ioint-heira with Christ,'— what
animating promises ! And how delightfnl is the earnest— the fore-
taste we nossess of them eyen here; proyingthat godliness has
indeed, ' the promise of this world as well as of the worid to come.'
How do earth's best joys sink beneath these stupendous thoughts
—and earth's brightest prospects ! yes, eyen mine, Scott, happy and
delightful as they are, kow do they fade and yani^ away before
'that day-spring frcMH on high,' which reyeals, though only now
in glimpses, the perfect beauty of God's kingdom ! What happi-
ness it 18 to possess these hopes for oneself; what inexi»essible joy
to be the instrument in God s hand of imparting them to others—
a glorious privilege I"
^* When first 1 had these hopes for myself" said Mr. Scott, " I
liiMight that I had but to tell others of them, to get them joyfully
accepted by alL It seemed to me that a thing contained in three
lines would bring aU mankind who heard it, to the foot of the
cross."
** How do you mean * contained in three lines' ?"
" I mean that the gist of the Gospel lies in such small compass,
that it need be a burden to no memory : ' Man lost, justly, through
his own sins; saved by the merits oi Christ; and constrained for
His love's sake, through His Spirit, to do His will.' That appears
to me the epitome of Christian faith and practice; and it seemed
so simple, when first I felt and understood it for myself, that I
wondered all should not equally imderstand and feel it. But it is
like a difficult riddle, which none can find out of themselves, thougk
the moment they are told it, it appears so clear, that they wondes
they had never thought of it before. Melancthon, you may
remember, says he felt just the same thing, and thought that
all who heard him speak of the Gospel would immediately ae^
cept it; bu^ he adds, 'that lie soon found dd Adam wa«
60 SIR BOLAKB ASHTON.
stronger than young Melanothon,' — and I am sure I haye found it
so too."
" Yes, every day's experience would serve to convince one of
that," said Sir Koland, **^even if Scripture were silent on the sub-
ject; for no one can change the heart hut God. And yet how
wonderfully is the conviction of the inefficacy of all earthly means,
without the Spirit's teaching, accompooied by the feeling of the
boimden necessity for working. It is extraordinary that these two
apparently contradictory feelings should harmonise together so
perfectly m the heart ; yet they do so — and most injurious is their
separation, leading us, on the one hand, to a presumptuous con-
Mence in our own endeavours, and, on the other, to a supinenesa
in God's work— as if there were nothing for us to do — ^Satan by
this delusion so often bringing the blood of souls upon our con-
sciences. "Well has it been said, 'Prayer without exertion is
hypocrisy; exertion without payer, presumption.' "
Scripture condemns most forcibly the latter doctrine," observed
Mr. Scott, "God himself beinc: represented as saying, *All day
long have I stretched forth my nanas imto a disobedient and gtdn^
saying people.' And again, *I have spoken unto you, rising
early and speaking.' And we are encouraged, too, so much to
work, as well as to pray, * Cast thy bread upon the waters : for
thou shalt find it after many days.' * In the morning sow thy
seed, and in the evening withhold not thy hand ; for thou knowest
not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both
shall be alike good.' "
A hand laid suddenly on Sir Eoland's shoulder made him tnm
round quickly, when he met the " sidelong smile" of Mr. Single-
ton, who said-—
** If when last we parted it had been asked, * When shall we
three meet again ?' who would have said it would be in the noble
city of ! So little do we, grand calculators as we think our-
selves, know what on earth is to become of us ! "
" But, though une3;i>ected, you are not the less welcome to uft,"
replied Sir Eoland, shaking hands warmly with him. " I knew
you were here, but what fair wind was it which blew you our
way?"
•* I was on my way to Italy through the Tyrol," replied Mr.
Singleton, '*and only a few days ago heard that you and Scott
were here ; but, as you are here, I think I shall set up my tent
here too, till the fidgets seize me again, and then I shall be off. ' ^
" Yes," said Mr. Scott, " as old nurses say, there is no set-still in
you. You were bom in the year of the comet, and I always think
its influence affected your constitution, and gave you your erratic
propensities. * A wandering star' you oertaiuly are, but not * re-
served to darkness ;' " and he lookea at his cousin with the greatest
affection.
" Thank you, Willy." replied Mr. Singleton, with a bright smile.
** I hope not. But what were you talking of when I interruptea
you? I heard something about * prospering' and * good,' so wanted
to come in for my share."
SIB BOLAiri) ASHXON. 61
** Oh, it was only the old subject—sowing the seed."
" Well, as Monteomery says, * up hill, down vale, broadcast it
•'er ihe land/ What field have you found to cultivate here ?
There is always enough evervwhere that needs the tilling, and
you are neither of you among those who put the hand to the plough
.and look back ; at least, I Know you are not, Scott, and I don't
much think your friend here is."
'* He has sown to some purpose just now," returned Mr. Scott,
"" and his shock is nearly readv for the sickle."
" Not sown, only watered, fiaid Sir B^land ; " but God has,
indeed, given an almost unhoped-for increase. I was wishing: ta
ask you, Mr. Singleton, to do a little act of kindness for us just
now; which is, to give the Sacrament to a poor fellow up-stairs,
whose sands are almost out."
••Up-stairs! who is he?"
•' Mr. Anstruther. He was secretary of embassy here."
••Anstruther ! I know that name. Is he a dark-eyed man,
with high, marked features, and haughty, disagreeable manners?"
••He was such, certainly," replied Sir Eolana, somewhat reluc-
tanilv ; " but you will not recognise the latter characteristic in him
now.
"What, 'the Word' has done its work, has it? and brought
down • the high look of the proud.' Well, God be with him then !
I shall be most happy to give him the Sacrament in that case ; but
I really could not nave done so (as it is not my bounden office here)
if he had been one of those who, having neglected religion all their
Hves, take this rite, at the last gasp, as a sort of moral or spiritua
panacea; and place as much dependence on it as the Papist
does on Ihe 'Viaticum' of his church. But to one who has really
received the Lord in his heart, I greatly delight in administering
it ; it gives me such extreme pleasure to be enabled, in such a
case, to lay a strong emphasis on the word * thee* — * That Christ's
blood was shed for thee,' I know, indeed, that that most precious
blood-shedding was for the sins of the whole world ; but still,
being available only for such as believe it was * shed for them and
are thankful,' to such only can I emphasize the word, or, indeed,
administer the outward sign at all with comfort. When shall it
be? to-morrow?"
•• To-morrow, if you like ; as it is rather late to-day."
•• So be it, then. But I shall like to see him first.'
•• Will you come up with me now?"
•'No, I will not go up with you at all. Sir B^land. Perhaps you
will kindly go up by yourself, and ask him if he likes to see me ;
and then, when y^u are safe off the premises, I will go to him. I
like such interviews always to be * t6te-al-t6te ;' otherwise, one can
only say odious commonplaces; or, if one does say more^
one appears, to oneself at least, affected — and I dont know
what. I do not mind the ministering angels hearing me, anit
I like that those evil beings who are ever at our sides, sick ol
well, should do so too ; but I iave a mortal aversion to mortal
ears."
'*And yet," said ^r. Scott, ** I have heard you say, that you did
62 UIR BQLAVB ASBJWS.
not care how many tiboiuandft were present, when onoe you began
preaehing."
** That is qnite another thing ; one then addresses the woild in
l^eneral— looks at Bobody, and thinks of nobody ! one's whole soml
18 in one's subject ; and I tiunk sometimes I should hardly feel the
difference, were I to die in the middle, so completely do I feel
abstracted from the world — so in the spirit with God. Yet to be
sure, there must be an immeasurable dinerenoe between preaching
to the perishing souls around one, and being with the fdieady
glorified: spirits of men in heayen, — ^with the company of angels»
and the presence of the blessed One himself ! Well, all in good
time— in God's own good time ! "WiU you see now. Sir Bolond, if I
shall go to this * lost and found' np-stairs?"
" If it will not be inconvenient to you, Mr Sinjprleton, I think I
had rather you should put off your visit to him &r a UttLe while.
He exuresaed a great wish just now to see Seott, so perhaps it
would be best for him to go up first"
" I will go at once then," said Mr. Scott And he leffc the room.
" You are looking Ol, Sir Boland," said Mr. Singleton ; *' yon
have been anxious about this poor fellow, I dare say.
"I have certainly felt much for him," replied Sir Roland;
** besides which, confinement in this hot weather is very trying. I
am not used to being tied to business, and find it very irksome ;
and notwithstanding that being with Anstruther is very exciting,
yet it is, in fact, my happiest time."
** I can believe it— -well believe it," said Mr. Singleton. " There
is scarcely any tie on earth like that which binds one to the soul
one has been the happy means, in God's hands, of * snatching like
a brand from the burning.' One feels mightily oompLaoent, at anv
time, towards those whom one has benefited in anyway; whien.
feeling is doubtless a boon from the Father of mercies to cheer (me
en. But when it is to the soul that one has ministered—then it is
a stringent tie indeed!— a tie strong as the * sevenfold chords of
light.' A chain of adamant— and wreathed with amaranth too !"
"It is," replied Sir Roland. Yet a sigh escaped him as he
thought, how soon the earthly portion of the tie w£d<^ bound him
to his dying friend would be dissolved.
" Stronger, I conceive," continued Mr. Singleton, " than that
which binds the receiver of the boon to the imparter."
" I think," said Sir Roland, "that Scott— who has told me all
he owes to you— loves you witix a force, which your regard for him
can scarcely exceed."
" Scott's heart is a most humble one— therefore with him it may
be so ; but the pride of our fallen nature generally makes us revolt
from receiving favours, while it enhances the pleasure of bestowing
them ; and I fear there axe few of us, who would take equal delight
in tiie conversion, even of those most dear to us, if the Lord had
made use of other instruments entirely, and had left us quite out
V 1 ^^^^- ^^* ^ ^™® shape or other, mixes with all oup
thoughts and feelings, sullying the stream which yet perhaps at
nifit really did spring pure from the love of God. it is a sore and
sift BOl^AJTB ASHTOir. 63^
grievous work to trace the blight within whieh cankers all we do —
the thoughts from beneath which * rise, like birds of evil wing, to
IQiUf our sacrifice !' "
Sir Roland and Mr. Singleton continued to converse, as if they
had known each other all their lives, for they were brothers in the
great family of the redeemed, and such nave always much ivi
common.
After a short time, Mr, Scott oaiois down agaia horn Mr. Anstra*
tJier's room,
'* You found him mnch altered, did yon not }*' asked Sir Roland.
"I should scarcely have known him at first," replied Mr. Scottr
'' though it is not a month since I saw him— he is so fearfully
ohanged ! But in conversing with him, I frequently caup^ht a
resemblance to his fonuer self, in the peculiar way m which h9
turns his eyes suddenly upon one when speaking. Thev seem to^
liave such power now, as if tijiey were all spirit. They were
always peculiarly expressive ; but now, from out of his death-like
countenance, their force is almost overpowering^^yet the expression
so fine ! If you could go to him, Singleton, about twelve to-^
morrow, he would like it ; and then A^ton and I will come up
when you are ready, and receive the sacrament with him."
'* I mall be quite happ^r to do as he wishes," replied Mr. Single-^
l0n ; " but have everything ready, will you, before I go in. I
hate tliose tiresome preparations, uiey always distract the mind.
I suppose they always will, as long as one is here— that is, as long
as tney are needed — ^for we shall want no such things up there
(pointing to heaven) ; they are made irksome, I suppose, in order
to remind us of that. Well, tell your friend to expect me precisely
at twelve o'clock to-morrow, without any farther notice ; and you»
Sir Roland, will, I am sure, kindly take care I shall have a <
field."
CHAPTER X
'* Under whatever subterfuges he may attempt to bide his error, the ma& who
labours to expiate his owu sin, by self-inflicted pains of the body, has lost his
hold of the Gospel of the grace of God ; he mi^ be very devout, and very
fervent, but the Gospel he has framed to himself is ' another Gospel,' and, i^
jiact, is no Gospel ;— it is not * glad tidings,' but sad tidings." * *
** From tbat treacherous border the few would make their escape heaven-
ward, as the few, in every age, have escaped from the fUse bosom of the
Bomish Church ; but the many— the thousands of the people, would become
the pitiable victims of this religion of sacraments."
Tatix)]!*! Anoieni Chrittfanitiy.
As Mr. Bingleton rose to depart, Mr. Scott's servant came in ta
ask if his master would see Mr. Roberts.
" By all means : ask him to come up. Now, Singleton," added
Mr. Scott, when the man had left the room, " do stay ; this is our
ohap^.ftin, and you mdy be able to say a word to do tlie poor fellow
good, and I shall want you when he is gone ; you can have nothing
to do here but with me."
64 SIB BOLAIO) ASHTON.
" Yes, I have a great deal to do here with myself. I want to
look about me."
" Well, but wait till he is gone, and I wiU help you to look
about you."
The servant uow announced Mr. Roberts ; and Mr. Singleton,
after bowing to hin.. courteously, sat down again, as his cousin had
wished.
" How are you, Roberts ?" asked Mr. Scott.
"Half deal ! I have been parading the streets with the town-
crier all the live-long day, trying to detect some hidden parson to
do my duty for me for a week or two."
" Why } — ^whither away ?"
" Lord N has been land enotighto invite me to accompany him
to , which I should be delighted to do, if I could only get clear
of the abominable service here. I must go out again, I suppose—
as one does to catch up a loose horse — ^with a little corn, and try t»
inveigle some one for hire and reward. I shall have it plav
carded up on every irespectable serious-looking bit of wall in the
place."
" I don't want the com," said Mr. Singleton, with weat gravity ;
" but as I do not think the service very abominable, 1 will take it
off your hands, if you like it. You do not seem to value it very
highly, so perhaps you will not mind intrusting its performance to
a stranger.
" I am sure I am much obliged to you," answered Mr. Roberts,
rather disturbed. " I did not know — I was not the least aware,
that 1 was in the presence of a clergyman, or I should not — "
" No excuses to me, my good sir," said Mr. Singleton, ^uietiy.
** What is fit for the Master's ear is quite good enough lor HSs
servant's."
Mr. Roberts was excessively confused, and continued stammer-
ing out indistinct apologies ; but Mr. Singleton stopped him by
saying kindly —
" We wiU not talk any more of that just now ; another time
perhaps, when we know each other better, we can begin it in a
soberer strain. I suppose you do not often get leave of absence
here, for there are but few clergymen who are such waifs and
strays on the surface of society as 1 am ; but, however, I am glad
to have arrived just in time to be of use to you, for I weU know
the pleasure of a little liberty."
Mr. Scott looked with the utmost admiration on one whom he
inew possessed all the thunders of eloquence, with which — had he
chosen to put them forth — ^he might have confounded the thought-
less, undevout young man to whom he spoke, but who, in the gen-
tleness of his wisdom, expressed kindly sympathy with his natural
wishes, before he attempted to show him the evil of his spirit;
and Sir Roland also, with pleased surprise, gazed on the fine, kind
countenance of the commanding being before him.
II When does Lord N set out ?" asked Mr. Scott.
"To-morrow morning," replied Mr. Roberts ; " and I was
beginmn^ to grow desperate; but Mr. Singleton's kindness has
made quite a new creature of me."
. SZS BOLAITD ASHTOK. 05
Mr. Sindeton fixed his eyes upon the careless speaker, and his
lips partea as if he were about to reply, but he restrained himself*
and kept silence, though a sigh arose. He had been inclined to
make a comment on Mr. Eoberts's own expression of " being a new
creature ;" but he felt that this was not a fitting time or place ; for
a lecture before witnesses was, he well knew, a most unpalatable
dose to any man.
'*Are you lately from England, Mr. Singleton?" asked Mr.
Roberts.
" I left it about two months a^."
" Was an^^thing particular going on ? One neyer can believe the
newspapers."
*• Nothing very particular that I know of."
" The Puseyites seem fiourishing-— the vile hypocrites !"
" My good sir," said Mr. Singleton, quickly, " you will excuse
me, but I must say, I think we should be acquainted with people
very well, before we venture to fix upon them the blackest name
in all the black catalogue of sins."
" I am really most unfortunate to-day," exclaimed Mr. Eoberts-^
" full of mistakes ! I first find a clergyman where I least expected
it, though that mistake his kindness lias turned quite to my ad-
vantage (bowing to Mr. Sinfirleton)— and then discover that he is
a Fuseyite ! which I certainh' should not have expected, consider-
ing the companv in which I find him."
** Ton certainly mistake in supposing me one of the Puseyites,"
said Mr. Sinrieton, smiling ; ** for I am very far from being such,
and highly disapprove their doctrines. But, my young mend, I
am some six or seven vears older than jou are, and by virtue of
my bald head I claim brevet rank for six or seven more, so you
wul perhaps fornve my saying, that experience has taught me,
that men may fall into all imaginable lollies and errors without
being hypocrites. You will remember who it is that says, ' Judge
not, that ye be notjudged,' and his commands are not lightly to
be disregarded. We may be led away by a thousand corrupt
motive»— Ihe winds of passion may blow us to aU points of tne
compass : and the currents of self-interest, pride, worldliness, may
pervert uie judgment, and make the stream of Hfe flow in any but
the right channel. But deliberately to pretend to be what we know
we are not, is what fewhave the consummate villany to undertake,
cr the bad boldness to carry through. That was why I objected to
your calling these men hypocrites ; though at the same time I have
no hesitation in saying, that I believe them to be blindly carrying
on a work of vast, incalculable evil in the world."
" Ton do not like to abuse them," said Sir Boland, ** while you
' cry havoc I and let slip the dogs of war,' against their doctrines.
Abuse certainly is not argument, and shoula always be avoided ;
but we are in general least inclined to cultivate that ' charity
which thinketh no evil,' where it is most especially wanted ; in
thinking and speaking of Ihose who differ from us either in opinion
or action."
"Oh! I had much rather," said Mr. Roberts, "abuse people
out and out, and 'make a dean breast of it' at once, than pretend
46 8IB BOLAJn) AfiHTOV.
a Tast oondderatioii for tiiem, whilst I am anulingly drainngr the
bolt that is to send them to destnictioxi. I like * a good hater.'
Tour mild, mellifltious speechee are only the oiling of the point of
the dagger, in order that it may go more easily to the heart"
** Yon are poetical, Roberts— that was qnite a flight," said Mr.
Beott. ** Bnt yon must * rein in yonr soaring: genius, and clip the
winffs of yonr rampant steed,' before you can come down to the
level of snch poor sons of prose as we are.^
*' I think your ' rampant steed' has folly overtaken mine, Scott;
BO we two, at least, may tilt on eqml gronnd. Bnt I always
observe Uiat people who begin so ktWrng tnrect, always end so
biting bitter. The ' choicest unldndnesses alwavs come from those
who profess a vast consideration for your tedings ; like Dr.
Johnson in his memorable speech, when asked the profession of
some one : *I wish to speak evil of no man, but tram compels me
to say— he was a lawyer.' "
** As if," said Sir Eoland, " * a man could not,* as Sbencer
Perceval, the minister, said, * serv« his Ood as well in the mw as
in I3ie church.' "
"I should think he might — easSy,** mid Mr. Scott, glancing
ingnificantly at the yoimg chaplain.
** Or would you wish, Mr. Sing leton,*' eontimued Mr. Eoberts,
without attending to what die omers had said, ''to keep singingr
the *retoumelle,' after the feushion of Ani&ony; and after abusing
these men in every figure of speedi, diast peipetually, *But
Pusey^is an honourable man, so are they all— 4ll honourable
men?
"Well ! I must say you bear our friend's impertinenees very
patiently," said Mr. aoott to his cousin.
*' He certainly does not treat my grey hairs wil^ all the respect
I think due to them,'* replied Mr. Smgjeton; "but perhaps he
has an ugly tri(& of thinkmg his own opinion best; which 1 have
observed some people have."
**I always think myself tiie wisest person in the world," said
Sir Eoland, smiling, and wiUing to relieve the embarrassment
into which Mr. Scott's observation had thrown Mr. Roberts.
"Where others agree with me, we are on a par; where tJiey
differ, my opinion, of course, is, * selonmoi,' best ; so there I am the
superior.
^ *'Well argued, and quite unanswerable,*' «aid Mr. Scott. **l
imagine we all think Hie same, though; it is what *oft was
thought, but ne'er so well expressed;' -at least, I have lonp had
an idea that I was decidedly the nearest resemblanoe to Solomon
that had appeared within our era."
*' It is commonly observed," said Mr. Singleton, ** that the most
equally distributed of all gifts, seems to be good sense ; as every
one is satisfied with his own share of it."
'* But still to return to the original suhject," said Mr. Roberts"?
if these men profess to believe things which it is impossible for
any one in his senses t9 believe— they must be hypocrites ; unleflB,
indeed, you j)refer calling them madmen."
«'It certainly does astonish me," replied Mr. gBngkton, 'Mbat
€□1 BOLASTD ASBWMt. tff
men o^heneise reaeosable, slioiild l>e led away by ^at appear to
me much ^oss errors. But still, till I know that they consider
their doctrines as erroneous, I must not call them hypocrites for
professing them. I think/' he added, and a solemn expression
filled Jiis eye, "that they are ' giren up to a strong delusion,' and
that the nuschief they are doin^ is woeM-^anspeakable ! Theirs
is, a doctrine 'which as the Bishop of Chests said, if I remember
right, in one of his 'charges — 'ministers so mudti. to the pride of
human natnre, that w^e it for that reason alone I should di»-
trust ifc»* **
" I do not see that," replied Mr. Boberts, '* excepting as to the
clergy; for the poor laity are sorely rough-xidden and brow-
beaten, I should say— ordered to keep silence *even from good
words — ^to dispose ii their intellects as best IJiey may-— and to
swallow, without tasting either, whaterer is set before them by
their appointed ' pastors and masters.* * Eat your pudding, slaye,
and hold your tongue,' seems the order of the day for them.
Thou^rh to be snre, even then, their diet need not pall upon their
appetites for want of Tariety. It is by no means 'toujours
perdriz;' for when I was last in Endand, staying in the country,
there were within a walk, four diurehes with, to my certain know-
ledge, four different doctrines serred up, 'all well defined and
separate ' condiments, as distinct in their ' saTOur' as the most
sickly appetites could desire. And yet the poor wretches are
ordered not to judge for themselires, but only to ' hear the Church.'
CWhich Churct— query?")
"They mean the Artielesy ftc. as the Church, you know," said
Mr: Scott.
'Yes; but eacb thinks he is grmg the true explanation of
* Ton speak in rather a light way on the subject, Mr. Roberts,
though I cannot but agree in your meaning," said Mr. Singleton.
" JDadeed I have often wondered that this discrepancy in the Tiews of
men who haye all derived iheit right of publLc teaching in the
Church, from the same imposition ol hands, does not stagger them
in the belief of that act having any efficacy. Indeed we see £rom
the ver^ first, that it neither bestowed light to goide, nor grace
to sanctify ; for one of the sevendeacons— those on wnom the apostles
ih*st laid hands, and who were consecrated, not only for the admi-
nistration of fnnds, but also for preaching, (at least they certainly
did preach)— was ^ the author of that drcadfol heresy of the
' Nicolaitanes ' which Gk)d twice, in the Bevelation, declares that
*He hates;'— which shows, that though the laying on of hands
eould set a person apart lor the service of the outward visible
Church; yet, that it had no efficacy^ in makin€[ him either a
faithful, or an efficient minister of Christ's real, spiritual Church:
and fearful experience teaches us the same thing through all
stages of the 'succession;' so that I cannot nyself attribute the
digntest value to the present ' imposition of hands.* Do you
remember that story about some one — I forget his name— who
asked Louis the Fourteenth for a bishopric, jfor some Mend of
his? 'Mais n*est-ce pas qu'il est Jansenist? (But is he not a
F 2
68 int SOLAKD ASHTOK.
Jansenist ^') asked 'le grand monarque.' ' Du tout ! Bire/ replied
the applicant, ' Je le garantis moi atnee — atli§e pur? C* Not in the
least, Sire, I guarantee him an Atheist— pure Atheist. ) Can one
think that God commits His power to such men as these? If
others can, I cannot ! But with regard to what we were saying, of
these things feeding the ^ride of heart in the laity as* well
as in the clergy, you will find, Mr. Roberts, that we all
naturally like to exalt the body to which, in any way, we
belong, though we may possess none of the -power in it ourselves.
Pride runs tnrough all of us ; therefore, as the good bishop said,
' we should distrust' what tends to foster the ungodly seed. It is
a pleasant thin^, by the bye, to see those two brother bishops* —
brothers in spirit, happily, as well as m blood— fighting so
manfully, side by side, against the inroads of this fearful heresy ;
and, thuik God, some other of the bishops besides, and many of
the clergy, still remain untainted by its poison."
" As to the miraculous powers of the Church, where are they?'*
asked Mr. Roberts. " When the real apostles and others performed
miracles, men saw them, and were benefited by them ; out here,
we are called upon to believe things contrary to what we see —
and that upon the simple ' ipse dixit of men like ourselves."
** You refer, I suppose, to the change they believe to take place
in the bread and wme at the sacrament, said Mr. Singleton;
"but you are aware that on that point they do not all agree;
some jgroinff almost, if not quite, as far as the Romanists, in
believing that the elements are converted, by the blessing of the
priest, into the actual body and blood of the Lord Jesus; others,
only believing in the 'real presence,' without attempting to
account for it. I myself can only view that comforting sacrament
'as a continual remembrance of the sacrifice of the death of
Christ;' and I partake of it in obedience to His express command,
'This do in remembrance of me;' expecting, of course, ihe
blessing which attends every means of grace, if rightly used. I
cannot feel that there is anything miraculous, or mysterious, in
it (further than that all God's ways of workina: in me soul are
mysterious) ; or that the blessing which flows through it difiers,
either in land, or— necessariljr— in degree, from any of the other
influences of God's Holy Spirit. Indeed I think of both the
sacraments, that they are but— to use the words of a livingauthor
— 'instruments that God blesses in the using, not that He has
blessed to a perpetual use; for then would the use be never
senarated from the blessing.'f We see also most clearly that no
holiness in thegiver of the rite can cause it to be beneficial to the
receiver; for Christ, ' the Head of His Church,' gave it to Judas!
— and was he benefited?"
" It is remarkable, I think," said Sir Roland, "that though our
Lord generally added to all His injunctions some gracious,
encouraging promise, yetin instituting the two sacraments. He merely
gave the command, without any blessing being added. To secret
• The two Dr. Samnen.
t Thd Tsbl« or the Lor<L— C abouse Fbt.
SIB B0LA17I> ASHTOZr. 69
S'ayer He promised open reward— to congregational prayer, tliat
e would *be there in the midst of them'— to tiie pure in
heart, that they should *see Gbd'— in short, I think, to the
keeping of every other injunction, was a blessing promised, but
none to the sacraments ; and my soul can rest on nothing but a
promise, though we know that in ' keeping all His commandments,
there is great reward.' Yet, notwi'^standing this omission, sucb
is the invincible tendency of the human mind to go astray, that
upon these two simple commands, men have built tiie most wild
and visionary hypotheses. It almost seems as if heavexdy Wisdom,
foreseeing the evils they would bring out of them, determined to
But these words are surely not to 1^ taken more literally than
many other similar expressions made use of by our Lord. As
here, He calls the bread 'His body;' so in another place he calls
Himself the 'true bread;' He speaks of His body as a 'temple;'
He says He is the ' door of the sheepfold,' &c. Now no one, tiiat
ever I heard of, thought of taking these things in their literal
sense; whv, then, should so forced a construction be put upon
that one ngure of speech^ Our Lord surely only ordained tnat
sacrament as a remembrance of His death, whereby we should
show forth to the world continually our. love to Him, and depend-
ence on His merits, till He come again ! He abolished the Jewish
passover, of which He was then partaking for the last time with
Mis discinles, and in its i)lace instituted l£is bloodless memorial of
our blood-bought salvation. With regard, also, to the priest's
pronouncing a blessing over the bread and wine, imder the
supposition of imparting any value to itr— that is quite unscriDtural.
The blessinff which C^st' pronounced had nothing in it, e viaentlv,
of that kind. Six times, it is said, ' He gave t£anks,' and only
twice, ' He blessed;' and He did just the same at the multiplying
of the loaves and fishes; and no one ever supposed tbat they were
intended to be more than food for the body. And where St. Paul
reproves the people for ' some being hungry, and others drunken,'
at the sacrament, and tells them that ' the^r eat and drink their
own damnation' (more properly condemnation) 'not considering
the Lord's body,' I believe thoroughly, that he only meant, that
they forgot the sanctity and holiness of that Being, tne sacrifice of
whose death they had met to commemoratei and that they incurred
His just displeasure by the insult thus offered to Him. With
regard to b^tism also, it appears to me a great error to attribute
the least efficacy to the mere outward act. It seems to me onlv
an admission into the visible church of Christ, showing forth
figuratively the washing and cleansing of our souls by the Holy
Spirit of God, and ordamed by Christ possibly as a sort of test,
wnereby the power of faith should be proved ; showing that not
to the secret believer, but to the open avower of his Lord, should
salvation belong: 'For with the heart man believeth unto
righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto
salyation.' We,tiien, enlist ourselves under the banner of th
70 ttOL BOIJin) ASHTOIL
Great Captftin of oar flalyatioii--'ta]ce Hk servioe npon ii»— and
look to Him for Jkis bksnng. Adult baptism' only is spoken of
in Scripture; and eyen then, we are not borne out in tlie idea
that the ffift of the Holy Spirit d^^nded in the least upon it.
No !—- the oaptism whieh u available to saLyation is that ot whicdi
John spake before, when he 8aid> 'I indeed baptize you with
water, out there oemeili One • * • who dmll bi^tize yon with
the nolj Ghost.' Of that ahnour Lord apoke, when He made
the promise to James and to John : * Te shall indeed drink of the
CTip that I drink of; And with the baptism that I am baptised
withial shall ye be baptiaed.' That bapti«a yiaiblv fell on theon
at the day of Penteoost; and it faUs not less sordy, though neiw
inyisibly. on every child of man who takes the Lord for his God.
That is the only Mptism for the remissieii of sins, I feel convinoed !
St Peter, too, when he saw that the Hely Ghost fell on the house-
hold and friends of Cornelius, says, ' Then remembered I the wood
of the Lord, how that He said, ' John indeed baptized wit^ watec
but 3re shall be baptized with the Holv Ghost;' and he afterwards
exclaims, ' Can any man deny water that these be baptized, seeing
they have received the Holy Ghost, even as we?* We see plainly
also, that the blessed saying opesstion of the Spirit was by no
nieans necessaxily oonsequeirt en the outward act of baptism, even
at the very first outset of the Gospel : ior some of those who had
received the rite from the hands of the very Apostles themsdvea
(Ananias, SappMiav and others) proved utter reprobates «id
aliens from God I These things^ appear to me unansweraUel
Lideed, in oonverBins^ with Paseyites, who have begun by assert-
ing that baptism*--iniant-baptism as well as adult— was neoessary
to salvation, I have asked them if they really thought that inisnts
bom of Christian parents in some place whiare, through unavoidable
droumstances, no clergyman oould ever oome—liying a life of
devoted love to Christ and of faith in His salvation, and so dying
—whether such persons would, in their opinion, be lost for want
of baptiBm? and they have invariaUy been oonfltrained to say,
I that they did not think they would!' (though the oon&ssion was.
in each inBtanoe, made with the most evident reluctance). Another
way I think I have, or I certainly might have, put it to them.
Worldly, perhaps (Hpenly vicious pitf^nts, take their child to be
ohristenea merely lor mrm's sake, without one prayer of faith.
That child they say is saved! Other pazents-Hame, devoted
Christians— are also bringing their ehild to the font, purposing
indeed to dedicate it to^^ijoid. Sudden sickness carries it^ff
before the rite is admimstered ! Will they say that that diild is
lost ? The child of prayeifal, spiritual parents, ccnd^omed in its
helpless infancy to the fires of God's wrath ! They dare not say
it l^therefore again--baiitiBm is mot necessary to salvation."
'' Bo you object then to infint-baptism }*' asked Mr. Singieton*
' I incline to think I do. I like the idea of presenting our chil*
dren— dear as onr own sonls— to God, dedicatijig them, as far as in
us lies, to Christ, and iinploring Him to bestow upon them His
Holy Spint, and all the Messed privileges of His redeemed; but
baptiam a: lonld be oox own act, the open seal of ooi prof esskm, end
administered oniy ydUL Philip's test; 'If tibou beU&vest^ thou
mayest/ W& are toM to ' lepent and l>e baptizedL' and how can
an infJEuii repcait? But putting aside this opinion of mine, to assert
that a chiLa is regenerated by that simple sprinkling— that it is
thereby made 'a onild of Gfod» and an inneritor of the Kingdom of
Qeayen/— I hold to be a fearful and most unscriptural error ; in-
xdkvuu; the destruotioiL of the ooyenant promise to those ' bora
again that they ahaE ' never be plucked out of their Pather'a
hand ;' for the utmost stretoh of oreduHty cannot make us beUeva
that all who are baptised hare been ' bom again»' unless we ehoosa
also to believe that we can be the redeemed children of God ona
moment, and the aeeursed diildren of Satan the next ; or tiiat the
careless, ungodly, and profane, are those whom God has chosen for
himself to be ' a peculiar peopla '—though ' zealous ' of anything
hut /good works/**
" With respect to infants," said Hr. Scott, " I iiot only think
that baptism is not necessary for their salvation, but I believe that
all infants are saved by the blood of Christ, whether of Christian
parents or not. Scripture tells us that ' God was in Christ recon-
ciling the toorld unto himself; ' and I believe, therefore, that wa
are aJl ' bom into a world forgiven ; ' and I firmly hold, that tha
^cacy of the great atonement is available for all those young
things who die before the age of reason. But the moment they ara
old enough to sin wilfully against Gbd, then, of course, the whole
requirements of the law come upon them (I speak of tibose under
the teaching of the Gbspel}, and £rom the guilt of their actual
trans^essions they can then be saved only by an individual appro-
piiation of the merits oi Christ to their own souls, cTaiming the
oene&ts of His atonement for themselvea, and laying all their sins
upon Him."
" I quite a«ce with you,'* said Mr. Sin^eton ; " and I think
that you and Sir Roland have disposed of two i)oint8 very satisfac-
torily. Have you studied as deeplv on the subject of the power
of jremittiag sins, now again ckdmea for the Church ?"
" My examinations of Scripture," replied Sir Roland, ** have
ouid^ me reject that claim * in toto.' The moment the soul believes
in the Lord Jesus as its Saviour, that soul is pardoned, and * ni>
man can pluck it out of its Pather's hands.' ' Who shall separate
us tiom the love of Christ?' asks St. Paul; and if not from his
love — how can we be withheld by man from his free and fall par-
don ? * There is,' indeed, * one Mediator between God and man,
Christ Jesus the righteous;' but, thank Gk>d, there needs no
mediator between man and Him— the way to Christ is open for
alL If man does pronounce our pardon truly, Christ must have
pronounced it first— and that is all the soul needs. If he pro*
nounce it fals€^r---God does not pledge himself to ratify it to the
impenitent. When once we have heard, * Be of good cheer, thy
sins be forgiven thee,' soundiug from the voice of the Spirit
tiurouffh the innermost recesses of the heart, all words of man are
SBpernuous— valueless I Besides, if any such power was bestowed
at all, it was not confined to the apostles. It is said. ' When the
doors were shut, where the diso^^t were assembledt for fear of the
72 Snt BOLANB A8HT0K.
Jew8» came Jesns and stood in tlie midst ; and saltli nnto them.
Peace be unto you * ♦ * as my Father hath sent me, even so
send I you. And when He had said this. He breathed on them,
and saith unto them, Keceive ye the Holy Ghost: whose soever
sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them, and whose soever sins
ye retain, they are retained.' Now the power here given (even if
any were really bestowed) was most decidedly given, equally, to
all who were present on that occasion ; and we know, from the
parallel passage in St. Luke, that the two disciples from Emmans
were there, and others also — probably women as well as men.
Besides, far from being an exclusive gift to the apostles, we
know they did not even all partake of it ; for the very next verse
to those I have been repeating, tells us, that ' Thomas, one of the
twelve, called Didymus, was not with them when Jesus came/
St. Paul also, most certainly was not present, nor Matthias — as an
apostle, though he might have been there as one of the discii)le8»
All persons, therefore, ordained through their line of succession,
should be considered, by the * successionists,' as incapable of remit-
ting sins ; for how could these three men bestow upon others a
Sower which had never been bestowed on themselves ? But I
eny that the power of absolution was given to any ; firmly be-
lieving that our Lord's meaning was, that the Gospel of truth com-
mitted to them all, and through them to us, was that which should
be the means— by its reception, of * remitting ' sins, or— by its' re-
jection of ' retaining ' them wpon the soul for ever ; as He says in
another place, * He that hath the Son hath life: but he that hath
not the Son hath not Hfe, but the wrath of God abideth on him/
And I believe the same meaidng was attached to what was said to
St. Peter ; and that the * rock' upon which the Church was to be
built was the truth confessed : — '^Thou art the Christ, the Son of
fhe living God ; ' and not the zealous, but imstable apostle who
made the confession."
"I believe your interpretation to be the true one," said Mr.
Singleton, " and am pleased— for it is what I have been convinced
of many a long year.
" But how, Sir Roland, do you know that any women were
there ? " asked Mr. Roberts.
" Women always ranked high amongst the number of our Lord'»
disciples," replied Sir Roland ; " and in the faithful boldness of
their love, were, as Barrat beautifully and truly says—
* Last at his cross, and earliest at His grare ;*
and as they are said to have been with the disciples that very mom-
ing, it is most probable that some of them were present when our
Lord appeared and spoke the words in question. But whether thev
were so or not, is a matter, I think, of no importance ; the point I
wish to establish is that no power was by our Lord's woras con-
veyed to the ai)ostles, but what was equally conveyed to all who
were then present. We have, however, full Scripture testimony to
ass^ us that women received the * baptism of fire ' on the day
T f^^^^o?^** equally with the men ; the aposHe's quotation from
Joel sufficiently proves that. I have consiaered much about these
sot BOLAin) ASBTOV. 7S
iJiingrs latelv, beoaose I think it is of saoh very neat importance
that they aaonld be rightly understood, especiaily in these days
when there is again being set up, instead of the religion of Christ,
a ' religion of sacraments'— of forms and oeremonies— and ascetic
practioea^in short— of refined Popery I"
CHAPTER XI.
** A taint I and what imports the Bams
Thus banded in derision'g game ?
Holy and separate flrom sin.
To good, nay e'en to Ood, aUn.
A saint I oh, soomer ! give some sign,
Some seal to prove the title mine, ^
And warmer thanks thoa shalt command,
Than bringing kingdoms in thy hand."— ICabbiott.
*' Tea, and why eTen of yourselves Judge ye not what is right ?"— Lake zii. 6T»
'* I will receiye nothing without examining it, for I cannot think my reason-
ing facilities were given to me to be hoodwinked, and led about in passive
helplessness by those of other men." — Judah*» Lion : Chablotte Euzabeth.
** While the toils are ftst gathering aromid the English Church, and while
the younger clergy, if common report says true, are generally yielding them-
selves to the fascination, and while some who should loudly express themselves,
seem disposed to leave things to take their course, and, at any rate, to be
* quiet,' there is a body at hand that is not asleep, although mute, nor in-
dUTerent to the issue of the movement, however wary and discreet is the ex-
pression of its deepfelt Joy. The Church of Rome need not act or speak on
the present occasion ; her part is to wait her time."
Tatlob's Ancient CkristianUif,
" Well, I have no objection to yonr doctrines, I am sure," said
ICr. Roberts, in answer to Sir Roland's last observation, " if it
were merely tiiat it opposes those proud, pragmatical, Panistio
Puseyites ; whose only motive in life, I believe, is to exalt them-
selves and their order, and to ride onthe necks of the people."
"Why Roberts," asked Sir Roland, with some warmth, "will
you deny to others that charitable construction which we probably
all wish, and certainly all require, should be put on our own
actions? Why will you indulge that spirit? However," he
added, smiling, " I need not put myseK into a rage about it ; only
it is so strange that you who are, in reality ,one of tiie best-naturea
fellows in the world, always in conversation make yourself out to
be a perfect Ogre."
"Why, you see, I have but a certain portion of sweets in my
composition," answered Mr. Roberts, gooa-humouredly ; " so if I
exhausted it all in 'honeyed accents,' my deeds might become
dreadful!"
" Well, then, send out your bees and fill both hives," said Sir
Roland. " But, with regard to the love of spiritual power in the
Puseyites, I think it very likely that it does mingle itself with
their other feelings ; yet we have no right to say that it is the main
74
ol^drtwlikli ih^sei befiowthenu It is eecjakdgr p«ipfiil tc^ 809
hiw their idea 01 the valna ai tlie ' anortolk fsaso^miim.* takfts
tiie ^laoe of more i?iiiion,tml thirngs in. ibekt aiinds ; and nothing
floUYinoes m» of tba evil of their doetrines mynre thiaik the change
which I see effected in nmay who foKmerly piolMsed and aeted
upon eyan^elical principles ; those who were once ever wakeful to
the necessities of souls, oyer deflmns to promote God's kingdom
upon earth» seeminff now» in many instances, intent only, or at
least chiefly, on exalting tl* merits aad ^ower of the ' snccession/
leaving the sonls of men to fare aa best tibev may., Betoming too,
in BO many instances, to the Tain and MygIous dissipations of the
world, which once they had utterly renounced ! Oh ! I have
traced the effect of thia poiaoa in so manr mindi ! and in some too,
of whom my heart tearfolly exclaims, ' i e did run weU, who hath
hindered you ? ' "
" You will find, Mr. Roberts," aaidlfr. ffingjeton, " that grievous
error has often beiBU put forward b^ well-intentioned, honest, and
even pious-hearted men. Indeed, it has been observed that most
bad systems have been originatea by ffood men — outwardly godd,
at leastr— Sotan having sagaeiity eBMign to know, that, if wiong
doctrines were pireaehed by tboie of inmnoral ehaaraeter, the gene*
raMty of people would inmntbr reject titem. But the great evil
18, that most of the fbUowera of theae men, adopting their ^rors,
without holding to the chain of faith whidh, thoo^n slender, yet
bound them to ike tru^ make ahipwreek of conseieBae, and mitfat*
and all things. I hove heard a very excellent, but porejudioed nuoL
fwy, ' that he did not think t^t any Pineyite oould go to heaven;
but I cannot say that I agree with nim in tliat awlu opinion, for
I believe, that amongst them may be found many (and amoi^
Roman Catholics also) who do sincerely desire to do uie will of God,
though not clearly rareeinag wherein that will consists ; and who
al^ really trust to Chriat for their salvation. But isa both oaaesy
there is so much of efzar mixed, that. I ooneeive, they must he
saved in spite of the doctrine they hold, and not in aeoordance to
" Well then,'' aaidMr. Roberta. '' I hone I may be allowed, at
least, to call theae Puseyites the greatest tools tiiat ever existed ?"
*'lSo," said Mr. Setyfct, "I ahaU enter my 'veto' against you
tibere, and quote, though not the Sorintnres, yet the o];Hnion of the
wisest uninspired man that ever Hvea or wroter— LoruBacon ; who
Mys (though I may net be quite covreot in my words, perhaps, as I
quote from, memory) that, 'the Dervish who spina all his life <m,
one foot in hopes <n gaining Heaven, is a wiser man than he who
takes no pains at all about it;' so it the matter were at issue be*
tween you and these eazaeat tnough mistaken mentor even between
Tou and the q>innmg Dervish, Roberts, in whose iLVonr would the
learned authority iust quoted have given hia verdict ?"
Mr. Scott looked at Sir Roland as ne said this with a laughing
mtizre of deprecati<m ; for he knew that the latter did not like the
ught tone of irony whioh he often used when speaking to Mr. Ro«
berts; thinlriug it but ill calculated to eieate in the mind of that
careless being, arespeetfiff sacred things, or to awaken in him
that dae regard for " the vast ooncerns of an immortal slate/'
which it was so desirable that he should feel.
Mr. Roberts, however, seemed but little discomposed, and replied
oontem|>tuously, "I do not pretend to be a saint, oertainly; so I
am afraid. I must yield Hie palm both tomy Puseyite and my twirl*
ing friends. I am not ambitious of sucb honours."
"You will, I am sure, forgive me^ Mr. Boberts," said Mr. Sin^
gleton, in a grave but kind manner, for he felt that he ought not
to remain silent, " if I say that the light way in which you speak
at times pains me. These aie higb and solemn subjects, whethez
regarded as truth or error, and should not be approached with an
ineverent ^irit. Bemember^ if we are not ' saints' we are — ^what 2
Children of oatan ! A saint is one who has been sanctified by tha
Spirit of God, and taugbt to accept in heart and soul the salyatioii
of Clmst ; all who are not such, tkerefore, in a Christian land, muadt
perish— wilfully perish— because they choose not to listen to Him
who ' brought hfe and immortality to hght.' I am sure if you will
think of this in the sditude of your chamber, you will not wish to
disclaim so blessed atitLe, but rathereanieatly desire to prove yonx
daimtoit."
He smiled kindly as he ended, and Mr. Boberts, whose spirit
always hardened itself against Mr. Scott's playful but cutting re-
marks, was conipletely subdued. His colour rose, -and he seemed
both pained andTembarrassed, and the ezpreasion of defiance which
his countenance had previously worn, gave place to one of feeling
and respect.
Sir Koland, whose considerate spirit felt for every one, willing to
relieve his embarrassment, instantly resumed the conversation.
" I can easily comprehend,'* he said, *' tiiat persons who have
habitually livea in ignorant and careless disregard of all religioiif
should be attracted by the doctrine of the Puseyites, and also by that
of the Qiurch of £ome. I had a friend who, having scarcely ever
heard religion spoken of, and meeting with some zealous and
amiable Boman Catht^cs, was induced to adopt their views, and
become a Papist. Some one observed, ' It was a pity people were
not contented with the fail^ of their fathers;' to which another
answered, that, 'in this case, Ihey would have been mighty easily
contented if they had been.' To such persons, as I said before, I
can well imagine that the doctrines and practices of Home ajod
Oxford, may hold out great attractions— they knowing of nothing
better; but that those who have once ^tasted the good things of
God' — any portion of whose sends has been informed by the Holy
Spirit of Gtod— ^who have eigoyed in any measure 'uie glorious
liberty of the sons of God'— that such persons should ' leave feeding
on this fair mountain, to batten on that moor,' is past my compre-
hension ! I reBOBWihex hearing of a speech which the old Lord
Eldon made many years ago, in which he said ' He could not think
on a velocipede !' But the Traotorians have tin-thought on a
velocipede — and on one of tremendous power too — ^for in one mo-
mesit, as it were, they have taken a oadcward leap of fourteen
hundred years, and with desperate determination have thrown
their intellects into the darkness of the earliest ages."
76 snt BOiAin) ASHTOir.
*'It is most marveUons !" said Mr. Singleion. "And they cer-
tainly strengpthen exceedin^ljr the hands of Rome, so that I do not
vonaer at the latter ezclaiminfl:, * Beat! sono i Puseiti !' (Blessed
are the Pnseyites !) But they have not yet found out the point at
which infaluhility is to rest. They say indeed, to us, ' Hear the
Church,' and yet they differ from each other in every possible shade
and degree, and ' hear the Church' themselves only on such points
as they like."
"Yes, that has often struck me," said Sir Roland; " for if * the
Church' is to be received as an infallible guide (as the Papists
* bonfiL fide' receive their church) we must bow our judgments entirely
to her, and not take upon ourselves to jud^ of any thing that she
teaches; but this, though they inculcate it, they do not practise,
for they venture to differ whenever they please ; and if they object
in one thing, J may — as far as infallibility is concerned — object in
a hundred. To the Bible I can bow my whole soul, for that is the
true, unerring word of Gk>d ; but I am afraid Dr. Pusey would
think me a terrible and audacious heretic were I to say, that I
adhere to the Church of England, not as taking her for nr^ guide,
but as mere matter of preference. Indeed, a Puseyite mend of
mine always tells me I am not ' a churchman,' only a ' man who
goes to church' — ^not a bad distinction, and perfectly true according
to their views."
"Do you prefer it then as the best sect ?" asked Mr. Singleton,^
" or as, the Church of England, by law established ?' "
" As the * Church of England by law established.' A Church— a
BetUed State-church — ^I think every nation is bound to maintain,
if it hopes for the blessing of GK)d on it as a nation. Any govern-
ment is inexcusable, in my opinion, which does not^ as a great
* Pater familias,' feed its children with nourishing spiritual food ;
and our church, spite of her errors, has been, and is. deeply vidu-
able, as a preserver of the imcormpted wora of God, and of much
that is excellent in doctrine and discipline. To her, therefore,
shall I adhere as long as it is in any wav possible. If the Tractarians
succeed, a« is their avowed andpublisnea toish, in reuniting her to
the Church of Rome, by altermg things so as to suit that church
(some concession also being expected from her) then I must, per-
force, leave hei>--or rather she will have left me. But I do not
like to anticipate that evil day ; if it comes, may God * give strength
to his people, that they may be faithful even unto the end.' "
"Amen!" said Mr. Singleton. "But if one thing more tiian
another could vex my soul, it would be, I think, the having no
fixed national church to go to. Besides, I feel sure that, if the
ohurch depart from Clod, God will depart from her, and from this
—then— feted nation. I almost fancv I have seen * Ichabod' written
on her ever since the admission of tne Catholics into our national
counsels; and whenever our church becomes more faithless tiian
she is, then indeed shall I fully expect to find that 'the glory of
the Lord is departed.'"
"The same impression rests on my mind," said Sir Roland; .
I can feel smcerel^ for the Roman Catholics as men, and am glL^
that many of their disabilities have been taken off; but never
8IB BOLAin> ASHJOV. 77
shoTild they have been acbnitted into parliament; and never either
onglit we to have thought ourselves justified in voting supplies for
the instruction of those who were to go forth and teach the people
error."
"Ah! it is a most difficult subject to manage/' said Mr. Sin-
gleton ; *' and I only wish we could have come with cleaner hands
into the combat, as reo^ards Ireland ; for though I do not believe
that, in the whole world, there are a set of men who labour as * in
the fire/ as many ministers and others do at this moment in that
country, yet for now many years was the Protestant Church there
a scanaal and a disgrace to any religion } It is a. deep debt we owe
to that unhappy nation, and I almost fear the time and power for
paying it off is fast passing from us. Truly ' Christ has received
iBarfoI wounds in the house of His Mends' tiiere, and even now, in
many excellent people, I should be rejoiced to see more of the
* sword of the Spirit,' less of the Spirit of the sword; more con-
eiliation to the Papists themselves, though as deep an abhorrence
as tliey like to Popery, Of all the missionaries that I ever read of »
Felix Neff appears to me, for this very reason, by far the most
perfectT-ioining such temper, and gentleness, and discretion— to
such hi^n clear views, and such unflag^g zeal and devotion.
Labouring as he did, till he destroyed himself— and on the very
Yaldensian spots, too, which had been so often red with the blood
of the x>ersecutea and slaughtered I^testants— yet he raised no
enmity against, or among the Eomish priests and population which
were about him, but lived with them on the kindest terms ; so much
£0, that we are told in GiUy's memoir of him, tiiat the sub-prefect,
a Soman Catholic, and many others of that persuasion—to show
him honour — actually attended at the ceremony of opening tiie
little Protestant chapel at Violins; and tiiat many also, would
often attend his sermons— Bibles and Testaments hems distributed
too, for a lengtii of time without interruption. Would— would
that all were animated by the same heaven-bom spirit ! that all-
even while devoting themselves as this young martyr did— to
teaching the most pure and spiritual truth, would remember 'that
the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.' "
" I have often wished that the Church in Ireland could be put
nx>on a different footing than it is," said Sir Eoland ; ** though I
dare say the attempt would be found fraught with a thousand
difficulties. It is very easy to dictate what should be done, as one
sits by one's own fireside, but one must hold some of the reins of
government one's self, I fancy, before one can justiy estimate the
aifficulties that surround a minister, in the endeavour to carry out
any n*eat question. But I have long wished that tithes could
have oeen entirely redeemed there, and a fond formed from them,
out of which Protestant clergy or missionaries could be paid ; so
that, dropping down, as it were from Heaven, in the midst of the
Boman Catholics, they mij?ht spend and be spent amongst them,
without drawing money from them in a manner which they feel,
and naturally resent ; and which is certainly calculated to preju-
dice them against these spiritual teachers ; for it must be galiingly
oppressive to them to have to pay for the maintenance of a church
wldeh they think aeonrsed, and that, too, out of a fnad tviiieh had
for ages belonged to the ministers of their o'wn fcdtii. I think
^ere has never been snffident consideration shoi^^ for these
natural feelings of the Papists ; for what should we feel — and
irhich nerhaps, we ma^; soon h«re to feel— vere we obliged to pay
onr tithes to a Bomii^ instead of a Protestant chnrdi ?"
** As you are so Tery tender of tiiem, Sir Bxdand," said Mr.
Boberts, '*you had better pay tiie Popish priests at onee, as has
been often talked of."
** I should as soon think of paying (shendsts and confeetioners to
«ell poisoned dru^ and sugar-plnsis/' answered Sir Roland. " If
people's fancies in religion are to be provided for. their fancies in
other matters may as well be coniidered also, aad there might be
a provision for all sorts of absnrditiea. No» the use of a chnrdi is
to instruct the people in the tnUh ; we must not pay to have such
fearful error as Fopery taught, thooeh we may &el so mueh for
tiie victims of delusion, as shall make us desirous of softening: to
tiieir natural feeHngs ail that may, and must seem hard, and diffi-
cult to be borne."
" I care not a rush for them or their fieelings," exclaimed Mr.
Boberts ; **I should jtist like to stringtbem ail i^ in a row, like
Ulysses's ill-behaved maids, wiHi a bunoh of Paseyttes at each end,
by way of tasslds."
"And a sprinkling of dissenters, too, Eoberts," suggested Mr.
Bcott; "fori know you equalhr hate them.*'
•* By all means, or a whole cluster of tliem, if you Eke it."
** What hangings, drownings, and burnings, you will have, my
Rood fellow, when ycrar sect of ' Nethinettes' comes in ; you, as
tiie mighty * Kil ipsissimum* ('Nothing' himself) installed in the
high chair of state f**
' When I am arrived at Hiat desirable deration, Scott, ypu may
be sure I will give you and your dissenters some test which yon
will not be able easily to swallow; something which will bring
you under all three forms of deatii."
" Are you particularly fond of tibe dissenters, Scott?" asked his
cousin.
** I infinitely prefer standing by my own cihurdi to being a dis-
senter," replied Mr. Scott ; *' but when I see the great good those
men have done in so many instances (CSiristian dissenters, I mwHi,
not those who deny the Atonement, of oourse,) and how mueh
God blesses their work, I am readyto say, as some good old divine
did, ' What is good enough for Christ is good enousrh for ma.'
Many people seem to overlook the fact that it was wnen in tiheir
unconverted state, that the apostles ' forbad' others doing good in
Christ's name ' because tiiey followed not after l^em ;' and tliey
seem also, to have forgotten mat our Lord answered, ' Forbid them
not ;' while Bt. Paul, when converted— even when speaking of HiOflB
OB B6f&Ainil ftBBTOV. 79
** Wen, Bir Eoland, at kast you irill let me eall Poffodi pnests
knocrites?" said Mr. Roberts.
' '^ Oh, in m&Tcj do, Aahton," exdauned Mr. Soott, 'with an im-
ploring gestiDre ; " he is under tiie inflnenee of that word to-day;
and we niall haye no peatoe till he has had his fimcy ent. I really
suspect, Roberts, that some one has been calling yon ' hypocrite/
yon seem so exceedingly anxious to past the title on to some
one else."
Mr. Roberts langhed, and Sit Roland answered, smiling,— ^
*' I am afraid I cannot nant yonr xeqnest, even here, Roberts :
dumgh I am quite eriered to refixse it, backed as it is, too, by saom
cogent reascmmgs &om Soott Bat I will tell yon why I cannot
blind even these men, indrridnally, witli the name you wi^ me
to give Hiem."
*^Particulariy not those who assist at Ihe Uqueftustion of the
blood of 6t. Jannariu8--or at the bursting out of the statue of some-
body or other at St. Peter's into a profuse perspiration— or who
sew frogs up in lawn, and put Hiem on the altar to leap about,
pre^ifing Ihey are 'Qie devils thgr have just cast out of a
shiiven penitent, I suppose ?" ai^ced Mr« Roberts triumphanHy.
" You have not, after aU, Mr. Roberts," observed Mr. Singleton^
" named the worst of all impostures, me one. most horrible, pro-
bably, that the world ever produced— namely^ the * Fire in the
Greek Oiuroh."'
** To say the truth,*' replied Mr. Roberts, " I never thoroughly
understood what that fire was, though I have often heard of it."
" It is this," replied Mr. Singleton. " The Church of the Holy
Sepulchre at Jerusalem is, you know, built not only over the sup-
posed site of our Lord*s tomt), but over the — also supposed — ^house
where the Holy Ghost fell on the disciples on the day of Pentecost.
The Greek church, with awM profanity, pretend that fresh showers
of the Holy Spirit descend on their priests every returning WMt
Sunday. To prove this, they concoct a species of gas, or a phos-
phoric flame of some land, which they cause to issue forth at the
appointed times, and, apparently, to fall on the assembled priests."
" Horrible V exdaimed Mr. Roberts. ** I did not thmk any
such frightful atrocities could ever have been conceived."
** It is most lamentable, indeed," redied Mr. Singleton, *' and
scarcely is it less so, that the patriarcn of this church should be
regardedbytheXracterianB with special reverence, as th^ 'imme-
diate successor of St. James, the nrst bishop of Jerusalem.' At
one time they endeavoured also to train a dove to descend ; but the
bird — ^more mithM to the nature God had given it than the men —
proved refractory, and would not descend properly, but flew hither
and thither at itsown pleasure, greatly discomntingthe holy fathers.
aad Anally obliging them to omit that scene in their profane farce.'
" Can that be true ?" asked Sir Roland.
" A perfect fact, I assure you," vepEed Mr. Singleton, " though
BO dreadful a one, that I do not wonder at your doubting it."
*• That is, indeed, worse than anything I nad ever dreamed at**
bbmL Mr. Roberts ; who seemed reaHy subdued by the frightfol
Tiew of human nature presented to him.
80 SIB BOLAND ASHION.
" You haye driyen me hard, certainly, Roberts," replied Sir
Boland, good-humoiiredly, " witli regrard to the Papists ; though I
wont yield yet. I am perfectly aware that in many cases the
priests must know for certain that what they say is not true ; and
also that they pretend to do what they know to be impostures ; but
we must remember that their church teaches them that such things
are calculated to do good, and to saye souls ; and if they once
began to doubt the lawfulness of the things she commands—that
doubt would be, in their eyes, one of the most deadly sins they
oould commit, — one not to be purged away without the seyerest
penances ; therefore, you see, the conscience itself becomes bound
By this terrible system to such a decfree, that, unless the all-
powerful Spirit of God work irresistibly, the wretched slaye of
superstition is left to perish in the chain that reduces the whole
soul to the most hopeless degradation. We haye howeyer taken
extreme cases, for all are not commanded to perform such reyolting
impostures ; but if I am right, you see that the indiyiduals them-
selyes may eyen then be wholly guiltless of the sin of hypocrisy,
eyen in practising^ these pious miuds ; though there is no douot
that many delij^ht la these things, and go far beyond what eyen
the church desires, for their own priyate gain and adyantage. But
it is the system, Eoberts, that is so awful ; and ia nothing does the
wily wisdom of its dreadful author show itself more decidedly
than in thus terrifying men from yenturing for one instant to use
their own reason. Against the system of ropery it is impossible
to feel too strongly."
"I see what you mean," said Mr. Roberts; "but you really
seem determinea to make yourself 'un ange de d^mence,' (an
anffel of clemency) for eyerything in the world, good, bad. and
inoOifferent. You will end in being, like John Huss, who, if you
remember, when a woman rushed forward with a lighted torch to
be the first to set fire to the pile that was to consume him, with
wonderful density of intellect, saw in the act only the simplicity of
her faith, and exclaimed; ' Sanota simplicitas ! (holy simplicity !)' "
"I don't know; I think I might naye had my doubts about
that; though I might haye been constrained to acknowledge her
burning zeal."
"You making a pun. Ashton!" exclaimed Mr. Soott; "'Proh
pudor ! (For shame) !* '
" Very dreadful, I acknowledge," said Sir Roland, smiling. " I
cry your mercy for the deed."
" But you really do appear to me," continued Mr. Roberts to Sip
Roland, " to waste your life in making excuses for people."
" Wasn't it Lord A who said of some friend, that he was a
sort of man who 'frittered away his money in paying tradesmen's
bills ?" asked Mr. Scott. " Your obseryation, Roberts, would serye
beautifully as a 'pendant* to that witticism."
"Ah, well, I dare say I haye you all against me ; so I shall
content myself with saymg, as regards all Papists and Puseyites,
—and dissenters too, to please you, Soott— what the Swiss re-
pabuoan said respecting all the kings of the earUi: ' Je youdzais
SZE BbLAlTD ASHT09. 81
bien, qn'ils enssent tmu ime ohatne an oon, et que moi, je la tuuse !*
and a pretty tight strain I should giye it, yon may be snre."
" My good fiiend," said Mr. Singleton, " it seemed mighty easy
to Jehu to say, 'Come, see my zeal for the Lord,' when that zeal
consisted in slaying the prophets of Baal ; but when caUed upon to
surrender one nei^dn, how far did it carry him? I think we
haye all great need of bearing that example in mind."
" I am afraid I shall come <|uite withm the sweep of Roberts's
Tirtuous indigrnation," said Sir Eohmd, "if I say that there are
really some things in which I think the Puseyites have done good.
I like, I confess, the restoration of the old church architecture, and
the beautifying of churches, where not overdone ; I highly approve
a greater degree of church discipline than has been attended to
for a length of time; wishing earnestly that it would extend itself
80 as to make the bishops wno are opposed to the doctrine con-
scientiously and effectually suppress its preaching and teaching
throughout their dioceses.; or, what would be still more con-
scientious and more effectual, exert themselves to get the errors
expunged from the services. Then, the attention to education is
most praiseworthv« though I oordiaUy dislike and disapprove the
exclusive principle on which it is carried on; which, nowever,
naturally grows out of the erroneous and unsoriptural ideas thev
have formed of the power and sanctity of their particular church.
" Well, if you take my advice," said Mr. Roberts, " you will
let them and all their practices alone. Depend upon it, if you
begin by admiring one tning in them now, and adopting it, you
win never end tillyou have gone to the ' ultima Thule' of all their
absurdities and abominations."
" I am too old, Roberts," replied Sir Roland, shaking his head-
while his young countenance fighted up with the most sparkling
smile — "to start at shadows. No," he continued more gravely, "I
am glad to accept what is good from anv hand ; for we are told to
'prove all thin^, and hold fast that which is good.' Ton shall
hear what a wiser man than I am says on this subject, for I have
here an extract from a work of that excellent man and pure
theolonan, Bickersteth,* who, in his 'Divine Wamin? to the
Church,' says, ' Let us beware of opposing anytiiing really good,
because it comes from those whose general principles we are con-
strained to condemn. Let us rather gladly promote that which is
really excellent, whoever suggests it. Thus we shall not only add
strength to our own testimony against their errors, but take away
the strength of error in conjunction with important truths, by
which alone the consciences of really good men are retained in its
defence. In short, let us realise the words of St. Paul, 'that ye
may approve things that are excellent, that ye may be sincere and
without offence till the day of Christ.' But see how well he guards
his liberality from the charge of carelessness by an after passage,
* There Is a slight literary anachronifltt here, as Mr. Bickersteth's work
WM only pnbliahed in 1848 ; and this conversation, ftom the constraction ot
the story, most necessarily have taken place firar or fire years before. Indeed*
it must be confessed, the whole tenonr of this oonyersation is rather antedated
82 SIB BOLiLVD i^BBXOX.*
whioh I faa^ also znoted down h^ asd a magmfioeat passage it
is ; wamijig us of the approach -of tbe troiLblona times, wfiich seem,
indeed, near at liaad. Qe says, ' Let us not mistajke haitiiig
between two opinioDs, ics a peaoe-making, peaoe-loving smrit, but
xemember that heayealy wisaem is first pive, than peaceable. Let
US never think to Diomote true peaoe hv clotning un&ithfolness to
God and His trnth with tiie names d judgment and diseretion.
Tbiae is no judgment or difiozetion equal to that of being en the
Lord's side^^iiid undcr^ioing snffeEinff for zi^hteousness' sake ; amd
eternity will make ihiB wax to aU creation. Let us then well
oount the cost of being a real dixistian, a]l the hazards and
dangers, all the shame and erael mocki^gs, all the sacrifices end
heavy losses to which we may be soon exposed. But then let us
look to that treasury we have in Chzist Jesus to meet all this oost^
and at that reoompeBse of reward and that Grown of life which He
will bestow.'"
'* It is a Tetv beauiifid passage, I will eon&B8»" observed Mr.
Boberts, " and 1 don't know that I should quite object to being like
the man who wrote it ; but it is Ihe process of becoming like such,
pecsons that is odious and insi^portahle. ' Figorez vons' the flap-
ping of wiDgs, the struggling of legs, the writhing of antennie,
before the butterfly can emerjge from its ehrysalis state! I fEinoy
we should all be tolerably resigned to being perf ect» if perfectka
eoold be achieved as easdy as renown was by thtU man, who said
* that he got up one macning and found himself famous !' But the
transitiQn state— that mnst be hideous ! TVhan considerate, well-
intentioned friends (like the present company) recommend perfec-
tion to me, it is extraordinary what an amiable, engaoing fit of
timidity comes over me. I retieat :a step, and* oourteously waving
my hand, beg my friends to go first"
^*And with true Chestetfieldian noliteness, they have, I think,
Boberts, obeyed the invxtetion,^' saio. Mr. Scotb, wim an ardi smile.
Mr. Boberte laughed away a rking .flush, and replied-;-" That is
no disgrace, you mow, Scott, when one has voluntarily yielded the
'pas;' and remember, that though Lord Chesterfield got into the
oaniage first, his msj'esty still remained king."
" I wish your nugesty would make me a gracious donation of
some of your royal znodesty," said Mr. Scott.
"Perfectly welcome to the whole of it, my dear fellow! for I
never make the slightest use of it myself.
" Eeally, Boberte,*' renlied the other, "I do wish you were a
good man, for I must conisss, you have a vast deal to say for your-
s^, and rn^ht be of great use in a jjfood cause."
"I am veiy well satisfied," replied Mr. Boberte; "'aooordez
md k t^te, et pour le coiur, je vous rabandonnol' But now I
reallyinu8tbe<ttr."
"What I without a lingering Parthian shot at the Puseyites !"
"Yes, * j'ai vid§ men carquois,* — (I have emptied my quiver), and
have only to entseat, that if Sir Boland geto installed in state
amongst them, he will insure me a merciM death at their handa
when they begin their ' auto-da-fe.' Depend upon it, when one d!
the first half-hatehed chirps out of the scaioely chipped ei(g«ahfill»
* 801 JUXLhMD ASEZGOr. aS
tbat they * aprproye of penances for difPerenoeB of ojonioa,' they
wHl not be &IUgiowa and fdll-fledged, without maldn^ those
penances pretty seyere. That is a prospect which it is partunilaily
disafipreeaole to me to contemplate ; for though I may not he all Mr.
Singleton would wish me to be (uerhaps it would be better if I
were), yet I hope I idiould be ready at any time to go to tine stake
rather than subscribe to what I felt was fidse. These Puseyite
opinions suit * la jeune eglise/ HuHigh Hie present bencih of bidk>pB is
not throughout affected by them; but such will parobaUy not be
the ease with the next» ajao— remember my words, and see if tiiey
come not true :— if oyer these men get the staff in their own hands^
they will make use of that ' argumentum baeiilinum' in a way
dimcult to be borne; and if sona>e strong measure be not taken to
keep them out of the Church of England now^ depend upon it
that day will soon amye. I wazn your-and when you are rasart-
ins unaer tiieir blows, remember me! There, SeotLjI haye be^a.
able, after all, to piedueeoae arrow more ; sjid haw^r * drawn it
to the head,' I take my leaye. " And shaking hands wxth his two
£dend8, andbowiug wiith great reject to Mr. Bingletan, he left tiia
room*
"You don't tak» the right way with that y(»ng man, Soott,"
said Mr. g^uppletcm, as se<m as Mr. Boberts was gone ; " yon should
not talk so lightly to him."
" There ! I was sure you would begin a 'tirade' against me the
moment he elesed the door ; I was yery near going away with him
to ayoid being torn to pieces, £ir I know Ashtoii also is thiwitiTig
&r the onsiaught."
*' No, no, one at atimo," said Sir Boland. ** I leaye youin yery ex*
cellent hands, so good-bye." And nodding kindly, he left the room.
" I wish he had stayed," said Mr. Soott, with somewhat of an
embarrasied lan^, ** for I had mooh rather haye had a ffeneral
' mile' than haye to sit down for your solemn single-aanded
reproof. Singleton^ and all yomr detestably-unanswerable argu-
Dsnts."
" I wiH def» whati haye to say tiien, if yon like it ; or suppress
it altogether, if you bad rather not hear it.'
*' Ko, no-^ on." And he took np a book and busiedhimself in
taming oyer its kayes.
*' I am not muLog to bo yesy serreare, WillV," said Mr. Singleton,
smiliDg, *' so cum't put on that angry look.
*' I am not aafry," said Mr. Swtt, raising his glowing counte-
nance to his cousin, with a look of so much good feeling and affec-
tion, that the latter, looking at hiTn for a moment with an expres-
sion of great love, said, "I liko to haye a fault to find with you
even now and then, Scott, it brings out such a bright side of your
eharacster ; there are few who oon bear as youean to haye it hinted
that tliey are not * quite perfection.' Howeyer. I locgot, I was not
gf»ng to praise— *but to blame you— wasn't it ^
" 1 know pretty well what you would say," obseryed Mr. Soott;
" you would tell me that I am wrong, both in langhJTig at Boberts,
81M in laughing witib. him."
a 2
84 Sm BOLAin) ISHTOV.
••Quite right Goon."
** No, no, I am not going to mix my own dranght, and take it
too; thatismorethancanDe expected of mortal man! You must
prepare the ingredients for the oup; and mind you make them
very palatable if you mean me to swallow them."
" I object to your laughing at Roberts, then, because ridicule
opens no man's neart; it is the utmost that the best temper can
do just to bear it; no one can like it, or at the moment feel com-
placent towards the person who uses it. It is not a Christian
weapoD, and should be put out of our armoury. Ridicule in writings
may occasionally do good; as people reading what is said quietly
to themselves, may perhaps, be led to see the folly of what they
have professed or done, more by this means than by solid ar^.
ment, and may secretly take their own measures for alteration,
without their pride being hurt by having confessions to make, or
by being farfea to say what has caused the change. But in con-
Tersation. it should invariably be avoided, for the reasons I have
mentionea. To such as you and I, who have both of us such an
awful eye for the absurd in life, it is a great temptation; and
hundreds of times have I given way to it, and hated myself the
next moment. But of late years I have kept such a tight hand over
myself in this respect^-especially where anything of religion is
ooncemed-~that my mind, ceasing to cater for its amusement in
that way, really does not perceive the absurdity of many things
that would have convulsed it in former days. I can now more
sympathize with Sir Roland, who, I can see, feels diBtressed if any
one makes himself ridiculous. How manv times I observed him
to-day draw off attention from Roberts, when he saw him embar-
rassed. You have no jealousy in you, Scott, so I do not fear
praiBiug your Mend beiore you."
" It IS impossible to praise him enough," said Mr. Scott, with
great energy ; " you don't know what that man is, nor half the
sacrifices he has just made to be of use to Anstrutiier, idiose con-
duct to him used to be unsufferable, poor fellow !"
'* That he is your chosen friend is enough to prepossess me in his
&vour," said Mr. Singleton; " but I certainly like most extremely
what I have seen of him. But with regard to laughing with that
young fellow, I think if an3rthing it is worse than laughmg at him,
when you reflect that by joining him, you encourage him to speak
lightly of serious matters. Good nonsense is a very good uiing
sometimes, as long as it is an innocent exercise of wit» and fun,
and cleverness; but as soon as it verges towards that
< Mirth nnblest,
Drowning GK)d*B miuio in the breast,'
which is so much condemned both by Scripture and good feeling, it
ceases to be * good' — and becomes * bad ' nonsense. * Wisdom should
ever be the under-current of your wit.* That young man, Roberts,
has a very quick, clever, discerning mind, with a wonderfully
good judgment, and great penetration; and I do not think there
was a single view of the present feaml state of the church, in
81B BOLAim ASHTOK. 85
which I did not folly and entirely go with him; hut his tone of
feelinff I could not approve. He seems to have been brought up
entirely in, and for the world, and much excuse is^ therefore to be
made for him; and we who think — ^who know— that we possess a
better knowledge than what this world can teach, should never let
him talk slightingly of those things whose inestimable value
we are acquainted with. I am convinced he might be easily
diecked, for though conceited and presumptuous, he is not har-
dened ; and if all the true Christians with whom he converses were
faithful, WilljT) and consistent, God might give a great blessing to
them and to nun. Now put on your hat, and come and show me
about your fine city here. '
CHAPTER Xn.
** I was not erer thu, nor prayed that Thoa shonldst lead me on ;
I loYed to choose, and see my path, but now — ^lead Thou me on I
I loYed the garish day, and spite of fears
Fride ruled my will,— remember not past years I
« • « • «
Those angel &ces smile
Which I have lored long since, and lost awhile !"
At twelve o'dock on the following day, Mr. Singleton, as had
been agreed, went to Lord N 's house and walked straight up
to Mr. Anstruther's room, where he found all prepared for the
Sacrament, and the invalid alone, as he had requested. The ex-
citement of his feelings had lent an unusual glow to Mr. Anstruther's
countenance; and a deep flush had settled in one bright crimson
spot — the hectic of consumption — on his cheek. His large dark
eyes shone with a force of expression which health seldom pre-
sents ; yet was there nothing of the painfid restlessness and
anxiety which had formerly so strongly characterized them, but
rather an earnest, settled look of exalted peace. The dignity of
an adopted child of God had greatly delivered him from the fear of
man, and had overcome the diffidence and embarrassment which he
would otherwise have felt in seeing those who had formerly known.
him under such verv different circumstances. He had, with a noble
frankness, asked jforgiveness of Mr. Scott for the contemptuous
rudeness of his former manner and conduct; yet in doing so, no
falise shame had caused his eye to shrink from that of the other,
who met him with the utmost kindness, and showed an interest
and regard that was most touching to him. With equal openness,
when Mr. Singleton entered the room, he held out his hand to him»
and thanked him for coming so readily to a stranger.
" You must not consider yourself a stranger, Mr. Anstruther,'*
said the other. *' None who are lookia^ to- Christ for salvation
can be strangers to those who are enjoymg the same inestimable
liope. You are truly resting on Him, are you not ?"
•* Most truly."
** * The Holy Spirit testifying with your spirit that you are one
ofthesonsoftjo^r
86 flIB BOXJLIfD AfiSTOir.
Mr. Ansfmther looked np'vrith a ooTmtenanoe bo 'beaming "wiilt
Hie bright hope that "was within him, tiiat before he could answer,
if r. Singleton stopped him, saying, ** I want no words — save jour
poor loners — a higner language nas told me all ; the testimony or tiie
Spirit shines too clearly mrongh those spealdng eyes for me to need
more. Yon are a luq)py man— «o sfiar tiie possesfdon of your
inheritance !**
" I am indeed hap^," replied Mir. AnBtmther; " not even the
remembrance of my sms can distnrb me now; for when I begin to
think of them, the sense of God's forgiving mercy rashes in, and
sweeps all before it."
" Ay," returned Mr. Singleton ; " a nauBeotm pill so wrapped in
sweets that its bitterness is lost.**
Mr. Anstruther smiled at the quaint comparison, and said, " it
was indeed true, for all hittemess was lost in the sweetness of
God's loye."
** And now, my good Mend,**^ said Ifcr. fiSngleton, ** you shall talk
no more. My mind is satisfied about you, and I willgiadly ad-
minister the Sacrament to you, in remembrance of Him, ^who
has indeed redeemed you to Himself by His precious blood-
shedding.' "
Then ringing the bell, he desired Mr. Anstruther's servant to
request Sir Eokad and Mr. Seott to ooniie up-stairs. The moment
they approached the table, he commenced the serviee, which the
peculiar circumstances under whieh it was given* tendered un*
usually solemn. Mr. Anstruther was ezoeesively affected, and
leant his head on the table the whole time, for he was too ireak to
sit up. When it was concluded, however, he held out his hand to
Mr. Singleton, and thanked him with a countenance which proved
that the *' peaoe of God," which had be^i so sinoerely prayed for,
had entered indeed into his soul; and that "the blessing of the
Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," rested abundantly
upon him.
In after times often did Sir Roland recal that look, and never
without a thrill of thankful joy passing through his breast. J
" Are you tired, Anstruther?" he said, after the others had left ,
the room ;*' or shall I stay with you a little ^'
" Stay, by all meaiu ; for evai if I oannoi taik much, I ddigkt I
in seeii^ you there." I
** If I tire you, you must tell me; but I had something to say to '
you. A little while a^o you asked me how» in your short remaining
timie, it would be possible for you to prove the reality of your con-
version. Tou have evidenoea it by the oomplete change in your
whole self; or rather, the Spirit has shown forth its power and
work in you in a manner visible to all who see you. But there is
yet one exertion with which I think God would be well leased if
you felt equal to it."
" I shall be only too thankful to be eaabkd to show forth Hu
glory in any way.*'
" It is to speak to some of the young and thouffhtless creatures
around you, and try to arouse them to a sense of ^eir danger, and
^^ their ingratitude to God. I have myself endeavoured to say a
HXB BXXLijny AfiHixnr. 87
word io ^3Bm fhnn. time to time,, bnt I seldom Bee them ; and
besides^ eyerythiiig ham, mft vna6B,.joji know; I^ on * ex-porte'
BtttemfiDt."
" It is from. me» certoiiily, that it skonld oome ; for I have heea
too lon^ a Btrengtheiier of Satan's hands as ra^eots them, by my
total disregard of religion, and by the contempt I have so often
tfazown upon it. And they conld not think tiiat I had any sinister
motire in contradidancr my fonner self^ and spMLking in fayonr o£
Him whose servioa I ODee* m> wholly cast oal Ask Seymonr to
come to me, wiU yon, when he- is at leisure. I may not be able to
i^ak mnoh to all, tbongk I shoald like tatalce leave of them \ but
to him I conld speak bestr— he is of a soberer, kindlier nature l^n
the rest, and he might not» perhani^ mind rspoatin^ to them an v
message I might give hun. Ah! how I now regret tbie time whicli
is past» lost mr ever! What a blessiB^ I might hare been to those
yonng things, so fiill of Hfs and spirits, but giving all their fresh
and bright affeotiona to thiswerldl Instead of which I have been
a cnrae — a blighting, feaHal cnrBe to them; teaching them to
deepiM their God, and trample upon His laws. ^ Send the poo« boy
to me nkm; will yon^ Ashton, if von can find'him. Time presses ;
and my proud heart might shrink from the task if I thonght long
abont it. It is not pleaong^ta flesh and hkwd to say, * I have
been, wrong ;' bnt Ood will not sn&r me to £uL I trust, in this
duty ; and joyful indeed should I be, if He woold bless my words
to any -^o hear themi."
Sir Bolaod went uLseaor^ of Mr.- Sevmonr, who was one of Lord
H ^'s *attachee,' and who lived in nis house; and having found
him, begged him to go np to Mr. Anstmther.
When ite entered hia apartment the latter received him most
kindly, saying, he wished much to see him, and take leave of him.
The yonng man was mwoh afl^ted at this kindness of manner in
one, of whicmi, in former days, he had always stood so much in awe ;
and whose visibly dying stote made his words fall solemnly on his
ear. Mr. Anstmther did not spare himself, but lamented the
lebeUion of his former life agaizutihe great Being who had created
and redeemed him, and entreated Mb yooi^ friend to give his
heart's best affections and earliest love to his Father and his
God.
He subsequently, in a similar manne^ ixxk, leave of all his
yonng associates, most of whom seeoied, for the time at least, to
be much afi&cted by his repiesentatioiui.
Each day now brought a change to the dying man« who suffered
agonisingly from weaknesa and difScuIty in breathing; but
seldom did an impatient sound pass his Hps ; or if one did occa-
sionally esoane, the eye*, quickly turned towards heaTen, showed
that he supplioated pacdon, and sought the blessing of the Holy
Spirit, that '^patience" might have 'Hier perCsot work.*'
''Yon afe a stranrefbilow, Boland,'' waSd Loed N ^ when lie
had returned from hu short exoursioa with Mr. Boberts; ''alittie
while ago you could not bear Oeerge Anstnitiier, and now I have
aakfid nor yon c^?er so many times sinoe I oame home, and am
88 SIB BOLAin> ASHIOir.
always told you are ' in Mr. Anstrather's room/ However, it is
yery kind of ^on, l^onffh I am a&aid it is an irksome confinement.'*
'* Far from it ; I prefer being with him to being elsewhere just
now. His mind is much changed, poor fellow, of late."
" Oh, what ! * the sinner was sick, the sinner a saint would he/
I suppose."
" No," said Sir Boland, pained at the way in which his uncle
spoke, " I am convinced that it is no feeling of that kind with
ijistruther. I believe him truly changed; and I rejoice the more
because his dajs are well-nigh spent, I fear."
" Do you think him in immediate danger?" asked Lord N ,
much alarmed.
'* I do ; I think a few weeks, or even days, may see it all at an end.'*
** I had no idea," said Lord N , " that he was so ill. I have
not seen him lately ; and during my absence I fear he must have
f)t much worse. I am sorry I spoke so heedlessly, poor fellow, for
am truly ^eved for him, and am shocked at what you tell me ;
I did not tmnk his danger was nearly so preat."
"This last week has been a very trying one to him in everr
way," repUed Sir Roland; "but his mind is now at peace; though,
his health sinks fast."
** My dear Eoland, you are young, and very enthusiastic (in.
which your Mend Scott, by the bye, helps you not a little ;) and I
am sure I do not wish to deprive you of any encouragement you
may find in your laudable exertions ; but do let me warn you not
to imagine that real changes take place in people's character in
this sudden and wonderful way, for the days of miracles are past.
€K> on in your own way, by all means, for you have been a good
boy from your birth, and no doubt you will go to heaven and have
your reward. But don't expect an old man uke me to believe that,
just because a body gets iU, and is forced to lie in bed, that there-
fore he becomes a saint all of a sudden. I dare say he gets
frightened, just as a naughty boy does at the sight of the rod, and
exclaims he will be good ; but when you have lived in the world as
long as I have, you will find that your virtuous bed-ridden folks
turn out as great rogues as others, when they can walk alone
again."
" It is so, often, I know," replied Sir Roland ; "but cases do,
imdoubtedly, sometimes occur, in which the Spirit of GK>d touches
the heart; even in the closing hours of life ; and as soon as they are
led by Him to see their own sinfulness, and to accept of Christ's
j&ee salvation, they must, according to God's promise, become His
children. And tms real change it is which nas, I truly believe,
taken place in poor Anstruther."
" Of course,' replied Lord N , " a man at such a time, when
he thinks he has nothin/; to do but to die, is vastly glad to be told
he shall go to heaven without any merit or trouble of his own ; * c'est
tout simple,' and very pleasant hearing."
** But. my dear sir, it really is not so simple — so much 'of course'
as you think. Many, even at that hour, cling to ideas of their own
liflrhteousness— thanking God they have always been upright and
religious, or always done their best, &c.— the enemy soothing them
SIR BOLAin> A8EI0K. 89
to the last Teith hollow hopes built on a wrong: fotmdation ; while
others sometimes, not only yirtually, but actually — ^fearfully deny
the name and existence of Christ the Lord."
" Well, my dear nephew, if they do so, it is very sad ; for after
all, I don't think we nave much to boast of, any of us. And in
truth, I do the poor fellow up-stairs a ereat injustice by classing:
him with notorious sinners ; for though ne has neyer been a reli-
gious man certainly, jet he has been under my roof now nearly six
years, and I don't in my conscience think that even your life,
Koland, has been a purer one than his; nor one more free m>m vice
of eyer^ kind. And yet, I don't know how it was, but he was
never hked ; the vicious were afraid of him, I believe — and the vir-
tuous too, I fancy, for that matter — ^for he was so mighty haughty and
disdainfid, and came into the room with his chin in tne air, looking
so gentlemanlike and disagreeable, that, truth to say, I would fain
manv a time have conveyed my own person out of the way if I
€oula have done so unobserved : but that, of course, ' sub sigUlo
confessional!,' not to be breathed to ears pro&ne."
" It is that unamiable spirit which he now so deeply regrets,"
said Sir Koland : " proceedmg as it did, from enmity of the heart
to God. But I always had a hoi>e that the time would come in which
the better part of nis disposition might be brought out, and his
heart reconciled to God."
"And why where you to have Hiat hope about him particularly ?
or do vou charitably feel the same for everybody— even for your old
reprooate xmcle ?"
Sir Koland smiled, and answered, " I cannot, I am sorry to say,
feel that hope for every one, however much I might wish it ; but
he had a mother once " ,
" Well, and everybody * had a mother once,' " said Lord N ,
interrupting Sir Koland quickly, whilst his bright grey eye
twinkled with a merriment which even the gravest subjects could
scarcely ever subdue ; *\jou need draw no very exclusive ground of
hope for him on that account, methiuks."
^* My dear uncle," replied Sir Koland, laughing, ** I think I must
really give up tallong to you on these subjects at all. You are one of
those who would make * the scaffold re-echo with the joke,' and would
delight in causing even ' death's ribs to shake with laughter,' I
believe, if you could. I know you do not mind what I say, but in
truth," he added, with a sadder expression, " I do so much feel
for poor Anstruther — so very much ! and am so filled with grati-
tude to God on his account, that though I could not help laughing
at your interruption, yet it grieves and disquiets me to have the
subject treated so lightly."
* Well, well ! but I really am very sorry for the poor fellow, and
will go and see him in a few minutes, though I shall not know what
to say to him. We were never on a very familiar footing — speaking
tonus, but no more — ^business ended, so ended our conversations
generally. But still to know that one who has been so long with
me, and so young, too," he added, feelingly, " is sinking so rapidly
into the grave, is a very appalling— a very painful thing But what
were you going to say just now i
90 m
"Oh! Iwae oidTpnagiovsy^bBtlaBiaBi&M^
yna a great Mend of my TooiAnst's, — ^was a truly excellent -vroman,
and taught Hm in early youth, much that was{:eod, and Ilmew that
he retained for her f eehnga of the deepest love ; and it was that
whioh alwavs made me heme for kim; m I trasted that what she
bad teugrht nim--what sheliad sowed with, I fear, many tears (for
hers was a sad fate) might, at length, be reaped with ahmkLant
joy ; GtMi's promises are so fall to futhfdl parents."
" My dear Roland, I am sure yovir parents' iaithfcdness i& abun-
dantly repaid in yon," said Lord N *, with a glistening eye :
" for vou are the l>B8t--the very best cfeotore I ever met wim ; and
thougn I do sometimes abuse yma yagaries, yet, when I come to
hear you fairly out, I find you as sober and steady as a rook ; and
no wonder, for all yon say is ' founded on a Bock.' Th^e, you
see, I know a little mt of Seziptnre as well as yon ; though I dare
say, you thought I did not know Aanm from Aohilles. You good
rx>ple always fancy no one knows anything but yourselres ; though
must confess, there are a menstrous number of dnn^ which, if you
do understand, / oertaisly do not^ They dos't soit a stupid old
fellow like me."
'' What things do yna mean, my dear air {^^
** Oh, many things I A migh^ deal that yon say is ntteri^r in-
comprehensible to me. There are yonr conver8ion$ and conviettonSf
and C(m-~all sort of things, which to my mind, end in a eomplete
eon-Jusion, They pa2zle my old brain as much as all your new-
fangled names for old-fashioned flowers, which are enough to dis-
tract any man. If one goes nowadays to a gardener's and asks for
— let me see — a troposoium, for instanccL ezpeotins: to get some-
thing very fine and new, he gives you nothing but uie old nastor-
tium which your grandmother pickled the seeds of a century ago ;
and so on with all the rest. And I dare say, whesk I come to cBs-
coyer the meaning of your fine high-soundmg terms, I shall find
them only to be some beautifnl paraphrastic mode of conveying
some plain, sensible old distich, such as, — 'Speak when yon're
spoken to ; do as you'rs bid.' It is dreadful to hve in such an age
as this ! One can't open one's mouth, if it be but to say, * What
a fine day l' but out comes some moral aphorism, or knock-me-
down piece of virtue, which one can't recover £p(»n for the next
half-hour. And the moment one's back is turned one is sure of
being held up as a ' monmful example ! ' It is the case with the
whole of you ! You remind me of Ihe French caricature where the old
school-dame has been reading a fairy tale to her children, which
ends with stating, ' Ihat wh^i the princess was cured of all her
faults, she became very beautiful and rich, and married a sweet
young prince ; ' from whence she drew this apt deduction--with
skinny finger lifted high : ' Oeci vons montre mes chers enfans,
S'il mut toujonrs manner dupain avec son firicot, ne jamais mettre
doigts k la bouche/ &o. 29ow is not that just the way with yon
all- — sp oiling our xdeasant fables with your dull morals ?'
Which character of myself ami to walk away with?" askedSir
Koland^ good-humouredly. "Just now I was * the best creature
vou ever saw/ now I am a sanctified bore and a driveUer ! The
4aS, B<».A]n> AflSTOir. 91
■rory next dyH ildng yon say, I ahsiSL be off ^&?eetiy, for fear of a
reversal of tiie seat^ioe."
'^ Tfaea I ^all go on abu^B^ yoa on porpose to keeo roa bere,"
said Lord If ; ** to I gr^uy like to see tbe sort of fights tbat
eo on in your mind when I traduce yo« or your people—wrath and
Kiry fltragglBigr wtili good-nature and palienee, but BOTer qmte
eettuif tiie bet^. Yen are thebnll, and I the matadore. Yon
let me fling at you what darts I will, and Nourish mj taunting
flags in ye«r eyes ; bi^ though I hawe at fames seen the front of the
'noble beart' flodi «p, showing there was a oommotion within,
yet I have neyer succeeded in getting a single roar or toss out of
himyet-"
^'Oiat win do TBfy vnJlf** vs&SL 8i]r Bolfl&d; "and now I am
oflr."
*' Ko, no, fAaj yon bere, I have a yasl deal more abnae in store
far you. Bat first, I really have a faney for knowing what you do
mtenn when you talk of pec^e *bdmg eonreited/ or 'haying con*
▼ictaons,' auid sneh like terms. It reminds mjc of Lord s boy.
Did you met hear that st<*y ^ A rdlgions tutor crept in unawares
at (me. time into that infldel house, aandprodueed some good effect on
one of the boys^ wMdi one of the othars, observing, nushed into his
motiier's room, ezelaiming, 'Do you know, mamma, brother has
ff^e religion! ' as if it weie the measles or scarlet fever ! And nowv
pray teU me iHkat you do mean by those £ne terms of yours ?"
** I ijwll aoflwer you in better words than: my own. * The con-
science becomes duquieted, and this is eotwietum ; the heart and
its alfeetions are given back to God, and this ia conversion* "
" And a mighty long journey it must be fdr the hearts of some
men to get ba* to fiod," observed Lord N . " Yes, that is
mdeed cont^emofi, for our affections are generally running in a far
di^r^it channel from t^iat ! And of course, you will teu me too,
ftat it is only by the power of God that we can be so changed— sa
converted. I beUeve you— I folly believe you, Roland ; for I have
been trying at it, in my poor way, for Has half century, and have
never yet got one inch nearer tx> neaven, aor been able to tnuck a
path in my heart that did not lead away from God.'*
*• The Almighty promises not only to help us in I3ie work," re»
rfied ^r Eoland, '^bnt to do it for us— in us, if we supplicate BSm
for fib powerful blessing. But one part of the explanation I
quoted, you seem, my dearest uncle, to luve known by experience.**
*'Ah! you mean ^oontictionj* " said Lord N ; *M)ut I dim
notgoin^ to make my confessions to you, my young master, so
do not think you asre going to have the ttTumx)h and satisfaction
of putting me into the right way as you think it. I do not
mean to be behoiden to such a w ill o the Wisp as you. But
now," and he sigrhed heavily, " I will go up to ^oor Anstruther,
and you — ^for it is about your hour — are going to nde — always with
Scott, I suppose. You saeot him^ I smagine, by way of contrast
in appearance }"
"I do not think Scott at all ill-looking,*' said 6ir Boland.
" Andhow do you know tiiat it was not you that I meant as the ill-
k»kingoae?" exolaimed Lord N — -. '^^ Well, if ever I heard a
92 Sm BOLAIO) ASHTOK.
ftpeeoh of more consimunate vaiiity and oonoeit ! And so you are
' the glass of fashion and the mould of form, the ohserved of all
observers/ are you ? You are ' the faultless monster that the
world ne'er saw ! Upon my word, if that is not the quintessence
of oozcombical impertinence !"
Sir Roland coloured ezoessiyely at the unintentional vanity of
the speech he had made ; but laughing at his uncle's vehement
philippic, he said, —
" lam bound, you know, my dear sir, to believe all you say ; and
how often have you told me that I was a vastly good-lookin^r
feUowl"
" A sad mistake, indeed," said Lord N 1 shaking his head :
" and the worst is, that tlie good lady's recipe for some hideons
but estimable man — of turning him inside out— would not benefit
society much in your case ; for with you the one is as bad as the
other. But that fellow Scott !— -he goes about all day, I am told,
poking his nose into prisons, and hospitals, and other pestiferous
places ; motmtinff garrets, diving iato cellars, threading labyrinths
of filth-besmeared, vice-begrimed alleys ! Well, ' tot homines quot
sententisd'— (There are as many opinions as tiiere are men). I
rather wonder, however, where he gets all the money he spends ;
for I am told he gives away enough to bribe the priests of Jugger-
naut to surrender the 'mountain of light.' I rather suspect fnat
he has a mighty long arm, ' ce monsieur li,' and that whilst he is
perambulatmg about in all directions, he keeps his hand in some-
Dodj's pocket, not a hundred miles from this room."
Sir Koland was confused for a moment ; but then with uprigLt
simplicity answered —
^ "Scott has a good fortune, but not one equal to the largeness of
his heart. It can be nothing, you know, my dear uncle, to me to
give away money for which I have reaUy no other use. The difS.-
culty of true diarity is the personal labour required, and that
Scott most freely ana devotedly bestows."
" Whilst you are pleasing yourself to your heart's content in the
manner most particularlv delightful to :srou, in reading crooked
hearts, writing business-letters, and castin g u p the sum-total of
human vice — and of your uncle's wishes !— -Well, God forbid that
I should seek to bring you down from your 'good eminence/
to the level of tiie ^mes—- ay, and I fear,' he added with an in-
voluntary sigh, " often worse than trifies of this world. Go on —
go on—* dans un si beau diemin, il ne faut pas s'arrSter/ (In so
Beautifol apath one must not stop ;) thoueh 1 suppose in time, you
will rival Abdol Motalleb, and spread food on the tops of the
mountains for birds and beasts ! And noddinff kindly to his
n^hew, he left the room to pay his dreaded visit to Mr. Anstruther.
CHAPTER XIU.
What Lord N had said of himself was perfectiy true. He
' had been for years " feeling after God in the dark /' and virtuous
sentiments, and holy truths, liad always found something of an echo
SIS BOLAITB ASHTOK. 98
in his breast. He had been in the world all his life— thrown, from a
boy, into scenes the most bewilderins: to the heart, the most searing
to tlie conscience ; yet throughout all, he had maintained a fair cha-
racter, and had been beloved and r espected by all his associates. But
good and evil were so mixed together in his mind, and his judgment
was so warped by supposed necessities of action, that though truth
was ever making some feeble efforts to be heard, yet he reaUy
knew not in what direction it pointed, nor what it woidd have him
do. His mind was not sufficiently enliehtened to make biin see
that he could do nothing of himself, and therefore he had neyer
humbly applied to God for His effectual teaching. He had more-
oyer, a great deal of heart-pride to contend with ; not the pride
which feels itself superior to others, nor the pride of nmk, and
wealth, and power— for no one was more affable and unassuming
than he was— but it was that pride which makes it difficult to
confess that anything is wrong, or that any help is required. He
delighted in Sir Roland— was vain of him Deyond measure as his
nephew— drank up his praises as if they had been nectar, and
doubled them by encomiums of his own. Bnt though he felt his
vast superiority to most others, he did not choose to show that
he thought him superior to himself. He endeavoured by all sorts
of stratagems, jesting questions, and pretended misconstructions^
to draw out his principles and sentiments, — ^reaUy anxious to learn
and profit by them, but most extremely imwilling that his aim
should be observed ; and though, at times perhaps, he would un»
guardedly make confession of his own weakness and inability,
yet the next moment he would pass it off as a joke, and pretena
to treat the whole matter with contempt. But in his heart he
treasured up all he heard ; and the mists of error began by de»
^rees to rou off from his mind. He was exceedingly respected
m the hi^h situation which he occupied ; and, though particularly
&miliar in his manner to aU ranks and all a^es, vet he had some-
thing about him which kept off all familiarity troin others ; and
it was often observed, that though he passed his jests freely on
all, from the prince to the peasant,— yet that nor king, nor em-
peror, was ever known to jest with him. He was looked up to by
all with whom he had to do, for he was keen, shrewd, and ob-
servant ; and though too often led into the crooked paths thought
necessary to success in his plans, yet his word once pledged, was
known to be inviolable.
His natural feelings were most kindlv ; but long contact with
the most worldly portion of the world nad taken away much of
their strength ; and continued absence from his family had
weakened to a ^reat degree all habits of affection. Strone emo-
lions were to him so unusual and so unpleasant, that he put
them aside as much as possible ; and never, if it could be avoided,
mixed himself up with scenes of sorrow or distress. Not that he
was incapable of sjrmpathy, but that he was selfishly imwill-
ing to have his peace and comfort disturbed by the real com-
passion and reeret he was certain to feel. Nothing, therefore,
would have induced him to have gone to Mr. Anstruther in his
dying statoi bnt the fear of seeming unkind and negleotfal ; and
.04 BBUMOABD iMsnar*
his reLuctanoe to do^M <vnu9 ao gzeat^liLe dxead of what ke had to
encotmter was so strox]|^ — ^thaJt even after he had mounted the
staircase, it was long oefore he conld sanuaon up courage to
enter the chamber. ]^eyer had death yisited his own noose
before ; and he felt a nervous a^^prehensian of the whole thing
that was most distressing:, and which might perha|n surprise those
^ho have not observed how very mnoh quiet habits of self-indul-
irence enervate the mind of man, and maJce it a fseble and a timcaroug
thing.
Long did he pause at the ante-room dooi^— then take a few tnms
on the stone landing-plaoe ; then, with a desperate effort pat his
hand on the lock— then withdraw it, and again pace up and down —
till at last he had worked himself up to som a state of excite-
ment and agitation, that in aH probability he would have entirdy
given up the effort, for that time at least, and have gone down-
stairs again— had not Mr. Anstruther's servant, suddenly opening
the ante-room door, just as he was about to turn from it tor the
last time, obliged him to summon up courage, and, for very shame's
sake, to ask the man if his master could see him ; and receiving
an answer in the affirmative, he reluctantly entered the chamber
of death.
As soon as he had closed the door, however, his nervous tremouis
entirely ceased— overcome by feelings of real pMsin and diskess.
Mr. Anstruther lay there, supported oy pillows, in his bed— lor he
could no longer bear the j&itigue of being moved to the sofii ; his
eyes were closed— for he was at that moment particularly exhausted,
*-and his countenance was so utterly colourless, that at the first
moment Lord N thought he was gone. The £unt exolamatioii
of horror which escai)ed huo, however, roused Mr. Anstruther from
his torpor; and opening his languid eyes he looked towards the
door to see who entered. On perceivixig it was Lord N •, the
colour rose in his cheek, and his eyes became animated with aa
unusually full and strong expression. He had not seen him before
since the great change in hn views and feeling had taken plaoe ;
and a crowd of confused emotioDs rushed over his mind. Be made
an effort to raise himself^ but oould not do it.
" My dear Anstruther," said Losd ^ , advancing to Ihe bed-
aide and taking his hand, "my dear fellow!"- He oould say no
more, for a choking pain rose in his throat.
"I am quite easy now," said Mr. Anstruther, retoming the
kindly pressure of Lord 17 'b hand ; "only weak ; but my cough
is better, and that is a great mercy; it used to tear me to pieces ;
but it seldom troubles me now* My dear lord," he oontin«ed«
looking gratefcdly up at Loid N -u a^teted countenance, " I
doubt not ^ou are shocked to see this rapid change ; but I am not
dismayed— it must soon end, and then all pain and trouble will
cease.
" There may yet be hope," saad Lord 17 ^ after a time ;
** your vouth— your reffular way <tf life, are much in your favour."
Mr. Anstruther shooK his head, while a quiet smile rested for a
moment on his lips.
"JSTo," he said; "there i« no hope of li£s; but, thank fiod, the
IMamms of dealk is past My lord, I hflve'WJ«hed nmcii to see
you, that I mii^t eaqnress my deep sense of your oontuiiied kind*
ness to me. !&t ibr thatr— I might hxre been a homeless outcast."
He paused, while Ms kbomiB^ ^leath betrayed his weakness and
bis agitation. ** I wished aJso,'^ he continaied, after a few minutes,
"to express my de^ i»gze<r~for the many ways in whidh I am
CQDSoioiis that I baTesot xeeeiTod-— or retmnea, your kindness aa
I oujp^t. My pride, sad-— and fwolts of many ^ds— I am now
painmllT sensible of— *tkapagb too late to prove it to yon ; bat Qod
knows tliat my regiel-*iuin oease but with my life."
** My dear fellow," said Locd N , whose tears new flowed
down his cheeks nnrestcainodly, "wky do yon speak so^ Yoa
bave been most f aii^fdl axid consoientions to me tiirongb all onr
interooorse together; you hare saved me every trouble in your
power, and no one fault hove I ever bad to And widi you sinoe yoa
ent^ed my bouse ; and dee|^y-4raly shall I regret you."
"I thank yoa, &om my beart, my dear lord, for your kind and
cansiderate words; but they eannot blind me to the tnxth'-nor
leecmoile me to myseH— though tiie kindness that dictates them I
feel most deeply. I cannot f^eak nmoh--%ut Alston will tell you
anything you may wish to taow — about one— who bas ever been
so unwoimy of jour fayour. Ask bim~-<>b ! my lofd— tusk him,"
be oontinued, with «nergy beyond his strength, '* the grounds of
the peace I now enjoy— and may it be yonrs too 1"
He closed bis eyes in utter exxurastkHi, and signed that be oonld
speak no more. Lord N ■ ■ was equally incapable of replying;
smd after a few minutes, laying bis band with kindly pressure on
Mr. Anstrutber's sboulder, lie seemed in that manner to take leave
of him. Mr. Anstrutber's eyes fdilowed him to the door, kind*
ling with grateful and softened ei^xression ; and Lord N ^'s feel-
ings again overcame him, as be tnzned to take a last look of one
who was thus early ** passing away." That look— so full of mutual
kindness — was the last they ever exobanged ! Lord N— bad to
leave again the next day for a short time, and ere be retomed,
his young Mend bad entered into bia eternal rest.
Wben Lord K bad left Sir Eolaad, the latter bad still soma
letters to finish befoore be rode out. Wbiile employed on tfaem,
some one knooked at the door, and Wilson, Mr. Anstrutber's ser*
vant, made his appearance.
'* Wbat is it, Wilson?" said Sir Boknd» lather alarmed. " Is
your master worse?"
" No, sir, no, my master is not psrtioularly bad just now ; bxrt I
wanted to take the liberty of speaking to you. Sir Roland. Sir,
my master is very ill—"
'* Well, Wihon, but is be wocte^' again asked ffir Boland, look-
ing up £rom the papers over wbidi be bad been mnning bis eye;
"diaUIgotohmi?"
"Not at all. Sir Boland, not at all; but, in fact, to make the
natter short, I was to bave been leaving Mr. Anstrutber about this
tbae, and somehow I feel very unwilling to do so."
** I do not iinder at it|" aniwefed Sir JEU)laad« latiwff c^
95 8IE BOLAVS ASBXOV.
** Yoa see, Sir Boland, my warning was nyen before my mastex^s
last attack came on, wlien ne was getting: t)etter ; and, sir, master
used to be yery hard tp bear with at times. Not that I eyer had a
bad word from him, Sir Roland, neyer ; bnt then, I neyer had a
good one ; and masters don't know how far a good word goes with
a seryant. Master neyer was a bad liyer, sir, neyei^— neyer heard
an oath from his month ; neyer gambled, neyer did anything to set
a seryant a bad example ; but there was something. Sir Eoland, sa
uncommonly cutting- in his way. Take what pains I would, there
was neyer a 'thank you,' neyer a word of praise; only a gruff,.
* that'll do,* — * put it down.' So when master was a little better —
before he became so ill again— I thought I would try another ser-
yioe, and so gave warning. But I have been with master now
these six years, eyer since he came here, and I know all his way8»
and how he likes things done, and I should be uncommonly loth
to giye him oyer just now to the hands of strangers, who don't
know him scarce by sight. So I was thinkins^. Sir Roland, if you
thought proper, and master was agreeable, that I should haye no
objeddon to staying on, and doing what I could as long as he is
here." And the pocr man moyed about neryously, and cleared his
voice once or twice.
*<I think you are quite right," said Sir Roland, kindly; ** and
to say the truth, I thought it rather odd, Wilson, that you had not
made this proposal before ; for it must strike any one, that it
would be yery irksome and painful for a dying man to haye
strange feuses and new ways about him ; and I think, too, from
what I can obserye, that your master is not so ' cutting,' as you
express it, now, but that any one might bear with him. Sickness
is yery trying you know, Wilson, to us all ; and for a young man
like your master, to be confined to his room, dying, whilst others
of his age are enjoying themselves around nim in health and
spirits — ^without parents too, or relations to cheer him— it must
seem a heavy trial."
"No douot. Sir Roland— no doubt it must," replied Wilson,
feelingly ; " but it is strange, sir, that the worse he gets, the better
he is to do for. He'U often thank me now, and say * he' s sorry to
be so troublesome.' But dear me. Sir Roland, I don't mind
trouble, if one's only treated like a Christian ; and ever since he's
been like that^ I've oeen wanting to say I should be glad to stay
and do for him to the last ; but I neyer plucked up courage till
just now, when my lord went in to master; and so I thought I
would make bold to step down and speak to you."
** I think it is a very good arrangement," said Sir Roland, " and
I will settle with the other man. I am sore your master will feel
very grateful."
"As to that. Sir Roland, it is not' much," said Wilson; " indeed,
if master was always to be as he is now, I should not mind staying
on with him, if he lived ever so long. Death makes a great
difference in people. Sir Roland."
/'It is not death— but the Spirit of God which has made the
difference in your master, Wilson. Many people get worse and
worse in their ways and tempers, through long mnesees, till death
8m -ROLAm) AJBHTON. 97
cats short their power of tormentiiig here, and delivers them over
to a terrible hereafter. But God has shown your master tiie eyil of
his heart, and His own willingness to pardon him for Christ's
sake; and that it is which has produced the chaniBfe in him. But
we will try and £nd some future opportunity lor talking this
matter over to&;ether; for, remember, Wilson, on its being nghtly
understood and received depends your salvation as well as your
major's : we are all alike in Qod's sight ; there is no distinction of
persons with Eim ! Shall I tell your master of your wish to stay
with him, or would you rather do so yourself?"
" If it is not too much trouble. Sir Boland, I had much rather
you should speak ; I don't feel very free yet with my master
though I am not afraid of him, as I used to be."
When Sir Boland had finished his letters, and had returned frost
a short ride, he went ujp to Mr. Anstruther, whom he found some-
what recovered from his agitating interview with Lord N ^ anj
informed him of his servant's wish to remain with him. Mr.
Anstruther was much gratified ; and the next time that Wilson
entered the room, after Sir Boland had left it» he thanked him
with such a kindness of manner, as brought tears into the poor
man's eyes.
" I have been a bad master to you, Wilson," he said ; " and have
much to reproach myself with on that account."
'* Indeed, no, sir, ' said Wilson ; " no gentleman has less to
accuse himself of on that score ; unless, indeed, it be Sir Boland,
or Mr. Scott, or that kind of gentleman. I never saw you do a
wrong thing, sir, in all my days; but to hear the accoimt other
servants give of what their masters do at times, dear sir ! it would
dmost make jour hair stand on end. There's Lord "
"Never mind, Wilson," said Mr. Anstruther, stopping him^
"I have no business with other people's faults ; I have enough to
do with my own just now."
"Certainly, sir," said Wilson; "but I only meant to show
that you had never done anything at all, as it were, compared to
others. '
" We must see about it, Wilson, not as compared to others, but
as compared to ike word of God," said Mr. Anstruther, " for that
is what we must be judged by."
Wilson stared at this annoimcement, so extraordinary as coming
from his master; and was stiU more astonished when Mr.
Anstruther, taking the Scriptures from his pillow, and taming to
the parable of the talents, said—
"You can read well, I think, Wilson ? just read that parable to
ae."
When it was finished, he said, "Now do you not see that it is
not only those who abuse, but those who fail to use properly the
powers that God gives them, who will be condemned hereafter?"
Poor Wilson was quite at a loss what to say or think, these-
subjects being entirely new to him.
" I ought,' continued Mr. Anstruther, "to have used the in-
fluence which a master should have over his servants, to lead you
s
$8 SOL SOLAin) ASHTOK.
to 'what is good— to make joa a fellow-walker witH myself In the
patihs of peace and ffodlmess; therefore, if judged by my own
2eeds, yon see from we Bible itself .what a fearful doom I deserve
to have pronounced against me. But Wilson, Sir Boland, whose
kindness I can never repay, has shown me not onlv my own sinful-
ness, but the way by which my sins can obtain lorgiveness— even
'tihjrough the merits and sofferings of oiir Lord and Savionr Jesus
CSuist. I cannot talk much with yon now, I so soon get exhausted ;
but I am glad to have been able so far to tell you what it is whidi
makes me resigned and happy now, while in the days of health and
strength I was morose, and miserable — and unkind, too, I am
afraid, my poor fellow," he added, holding out his hand.
Wilson was much moved, and respectfiuly kissing his master's
extended hand, burst into tears. Mr. Anstruther was exceedingly
toudied by thu unexpected proof of feeHng in one whom he haa
supposed so wholly indifSsrent to him ; bi£ after a few minutes,
lie continued in a kind voice —
" You will read the Scriptures constantly, Wilson, and pray to
iiie Almighty Father tp send His Holy Spirit to teach yon to un-
derstand them ? You probably have a Bible ?"
Wilson was silent.
"Well! you are no worse than your master was," added Mr.
Anstruther, with a deep sigh ; " Iluul none tiU Sir Boland gave me
this ! There is my purse — go now and get yourself one, and never
let a day pass without reading some of its holy and blessed
words."
Wilson, with many thanks and promises, left the room, and pro-
eeeded to do as his master desired.
"How the Lord smooths my nath !" thought the dying man.
** Oh ! that I had known Him as I might have done, all the days of
my life. Oh Gt)d !" he exclaimed aloud, clasping his hands and
raising his earnest eyes to heaven, " that I snoiud have been so
long within hearing of Thy voice, yet never have listened ! Surely
it is because ' Thou art Goa, and not man,' that Thou hast patience
^ long with Thy rebellious servants: and now * Thou crownestme
^nth loving-kindness, because Thy compassions fail not.' "
Lon^ did his mind continue to dweU on this delightful theme;
for this fresh mercy of God— this new proof of nis Heavenly
Father's watchful tenderness in continuing about him one whose
services long use had made so essential to his comfort— drew his
lieart out towards Him with a degree of fervour and devotion that
he had seldom before experienced.
And it is often thus ! for great mercies, and great deliverances,
are scarcely so touching to the heart, as the wonderful sjrmpathy
cf the Almighty, often manifested in the smallest, and apparently
most insignificant occurrences of life. The rescue from imminent
peril, either temporal or eternal, or the fruition of exalted happi-
ness, is a work wnich, at a glance, might appear such as a deity
would delight in! But that "the High and Holy One, who in-
^biteth eternity," should not only
" Stay His car
For eyeiy tigh a contrite ppirit brings,'*
Sm BOLANB ASHTOK. 99
bnt — even where the soul's interests seem not coneemed — should
dei^ to consider what will please and gratify the passine moments
of life — ^is a sweetness of mercy so great, as to fiU the Christian's
hfiart with lore and gratitude.
CHAPTER XIV.
"In sleep
The soul hath a capadtj <rf horror
Unknown to waking hoars.** — CKy <tfthA Plagve^
* The morning dawns on hU nnpillowed head
Who keeps Ms vigils by the suflferer's bed.**— iC?.
** But now, mine enemy, the strife is past,
And thon mayst lay thy victim low at last.
Strike, and I will not fear thee ; Ibr a light
Flashes aroond me from the depth of niglit-^
Not with an earthly hope*s micertain ray,
Kor pride's fell fire, nor passion's blinding nji
A light that daszles not the aching eye.
Bat pore and aoothing, tnmqoU, holy, high r^UniiNOWii.
Mb. Anstbtjtheb's strength now diminished honrly» but his
liope seemed to grow brighter and brighter. A deep regiet for his
past ungracious life was, indeed, often felt; but the nearer he drew
to his heavenly home, the more did its ^lory and blessedness fill
his soul. He suffered intensely from difficulty in breathing, and
Sir Eoland was in continual anxiety about him.
This deyoted Mend passed eyery niffht in his room; and never
left him during the day, unless when business absolutely required
him to do so ; or when ne went out for a few moments to revive his
oppressed, yet thankful spirit in the summer air, at such times as
Mr. Anstruther fell into his short, flushed^ and xmrefreshing
slumbers.
One night, while resting on the sofa. Sir Roland was aroused
&om his watchful sleep by sounds of distress and anguish proceed-
ing from the bed of death. He arose in much alarm, and ap-
proaching Mr. Anstruther, found him apparently awake, but
wholly unconscious of the objects around him. His countenance
exhibited the utmost agony and a^tation, and he moved his arms
violently about, as if endeavourmg to keep off some invisible
enemy, while he murmured broken sentences of despair, and of
earnest supplication. Sir Roland endeavoured to rouse him by,
taking his nand and speaking to him; but this seemed only to in-
crease the wildness and terror of his looks. At lenglJi, finding aU
other efforts vain, he knelt down by his side, and implored that
the Lord would send relief to the troubled spirit of his servimt, and
pour peace into his agitated mind. His prayer was answered, and
Mr. Anstruther soon recovered his full recollection. He sighed
heavily.
"What is it, Anstruther? What oppresses you?" asked Sir
Boland, bending oyer him.
H 2
100 SIB BOtANB ASHTOir.
" Oh ! I have had such dreams, Ashton ! if things so vivid, 86
actually before me, could be dreams— so fearful— so terrific ! 01i»
if my hope should at last prove but a delusion !"
" Do not let such thoughts arise in your mind, Anstruther," said
Sir Roland ; ** you know in whom you have believed, and that He
is a faithful Saviour, who will never cast out any who come to
God through Him. ' No man can i^luck you out of your Father's
hand.' And what makes you fear it ?**
" Oh, I have been in suon dreadful straits ! I seemed on a rook
rising out of the burning abyss of hell. Demons rose on every
side, and drowned my prayers in curses and revilings. They
taunted my hope — ' as if one like me could go to heaven !' They
brought before my shrinking mind unremembered sins, and, howl*
ing, pointed to the deep forgetfolnessof God which has marked my
life. Each fiery wave Dore on its crest fiends who strove to reaon.
me ; some fedlea, but others seized me, and, with horrible rejoicingSL
tried to drag me down to their own terrible torments. I battled
with tibem in vain, till, amid the horrors of that combat, a voice of
comfort reached my heart— it was yours, dear Ashton, raised in
prayer for m^; afflicted soul. But on ! am I indeed safe ? have I
not oeen staying myself up with false hopes ? Can sins like mine
be really pardoned ? or were the terrors of that dreadful moment
only foretastes of my awful, inevitable doom ? No sufferings I ever
xmaerwent could be compared to the terrors of that confused,
affrighting vision. Ah! Ashton, surely the power of Satan was
there, to torture— to agonize ; and would he have been permittM
to do so if I were indeed a redeemed child of God ?"
He spoke with the utmost difficulty, continually labouring for
breath, and the impress of death was on his fine but agonized brow*
Sir Roland, much agitated, answered —
'* Satan, doubtless, wiU endeavour to the last to drive you firom
your hold of Christ; but do not let this effort of his malice dis-
nearten you, my dear Anstruther. Kemember that even in your
dream you were not given up to the powers of evil,— your feet were
still kept upon the * Rock.* And you must not judge of your real
state by impressions made on your mind in the irresponsiole hours
of sleep, when the soul, like a ship without compass or rudder, is
driven about to distraction. No ; let this dreadrol trial only serve
as an additional reason for thankfulness that you are delivered
from Satan's fell dominion for ever."
" But am I delivered, Ashton } Oh, my soul is tortured by ths
scaring vision I"
'* My dear Anstruther, are you not trusting to Christ for all youc
salvation ?"
" I did trust to him most truly."
" Then^do you think He cannot save ? or that He tvtU not ?**
" Oh ! He is both willing and able," exclaimed Mr. Anstruther
—faith and hope aguin beaming &om his animated eyes. " Yes I
and I shall be saved ! It is past, Ashton— thank God I quite passed
—that dark cloud; and God's favour again shines in my 80ul»
making all light— all joyful there."*
BIB BOLAND ASHTOK. 101
. ** Thank Grod !" said Sir Roland, greatly relieyed. ** But you
seem so exhausted, Anstruther?"
•* I feel so, and long to deep again; but dread a renewal of
these horrors/*
**I will sit by your side," said Sir Roland, " and wake you if I
see you become at all agitated."
In utter weakness Mr. Anstruther again closed his ejea; and Sir
Roland, taking his station by his side, watched him with the ut-
most solicitude. If he saw him become at all restless and uneasy,
he gently roused him, and in his low, penetrating voice, whispered to
him words of hope, and peace, and comfort. At times, Mr. Anstru-
ther would unclose his languid eyes, and gaze on Sir Roland with
•a look of unutterable love; but at other moments he could onlj
express, bv a faint smile, or quiet pressure of the hand, the grati-
tude he felt for his deyoted kindness, and the comfort which hia
words conveyed. ^ At length, notwithstanding his diflBLoulty in
hreathing, he fell into a deep and tranquil sleep, while an expres-
sion of heavenly calm rested on his features.
The morning twilight stole into the room; and after a time,
seeing that he continued tranquil and undisturbed, Sir Roland
rose, and going to the window, gazed from it, though often turn-
ing: towards the bed, to watch u all remained quiet there. The
crimson flush in the sky became deeper and deeper, till at length,
the tops of the mountains caught the blaze of the sun's unclouded
lising. Peak after peak shone out in the beam, which stole down
the mountain's side, till its streams of light stretched far along,
and flooded all the plain. A cloud of silvery vapour marked the
course of the river, and rose steadily for a time, obscuring the base
of the mountains by a veil of prismatic colouring ; till a light morn-
ing breeze, rolling it away, left the whole scene glowing " in bright
tranquillity."
Long did Sir Roland stand, and look out upon the newly
awakened world, though scarcely conscious of what his eye rested
upon.
There is something very strange in the sensation experienced in
lookin]^ out at the calm, clear morning light, after a night of
watching in the room of sickness. It is seldom, perhaps, excepting
on sudi occasions, that the hig:h-bom of the earth witness the
ibeauty of that delightful hour, with all its bright accompaniments,
^ts •* charm of eaxHest birds," its dewy meadows, and fresh
** untasted air;" and then the unrested spirit has such a dreamy
feeling ! and all without— the gay and laughing liffht, and bright
life-like look — seems in such strange contrast with the scene within
—■where pain, or danger, or perhaps even death itself, reigns in
ffloomy quiet! But when anxiety has been exchanged for the
delighted feeling that danger is over— that every passing hour
brings the loved object of our cares nearer to health and strength —
then, indeed, there is happiness in the niffht- watch I^then sensa-
tions of exquisite, unspeakable joy thrilliiig through the breast,
make us meet the cheerful morning light with an answering gleam
fromwithinA
102 Snt BOLASTD ASHTOir.
But far different from these were 8ir Boland's feelings, as ho
tamed from the splendid glow which was flooding all the land«
scape, to gase on l£e pale deatiilike countenance of him OTer whom
he was watching with more than a brother's love, and who now
seemdL on l^e very threshold of Ihe grave. He 1^ the window^
and again took his silent station by the bed of death. The oppres-
sion on the Inngs, fnnniddch Mr. Anstmther had suffered so much,
for many days, whs increasing fearfdUy, and his respiration became
so difficult, that at last Sir Koland, ahumed, endeaTOured to raise
him up. The action roused him, yet his breathing was one con*
tinned spasm : he grasped Sir Roland's hand, and murmured, —
'* This cannot last; out dli!" — and a bright sndle played OTer
his face — ** the glory of the prospect— the blessedness of feeling —
that I am near my Father's kingdom. But open the shuttm,
Ashton, I would see you once more— once more before— my eyes-
dose for ever."
"They are open," said Sir Bcland; " and Ihe sun is stream*
ingin."
^* Is it so ?" said the dying man, as a shudder passed through his.
£rame: " then this is death ! — ^I can see nothing— all is dark. I
hear your voice, Ashton— and would fain hay e looked on you —
again looked on that countenance" — ^He stopped, and a deep sob
heayed his breast. " Oh ! it is a pang to paot !**
Sir Boland could scarcely repress his emotion.
" We shall meet again,*' he said ; " soon meet again, in perfect
happiness, where we shall neyer part."
** Oh ! yes; oh! yes," said Mr. Anstruther; " time will soon be
passed, and you— will be with us. A little while ago— how could
1 haye met—this hour— with all its terrors— so great? but now the
brightness of Heayen is around me ! The Ahnighty God— blesa
Jou, Ashton," he continued, straining Sir Eoland's hand witib
yinff enercy to his lips j " the blessing of him— m^o was ready to
perish— &]Ion you \ Raise me— oh ! raise me ; giye me more air 1'*
Sir Roland raised him, and, ringing the bell, desired Wilson te
throw up all the windows, and to go rostantiy and caU. Mr. Scott*
Mr. Anstruther gasped a^nizingly for breath; but at interyals
spoke words of finn trust m Christ— of happiness and neaoe. When
he heard Mr. Scott enter the room, he held out his nand to him,
and also to his seryant; then leaning his head on ^ Roland's
breast, and raising his hand to mark his high hope (for speech was
gone) after a few long-drawn sighs, he lay tranquil, as in ele^.
**Ohl change; oh! wEmdrous change t
Bunt are the prison-ban I
This moment there — so low.
So agonized ; and now.—
Beyond the stars r
Sir Roland i^azed long with stm^lxng emotion on the oounte*
nance, so fine m death !— 4hen pressing ms lips on the oold brow»
and laying the inanimate form he had been supporting back on the
^low, he coyered his face with his hands, and leaning his head on
bed, gaye way to a burst of irrepressible sorrow. So continued
SEEL SOIJLND ASHJO^T. lOS
for a time lost in a maze of confused feelingy but liis heart, at
lencrth, arose from tliis trembled state, and poured itself forth in
silent thankfiilness to Gfod, for His meroy to the sool of him who
was gone.
To those who know not the strengrth of the Christian tie, his
deep feeling: may seem surprising ; but they who have experienoed
the blessedness of being employed to bring a sool to sidvation,
know fall weU the gift of love which aoc<mipanies the work. In
this particular case, too, there was something more than nsual — an
eartmy as well as a heayenly eanse — ^for the strong aflfeotion felt;
for that fascination which, as has been observed, was so remark*
able in Mr. Anstrather, even dniin^ the nnamiableness of his
former conduct, rendered him, when it was joined to the graces <^
the Spirit of God, p^fectly irresistible. Attendance on him had
been, therefore, a most delightful duty; and Sir Boland, during
liis Olness, had become attached to him in the warmest maimer.
Mr. Scott jiad motioned to Wilson, after the first moment, to
leave the room for a time, and had retired himself into the window,
that Sir Roland might not be checked in the expression of his
first grieffal feelings. After^a time, the latter joined him, and
they ^azed tog^ether on the fine scene before them. The room thev
were in was one of the highest in the house, having been selected
for Mr. Anstruther purposely on that account, as it looked over
the walls, while tiie lower apartments looked on them, thus obtain-
ing a fresher and freer circulation of air, which it had been hoped
(unaTaiUng care !) would have benefited him ; and it was in con-
sequence of being situated so high, that it commanded the beautiful
view we have before described. As the two friends stood gazing
npon it together, Mr. Scott, laying his hand on Sir Boland's
shoulder, said, in a voice of the deepest sympathy, —
" JSis prospect is far more glorious now V
A same of heavenly expression lighted up Sir Boland's fSaoe,
iiiougL his lips quivered convulsively, as he replied —
*' Yes, his ^ mortal has put on immortality,' and he dwells with
his King and his God for ever."
He covered his face with his hand as he leaned against the
windov, and remained for some time silent. At length, rousing
himself, he said—
** I vill not give way to selfish regret: it was for this that I
prayed, and now— why should I repine ? If I had no other mercy
to ue 'Aankfol for in Me, this one is enough to bind me to God for
ever ; md I trust I may hencefortii be more devoted to his service
than I have ever yet been. Oh ! my dear Scott, whilst we rejoice
overtkis one soul that is saved, let us remember the thousands
who are around us perishing^— perishing with the riches of redeem-
ing love within their grasp !— I will go now to my own room, and
try to rest. I shall then be more fit for the busmess of the day;
for irksome and distasteful as it is, it is still the work that Grod
sets me to do, and it must be done. Will you— if it is not painfrd
to you" (and a shade passed over his contenance) — " will you see
U all this for me ?" — an inclination of his head towards the bed
dowing what he meant.
1^^ SIB EOLAin) ASETOK.
Mr. Soott slffnifed that lie would, and grasping his friend's hand,
Sir Boland left the room withont again looking towards the dead.
How dreadfdl is everythinff connected with death, to those who
are left hehind ! And donbtless it Is intended so to be, for deatih
is the manifestation of God's wrath ajrainst sin; and it should
neyer be regarded lightly. To the true Gnnstian, indeed ** death is
the eate of life :" yet stul it is a eate which divides, in partj what
has oeen, from what shall be ; and though the fature on which we
enter may be bright beyond conception, yet the parting with those
we loye. must ever be a pang to nature. " Death," as the good
and noble— though visionary--Sir Harry Vane well says, '* instead
of taking anything from us, gives us all, even the perfection of our
nature. It doth not bring us into darkness, but takes darkness
out of usr— us out of darkness, and puts us into marvellcus light."
Yet still the thought of death, and all its sad accompaniments, as
regards the body, must ever be shocking to human nature.
sir Roland felt this peculiarly; and it was not till after he was
informed that Mr. Ans&uther's oody was placed in thB coffin, that
Le again visited the chamber of death. He then renembered his
friend's dying wish respecting the little faded flower; and over-
coming his reluctance, he went to fulfil that—his last desire,
though he shuddered as he entered the chamber, and beheld the
still open coffin. Before he approached it, he went to the desk Mr.
Anstruther had named, and opening it, took out a small sealed
packet, which he concluded to be the one which had been men-
tioned. It was some minutes before he could prevail on himself
to break the seal— which the hand of such love had placed upon it !
and, when he did so with a sinking heart— the countenance that
met his view almost overcame him. There was, perhaps, in Mrs.
Anstruther's picture no resemblance to the features of he? son;
but the expression was most i^rfectly his, in its brightest, finest
moments. This, then, was his mother— the mother he Ind so
much loved, so deeply, sadly mourned I As Sir Eoland gazed upon
the picture, he recalled to mmd the sufferings which Mr. Anstmuier
had so feelingly described, and which he and his mother hal had
to endure; ana tears started at the remembrance of their piefs.
though he knew that they were now, where " pain and sorroi^ had
vanished before them;" and his heart perfectly thrilled as he
seemed for a moment to realize what their meeting must have
been. He then sought for the little faded flower that had been
preserved and cherished witii such deep affection. He fomd it :
and, after regarding it for a moment with an aching heart, le laid
it for the second time within the gloomy place of death. Bb had
not meant to look i^rain upon the dead; but, when he was 1y the
side of the coffin, his eyes involimtarily sought the features thev
had so often dwelt upon of late. He was struck by theii still
unchanged expression; and, after gazing for a long, long timenpon
the face which lay so calm in death, he stooped — and once more
pressed his lips upon the marble brow.
SIB BOLAND ASHTOTS, 105
CHAPTER XV.
•* That hour of parting o'er,
Wben shall the pang it leaves be felt no more !"
Mrs. Hehakb.
**lt draws me on— I know not what to name it,
Besistlees does it draw me to his grave."
Deidk qf WaOenstein, Coixridge's Tbakslation.
TsE fdneral was fixed for the next day ; and many of the foreim
ministers, and of the English, staying at , expressed their de-
sire of paying the last trioute of respect to the deoisased, by follow-
ing him 1x) the graye. As Mr. Roberts was absent (haying again
accompanied LSrd N -,) it was arranged for Mr. Singleton to
perform the service, which he said, he had no objection to doing,
over one for whom he really had " a sure and certain hope of a joy-
ful resurrection."
The evening before the ceremony was to take place, Mr. Sinjs^le-
ton received a message from the omciating Boman Catholic pnest,
to inquire whether it would be displeasing if the procession which
usually accompanied interments amongst themselves were to attend
the body to the grave, as if so. it should go no farther than to the
entrance of the l)urial-eipuna ; but that it was necessary that it
should accompany it till it arrived there. Mr. Singleton thanked
Mm for his kind consideration, and confessed that it would be more
agreeable for the procession not to accompany them the whole way ;
for, in fact, he did not know what Boman Catholics usually did on
those occasions, and whether their ritual might not oblige them to
use ceremonies that it might be painful for a rrotestant to witness.
It was arranged, therefore, according to his wish ; and, when the
time arrived for the funeral to set forth on the following day, the
Mends of the deceased found the Bomish priests and their atten-
dants read^ to join them, bearing with them all that was usual on
Buch occasions.
When the funeral train arrived at the entrance of the burial-
ground, the Bomish procession, as it had been a^preed, paused, while
the body and the accompanying friends passed in ; but the priests,
divesting themselves of their sacerdotal robes— fts a mark of atten-
tion—followed within the enclosure, as private individuals, and le^
mained during the whole ceremony in the most respectful silence.*
When the procession reached the spot selected for the interment,
the coffin was placed on high tressels, and the ceremony commenced.
But when they came to the moment when the body was to be
lowered into the grave, the pang of parting was so great, that Sir
Boland, who acted as chief mourner, involuntarily laid a restrain-
ing hand upon the pall, and leaned his head for a moment on the
eomn. There was a pause— for all felt affected ! The great change
* nils account of the conduct of the Bomish priests was given to the author
by an English clergyman, who was called upon, some ftw years ago, to hnry
an £ng^sh Ftotestant in part of the Austrian dominions, and exhibits a degree
of liberality and courtesy scarcely to have been ezpeoted.
106 Slfi EOULNI) ASHTOX.
that had taken place latterly in the deceased was yery generally
known amongst the English at ;, and they were all acquainted
with the devoted attention that Sir Roland had shewn towards
him. When, therefore, after a moment, he recovered his self -pos-
session, and raising Ms head, motioned tor the hody to be removed
— there was not one in all the assembly that dia not look on Ms
pale and expressive countenance, .with feelings of the steong^est
sympathy and admiration. He was, however, wholly unconscious
of it, for Ms eyes were bent on the ground ; and he remained com-
posed and coUected during the rest of the ceremony, though a
shudder passed over him as the heavy, duU, fall of the earth,
soimded on the coffin-lid.
When all was concluded* Mr. Singleton addressed a few words
to those assembled. He spoke of the deceased — of his great
abilities, and high attainments; but reminded them how these
qualities had failed in making him either happy in Mmself, or he-
loved bj others, until that " wisdom wMch is from above," and
which IS "peaceable, gentle, and easy to be entreated," had
shone on Ms mind, and made him a new creature. He recalled to
them how, a few short months before, they had seen him whose
body they had just consigned to the eartii, amongst them, in aU
the strength of youth and health— and besought them " to watdi
and pray,'* lest their summons should come when they looked not
for it. He paused a moment— then raising Ms hand, and speaking
in the fulness of Ms heart— his powerful voice gaining energy from
the Mgh feeling wMch possessed him, he exclaimed—
" Oh ! Lord Gt)d, suffer not these — ^the work of Thine hands, to
perish ! let not their souls sink in the darkness of sin and destruc-
tion ; but redeem them unto Thyself, through Christ's most pre-
cious blood."
A murmured " Amen," rose from every lip.
Before the assemblage left the burial-groim.d. Sir Roland and
Mr. Singleton passed over to the side where the Romish priests
were standing, and thanked them for the kindness and courtesy
they had shown ; and added, that the^ should be happy in any way
to snow their gratitude for a token of respect so little to have been
looked for. " And if," added Mr. Sin^eton, '* in the course of
our acquaintance, any discussion ever arise concerning the dif-
ferences in our faith and feelings, let us pray &r the pow^ of the
Holy Spirit to lead us into all truth."
Sir Roland, Mr. Singleton, and Mr. Soott, lin^rered till all the
others had left the bunal-ground, and remained lor a time in the
<iuiet of its sedusion, conversing on the themes ever most interest-
ing to thenij and examining many of the monuments around —
where affection had, as usual, striven in vaiious ways to c<Hn-
memorate the virtues of the deceased, and to express its own deep
As they were considering one Mgh and handsome tomb. Sir
">1and was surprised at seeing a man enter the enclosure, and,
after looking suspiciously around, advance straight to Ihe spot
where the body of Mr. Anstruther had been hud. He stood re*
SIB SOLAJTD ASHTOK. lOT
ffardmg it for some time, with his arms folded aoroes his breast ;
but it would have been difficult to have defined the emotions that
elouded his countenance. The expression was altogether most re-
pellent, though the features were strikin^lv handsome. As his
appearance excited no particular interest eitner in Mr. Scott or his
cousin, thev walked slowly away together, not wishing to be inter-
rupted in their own thoughts and conversation ; but such was not
the case with Sir Koland — one glance had sufficed to tell him who
the stranger was : and his heart sickened at the' conyiction, that
the wretched father of Mr. Anstruther stood before him ! The
likeness was so strong that he could not be mistaken. There was
the some outline of feature — the same harsh expression, which
used in former times to be seen in his friend— the same tsiL figure
— and the same peculiarly gentlemanlike appearance, which shone
conspicuous even though tne almost threadbare garments in which
he was attired.
Sir Eoland was so much concealed by the monuments, amongst
which he was standing, that he was at first unperceived b^ the
stranger ; but after a few minutes, the latter, utterin? a bitter
man, raised his head, and his eye then encountered tnat of Sir
Koland, who remained, as it were, spell-bound at the sight of him.
He started — and it seemed as if a momentarv faintness came over
him ; but recovering himself, he instantly advanced to Sir Roland,
and addressing him in a haughtv- manner, said —
" I am speaking to Sir Holand Ashton V* Sir Roland bowed in
reply; ana the other continued in an excited manner — "You,
then, I have to thank lor doing idiat it was my place to have
done — ^watching over Mm " — and he pointed to the grave.
'* I was with him, certainly, during his illness, answered Sir '
Roland.
" And it was you then, doubtless, whom he charged with his
dying curse for his father ! "
" Far &om it," replied Sir Roland, greatly ^oqked; " his last
feelings for you were those of strong interest."
" They must have been his last then, indeed," returned the other,
wilh a taunting laugh.
**! had seen but little of him for many years," continued Sir
Roland, endeavouring to soothe the evidently excited state of the
stranger's mind, " but when he menlioned you to me during his
last iDness, it was witii much feeling ; and at his request, I wrote
off to every city in Europe, where I had any friends, to endeavour
to discover where you were."
" In Paris !" said Mr. Anstruther, gloomily. " I have been there
for years."
" No less than three letters of inquiry have I directed there»
within the last month," rejoined Sir Roland, ** but I could gain no
tidings of you."
** Tidings ! no ! " exclaimed Mr. Anstruther, with a shout of
derision — "how could you hope to discover any one devil (and he
nound his teeth as he spoke) from out of the legions that infest
th&t accursed, infernal place? What did he want of me?" he
continued furiously ; "he who was pampered with all life's lu^"-
108 SIB BOULISTB ASHT02r.
ties, whilst I gambled, robbed, plundered, for my dafly bread—and
failed to ffet it."
Sir Roland ooidd scarcely restrain bis horror and indignation at
this extraordinary avowal ; but perceiving that the stranp^er was
evidently almost unconscious of what he said, and pitying the
destitution which could have led to such a course — ^remembering
too, the dying requ^ of his Mend, he oontrolled himself, aia
answered calmly, —
** He wished much to know where you were, in order, if possible,
to be of use to you^ he thought inaeed, that if you knew of his
dving state, you might come to see him, perhaps, once again; but
if not, he begged me, if ever I met you, to endeavour— to speak —
to say— what joy and happiness he had found at last, in the
knowledge and love of God."
"There is no God— there can be— there shall be no God!"
ejaculated Mr. Anstruther frantically, raising his clenched hands
to heaven, as if he defied the Omnipotent !
Sir Eoland was horrified and scarcely knew what course to
pursue with the distracted being before nim. He was thankful,
nowever, that his two companions were at a distance; for though,
xmder other circumstances, he might have been glad of their
presence and assistance, yet as it was, he was happy that they
were not witnesses of the conversation he was holding with the
stranger; as tenderness towards the memory of his friend made
him averse to his father's state and circumstances becoming known
to any but himself. He therefore endeavoured to soothe the
wretched man, and asked him, in a kind voice, how he happened
to be in just at that time.
*' I have been here above a week," answered Mr. Anstruther,
Bullenly. "I knew he was ill" (and he glanced at the fresli-
tumed earth close to which he again stood) ''so came— I know
not why— but yet I came. About a month ago I heard he was
dying; I heard it in one of the hells (fitly named!) of Paris ! —
—heard it from one of high name, who honours those abodes with,
jhis presence — one whose associate I used to be, though now, of
course, he does not know me. However, I heard it there! I
heard, too, from him, there — ^there in that devilish place, that you
—Sir Koland Ashton, were tending him like a brother. He said
too— while a fiendish laugh echoed around from his companions as
he spoke— that you were making a saint of him I I could have
murdered him as he stood ! — ^But it was there I heard it. I had
reasons for wishing to leave Paris— so thought to turn my steps
Jiere, thouffh I hardly know why, for I never loved him, and he!
— ^he hated me with the deadliest hatred! and well he mightr—
well he might !" And the wretched man raised his eyes with i»
"bitter look to heaven. " Still he was mine," he continued, " and
the only thing I had on earth ; so I sought to be near him— and s*
I was— yes ! as near as Lazarus was to l)ives !" — ^And he laughed
ficomfolly. — " I lingered unobserved near his house — his house—
the Embassy-house— the great man's house — the resort of princes,
and nobles, and crowned heads 1 I uras there--a starved and out-
SIB EOLAITD ASHTOIT. 10$
cast being, where lie was revelling in life's Inxuries— and— and^
dying."
He paused, and Sir Roland, mucli moved, inquired wliy He had
not made it kaown that he was there ?
"Did I not know," exclaimed Mr. Anstmther, his eye again
idndling with fdry, "that he hated me!— And yet I thought I
would toy, at least, to ask how he was — and, had my courage not
failed me, I might, perhaps, at last— have sent for you."
"Would to God you had!" exclaimed Sir Roland, much
agitated.
" Yes," continued Mr. Anstmther, with a softened expression,
" stranger as you were, I felt I could sooner trust to you than to
my own — only child !" A convulsive burst of agony stopped his
utterance ; and Sir Roland, pained beyond measure, would have
approached him; but perceiving his intention, Mr. Anstmther,
iresuming his stem, haughty manner, exclaimed, —
" I want no pity— will have none V*
After a pause, lie continued, " I thought, as I was saying, that
I would try and inquire how he was, and I approached the gate of the
court-yartt; but at the instant, one, in the royal livery, must needs
brush by, and in a loud and authoritative tone, ask after *the
secretary.' I waited for the answer with shaking limbs; — *No
better.' Another time I lurked near, thougrh iinsem, and again
had to listen for the reply given to a — stranger ! At last, having
rested all one dreary mgnt under the gateway, I watched in the
morning for signs of stir and life in the house, and— for the first
time, ventured myself to ask for him* — It was well — it was right
—that to me first should be spoken the word of deatli;— that on
my ear first shoidd fall that chill, dull, fearful sound! Yes— he
was dead !" And the uuhappy man covered his iiicc with his
hMids, and shuddered. " I know not what I felt,*' ho continued;
" all was blank and cold^ within, and around. I have scarcely
tasted food since that hour. j. l- liil I once loae si^Kt of the house
till I saw the funeral com ^ Mntithia morninfl'. I f^aw the coflRn
that held him," (and he looked for a moment down on the ground)
" and I saw you— for I fcaew it must be you— again holding the
place I should have held — chief mourner! I followed at a
distance, for," he continued with a bitter smile, holding out his
arm, "what had garments like these to do, by the side of peers
and princes } I watched till, as I thought, all had left the burial-
ground, and then came here— to die !"
** You are exhausted, Mr. Anstmther," said Sir Roland kindly,
"food and rest will restore you to, I trust, happier thoughts; come
home with me.^
"I have no home !— nor will I go with you," he answered with
despairing violence. " You have already heaped coals of fire on
my nead oy what you have done for htm» Go — go j/ou to your
home, for you deserve a home," and his features quivered con-^
vulsively; "but no power on earth moves me from this plaor
aHve V*
"It was your son's earnest request," said Sip Roland, witb
110 Sm BOIAITD ASHTOF. ^
strong emotion, " tiiat if I ever met with you, I should try to speak
to you the words of pardon and of peace. '
** Peace !" exolaimed Mr. Anstruther, '* what is peace > I know
enough of your Scriptures to know that they say—- and truly—
* there is no peace for the wicked.' Pardon ! — ^pardon for me — me —
who murdered my wife, and sought to murder hia soul V* And he
stamped his foot with fury on the side <^ the grare, shrieking
with a shout of derision/ ** Pardon for me l"
Mr. Scott and Mr. Singleton had wandered away a short dis-
tance, before they discovered that Sir Roland was not with them;
and when at length they turned, and saw him in deep conversation
with the stranger, they thought it possible that it might be some
one with whom he was aoquainteo, though he was unknown to
them, and they therefore continued their waJk, and kept aloof for
some time ; till at length, Mr. Anstruther's loud tone catching their
ear, they became surprised, and even alarmed, at his vehement
gestures, and hastened forward to join Sir Boland. Seeing them
advance rapidly from amongst the graves and monuments, and
nervously apprehensive lest they should discover who the stranger
was — Sir Koland, by an almost imperceptible gesture and glance
of the eye, endeavoured to keep them back ; smd Mr. Anstruther
continuing to speak in a loud, excited manner, he said to him, in
a low tone ; *' We will talk together of these things another time,
these gentlemen are strangers to you."
But Mr. Anstruther, in whose eye the forv of madness burned,
exclaimed aloud, throwing his arms wildly above his head, —
" What are strangers to me ! — all are strangers. I fear no one !
— ^let those who have hope— have fear— -I have neither ! This wiU
set all at rest," and he drew forth a pistol which he held high in
the air.
Sir Roland sprang forward to wrest it, if possible, from his
hand; but quick as lightning the maniao dropped it to the level
of his breast, exclaiming —
"Advance another step, and I send this ball through your heart."
Sir Roland's cheek became white as ashes, and ms pulse for a
moment ceased to beat !
Mr. Scott, in an agony of terror, rushed forward to place himself
before his friend; but uie latter held him back with the msp of
a giant, and by a motion of his hand on his arm, directed! him to
go round the tomb near which he was standing, wishing him, if
possible, to get behind Mr. Anstruther, which Mr. Singleton had
done at the nrst moment of alarm. Sir Roland kept his unblench-
ing eye full on that of the madman, while, in the deep tone of his
persuasive voice, he said— but so low that only Mr. Anstruther
could hear—** You would not injure his friend, pointing to the
ipnve.
**No ! no, no, no," hurriedly replied the wretched man, in
quivering accents, as he gradually lowered the pistol — ** but no
jne shall tear me from this spot alive." He raised the pistol to
his head, as the glare of madness a^ain lighted up his countenance,
out his arm was caught fr^m behmd by Mr. Smgleton; and Mr.
SIR BOLAin) ASHTOIT. Ill
Scott coming np at the same moment, they sacoeededin vneeting
the deadly instrament from his hand.
Thinking all danger past, they relaxed their hold; but the
instant Mr. Anstmtner Mt his arm at liberty again, he drew forth
another pistol, and before a hand conld be raised to preyent him,
placed it to his breast— and fired !
Hie body sprang into the air; then fell forward on Uie fresh-
made grave!
Sir Koland covered his hce with his hands, and igfroaned in the
agony of his spirit. His friends hastened to raise the bodv of the
soiciae, but life was extinct ; the ball had passed throiigh the heart,
and the life-blood of the miserable man was welling forth in
tonenta— sinking deep into the Hght-strewn earth that covered
the body of his son!
Perceiving that all aid was vain, thev laid the corpse again on
the ground, and hastened to Sir Eoland's assistance, for he was
completely overcome, and had leant his head on the tomb that was
near him, in almost a state of msenaibOity.
"Take my arm. Sir Boland," said Mr. Singlet(»i, "and let ns
leave this dreary place."
Sir Roland made an effort to recover £rom the dreadful shock
he had received; and taking the arm of his Mend, he tamed in
tdlence to leave the bnrial-gromid. But before they had gone far
he perceived that a crowd of persons, attracted by the report of
the pistol, were mshing in at the gate; and the thonffht struck
him, that if the deceased had any papers about him, tney might
lead to the discovery of his name, wmcn was what he so anxiously
desired te prevent. This fear gave him strength in a moment
and with sudden energy he withdrew his arm £rom that of Mr.
Singleton, and begging him to wait for him, returned with rapid
steps to the place where the murdered body lay.
*^What would you do^" said Mr. Scott, who hastened after
him.
" I must see if he had any papers," replied Sir Boland, hur-
*' Wlr^ } what can it signify ? Let others £nd them ; why harass
yourself?"
"I must have them," answered & Boland, with a gesture of
impatience.
" Let me search, then, for you," said Mr. Scott, as they arrived
at ihie fatal spot ; and resting one knee on the ground, he proceeded
to examine the garments of the deceased. In doing so, his eye
rested on the fine features, and the likeness instantly struck him.
He started; and, looking up to Sir Roland with an expression of
surprise and horror, was about to make an exclamation, when the
latter earnestly silenced him, for by this time some of the crowd
" There is not the vestige of a paper," he said.
" Thank God," murmured Sir Aoland : " tell them so."
Mr. Scott informed the people around of th^ fact, and the two
friends then passed on.
112 filK BOLAJfD A6HT(»r.
" Forgive me, Scott, for being bo impatieiit with you," said Sir
Eoland.
" Don't think about it," answered Mr. Scott, kindlv pressing the
arm that Held his; "I shonld have been dead, I tnink, if Ihad
been in your place."
" It has been terrible, indeed," replied Sir Roland* " having all
along had the knowledge which you have but just acquired. But
as you love me, Scott, mention it to no one — ^not even to Singleton.
I feel for Anstruther ashe would have felt for himseli^ had he been
alive, poor fellow !"
They then rejoined Mr. Singleton, who had, during their ab«
sence, been accosted by one of the guard, with inquiries concerning
the disastrous occurrence which had taken x>lace. He related aU
the circumstances, as far as he was acquainted with them, and
begged that, if possible. Sir Roland might be spared any interro-
gations for the present, as he had been so much overcome by the
mghtful event. Sir Roland, coming up with Mr. Scott at that
moment, thanked him for his consideration, and informed the
guard that no papers of any kind had been found on the per-
son of the deceased; and fervently did he trust that no clue would
ever be afforded which could lead to the discovery of the unhappy
man's identity.
When he arrived at home, he felt thoroughly exhausted.
" I shall leave you, Sir Roland," said Mr. Singleton, " to Scott's
care ; he is, I know, an excellent and silent nurse (rare perfection !)
and you must need rest both for mind and body. You have gone
through very much to-day."
**I shall go to my own room, too," said Mr. Scott, " for there ia
nothing like perfect quiet ; so pray rest ; and may God be with you,
my dear Ashton — as ne assuredly will."
Sir Roland confessed that he should like to be alone, for his
mind was troubled in no small degree, and he needed the refresh-
ment of prayer. After a time he told his man to ask Mr. Anstru-
ther' s servant to go and see what had been done respecting the
unhappy suicide ; the news of whose miserable end had reached
the Embassy-house long before Sir Roland had returned there —
**0r no," he continued, "I should prefer your going yourself^
Thompson— and iell "Wilson I would thank nim to wait on me,
instead of you. Make arrangements, if you can," and a shudder
passed over him, "for having this unfortunate man buried re-
spectably, and I will be answerable.— But do not let him lie near
— ^Mr. Anstruther."
Sir Roland made this arrangement resecting the servants in the
Hear that, if WiLson saw the body, he mi^rht observe the likeness
to his late master, which was so very striking in death; whereas
his own man. not having seen Mr. Anstruther since his last fatal
attack, would not so readil^r be struck with the resemblance ; and
Wilson was well satisfied with the change, for he had felt a sincere
regret at his master's death, and was better pleased, after the
funeral, to be employed about the living than the dead.
Sir Bx)land, the next day, gave Mr. Scott an outline of the elder
Mr. Anstwither's history, as far as he was acquainted with it, re-
. SIB BOLAKB ASHTON, 113
newing Ms request that lie would be silent on the subject to every
one. It was a recital calculated to excite the greatest horror
in a Christian breast, and Mr. Scott was greatly smiocked at hear-
ing it.
•* I wish I had known earlier," he said, " who it was you were
talking to, so as to have taken part of the burthen off from you;
for it must have been dreadful, Knowing who he was, to see him in
that state of excitement, and to have to bear it alone."
" It was terrible," replied Sir Roland ; '* and I should have been
very glad to have had you and Singleton by me, only I dreaded
your discovering who he was. That apprehension was as trying —
or more so— than the sight of him ; though it is frightful to witness
the workings of insanity in any one— and in this case the whole
circumstances were so harrowing !**
" Tell me, Ashton," asked Mr. Scott, " what did you feel when
lie levelled the pistol at your breast ?"
"What did I feel? Why, deadly fear, to be sure ! What could
you have expected me to feel ?"
"Why, * deadly fear,' certainly— at least, I think I should have
felt it; but not having ever been put in that situation, I could not
tell from experience, so I wanted to know your sensations— for I
knew you would tell me the truth."
"My deliberate opinion," said Sir Roland, "is, that death, to a
Christian, is better than life in its best estate; for to him * to be
absent from the body, is indeed to be present with the Lord.' But
when a violent death is suddenly presented to one, I could scarcely
believe — judging from my own sensations — ^that any man could
remain wholly unmoved and fearless. Human nature shrinks
from the act of death, under all circumstances ; and the sudden,
forcible rending asunder of soul and body— in cold blood especially,
must always be a thing harrowing to every nerve. I remember
a very spirited officer saying, * it was useless to pretend that sol-
diers felt no fear in danger — ^unless, perhaps, in the heat of battle
—but that he was the Dravest man who could best conceal and
control his fear.' "
" Well, you certainly concealed and controlled yours yesterday,
Ashton, for not a step did you move."
" Standing still was my best chance, you will remember. But
it is a painful subject to me, Scott, fresh as it now is in my mind;
for the fearful end of that unhappy man— or rather the fearful be-
ginning of his worse state — ^iills me with horror I How unlike the
feelings that accompany the thoiu^hts of his son's death ! — thei/ are
aU joy, as far as he was concerned— though it is inconceivable how
much I feel his loss. But the two events are at present so mixed
together in my mind, that the one poisons my enjoyment of the
other ! How remarkably, in this case, have the ways of the Al-
mighty borne out His words :— the -wife's unfaithful marriage so
fearfully visited !— the mother's faithful prayers so fully an-
swered !
An officer of justice called in the course of the day to take Sir
Roland's deposition, and ^at of his friends, concerning the un-^
I
114 6Ifi HOLAKD ASHTOy.
Lappy ooonirence whicli had taken place the day before ; but Hiere
Beemed not the sHghtest suspicion as to who the stranger was ; and
the questions whion were put were, happily, not such as to oblige
Sir Koland or Mr. Scott to betray the Knowledge they possessed^
which was a great relief to the mind of the former.
A plain but handsome monument was soon after erected by Sir
Boland oyer the spot where George Anstruther's remains rested ; it
bore a simple inscription, stating his name and age, and that he
died " trusting in the merits of the Lord Jesus dmst ;" and at
Ihe conclusion there was earved that encouraging text, so pecu-
liarly applicable in his case—" Cast thy bread upon the waters, for
thou shatt find it after many days."*
CHAPTEE XVI.
** Oh, shame beyond the bitterest thoogiit
ThAt evil spirit ever fram'd,
That sinners know what Jesos wronghtt
Tet feel their haughty hearts nntam'd--
That souls in refuge, holding by the cross,
^lould wince and firet at this world's little loss."— Eeble.
*' Tien dletro a me, e lascla dir le gentl ;
Sta oome toire flerma, che non crolla,
Giammal la dma per sofllar de* ventL"
pAJVTE: Purgatorio, CsoktoY,
** And compassed with the world's too tempting blazonry.**— Kebijb.
<* It is only the heart which is fixed on God which does not get bewildered o»
the earth."
" Separate yourself ftom what separates you firom God.'*-«-£ettres Chrmemnu^
** There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this
To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart I
« « « «
These cannot be man's best, and only pleasures I"— Xk>i£RiixuE.
A DAY or two after the events had taken place which we have
recorded in our last chapter. Lord N-« — returned from , but
only to announce a still lon^r absence, which he was about to
maxe. He had business which oaUed him to England, and which
might possibly detain him there for some months, and Sir Roland^
during that time, was to act as " charge d'affaires."
It required all Sir Roland's patience to keep him from murmur-
ing under this arrangement \ and indeed more than all— for he did
murmur— and bitterly too, in his own mind, for he had folly pur-
posed, as soon as Lord N— *— should return from his shcort ab-
sence, to request to be allowed to go to England himself for a few
weeks. He had stayed willingly at — *- as long as Mr. Anstrutlier
* This text is supposed to adrert to the practice of scattering rice on the
surface of the waters during the artificial irrigation of the land, by which
means t&e grain, sinking deep into the softened earth, brought fi>rth an
abundant increase, when the temporary inundation bad subsided.
SIR BOLAITD ASHUQiN, 116
required his society, but now that that friend was laid in his quiet
and hai^py grave, he felt a double desire to depart; and the thought
of staying was more irksome to him a thousand limes than it had
been before. He missed Mr. Anstruther so exceedingly — and the
constant delightful occupation of tending and watching over him—
that his heart yearned more than ever for those he loved — ^far
away. He imbosomed his troubles to Mr. Scott; but when he
had poured them all forth, he said, laughing —
" JNow, how I hate myself for what I have been saying ! One
has no idea how horrid one is, till one's thoughts break out into
words ; then one begins to understand somewhat of the blacknesg
of one's heart. How short-lived are its memories ! A little while
ago, when poor Anstruther was dying, I felt as if I could forego
chcerfnlly — so fall did I seem of love and gratitude — all diat Q-od
Slight ever call upon me to give up ; or do willingly anything
which he might set before me to do : but now, the moment my
Irishes are thwarted, up springs the old, thankless, detestable
nature again ! And I felt so desperately cross too, with my kind
nncle, who I know would not intentiimally vex me for worlds !
He tries me oertainl^^but it is, not knowing what he does. But
God tries me, knowing fall well what He does ; and what folly
and madness it is to repine at His dispensations— merciful and
kind as they invariably are. Pray take a sponge, Scott, and wash
out from the * tablets of your memory* all that has passed within
the last quarter of an hour, and you will see how wonderfolly
well I shall behave all the rest of the time."
Lord IST had indeed, no idea of the sacrifice he was exacting of
Lis nephew, in obliging him to remain at , for he was totally
innocent of having ever even suspected his attachment to Lady
Constance Templeton. A conscious feeling had always made Sir
Boland enclose his letters to her, in thosene sent to his mother, or
to Lord St. Ervan ; and Lord N had been so little in England
of late years, that Lady Constance's existence even was scarcely
remembered by him. As it was however there was no help for
it— and Lord IS must needs go, and Sir Roland must needs
stay ; and the latter kept his word most conscientioualy to Mr,
ficott, and behaved ** wonderfully well," during all the prepara*-
tions for the journey. But when the carriage which was to con-
vey Lord N to England, actually came to the door,— and what
was worse, actually drove off on its homeward destination with,
"decidedly," as Sir Eoland thought, " the wrong person in it" — a
violent irruption of splenetic combustion seemedT about to take
place. He tried to laugh himself out of it, but that utterly failed
(it was no laughing matter to him, poor fellow !) and reasoning
was just as bad ; so he told Mr. Scott, with a smile, " that he
must go and take the matter seriouslv up, for that it would never
do to be so beaten, and by such a trine.'
He did go, and "took the matter seriously ui;)," for he felt
almost alarm"ed at the power which so slight a tmng as the post-
ponement of his wishes for a few months, exercised over him. He
went to Mr. Anstruther*© apartment, which was now his favourite
I 2
116 HB, BOLAKD ASHTON.
sitting-room, and there looked into his own heart with ahamo
and fear.
" Is it possible," he thought, " that I have forgotten all the
lessons I so lately learnt in this spot ? Can I so soon sin against
FiTn who then shewed me such mercy ? What if God, iustiy dis-
pleased at my wayward folly, my deep ingratitude, should, in very
fEiithfulness, afflict me more sorely, even as regards her^ and shew
my weak and wiKul heart that it must learn to bear — ^and to
resign ? How could I hope then, to possess my soul in patience, if I
cannot now brook this light disapnointment ?** And leaning his
face on his hands, he prayed eamesuy that faith and temper might
not give way before tnis, so slight a trial.
" Why should we not go to religion for the loss of our temper as
well as for the loss of our child !" asks that mistress of the human
heart, Hannah More. Ah ! if all would but do so, what a smilinff
face would this world wear, compared with its present fretful ana
frowning look ! Evil passions destroyed in their birth, would then
never live to " set the course of the world on fire ;"— man, ceasing
to ** hate his brother without a cause," would never become a mur-
derer i and godliness and peace would again reign in the earth 1
** Ah belU pace I
Ah, de* mortali universal Bospiro !
Se 1* nom ti conoscesse, e piu geloso
Fosse di te 1 riprenderia suoi dritti
Allor natura: vi saria nel mondo
Una sola famiglia ; arbitro Amore
Beggerebbe le cose, nh ooperta
TitL dl deUtti si Tedria la terra." •^MoiiTi.
That ** trifles form the sum of human things" (another of Hannah
More' 8 excellent sayings) all will acknowledge ; yet how few act as if
they believed it ! For one hour which is agonised by fearful mefs,
or torn by afflictive bereavements, how many thousands do we
spend in oppressive and stinging bitterness, owing to the tempers— *-
selfish, m^gnant, unfeeling — of ourselves or others !
" Ah ! ma am," said an unfortunate servant to his late mistress
{he having in an evil hour been induced to marry a violent and
Quarrelsome wife) " in former times, if there was any disturbance
in the house, I could go into my own room, and shut the noise
out ; now, I shut it in r A bad case, certainly ; yet not so bad as
when the noise is — not only in our room, but in our heart ! If ** a
contentious woman is," as Solomon says^ " like a continual drop-
ping"— of water, a contentious heart is like a continual dropping —
• "Ah! lovely Peace!
Ah ! of mankind the universal sigh !
If men bnt knew Thee — and more Jealous were
Of Thee I Nature her rights would re-awert,
In all the world there would be found but one
Sole family. Love, the blest arbiter.
Would govern all things — ^nor the Earth again
^e her fair surface blotted o'er with crime"
SIX BOLAND ASHTON. 117
of fire, wastingr, Mackeninff, desolating: all within ; and consuming,
in misery, aU the goodly fael which a gratjions God has so richly
providea, to keep aliye the cheerful hlaze of kindly smiles, ana
of hright and warm affections !
Sir Roland was wise therefore, and faithful to himself and to
his God, to check with a strong hand the first heginnings of evil ;
and when, having implored the washing of Christ's hlo<xl, and the
strength of His Spirit, he was again enahled to commit himself
and Ms every interest to the care of his heavenly Father, he felt
once more tranquil and at peace !
" Lord 1 what a change within ns one short hour.
Spent in thy presence, will arail to make ;
What burdens lighten, what temptations slake,
lYhat parched ground refresh as with a shower!
* We kneel, and all around us seems to lower—
We rise, and all the distant and the near
Stand forth in sunny outline, brave and clear ;
We kneel, how weak 1 werise, howftillof poweri
Why, therefore, should we do ourselyes this wrong,
Or otiiers, that we are not always strong !
That we are ever oyerbome with care,
That we should ever weak or heartless be.
Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer*
And Joy, and strength, and courage, are with Thee.***
New trials, however, awaited Sir Roland, arising from the situa-
tion which he now occupied at .^ As a subordinate, he had
l)een allowed to take his own way with tolerable impunity ; but
now that he was left ' en chef,' he was, of course, much more under
observation. He had alwajs, as in duty bound, attended at coiut>
and when invited, at the dinners and occasional evening narties of
the sovereign at whose capital he was residing ; and uiose who
were unacquainted with his character and principles, imagined
fhat it was only shyness at first, and then his continual attendance
on Mr. Anstruther, which had prevented his joining in all their
gay amusements. Great, therefore, were the expectations formed
of what was to take place, when one so young, and so rich, should
hold the reins in his own nands ! Many^ an anxious mother, and
gay, joyous daughter, looked forward with delight to the brilliant
Vf^tes' which it was thought 'lebeaumimstre ^glais,' ('The hand-
some English minister,') would of course give for their amusement ;
and *bals costumes'— 'courses 4cheval'—*th€&tres de soci§t§'—
(•Fancy balls,/ 'races,' 'private theatricals,') 'f6teschamp^tres,'&c.
glancel in bright and rapid succession through the enchanted brain
of many a fair out thoughtless being, who seemed unconscious that
she was formed for nobler purposes, than iust to flutter— and to i&de !
But Sir Koland resolutely refused, eitner to attend the late par-
ties given by others, or to swell the number of them himself. He
gave frequent dinners, and early evening parties, which were
always exceedingly agreeable ; but beyond tl^t rational mode of
exgoying society ne would not go. He had to encounter argument
• Rer. R. C. Trench.
118 SIB BOLAin> ASHXOH.
irpon argument, remonstrance upon lemonsfaranfie,—- but nothnur
snook him ; ana the amiability of temper with which he bore all
the frequently iiritating things that were said to him, generally,
in the end, disarmed his assailants, and turned their wrath into
admiration.
At length, all other efforts having failed, a yoitng, mamed
English lady, of high rank and sreat beanty, Yolnnteered, as a
*' forlorn hope," for one final assaiut. Lady Stanmore reigned as a
sort of queen over the sode^ in which she moved ; and, beinx
acoostomed to see all aronna submitting to her sway, dhe haa
acquired some faint idea that no one oould resist her wisnes. From
natural kindness of heart— for she was most sweet and amiable iu
manners and disposition — she had been very attentive to Mr.
Anstruther during his last illness — continually calling to inauire
after him, and sending him anything which she thought likely to
promote his ease or amusement. The obiect of these kind atten-
tions had, indeed, many a time turned wim a sickening mind from
the Yolumes of new publications she had sent for his perusal,
though he felt the pudTiflMi and amiability of her thou|:htful
attentions : and often did he breathe a prayer for her, asking of
God to enlist her warm and sympathetio hc«rt in His own blessed
service.
This attention on her part towards Mr. Anstruther, had estab-
lished a sort of amicable feeling between her and Sir Roland, even
before they had beoome persraially acquainted with each other;
and she now trusted that the little claim it formed, might give her
additional influence over him, and induce him the more readily to
comply with her requests; and certainly her entreaties were
rpartiy perhaps for that reason) those which he found it the most
dmcult to withstand. She was confident of success, and boasted
in anticipation, to the band of discomfited champions who had
gone before her, that she was certain of reducing this " Timon,"
as she called him, to perfect subjection to her will; and that they
would see that in less than a week, cards would be issued for a
&ncy ball at the Embassy-house, die herself, after " unexampled
solicitations," being induced, with Lord Stanmore as aide-de-camp
(for she was wise enough to feel that a husband's side was the only
safe place for a young married woman, and never went into publiG
without him) to accept the station and duties of mistress of the
ceremonies!
, The evening after this bold declaration, she was to meet Sir
Boland at dinner at the ambassador's; and then and there^
'did she determine to " carry" the hitherto impregnable fortress.
Dinner concluded, she wiled Sir Boland away to a distant part
ef the room, strolling from picture to picture, making observa-
tions, and asking his opinion— so that, even had he wished it, he
could not have declined accompanying her— and then when tiiey
reached a deep-niched window, through which, spite of the blaze
of lamps within, the last faint streaks of sunset were still dis-
oenuble— whence they could
** Gaze on the twilight's tender gray.
Escaping unobaeryed awayt"
SCR BOLAITD ASHTOIT. lid
«he seated Herself; and said playfully, to Sir Boland, that slie Ixad
nrnoh to say to him— matters of grayest import to discuss.
*' I am all attention/' he said eonrteonsly ; whilst leaning
against the open window he looked out on the quiet of the eyenuur
}Miur. His thoughts flew for a moment to Ijigland, and a ^gk
arose. He waited for Lady Stanmore to proceed, but she too» was
silent! The themes she was about to enter upon, seemed so un-
oongenial to the spirit of that gentle hour, that she felt she had
1>een an unskilful fi^eneral in arraying her forces to such disadvan-
tage. There was also something in Sir Roland's countenance and
maimer, which, young as he was, bore great command ; and the
iUgnitv of his mind, which, tiiough lively and animated, 3ret never
yerged towards levity, acted as a restraint upon the follies of
others. Lady Stanmore herself too, felt the influence of that cdlent
scene; for hers was a heart formed by nature for all good and wise
emotions, though crroumstanoes and education had placed her in a
. situation which, with her great attractions, she found too fascina-
ting to withstand.
Ferceiving at length that she did not speak. Sir Eoland turned to
ber, saying —
** Is the subject you wore about to introduce, of so overwhelming
« nature, that it deprives you of the power of speech. Lady Stan-
more? or are you malidoualy collecting all your powers toget^ier,
to destroy me at once by a ' coup de main ?'
'* No," she replied, "my ar^fuments seem rather to have faded
sway with that last ray of light.-*In short," she added, rallying
her spirits to the onset, " i must resolutely turn away from
* twilifirhf s sober livery,' and from that imploring moon which I see
just nsingr through the trees, and return to the glare and blase of
these lamps, if I hope for victory in the cause I am about to plead."
And she sooilingly seated herself with her back to the windo^
having the brilliant room and its |^y groups just before her, and
motioned for Sir Boland also to sit down. He obeyed; and ejie
*I wisbed very much—- I wanted to say— I meant to ask ^
She could not get on, so laughing, thougn with some embarrass*
nent, she exclaimed—
" I shall never succeed in pleading my cause if I begin in this
aetfe formal manner; so let us introduce the subject with a little
preliminary nonsense ; though I am afraid, ' qu'u me faudrait Mre
ioosles fraismoi-m^me' (that I must take all the burden on myself)
in that case also ; fi)r you are never guilty of talking nonsense, are
you?"
"Ton underrate my powers cmeUy," replied Sir Roland. "It
28 not my hourly study certainly; but there are, I assure you* fine
specimens of that kind of oratory on record, of my production.
Snt perhaps you would better like to have some grave, deep, philo-
sophical subject started, from which your lighter fabric might rise
with all the charm of graceful airiness. Shall I begin— as a pecn-
liar-minded friend of mine did once to a young lady, whom he met
for the first time at a dinner-table — and ask you *what your
opinion is concerning the mode in which oysters derive their
nourishment^'"
120 SIK EOLAlTD ASHTOX.
'* Yes ! I think that will do beautifally/* replied Lady Stanmore,
smiling ; " any subject will shine after that ! But we will go on.
by gentle degrees, and I shall parry your Mend's awful question,
by asking in my turn, how people in this country can like to derive
tneir nourishment from those lively animals, so very long after the
creatures themselves have been * dead to aU sense of propriety;' it
is horrible — dreadful ! It must be at least a quarter of a century
since those we had to-day, have 'mourned' (though, alas! not
• sweetly,*) * their parted sea !* Well, that may lead on to other
dinner contemplations ; and dinners lead to conversation, and con-
versation to society, and society to company, and company to
amusements, and amusements to "
" The point of attack," interrupted Sir Roland, laughingly. " I
half suspected what the * grave subiect of discussion' was to be»
from the very first ; and I was fully convinced of it," he added*
in a quieter tone, " when I saw that you were forced to turn your
contemplative eyes and softened feelings, from God's beautiful
works out there, to this hot room and well-dressed conpany;
— ^though perhaps, I am too free in reading what i>a8ses before
me."
'* Oh ! one is weak and sentimental sometimes,'* said Lady Stan-
more, fearing that her arguments would again melt away from her
^asp ; " the 'witching hour' of eve is all very charming, Then it
IS arrayed in loveliness like that we looked upon just now; but
those are things we cannot command ; black, stormy nights will
come, as well as bright and stilly ones ; and when the mooa, which
now, * apparent queen, asserts her matchless reim,' is ' hi! in her
vacant mterlunar cave,' (one must be poetical of course ia talking
of her)— why then the 'sable-stoled' night is a dismal thing ta
look out upon. Kow, the bright gleam of lamps and smibs we can
always command witJiin ; and it is surely wise to apply ourselves
to wnat is in our power at all times, and not to depend for pleasure
on what we cannot control l"
She waited for Sir Roland's answer, and he replied —
" I think indeed, it is wise— and the only wisdom— to look for
happiness to that which we have it in our power always to com-
mand. But perhaps 1 may be allowed to demur to ptrt of youx
description as to what we can always command. Lamps, I will
concede — ^but cannot smiles : I mean what you, of course, intend 1
should mean — smiles of happiness. That smiles of eome kind»
may always be commanded in the scenes you speak of, we wiU not
dispute— smiles of gaiety, of vanity, of excitement— and may be
sometimes of real pleasure ; but are they always smiles of happi-
ness ? I need not ask you to believe me, when 1 venture t) assert
that they are not ; a mind like yours, Lady Stanmore, will answer
the question for itself, or I am mistaken— will tell you whe^iher the
smiles you meet are not nnfrequentiy those of absent, heart-siok*
ness !"
^^ "I do not say," replied Lady Stanmore, not quite at her ease.
that one is always positively, substantially happy at thoseplaoeB ;
5S^ ? . IP^ °^^* confess that .a weU-lighted, brilliant ball-room,
nlled with— out of compliment to you I will say only apparentbi^
Sm BOLANB ASHIOy. 12V
fiy and happy beings— is an animatbg and ezHlaxating sight.
on mil concede me t?Mt, at least V
** I most draw largely on my imagination if I do/' said Sir
Boland ; ** for I am afiraid you -wul reallv think me the 'Timon * I
know you call me, if I venture to confess that I have never yet
trostea myself within that magic circle."
** Never been to a ball ! — ^really, never been to a ball !** exclaimed
Lady Stanmore, in the greatest astonishment. " Ton don't mean.
to say that ! I knew that yonr estates lay in ComwaU ; but I was
not in the least aware that you had been broiigrht up in its mines I
Do you reaUy mean that you have never, posiuvely never, entered
a ball-room?"
Sir Roland confirmed the terrible fact by a bow of profound
humility, looking at the same time with a smiling eye to Lady
Stanmore.
"Well ! I suppose I am bound to believe that bow,*' she said v
though I am ha^py to find you have grace enough not to put the
shocking confession again into words. The case is really far worse
than I had suspected ; the evil is deep-seated— firmly rooted, I fear«
I thought I might have been able to have called back some fond
zemembrance— to have reanimated some smothered embers in your
oold heart ; but alas ! your mind is like Australia : * a land of no
recollections.' What shall I do ^ I have nothing in common with
you!
" Oh, yes ! you have— much— much ;
< The oommon air, the earth, the skies,
To me are opening Paradiae ;'
and so they are to you— I know they are : let us think of them,
and then advocate your ball-room, if you can !"
"Yes ! I can, ana will," said Lady Stanmore, yaily ; "notwith-
standing that you think to flatter me into your opinion, by attribu*-
ting to me all sorts of vulgar tastes. I wiU assert, and without
fear of contradiction, that the ' common air ' is often uncommonly
cold and disagreeable— that the * earth ' is often dirty and dreary
— and the 'skies' often cross and gloomy; and so, with many
thanks for fresh argument suppUed, I say again,
• Tnm fhnn snoh Joys away.
To those which ne'er decay,*
—but which can be renewed at pleasure."
'* Tou are a sad perverter of reason and poetry, I see,'* said Sir
Boland ; ** but may I ask Lady Stanmore, what it is this discussion
is meant to lead to ? Are you so very complimentary as to make it
any point for me to appear at the f&te which I believe you are
goinf to give next week ? or do you only wish to humble and dis-
appoint me, by making me foil of anxiety for the invitation you
intend to withhold ^ "
** Oh, no ! I assure you I fly at nobler game — at least, not nobler,
for you are the quarry that I seek— but though I should be de-
lighted to see you at our house on Wednesday, yet I want a more
123 SIB SOLAin) ASHTOIT.
enlai^ed field of aotkm than one ' f dte ' can sapply. In short I
want you to do, what you ought to do — contribute to the * gene-
ral joy' of the whole society here. I want y;ou to open your
fine apartments, and fill them with all that is enchanting in
life. Now do. Will you give one party? Begin with the
quietest kind: a concert — and then you will see liow pleasant
it is ; and you will go on to balls, and — Oh ! you haye no
idea how delightful you will find it — and everybody will be
so enchanted with you ! — ' tous yous tuerez i force de plaire !'
Now win you } " And she turned her animated eyes beseechingly
on him.
Sir Roland could not but return her look with a smile ; but it was
a sad one, for he grieved to see that young and kindly heart given
up to such follies ; (though across that shade of regret there shone
for a moment the image of one still younger, and still lovelier,
than the beautiful creature at his side— whose soul was raised tax
above these things; and he blessed 0od that it was so.) He
answered— though not tiU a sigh of mingled foelings had forced its
way—
*^ Ton have heard music at my house, Lady Stanmore.' '
" Oh, yes ! instrumental — some of these bands— and magnifiooit
they are. But I want a real concert, with all the finest opera-
singers, and ' five hundred invitations.' "
''^I cannot do that," he said, gravely.
"Why not?"
"There are many reasons — some which I cannot discuss with
you,'* he added, with a slight embarrassment.
" Well, then, let it be a oaU !" exclaimed Lady Stanmore ; (who
seemed to think with Sir Archy llacsycophant, that " every rerasal
was a step ;") " do the thing handsomely at once— let it be a fancy
ball! Ton should do something to atone for your past life off
neglect ! Tour court-dress would do perfectly for you, so you
need have no care about that ; and I, and Lord Stanmore, would
take the whole trouble off your hands, if you liked it ; you should
just keep out of your great apartments for a day or two, and then
return — and find yourself in the palace of the fairies ! Ton can-
not, t am sure refuse, when I am kind enough to make such an
offer."
" It is hard, indeed," said Sir Bolaad, "to refuse you anything;
but nevertheless , I am afraid it must be done."
" But why ! What reason can you have ? I will listen to every
thing you have to say, sure of being able to answer all your ' un*
answerable ar^ruments.' "
" But what if I will not yield to reason, and determine to have
my own way, simply on the old regal plea—* Le roi le vent ? ' (the
kingso wills it,)" said Sir Boland.
"^Hiy, then, I shall ^ve you up for ever, and, as the Gbrmaa
lady said; ' leave yon die in your hole.' But that will not be the
case I am sure. So now — do tell me what are your reasons ?"
" Mentioning them would involve a graver discussion than might
Xnrobably be agreeable to you," urged Sir Bolaad.
Sm SOLAND JLSHTOir. 123
Lady Stanmoie certainly shnmk from the idea of amy really
serious sabject being started, so sought to parry it by sayine —
*' Tou do not really mean that you think, because one likes- the
eheerfol pleasures of life, that one must, therefore, be dead to
nature and all her charms !"
" Oh ! no, did I not sav that I knew you were aliye to them all }
But the love of nature, though a more refined and ennobling taste
than tiie delight in the — &rgiye me if I call them — fnyoloua
pleasures of dissipation, yet is not a whit more spiritual, unless we
look ' through nature uu to nature's God/ Poor Rousseau fondly
thought he worshipped God on the moimtains,' because his sen-
sitive, but unprincipled mind, was melted by the lovely tilings
around him in those lovelyplaoes ; but what God did he worship ?
surely not the God of the Christian ; — surely not the God who said,
' blessed are the pure in heart ! * And I have a Mend who says he
can 'worship God in the fields,' but ' cannot worship Him by Act
of Parliament ' — as he calls going to Church. I confess I have
never been able to discover his God in the fields ! I am more in-
clined to agree with Lord Bacon, when he says, * I have sought
Thee in courts, fields, and gardsns, but I have found Thee in Thy
temple ;' though stOl more perhaps with Augustine, who says, * X
sought Thee long in surrounding things, but when I looked within
myself, then I found Thee.' Yes, Lady Stanmore, I know that jrou
are alive to all these things, ana also — to all generous and land
affections. I knew you by the latter character, you will remem-
ber, before I had the pleasure of being personally acquainted with
you."
*' It was very little I did for him, i)oot fellow V* said Lady Stan«
more, answering Sir Boland's meaniog, for she knew that he ad-
verted to her attention to Mr. Anstruther ; "but I always felt more
interested in him than others did— there always seemed heart in
him, if one could but get at it. And then, when one is very pros- '
perous and happy oneself, one feels so much for those who are not
so ; and there was something so sad in his early death — pining
away— whilst we were dancing and singing around him— all but
' you ;— you never left him !"
I The colotir of emotion rose in Sir Eoland's cheek.
I ** He would not have exchanged his painful death-bed/' he saids
" for all the pleasxires this world could nave given him."
*' Why }*' asked Lady Stanmore in astonishment.
*' Because he felt it was the pathway to his Father's kingdom.—
He had leamt to estimate life — and eternity."
Lady Stanmore looked down in silence.
" He offered up many a prayer for you. Lady Stanmore," con-
tinued Sir Koland, withdrawing his eye from, ner softened coun-
tenance, " that your steps might early "be led into the only path of
• peaee and true lutppiness."
Lady Stanmore turned to the open casement and leant out ; but
not before a starting tear had marked her emotion. She was olent
for a few minutes ; out soon recovering — ^though still looking from
the window, ^e said —
124 SIB SOLAITD ASHIOK.
** But yon know, Sir Koland, Solomon says, * there is a time for
all thin^ ;' and amongst those ' all thing^s, he names dancing.*'
" But does he name the time for it }** asked Sir Roland.
"No," replied Lady Stanmore, retoming again to her seat, and
continuing with renewed gaiety, " therefore we are at liberty to ^x.
that for ourselves ; and I say, that the time to dance * par excel-
lence ' is — at my house next Wednesday — and at yours the Wed-
nesday after ! So will you engage me for the first set of quadrilles
on both of those occasions ?"
" I will— if you will in conscience and honesty teU me that I
am wrong in settling the ' time for dancing' to be, when we have
nothing better to do.
" When I offer my hand, I expect it to be accepted uncon-
ditionally and thankjrally," said Lady Stanmore,igood-numouredly,
though with somewhat of pique in her tone.
" My dear Lady Stanmore," said Sir Roland, ** could I have
accepted it, your offer would have been feltr— nay, it is felt, as most
flattering, and would have been most gratefully received ; but you
must remember that to avail myself of it, I must outrage all the
main principles of my life."
" On ! Sir Roland, what must yourprinciples be worth, if they
can be overthrown by such a trifle ? They must be more out of the
perpendicular already than the leaning towers of Saragossa or
risa— literally tottering to their fall !"
•* What would our great Duke have said," rejoined Sir Roland,
*'if in the heat of the battle of Waterloo, he had perceived Lord
HiU dressed in the French uniform? What would he — and all
the two armies have thought ?"
" Ah ! j'aper^ois le pi^ge qu'on me tend," (I perceive the snare
that is laid tor me,) said Lady Stanmore, laughing, and shaking
her head ; " so spread my wings and fly off, but only to settle down
in some other place ; thongh I must say you are very modest,"
fihe added, looking archly at Sir Roland, " to compare yourself to
one of the most distinguished of&cers in the army.
'*! did not think of that," said Sir Roland, smiling, "it was
merely that his was the first name that occurred to me ; and if
I had gone into the ranks, I might have stumbled on ^e name of
8haw, so that might not have saved me from your saroastio reproof
either."
" Ah ! but yon ^d people always do think so very much of
3rour8elves ; you think ' surely we are the men, and wisdom shall
die with us.'
"Are you acquainted with many of our 'profession,' Lady
Stanmore?"
"No, you are the only one I know to speak to ; I bow to a few
others here, but do not Know them."
" Then even if you tiink me so vain and self-conceited, you
fihould not include all in your censure. One whom you con-
demn to ' the ranks,' ought not to be taken as a fair i^>ecimen of
his army."
" Oh ! but I know you are all alike in that ; all of you fancv
yourselves like Atlas, bearing the whole world on your shoulders.
SIB BOULITD ASHTON» 126
* One often feels the weight of it certainly/' said Sir Eoland.
"How?"
" It is oppressive to the spirit, when one thinks, 'how,' in the
words of Scripture, * the whole world lieth in wickedness ;' and
when one sees how the love of it beguiles the best and loveliest ;
and one feels its weight too in oneself, when it so often clogs the
soul in its endeavours to rise above its ensnaring pursuits."
The solemnity of his tone checked Lady Stanmore for a moment,
but then she said —
" But you all think everything depends on yourselves."
"No, Lady Stanmore, forgive me, we do not think that; for
-every hour teaches us we can do nothing of ourselves ; but we
ought to atf^ as if we thought it ; as I read somewhere the other
day, * Every man should feel as if the battle depended entirely
on himself ! -—not that it depended, but as if it depended— there
is a wide difference between the two."
"You are a subtle reasoner, Sir Eoland.^ But why talk of
battles at all, — above all, of Waterloo, that prince of battles ? We
are now in tne ' silvery times of peace ;' and instead of trumpets
«nd bayonets, I only .offer you sweet sounds and pleasant sights."
" The warfare of the Christian, you must remember, is chiefly
within," said Sir Roland; " and are you not. Lady Stanmore, at
this moment, a very Napoleon ranging all your forces against
me?"
" To give me so high a rank is rather a questionable compli*
jnent — coming from you," she answered, smiling ; ** it avows me
oertainly great in power, but that is but to prove me pre-eminent
in evil, according to your view ; for you rank me as belonging to
the terrible armies of the world."
" I have not ranked you amon^ them," said Sir Roland, " you
have yourself claimed your station there. Would," he added
earnestly, " that I coiild * transplant you out of the kingdom of
tiiis world into the kingdom oi God ;' but it requires a stronger
^rm than mine to effect that."
There was a pause. Lady Stanmore would gladly have given
xip the object sne had originallv in view, for she felt now but
faint hopes of success ; and her better feeling were awakened by
what Sir Roland said, in a way that was painful to her, because
48he could not make up her mind to follow where they led ; but the
thought of the mortification she would feel if she had to own to
her friends that she had been defeated, made her determined to
leave no effort untried which might at last give her the victory.
She therefore soon began again in a gay tone —
" But now. Sir Roland, do tell me when it is you think it possible
that there may be ' nothing better to do than dance.' "
" I thought so yesterday evening -, and so I danced."
" You danced yesterday evening ! You actually danced ?
Where ? Oh ! I know ! It must have been at the Opera— in dis-
use — as one of the * corps de ballet! ' Your feet, * asserting their
indisputable right to dance,' you could refrain no longer ! I see it
all now— youp * besoin de sauter' (necessity of jumping) not being
allowed tae^Bpoimte by the well-regulated safety-yalyes of private
126 SIS SOLAND ASHTON.
balls, beoomes oondensed, till, wheH at high pressure, it explodes
on the stege, in spangled muslin and chaplets of roses !"
" Ah ! 7;^ou have at length discovered my incognito !" said Sir
Boland. ** What now remains for me ?"
" Bnt now, do really tell me," said Lady Stanmore, ** where did
yon dance ? or are yon only imposing on mr "weA mind ?"
" No, I assure yon I did dance. Idanoea two quadrille s. "
••And where r
" At Lady Wentvorth's."
*' Oh ! now I know you are leading me orer * bog and fell,' and
I will follow you no farther."
' ' No, really I did dance there. There was a set of children there ;
but not enough to make up a quadrille by one, so I filled up the
Tacant space, and we danced mostperseveringly to an old country
dance which was all that Lady Wentworth, who was orchestra,
could bring out of the stores of her memorv. There is nothing Tery
dreadful now the marvel is out, is there r '
" No, but you are very provoking."
"Why?"
'•Because you are reasonable, and there is nothing so tormenting
m existence as having to do with a reasonable person ; one must
either submit to be considered wn-reasonable oneself, and that is
bad enqugh, or one must, perforce, become reasonable oneself, and
that is worse. ^ Nothing is so intolerable as reason ; it is like the
railroad, running all on one level— no awful heights, no frightful
precipices, to vary and enliven the scene— one nat dreary plain*
with your object always in view, never lost in the dim, exquisite
haze of tmcertainty^, so exciting and delightful, but always 'perch^
U,' vulgarly visible to all the world, as well as to yourseu. So
now, that I have, I hope, reasoned you out of being reasonable, I
will make one more effort to render you agreeable. '
Sir Boland smiled and bowed.
" Are you content to leave the fashioning of your baU entirelv
in my hands, or do you wish to have 'voix.au chapitre?' " — (A
voice in council.)
"Dear Lady Stanmore, let us drop this subject^ and torn to
some other on which we might a^pree.
'* No, no— not yet ! that beating of a retreat of yours sounds
most inviting for a pursuit ; I am sore you feel your courage fast
melting away."
" On the contrary, it is to save l^e miserv of a triumph that I
wish to pursue the subject no further," saia Sir Boland, smiling ;
"unless, ' he added more gravely, "you will really talk of it in
sober seriousness ;— then I have no injection to saying what I feel ;
otherwise, we waste words to no purpose."
" Are you going to claim the right of eldership, and lecture me ?"
said Lady Stanmore, with a hesitatinff smile.
"I may do so, you know," replied Sir Boland; "for I have,
I know^ not how many years over my head more than you.
I am, indeed, quite old enough to take orders," he added*
noiling.
"And I am old enough only to give them* I suppose."
SLR SOLAin) A6HT0V 127'
** Well, then, give them now ; and say whether we shall drop
^s subject, or treat it as reasonable creatures."
** As we have gone so far, I may as well hear all you haye i»
say, and then yon shall listen to me ; and if I fiiil to oouyinoe
you, we will th#n let the subject rest fereyer."
" Will you open the case, then ?"
"Why no — I think not— no, you shall begin, and tell me all
your weighty objections to these things."
"In the first place, then, theare is great expense attending:
them ; an expense of means that might oe much more pr^tably
employed."
"I grant you that, perhaps, as regards a humble private indi-
yiduaf like myself," said Lady Stanmore ; "but you are the repre-
sentative, for the time being, of the greatest nation in the
world, and in your case, therefore, such eonsiderations sayour of
illiberaHty "
" If the money saved were expended on selfish pleasures, I might
perhaps deserve to incur that suspicion; but scarcely, I think,
when But however, if vou tnink me illiberal, Lady Stan-
more, I must perforce submit. '
Sir Koland spoke with rather a pained feeling, and a glow of pride
stained his cheel^ for his munificence was known to be unbounded.
Besides ^e large sums he spent in private ways, there wiere many
pubHc works of charity and utility to which he had subscribed
largely, and to which subscriptions ne had thought it right to affix
bis name, in order that it mi^t not be said, that he lived in a quiet
-way for the purpose^ of avoiding expense; for he felt that his
country, as well as his religion, was in some degree implicated in
his conduct.
Lady Stanmore was shocked at the expression she had used ; for
she knew how little Sir Koland deserved the imputation she had
apparently cast upon him. She hastened to say—
" Oh, no ! you know I cannot think you illiberal— -no one can
do that ; your name is known too well, and seen too often, for any
one to do that. Pray forgive my seeming, but most uninten-
tional rudeness."
" It is easy to forgive you anything, Lady Stanmore," replied Sir
Boland, touched by her manner; "particularly when I feel the
pride of my own heart require so much forgiveness. It is painful
to feel how soon a word spoken against sel^ causes that smoulder-
ing fire to blaze."
" I was very; unjust," she replied, sweetly ; " but what I said was
meant for foreign ministers in general, not for you."
"Well, taking it for them then," repHed Sir Koland, good-
humouredly ; "I think they might do more good to the places in
which they reside than bv giving fttes and balls ; for even if
there were no objection whatever to such parties of dissipation,
surely it would redound more to the high estimation in which we
all desire our country to be held by other nations, if each succes-
sive minister were to leave behind him some lasting memorial^
ACcordinfi[ to his means, of good done to the country m which he
liad resided. Do you think I am wrong in so viewing the subject
AS far as expense is concerned }"
128 SIB BOLAIH) ASHTON.
** No, certainly not," said Lady Stanmore. " And yet, alas !"
she exclaimed, lifting tip her hands in pretended dismay, " what
does that most indiscreet admission involve ? My poor fabric is
dispersed by it to the four winds."
** Touched by IthnrieFs spear, so may everything that hides the
light of truth from your heart, dissolve and vanish away/' said Sir
Itoland, with a bright smile.
"Thank you," said Lady Stanmore, gratefully; "I know you
wish all for my cood. But now," she added, with a pretended
sigh, " as I am reauced to the awful quiet of despair, I may as well
listen to all you have to say, and get my lecture over at one sitting.
I only wish I had given my fite^ ior 1 do not want my pleasure
in it to be disturbed.'*
" You will think me very hard-hearted then, I am afraid," said
Sir Roland, smiling demurely, " if I say that I hope it may be
disturbed."
" Yes, I do think you very hard-hearted ; for, as you know you
think we ball-goers will have no happiness hereafter, you should
in common charity wish us to have as much as we can here."
** Oh, do not speak lightly on those subjects, dear Lady Stan-
more," said Sir Roland, earnestly; ** think what is involved in an
* hereafter without happiness ' "
"You are so very solemn, Sir Roland," said Lady Stanmore, rather
startled ; " you talk as if you thought I were on the brink of the
grave."
" And who shall say that you are not on the brink of the grave ?
I would truly have you ever remember that you may be so."
" Then I snould be for ever gloomy and miserable.
" No, you would not— when you Knew and felt that your trea^
sure lay on the other side of that grave."
" But I cannot help having many treasures here, too. I have
my mother — ^my husband — ^my child" — and the tears started into
her eyes.
" Enjoy them to the utmost," said Sir Roland, most feelingly:
" they are Heaven's gifts, meant to be loved and cherished ; and
God g:rant that they may form part of your treasure hereafter !
But will your enjoyment here be lessened by the certainty of possess-
ing those pure ana sweet affections in heaven ? Here, you may be
called upon to part; there — ^partings are unknown." After a mo-
ment's silence he resumed, " Another strong objection to dissipated
parties is the great temptations into which tney throw our servants,
when we consider how much we are answerable for them whilst
in our service, it is a fearful thing to expose them night after night
to the force ojt almost every evil. I need not dwell on this objec-
tion ; I am sure it must commend itself to every conscience not
wholly dead to its great responsibiUties. Then for ourselves —
these things come as mists and clouds between our souls and God.
It is difficult enough to be sober-minded at any time— how much
more so when we are surrounded by all most calculated to intoxi-
cate the brain ! "We naturally acquire the tone of feeling of those
witii whom we associate, and you, perhaps, know better than I do,
Lady Stanmore, whether the conversation at those places is calcu-
SIR BOLAlfD ASHTOSr. 129
lated to lead tlie heart to God, or whether it is not rather likely to
deaden all spiritual feeling^."
" But," said Lady Stanmore, " the society at dinner-parties
just the same. I am sore I never heard a word at any one of them
which could do me any ^ood — except, perhaps, to-night," she
added, looldn^ kindly at Sir Roland.
*' You coula not even have heard that little in a ball-room," he
replied.
**Whynotr
" Because those who love to speak of the things of Qod do not
frequent ball-rooms."
"But t^hy should they not just as well as dinners ?"
" The nature of the two meetings is very different," auswered
Sir Boland. " I caonot but think that dissipation is injurious, yet
I feel that society is highly advantageous to all men; it rubs off
the ans^les of their tempers, and teaches them to look kindly on
their i^llows, and prevents their hugging themselves up, and
* nursui^ their own dignity too much. A dinner is a rational
mode oimeeting, and sanctioned too, we must remember, by the
highest authority. It takes place at a reasonable hour, and affords
reasonable T)eople an opportunity for reasonable conversation—as
we can fulfy testify at this moment— can we not } But even to
dinner-parties amongst worldly people, I should scarcely feel my-
self iustiiied in ^ing, excepting as obliged by my situation here,
if I aid not go with me earnest aesire, and indeed continual prayer,
tiiat I miffht be enabled to speak to my great Master's glory." '
" You have indeed done so to-nighv' said Lady Stanmore, with
some emotion; " but you have never done so before to me."
" No, Lady Stanmore, I have generallv seen you surrounded by
those who would not have welcomed sucn intnudon, and I am not
fond of public disputations. I wish indeed, that all men could
enjoj the things of Gbd as I do, but I think I should do harm by
forcing the subject in general society. The Almighty almost
always gives me the great happiness of being able to say some-
thing for Him; and to-night He nas seemed to make my way with
you so easy, by your kinof patience, that I could not but enter on
the path opened before me. It has been with true pleasure that I
have done so, and may the blessing of God rest on wlat has passed,
as far as it has been according to His will and word. But at a
ball how should I have dared to have talked as I have done? how
could I have said, ' Love not the world, neither the things that are
in the world?*"
" But why should we not love the world— to a certain extent, at
least?"
" I cannot better answer you, than by finishing the passage
which I began from the word of God," repKed Sir Koland : " 'If
anv man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.' "
'* But what would you have me do ?— If I did not go out at all, I
should only sit at home wishing to go."
" What I would have you do. Lady Stanmore — as you ask me,'
said Sir Boland, " would be to pray earnestly— continually, that
new heart, new affections, new desires, might be given you; the
3C
190 SIB B0LA3n> ASHTOK.
yan would seek and enjoy ne^ pleasures, and new oocnpatiGns;
and, above all, yon would learn to know and love that Being, of
whom tmly it has been said, 'None who find Him seek farther/ —
Have I been too severe a lecturer ?"
" No ! a most kind and faithful one; but I know not what sort
of a disciple I shall make. I feel there is a great deal of truth in
what you have said, but what can I do ? I cannot all of a sudden
leave off these things; and it might not be liked, even if I were
willing."
" I was not urgiiW' you. Lady Stanmore, to ^ve these things up
suddenly," said Sir Koland; "I was only stating why I could not
take them up soddeniy: No, it is far better to ' count the oost
before you b^n the warfare,' and not to enter in haste on a course
which you might net hove strength to pursue. Besides, though
reli^en will certainly, I think; lead to our giving up these worldly
disflipationB, yet it is a terrible mistake to fancy that merely giving
them up ma&es one religious, or even proves one to be so. A
hennit may oarryiite world in his breast tiiough he dwell in ' un-
tn)dden solitudes: ' and- so may we in the m(»ose seclusion of our
own chambers. But if really and truly you are inclined to befieve
that the service of God is better, and more satisfying than that of
the world, let me entreat of you to begin at tiie nght end — ^by-
prayer : that golden key which will open to you all the treasury of
heaven, all the riches of Christ; and then, as truth enters and fills
your heart, error must give way."
" But if," said Lady Stanmore, hesitating and colouring deeply
— " if I thou^t it wrong to go to these things, and it was wished,
that I should— what ought I to do?"
" You have always with you the two best guides a woman can
have, dear Lady Stanmore — your GtodL and your husband ! Keep
them ever near yen in their legitimate places— God ever first, your
husband ever next, and you cannot go wrong. Prayerfol studiy of
the Bible will help you through every diflScmty; for aU Scripture,
we are told, is given by inspnration of God, * that the man of God
may be peidect, thoroughly famished unto all good works.' "
" Well, Mary," said Lord Stanmore, when Lady Stanmore and
Sir Roland rejoined him, " have you been successful ? You look
vfery little elated for a conquerOT.'*^
'* No, my forces are all routed and dispersed, and I do not know
whether I shall ever be able to muster them again."
" Lady Stanmore has imposed a severe task on me," said Sir
Boland ; " or rather, has forced me on a dreadful service, the diffi-
culty of which you, Lord Stanmore, can best appreciate— that of
refasing a request of hersi"
" No, he is not capable of appreciating that difficulty," said Lady
Stanmore, taking her husband^ s arm, and looking at nim wit^i the
utmost affection, "for he has never refused me anything is hi&
"Has Ashton refused you anything?" said Lord Stamoore,
shaking his head at Sir Boland ;—^* then let him look to himself."
" I must leave my cause in Lady Stanmore's hands," said Sir
Snt -BOUiSJ) ASHIOS. 191
Boland, ^ and I liaye no doubt she will do me jiiaiioe; and may I
begr, if you can forgive me, and if yon are not better engaged, that
you Tnfl both honour me with jour company at dinner to-morrow?"
This was asreed to; and with tba kind^ feelings, the parties
then separated.
Lady Stanmore gaye ber fite the following week; bat Sir
Bolana 3 arguments and words, often recurred to ner mind, and bar
pleasure was not undisturbed.
CHAPTER XVTL
''A web of a difBerent ooloiir, but wiongbt by the same sabtle hand."
Charlottb Eluabeth.
<* And what i» home, and irtwre? bat with the loving."
MB8.HBMAm.
1^0 sooner is our great enemy baffled on one side, than he com-
mences the attack on another* Haying failed in forcing Sir Roland
to act contrary to his principles, as respected those dissipations
which be thought uncongenial to the spirit of Christianity, his wily
adyersary changed his mode of warfare, and raised up temptations
in the course of duty. % B^oland's large fortune and many
worldly adyantages, made him a person of importance and considera-
tion eyery where ; but the high station he temporarily filled at ,
of course added yery much to his conse<][uence there ; and his pecu-
liar character, aided by the charm of his countenance and manner,
caused him to be an object of great attraction, especially, as was
natural, to the younger portion of his female acquaintance, with
many of whom it became, for hia sake, quite a fa^on to profess
seriousness and reli^on.
Some there were in who sincerely agreeing with him in prin-
ciple, were thankftd to find that one so young and admired, could
alflo be so strong and steady in his uprightness ; and some who had
before been utterly careless on the subject, really were aroused, and
led by the force oi his example, to search and see whether his way
was not the way of godliness and peace. But many others, either
from excited feelings, or from pure affectation, in order to please
him, adopted for the moment a tone of conyersation and a hue of
conduct, wholly at yariance with their usual habits and disposi-
tions. But whateyer was the cause, to be so courted and admired
as he was, was a great trial to one oyer whose head scarce five-and-
twenty summers had shed their brightness ; and Six Roland felt tho
eyil ; the more so, because it was one which was calculated to draw
his heart from God, rather than make him fly to Him for strength
and refuge. That he was not one who could close his eyes to nia
own defects, or be content to slumber in the midst of danger, was
an inestimable blessins' ; but his watchfulness of conscience, inyalu-
able as it was, made nis mind, under his present circumstances, a
scene of perpetual warfare ; for he could not endxire quietly to giyo
way to the feelings of yanity which, spite of himself, were roused
X 2
182 6ZS SOLAin) ABHTOir.
perpetually witMn him, wlien he saw the eyident and flatterinfl:
admiration which he excited, and the marked attentions which
were shown him on every side.
None however, of the fair, and in many instances, amiable beings
who surrounded him, had power to withdraw his thoughts for one
moment from Ladv Constance. Her image dwelt unceasingly with
him, dressed in all the bright hues with which the heart so fondly
delights to deck the distant objects of its love ; and the remembrance
of her sweetness, and cheerful piety, warm and quick a£fections, and
exceeding beauty, came across his soul continually, with ever-sooth-
ing, yet ever-animatiuff influence. The appointaent he had made
to meet her every night in prayer, had never been forgotten or
neglected. It had been a source of the greatest pleasure and com-
fort to him ; riveting her image ever closer and closer to his heart.
In society the most uncongenial to him, or when watching in still-
ness by mr. Anstruther's death-bed, he had ever found rest and
peace in joining his spirit with hers before the throne of God. The
silent mrdnight-hour was rich to him in feelings of heart-felt love
and pure devotion ; for happily those two delightful sentiments
were ever imited in his breast.
Home thus ever shone before him in all its brightest colours ;
and ardently did he desire to be again within its happy precincts*
and with her who formed the dearest portion of its charm— free
from the glare of public life, and from all the thronging temptations
of the world.
Inexpressible therefore, was his delight, when he received a letter
from his uncle, saying, that he expected to be able to return to his
post in the course of the following month ; and that the new secre-
tary whom the government had appointed would accompany him.
The joy of his heart was unbounded; yet never did time seem to
move with such leaden feet, as during the interval that elapsed
between the receipt of his uncle's letter, and the time when he
could set out on his much-longed-for journey. At last his uncle
arrived, and with him the new secretary; and gladly did Sir
Boland relinquish into the hands of the latter, all the papera
and letters, &c. which had tormented him so long, and given him
so many weary hours. His extreme rapture was^ however, rather
damped by a claim which his uncle made upon him for future ser-
vices. There was some important business which he had com-
menced, for the completion of which, the concurrence of sevewd of
the different courts was indispensable ; but some hindrances bavins^
occurred in the course of the affair, it could not be earned forwara
at that time ; and Sir Bpland having commenced it^ and fully
understanding all its bearings, Lord N — ^had, whilst in Englandf»
obtained a promise that he should be appointed on a special missioa
for the purpose of carrying it through, when the proper time
arrived. Sir Eoland could not well refuse to undertake this busi-
ness, as his tmcle made so ffreat a point of his doing so ; but the
very idea of it was most irksome to him, desirous as he was of
remaining; at home. He determined, however, not to think of the
evil day tiU it arrived, so set himself with all diligence to speed his
joyful preparations for returning to Eugknd.
flIB BOLAin) ASHTOir. 183
At last all was concluded ; and haying: taken leave of Hs nnole,
and the many friends he had made in , he stood in the court of
the Embassy house, waiting: for his servant to put the finishing
stroke to the packing of his carria&re, and conversing with Mr. Scott,
who was going to stay some time longer on the continent with Mr.
Sin^ton.
** I ou will come soon to Llanaven, Scott," he said.
" Not I !" answered the other — " not for these six years at least.
I will never sing second to any one."
" Then, stay away for ever !" said Sir Roland laughingly, shak-
ing his friend's hand. And sprin^pig into the carriage, he threw
himseKback in the comer, exclaiming, " Home !"
CHAPTER XVm.
'*0hl dear, dear England ! how my longing eye
Turns westward, shaping in the steady cicada
Thy sands and high white Glifb 1"
Ck>LEBIDGB.
The form that stands before me folsifies
No feature of the image that hath lired
80 long within me."
COLEBIDOE.
81E RotAiH) passed through much beautiful country on his way
f^om — - ; but the nicture of home in his mind was so far more
enchanting to him, that he scarcely saw what passed before his out-
ward eye. He had received letters from Lady Constance, and from
his mother, just before he started, full of dehght at his anticipated
return. All was well with them ; " but all would be better when
he was there again, to share their nappiness." How often, and in
how many ways did he f ancv to himseu his return home— his meet-
ing with Lady Constance — ^nis quiet evening with his mother^— his
early morning walk over his own delightfoT grounds, with his own
sea sparkling and dancing in the light. Love was with him,
certainly the first and most arresting object in the bUssfol scenes
which imagination spread out before him ; but it could not exclude
other objects of interest and affection from his breast. It did not
stand forth in tiie landscape like some splendid but overpowering
mountain, shining in the sun's rich rays itself, but casting all into
shadow around^ but it stood rather as in itself a source of light
("whose fountain who shall tell ?"J gilding every other object, and
bringing to view all the beauty and loveliness of surrounding things.
His affection for his mother, ever deep and lively, gaining fresh
strength from his heightened feelings, and his full heart seemed so
fraiignt with love and. happiness, that it expanded to embrace the
whole world!
Those who would underrate true love, would underrate the
Almighty's first gift to the affections 1 With some, indeed, this
feeling is ephemeral as the morning dew, and the character raised
by it perhaps^ a moment above its ordinary level, sinks again wlieat
134 azs soLAim seaBcroiE*
the cause wliicli elevated it is past ; "but vitli others, true bye
endures through long, long years of married life ! — ^peace, and joy,
and affection, gilding the decline of life with rays ashright as were
its morning heams ! Happy are they !
The evening wasperfectly cahn on which Sir Roland crossed the
sea on his return to England ; and thexippleof the waters as he looked
into their dear denths from the vesseTs side, soothed his thoughts
into the most deligntful state of enjoyahle happiness. The moon
was not visible; but still, as nis^ht came oUj the ruffled waters in
the wake of the vessel reAectea light from the innumerable stars
that lit the sky, aaid fromthe never wholly-dying summer twilight.
It was just such a time as quiets down the thrilling agitation, and
flutter of both mind and body, which so often destroys the enjoy-
ment of expected, and longed-for meetings ; and the absence of the
moon, which Sir Roland had at first regretted, was in fact, a bless-
ing to him ; for there is oertainlj a most exciting power in her
peculiar light. Even if tiie heart is at rest, and there is nothing to
disturb its tranfjuiUity, yet the moon herself, with all her soft and
pure accompaniments, produces strong thoujgfh undefined sensations,
akin to melancholy, which depress the spirit, while they elevate
the soul. ; but when real cause exists lor anxiety, and sorrow mixes
with this feeling — ^then the blue and silvery gleaming of the star of
night, draws forth all the deep sad-heaiiteanpss, which perhaps,
had slumbered in the glare of sunshine. '* Daylight is the flesh
and blood-^moonlight is the spirit." Perhaps it was this feeling,
which in former dasrs, induoea the idea of melancholy persons being
moon-struck — of "moon-struck madness," which we find in our
older poets ; but he that as it may, poets, old and young, have ever
|»aid tribi^ to the charm and power of the queen of night ; and not
all the nonsense-verses which have been perpetrated to her disho-
nour, can dim one ray of her real beauty, or tu:e one <diftrm from her |
•sofbening infiuenoe. Indeed, Sir Walter Scott's dedaxation, " thst
never was there lover who had not got, at least, as £ar as ' Oh !
Thou,' " in a sonnet to her praise— far from detraettag j&om her ,
glery , proves only, how loveliest things viU flow toge&er. <^
Sir Roland oontinned en -deck -enjoying the sdUness of the daric-
enin^ hours, till midnight brought ogwin the weloome time ior
meeting her he loved, in the presence oi Ood. All was auietiiL
the vessel, exoejptkig the occasional voice -of the oarers ; ana unob-
served, and unmtermpted, he poured forth his soul to the Lord 4d
•earth, and air, and seas. Long did he pray—for his heart was filled
with dee}), though tranquil feelings; and it was ever a delight to his
pure spirit, to pour forth its hopes, its wants, its thankfulness, to
Him who hears and answers the prayers of those who love him.
He thought with deligrht, that but one more night would elapse be- ^
fore he should again, in very life and form, meet her whose image
had been to him through long ahsenee, the last waking thouglit at
night, as well as the "morning-star of memory;" and vn*apping hin
doak around him, he laid bifn^ftl^' down on the dedc, and slept in tla»
wsdt, still, summer air.
Sm -SaiAKD AMBXOS, 135
The stin's briiilit iMams early awoke bim ^e next mormnff ;
making him exchange his undefined but pleasant dreams, &r
the T^oity of eqjoyment, which the beaatifal soene before >tiTn
aflforded ; where £he lightest of all possible bieeEes sgring^ing up
with the dawn of day, jnst agitated tiie waters sufficiently to
make them, towards the ^east, one sheet of trembling, sparlding
** shinunerin^" light.
The vessel impelling itself oowwds thnrarhi^ smooth waters,
at lenglh entered the forest of masts, whieh lines the Thames as it
flows wr&aA the suburbs of London. The 'Wheels stopped ! — and
onoe again Sir Boland trod bis native land.
Certainly the disembarking Inm « steamer at London-bridge,
is not the most sentimental or romantic of landings! The pebbly
fihore of liie oeean might innire enthusiasm— but not ^An^.'— and
aever surely, eonld the most amrotedlorer of his country, returning
from the longest -exile, on coping forth at that spot, be inclined
toezoLaim, 'H>h1 oaraterradegii avimiei-4ibacio, (Oh! beloved
iand of my forefatiiezsi— I embrace -tiice!) still less to "suit the
aiction to die word."
Overlooking, however, all these minor condderations. Sir Ro-
jand was enehanted to find himsdf again in England, and only
wished that the next instant could have transported him to Ola-*
verton; but having, unfortunately, budness to transact at the
f aveicn Offiee, he was obliged to remain some hours in London ;
though as soon as that was despatched, he joyfully — how joyfully !
tamed his face towards the west. The nulroad, that :&iend of
the impatient, did not at tiiat time ran its level oourse in that di-
rection, but four horses and a light caliche, bore him on wkh
tolerable speed, and brought him rapidly on his way; till at
length* he oegaa to leoognue old aeeustomed scenes, •and points of
view familiar to him ; and ^cker, and thicker still, grew tiie de-
•liffhtfiii evidences that he was near his home, till at last, the woods
of C9averton appeared in sight. As that had been the last place
he had visited before his departure from Bngland, so, naturally,
was it the first to which he directed his steps on his return ; and
hiB happiness was unbounded whBn the carriage passed through
the park-gate, and he found himself onoe again in a spot so ines-
Iiressbly dear to him.
it was a lovely evening towards the end of July ; without a
breath to ruffle the lake which calmly spread ^ its lucid mirror to
the light," skirted in some parts by hanging woods, and in others.
by miniature diffii, whoae bright and clear reflections were pictured
to the life on the silvery waters. The deer and sheep had sought
the woods and far-stmohing trees for ahelter from the still fervid
Jbeat; and aU nature seemed to repose in luxury and enjoyment.
When he was within a short distanoe of the house, he fancied he
descried some one walking in the garden ; he thought it must be
Ladv Constance, and stopping thecarria^ (which he ordered round
to me stable) he jumped out; and flying down the green dope
which ctivided the loadTfrom the shrubbery, he bounded ovor the
mm raOings, and found himself onoe more^-«4here. Ho pansed a
186 SIB BOLAinO^ ASHTOir.
moment to recoyer breath, and to still the throbbing of Ids heart ;
which, what with excitement, happiness, and exertion, beat almost
to suffocation. While standing concealed among tiie trees, he
again caught the 'flutter of the white dress which had before at-
tracted him, and he now saw that it was Lady Constance, who just
then entered the very summerhouse where he had last parted fiwm
her. If he could have chosen the time and place of theur meeting,
thus it would have been ; there— in the same spot where he had last
seen her ; and where he had so often pictured her to his imagina-
tion, in her great beauty, and in her— to him still more precious —
tearful regret. She was standing within the walls of the summer-
house when he advanced, so that she was not aware of his approach
till he was almost dose to her, when hearing a step, she came
forward.
" Roland ! dear Roland !" she exclaimed, in the ioyful surprise
of the first moment ; then turning deadly pale, she would nave
fallen, had not Sir Roland sprung forward and caught her.
" My dearest Constance," he said, in alarm, " what is this }"
** Oh !" she exclaimed, in a voice of the deepest anguish ; and
leaning her head on his shoulder, she burst into an agony of tears.
" Constance ! Constance !" cried Sir Roland, terrified at her
emotion, ** what has happened ? Tell me I beseech you— my mother
—Henry?"
Lady Constance shook her head, but could not speak.
" Your father?" at length he asked, in a voice almost inaudible
from agitation.
A renewed burst of sorrow in Lady Constance proved but too
truly, that he had now touched on the cause of her overwkelming
afflictibn.
** He is not — " he could not finish.
" No," answered Lady Constance, understanding him, and strag-
gling for words, " but he cannot live."
*' My God !" exclaimed Sir Roland, looking up, in the anndsh of
Ms mind. " Oh, ConstiEuice !" he said, after a pause, "is this the
meeting I have so longed for— in tears of such affliction ?" Andhis
own burst fortli as he spoke.
Yet still she was there — ^he was with her ; and there was a strange
mingling of extremest joy, and bitterest sorrow in his heart, as he
seated lumself in silence by her side. He longed to know what had
caused this sudden danger to one for whom he felt so much regard*
yet he could not bear to ask Lady Constance, knowing that the
subject must be so painful to her ; but she, becoming more com-
posed, was about to speak to him, when a step on the terrace made
ner rise hastily.
" It is your mother," she said to Sir Roland.
" My mother here !" he exclaimed. And flying along the gravel
walk, the next moment he found himself folded in her fond em-
brace.
The servants had informed her of his arrival, and she had come
out immediately to meet a son who was the ddight of her heart.
The joy of meeting for an instant banished all teouble from their
mind8r--but only ior an instant ; and Lady Constance joining them,
SIB SOLAin) ASBTON. 187
her pale face and tearful eyes brought back sadder, and more
painral feelinp^s.
" I will go in," she said, to LadyAshton. "I have taken my
walk as yon wished, and now you must stay out and enjoy the
air, and dear Eoland's welcome company." And smiling through
her tears, she held out her hand to lum, and kissing Lady Ashton,
passed on to the house.
Sir Roland looked after her in silence till she had disappeared.
** How ill she looks !" he said, with a heavy siffh. " Oh ! my
dear mother, how little can we reckon on this wond's happiness !
If you could but know how I have looked forward to this hour!
with what sinful impatience I have longed for it ; and now— to meet
—with such bitter feelings!*'
He begged his mother to tell him how the event had occurred,
which had thrown this sudden blight on prospects which had seemed
so full of happiness when last he liad heard from home ; and Lady
Ashton informed him, that a few days previously, Lord St. Ervaa
had been examining, with his steward, some buildings which were
out of repair, and on which his carpenters were at work, when a
beam, which had been loosened from its place, unexpectedly fell»
and struck him with such violence that he was taken up senseless.
For many hours he had lain without speech or motion; but, after
a while, he had gradually regained the powers of his mind ; but
the injuries he had received were of so fatal a nature, that not the least
hope could be entertained of his recovery^ and indeed, it became
but too evident that his last hour was rapidly approaching. Lady
Ashton said that she had come over on the &st intelligence of the
dreadful event, and had remained at Claverton ever since ; and she
expressed her wish that Sir Eoland should continue there with
them; to which, of course, he readily acceded.
" And Constance," he said, "how has she borne this ? Tell me,
my dear mother, how has she been?"
" Poor child !" answered Lady Ashton ; "she and Florence have
both suffered terribly, the blow was so sudden. I was not here
at the first dreadful moment, but I believe Constance was nearly
frantic when her father was brought home ; and one cannot wonder,
for you know how devotedly fond they were of each other, and how
constantly he made her his compamon. But since I have been
herelshe has been quite csdm — ^too much so indeed — I had rather
see more frequent tears ; they might relieve her."
" She shed many when with me," said Sir Eoland ; his own
starting at the remembrance.
"I am glad of it," replied LadyAshton. "She has scarcely
left her father's side since the fatal accident took place ; nor has
she once closed her eyes. It was with difficulty I had persuaded
her to come into the air for a short time just now, when he was
asleep."
"But she will kill herself," exclaimed Sir Roland; "she must
liave rest."
" I cannot persuade her to lie down ; she says she cannot bear to
lose one of the few moments that remain of his loved presence, and
I cannot wonder ; indeed, it is the same with myself ; and I fear
138 fiiB JU>xJUO> Aesaox.
the time fiast approaches mrhen she will have leknxe enough for
sleep — ^and tears, too, poor girl !" And Lady Ashton covered her
face and sobbed aloud.
Sir Eoland pressed his mother to his heart, and would have
spoken of comfort, but could not. At length Lady Aahton became
more calm.
"He has begged me to be guardian to his ehildren," she aaid;
" and I have of course oonsMtted."
A jo^ indescribable rushed through 6ir Eoland'B wh.ole being aa
lie received this communication from his moth^v--so tr^nbliag a
joy, that he could not trust his voioe to speak in reply.
*' He has, you know," continued Lady Ashton, ** no near reia-
lions but his two cousins. Captain Tem^eton (on whom this pro-
perty is entailed) and his ei^«r, Mrs. Mordaont. The latt^^ the
moment she had lieard of the £atal aoddent which had taken
place, wrote by express, in the kindest manner, to entaeat that tiie
two girls might be consigned to hes care ; and she urged Jttdsr eon-
siderate offer so strongly, tiuit it wbs most painful to Lord St.
Ervan to refuse. But she is one of the last persons with whom he
'Would wish to leave i^iepi ; for she is a most tiM)roii,^hly worldly
character, and has besides, several sons, aiDt eonsidered very
steady, who have their home with her in London. I have heara
Lord St. Ervan say that he has frequently ask^d her to visit bim
liere, but that she always refused^ saying, thoug^ with the ntsaost
good-humour, that she could not endure his '* puntanical ways. ' fie
ad left his children wards in chancery, by a deed he executed the
moment bis senses recovered from the effects of thcetumiifl^ lilow
he had received, but he directed thst they should live with their es:-
oellent governess. Miss Grower, for he never dreamed that Mrs. Mor-
daunt would wish to have l^em with her^ but when he received
her letter, which was couched in the strongest, as wellas the kindest
terms, he felt a terror lest, when he was gone, she might, throiigh
good intention, p^tien the chancellor to let IkBThave the charge
of them ; and the plea that she was the only near female relation,
and that otherwise they would be left alone with a governesa, was
one, which he feared, might very naturally meet with «aeoe8s.
!Fhis idea fiUed him with sack apprehenflio& that he asked me if,
under these circunustances, I would consent to being named llieir
guardian, to which of course I agreed : as I should be most happy
to render them any service in my power, and be to them of ym&t
little comfort I could."
" And they will live with us, then ?" aaid Sir Boland ; at the mo-
ment forgettmg, in that joyful thought, the dreadful circumstance
wMch would be the occasion of their change of abode.
" No ; I begged him earnestly to let them do so," said Lady
Ashton, " temng liim what a happiness it woold he to me ; hut he
declined it positively, and with so much warmth and agitatiozh-^
entreating me to name it no more— that I dared not repeat n^
reouect. They are to live with Miss Gower, at "Westley, whieh &
<mly ten miles distant, and is the only house he possesses in the
ooun^ that is unentailed."
" Westiey I Westley is no place lor tham to live in/' exflHaimed
SEE BOLAHn) AfiHTOK. 199
Sir Eoland— " notior a day ! and close too, to that odious town of
X—, with its barracks and idle lounging officers— they will be
harassed to death : I cannot consent to their Hying there, — ^I can-
not endure the liioughts of it"
" My dear Eoland, ' said Lady Askton, imiling at his TehemeDee»
**yoa forgot that yonr oonsent nas not been aaked."
Sir Roland coloured deeply, for he felt that he had spoken more
in accordance witlL his wishes, liian with the realities of the case.
He laughed faintly and said, "Oh! yes, I spoke foolishly — I did
. not mean that, of course ; I only meant that my ioill would not
consent to their Hying at that place. But my dear mother," ho
continued, laying bis cheek to hers and kissing her fondlj, **will
you not tiy , once more, to move him ? Try— impLoro of him to let
GustD. Hve with yon."
"I would gladly do it, if I thought it would be of any ayalL,
flear Boland," replied Ladjr Ashton* returning his warm caresses ;
"you cannot l)e more anxious about it than I am ;" (Sir Roland,
however, felt that he was far moTO anxious even than his kind
mother) " but he so resolutely forbade the subject being mentioned
again, that I really dare not renew it. He is in so weak a state
that any agitation might destroy him at once."
" DidThe give no reason ?"
"None-Hbutlie entreated me to vrgB it no farther."
Bir Roland was lost in thouglit, and ikej walked on for some
time in silence.
" I trust I may see Mm," at length he said, with much emotion,
'*if only osice more to ohup liis hand; it would be painful indeed^
never again—"
" Oh ! yes," repHed Lady Asbton ; *'lie knew of your arrival,
and was delighteo, thougli^ the news threw him for a time into
great agitation ; but he said lie must see yon* and would £end
when he felt equal to the exertion."
"Dear, kind Mend," exclaimed Sa Roland. "Oh! my dear
mother, now much ^hall we miss him ! And those poor fi:iris 1" He
dasSied the starting tear from his eye. " What a blow ! ISow
80(Hi is happiness aestcoyed ! This lioor is the one I have had
ever before me — eyex !— from Hike first moment when I left this
country ! but I had arrayed it in aU the glowing colours of happi-
ness. How mDumfcd is fibe diffeienoe ! But now, dear motiier,
tell me of Henry ; it is longer than usual sinoe I have heard of
him. Happy fellow! he knows nothing: of our present griefis.
When did you hear from him last, and wbere was he ?"
" He was still on the South American station ; but he said -they
were soon to leave it, so that he feared he mi^ht lose many of our
letters. He begged, however, that we would contLnue to write,
and that we would direct to different places, as his ship was mor-
ing about, and he -did not know its exact destination; by which
nieans, lie lioped that at least some of our letters might reach him.
1 wrote about this sad event, and ofyour expected return, and
directed my letters both to Rio and to Valpaiaiso."
" Did he talk of coming home }**
••No."
140 6IB BOLAin) ASHXOir.
" Shall we g^o towards the house now? I feel so very axudoiu
to see Lord St. Eryan. There is no fear of anything sudden, is
there?"
'* The doctor says he cannot tell ; a state like his is heyond the
tisual calculations of art. He thinks it x>ossible a sudden stroke
might come, and depriye him of sense, if not of life ; but he rather
«xpects that nature will gradually give way imder his excessive
weakness and exhaustion. We have but to wait — and thankful
may we be, that his trust has long rested on Him who never fails
His people. His mind is in perfect peace ; and it is wonderful how
he is sustained in cheerful hope, even when looking on his — so soon
to be orphaned children. Poor Florence, child-hke, grieves him
most, with her loving expressions and imrestrainea tears ; but
Constance's mind seems to strengthen his, she is so very bright in
fedth for one so young. God's everlasting arms are indeed * under- i
neath her and aroimd/ But I almost fear for her when aU^ is ^
over. These afflictions must be felt, though we may submit with
fulness of heart to God. Trials would not De trials were they not
sufferings."
As they approached the house they saw Lady Constance cominff
towards them. Sir Roland hastened to meet her, and she informea
Lim that her father wished to see him. He gave her his arm, and
they returned together to the house. Before he parted from her to
fN) to Lord St. Ervan, he took her hand, and looking at her with.
the deepest affection, he said —
" Constance, you know not how fall my heart is of you."
** Dear Eoland," she replied, ** you were always so kind ! — and
your travels have not spoilt you, or made you forgetful of those
whom you loved at home."
** I must have forgotten myself ere I could have forjarotten them,'*
lie replied. '* Constance, our appointed meetings beiore God have
been most precious to me ; have l^ey been so to you ?"
" They have indeed," said she, looking up affectionately at Sir
Eoland's anxious countenance ; *' I have never once failed in pray-
ing for, and with you." <
" You are looking so ill, dear Constance," said Sir Boland ; '* will
you not take care of yourself for our sakes?"
Lady Constance's coimtenance became agitated, as she answered^
"*' I am well — quite well ; but do not think of me now, dear Roland,
j;o to hinif he wants you."
" Will you not come with me ?"
" No, he wishes to see you alone."
** Yes," answered Sir Roland, " and I wish to speak to him
tdone." And the hand that held Lady Constance's trembled, as the
thought of what he wished to say to Lord St. £rvan, darted tiiyougk
Ms mind.
** Go, then, now," said Lady Constance, ''he Ib quite composed,
ttid his mind is peaceful and happy."
SIB SOLAHB ABOTOir. 141
CHAPTER XIX.
Sib RoLiiTD left Lady Constance and monnted the stairs to Lord
St. Ervan's room. He paused an instant before he entered it. for a.
faint sickness came over him at the thought of the scene he was
about to witness. The stilhiess of the chamber of death struck a.
cMU to his heart ; but soon summoning his courage he entered.
" My dear Roland/' said Lord St. Ervan, in a low voice, as he
Approached, his accents seeming to come painfully forth, " I rejoice
so much to see you once again.
Sir Roland kissed the hand held out to him in silence.
" You find pain and sorrow where you left all smiling," resumed
Lord St. Ervan ; ** but you know who guides and directs. At first,
it seemed dreadful to leave them,*' he stopped, and closed his eyea
' a moment, ** but Gk)d has taken^ away mat sting too. And you^
Roland, you are well, God be praised ! — ^It is a joy to see you once
more ; you were ever Ihe best" — He stopped, and grasped Sir Ro-
land's hand with convulsive emotion.
"My dear Lord," said Sir Roland, deeply touched, " words can*
express the sorrow of this hour. Oh ! is there anything I can
do; any charge you can leave with me f— it will be my joy to
fulfil it."^'
"Serve your God. my dear boy. ever more and more faithfully^
that is my best wiAn for you; and put all your trust in Him who
alone can support in an hour like this. Yes, he can support! — ^my
Saviour's feet have trod the rugged path of death for me, and made
it all smooth and easy to my feeble steps. Trust Him, Roland —
trust Him I"
" God grant me grace to live wholly for Him," replied Sir Ro-
land ; adding, after a pause, in a hesitating voice, '^but is ther&
nothing, as regards this world, that I can do i have you nothing to
commit to my care— my attention ?"
" Nothing, sighed Lord St. Ervan. "No ; all my earthly oon-
cems are settled. '
Sir Roland knelt on one knee by the side of Lord St. Ervan'a
bed, stUl holding his cold and feeble hand. Thev were both sQent
—the same subject at that moment filled the heart of each, yet
neither could speak of it to the other. Lord St. Ervan well remem*
bered Sir Roland's former proposal concerning Lady Constance, and
earnestly desired that he should renew it now ; but he could not
be the mrst to mention the subject, ignorant as he was of the pre-
sent state of his affections ; for absence he thought, and the charms
of other, newer friends, might have displaced the first love of hift
"boyhood's waxen heart ;" and he could not endure the idea that
his beautiful and precious child should be trusted to the compassion^
or cast on the faded affection, of any man. Sir Roland was equally
embarrassed, and could not summon courage to pronounce the name
which seemed the sum of existence to mm. At lenfi^th Lord St.
Ervan, opening his eyes, on wbich the heaviness of death began
already almost to settle, turned to Sir Roland, and said--
149 SIB BOLASD ASHTOIF.
"Your mother will have told you our arrangements for my
children. She is indeed most kind."
Sir Roland's heart fluttered when he found this opening made :
and he answered, hurriedly —
"She has informed me that she is to have tiie charge of your
children. But will ^u not, my dear Lord St. Eryan. let them
aho reside with her ? it would make her so happv. And surely—
forgive me— hut surely it would he far hotter— Jar pleasanter for
them, too."
•* It cannot he," said Lord St Ervan, hastily.
Sir Roland felt convinced tiiat Lord St. Ervan would gladly have
acceded to the proposal, had Lady Ashton had a home of her own :
but Llanaven was, in fact, hir home, though his mother resided
there ; and he could fully appreciate the delicacy which made it
impossible for a father to throw his daughters on the society of men
like himself and his brother. He now, more than ever, desired
that he should consent to his union with. Lady Constance, in the
event of his being able to obtain her affection ; as in that case he
thought he could not oliject to her living with Lady Ashton. His
anxious feelings were ever on his lips, but for a time he could find
no words to expresst&em. Fearing, nowever, firom Lord St Ervan!a
extreme weakness, that life might ebb away before he had spoken
the wish of his heart with a strong effort he began at length —
"You will remember, mv dear Lord, a CQnveEsatiQn.Ihad.witb
yen before I left England r '
Lord St. Ervan, roused to animation, fixed his eyes eagerly oa
Sir Roland, who continued —
" You cannot suppose that my heart is changed ; that one. wh,a
had from chQdhood loved Consteuice, could ever cease to do so.
Kg, her happiness is more than ever mj care, and her love — ^that
which alone can make me happy. Will you not now—now after
above a year of exile— wiU yon not let me seek a place in her
heart?"
" Oh ! if you had one," replied Lord St. Ervaii^ "I should indeed
be happy ; the only sadness of my heart would De removed. But,
Roland, my poor boy ! have you indeed thought of her — h&t only-
through a]i vour wanderings ? I grieve for the pain I must have
fiven vou ; but you were both so young, and I thought it best you
oth H^ould know vour own hearts. But now you have given me
great happiness, mr being convinced of your constancy, there is
no one on earth to whom I could j?ive her with such nerfect peace
and confidence. Truly grateful, indeed, to Gbd shoula I be, could
I seeyour faith plighted before I died."
" Tnank you a thousand, thousand times," said Sir Roland, re-
X>eatedly pressing the hand he held to his lips ; " you cannot Imow
the joy your words g:ive me ! But now, dear Lord St. Ervan, as
Jrou are willing to nve Constance to my care— to trust her to my
oye — ^you will surely not object to letting her and Florence reside
with us at Llanaven ?**
He looked earnestly at Lord St. Ervan, who replied —
** I can say nothin? tiU I have spoken to my child, and I feel that
iife fast fails f— send her to me, will you ?**
SIB BOXAKB ASHTOir, US
Sir Roland left tlie room with a spirit much lightened ; yet he
was Tery unwilling that his wishes should be so abruptly mentioned
to Lady Constance. He had earnestly desired Lord St. Eryan's
consent to his final nnion with her, bnt he would fain have had
time allowed him, in which he might have sought to awaken in her
heart a feeling, corresponcBngto that which had so long dwelt in
his own ; for to offer her his hand without haying first endeavoured
to win her heart, was. he thought, a step Hiat well might startle
her, even though she had ever, he knew, resardBd him with the
kindest feelings. He had so honourably folmled Lord St. Ervan's
wishes, that he had never sought to excite in her mind — ^however
nmchhe desired to do so— an exelusive feeling towards himself;
and he could form no idea how this sudden proposal would be
received. The ^low of dawning hope and confidence which had
arisen within him, almost faded away as he descended the stairs,
and walked along tiie terrace to the summer-house, where he ex-
pected to find Lady Constance; and a timidity he had never
experienced before, made him pause ere he approached her. He
even thought of returning to lird St. Ervan, and entreating him
not to speak for the present to his daughter; but recollecting the
desire he had expressed of seeing the engagement formed before
his doath ; and fearing to antate anddistress nismind— he gave up
that idea ; and " casting all his care upon Gh)d," he advanced to-
wards the summer-house, where he found Lady Constance, and
informed her of her father's wish to see her. He walked by her in
silence to the house ; but when they had reached it, he felt it was
impossible to part from her, without speaking some, of the many
words which crowded to his lips. His heart seemed bursting to
open itself to her, but broken, incoherent sentences were all that
couM find utterance. He dared not in that hurried moment enter
on the sublect that Cjtused him so much anxietv ; but Lady Con«
stance could not have fiailed to have observed the earnest tender
ness of his manner, had not her heart been fiUed. to the exclusion
of every other feeling, with the thought of her father. Her love
for him was so intense, that though she knew that she and her
sister must soon be orphans ; that thev would have nothing they
could call a home— no relation with wnom to live— yet she never
thought of that; her whole sum of feeling seemed centred in the
one overwhelming thought of her fether's death, the moment of
which, she could not conceal from herself, was fast and fearfully
aporoaching. Without him the world seemed one universal blank;
and no thought of her future comfortless life intruded to mix with
the pure current of her filial regret. The tension of her mind on
that subject made all things else pass as dreams before her ; and
not all Sir Roland's warm expressions of love and devotion could
rouse her mind to a consciousness of what he was saying*. The
sound of his words reached indeed her ear, but their meanmg was?
lost to her mind, further than that she felt they were woms of
kindness and aflfection— sounds familiar fror^ him.
"Pear Roland," she said in reply, "I know that you feel for
ns — ^that you love us."
"As my own life ! Constance," he replied.
144 Sm SOLAKD ASHTOK.
She smiled kindly; but her mind was evidently wandering €sr
away, and Sir Roland fearful of detaining her any longer, reluc-
tantly suffered her to leave him.
When she entered her father's room, she was surprised, and for
an instant delighted, at seein&r him apparently so much better ; for
the excitement and joy he felt at the hope of her happiness had
lent an unwonted glow to his cheek, and lighted his eye with an
anusual lustre. But she knew by sad and bitter experience how
delusive were such appearances ; and the hope which for a moment
glanced through her mind, gave way to a darker sense of desolation
than before.
" My dear child," said Lord St. Ervan, as she approached him,
and knelt down by his side, " I wish much to speak to you, and
have many things to say. Your kind Mend Lady Ashton, has
urged me to let you reside with her, instead of living at Westley ;
but considering that her sons were often with her, that arrangement
did not at first seem desirable. A conversation I have since had
with Roland has, however, opened new prospects for you, Cdn-
Btance, and you must decide whether or not they shall be ac-
cepted."
^*My dear father," said Lady Constance, "you have always
arranged every thins: for me, and I feel incapable, especially now»
of forming any iud^ent for myself. Tell me what you think
best, and it must be right."
" In a case like that which I am gjoing to mention— you, my dear
Constance, and you alone, must decide. Have you ever suspected
that Roland was attached to you ? "
Lady Constance started, and instantly replied, " Never."— The
next moment, however, his manner ana last words at i^e ante-
room door, and several other little circumstances, flashed across her
mind, though at the time they had not apparently made the
slightest impression ; but before she could speak again, her father
continued —
'* He has however confided to me his ardent desire to obtain ydur
love ; and if you were favourable towards him, and felt you oould
form an engagement "
Lord St. Ervan stopped, for he saw that his daughter looked in
his face with an almost bewildered expression.
"My dear Constance," he added after a moment^ " do not agitate
yourself. If this subject is painful to you, let it be dropped for
ever."
"Oh no!— not painful," she answered hurriedly, leanin&[ her
head down upon the bed—" but so unexpected ! " Her mind waa
now thoroughly roused, and she saw in an instant that Sir Roland's
proposal had given her father satisfaction ; and so earnest was she
to please him, that had the proOT>ect been one in which lier hap-
piness was to have been wrecked for ever, she would have consent^
to it without a shadow of hesitation But such was not tiie case ;
Sir Roland, with his mother and brother, had been the only objects
of real affection she had ever known beyond those of ner own
&mily; she had other acquaintances and friends — ^but none like
these. Still she had never thought of Sir Roland in the light of a
SIB BOLAND ASHTON. Ii5
husband ; and it is difficult to say, what would have been her
decision at that moment, had she had nothing but her own feelings
to consult; but she saw at a glance, that by engaging herself to
him, she would not onlv insure a kind and happy home for her
sister, but would also cheer the dyin^ hours of her father. These
thoughts, which passed like lightning through her mind, re-
conciled her instantly to the idea of forming an engagement, which
otherwise she might have hesitated to undertake.
Her father laid his hand fondly on her head« and soothingly
said^
" You shall defer your answer, dear Constance, till your mind is
accustomed to the tnought which is now so suddenly brought be-
fore it, and till your heart is sure of the decision it would wish to
make. I knew not what your feelings might be. and I would not
have tried to penetrate them; only time with me is almost at an
end — and on your determination, my darling, must depend '•"
"My dearest father," interrupted Lady Constance hurriedly,
" your wishes must be mine. Tell me only what you think, what
you feel, and I " she paused.
" Think not of me. my dearest child," replied Lord St. Ervan,
*' but ask your own neart its wishes, and be ruled by them. I do
not say that it would be otherwise than joy to me, to confide you
to one, who of all the human beings I ever met with, appears to
me the brightest image of his Maker : but still the heart will not
at all times follow the lead of reason, and if you could not be
^* Oh ! yes," exclaimed Lady Constance, " I will—I will be his."
She rose from her knees, and threw her arms round her fatiier's
neck, who pressed her with all a dying parent's loye, to his
heart.
" My God« I thank thee," he murmured, and closing his eyes,
sunk into an almost deathlike state of exhaustion. Lady Con-
stance, in terror, called the nurse, and they administered areyiying
draught, which after a time partially restored him.
He opened his eyes, and seeing the nurse near him, he whispered
Bomethmg to her, and she instantly withdrew ; and in a few mo-
ments after, Lady Constance was startled by finding Sir Roland
by her side. ^ His countenance betrayed the greatest anxiety ; but
that exnression was in an instant changed to a deep fiush of joy,
as Lord St. Ervan, placing Lady Constance's hand in his, said
£iintly, "She will be yours. '
Sir Koland put his arm round Ihe being he so long had loved, and
she, with perfect confidence laying her nead upon his breast, gave
iray to a burst of tears.
Lord St. Ervan's strength sunk under the great excitement of
Ids feelings, and now that all motive for exertion was over, his
powers seemed almost suddenly to fail. Feeling himself dying,
ne whispered to Sir Koland, ** I would see Florence— your mother."
Sir Koland, roused from the fulness of his mingled feelings,
observed with terror the great alteration which had taken place,
and in much alarm was about to speak, when Lord St. Eovan,
L
146 Snt SOLAJTD ASHIOK.
l)eiiding his fading eye upon the still weeping: girl by his side,
«eemed to warn nim not to alarm her; he therefore gently
disengaged himself, and placing Lady Constance on a chair
oy her father's bed, hastened to summon his mother and
Xiady Florence to the chamber, intimating in a low tone to the
former that the last sad scene drew near. When Lord St. Ervan
saw them enter the room, he extended his arms to take a last em-
brace of Lady Morence, who, with the tmrestrained grief of
childhood, wept alond upon his breast. Tears streamed &om his
eyes, as he tenaerly soothed her, and whispered to her of that happy
land, whither he was hastening, juad where she would «oon follow
him, through that Bedeemer, whom her young heart had already
learned to love. He then turned to Sir £.oland and be^ed him to
pray with him, adding, " My soul is in perfect peace.** JBLis request
was instantly oompl^d witn, and all Jcnelt round the bed of suf-
fering, so soon to be exchanged for the glories of a heavenly
When sir Eoland had ended a prayer, in wliich his fall heart
poured forth all its holy feelines, lie raised his head, and became
instantly and painfiilly aware, mat a fresh change had taken place
in Lord St. Ervan' s appearance. He still breamed, but that was
aU the sign of life he gave. They watched by him for some hours,
but he gave no proof of consciousness;, nor cad a single sigh mark
the moment when his soul departed. He, "passed away in sleep^
in the deep quiet of the night I "
CHAPTER XX.
**Aiidy«twemoiinitheei Tes! tbj jplAce is void
Within our hearts, ^ • •
* "* And o'er that tie destroyed,
Though CEiith rejoice, fond natnie sfill must melt.**
Mrs. Hexass.
The funeral was over, and the first shock which death leaves on
the mind, was beginning to subside ; but Lady Constance's spirits
seemed not to revive, so incalculable to her was the loss of one,
whose eye had never looked upon her but in love and kindness
Ever since her mother's death, which took place when she was of
too early an age to retain anything but a faurt remembrance of iL
she had been her father's almost constant companion ; and he had
delighted to train her young mind, not only in the purest spirit of
religion, but also in the paths of learning and science. All her
occupations^ therefore, reminded her of his care and aiSbction ; and
the notes with which he had enriched her books of study, were oon-
tinually before her eyes, reminding her of the time when e&e had
tead them with him. How much did she miss the wisdom of that
mind, which she formerly could consult on every subject! Ths
earth, the sky, the ocean, — all brought him to her remem-
brance, who had taught her the knowledge of liieir treasures, and
Ihe love of their Creator ; and the eheeifulness of whose mind had
V
added a <hBjm to tU his instruotioB. Yet tbe tkooglit of Ids
iiappiness was joy to her heart, and she loyed to be away from
others, that she might, xmixiterraptedly, indulge her thoughts of
Inm. " She awoke each day to the stapendons thought, l£at her
^BL0ser was in heaven, but me felt Hie more, tiiat she was not there ;
tibat a veil of separation himg befcween tibem, whioh nothing bnt
death eonld raise."
But affcer a time die WKwUbalb she was acfiiig seM^yy and nn-
kindly, in alraenting 'hendf so mneh "fron those, who strove witii
every attention whidi Ysuve ooiald suggest, to sooithe her sorrow, and
win her baek to cheerfolness ; and as soon as lAie fe3t her faiilt,,d)9
lesdLntely denied its indxdgeiMe.
The engagement between her and Sir Roland was Imown only to
themselves. Lady Ashton, and Miss Gower ; for Lady Ashton
Hiou^t that it wonkL be painM to Lady Consbmee to have it
made subject of comment and eonveisatien, so immediately after
her father's death. To Henrv Ashton they would of eourse hare
immediately communioated it, aad they been oertaia where he was ;
but they did not lik» l&e idea of a letter eontaimng inteUigenee of
molL a nature, to be passiag from hand to hand, and Anally per-
iiapB, to be opened by a stranger. It was Lady Oonstanoe^s wisjx
Ihat the marriage dioukL net take place for eome time ; and finally
it was decided, that it riiould be &fexred till Sir Roland retaxnecL
&om the oontinwrt, after fulMiag his engagement with Lord ^ .
It had be^i a ^reat trial to lady Oonstaaiee having to leave C9a-
irerton and all its hAiHats--«ndeared by so many ties-— so many
zeeolieetioBs ! And soon a new source of grief arose, in the bad
state of health into whioii Miss €kywer had Mien, and wMoh, very
sooB alter Lord St. £rvan'« deatii, obliged her to quit '^e pupils
to whom she was so much attached. This separation was a most
rpaixtful one on both sides, and to Constance the loss was irre-
pexable ; for Miss Gow» had lived witii her firom-the time of her
mother's death, and was in every way quaMed to lead her young
mind in the healthfol path of sokd piety, and edf-denying exertion.
£ind as were her other Mends, none could so well ent^ into h^
•ioeAmgs as regarded her father, fornone had known him so well as
'Miss Gower ; and ^be loss, therefore, of this valued companion,
jcenewed in some degree the acute regret she felt for him.
fiir Boland was unrsmittnig in his devotion to Lady Constance ;
and the stren^ of his ottaohment, which daily increased, showed
itself in nothm^ more than in the self-denial which he exercised,
in never intmdmg on her solitude, or ppessing her in any way to
be with him more than she herself desired. ^Aae was deeply touched
hf his tender and ooasiderate auction ; but the very circumstance
•of tiieir engagement, wMoh should have brought ner heart into
•dosest union with his, seemed to have a totally eontrary effect. In
.heap childidi years, when she had been so much with him and his
bzotiier, though Henry, who was nearer her own age, was more
'freouentiy her companion, yet Sir Roland was ever the one she
iiad looked up to for help in her griefs and troubles ; and to him
-^he would now— had their relative circumstances remained un-
'dumged-^have freely poured forth all her Borrown—looking to him
L 2
148 fltB BOLAin) AfiHTOir*
for comfort, counsel, and love. But her hurried engagement had
arrested and altered the whole current of her feelings. The new
tie that was formed between them, had arisen before her heart was
prepared to receive and sanction it ; and though she reyered and
admired him beyond any living creature, yet she now felt a *gkrx.e*
and discomfort in his presence, which was most painful to her.
She was in fact doubly oereaved. In her father stie had lost tiie
being whom most she loved on earth ; and Sir Roland — to whom
she would once have gone in all the falness of her grieving heart —
she now felt an insurmoimtable difficulty, in approaching. She felt
as if more would be required of her than she could nve ; and that
feeling restrained the expression of the sentiments wnioh reaJly did
exist in her heart.
How often do the sweetest and tenderest ties of life— if unaccom-
panied by corresponding feelings— instead of drawing hearts into
closer union, erect a barrier between them, causing the sense of
distance to increase, as the nearness of the bond presses upon the
reluctant spirit ! It was this feeling which stole over Lady Con-
stance, as she became calm enough, after her father's death, to join
again in the usual routine of life at lianaven, and which shut up
her whole hearts-even to her sister— for she foimd it impossible to
talk of Sir Roland as she used to do ; and where there is one pointy
which we feel we must avoid in conversing with those most inti-
mate with us, it throws a restraint on all communication. A
coldness and abstraction of feeling seemed to usurp dominion over
one, who was by nature so open and so free ; whose mind had
seemed to dwell upon her lips, and whose every word had ex-
pressed the feelings of her gmleless, loving, and expansive heart.
This change was unperceived by Lady Ashton, who though
Lady Constance's depression was only the natural state of a mind.
unrecovered as yet irom its terrible bereavement. For a time Sir
Roland strove to believe so too ; for he Imew that the effect of grief
ever lies most heavily on the young and untried spirit; but he
oould not long blind himself to the truth ; the quickened eye of
love saw deeper into the secret of her heart. He knew it' could
not be grief for her father, which made her so cold to him— ^for, pre-
vious to her engagement, she had freely told her sorrows, and
sought his sympathy. But now, if her eye caught his— instead of
lighting up in smiling brightness as in former tunes, or returning
Ills looks of tender concern with her usual sweet and grateful ex-
pression—she hurriedly withdrew her glance, and with busy idle-
.ness, would appear to occupy herself in some way apart fr^m him.
If at any time she was alone with him in the room or garden, she
would suddenly seem to recollect something which she had to fetohr-
something to do elsewhere — as an excuse for leaving him. In fact
he felt her alienation in a thousand ways ; and thin^ to which he
could scarcely have given a name— wounded him to his inmost soul t
Yet she was never unkind, nor had she any feeling but that of
love for him, who loved her with so full a heart ; but she dreaded
that he might speak— and she not be able to answer as he might
wish ; or that he miffht think her ungrateful for not fully respond-
ing to his feelings of devoted attadunent. At length the suffering
SIB BOLAin) ASHTOlfT. 149
of Sir Roland's mind became so intolerable, that he resolved to
speak to her ; and either restore the former freedom of their inter-
course, or break for ever the tie that bound Uiem tos^ether. He
had tried everv means which affection and devoted love could
devise, to win ner back to confidence and peace, but fdl seemed in
vain ; and had he not known that — if their engagement were oiice
at an end — ^Uanaven could not continue a home to the orphan
sisters, he would at once— whatever it might have cost him— bave
restored her her plighted troth, and have entreated her to break a
bond which seemed so great a burden on her spirit. But situated
as she was, he coxdd not do this— and indeed the bare idea of it was
agony to him ; — ^but he determined at least to speak openly to her
upon the subject, and then leave her free to act as her heart
dictated.
He had much occupation, connected with the care of his own
property, and with the public business of the county; but when he
could find time, he often accompanied Lady Constance in her rides
and walks about the beautiful country in which they resided. On
the smooth sands, or amongst the picturesque clifis of that lovely
region, they had delighted in former happy days to roam for
hours together, searching for the many objects which the facile
mind of childhood considers as treasiu^es; or climbing up the rocks
by unaccustomed ways, whose danger made them all the more
enjoyable. Amongst these well-known places, again would she
and Sir Roland orten ramble together; but the unchanged scenes
without, made the change within but the more strongly and pain-
fully felt. Lady Constance continuallv struggled against her
feelings, and strove to be aU that Sir Eoland could wish; but the
very effort produced the constraint which she was so anxious to
throw off.
They were strolling alonj^ beneath the cliffis, on one of those still,
soft, genial davs we sometimes have in the. month of February,
" when Spring s first gale comes forth to whisper where the violets
lie ;" ana overcome by the lassitude occasioned by the unusual
warmth of the air, they seated themselves on a grass-covered
l^ge of the rock, whilst Lady Florence, at some distance, regard-
less of the heat, was climbing about in search of the little flowers,
* which bloom the first,' or playing with a Newfoundland dog, which,
belonged to Henry, and which was a universal favourite, for the
absent sailor's sake.
Sir Roland ^nerally had with him a volume of poetrv, or of
some pleasant interest, such as suited the light studies of the open
air, and now he read for some time to Lady Constance, as tney
sat together; but even while thus employed, he could not but fed
the coldness and abstraction of the manner in which she listened.
He ceased after a while, but the pause in his voice seemed unob-
served by her.
He spoke to her at length, and she started as one awakened
from sleep ; but turning to him with a kind smile, though with a
heightened colour, she said —
" I b^ your pardon, I have been very rude and Inattentive ; the
heavy air and the rolling of the waves sent my mind, I think, to
ISO fiOb SOLASD ASBTOX-*
sleep; but I liked -vrhat you were readii^, tlioag:li my fihottglits
had wandered from it for a moment."
" Constance/' said Sir Soknd, " I oasnot bear l&at sad and
patient look. I bad rather a tiionsmd timea sea yon oocasicmally
overwhelmed with siief* iStaai for joa to appear as if aH feeling* —
allpower of ex^oymest was gon&.
He paused ; then with earoeal enei^ he oontanned-^or he had,
after silently eommittingr bis wa^ to God; nerwd bimself to speak
upon the subject that was to deoide aU biB eartblj fate —
" I have long obsewed' the sorrow amd oppivsaon of ^onr mind,
and I was but too wHlihgr for a while to Mlieve thai; it was the
natural effect of the fpnms you had had to endure; but time as it
passes brings no dKange to you; and l&ereseirve and embarrass^
ment you always show when in my society, presses the painful
conviction upon me, that ir-who would do ail to make you happy
— am the miserable eanse of yoos unhappinesBr"
"Oh! no, no," said Lady OonstBnoe, interrupting him, "dear
Koland, do not say that; indeed it is not so. I am not— you do
not make me unhappy^ but i cannot so soon forget"—- and she
burst into tears.
Sir Eoland with difficu lty r e pre saed his ownemotlon, but waiting
till he could command his voioe, he said —
" Dear Constanee, would that vou eould always let those tearar
of natural feeling flow freelv berore me. Oh ! that it were as in
old times, when every trouble of your heart was brought to me ;
when I was your comforter, and your sii»p<»rt ! I know indeed,
that you have now a better and holier rerage to fly to ; One who
'in cul our affliction is afflicted'— 'but still, if your heart were
mth me as it used to be, you would love to claim the sympathy,
which is yours now, a thousand times more than ever. Yes^ I
cannot disguise it from myself-— it w«re worse than madness to
endeavour to do so— you io not love me !— the fatal tie, which
should have bound us together, heart and soul, is felt ae a galHng
chain by you. I will not ask you to break it^-I canuot ask you i»
do that— not yeth-my selfish heart refuses to do thatyet--but I
would entreat—beseech you to believe, that worlds oiiuld not indoee
n^e to urge the fulflhnent of yoor engagement, unless I saw and
felt it was your heart's desire it should continue. You have been
— perhaps unwisely^ preeipitatdy — offined an afifeotioii-— wholly
yours— but which, I now feel, does not meet with on aaswerinr-
leelmg in your breast^ It were vain to offer me liberty I it wonla
be like opening the cage to the pinioned bird— i have no power to
fly; but! set you free-— perfectly free-^tiiough my own faith I
shall ever keep plighted to you, till— your will shall perfoi«e break
the bond."
He spoke hurriedly, as. fearing his res<dutioa should MLand
Lady Constance was too much agitated to interruut him. When
he paused, however, she instantly besou^it him to oeUeve she had
no wish to end their engagement— no oesiie but to make herwtf
worthy of his affection.
"Do not speak so," replied Sfar Roland; "if I am itt anyway
worthy of you, it is only in the devoted love I bear yov^ But^
BIB BOLAITD JkBBIOV* 1^1
Constance, are you speaking your whcle mindi in saying you wish
our engagement to continue ^ Remember, dearest, it were better
— oh ! many, many times^— to break it off now, than to find, too
late, that you had mistaken tho idlings within you. I have no
wish," he added with a sad tmule, " to persuade you that you do
not love me ; but I do most earnestly desire tiiat 3rou should hold
yourself as free from any restraint. — ^I have sometimes dreaded, —
you will let me say all 1 feel; Constanee }** he^ continued, lookmg
at her for a moment l^rsn withdrawisfi: his e3^s from her eoun-
tenanee, while hi» own- wais erossed by strong and oontending
emotions, **I have sometimes dreadeei that — amongst ihe many
persons with whom you are- aequaaited, there might perhaps have
been some one whom— ^wiose good qualities — ^who might '* He
stopped— then continued wim a desperate eflfort— " who mig^t
have left a favourable impreeeron on your mind. Forgive me fox
venturing on such a subject — feut I would not for worlds — ^wer»
such tike case — stand in l^e warv of your happiness. Coxdd you
confide in me sufficiwigy— to tell me — ^for I do not love you self-
idily— whether ** Hfr raised hi& eye» for a mjMnent, and Lady
Constance met t^eir gnxe- unshnnkingly, though her colour had
mouoted to her temples^
" No, Roland,'* she agwwered, " I have nev« given a thought to
any being; and I feel sore that I- could not intrust mv happiness
with greater security to any one than to you, whom I nave known
from childhood— whto have ever been the kindest and best of friends.
But I have feared yaa. would not be satisfied with me. I mean,"
she added, as she raised her te>ubled eyes to his, *' I thought my
oold heart might not content you — I feared "
** Dearest Constance," said wr Rolarai, ** do not distress yourself;
do not say anot^r word ; tell me only tiiat you wish no change —
and let me now as for tite. first time begin to try to make you like
me."
Lady Constance was much moved by his generosity, and with a
glowing smile dbe held out her hand to him, saying—
" That would be impossiWe,. lor you have ever been one of the
dearest of my friends.
"Thank you, dear Constanee, for your kindness," he replied —
though a sigh rose as he felt how inadequatelv her feelings an-
swered to his; — "let us then be at least true friends. Should I
suceeed in obtaining your fall affeetion, then we shall indeed be
happy !— If not— better, far better, that I alone should suffer."
After this conversation, Lady Constance felt much of her reserve
wear off; and her intercourse with Sir Roland became more like
viiat it had been bef oro their engagement. Ok Roland was careful
not to disturb this tranquil state of things, by showing any anxiety
to engage a more exclusive feeling;— though he would lain have
done BO — and their days flowed on in works of piety and useful-
ness, and in pleasant study and recreation.
Sir Roland had not expected to be called away from home till
late in the^ spring. €hpeat, therefore, was his discomposure, at
becEring from his unole, that oiroumstanees having brought theis
152 BEft BOULND ASHTOIT.
foreifpi plans more forward than was expected, his presence was
desired immediately, and that he trusted ne would be able to join
bim without delay. This was a severe trial to him, coming, too»
just at the time whon a feeling of returning coniidenoe had oe^iuL
to dawn in Lady Constance's heart towards him, and her mind
had seemed to snake off somewhat of its oppression and unhappi-
ness. His habitual submission to the will of God restrained hinu
however, from murmuring; though a sigh of deep regret would
often escape from his bosom. Lady Constance endeavoured by
every thoughtful attention to speak her regard for him, and to
render Jiim perfectly happy in his feelings respecting her. He felt
all her kindness ; and her sweetness of manner towards bim would
have made him indeed but too happy, had there not been in all her
looks and actions, a something— ^undefined, but not the less felt —
which continually brought to his heart the ohUling conviction —
that all she did for him, proceeded more from a desire to give him
pleasure than from the spring of love within. Still he hoped that
the time would come, when her heart would be wholly his ; when
he could feel that she soufirht his side— not because she knew that
then only was he happy—- But because that then only could she be
happy herself. The oppression on his spirits increased hourly,
however, during the few day^ that intervened between the receipt
of his uncle's letter and the time fixed for him to go, and he felt
utterly miserable.
" Come with me, Constance," he said on the morning of his de-
parture ; ** come with me once more upon Ihe shore. My kind
mother's preparations will not be finished yet, and we shaH have
time for a walk."
Lady Constance hastened to prepare herself, and was with him
a^ain in a few moments. She took his arm, and they walked on
slowly, sadlv, and in silence, till they reached the little turfy bank
where thev had sat a few weeks before, during that conversation
which had. served at the time to restore somewhat of peace and
hope to Sir Roland's bosom. But how was that peace now again
troubled ! that hope, where was it fiown !
" Let us rest here." said Sir Roland. — " Oh ! Constance, how
miserable I feel ! my heart seems to droop within me ! It is weak
thus to give way ; — but there are times in which one's soul seems
crushed Dv a weight it cannot resist."
" Dear Roland, ' replied Lady Constance, "you will soon retam
to us ; will you not ?"
" I know not, Constance ; it seems to me as if I were going for
ever ! But I must not— must not give way to this despondency. I
am a ereat professor, but I fear a poor doer of my heavenly Father's
will, for my heart is terribly rebellious. But now, dear, I will try
and shake off this unmanly folly, and enjoy the few moments that
yet remain to me, of being with you. But yet there is one thing
1 must say. — On this very spot, Constance, some weeks ago, you
assured me you did not wish to break our engagement. — I would
not renew this subject," he added, seeing Laay Constance looked
digressed — "onl3r that I do so earnestly desire your happiness!
and I wish that if ever we are united, it should do with &e fall
SIB BOLAFD ASHTOK. 158'
coasent of your wliole heart,— unbiassed by anytbing but its own.
inclinations. When I am away, my mother's home isnght still be
yours and Florence's, even if—" he stopped abruptlyTior a throb '
of such agony passed through his heart, as for the moment com-
pletely overcame him ; leoovering, however, he continued—" even
if our engagement were at an end. — ^I have spoken of Florence,
because I fear that that child's happiness may be dearer to you
than your own — 1 have at least sometimes fjancied that-— you
sacrificed voiirself for her."
He fixed lus dark eyes with intense anxiety upon Lady Con-
stance, whose countenance could at that moment ill bear the scru-
tiny, for she felt conscious that a desire that Lady Florence should,
continue under Lady Ashton's protection had mingled with her
other feelings, in determining her to continue her engagement with
Sir Roland. Still she knew that her high regard for mm, and her
desire for his happiness, had had by far the greater share in her
decision, and this reflection enabled her — ^when the first moment of
discomfort which his words had produced, had passed— to meet Ids'
searching fiance with openness. She replied—
" B.olfljia, I will not deny that one of the charms of my engage-
ment to vou has been the thought of my sister's happiness ; but •
I can troly say, that never would I, even for her sake, have re-
newed my engagement, had not you yourself been one whom I
loved, and who I knew would make me happy. Have I not
known you," she said— kindly desirous of setting his heart at rest —
"since my earliest days? and when have I ever heard an imkind.
word from your lips ? And do you think I cannot trust you now —
when, as you tell me, all your heart is mine ?"
" As I tell you, Constance," repeated Sir Roland, reproachfully ;
**you know that all my heart is yours— at least all I dare give to
mortal being."
" I do know it, in truth," replied Lady Constance, " but I did
not like," she added, playfiilly, ^* to presume upon my knowledge."
" Dear Constance," replied Sir Roland, enchanted at this return
of ease and confidence, " you have taken a load from my heart ;
A so that, strange to say, the lastr— the parting hour, seems the
\ happiest and the best to me. God is very merciful — ^who in the
^- bitter cup of separation infuses so sweet a draught ! and, in His
deep compassion, sends earthly comfort to temper earthly sorrow.
, Constance, you will write to me, in my sad exile ? ^ You do not
know the weary life I am about to lead. You will write to me ?"
"Surely I will," replied Lady Constance ; "and tell you all I
do ; so you will not escape the task of Mentor, but will have to
fulfil that, in addition to all your other burdens."
" That will be rather the charm, that will compensate for all the*
rest," said Sir Roland. "What a joy and dehght will it be, to
^ leave all the wearisome work, and bustling scenes I shall be en-
Raged in, to meet you in quiet and solitude— you and God, dear
Constance. Yes ! thanks be to Him ! the thought of you is ever
accompanied with His gracious presence, for I know that you love
Him as I do. But oh ! now, when all smiles upon me, must I
depart ? and leave what alone makes life pleasant, to mix in soenes
ISL 6XR lujuasm nsBTon*
vAdoh, I detest. I would grre maMa to sts^ with you ! it seems im^
X)08BihLe-— impossible for me to go. Desr Constance, if you knew
-ynisat an agony it is ibr me to part from you-— you whom I have
loved, beyond the time to which memory goes back ! — ^And yet,
pcsiraps, he added, sadly, *'it is best for me to go. When I am
away, yon may perhaps ^ink of me with greater tenderness than
yon do now." And he coyered his &oe with his hands to hide his
straggling emotion. After a £8w mEoments he started np, exdabn-
ing, " But this is useless folly, and we must part; yet 1 am crael,
aiuL selfish enough to fsel, that wene this partmg the same angni^
to yon, that it is to me — I should be hicppy ! Do not hate me,
ConBtanoe, for I am very miserable."
Lady Constance, whose tears flowed fast, replied —
** You are unjust Roland— indeed you are— to doubt that I lore
you. Oh ! do believe me, when I say I do— and when I tell you
now sad this parting is to me. If only I could feel that you were
satisfied with me--%at you did not doubt me — ^liien I too should
"he happy. Surely my tearS' miiBt ^w that this i» no joyful
moment?"
Sir Roland pressed h^hand to Ms hearty said felt somewhat of
consolation at the sight of her distress ; but his w^re mingled —
confused, emotions, and he could not speak. He knew she loved
T^jm ; but he felt tiiat her love was not like his, and his mind was
troubled. He straggled long' for oompoeare^-Hind' prayed earnestly
for strength and oomfort— and they were sent| his heart was lifted
up to Him whose unfailing love is ever satisfysn^ ! and he rerjoioed,
witli calmed feeling, that this world was not " his all."
'* Constance," he said at length, *^I do not doubt your love ; and
yon will forgive the wayward&ess of m^* uBieasoBable heart. Oh !
yon are dear to me — dearertjuui anytmng on earth should be — ^for
you make me forget every^ing amost, but yourself. I sufiTer
sorely for my idolatry ! When my heart eives God of^am HDs
proper place within me— then I shall again be nappy-— not till then.
But all must be well; and we AaM perhaps soon wander on this
shore a^ain with more joyful spixits* But new>" he added in a
constramed manner, ** I must be goingr- Yen will oome back with
me?"
Lady Constance had stiU continued sittmg on ih» bank, but now
she sprung up, and with a faltering voice exclaimed, ^*0h! Roland,
do not speak so coldly to me !" and she burst into tears.
** Coldly ! Constance," said Sir Boknd, as every nerve trembled,
—"coldly! I cold to you!"
He felt the injustice of the aoonsation, yet it brought with it a
joy inexi)ressible. That reproof was dearer to him than aJl the
protestations of love which language could have supnlied, for it
showed him that she valued his ai»etion— that she Mt pained at
any apparent diminution in it ! He was at tiiat moment happi^
than he had ever been through all hia H£b — a new existence seem^
given him ; and as he looked on her he was about to leave, he fdt
ow far better it was to be absent— and beloved, than present— and
an object of indi£^ence ! He could; not express what passed within
hiaw hut he spoke huxried words of de^ aaeotion, and when I^dy
SIR EO£JUn> ASBTOir. 1^
Cmstance again looked at him, she saw in his oonsfonaiioe a joy H
had never beamed with before.
Arm in arm they retnmed to the honse ; Sir Remand's heart too
foil of hapinnesB ahnest for speeeh, and Lady Constance happy
too in the oonseionBneas of the peaee and joy she had given him.
They jmned Lady A^^n; and after a fbw minutes Lady Constanoe
leffefthe room, l&at Qir Roland might be wilii his mother alone;
bat when the grating sonnd of the carriage-wheels was heard on
the gravel before the house, she agsdn joined them. Sir Roland's
spirit sunk anew under the prospect of separation, and it was not
without a painful efkat Hist ne spoke composedly.
At last the servant announoed ^at Hie carriage was ready, and
feeling that delay only laobnged liie sufferixig; and increased the
difficulty of partmg, he rose, and embraced his mother, kissed the
blooming child who hong in tears about his neck, and pressing -
Lady Constance for a nKnnent to his heart, threw himself into the
carnage, which soon here hdm for away from the dearest ol^'eots (d
his earthly aiSEbctions.
eHAPTBK XXL
*• I do not think Us bri^ Mne ejvs ae, Hke Uf bfofker^, keea,
ISor ioa brow bo fUl of ehildtth tlxnght at his iMtb «v«r been ;
Bnt his jonthftil hewt'9 » fUntalB dear, of miBd and tender fteling,
Aad his very look'* a dseam of Bc^t, xieh.dtBtha of love revealing.'*
MOCLIIIIB.
" Hit T«rv Ittarti atfaiist
To gaw at naiore in her gresaamy.
Upon the ship's- tall sLde be stands possessed
With irisiOBS piampted. by intense, desire."
GOITFEH.
SiE RoLAin) was one whose; society was most delightfal, for to
the most pleasing masBers^.he added aU the oharm of a cultiyated
mind, and of a liydy, bng^ poetical imagination. Lady Con-
stance felt his loss exeee£ngly ; yet, when hex first feehngs of
regret were past, she experienced a repose of nerves and of mind
to which die had loxi^been a stranger. It wasy howeyer, deeply
painful to her to feel that Sir Eoland's absence was a relief— painful,
as regarded her own fatnre prospectS'-painf ul, doubly, as it made
her seem in her own eye% so ungrateful to one whose heart
was so wholly given up to hes. When she thought of his
ahnost faultless oharaeter, of his ardent piety, and above all, of
the deep, devoted love he bore to her, she wondered that she could
feel anything but the livelieal attachment to him; and often»
bitterly, did she weep over the coldness, and waywardness of her
hearty and trouble with self-reproach* as she could not but be
conscious that now, in his absence, she felt a peace his presence
had never imparted. And yet her feelings were not unnatural;
for wboi with Sir Roland, ^e was perpetually watching over her-
Ktf in order to be kind and attentive to him ; she was fearful of
paining him,, anxious to be pleased with all he did, and to show
156 snt BOLAin) ashiov.
him that he made her hap^y ; and thus, niioonscioiisly, she was
ever acting a part, though influenced by the purest feelings, and
the kindest motives ; and it was an inexpressiple rest to* her mind
and spirits, when she oould again speak and act, without having
to think how she spoke and acted. Now that he was absent she
breathed more freely, and her step regained its elastic spring ; tiie
liveliness of her girlish spirits again began to animate her coun-
tenance, and her voice was once more heard in the tones of joyous
cheerfulness which had long been silenced.
It was a happy thing for ner in some respects, that Lady Ashton
was of a most conflding, unsuspicious disposition. Singularly
amiable herself, she was willing to think all the world the same ;
and glaring indeed must have been the defect she could ever have
perceived m those she loved. The beautiful simplicity of her
character, and the singleness of her mind, though they assisted
greatly in making her an upright, uncompromising follower of her
Saviour's, yet unfitted her exceedingly for any deep insight into
the characters of her fellow-creatures, and made her but litde
versed in reading their feelings and sentiments. What they ought
to feel— that, she supposed they did feel ; and no questioning doubt
on such subjects ever entered her mind. Her own uneventful life
had served much to increase this peculiarity of disposition. Mar-
ried early, to the only man she had ever loved, she lived with him
in oontinuallv-increasing confidence and aiSection, till death's heavy
hand severed the perfect tie which existed between them; ana
then, the dutiful love, and amiable consideration of her sons,
conspired to keep distrust and anxiety far from her breast.
From the moment that she found Lady Constance had promised
her hand to Sir Roland, no doubt had ever crossed her mind, as to
the whole of her young friend's heart having been given with her
faith ; and all the many thin^ which had brought such bitter con-
viction of the contrary to Sir Roland's love-quickened eye, had
>assed beneath hers, without awakening one mistrustful feelingr.
Jt would in truth have been difficult for any one— especially a
mother — ^to have looked on Sir Roland, and to have imagined it
possible that the unshackled heart of any girl could have refused
itself to his love !
Lady Ashton's unquestioning confidence was a great relief there-
fore to Lady Constance, freeing her as it did &om scrutinizing
observation, and making her feel perfectly at her ease. Yet it
often also made her feel uncomfortable ; for in speaking of Sir
Roland, Lady Ashton always seemed to infer her devoted attach-
ment to him ; and would express, with every kindness her heart
could dictate, her sympathy for the sorrow which she thought his
absence must occasion her; and Lady Constance, whose whole
soul was truth itself, was forced to keep silence, when she would
otherwise gladly have opened her heart, and all its feelings to one
whom she loved as a mother. She hoped indeed that the time
would come, in which her feelings for her future husband would
be all he could desire, and all that his mother now fondly imagined
tiiem to be ; yet it was painful to her to see Lady Ashton give
her credit for sentiments, which she was conscious she did not
Yi
SIR BOLAin) ASHTOK. 157
Sir Eoland had left England but a few days, when Lady
Ashton receiyed a letter from Henry, dated from Rio, saying that
he was coming home directly, and that he hoped to obtain leave
of absence for a few weeks, or perhaps even months, before he was
obliged to join the new ship to which he had been appointed.
This unexpected news spread universal joy among the inmates of
Uanaven ; for they had not seen the young seaman for above three
vears, and he was always the life and delight of the house when at
Bome.
There is something singularly captivating in the profession of a
sailor — something so chivalrous, so full of daring, and of danger !
In early youth, the being, who under all circumstances would be
beloved, becomes, when absent on his storm-rocked home, the ob-
ject of intensest interest and affection ; and a halo of bright, but
tenderest feeling, ever shines around him, and the sublime element
on which he moves !
Henry Ashton was indeed, in every respect worthy of the great
affection that was bestowed upon him. He was wholly unlike
Sir Roland in countenance ; though in their tall slight figures, and
in the fine outline of their heads, there was much resemblance.
Sir Roland's was a high, intellectual style of beauty, very rarely
to be met with ; and on his pale brow there was a pensive dignity
unusual at his afe — ^heightening the expression of extreme sensi*
bility which filled his dark steadfast eye.
Heftry's countenance, on the contraiy, was a continual alternation
of li^ht and shade. His full blue eyes had a languor and gentle-
ness in their expression when at rest, which was most touching :
while, when animated, they lit up with a lustre which seemed
almost to emit living sparks. His naturally fair complexion was
bronzed by the sea-air, and by the burning suns of southern
climes ; yet his forehead, shaded by his gold-brown hair, was pure
and white as in childhood. He had not the fine features which
Sir Roland possessed, but his countenance — ^varjring with every
tiiought and feelinp^—was irresistible in its clumgeful beauty.
The character of the two brothers had many things in common,
for they were both generous, both affectionate, both warm-hearted,
and both warm-tempered : but the development of these qualities
in the one differed so much from what it was in the other, that at
fibrst sight they might have been i)ronounced totally dissimilar.
There was a difference of four years in their ages, yet their attach-
ment was unbounded; and it would have been difficult to say,
which— of the fair-haired sunny child, whose countenance " like
spring time smiled," or the dark- eyed boy, whose very soul
beamed from his face— had the more devoted love for the other.
Yet it was curious to trace the different ways in which the same
feeling would show itself! When quite a little child, if anything
were given to Henry, he would invariably ask the same for his
brother ; and if denied it, he would often dash his own gift down
on the ground, and with bitter words, and streaming tears refuse
to take it ; while Sir Roland— equally thoughtful for the" little
one — if refused the boon he asked for him, would carry off his
own i)osses8ion, and give that to the child— nor feel he made a
•aerince.
IBS BIB BOLAin) jonxcnr.
TLenrfB temper l^oagh quick, was thorougUy amiable ; and His
naturally careless, joyous ctispoeiticm, would carry away in. its
bounding flood, many a crieYanoe, and sense of wrong, which
iroidd have wounded another to the very sovd; and though his
mood would ohale and fret at any opposition that he met with, yet so
much of playfohiess and of sweet temper mingled itself wi& his
flashing nts of anger, that it were hard to say whether they did
not bring out more of beauty than th^ hid ; as water, when thrown
high in the air by opposing rocks, shines in the sunbeam witii a
sparkling light liie tranquil stream can neyer show. Hisiiaults —
easting scarcely more of shade o^er his diaracter than the summer
cloud leaves on the ocean—- waeeforgiTenalmostbefore felt ; andiie
had therefore ncYer fully set himself to «orveet liiem, fornevi^had he
fully learnt to know them. His religious Iselings were strong and
enlightened, and vice he could not toksate ; but his mind was not
in perfect training and subjection, and the power of aelf-.goverBineat
iras almost, to him, unknown.
With Sir Roland it was diflferest ; hk temper was naturally far
more quick and fl«ry than that of his brother ; but &e Tiolenoe of
his feelings could not be misunderstood bv a heart early awakaoBed
to a sense of its responsibilities before God; and happ|r ^ras it for
hfm, tiiat the undaunted energy of his mind, equalled its ioree and
Tehemenoe. He early learnt to know the de^ik and power of the
Sassions against whicn he had to contend ; and strenuously did he
etermine to hare the mastery orerthem. When at sc^oolt Henry
would flght a hundred battles, and laugh as he foufl;kt; but Bir
Boland's sense of right, and nobility of chnaKSter made him a^or
Buoh debasing, unchristian, and ungentLemanlike scenes. Never but
jcmce — and that when quite a boy — did he allow his passion to
triumph over his better principle, and then he si^ered bitterly for
80 doing ; for in the battle which ensued— and whidi did not take
place tul after he had endured unnumbered provocatians— he struck
nis adversary with sux^h violence, that the blow, falling on the
temple, dashed him to tiie ground. The boy was taken up sense-
less, and it was at first thought — dead; but though he afterwards
leeovered, yet the shock to Sir Roland was so dreadful, that it acted
as a most salutary check against any further outbreaks of passion-
ate feeling. It could not, however, still the power of tiie tempest
-within; a mightier force than xmassisted immaii energy was
xequired to effect that ; and hamo^, such foree was in time given,
—the force of a living, loving faith, which slaked the inwaid Are,
and imparted so oontmual a sense of Gx)d's presence to Ms soul,
as hushed the tumult of passion, and gave him a self-subdued— or
rather, heaven-subdved spirit, such aslew are blessed witiL
The exact time of Henry Asnton's arrival eould not be oalculated ;
end as he would land at Falmouth— whicJi was not very far from
Llanaven— there would be no time for the post to reach the latter
place before he eould do so himself, lliis kept his fdends in a state of
continual excitement and expectation ; and every aoimd — emeoiaUv
l^e noise of the reeeding waves, -drawing i&e pebbly shingle with
^em in tiieir retreat, which from time to time reamed than from
the flhore--iseemed tha weleome approaohof bis caniage-wheels.
Snt SQLiJm ABBWX* 159
Lady Morenoe, incapable of Betting to anytking, pasBod meet of
the day on the heicphts, watching for nis ship, which would probably
pass in sight: and tiien she would return hacoB vrhen tne light
failed, and teU of all the suoeessiTe objects she had seen, which slid
had felt sore were his ship, but which, as they neared her expectant
eyes, transformed themselYes into fishing-boats, sea-guUs, or some
such light gear.
At lengt£ one morning, the Tehement barking of his old New-
fonndland, aroused their attention; and Lady Florenee, half doubt-
ing — shaving so often been deofiLYed-— began repeating those pleasaat
lines:—
*' The gladBome iMHindiiig of his mndent honnd,
Says he in truth is her&--oi]r long, Umg lost, is foand,"
*when the sound of the jwanpling of hones and the whirring of
wheels were really heard belore tae house, too distinctly to be mis-
taken.
All £ew oat of 13ie room— and Lady Fkxr^ioe readied the house-
door loxig before the bell oould be rung, or any servant eouUL
appear. Senry, for it was indeed he,.GpruiLg from the carriage, and
catching the duld in his arms, neaily squeezed h» to death ; then
rushing to his mother and Lady Coimtanoe— in an ecstasy of hap^
ness, pressed them both together to his jovful heart.
**ilijid am I really here again f" hesud,; " really here ^— It is too
deUfl^tful ! Eut where is Eoknd V
"He is gone," answered his mother, when she oould £nd words
to speak ; *'his business with his unole took him away just before
we inew you were ecming."
"Howintolerahle!" said^enry, impatiently, as his brow con-
tracted to a sudden frown ; " I had so reckoned on finding him
here— luid did so lonff to see him ! — ^HowoYer it is something, is it
not (and the doud cleared from his joyous countenance), to find
oneself onoe more amongst so many tnat one loyes ? Tou cannot
think," he added, as he seated himself on the drawing-room sofiE^
holding his mother's and Lady Constance's hand in his, whilst
Lady Florence knelt befwe him, — ^* what a relief it is to look at
vour loYely, blooming ^sees, after having for weeks had nothing
out the rou^h, weather-beaten visages oi our old tars to refresh
one's eyes W1&. And Constance — dear lovelv Constance ! how you
are ^[rown — and mere beautifal than ever ! And my dearest momer
looking so well, and ten years younger ! And you— you little tor-
ment, (to Lady Moarenoe) twioe as blaok and frightful as you ever
were before, and, I have no doubt, seven times as mischievous ! I
have kept a monkey on board ever sinoel went to America, on pur-
pose to remind me of you ; and now I have brought him home in
Older that on improving syston of 'enseignementmutuel' (mutual
instruction) may go on between you."
" Have yon^'*^ said Lady Florenoe,— " ^dieere is it }" And awajr
die flew.
" How beautifal she is !" said Henry, when shse was out of hear-
ing. ''Idon'tmindteUiBgyouthal^ toyouriaee, Constanoe, ior
160 SIS SOLAin) ASHTOir.
nothing can make you vain— but I am not so sure about that little
feiry."
"Do not be too sure about me," replied Lady Constance ; " how
can jou tell what evils may have grown up since I have been
^epnved of— what you used to call— your * paternal admonitions ?* "
** Did I call them so ?" asked Henry. "Well ! I don't feel very
paternal just now, so I may perhaps let your vices escape for a
time. I feel very filial, I know," he added ; and putting nis arm
suddenly round his mother's neck, much to the discomfiture of cap
and cape, he pressed his rough lip vehemently to her cheek.
"Mj dear Henry," she ezdaimed, shrinking from Imn* but
laughmg, " when did you shave last? not since you took yonr mon-
key on board, I should think? You have carried off at least a
square inch of my cheek."
" Not <][uite so bad as that, I hope, my beautiful mother,'' he
Teplied, kissing her again with the utmost gentleness and affection i
^' out I confess I have not shaved to-day ; for I left the ship before
I had light to discern my chin from the captain's, and clei^^ out,
and got off as fast as possible, to come here. And I have had no
breakfast either, for tea-cups as well as razors have shared the
flenitude of my neglect to-day, and I am regularly starving ; shall
ring ?' * And he jumped up-;-stormed at the bell — and then threw
himself down in his place again, with such force as made his two
companions start.
"I had ordered breakfast for you," said Lady Ashton, quietly,
** and here it comes." And the door opened, ana a man appeared,
bearing all the requisites for his repast.
What is so pleasant-looking as an English breakfast? Its
white damask, white bread, white cream, white sugar, clear china,
and bright silvers-all so delicate, so refined, so pure, so dean!
Bo thought Henry as he seated himself at the table, and ate many
satisfactory, wedge-shaped pieces of the lotS, and drank sundry
cups of tea.
His mother and Lady Constance sat silently by; with that uncon-
scious smile of pleasure on the Up, with which we often watch the
enjoyment of those we love. Henry frequently looked at them as
he satisfied his really craving hungers—with a laughing eye, and a
nod or shake of his head, as much as to say, he was far too busy to
talk ; till at length, pausing in his operations,—-
" This is what I call enjoyment !" he said, tiirowing himself back
in his chair, and contemplating the "wreck of matter" before him,
and the bright happy faces on each side — " this is what I call real
enjoyment ! it only wants Boland's dear old face there opposite me,
to make it perfect. I wii^ my uncle and all his politics were in the
depths of the Black Sea rather than have taken him away at this
moment !— but still this is very delightful ! — ^When did I last see
butter?" he continued, in a soliloquizing tone, "or cream— or a
white doth — or white bread— or white hands ? You land ladies have
no idea of the effect of tliese things on us ' rude and boisterous cap-
tains of the sea.' (including lieutenants). Yet it is n9t all
the mere love of the good things of this world, but it is a little— just
a little— because they are part and parcel of a system of humanized
Snt BOIAin) ASHTOK. 161
life, which is most enchanting— perfectly ecstatic t after knocking
about for years at sea, as I have done, seeing scarcely even a mer-
maid combing her hair, and being fed on nothing but * toasts of
ammunition bread/ Oh ! it is glorious ! But now my dear mother,
* mamma mia, tutta graziosa ^ buona/ (mother mine, all lovely ana
good), let me go to my room, (the old room I suppose,) and make
myself respectable, and fit to appear again in your delicate presence
^— and to kiss your delicate cheet."
** Wait till I ring, and know that everything is ready, and a good
fire burning," said Lady Ashton.
The bell was promptly answered by an old servant who had not
appeared before, and who now came in with coals, for which he
supposed he had been summoned.
"Heave on the coals, old fellow," exclaimed Henry, " and then
S've me your hand ;" and he shook it, and not onlv it, but with it
e whole person of the imfortunate man with suon vehemence aa
nearly deprived him of breath and senses.
** How are you, James ? and the old lady at the lodge, and all of
Jou? Your face is the pleasantest I have seen for many a year,
think I must take you to sea with me, next time I go ; you'E
come of course?"
" Thank you, sir— quite well— glad to see you home apain— grown
so tall— ^not a bit like Sir Boland— quite well," said the poor man
by snatches, as he regained breath and power of speech.
"And now, James/' said Henry, releasing him, " come with me
to my berth, and see that all is made snug there."
CHAPTER XXIL
** A wondrous and mysterious thing
Is hidden in the breast ;
A sea of tears, a ceaseless spring
Of waters ill at rest.
* • ♦ •
Oh I many are the founts through which
This mystic water flows,
And many are the things whose touch
Disturbs its dim repose.
For joy hath its own flood-gate meet,
A tear-spiing all its own ;
And pleasant are its waters sweety^-
But they rarely flow alone.
For near, too near, the fount of woe
Opens its portal wide ;
And seld<mi do those waters flow
But these flow at their side.**— C. G. G. H.
^ I BSALLY think Henry is mad," said Lady Constance, laughing,
when he had left the room.
**He does seem so, certainly," said Lady Ashton; "but he will
get reasonable enough in time, I dare say. A sailor returning
X
162 Sm XOLAND ASHTOir.
liome is like a prisoner set free ; and Henry's 8|»iitB, at the best*
are almost overpowerinffly joyous."
** Oh ! I delignted in nim as he was/' said Lady Constance ; *' he
used to be like moying sunshine, making all bnght around him.
3at now he is Hke thunder and lightning V*
" He is always so, at first, when he returns from seju" said Lady^
Ashton ; "but you have neyer before seen him at the nrst moment.
He used to have time to part with a little of his nonsense to the
winds before he reachedTdavertan ; and there^ of course, he was
under a little more restraint.**
Henry's spirits were certainly always high, espeeially when.
returning home after any absence ; but his violent outbreaks on
tiie present occasion, did not all proceed from pure joy. The mind,
when excited, chooses any excess that may seem easiest— laughter*
or tears — rather than trsmquillity ; that state, difficult at all times
to be attained b^ a warm, aniznated temper, is impossible then.
Henry*s rapture, indeed, at returning home was unbounded ; but
the sight of the mourning dresses of the two sisters, gave his
heart such a revulsion, that the moment his first joyful greeting
was over, he was o;i the point of bursting into violent tears. •
Desirous of restraining this natural impulse, he made a desperate
€!ffort over his sorrowful emoticm, and the exertxon sent him to tbe
opposite extreme of obstreperous gaiety. When, however, old
tTames had finished all his operations, and had left his room, he
locked the door,* and throwing himself into a chair — ^tears, though,
of a calmer nature than those ne would have shed at first, streamed
from his eyes. The sight of the two young things whom he loved
so much, in the black weeds so unsuited to their years, had brought
more vividly to his mind than ever before, what they must have
sufi[ered ana gone through; and it was some time before he could
regain his composure. This burst, however, relieved him; and
taking up a pen, he poured f(»rth in a letter to his brother, all his
mefs, and his joys ; his regrets for his absence, his delight at
being again at home, and his unbounded admiration of Lady Con-
stance ! and having finished, he applied himself to repaiiing the
neglects of his early toilet, and then descending, went to rejoin the
party in the drawing-room.
"And do I really see liiat 'Idessed uniform' again?" exclaimed
Lady Florence, who had re-entered whilst Henry was away, having
first seen the monkey installed in c<»nfort by awBrm fire; — "it
certainly is the most delightful dress that ever was invented."
" I am ^lad I am so charming an object in your eyes, Flory ; we
will certainly have a midd]sifl uniform made for the monkey, and
then you shall carry him about on your shoulder. — ^When did you
get my letter, dear mother, saying I was coming home ?**
"About a week ago.— What letters of mine have you received ?
tmd when did they reach you ?'*
•* I have only had one for these six months — dated July, which.
it>llowed me apout from place to place for an age — ^for our ship was
always in motion.**
He sighed as he looked at Lady Constance, for it was that lettei*
which had announced to him the tidings of her father*s death. He
SIB BOLAITD ASHTOir . 163
saw tliat she remembered it too, for the tears started into her
eves, and she tamed away. He strove to divert the current of her
t&oi^ts, and began speakin? of Sir Roland.
"When did he go?" he asked, " and how long will he be gone ?
Are you quite sure that it was solely to please * mon. respectable
onde,' that he has returned to the continent? Gossip has wide
wings, yon know, and &om what I heard, even out in the * far west,'
I suspect there may have been * metal more attractive,' than mere
old men's politics, to draw him back again."
Lady Constance felt most thankful that she had turned away,
before Henry began talking of his brother, for the subject was
to her always embarrassing ; and Lady Ashton's open nature would
have prompted her instantly to undeceive Henry, by telling him
of Sir Boland's engagement ; but being rather of a tuniddispo-
srtion, and not liking to act without being quite sure that what she
did would be agreeable to Sir Eoland, she determined to keep
^ence, till she had written, and ascertained hiswishes on the subject.
Sir Roland had, indeed, just before his departure from England,
particularly requested that his brother — who, it was expected,
would have continued abroad for some time longer — ^might not be
informed of the position in which he stood as regarded Lady Con-
stance.; for determining that his union with her should aepend
€ntbely on her own free choice — and not feeling certain at tiiat
time, of what that choice might ultimately be— he thouffhl^ with
considerate kindness, that if she should at last wish to creak of^
their marriage, it would be less unpleasant to her to do so, if the
knowledge of their en^gement were confined to the few who were
already ao;quainted with it, than if it were more widely known.
Most certainly, "had he anticipated his brother's return, lie would
have desired him instantly to have been informed of it ; for he
loved him too well to wish to show him any want of confidence.
But at the time of his own departure, there appeared no chance of
Henry's c(»ning home; for the ship he was in had still a consi-
derable time to remain abroad; audit was only in consequence of
obtaining his promotion as lieutenant much earlier than was ex-
pected, tnat he returned so soon, having been appointed to another
ship.
Lady Ashton, after a moment, replied to Henry's observations
about his brother, by asking, —
" Why, what have you heard of him ?"
** Oh ! I heard that all the Continent waa at his disposal — every
ntan wanting him for his sister or daughter, and every sister ana
daughter wanting him for herself; and I thought it just possible
that he might have found, amon^ the many ofiered, some one
worth accepting."
A smJSe played over Lady Constance's countenance, and a feeUng
of gratification stole across her mind, at hearing Henry's account
of nia Roland ; f<»r it is pleasant to find that others value that which
"we possess, even thougn we naay be conscious that we do not suffi-
<Jientlj appreciate it ourselves. Our vanity, as well as our affec-
tion, 18 otten gratided at feeling that what others covet, is devoted
solely to ourselves.
M 2
164 SIE ILOLAKD ASHTOir.
Yet a sigli involnntarily arose in her breast, as she saidi ** He
is indeed worthy of all the love that can be bestowed upon him."
" Yes," said Henry, " I know of no one who deserves to be loved,
if he does not. There is nothing like him! He is the perfect
Bayard of our day — ^the * chevalier,* par excellence, * sans penr et
sans reproohe,' (the cavalier, beyond all others, * without fear, and
wi^out reproach.') Nevertheless, if I had been him, I would have
tried my fortune in this cloudy little island of our own, before I
sailed across the sea to seek it. I had rather many you, Con-
stance, a thousand times— though that," he said, with a smile,
"would be no great exertion; or I would rather even have the
reversion of Ihat sun-burnt Krp&Y there, when she has got tired of
her monkey, than espouse all the * Pogalubofs,' * Tibofs,' * Bul-
cacofs,' *Timidofs,* in existence — ^with their impossible names.
But now, riory, go, and put on your bonnet, and come out with
me and mv 'blessed uniform,' and you, Ck)nstance — come alone
— and momer dear— come too; I long to see each 'dinsle ana
bosky dell,' and every nook *by flood and fell,' and all the dear
old child-remembered haunts. Come with me, all three— witdies.
— ^graces— whatever you are ! Hy, you two young ones, — mother,,
can I feteh your things ? or shall they ?"
"Florence will, she knows where to find them."
Shawls, bonnets, all were soon on, and the happiest quartet in the
world saUied form on a fine bright March day, with a wind just
fresh enough to make exercise defightfol. Henry walked between,
his mother and Lady Constance ; and Lady Florence spun about,
first on one side, then on the other, but more frequenthr in. front,
walking backwards before them, in the way in which children are
wont to do, to the infinite torment of their seniors ; till Henrv
threatening to "capsize her if she came across his bows again,
made her sober her glee for awhile, and she walked quiefiy by^
Lady Ashton's side; but finding such inaction irksome, she de-
voted herself exclusively to the society of the old Newfoundland^
who seemed never tired of fetehing the sticks and stones she
seemed never tired of throwing.
" Let us ^ and see the old lady at the lodge," said Henry, "aihe
was not visible this morning as I passed."
They called accordingly, and the sailor's frank cordial ^[reeting,
accompanied by a shake of the hand, rather less distressing thfUL
the one he had afflicted her old partner with in the morning, en-
chanted the poor old dame, who declared, " he was Mr. Henry all
over ; though," she added in true west country dialect, " he waa
grown up so long."
When they had taken leave of her— Henry having^ first inajsted
that she should come up that evening, and drink his health in a
bowl of punch— he said, "Constance, ao you remember, years ago,
our all climbing up to the top of that old woman's house^ yoa»
and Koland, and I? and I wanted to help you; but you said you
could manage quite as cleverly as we did; so you tumbled down,
and beat your bonnet into the uiape of a cocked-hat, and hurt your
arm, and were so cross !"
Snt BOLAKD ASHTOir. 165
** Yon might be a little more ciyil in your recollections," said
Lady Constance, langhingj ; " however, I utterly refuse to recollect
anywing about it, and I beUeve the whole to l>e a figment of your
own invention."
" True, I assure you ;— you were dreadfully cross sometimes, and
used to scratch awfolly."
** You had better not bring such things too vividly to my recol-
lection, lest I should be tempted to renew that pleasmg exercise,*'
said Lady Constance.
" I have a good thick coat>sleeve now, happily, and not the poor
little bare arms you used to tear so unmercifully. I have the
nutrks now— the surgeon, when bleeding me, thought I must have
fallen into the hands of the CSiippewa Indians in tender youth, and
liave been tattooed."
"What could you be blooded for ?" asked Lady Florence.
" To cool my temper, my dearly beloved ; I grew so fierce in those
hot climates, that i became a terror to all beholders, especially to
small girls, with blue eyes and rosy cheeks. It was dreadful the
deaths I put them to ! I hove some mto the sea— imnaled others on
<}actuses— bobbed for sharks with others ! — ^but I nave kept one
particularly dreadful mode of extinction, solely for the benefit of
small English girls, which tortures them horribly— especially if
their hair curls, and their names begin with an F." And he east a
terrific glance at the curly-haired "F." by his side. **But now
let us go down to the shore."
Lady Ashton said she wa9 tired, and Lady Florence went home
with her, while the others descended the clins, by a corniche path,
-which led down from the shrubbery.
** How exactly everything is as it was," said Henry. " The trees,
to be sure, and you — are grown ; but the sea does not seem to me
an hour older ! Do you really mean to say that it has been splash-
ing away on this shore ever since I went? Do you remember,
Constance? "
"No — ^I do not mean to remember anything," she replied;
"" your memory is such an ill-taught thing, I desire to have nothing
in common with it."
"Oh! do not be so cross with me," he said, beseechingly; "I
was going to remember something very pretty of you : how you
cried and bemoaned yourself one day when I fell down this cliff,
and did not hurt myself at all. You were so sweet, so very sweet
as a child, spite of your scratchings — ^which to do you justice, was
only your baby-work. Oh ! the many hours we have been here
together !— the many holes we have dug in the sand, and watched
to see filled with watel^--the many times we have stood with oiep
backs to the sea, purposely, when the tide was coming in, and thm.
been so wonderftilly surprised, when the waves came over our feetl
Those were delightful days !" And he walked on with a smile on
his cheek, as if he were going over in his mind, the charms of those
happy hours.
" JBut," he continued, after half a minute's silence, "if there iff
one pleasure in existence more delightful than all others, it is--tc
166 ess. BOLAKB JkfiHTOZT.
Ise, as I am now, with those one loves, and to whom, one can say
* Do you remember }* — ^The Mends of after days may be, and often
are, dear, but not like these — ^the first."
"Well, dear Henry/* said Lady Constance, "I will not check
another of your reeollections. I shall like to hear them, though
they will often perhaps sadden me."
" Dear Constance,' he said, with much feeling, ** do not fancy
m.e a heartless wretch, because I seem in spirits, and talk nonsense.
I cannot help being happy, for I am at home again with those I do
60 dearly love ! but still 1 grieve so very much for vour affliction !"
— ^He kissed her hand affectionately, and added, ^'but you know
how much we all love you, and that we would do anything to make
you happy."
" I am much happier than I was," replied Lady Constance ; " but
stiU I cannothelp Reeling his loss, and shedding many, many tears ;
even your return has saddened me, thinking now fond he used ta
be of you, and how much he would have rejoiced to see you
ajBfain." And with renewed tears, she entered on some of the par-
ticulars of her father's deatih, and of her own sad feelings, to wnich
Henry Ashton listened with the deepest interest ; answering with
kind, heart-soothing words; and leading her thoughts back to
cheerfulness, by his animated affection, and bright views of hie
and of eternity.
"And my dear brother," he said, "how did he like going back
again ? He used to tell me, when ne was abroad that he longed so
much to return home."
" It was no wish of his to go back," answered Lady Constance;
thankful that the trembling of her voice was concealed by the
lingering sobs, which she could not yet quite overcome,
*^If he were here, my happiness would oe complete," said Henry;
*' only that there is ever the undjring sensation which aooompanieft
extreme happiness— the scHoething which whispers amidst it all —
' How fleeting !' ' Why are the joys that wilf not last, so perish-
ingly sweet r It is a very good tioinc^, though, Constance, that it is
80 ! Joy on the one side^-^sorrow on the other— lift the souL towards
God. And s^r all it is 'unwise to cast away sweet flowers,
because they are not amaranth.' "
" I am glad you have those contented, yet serious feelings, Henry,"*
said Lady Constance ; " that is the only frame of mind which turns
all to good."
" I cannot imagine how people get through life without them," he
answered. " The commonest HttLe squalls of trouble one would
think were enough to set people on the k>ok-aut for a sure anchora^re
and quiet haven ; and yet one sees thousands— women too, who
seem as if a breath would blow them into nothing — ^bearing on
through weights of woe, heavy enough to crush the earth — ^witnout
one bright or hopeful look to the * land of pure delight' — ^without
one moment's sense of the love of God, or one craving for His sym^
pathy ! I have known little of trouble or sorrow, myself, certainly^
But 1 know this — ^that with God I could be happy, were I alone in
the world ; but that without Him— not aU tne heights of my
glorious profession— not all the riches of the world— itslbest riches,.
JSIS SOLAIO) ASKTON. 1>7
bxyme-loyeH- not yoa, nor my dear mother, nor — almo^ ^eaxer tban
all — ^Koland himself, could make me happy without Him. I am as
sure of that as if I had lived aU the years, and goose throng all
ihe tronbles of the Wandering Jew."
"Yes,* it is true," answered Lady Constance; "without TTiiyi
tiiere can be no aMdLng peace on eaxtii ; but my weak heart has
4>ften been very sorrowful even witii Him. And yet, perhaps I
should say, it was whoi forgrettingr Him, aaid linking too much of
my earthly father, that I missed the oomfort which my Heavenly
One alone could bestow. I should think ihe sea, Henry, must be a
place peculiarly fitted to awaken thoughts of Gk>d in the heart."
** It is in the power of no place to do that," replied Henry ; "it
is the Spirit of God akxae, as you well know, Constance, th^t can
ever awaken our dead soals, or put one ray of light into their dark*
ness. The sea may perhaps, as weU as the starry heavens, and
other works of €K)d, furnish an argument for the Deist against the
Ath^st ; — as Napoleon, when going to Egypt, hearing some of his
generals talking infidel tradi, pomted up to the star -lit heavens,
and said ' Messieurs, qui est-ce qui a fait tout oela }' (' Gentlemen,
'who made all that ?') out never, dear Constaoee, will such things
make a man a Christian. I remember indeed on one of those-^(^ !
heavenly nights, which we have in the south, ^diere the sky is
literally paved with stars— that we were talking on the subject of
Christianity on board of ship, and one man said in a tone of the
greatest contempt-^pointing upwards : * Yes, you turn from such a
glorious sight as this, and set up a rush-light in its stead' — ^meaning
revelation. Enormous noodle ! as if revelation did away with the
God of nature, and did not rather exalt Him a thousand-fold. But
"^se irreUgiomsU are so intensely silly ! I do not wonder at Scrip-
tore always calling them * fools !' Their arguments are such as
Balaam's ass might blow away/'
" Yet they are not so easily got rid of; either," said Lady Con-
stance.
** Ko, becaose they have struck deep in the unfathomable mire of
i^ vnregenerate human heart ; and their roots are nurtured from
beneath by the fosterer of all ill things. I can make allowanees
for all mistakes in religion, but I cannot tolerate those who scoff
at it."
** But there are some who, though unbelievers themsdves, yet do
not scoff at Christianity," said Lady Constance.
" Yes, and I have a true, though painful Mendship for several
persons of that kind ; painful, because the more I like them, the
more, of course, do I feel, fi»r what I know from Scripture, must be
their hopeless case, as long as they reject the only hope of sinners."
" Yet now strange it is, said Lady Constance, ** that many who
deny Christianity are remarkably amiable, upright, benevolent,
and moral people-~o^n more so apparentiy maji really pious
Clmstians."
" More shame, then, for the pious Christians," said Henry,
smiling. " Yet it is to be accounted for tiiis way : Satan cares not
^fOB jot, whether we sleep away, or violently sin away our souls ;
therefore, tiiose whom he secures by opi9,tes, he is judioioiis enough
168 Sm SOLANB ASHTOK.
not to arouse by making them commit alarming crimes ; while the
Tery faulty dispositions of others may be the means, in Gh>d's
hands, of making them feel they are not £t for heaven on their own
account, and so of leading them to Him, who alone can take them
Uiere. Whitfield said, he never had so much success in preaching
as among the colliers, who having evidently no righteousness of
i^eir own, were most thankfol to hear of, and most ready to accept^
the imputed righteousness of another. Those amiable, good sort
•of honourable unbelievers, and worldlings, remind me of a story I
have heard my mother tell of an old man, whom she knew when a
girl, and who was suffering dreadfully from gout, or something —
and was complaining accordingly, when a Mend said, *You do
not look ill in the face.* * I'm no* ill in the face,* he answered in
a rage. Now, these people are * not ill in the face ;' the outward
man is well enough to look upon ; whilst within exists the deadly
disease of unpardoned sins, and an undevoted heart."
"I think," said Lady Constance, "that Erskine hsl^s so admi-
rably, * God is not obeyed by our doing what He desires, but by
our doing it out of love to Him."
" Yes, that is the only acceptable motive— the only one of God's
-own planting," replied Henry. " * Love is the fulnlment of the
law,' both to God and man ;
* Love is life's only sign I
The spring of the regenerate heart,
The pulse, the glow of every part,
Is the tme love of Christ the Lord,
As man embrac'd, as God ador'd.'
But how delightful it is to hear you talk in this way, Constanoe ;
and yet so strange ! You were quite a little girl when last we
parted, not much older than Florence — skipping and flying about
-as she does now, and talking anything but sense — ^though very dear
nonsense. Now, you are grown sober, and tall, and - — " he stop-
ped, and looked at her with an expression which showed he did
not disapprove the change which time had made. She laughed*
and coloured as she said, —
** You must not forget that time is as awake and busy on the
deck of a man-of-war, as he is on 'terra firma* (firm ground).
You, too, are very different in some ways, to what you were ; though
not in all."
"What am I changed in?"
" You are much taller, and "
" Much handsomer," interrupted Henry, " am I not ? Say so,
dear Constance; do flatter me a Httle; it is so pleasant to near
oneself praised."
" I do not know that you are handsomer," said Lady Constance.
" Ah ! your eve has been spoilt by having my Adorns brother 80
long[ before it," he said, smiling. ^* Well, if I must yield, let it be
to him, and welcome.
" You are too different to admit of a comparison."
•* That does not satisfyme at all," said Henry; "I want some-
thmg positive said in my favour. If you go on provoking me, I
•will not 3^eld even to my peerless brother ; and I will make you
-this evening sing, * Les yeux noirs, et les yeux bleuz * (Black eyes
and blue eyes ;) and take all said in nraise of the latter to myself.
How often, by the bye, have I thonprnt of that silly song, when I
«aw the dark-eyed, out really beautiful women of tne south. The
remembrance of my anticipations of what you would be, * Signorina
mia,' made their ma^;nificent gazelle-like orbs shrink into shrivelled
sloes in my estimation. But I am grievously disappointed after
all !"
" I think you are talking great nonsense, my dear Henry," said
Lady Constance, quietly. ** If you wish me to understtuid that
you think me celestially beautiful, say so at once, and waste no
more time ; and I in return will say that I think you quite good-
lookinfir enough for any man ; so let that matter be considered as
* signed, sealed, and delivered,' and settled for life."
Not for life, alas ! Constance ; unless we mean for the future to
jnibsist solely on Hebe's fare — determined to ' flourish in immortal
youth ;' but "
'* Well then, for the present at least ; so now be rational again."
"But why should you return my civilities with such asperity?
Art thou incensed at oeing reckoned beautiful ?"
" Not in the least—but I hate," added Lady Constance, with a
provoked smile, " having inuendoes made on the subject. It seems
so much as if one was considered ' la bSte' as well as * la belle.' "
" You know, Constance, I could not — — "
" Oh ! don't make me compliments on my understanding now,"
she cried. " Do let it be inserted at once in the agreement,
that I am, besides all other good things, ' wisest, virtuousest, dis-
creetest, best '"
" Yes, if you add also, * provokingest, hard-heartedest,' " said
Henry, laughing, though half angry.
** Agreed," she replied.
" But tell me, Constance, do you really suppose every woman
likes to be thought beautiful ?"
** If she is so, of course ; why not ?"
" Ay, if she is so ; but who is to decide that Question }"
" A sensible woman will decide it for herself. '
•• But I thought it was reckoned the proper thing for a young
lady to be wholly unconscious of her beauty ; and to start like a
timid fawn, if zephyrs whispered it in flitting by, or flowers bowed
tiieir fragrant heads as she passed, in acknowledgment of her
surpassing loveliness !"
•'^Any one might well start under those circumstances," said
Lady Constance, laughinfir with her gleeful voice; *' but I imagine
that that race of young ladies is past— evanished with the wnis-
pering zephyrs and bowing flowers. These railroad days cherish
not such unconscious lovelinesses. No, my dear Henry, it is the
part of all sensible bodies, men or women, to And out what they
are, and to appreciate themselves accordingly."
"Well, that will do, as far as people's sense concerning them-
selves goes," answered Henry; ** but now are they to show their
fiense in their estimate of others }*'
170 SIR SOLAKD ASETQK.
'' Oh ! that is equally simple/' answered Lady Constance, gaily ;
** we should reckon all as sensible people who are sensible of our
merits, of course."
** Then," said Henry, pausing: in his walk, and turning to her
with a bright smile, " you must write me down in our agreement
^-* most sensiblest ' — for no words can express what I think of
you."
There was something in Henry Ashton's manner as he said this,
which startled Lady Constance; and an undefined sensation of
dread took possession of her. She considered herself akeady as
Sir Eoland's wife; and words like these, even if spoken in jest,
she could not like. She coloured deeply ; but a slight feeling of
di^leasuie enabled her to me^ her companion's eye calmly,
though gravely, as she said after a moment's pause, —
"Now a truce, dear Henry, to all this nonsense; I hate this
foolish style of conversation, liiough I have given way to it my-
self. It IS so dif^rent to what we had be^i havinff before — so-
different to our former habits ! Do let us be as in the dear old
times, or I shall have no oomlort in you, and shall feel for you.
quite as a stranger."
"Bo not do that, Constance," said Henry, completely checked,
and his bright look giving way to one of pained embarrassment;
" I would not offend you for the world."
"I know you would not," she replied, "and yoa hare not
offended me ; but I want to consider you as my old companion —
the brother of my childish days; and if ^u are to be makins^
absurd speeches every moment, you will tire me to death; ana
liien I must take refuge with my mother, (for so she always oalled
Lady Ashton) and give you quite up — ana you might as well be
at sea again."
Henry Ashton took her hand, and kissing it with deep, affec*
tionate respect, said, —
" Forgive me, Constance, I will not be so foolish again."
" I have nothing to forgive, Henry," said Lady Constance, much
touched ; " I was talking nonsense as well as you ; and after all I
am making a great deal, perhaps, of nothing; only— I do not
like "
" I perfectly understand you, my darling sister," said Henry,
comprehending her meaning, and with iatuitiye delicacy, resuming
his old, natural, unconstrained manner again; "you like thatl
should be the ' Henry' of your scratching days, and not the ooH"
ceited, presumptuous coxcomb I was just now."
"Yes," said Lady Constance; "we cannot be better than we
were when digging holes in the sand, and letting the sea wash
over our feet."
Lady Constance was truly wise in thus early putting an end to
Henry Ashton's demonstrations of regard. Sue was young both
in years and in experience, yet she could not misunderstand his
manner to her; ana though she did not suppose that what he felt
^ her on this, the first day of his return — ^was love — ^yet she felt
that it was what would — ^if allowed to oontinue and increaae—
Sm BOLAlffD ASHTOV. 171
render her interooiirse with him extremdy unpleasant, and com-
pletely destroy all the happiness and freedom oi their former days.
She wished eamestily to tell him of her en«:aTCment to Sir Roland ;
as that, she thought, would immediately settle their relatiTe posi-
tions, and prevent his eva having a feeling for her, heyond what
he might freely have for his childhood's companion, and the he-
trothed of his brother. But as Lady Ashton had told her of Sir
Bohmd's wish that it should not he known, she did not like to do
what she thought he mi^ht disapprove. What she had said, how-
ever, seemed to have entirely the desired effect; for Henry Ashton
immediately treated her with the sanke free cordiality he nsed
towards her sister — ^making no difference in his manner hetween
the two ; and this set her quite at rest, and enabled her to enjoy
his society again without fear or scruple. And true enjoyment it
was; for ne was fnU of information, and anecdote; having seen
jnudi, observed much, and read much ; and having witiial, an
internal laboratory which converted all into pro&t.
CHAPTER XXIII.
•* Our best affections here.
They are not like the toys of inikncy*
The soul outgrows them not.
We do not cast them off." — Unhnoton,
^ There are noble tilings which pass oFer thy powerful sUnd."—- /von^.
IlOE time passed happily at Uanaven, while Sir B.oland was in
an t^e turmoil of business, and of almost incessant travelling
abroad; The transaction he was carrving on, was happily, one in
which he felt great interest; for, unlike many diplomatic matters,
it was of such a nature as, if well conducted, would conduce to
the happiness of thousands. But his own happiness was sorely
disturbed by receiving no letters from home. He knew, of course,
that many were written; but he was so constantly in motion, that
hie did not know where to tell his uncle to forward them to him ;
80 that after the first few davs, he was above two months without
beholding the handwriting oi either Ladv Constance or his mother ;
and consequently, all that time had elapsed, before he knew of
his brother s arnval at home.
On his return to his uncle's, he found a pile of letters awaiting
his perusal. They had been arranged for nim by Lord N — -*s
thoughtful order, according to the date of their arrivals, and with
eager haste he began to examine their contents. The first which met
Ms hand was from Lady Constance, written with a kindness and
affectionate cheerfulness, that gladdened his very heart; and long
did he gaze on the characters which so beloved a hand had traced,
ere he felt inclined to open any other. The kindly style in whioi
she had written was not in the least assumed, for the relief which,
as has been observed, her spirits exx>erienced from Sir Roland's
absence, had communicated itself to her whole being; and her
172 BIB BOLAlin) ASHTOK.
regard for him again flowed forth, almost as fi-eely as in the former
pleasant days of their nnclouded affection.
The next letter he opened was from Lady Ashton, containing^
the unlooked-for news of Henry's expected arrival, but saying
that the time of his coming was uncertain.
Another kind letter then presented itself from 1^7 Constance,
full of pleased anticipations of Henry's return, fajid. more than
«yer satisfactory in its tone of feeling towards himself. He pressed
it to his lips, and felt a glow of joy and of confidence in the lore
of her who wrote it, which had never before warmed his heart.
Alas! how slight a veil may hang between the extremes of
pleasure and of pain! A seal broken — a little sheet of paper
unfolded— a word— written or spoken ! — and the whole hue and
tenor of our lives may be for ever changed !
With an almost listless hand, (so fall was he of happiness), did
Sir Roland open the next letter. It was from Lady Ashton, telling
him of Henry's actual arrival, and giving[ an account of his looks,
&c. He read the beginning with excessive pleasure; and paused
a moment, as a flow of deep auction came over him, at the
thought of his brother, and of the joy and happiness which all at
home must have experienced at this delightrol meeting. How
ardently did he desire to be at Llanaven at that moment ! The
yearning of his heart, to his brother especially, was inexpressible;
and the thought of his being at home made mm, with impatience,
sigh for tlie weary time of his own exile to expire. How did he
long again to be amongst those so dear to him ! to cDJoy witii
them tneir rambles through the woods, their rides over the Tbreezy
downs, their moonlight walks by the side of the restless sea. But
lie strove to subdue the murmurs that involuntarily arose, and
one upward glance brought down peace and strength. Again he
took up the letter. What was there in the few short words that
followed, that could so completely unhinge his soul ? They were :
** Shall I not tell Henry, now he is come home, of your enga^-
ment to Constance?" Simple words! — ^yet they brought with
them a hurricane of feeling to Sir Roland. He glanced impatiently
at the date, and saw that the letter had been written full twi
months before ! An idea new and horrible seized his imagination
•—tremors shook him from head to foot— the paper rustled in his
shaking hand, and the characters flitted and taded from before
his eyes! Unable to still his painful trembling, he leaned his
his head upon his hand.
"With what an agony," he thought, at length, when the con-
fusion had cleared a little from his mind, *'have I thirsted for
these letters ! and now with what agony do I receive them ! Two
months ! And Henry has been two long montlis with Constance,
in all the freedom of early friendship — ^unknowing of her engage-
ment ! He must love her ! — ^he must love her ! — ^it is impossible
but he must love her ! And she—?" He shrunk as if a gulf had
opened before his feet. His mind rapidly reviewed the scenes of
ttieir earljr youth, recalling how Henry had ever been Lady
Constance s chosen companion— the partner of all her occupations
—the participator in all her pleasures ! The thoughts which these
SLR BOLANB ASHTOIT. 17^
recollectioiLS awakened within him now for the first time, seemed
to scorch his very brain as they crossed it. He started up with
the insupportable suffering, and walked to and firo with hurried
steps. " Oh ! GK)d !" he exclaimed aloud, " saye me from this —
save me from this. Why did I not teU him at once of our engage-
ment, and put him on hii guard? And yet," he continued, as he
pausedin his agitated walk, "Idid it for her sake! But to lose
ner!— now, when my happiness was at its height; her— whose
image never leaves me — ^to see her love another !— -Oh ! my Fati^er,
avert this intolerable anguish from me !'* And again he agitatedly
red the apartment. *yBut," he said, with sudden hope, " I may
tormentmg: myself with that which has existence only in my
own wild brain:' and he again took up his mother's letter. It
contained nothing to alarm nim, save that the reality — so terrible
to his imagination— -remained unchanged: " Henry was there with
Constance, believing her imshackled!" His impulse, when he
had finished reading the letter, was instantly to write, and desire
that his brother should be told of his engagement; and he seized
a pen and wrote to that effect. He then with a trembling hand
took up another of the letters; it was from Henry himself— the
one he had written in the height of his feelinsps, on the first morn-
ing of his arrival. He spoke with ecstasy of oeing avain at home,
again with those he loved ; — ^but though at another time Sir
Boland would have delighted in dwelling on all the pcurticulars
of that which interested his brother, vet now he had but one
thought in life, and his eye ran feverisnly over the lines, till it
rested on the name of " Constance." His head swam, and his
heart beat audibljr, as he read the expressions of extreme admira-
tion with which his brother spoke of ner — and crushing Ihe paper
in his hand, he burst into tears.
"If such," he thought, when he grew more composed—" if such
were his teelings on the first day of their meeting, what must
they be now ? And will she not— idoes she not return them ?' '
fie dared not answer that question to himself— he knew she had
Hover loved Atm, as his love to her desen^, " and now," he
thought, "will all her heart be filled with him— her childhood's
favourite— whose blighting love has come between me and happi-
ness." His mind was too confused for prayer, and he sat as if
paralyzed. A fiush of indignation for a moment darkened his
brow— but then a milder feeling softened the expression of his ej;e
as he refiected, " And if he does love her, is he to be blamed ? is
he not ralher ' sinned against than sinning ?' Oh ! that I had
known he was coming home ! or that my dear mother had not
attended to what she thought were my wishes. He ought to have
known all instantly, and not have risked his happiness— or mine."
He dwelt on the thought of his brother, of that young, gay»
joyous beinff— and a tide of noble tenderness rushed over him.
"He shall not be told it now," he exclaimed aloud, in the
fervour of his generous feeling. And he took the note he had
written, and tore it into fragments. " I may be — Oh ! God grant
that I am, premature in my fears ! And yet, can he be so long
with her— so intimately, — and remain indifferent?" He thought
174 Snt SOIAlfB ASHTOir.
of her loTeHness, her gentkiiess and piety, and all the attractions '
which bound his heart so completely to her : and a smile, though a
sad one, rested on his lips as the vision passed before him. Slowly
he took up the pen and began to write. The eSart was great ;— ^e
paused. '*I will at least," he thought, '*read all these killing
letters before I decide."
He read them in the order in which they had come. Those from
Lady Ashton contained not a word to influence him eitlier way,
though she frequently renewed the (question contained in her first.
Those which Lady Constance had written immediately after Henry's
arrival, were shcvt, but joyous and afEectionate ; often saying that
his own presence was all that was wanting to make their happiness
complete ; and in reading these. Sir Boland's fears vanished, and he
upbraided himself for his faithless folly, and for his doubts of her
truth. Then again, her letters became more sober, and more full;
and yet they seemed, he thought— but it might be only fancy —
less free than before; she seemed more studious of pleasing ium,
more full of inquiries as to what he was engaged in; — ^but she
dwelt more, he thought, on what she read, and what she did — less
on what she felt. At the moment of reading them, he was satisfied
with their contents, but when he had closed them, it seemed as if
something were wanting. Again he read them, and again he was
satisfied ; — ^he closed them — and again the nameless want pressed
on his heart. Henry's letters were frank, affectionate, and foil of
happiness; and though he often mentioned Lady Constance, yet it
was never again with the vehement, enthusiastic admiration which
had, at first, so startled and alarmed Sir Eolaad--and again the
latter smiled at the folly of his fears.
But these letters must be answered, and what should he say ?
After a second perusal of them, he felt so tranquil, that he thougnt
his first design, of infonning his brother of his engagement, could
involve no risk of that brother's happiness, and would be but 8
just mark of confidence and affection on his part ; and he detor*
mined to write both to Lady Ashton and to Henry himself to that
effect. Yet still he Uit dissatisfied — ^he i>aused, and passed his hand
often across his troubled brow. He could not determine what it
was best to do. A decision would have been difficult had he been a
dispassiimate judge in the case of another ; but here where all his
hopes of earthly happiness were involved — ^wh^re an affectian that
seemed his very sell, was henceforth to form his sum of human
Joy or misery— can it be wondered at that he found it almost
impossible to decide ? If Henry and Constance remained in their
feelings towards each other, as they had been in former daj8»
all would be well either way ; but if not — ^would it not be crushing
the hearts of the two beings he loved best on earth, if he suffexel
his claim to interfere between them ^— Hard thoughts were these !
A bitter sentence to pronounce against himself ! — Should he write
to Lady Ashton, and ask in confidence, whether she had perceived
^ly particular attachment between Lady Constance and his brotlu» ^
Jlo,— this course displeased his open nature ; it seemed as if he
^^Tp lacing a spv upon their actums ; and it might also be need-
lessly disturbing his mother's peace. Should he endeavoux to ob->
SIB SOUuBTD JLSHTOSr. 175
tain his brother's confidencje? But then it seemed as if the bare
sugrgestion of the thing might awaken in Henry's breast feelings
wmch else might never have existed. Again he thought (and this
course seemed to ofier most of x>eace) that he would write at once
to Lady Constance herself, and ask— without naming his brother,
— if, in his absence, she sdll wished — as she had said she did, when
they were last together — ^that their engagement should continue.
He would entreat ner to remember what he had before told her —
*' that worlds should not induce him to urge the fuMlment of her
vow, unless her whole heart could ratify it." He would beg of her
to consider herself entirely, and to let him feel at least, that she
thought him worthy of her fullest confidence.
Yes ! this he would do !— But ere he had got through many lines,
"No**— he thought "this might seem like distrust of her, and
might be felt as throwing myself on her generwdty. What ahaU
I oo ? Oh ! my God, undertake for me."
He pushed the writing materials from him, and started up. " I
cannot write to-day," he sai^ : " I cannot sufficiently command
my thoughts. To-morrow may bring calmer feelings. I must,"
he added, with a fednt smile, " like Hezekiah, ' spread my letter
^before the Lord,' and doubtless I shall be directed aridit."
He locked up the papers that had such power to trouble him, and
went to gaze once again from the (dd accustomed window. He was
in the ro<Hn where he had so long watched over Mr. Anstruther, in
days when his own prospects had been brighter than now they
seemed. He recalled to mind the elevated state of feeling he had
often enjoyed in that spot, where he had felt at times as il nothinap
could shake the happiness which rested on God alone— which had
Him for its source, and satisfying portion ; — and again somewhat
of peace stole into his heart.
•^A few short years," bethought, "and I shall be even as that
being, who here once suffered so much, but who is now beyond the
reach of evil !
< How shall I then look back and smile.
On thoughts that bitterest seemed erewhile; '
And bless the pangs that made me see.
This was no world of rest for me.' "
It was just a year since Mr. Anstruther's death ; and the world
-without was so unchanged ! There were the same bright lights,
the same length and breadth of shadows — ^the same vivid colour-
ings ; and Sir Belaud, after looking forth for a time, could have
almost fancied that, if he turned, he should a^ain behold before
him Mr. Anstruther' s pale, and suffering, yet spiritual countenance.
He remembered his words— that "if ever he was in trouble he
should think of him, and be comforted" — and he was comforted.
A blessed conviction filled his mind that the same Gtod who had
sustained the dying spirit of his friend, would be with him also,
and would strengthen him under every tnal.
176 BIE BOLAITD ASHTOMT.
CHAPTER XXIV.
** How often is our path
Crossed by some being, whose bright spirit sheds
A passing gladness o'er it ; but whose course
Leads down another current, never more
To blend with ours ! yet far within our souls,
Amidst the rushing of the busy world,
Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers still
Around that image." — Mrs. Hemaxs.
When ready for dinner, Sir Eoland descended the stairs, and
found Lord N in the ctawingr-room, who informed him that
they were to dine at the ambassador's, to whose house they
accordingly proceeded.
When first Sir Roland had returned to from England, he
had stayed but a short time at Lord N ^'s, and had had so much
business that he had scarcely had time to see any one. His appear-
ance, therefore, on the present occasion was hailed with the greatest
delight ; for though some were strangers, yet many in that large
party had been in when he was formerly there ; and by them
he was warmly greeted. One indeed, there was, to whom his pre-
sence brought a mixture of pain and pleasure difficult to be con-
cealed ;— from whose eye, no power could kee^ the springing t^ir»
when she again so imexpectedly beheld betore her one, whose
image she could not banish— though she knew he thought not of
her.
Isabella Harcourt was a pale but loTely-looking creature, who had
become acquainted with Sir Eoland when he was at the year
before. She belonged to a gay, worldly family ; but, of delicate
health and shnnkins: mind, she even then wearied of the fashion
and dissipation which could not give her peace ; and craved for
something to rest upon — something to satisfy the void within. Her
only brother — ^younger than herself— was then fast sinking before
the fell power of consumption, to which fatal disease he had since
fallen a victim. To him she was devotedly attached ; and gladly
would she have exchang^ed each gay scene, and cheerful meet-
ing, to have stayed by Ms sick couch, and soothed his suffering
moments.
At a little evening party, at that time, while sitting alone in silent
abstraction, she suddenly caught words of heavenly wisdom, which
were accidentally uttered in her hearing ; and turning, met a coun-
tenance that had never since left her memory ! Her young and
romantic heart became irresistibly attracted by bir Eoland's charac-
ter ; and, too timid to speak much herself, she would often sit by
and listen, when he spoke of relinon to others, till her whole soul
seemed filled with the subject. Kever^ till then, had the words of
truth reached her ears ; and they fell like dew upon a heart, which^
though so young, was tired of all the fflare of life. She gradually ob-
tained clearer and clearer views of religion ; but she also began tear-
fully to understand the nature of her reelings towards Sir Koland ;
and bitterly did she mourn over the incaution with which she had
SIS. BOLAWD ASHTOX* 177
suffered her heart's best earthly love, to fix itself where she felt it
was not returned.
Sir Eoland was indeed to her both " bane and antidote ;" for
while he was the cause of much earthly sorrow, his words and
bright example, were the means of leading her to Him, who never
faib or disappoints His people, and who alone coidd heal the wounda
80 unwittingly inflicted. There was also a feeling within her, which
told her that, whether for happiness or sorrow, this world could not
be Ion? for her ; and her affectionate heart would at times rejoice,
even mrough tears, that one she loved so much, had not placed his
hopes of happiness on a being, so soon to have been lost to him.
It had been impossible for Sir Roland, during his former stay at
Lord N 's, not to perceive the effect which his presence always
had upon Isabella Harcourt. Her mind, though diffident and re-
tiring to the utmost degree, was like a shrine of crystal, too trans-
parent to conceal what it contained ; and her ever- varying counte-
nance revealed but too faithfully every emotion which agitated her.
Often when Sir Roland was conversing with others, (for she seldom
•s^ke to him herself,) would her attention be rivetted on him and
his words, to the total forgetftilness of all around her, till suddenly
perhaps, catching^ his eye, she would shrink back into concealment.
She repeated to her brother (often without knowing its meaning)
all that she could recall of Sir Roland's conversations on religious
subjects ; and the boy eagerly listened to things so new and so de-
lightful to him. His parents and eldest sisters were always kind ;
and would trv to cheer his drooping, and often fretful mind, with
aceoimts of their pursuits and pleasures ; but in these he could feel
no interest ; and though Isabella, in her fond love, had been ever
striving to soothe and please him, yet her naturallv pensive mind
had dejected, rather than enlivened him. She had loved the poeti-
cal, and senlimental, and fanciful style of German literature ; and
had been but little acquainted with Scripture truth. Her thoughts of
death had been rather as of a release of the spirit from the burthen
of the flesh, that it might with freer love hover around the objects
of its earthly affections, than as that which must fix man's doom
for ever. She had endeavoured to feed her dying brother's mind
with the fancies which had filled her own ; and often told him
** that the sighing of the summer winds in the high branches of the
trees — * The Psithurisma of the dark-blue ^ine* — ^was the voice of
those of other days, calling them to join their happy throng !"
Such fanciful imaginations were ill calculated to supply thd
invalid with strength to bear up under the depressing innuence of
sickness and confinement, or to Support and guide a spirit already
on the confines of eternity. But when Isabella Harcourt had heard
the words of sober, though exalted piety which Sir Roland spoke
— these nnsubstantial fictions rolled away before their influence,
like the vapours of night before the morning sun; and as she
repeated to her brother the words wliich had had such power to
arrest her own attention, then indeed he too be^an to feel that there
was something which at last could suit and satisfy the wants of his
sonl. Jle ur^ed his sister to go as much as possible where she
€ould meet Sir Roland^ and to listen, for his sake, to all he said;
N
1^8 SIB B0LA17D AS TON.
and Isabella, thus stimuLated, vatclied with almost breathless
eagerness, to catcb the faintest sounds of a voice already too desur
to her;— idrinkinfi: in at the same moment, poison to her neart and
health to her soul. The latter, however, was all she oommunicated
to her brother, keepiiu' her xmhappiness concealed; and scnne
months after, when Sir Kolaad had departed for England, and her
brother died, it was with a mixture of joy and sorrow not to be
described, that she felt that the latter had owed his salvation
almost entirely, as far as human means were conoemed, to one thus
doubly endeared to her grateful heart.
Her close attendance upon her brother had greatly iiijured her
health, which had nev^ been strong ; and, in fact, the saiBe dis-
ease which had laid him in his early grave, was evidently stealing
with insidious power, into the very sprixigs of her life. The loss
of the brother ss deeply loved, and her other grie&, preyed con-
tinually on her spirits ; aid though in gentle aciiuiescenee with her
Mrents* wishes she still went out into society, it was evident to all
(but those most immediately about her), that the grave just dosed
on the only son, must soon be opened again to receive her— 4iis
nurse— his comforter— the guide of his young st^s to the tiarone
of grace and mercy.
Sir Boland could not be insensible to ihe devotion of this sweet
and beautiful creature ; yet he was fax above the ranful weakness
of doing aught to increase a sentiment, of which he knew too well
the force.
It has been said that the feeling entertained for those who love
us, but whose love we cannot return, is " ni amour — ^ni amiti§ ; mais
une classe apart." (Neither love, nor Mendship, but a class of its
own.) No truer saymg ! It may be vanity— it may be kindliness
— (probably a mixture pf the tw<^ — but give it what name we will,
we may observe, that a sentiment of interest ever dwells in the
breast of those who have been beloved, frar those who have wasted
on them the treasures of a vain affection, even though the measure
of that interest amount not to reciprocity.
Painfully did Sir Koland feel this towards Isabella Haroourt;
aiLd when he met her so unexpectedly at the ambassador*'8, on.
the occasion we are speaking of, nothing could still the pfmg that
darted through him at witnessing her uncontrollable emotion. She
looked so ill, too ! and when the sudden suffusion of colour which
had arisen for a moment, faded away from her cheek, it '* left its
domain as wan as clay.'' The sight of her — dad too in her mourn-
ing garments — ^for an instant completely unmanned him, for he
was in no mood to deem lightly of tiie pain of unrequited love ; it
seemed to him at that moment, the one only grief of life — ^the
single, all-poisoning drop of gall, which could embitter the whole
cup of existence. He did not approach Isabella Harcourt directly,,
but lingered long in his greetings with other friends, in order to
^ve her, as well as himself, time to recover their composure. In
"uie mednwhile, dinner was announced, and it was only m the little
oonfusion incident on taking their places at table, that they cauffht
each other's eye and exchanged salutations; and being ^finally
eeated on the same side of the table, but not next to each other.
eiB EOLAlfD ASttTOK. 179
they had no £etrtiier interoonrse at tiiat lime ; though the sound of
Sir Roland's voice would at intervals reach the poor girl's ear, and
send a very sickness to her heart.
After dumer, when all were again assemhied in the drawing:-
Toom, Sir Boland felt ih&t he oiig:ht, in oommon civility, to go and
•speak to her ; bat he could not bear to approach her, and remained
imr some time near ihe door, in conversation with others ; till per-
ceiving that Lord N was talking to her, in his kindly, cheerful
manner— brin^g every now and then a smile on her connt^iance
— ^he thought it a favourable opportunity, so crossed the room, and
joined their party. Her manner was agitated for a moment as he
addressed her ; but as he immediately afterwards joined in his
ondic's jesting conversation, her embarrassment soon passed;
though a deeper shade of depression seemed to sncoeed to everj'-
smile which Lord N 's observations prodnoed. She had never
in her life sought to speak to Sir Roland, though she had fe^uently
been a party in conversations he had had with others ; but now she
eamesuy desired to address him, and to tell him of the blessing he
had been to her and to her brother. Sinoe Frederic Hareourt's
death, she had had no one to whom she could speak on the subject
of religion— no human being even to whom she eould talk wilii
pleasure of him; for no one about her could have understood her
feelings of tearful happiness as regarded his immortal state. Her
femily, though kind, were thoroughly given up to the world, and
ike language of spirituality would have been as Arabic to tiiem.
Having (with some reason, certainly) laughed at her former fanciful
ideas; they treated her new feelings with no more respect: but
jokingly calHng them '*le8 demi^res fantaisies d'Isabelie," (Isa-
bella's last feuides,) expected soon to see them depart as the omers
had done, and be replaoed by something perhaps more visionary
still. Isabella's candid mind made her sensible that she had laid
herseK open to these suspicions, and she bore th^n, therefore, with
the greatest sweetness and patience; but she deplored that those
she loved, could not discern between the rovings of a childish, un-
taught imagination, and the breathings of that religion which is,
beyond all other things, a " reasonable service."
With these feelings, it would have been the greatest delight to
have been able to speak to Sir Roland — ^to have talked to him of
her biother^-and to have heard again from his Hps, words of truth,
and strength, and eomfort.
But how could she speak to him? With his uncle by, it was
impossible ; and even had they been alone, how would she have
summoned courage to have addressed him ? While these thoughts
were passing through her mind (rendering her so abstracted, that
thoufifn she mechanically smiled when they smiled, yet in fact s^io
hewa scarcely anytlung of the lively raillery Lord N was
bestowing upon his nephew) another gentleman joined their circle,
and Sir Kdland availing himself of the interruption, moved away,
glad of ending a scene so painful to him. Isabella Harcourt's eyes
followed him as he departed; and there are few perhaps of the
energetic actions of life, which equal in difficulty and exertion, the
powerful effort she made at that moment to preserve her composure /
V 2
180 SIB BOLAKD ASHTOIT*
She had heard Sir Roland sav, that in a few days he should again
quit ; it was not probable they would meet again before that
tune; and she was confident that if many months elapsed before
his return, the grave would first have closed abave her nead. She
190 longed to hear from him one word at least of heavenly truth, on
which her memory might dwell ! and to tell him of the change his
former words had been the means of effecting. But no I he had
left hei^-and her heart seemed turned to stone; its flutteiii^
action ceased, and a slow, heavy, throbbing pulsation succeededl
which seemed to paralyze her very life, and to deprive her of all
power and feeling.
There was music, and she was asked to sing, for her voice was
beautiful. She rose immediately, and without embarrassment sat
down to the piano. Generally on such occasions, her voice and
hands would shake with nervous timidity ; but what was all the
world to her at that moment ! They placed before her Beethoven's
harrowing song, " In ^uest^tomba oscura." (In this dark tomb)^
and she went through it without pause or fault. How many times
had she simg that music to herself, while her voice had failed, and
her heart sunk at its sad despairing words ! — But now ! — ^not the
vocal miracle of E^pt itself could have been more insensible to its
own thrilling strains, than was this sad musician to the power of
the harmony she was producing in such perfection. Had she
caught Sir Roland's eye at that moment, probably tiie whole baiv
rier of cold insensibility would have given way, and some terrible
outbursting of feeling have ensued; but the tones which failed to
arouse her, were too trying for him to endure in the presence of
others; and at the very commencement of her singing, he had
retreated into a deep window apart. It was the same in which he
had the year before held his long conversation with Lady Stan-
more, and he could not but painfully feel the contrast between the
bright and tranquil hope which had animated his bosom at that
time, and the a^tating suspense and heavy despondency which,
new oppressed him. ^ Often had he heard the music which Isabella
Harcourt was now singing, £rom Lady Constance, and that remem*
brance alone was sumcient at the moment to trouble him; but
mingled with it was the agonizing pity he felt for her who was
then before him, whose feelings he could too well interpret, and
whose present unnatural calm could not deceive him. He remained
in his concealment after her voice had ceased, intending, if possible*
to escape from the room unperceived, and walk home by nimsel^
leaving word for Lord N that he was gone ; but before he had
effected his purpose, he was painf ally embarrassed by seeing Isabela
Harcourt, with some other young lady whom he did not know»
enter the recess ; he himself being hid> by the voluminous curtainy
which, though looped back, yet hung so as to throw a deep shadow
where he stood.
" Ton look ill to-nifht, Isabella r" said her Mend« '
'• Do I ?" she replied. " I am not very well."
*' Did the singing tire you r"
"No— not much?'
They were silent, and stood looking out at the summer night.
SIE EOLAND ASHTCIT. 18t
"Miss Aubrey," said a young man, joining them, " there is a.
general petition for your * Ombra Adorata* (adored shade)."
" Suppose I were perverse," replied the younff lady who wa»
thus solicited, ** and refused to sing more than me third word^*
•aspetta' (wait)."
instead of enjoying the * fortunato Eliso* (fortunate Elysium), which
I was anticipating in hearing you."
' I must say, I think the presidinggenius of the revels to-night
seems in a most lugubrious mood. He first makes one mournful
ghost speak for itself," and she laid her hand lightiLy on her com-
panion s shoulder, ** and then he invokes another. Tou do really
look sadly like a ghost tp-night, Isabella," she said, kindly.
** I am tired ; and the room is so hot."
*' But is not heat now the best thing in the world for the voice»
Miss Harcourt ? will it not make Miss Aubrey sing so that we i^all
be constrained to exclaim,
' It were the Bnlbnl — ^bnt her throat
Though tonefhl, poon not such a note.* "
"Ah ! * Una voce poco fa* (a voice is but of little oonsequenoe),"^
.replied the obdurate songstress.
. ^* I tremble for your next quotation !" said the delegate, with
affected terror.
" What ! do you really suspect me of intending to follow in the
wake of the three hundred and sixty -five young ladies who yearly
perpetrate wretched puns on that unfortunate song ? No — ^from this
moment it shall be nameless for me."
" Well, then, if you are too fastidious, and too veracious to say,
' Mi manca la voce ' (my voice fails me), will you not come and.
exert it in our behalt? You really must. Hark ! the populace
are raging horribly ; I shall be rent piecemeal. Come, * Ombra,
Adorata,' " he said, entreatingly offering his arm. " Miss Har-
court," he added, in a more subdued manner, and turning back for
her, ** will you not come with us ?"
"Thank you, no," replied Isabella; " I will wait here, if Miss
Aubrey will return. To follow your song-quoting example," and
she smiled faintly, " I wiU rej>eat from my own of to-night, * In
questa tomba oscura lasda mi riposar' (In this dark tomb let me
rest)."
" I will return to yon, dear Isabella," said Miss Aubrey, looking
kindly back.
" * Lascia mi riposar' (Let me rest)," repeated Isabella, murmur-
ingly to herself, when the others were gone. " Oh ! yes, * imploro
pace (I imi)lore for peace)."
She was silent, ana leaned her head against the side of the open
window, while every breath she drew was an oppressive sigh. Sip
Boland knew not what to do ; his distress was extreme. In her
182 SIS BOLAim ASETOIC.
present position, if Isabella Harcourt turned, site eould not but
perceive nim ; and to leave tbe recess witbont being observed was
naw impossible. And yet be could not bear to speak to her — the
ver^ sight of her was grief to him. For several minutes she re*
mamed without moving; but at length she rose, and kaned out of
the window^ aztd Sir Roland, taking advantage of the slight noise
she made in moving, left his shadowed spot, so ^[uiekly that she
could not pereeive whence he came, and approachmg her, said, in
as steady and cheerful a voice as he could command, —
" Miss Harcourt, are you prudent in going to the open window
after being in thai hot room }'*
She started at the sound — ao unexpected — of his voice, but she
coYiLd not answer him ; the blood so long apparently stacnated at
her heart, rushed in torrents to her head, and she could l&rdly
prevent herself from falling. Sir Eolami spoke again, —
** Are yo:i not cold, Miss Harcourt?"
" What is it r f^ said, confusedly. " Who spoke V
" It wus I," said Sir Eoland. " Axe yoa not wefl ?" ^
'' I was dizzy for a moment,'* she answered, sinking into a dtair^
but perfectly composed again ; " but it is past."
** Are you often so,^** he asked.
" Sometimes. No — net often."
^ He stood in painful silence. She made an effort to speak— her
lips moved, btft no soirad issued from them. Again she tried, but
the effort was vain.
" You are net weU," said I9ir Boland; " ^toU I call Mrs. Har-
court?"
''!Ko~no," i^e replied; beet added, after a pause, "I have suf-
fered much, fflnce last we met, and " a eimvulsive sob arose,
and &r a moment »he was neariy overcome.
"I know you have," replied Sir Roland, mudi moved; "but
there is One, Miss Harcourt, of whom we used to speak, who is
€/ver with His people in their trials."
*' Yes," she said, raising her ealm, tearless eye to his; " €fod is
f^h us in our sorrows."
Sir Boland rememberinflr the touohiiig petition he had overheard
from her, " imploro pace, said, ** Our gracious Lord's words are
ever verified to those whose faith is strong: 'Peace I leave with
you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I
unto you. "
" Ufot as the world giveth— no— net as the world giveth," said
Isabella, with almost a wild en>re9^on.
"No, Miss Harcourt," said Sir Roland; "His is that peace of
God whieh the world cannot give — and neither can it take away."
Gay voices were heard a^ain approaching, and Miss Aubrey, and
her former companion, wiih several others, entered the li^le re«
treat. A light, animated eonversaticm ensued, during which Sir
Roland once more addressing Isabella, said, —
" 1 mu st wish you good night now; tHs has been a busy and a
wearying dav tome, so I shall escape amidst thfis gay ' tttttaBtar,' '*
They shook hands— and they parte^.
SnL SOUJQ) ASHXOK. 18»
Sir Roland stole out of the room unobserved, and returning home,
Telired to his own apartment. His mind felt shattered and dis-
turbed; his own anxieties pressed heavily on him, and heightened
a thousand- fold the sentiment of painful, heart-felt regret with
which he thought of Isabella Haroourt. There was something so
touching in everythinfl: connected with her (for he had heard much
•of her from some who knew her well), and he saw so clearly that
the feeling oi preference she had for him, had originated at first
from a hiffher source— that it was heavenly truth which had first
.attracted ner— that the deepest respect, mingled with all his other
feelings respecting her.
"On!" he exclaimed, vehemently, claspiug his hands; "what
would I give— what would I yive to see Oonstance strive to hide
lier feelings towards me, as this poor, poor nrl does ? But she has
no love to hide," and a bitter flmile passcHi his lips. " It is the
full heart that is the ' sealed fountain. Tet why should I reproach
her, ungrateful that I am ! is she not all kindness and affection ^
And if she does not— cannot love me, why should I blame her ?
And am I sure indeed that she does not ?"
A hope fall of happiness rose within him, as he thought of her
letters, and the many expressions in them tiiat breathed affection.
But, then, might she not have said the same thin^ to a brother ?
He felt uDMsy and dissatisfied with himself and with all things.
^* Oh vain, unquiet heart," he saad, *' be still— be stilL"
It was absdntely necessary that he should answer his letters
from home, the next day, and havinsr finished aU his business with
LordK , he applied himself to the heavy task. He earnestly
implored direction that he might be led to the conclusion that
would be best; and also that he might be kept upright in his de-
sire of seeking above aU things, that ' favour of God which is better
than life itseE*
He determined to reply to his brother's and Lady Constance's
letters first, and then bring the fall scope of his feelings to bear
upon the answer he should make to Lady Ashton. When he had
finished writing to them he felt such a flood of affection in his
lieart, and such an elevation of mind, as raised him above aU selfish
feeling; he determined that, let it cost even his Hfe's happiness,
lie wcRild do nothing that should in any way disturb the peace of
those so inexpressibly dear to him; ana resolutely taking his pen
he told his mother that it was his wish that his brother should not
he informed of his engagement to Lady Constance. When done —
lie sealed the letter, and put it with the others, and his heart felt
lightened of its load. He looked at the little scroll— and though he
felt, that possibly it bore in ite thin folds, the joy or sorrow of Ms
life, yet he could not wish one word unsaid— one line untraoed.
He felt the joy of a hard-bought victory— the glow of " pure self-
sacrificing love."
" Now, he said, " conscience is clear ! If I suffer, the stings of
selfish guilt wiU not mix their poison in the cup ; if I am happy —
then indeed I shall feel it to be a God-given, God-preserved happi-
ness I"
]B4 SIS TLOZAJ^D ASHXOJT. •
. CHAPTER XXV.
** Yet mourn ye not as they
Whose spirit's light is quenched ! — ^for him the past
Is sealed. He may not fall, he may not cast
His birthright's hope away !
All is not here of our belov'd and bless'd —
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest !*•
MBS. HEHAN8-
" But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air.
Soon close ; where past the shaft, no trace is found.
As fh>m the wing, no scar the sky retains ;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel ;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
E'en with the tender tear which nature sheds
O'er those we lore, we drop it in their grave." Youko.
** What griefs that make no sign,
That ask no aid but thine.
Father of mercies ! here before thee swell !
As to the open sky.
All the dark waters lie
To Thee reveal'd, in each close boflom-cell.**
Mbs. HEKAm.
When Sir Roland had sent his letters to the post, he went out to
eojoy the beauty of the weather and of the counlry. He felt the
want exceedingly, of his former companions, for Mr, Scott and Mr.
Singleton were stiU travelling together in other countries ; and
his mind dwelt with deep regret on the thought of Mr. Anstruther.
He wandered towards the burying-ground, desirous of once more
visiting the snot where his remains reposed. What a crowd of
emotions did the sight of it produce ! how many recollections did it
lecal ! The Mehlf ul catastrophe which had occurred there a^ain
brought a shudder, oyer his mind ; while the remembrance of hi&
friend — of his elorious hope of salvation, and of his strong affec-
tion for himself, served to soften and elevate his feelings. He
rejoiced in the conviction that one more redeeihed soul was added
to the innumerable multitude that surrounds the throne of GKkL ;
and he read the passage— which, as has been mentioned, he had
had inscribed on Mr. Anstruther's monument : ' Cast thy bread
upon the waters, and thou shalt find it after many days' — with an
earnest determination, more than $ver to 'spend and oe spent,' in.
the service of that God, who can reward his people with such deep
and soul-felt happiness.
There was another grave in that silent place, over which he
heaved many a sigh. Yount Harcourt was buried there ! At-
tracted by a new and splendid monument erected since he last
visited the place. Sir Eoland turned to examine it; and found
mscribed the name of Frederick Harcourt. Much there was
Derides, of "blighted hopes," and "crushed affections," and of
amcted parents, heart-broken for an only son." In reading it*
Sir Koland recalled to mind the ultra-lasnionable mourning, and
SIB BOLAm) ASHTON. 185
vain, g&y, frifling conversation of her lie had met the niffht before ;
and he sighed to think how soon the "world" can diy up that
• deepest well of human affections — a mother's love. But where
was the sister's grief recorded ? the grief of her who was her
brother's comforter in Ufe, and who would soon, alas ! be his com-
panion in the grave ! where was her grief recorded ? Not on the
monumental stone! — ^nowhere on earth! — ^but in the presence of
Him who alone knew the strength of the tie which He nad formed
and severed.
<* The sorrow for the dead
Mantling its lonely head
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set firee;
And the fond aching lore,
Thy minister to move
All the wrong spirit, softening it for Thee.** *
On leaving the burial-ground Sir Roland met Mr. Roberts, and
they strolled together conversing on various subjects for some
time.
" I must go and inquire after this poor girl again, before I go
home," at length said Mr. Roberts.
"Whatpoorgirl?"
" Miss Harcourtr— Isabella Harcourt."
''Inqidre after her," said Sir Roland, astonished. ''Why she
dined at the ambassador's last night."
" I know she did. But dining one day, does not prevent people's
dying the next you know, if they like it."
" Roberts, how can you bear to speak in such a way ! TeU me
ivihat has happened ?"
*' She was taken ill last night ; and is, I understand, in a very '
precarious state to-day."
•* How was she taken ill ?" said Sir Roland, greatly shocked.
" Somethinsr of a fit I heard. Poor girl I I thought she looked
desperately ill last night. That odious mother of hers, for whom
I cherish a pet aversion, will draff her about, I believe, till she is
actually a corpse, because she is the beauty of the family ; protest-
ing too all the time that she * outrages her own feelings for the
sake of her. remaining children,' by ^oing out at all. I really
l)elieve there is many a quiet, gentle girl, who is made a stalking-
horse to a fantastical mother's vagrant absurdities, till she drops
in the field— the hard-run field of nightly dissipation."
"I believe you," replied Sir Roland ; ** and am afraid it is the
case in this instance. That poor girl has never recovered her
t>rother's death, and will, I fear, soon follow him."
"I am really afraid 'she will," answered Mr. Roberts. "As I
looked at her beautiful face last night, and her shadowy figure, she
seemed scarcely a creature of this earth. I should have taken to
crying if I had looked at her long, though it would have been
almost like * iron tears, down Pluto s rugged cheek.' I have called
there twice already to-day; so you see 1 am not quite a brute
* Mrs. Hemans.
186 SIB B0LA2n> ASHXOir.
thonflrh I confess I spoke like (me just bow. Hod yon Bot keard of
her illness before ?"
"No."
"Will yoa go "with me then now, and inquirer"
" No-— do you flpo now, and just write down the answer, and send
it up to me, wnen you get home, and I wHl call tkere aflier
dinner."
Sir £dbad declined aocompanying Mr. Roberts, because he
could not bear to be under observation when he went to make an
inquiry, the answer to which might be so distressing. He was not
much surprised, though shocked and deeply pained, by what he
had heard; he had seen that Isabella Harcourt's general health
was very weak ; and the unnatural calmness of her manner the
Ijreceding evening after dinner, contrasted with the strong: agita-
tion she had oetrayed on their first meeting:, convinced him that
she had made an effort over herself most dimcult— and as he feared
most fatal. He fdt miserable at the thoughts of her death, and
accused himself, as if he were in part guilliy of it ; though in fjEiet
he was wholly free from blame.
Mr. Roberts, on Ms return home, sent up a written message,
saying that Miss Harcourt was rather better ; and after dinner Sir
Roland called at the hou3e himself, and was happy to hear that
she continued to amend. He felt indescribably rebered. " And
yet," he thought, "why should I rejoice that her trials are to be
prolonged ? * The sooner death, the eariier immortality;' " and to
her he well knew the future state must be an immortality of glory.
He left the next day, but before he set out, he again oalled
at Mr. HarcouTt's, and hearing that Isabella was oonaioered out of
danger, he departed with a lightened heart, in ptroseeiLtion of the
business in which he was engaged.
Mr. Roberts's report that Isabella Harcourt had "had something-
of a fit," was not so great an exaggeration as such reports often,
prove to be. On returning home from the dinner-party the night
before, after having parted from Sir Roland in the maimer
described, she continued to maintain the appearance of perfect
composure. On wishing her good-night, h^ father pressed bear
fondly to his breast for a moment, and said, —
" You look sadly ill, my darling child, you really must give up
going out lor a little while ; these hot rooms and late hours do nc^
suit you."
She answered her father only by a prolonged kiss of affection ;
she could not trust herself to speak, for the voice of kindness had
begun to stir the tide of feeling within. She retired to hfir own,
room, and began to prepare herself for rest; she took off h^ rings
and bracelets, and laid them on the table, and then proceeded to
take a gold chain off her neck, to which hung a small miniature
which she always wore, though concealed from sight. She held it
a moment in her hand; and as she gazed on the features of her
brother, and th<^ught of his loving affection—now lost to her for
ever on earth ! and remembered too, all her harauness ! her foroed
composure gave way, a flood of self-pity rushed over her, and
uttermg a cry of irrepressible anguish, she fell on the floor. The
Snt BOLllTD ASHTOIT. \%f
flonnd of lier fall, and of lier ^ef-foU cry, aronsed her youngest
sister who slept in the same apartment, and who springing
towards her, found her senseless, and in strong convulsions.
She spread the alarm, and assistance being procured, Isabella was
laid on her bed; and when the physician arrived, he bled
her, and used every means his art could devise; yet it was
long before she became tranc^^uil, or recovered the sHghtest degree
of consciousness. After a time, however, she slept; the nervous
action of the muscles ceased; and when after many hours she
awoke again, her mind was perfectly clear, though her weakness
was so great she could scarcely utter a sound. Immediate danger
seemed then passed, and it was at that stage of her illness that
Sir Roland received the account which so much relieved Mm on the
morning of his departure from ; but her enfeebled constitution
had received a shoek she was never destined to recover.
When all anxiety as to her life was, for the moment, at an end.
Mrs. Harcourt and her elder daughters resumed their usual habits
of gaiety ; and Isabella was left almost entirely to the ootananion-
ship of nier yoiuigest sister Sophia, an aatiaUe and sensilue girl,
between whom and her sister there existed a strong affection.
Having no pcetensions to beauty, Si^iixia was treated rather
di^tingly by the rest of the family; and Isabella, who was
kind to every ooe^ was on that aocoant, perhaps, more particularly
so to her.
A few days after her seizure Isabella was lying* on the sofa in
her room, and Sophia was sitting with her, when the latter said, —
'* You must be very much the fEuhion here, Isabella, fi>r so
many ^ple have called to inanire after you."
" It IS very kind of them," she relied.
" There are cards of all sorts and sizes, with every type under
the sun I believe," continued Sophia; "would you like to see the
names of your ' anxious inquirers r' "
" Yes," said Isabella— for she thought Sir Boland might have
called, and that his card might be anum^ the number. Sophia
went to fetch them, and soon returned with a packet of eards in
her hand. Isabella looked over them, and after a time she found
the one she sought. It was that which &ir Boland had sent up on
the morning of his departure, and over the name there was written
in pencil, "1 leave to-day." A deadly pang crossed Isabella's
heart, as d^ thus learnt uiat he was actimUy gone; but a
moment's consideration served to convince her tnat it was best
that it should be so, as it would tend to the recovery of her
composure sooner than if she fancied he might still be calling, or
that she might be likely to meet him, shoold she ever again be abio
to leave the liouse.
" Here are cards enough to make trays for all your minerals.
Sophia," die observed; as she kindly began fasfaioning some of
th^. " It wHl be pleasant idle work for me."
Ske shaped them with neat-iianded care ; — but she could not S9
use Sir Boland' s! She looked at it for a time, till fast-cominff
recollections grew too strong for her.
"Give me my Bible, will you, dear Sophia," she said; "thera
18d am ROLAND ASHTOK.
is a passage I wish to write out; one that suits such a poor weak
thing as I am— weak both in body and in soul."
" What passage is it ?'*
" It is where our Lord Christ leaves * His peace for His people/
I know the sense but do not exactly remember the words."
She took a i>en and wrote on the back of Sir Roland's card the
passage he had repeated to her on the last evening of their
ive, neither can it take away." She placed the card in the
Bible, and it was used bv her as her mark when reading that
sacred book, to the hour oi her death.
Mrs. Harcourt— with that wonderful blindness which so often
prevents those who live with invalids, from seeing the danger
which every one else perceives — ^would not acknowledge, even to
herself that she was uneasy about her daughter's health; being
swayea partly, though she knew it not, by a disinclination to
leave on her usual habits of gaiety and dissipation, as well as
being naturally averse to the admission of melancholy and
desponding thoughts^ concerning a child of whom she was really
very fond. She haa been advised to remove her to a wanner
oHmate; though the physician who gave the counsel was fully
aware that the prolongation, for a few months, of a flickering
existence, was aD. that could possibly be hoped ; but Mrs. Har-
oourt had no wish to follow this course ; as some attention having
been paid to one of her elder daughters by a wealthv, but not
particularly reputable peer, she was anxious not to throw any
difficulties in the way of a match she desired, by leaving — — - at
that moment.
Isabella Harcourt had lingered for two months, in all the
variations of the flattering and delusive illness which was destroy-
ing her, when Mr. Scott returned to . She had been acquainted
with him durinff his former stay in that city; and though she
had never heara him speak on the subject of religion, yet she
knew that his principles were the same as Sir Roland's, and that
they were particular friends. For these reasons she wimed much
to see him again : and she longed also to tear once more the sound
of any voice which could speak to her of God; for kind and
devoted as her sister Souhia was, she knew but little of spiritual
religion, and her other mends and acouaintancea were not of a
ehiSB from whom she could derive any benefit in that way. She
wished, moreover, most earnestly to be enabled, through Mr. Scott,
to convey to Sir Roland that which she had been incapable of
telling him herself, namely, the happy eflects of his words on
herself and on her brothw. She therefore be^ed of her mother,
if he should call, to be allowed to see him m l^e sitting-roomt
where she usually received her friends ; and Mrs. Harcourt, who
was naturally of an easy and &:ood-natured disposition, promised
to giant her request ; though she laughed at her for her ^* metho*
SLR BOLANS ASHTOX. 189
'dism," saying, she supposed sho wanted to see Mr. Soott in quality
of a " father confessor.
When the latter, therefore, called a few days after, Mrs. Harcourt
said, that she had ** a foolish sick child, who had taken a fancy to
seeing him, if he wonld not mind going into another room." Mr.
Scott though rather surprised, was not at all displeased, for he re«
membered Isabella Harcourt well; and having heard that her
health was declining, but not knowing the state of her mind, he
gladly went, where he thought perhaps a few words mi^t be made
of service and comfort to a dying fellow-creature. He followed
Mrs. Harcourt into Isabella's little sitting-room, where they found
her reclining on the sofa— for she was &r too ill to sit up— with
Sophia, who had been reading to her. The sight of her shocked
Mr. Scott greatly, for she looked in the very last staffe of consump-
tion ; and her thin white hand seemed, when she held it out to him,
aearaelj to belong to a living creature. But the disease which was
destroyinff her, had lost none of its usual beautifyinfir effects in her
case, and ne thought he had never before seen anytning so lovely.
Her complexion, when in comparative health, had been very pale ;
but now a bright flush lighted up her eyes, and gave an animation
to her countenance which it had never before possessed.
" Decked for the tomb," he thought; "may she be also prepared
for heaven."
" Isabella, my love," said Mrs. Harcourt on entering, ** vou
aaid that you would like to see Mr. Scott, as an old friend, ii he
called ; and he is therefore come to pay you a visit. Now, Mr.
Scott," she added, gaily turning to him, " you must not make her
melancholy — you must cheer her spirite. We are thinking of
going to Italy, and then she will get quite well, and strong again."
Isabella involuntarily shook her head, as the tears started into
her eyes ; and a feeling of dis^st rose in Mr. Scott*s mind, for he
knew that they had been advised to go to a warmer climate long
before, and he knew also what report said was the motive of Mrs.
Harcourfs prolonged stey at ; and he felt indignant that the
health, ana indeed the life of one child, should be sacrificed to
ambitious projects for another. He answered Mrs. Harcourt's in-
junction by sayinfif, " He hoped he should not be so unfortunate as
to.bring gloom, where he wished all might be happiness."
** Thank you," replied Mrs. Harcourt, ** I really believo I may
trust her to you, for I know in former days, you have often made me
laugh with your amusing observations ; so, as the carriage is wait-
ing, perhaps you will excuse me."
" Gladly," thought Mr. Scott ; but, as he was not in the ** Palais
de la v§nt§,"^ all that transpired was : *' I beg I may not detain
you ;" and with great empressement, he advanced to open the door
for her to pass.
Sophia remained in the room with her sister some little time, and
then wandered into the next, and placed herself out of hearing ;
for she knew Isabella wished to speak to Mr. Scott alone. When
she was gone, Isabella began with some embarrassment,-*
" I thought I should like to see you again, Mr. Scott, partly be*
190 SIB EOLAITD ASHTON.
cause I know you feel, as I hope I do, on the subject of religion ;
and it is a great comfort to be able to speak to those who can un-
derstand one."
Mr. Scott with much surprise replied, —
" I am most happy. Miss Harcourt, to haye this opportunity of
seeing you ; and most happ^r am I also to find you feeling an in-
terest in the only subject which can bring peace to the tried «gmt.
But have you no other firiend— no acquaintance from whom you can
receive benefit on these subjects ?"
" No," she replied ; " many kindly call to see me, but none sperfc
of other than weajrisome subjects — subjects which sadden instead
of enlivemng me. They mean it all amiably, to keep up my ^ixits,.
but they know not how they depress me, and make me long for^^ie
quiet of the grave for this poor weary head, and the peace of faeavoi
for my soul.'
She spoke with many pauses, but Mr. Scott could not interm^
her. He felt astonished at her words, and was deeply toudied, and
delighted at seeing one — so beautifal — so calculated to feel« and
inspire earth's best affectioDfi, yet thus cut off in the micbt of
youth's hopes and joys — so supported bj; a spirit, evidently not of
this world — so raised above all that perishes, to the Imperishable
Himself ! — and he marvelled how the light of truth, could have
penetrated into that dark house. He knew indeed, that, as Augna*
tine said, " God can ^eak without the noise of words," but he also
knew that it was seldom that the work of salvatLon waa commenced
in the soul, without some visible means being made use of, by the
Great Giver of the Spirit. At length he said, —
" When — i£ I may ask — did you first begin to think seriosaly of
religion?"
"Only last year."
" Last year ! Not when I was here, surely ?"
" Yes, it was," she replied, raising her handkerchief to her £ace,
to hide the colour which rose as she recalled the circumstances
under which she first felt an awakening: on the subject; "but
though I was acquainted with you, you nev^ spoke to me concern*
ing it."
"No," replied Mr. Scott, "I thought you would not listen. I
remember hearing then— you will not mind my saying so now —
that you were very romanesque, and indulged in many fanciful
ideas."
" And you were willing I should perish in them," said Isabella^
with somewhat of stem sadness in her deep, feeling tone, as she
turned her eyes on Mr. Scott.
He felt the rebuke, and colouring Mgh, he answered, " I did not
know— I could not be aware. Miss Harcourt, that you would be
anxious or willing to hear anything on these subjects."
" Oh ! " said Isabella, " it is pleasant to speak to the willing, but
the unwilling need it most, Mr. Scott ; and perhaps many a ome
whom we fancy averse to these things, may be only waiting for
the electric spark of the word of truth, to fire the whole train
•of holy afiections in their hearts. God will, doubtless, always, if
SIB BOLAim ISHTOK. 19t
He see fit, apply it in His own best thne ; bat if we a^ backward
in speaking, we lose the crown."
** I confess," said Mr. Seott with tbat genuine hmmlity which
Mr. Singleton had truly said was so beautiful a part of nis dia-
racter, " liiat I have deserved your rebuke. Miss Harcourt ;
and may God paid<m me, and quicken me in His most delightful
•ervice. — ^You will forgive me ?"
" Oh ! willingly ; and I am sure you will now be glad to * water,'
what another has ' planted ;' thoogh we both know Ihat God alone
can * give the increase.' "
" It is so indeed," replied Mr. Seott. "But yon seem to have
found some one — ^have you not ? more faithfcd and kind than me.
Miss Harcourt, to arouse your mind ?"
Isabella did not answer ; for she diraiik firom entering on the
subject which yet she so much wished to speak about.
" May I know — if it is not too much to ask — ^who it was who was
00 much more faithful iiian me V again asked Mr. Scott, smiling,,
and slightly cdouzing.
'' He was only an acqnaintanee of mine, though a friend of
yours," answered Isabella, trying to master the dimculty she felt
m speaking of Sir Eoland; *'and he knew not at first, that I was a
listener to his words."
" Ashton?" asked Mr. Scott, surprised.
Isabella Harcourt answered by an inclination of tibe head.
** I never knew that he had talked to you on reli^ons subjects,"
continued Mr. Scott. " I wonder he never mentioned it, for he
generally told me of any one for whom he felt a hope."
** Perhaps he did not feel one for me, last year. And yet I re-
member, that latterly he would speak as if ne bought I under-
stood him."
*' And was it solely by his means that your mind became en-
lightened ? Did you never hear reU^ous truth from any other ?' '
" I heard Mr. Singleton several times in the puli^t, and he was
indeed delightful ; but in conversation I never heard any one but
hdm ; — at dmners, or early evening parties."
** Your trials, perhaps, said Mr. Scott, in a feeling tone, "have
helped to make tne love of God preciotts to you."
'They have done much, indeed," she answered with a starting
tear, "to hasten on the work; but oh! how our estimate of
things changes as death draws near ! What was once so terrible
to me— the loss of my dear brother— is now all joy ; excepting that
1 miss his sweet voice and look so much."
" You have then comfort. Miss Harcourt, in thinking of his^
present state ?"
" Comfort !" she exclaimed, her whole countenance lighting up,
and her eyes beaming with the loftiest expression, as they were
raised for an instant to heaven ; — " comfort is a cold word, Mr.
8cott ; I have all happiness in thinking of him."
" Was it his iHness which inclined him to heavenly things ?"
** Oh no, not that alone ; his health was always delicate ; but it
"was not that ; for formerly he would be impatient at his weak-
Jie86, and munnicr that he was cut off from the usiLal exercises and
192 SIB BOLAKD ASHTOIT.
enjoyments of his age, and would think his a hard and cruel fate ;
and often then, though I felt it was not ri^ht, I knew not what
to say to him. But last year, I beard words imlike what I had
«yer heard before ; and I repeated them all to him, though I
scarcely understood more than their general tendency myself ; and
then it was, that grace and love grew up in his hes^; and often,
very often, would he teach me the meaning of those things, of which
the words alone, were all that I could teach him."
** Well, Miss Harcourt/* said Mr. Scott, " you were kind enough
to say that you hoped for good from me to-day, but you have
taught me a lesson, which I trust I shall never again forget— or
neglect."
" I cannot wish you to forget any heaven-tan^ht lesson, Mr.
Scott," replied Isabella, kindly ; ** but you owe nothmg to me. I was
indeed to blame just now, in speaking to you, I fear harshly ; but at
the moment, such a horror seized me oi what must have been my*
eternal state, had I been left to die with no brighter hope— no
clearer faith, than the foolish fancies you alluded to, that I felt
indignant— j;ou will forgive me now" — and a look and smile of
the utmost kindness glowed on her features, " that you who knew
the way of life should have withheld the knowledge of it from me,
— and I so evidently sinking."
" I would almost ask you," said Mr. Scott, with a pained look,
'* not to mention that again, though it is perhaps as well that we
should be made to shrink imder the sense of sin. The Lord often
«ees fit to humble us, and show us our deficiencies on those very
points, on which perhaps we have piqued ourselves as excelling ; at
least 1 know I have often thought, with great complacency, how
very zealous I was in speaking; and now I am justly reproved for
my want of zeal."
"You cannot, I dare say, always speak as you would wish," said
Isabella ; " but try, oh I try. Think of me— 4ying— and try."
Mr. Scott felt a sudden emotion which prevented bim from an-
ewering immediately ; but after a moment ne replied, —
"With the help of God I will." He then added— "I cannot
however grudge Ashton this * crown of rejoicing'— for such I am
confident it will be to him hereafter."
Isabella was infinitely relieved by Mr. Scott's thus making a way
by which she might naturally, as it would seem, enter on the sub-
ject she wished so much to have communicated to Sir Roland. It
was still however with great difficulty that she summoned courage
to say,—
' * 1 much wish that you would tell him how great a blessing he has
been, not only to me, but also to my brother. His faith and love
were indeed, far hiffher and clearer, and more joyous than mine."
" He had less to bear," replied Mr. Scott. "It was, doubtless,
hard for him to leave this world, especially so young ; but that
was his only source of trouble. You have had to bear the bitterer
lot of seeing him languish and depart; and this perhaps tends to
sink and sadden your spirits, even though your faith may not
be dimmed by it. He had not the trials you have had."
Oh, no, no,' she replied pressing her hand on her eyes to stem
sot BOLAITD ASHTOir. 193
baek the tears whicli still would have their way. *' Yet,*' die oon«
tinned, when she oonld command her voice, nnconscionsly advert*
ing to the canse of grief which she felt had helped to accelerate
her fate, "nothixig would have saved my life— nothing could have
saved my life, and all is well ordered. I must be happy soon, and
though these foolish tears will come sometimes, yet in general my
mind is in perfect neaoe. Tou will tell him that, will you ? and of
my brother, that ne may be encourajged to go on, and speak for
God — ^always-^verywhere. If the injunction is to be accepted
concerning this world's wealth, 'freely ye have received, mely
give ;' how much more of the heavenly treasure— the knowledge of
luSirist as our Saviour! That inestmiable gift we have indeed
most freely received ; and we should be ever 'ready to distribute,
williug to oonmiunicate,' of that which can make all rich for
eternity."
*' Asnton will, I am sure, be most rejoiced to know that his
Words have been the means of sustaining you, not only under aick«
Bess and sorrow, but in the view even of- — *'
"Do not stop," said Isabella, faintly smiling, "I can bear the
word ' death,' tor my mind is familiar with the thought of it ; and,
thank God, it brings no terrors. You have been very ^ood in coming
to me, and I am very, very glad to have seen you again."
" I deserve anything but your thanks. Miss Haroourt." replied
Hr. Scott ; " but I am sure I owe much to you ; and shall, I tanist,
never again be forgetful of the best interests of my fellow-crea*
tures."
" I am sure you will not," said Isabella, again smiling. " But that
thought must now give place to the remembrance that you have
been of comfort--great comfort to me. My heart feels much re-
lieved and lightened by having* spoken to you, for the kindest and
dearest sometimes cannot xmderstand one. But true Christians
must understand each other ; they are taught the same lesson, in the
same school, by the same heavenly Teacher. Is not that what you
understand by the communion of saints? that they, as true be-
lievers, are one body, of which Christ is the Head ?— that they have
one commonality in the Spirit of God, * one Lord, one Faith, one
Baptism' of the Holy Ghost ?"
** Surely," replied Mr. Scott; "how else can it be understood?
Yes, that it is which spite of all errors in imessential pointsy-spite
of all remaining infirmity, binds the hearts of true Christians
together, with a chain whose links will be even more closely
riveted in heaven than they are upon earth ; — ^for there — all dissen-
tient opinions, all erroneous feebngs, will be done away with for
ever, and we shall all be 'made perfect in Christ Jesus.' ^ The
' Church triumphant' in heaven, and the ' church militant still on
earth,' are thus continually One, though its members occupy for a
time different chambers in God's universe. Death cannot separate
those who are Christ's ;
• Flesh it may aereiv bnt not souls diride.' "
*'It is a blessed and delightful view to me," said Isabellai
o
1^4'^ SIS B«bAir» ASBSOV^
''.espedfllly "wlieii I think of Fredeno; and rauea fhe besrt &r
al>ove the things af this life, whiah are but for » seasonr-aad so nxi-
satisfying ! Yet I feel very inconsistent ! At timas I seem, so far aboTft
the earthy that all its tumult and jazring interests, cannot toiidi, ^
or trouble me ; wbilst at other times tiie least thinar will depress me. I
But still God surrounds me with blessing^— ^tia kind and loving
Mends, and e^ery comfort ; and makes my passage to the tomb so
smooth, it seems all pleasure to glide g^entlT down. But I must not
detain you longer, Mx, Scott Your yisit nas be^d very pleasant
to me ; and we know," she added, with a happy smile, " that iMs
will not be our last meeting— nor our partuig nere— a xwrting for
eyer. God bless you."
\ ** God ever bkss you« Miss Harooait,"' he replied, with, mudli
emotion. " We shall indeed meet again."
A few days after this interriew, Isabella Haroouxt was driving ^
slowly in the carriage, in a retired part of the enyirons of ^ i
with her mother, who had at last beeome really alarmed about her,. j
when Mr. Seott rode by. He reined back his horse, and she
started up, intending to stop the caiziage ; but her weakness was
so exeat that she sunk back again exhausted, and merely smiled
and shook her head« as if to say that she eonld not speak ; and he .
passed on with a heavy heart* She neyer 1^ the house again.
Mr. Scott went &om the next day, and iu about a fortnight
afterwards, he read, recorded among the deaths in Galignani's
paper, " Isabella, third daughter of Henry Harcourt, Esq., in her
nineteenth year." ■
When dying, Isabella gave her Bible to her sister Sophia, -vtHdk
earnest entreaty never to neglect its happy truths; and when*^
after she was ^ne, her sisteor opened the book, and found Sir Bo-
land's oard in it, well did she remember the day in. which Isabella.
wrote the ^eaoe-givin^ text upon it» and took it for her Bible's i
mark. This little incident served to oonifizm aa idea she had kng* I
entertained. She had a quick, observant mind; and youi^ as she I
was, she had long suspected, having been so mxioh with Isabelia^ |
that there was some grief, which preyed upon the mind of the '
latter, independent of the regret she felt foot her brother,— a giieT
which had fearfdlly inereased from the night of her sudden illness.
She had not noticed at the time whose card it was, that Isabelia had
taken to write that passage on fimn the Scriptures ; but whCTi
she found it was Sir Boland's^ she instantly raooUeeted his iuaa»
as having frequently heesi mentioned between her brother and
sister; and from that, and several other eiremnstances whieh now
recurred to her, she felt convinced Ihat Isabella had been attached
to him, and that her attachment was not a happy one. She kept
tliis secret, however, close in her own breast ; whilst bitterly, witk
senewed grief^ did she weep for the sorrow and soffering, whidi she
had so often witnessed, without being folly aware of its cause.
Isabella Harcourt was buried in the sametomb with her brother |
and, at her earnest request, their names were united by an encir-
cjing line, and beneath them was written, " One Lord, one Faitiir
\ VFLkSm AfBxoav 196
CHAPTEB XXVT.
Looki ehe«rftil, when «ne carries iB Mill feetti
The vudJCMble tKMun r— CouBOMn.
When Lady AslitoiL i«eeiyed the letter whidi it had oost Sir
Scdand so much to write— eontaimn^ his request that Henry
xnigrht not be made acquainted with his engagemeiit~-8he imme-
diately informed Lady Constance of it; and though they bodi
< smprised, yet supposing that he had sooie good reason for his
determmatio% they of coarse acqvieseed in it. Had Lady Aiditon,
been aaked at that tune, whether aay greater attachment than was
desirable had sprung up between Hcair and Ladv Constance, she
would unhesitatingly have answered '^No ;'* ana had Lady Con-
fltanoe herself been applied to» die would hare returned the same
aaiswer. But if Henry had been ashed^ he would at once haye de-
okrecL that he loved Lady Constauoe more than his Hfe, and that
he f oUt belieyed his lo^e was returned hj her. Iol each of these
oases the answers would haye be«a made in all sinoerity of heart;
fbr Lady Aahton had no iusMoiou of the truth, nor was Lady
Constance in the least aware that H«uy was attached to hen or
that she felt for him otherwise than she had always done before.
But Hf(nry--thoBrQushlr aware of the state of his own heart— had
perceived with equn ofteaaese what passed in I^y Constance's;
and he was but too eorreci in thinking that she returned, in some
measure at least, the unbounded alfeciiion wkUdi he felt for her.
It haa been said that Lady Constamoe was wise, and right, in re-
jpressin^ Henry's expressioiLe of reaard for her on the £st day of
Ais aittval ; and so she undodbtecUy was. And yet unfortunately
tile effect waa exaetly contrary to that which she wished and in-^
tended ; for firom the very mssumt of her speakia^r & change— the
least to be desired— took place in the nature <tf his feeling for her«
flEud r^adered it one of deyoted attaehment. The enthusiastic ad-
miration, which he had deeeribed in the letter which had so much
troubled Sir Boknd, waa a most natural feeling for a sailor to have
OB his first emaneipation fimn hi» watery iMrison, towards one, so
oharming as Lady Constanee^ and wh^n he had known and loved
froBi a oBtld ; btit it was a sentiment ef so slight a nature, that had
it been aikwed a &ee ezpresaaoa^ it might perhaps have remained
merely on the surfaee of his mmd, and have been soon effaced by
absence; but the instant its outward demonstrations were re-
pressed, it sunk deep into his heart, Unking root there, and flourish-
mgbut too luxnriantiy. He felt however from that moment, a
lestraint which prevented hta ever again saying a syllable which
oould make Lady Constance imagine that he cherished for her any
ezelusiye feeling, or aspired to any greats degree of her favour than
he had ever before possessed ; aad thus she was deluded into a
^rfeet security of feeling ae regarded both him and herself. She
Aad been accustomed in early years to have him as her almost in*
eepai^able companion^ wheiMTtt he waa at home^ so that it was na
02
196 Snt BOLAND ASHTOir.
new or maryellotis thin^ now, that lie should be constantly at her
edde. He had ever lavished on her all the tender and affectionate
attentions which a devoted brother could bestow on a fa-
vourite sister, and she was not surprised therefore, at now again
receiving them ; and his fear was so great lest he should say any-
thing wnich might offend her, that it placed a check on all expres-
sions which could have given her an insight into his feelings ; and
if at times he had unwittinglv paid her any attention which
might have seemed particular, he instantly did something of the
same kind also for Lady Florence, so as to take away all appearance
of preference.
He could not account to himself for the spell which thus seemed
laid upon him, but he was not the less conscious of it ; and it not
only i^ected his manner to Lady Constance herself but it had an.
influence also on his way of speaking of her to others. Even in
writing to his brother, he felt such a restraint in mentioning her,
thathe couldnot openhishearttohim, as he hadbeenever usedtodo;
and this it was which made all his later letters differ so much in tone
and feeling, from the animated avowal of his delighted admirationy
which he had written on the morning of his return to Llanaven.
It was not however, Lady Constance's first check on his conversa-
tion alone, which produced this effect ; but that judicious and
proper step on her part was so consistently followed up by the
quiet, and dignified conduct which she maintained, that ne felt a
respect for her, and almost an awe, which he could not overcome,
and which made him love her all the more ; for the heart whidi
if lightly won, might have been lightly prized, appeared to him
wortn every sacrifice. He controlled even his verylooks therefore,
lest they should offend ; and though he could not imderstand why
lie might not love, and tell her tiiat he did so, yet he felt that
though he did love, he could not tell her so. This feeling was
tiie more unaccountable to him, because he could not but think
thathe perceived that she liked him— that she was ever happy to be
with him, as he was ever enchanted to be with her. Her manner
to him in other respects too was as free and intimate as in their
earliest days; and lively-spirited as they both were, thev amused
themselves in their ligpt-nearted conversations, or in tneir ram-
bles about Hie cliffs, with as much zest and pleasure as did their
young companion Lady Florence herself.
Totally unsuspicious, Lady Ashton rejoiced to see Lady Constance's
recovered gaiety, and Henry's happiness ; and she encouraged as
much as possible everything which could contribute to their cheerfbl
pleasures ; often joining in their walks and expeditions, and seem-
ing to grow young again herself, amidst their animated smiles.
Throuniout all, however, Henry Ashton felt the subduing power
of Lady Constimce's manner, and never could he go beyond the
limits it imposed.
It was not that Lady Constance purposely acted in that way, for
she had no idea of anything existing in Henry's mind, which re-
ciuired repression. Had she dreamed that he liked her, she would
instantly— -notwithstanding Sir Boland's express wish to the oon«
trary— have informed him of the position in which she stood, and
SEB TUOrjOSn ASHTOir. 197
Iiave ended his hopes for eyer ; hut she saw nothings that could
awaken the slightest suspicion, and her conduct resulted mcrelv
from the sense of what she owed to herseKand to Sir Roland, — ^which
a pure, high«principled feeling instinctively taught her. Her
deep regard for the latter indeed, continually increased, for it
was impossible to be allowed an insight into his noble mind with-
out loving and admiring him ; and, unaware of any preference
for Henry, she wrote in answer to his letters, with aU the warmth
of old affection ; expressinff continually a recret— which was most
sincere and genuine — ^that he was not with them to share, and in-
crease their pleasures. Henry too, continually wrote to the same
effect, for he knew no reason why he should dread his brother's
presence ; on the contrary, he often longed to have him there, that
ne might speak to him of the sentiments, of which neverthe-
less he could not write These letters so unintentionally deluding,
completely lulled all those fears in Sir Roland's breast, which had
been so terribly excited at ; and an undouhting confidence
sprang up, which increased his love and happiness a thousand-fold.
It being summer-time, the party* at lianaven dined early, and
then enjoyed the whole of the dehghtfol evenings out in the air ;
often indeed prolonging their rambles, till the stars were the only
lights to guide them home. This style of living brought Henry
and Lady Constance continually together, and indeed they were
seldom separated ; for Henry having no public business and no
superintendance of the property to occupy him, as Sir Roland
haH, was able to devote all his time to his mother and to his
sisters. With his feelings, this life was of course most delightful,
and it is not to be supposed that it was without its charm for Lady
Constance, who thus unconsciously learnt to find Henry's so-
ciety indispensable to her happiness. Had Sir Roland enjoyed
equal advantages in tiiese respects with his brother, he would in
all probability have been equally, if not even more beloved ; for
there was much more in fact in his character that suited Lady
Constance, than in Henry's : there were far higher attainments, a
deeper tone of feeling, and a purer and more exalted sense of re-
ligion. The graces of the Spirit in him seemed indeed, scarcely to
derive any assistance from the things of earth, but to be entirely
maintained from above ; and might be, not imaptiy, compared to
the flowers which grow in the loftier regions of the Alps, with
scarceljr a grain of soil to nourish their growth ; but which, * rooted
in the rifted rock,' and blooming with a splendour and brilliancy of
colour unknown to others of their kind, 'disdain,' as Rogers
charmingly says,
"To grow in lower dimes.
And delighted drink the doads befbre they fUl.**
But Henry's feelinpfs were more like the flowers of the lower
ranges of the mountains, which having a greater depth of earthy
soil between them and the * rock,' expand in wUaer profosion,
though with hues far less pure and bright ; and which, unable to
support themselves alone, seek to twine about the plants of conge-
D0B .tiB WIXU3XD Jdoaoar.
ntal ffrowth ubiA ibiiriflli arooiid. Koeli ifideed, of tbe lo^e ^
Qod dwelt in hia heart, but theare was mote admixture of earthly
feeling in him, tiiAn in his brother ; and hia piel^, though true aaa
irarm, wms BBOce tinetured with the inconsisteney, so ofb^i to be
found in persons of hgkt and joyous tem^rs. Neyerth^ess there
wasafrtTHmesfl and wxuiatlL in his duqieaition and manners, whidi
made him a oniTersal ^avoiuite — one whmn every one felt it
was impossible not to kve. He was the very p^eetion of a aaikr !
Aill of the lire and «wth«wa«w— the romai»ee, poetry, wild gaiety*
and sentiment, which so often unite Hior hetmgeneous matenais
in the formffilaen of <^ioae restless beioga— the most delightfol oar-
haps to think of— the least satis&etQry peihaps in general to live
vi^ (nayal reader of eonrse excepted) of all mortals in ex-
The evenings at liaiiaven geaerally ended with nuude, for
Henry Ashton had a fii^ v<noe, and often j<aned the sisters in
thdr songs ; Lady Ashton also oeoasionally asrinting in their em."
oerts. Lady Florence, though in most things remarkably childish
ior her age, idiowed nneomm o n talents both for playing and
einging ; and w«a» in those aeoomplishments, almoat equal to her
aister.
" I never ean go to aea again*" cried Henry, floorudiing about
the room one evening, after they had been sinffinjs: one of hia
fayeuzite songs, "neyer! Fancy» after all this divine harmony,
goin^ where the whde of one's musie is ' ^ii»ng to dinnar,' or
neavrng the anchor to the strains of a two-«tmiiged fiddle i I AaH
die no odier deaUi !"
" Ton will have the winds whistiing through the shrouds^ to
enliven you/' said Lady Constaaoe.
'' I>elightfiil proepe<^ certainly !" answered Henry. '* ^o— .
* Xllgo no more to tiie xoaiang teas,'
I'll work for my bread no longer* Ambition's toroh is quenohed
within me."
" Did it ever bum very fiercely ?'*
'* Often ; once indeed I'was nearly destroyed by its spontaneous
oombustion. We were in a boat, and wanted to land from the
chip ; but a heavy surf beatinr us continually back, in a fit of
deraeration I jumped overboam, and swam to shore with a rope,
and by that means we all got in at last Like a blockhead as I
was, I went in with all my clothes on* which, by a natural pro-
cess, became saturated witn salt water. Heaiinff I was drendaed»
the captain of a man-of-war near, sent for me on board, andkindlj
rigged me out in one of his own uniforms: a post-captain's uni-
form ! — ^Ye powers I what I felt 1 laughing gas was desperation —
despondeney to it !— Two epaulettes ! — one on each shoulder !^-None
of the 'single blessedness' of your . lieutenant's rig. No — the
perfect— the right thing I I looked from shoulder to shoulder till
they seemed to expand into wings of gigantic dimensions, heanng:
up my soaring genius beyond the extremest Ararat of all fame
^ond glory ! My bretst swelled -vitii tiuiigs too Ing for eartli or
seas ! — I was very near ordering the oaptain offliis own qnarter-deelc
— ^but I stopped just short of that insanity ; and an unlucky fire
having dried my own garments— whieh at that moment appeared
to me the most despicable tilings on earth — ^I was foroea to put
iiiem on again— constrained to
*Forget1lie«vtaln,aiidTC8iiiiietiw "mid."'
The change was disgusting ! — nasaoons in the extreme. Bat now;
I haye given ambition to the winds, and only long to be allowed
to vegetate in this spot all my days. This *dolce far niente,
(' sweet do-nothing') life is so very onarming !"
'*<Doloe' ('sweet') it is,'' said Lady Constance, <'bntl refuse to
oall it * far mente ' (* do-nothing ;') I think we are very busy, and
well employed."
''I am sore," ezofeimed lady Florence, ** I anualways ' stowing
away' some piece of knewiedge or ot^OE, as yon would say,"
'* I cr^ you metrof, &ar daoMs," said Henry; '* I did not mean
to despise your doings— nor indeed my own. I think we are
mightily active, hard-working people. But wheiK one has been
used to the rough life of a sailor, badtiing it with the dements,
turning out for ni^ht- watches with the thermometer below zero,
&c., tms inexpressiblv delectable existence seems all like a de-
lightful stream of self-indulgence ; it is tike paasiog through the
aoft summer air, where one is nnconscioafl of any lesieianoe. — * How
shall I hence depart J"
'* But when * self' is good, Henry, to indulge it is good alfio,"
observed Lady Gonstanoe.
''That is a very pleasant piece of philosophy of yonrs," he
replied ; " but rather of the Epicurean school, is it not?'
^ No," she answered: "the Spicurean would foUow ' self' with-
out making any very mznote inquiries as to the oharaoter it boie ;
but malign it as you will, if rig^itiy understood, mine is true Chris-
tian philosophv. It is that, we must remember," she added more
gravely, *' which constitates the happiness of the angels in heaven,
and which ^sdll form ours there too some day I hoi>e ; for there our
•will, will be Ood'sj and Qod's eurs. When our 'will' or our 'self '
becomes perfectly m unison with God's will, then our hoHness is,
as Erskine sa^ 'purified from self-deniaL' I delight in that
idea, it is so original, and so true ! I like all that passage of his."
And rising she fetched the book, and read from one of Erskine's
delightful introduetiomi : " ' Thmeis no self-denial in t^e character
of God, it is His delight to do tbat which is good. Neith^ would
there be any self-demal in our virtue, if we p^ectily loved Qod,
because that love would find its highest gratification in a con-
formity to the will of God. But how are we to ctow in this love ?
How IS our heliBess to be imiified from sdf-aenial? No other-
wise, than by abidLog in tne love of God, as reveakd in Jesus
Oirist.'"
" I have notlung to advance against that, oertaanly," said fienry
Aahlon, "only thai it stakes me out to be yary rebeUious, I am
200 eODEt SOLAim ASHTOir.
afraid ; for it costs me sometimes an immense deal of self-deidal to
do even the least little bit of good ; which I fear proves that ' self'
with me is intrinsioallv bad.'
" It is so with ns all, dear Henry," said Lady Ashton ; ** it was
only Christ who could say, ' the nrmoe of this world cometh, and
hath nothing in me,' I am afraid he possesses large territories in
all of our hearts ; but still in the main, our way of life may, if we
are God's children, be good, and pleasant too.'
" I grant it— I know my life is very pleasant, and I am qnite
willing to believe, on yonr assurances, kind friends, that it is very
good also. But now, Constance, let ns come a little to particulars
as to this 'dolce far molto' (* sweet do-much') life of ours. To
begm. — What good is it to keep pricking the air through loops
of silk, with that species of small harpoon which you are usin^
there?"
" My * crochet' work, do you mean?"
" Yes, if that's what jou call it. But to proceed— after the
manner of the old b^n m * Water my chickens,' (how I should
like to play at that game once more in my life 1) I aak, what is the
* crochet' work for?"
" To make a purse."
" What is the purse for?"
"To hold money."
" Whose money ?"
" Yours— if you can get any."
•* I have done," he answered, looking np from the drawing he
was finishing, with a pleased simle ; ** I am a perfect convert to the
truth of aU your positions."
" You Hked the one I did for Boland the other day," said Lady
Constance ; " so I thought in the fulness of my generosity, that I
would do one for you too."
" Did you do that purse for Boland ?" said Henry, looking down
again at his drawing, while his colour heightened a littie — ^for he
would have preferred having had the first done for himself— "I
thought it had been my mother."
'* No," replied Lady Ashton, " I sent him one some time ago.'*
" Ah ! he needs more of them than I do," said Henry.
He felt at that moment what he had scarcely ever felt in his
life before : an inclination to be irritated with nis brother; and
the question arose in his mind : why Sir Boland should have so
very large a fortune, whilst he had, as he called it, ' to work for
his bread. ' But this mood was too intolerable to last, so, * ' Pshaw,"
he thought, " it is much better for me to have something to do, and
not be an idle fellow all my life ; and he can never nave more
than he knows how to use weU." And the momentary dond
passed away.
It was in truth a matter of Bia*prise to many that Sir BoLmd's
property being so very large, his brother should have been left
with a mere younger son's fortune of a few thousand pounds. Bat
their father had purposely so disposed it ; for he was thoroughly
acquainted with the dispositions of his two sons, though they y
BIR BOLAFl) ASHTOlT. $01
but boys at the time of bis death ; and he felt conTinoed, that to
leave an independent fortune, to one of Henry Ashton's yolatile
temperament, and reckless disposition, wotdd he the thing in the
world most likely to injure, and perhaps even, completely ruin
him. He also well knew the noble ana generous temper of his
eldest son, and he was confident that he could ^ith perfect security
leave all Henrjr's interests in his keeping ; and therefore, with the
exception of ten thousand pounds to me latter, he left tilie whole of
his vast property to him.
"Well, Henry," said Lady Constance, after an usually long
pause in their conversation, " have you laid by the character of
inquisitor?"
" No, I am going to put Florence to the * question.' next— What
are you doing there, Giovinetta, with that many-coloured niece of
silk, which looks like all the signals in the na^ sewn together V*
" I am making a case with many divisions }
"What is the case for?"
** Needles, and other implements for working."
"Who for?"
** You, if you know how to use it."
" Ah ! I see I ought to have examined my witnesses separately;
you are too cunning, you landswomen, for us simple mariners; but
nevertheless, I mean to be an incorruptible judge, spite of aU your
•sops for Cerberus/ What makes you &ncy I ever used needles
and thread, or such unseemly, ana womanly trumpery, Signora
Krenze?**
'* 1 have heard that sailors like to mend their clothes instead of
going in rags and tatters, so I thought I would supply you with the
means of making a decent appearance."
'*But there is no 'true blue' after all, amongst the rainbow
colours you have got together there."
" I keep that lor the last ; when you are going away it will be
time enough to * hoist the blue Peter. "
** You are getting a great deal too nautical for me, young lady.
and very unieeling to boot, to mention such a thin^ . That detestea
gignal ought to be expunged out of the books of the Admiralty.
And he sung low in his 'moonlight voice' —
** Parte la nave, spi^ga le yele
Yento crudele, mi fit partir."
C The ship departs, the sails are spread*
The cruel winds force me to go.**)
But instead of the " Addio," &c., which succeeds the verse, aheavy
sigh burst forth, at the thought of the bitter hour of parting that
mnst come so «oon.
CHAPTKE XXVn.
"Tbqr loiow th* AJm^ghtf' ■ power,
WbOt mken^l by tiie jnshing mUni^^ AowiTy
Ifstoh fbr the^tlU teeeR
To faoirl mad «hafe waM the bentfiiif trees ;
Watoh Ibr ttae «tfll fiUte gkm
To bathe the landecape in a fleiy iihiiM;
Tonching the tremnloiu eye with sense of light
T<o nqpid aad ta0y«iiBibr all hot angel sight
* They knew fli* AfaDightyslove,
Who, when the whirlwinds rock the tq^most grore,
Btend in the rfiade, aiid hew
Tlw tamnlt with a 4e^ nTfiUlag ftari
flow, hi their fleasiBt awi^v
Curh'd by soaie pomr anseea, they die away,
like a bold steed that owns his rider^s arm,
Fh>ad to he ohBok'd aad Bsath'd I7 that o'a
* Bat there are storms witUn
That heaye the itrqggUng bant with vflder dkL*
« « « «
••A gilflf wfflmftmpang, Y«id, daifc and dnar,
A stilled, tfivwsy, naJoyaasiewMd grief,
Which ftads Ha nataral flsrtlet, 00 rdkf
" In word, or itgh, or tear." Goijbbidob.
A PA£TY of fciencb and neigiiboiin were invited to slay a £bw
davs at Llanayen, which was aa intolerable aonoyaiioe to Henry
Aimton, who ooidd ill bsook to have hia preien.t ha^y node of
life broken in upon, by persons in whomne felt no iatezeat. A
{swmomingv belore thay were to arnTe, he was walkin|[ wiik liis
mother and the two sisters on the shoue ; the wind was riamg, and a
daik line in the distanoe of tke ocean, showed that the ronogh
waves of the Atbmtio were pouring in.
''There will be a gale before night," he said. ''It is strange,
tiiat I never care for a stonn when I am at sea, but hate to bear
the wind howl and rave when I am on shore. I never could enter
into that somewhat selfish feeling of Lneretius : —
* Snave, marl magno tnrhsntibos cqnora ventis
E terra magnvm atterias spectere lahovem.*
C It is sweet, when the winds distarb the snrf aoe of the mighty
sea, to behold fross the qniet land the great laboar afathers.')
You understand my beautiful Latin of course, good people ? **
"I do just understand that," said Lady Ashton, smiling.
"because I have heard it before from one, whose heart is kind and
feeling, as your own. Roland often edifies us by his quotations ;
eonsioerately translating them for the benefit of tne unlearned."
"I rather think, Henry," said Lady Florence, "that you must
liaTe Ibeen ike BtSm^ vriio ifken tbe aLntes sjmL tiks wen Mnytng
jJ)out his head in a higk vind, wished himsalf ' song at sea.' "
** Ko bad wish either, Flosy. But however, it is not quite that ;
the slates and tiles do Bot £nghte& me; hut you see all hands are
employed on board ship in a stiff gale» And one has no time to be
afraid, howeyear much one might have die indination."
'* It m»Bt he T«7 fearful thoa^," laid Lady Aaht<Mi, whose heart
sickened at the though of Heuy's frequoat exposures, ''to feel
at mwh times thaJb msm is ' Aemaf but % plafik between us and
eternity/ "
" Tbeace is really nedaiMfer, dear mother, in « mAn»of-war ; onieas
indeed (»iegetsonA lee aoere. But here when I hear the winds
roaring aiiaet(»niiin|r« I have time to ait and think how many brave
• ^^ows may be ankiQg aoddiowning: in how many ^eees perhape
in 'iheUM of night,^ the 'seaa»an's ery is heani a£mg the dee^*
TheB. I eaU to mind all the thrilling magmfieenoe.of a aea-storaiv
tin I find myself tMrnbliag «t the thought of things which ha^
no power to sheke a nerve when I am aetnally in the midst of
Ihem. Dear mother I I dere say yeu often He awiake aad think at
me till your poor heart siuks, as von hear die waves tiionder en
the riiore, and the winds blow as if they would tear the eld house
4o pieoes ! but remember* the wind s^dom blows with you* and m^
at the same time ; aadthen, » I saki before, there really is soaneiy
any danger to a man-of-war."
Lady Ashton pressed the arm of her eon while he stooped down
to kiss her tearful ehe^. '* I will toy and remember your words,
dear," she eaid ; " I shall need eom^ort i^om them new, more thin
«Ter, for I shall mere than ever dread e^ to you."
"Why more thanevar? "
*' Because you are dearer to me than ever."
Henry's heart swelled for a moment, then in his gayest tcme he
eaid, " I see I must begin to make myseK detestable tibat you may
aU be glad wh^ I go away. I am too irresistLble new, am I nol,
Florence? But, Constanee, you w^e asking me the other daf*
about storms in the Atlantic. In former days I used to fancy th«t
a vessel went up and down the waves like a horse galloping oyer
a hilly country ; (though I had no idea then of ih.e hOls iuto which
the .waters piled themselves,) but that is not at alltilie case. When
there is a furious wind, c£ course, one moves rapidly, but not
nearly so much so even then, as the waves ; but when there is no
-wind, only the terrible swdl after a storm, then the ship lies
fiopine on the waters, whit^ rise and fSoll horribly under her.;
bearing her m one moment as if she was going to scale the
heavens, and men sjnkiag away from under her till she seems
bmried in an abyss, with huge sMmntains of water on every side.
At such times one can observe the dread magnifiecnee of tiie thing;
for there is comparatively hnt little to do ; bat wlien the wind blows
a hnrrieaae, «ie has no time for obBervation,^ for every nerve and
muaek is on the streteb. It is as mwh as one can do to prevent
going overboard ; and the etraimng and groaning of the veesd is
awful ; and sometimes she hangs on the summit of a mountainous
«wire--*fo the wwvea at aii^ times, are of eourae mwh. -higfaer and
204 Sm BOlAKD A8HT07«
bharper than in the mere swell— «iid quivers as if she recoiled from
the learfal descent before her ; just as a horse might rear, and
back, and tremble, refusinff to leap into a chasm. That is horrible,
appallinff ! and if one had out the time, one might then be terrified
to one's heart's content ; but as I told you, one is happily too busy-
to suffer much. But the swell is perfectly sickening^ till one gets
accustomed to the motion ; you can imagme it — as nearly as the
creeping of a flea can ^ye^ you an idea of the actions of an
elephant — ^from the sensation in the descent of a swing, which was
always intolerable to me. Do you remember, Constance, our onoe
watching an unlucky turnip which had got into the sea, by means
best known to itself? It was a stormy day, and every wave as it
came curling onwards to break on the shore, bore turnip on its
foaming crest, and we always expected to see it thrown up at our -
feet, and determined to wait till we had got it ; but when the wave
rolled over and dashed itself to pieces, turnip had slid down its A
back ; — ^then again rode in triumph on the ridge of the next wave ;
then again slid down the back of that one ; and so on with every
one in succession, till at last we ^ve up the hopeless vegetable^
and came home to dinner without it."
"I remember it perfectly," said Lady Constance, " and recollect
the provocation I felt at seeing it continually disappear, and after-
wards beholding it swimming with the utmost tranquillity, amidst
the coating of white bubbles which covered the water after the
wave had broken on the shore."
"Well, that is exactly the way one is carried up and down at
the will of the mighty waves in those great seas, after the violence
of the storm is over. There one lies like a log on the immensity
of the waters, submitting in passive helplessness to its caprices,—
now aloft, now below. I often thought of what this dear mother
of mine would have likened it to;— that she would have said:
'Thus we ought to repose on God's providence, and in acquiescing
faith, and unquestioning dependence, resign ourselves to all the
variations of fate, which the great and good Ruler of storm and
calm might deem it best to send us ;'
* That on his guiding arm nnseen
Our undivided hearts might lean ;
And this our frail and foundering baik
Glide in the narrow wake of his beloved aik.'
Have I guessed right, my dearest, best» and wisest mother ?"
" It might have so occurred to me, Henry, but I delight in
having it as your own thought ; and I trust Ihe remembrance of
your words may often be allowed to bring down quieting balm to
my faithlessL and trembling heart, when! hear the storms rage —
and think of you."
Henry felt much affected, and was silent for a time. At lengtli
he exclaimed, " How the wind rises ! it will blow ' great guns' to-
night, Flory ; I hate these on-shore winds ; there is sore to be
miiBohief somewhere or other on this coast."
Henry Ashton was right ; it blew a hnzrioaiie all that nighty and
8IB BOLAKD ASHTOK. 205
all the next day. The ocean was covered with breakers as far as
the eye oould reach ; and the foam and spray from the waves be-
low, as they dashed agpainst the rocks, flew over the very tops of the
cli£^. In the afternoon, the wind having^ Inlled a Uttle, Lady
Constance ventured forth with Henry, to view the magnificence of
^e scene. A few hours before, he had " swept the horizon" witii
his glass, and not a ship was to be seen ; but now one vessel was
just discernible, though what she was l^ey could not make out ;
but proceeding along uxe cliff they found one of the preventive men
on his stormy look-out.
'* What is she ?" asked Henry, as they came up : for the old maa
was attentively examining the vessel with his telescope.
'* Can't say rightly, sir ; the spray dashes over her so, she's all
in a haze."
*' Give me a look with your glass," said Henry ; and he took it
out of the .sailor's hand. "Tour focus does not quite suit me/*
he added, altering it.
" May be, sir,' replied the man, whOe a fifood-humoured smile
lighted up his tanned and seamed visage ; " old and young seldom
see alike, Mr. Henry."
" Except through one kIobs, old shipmate," answered the other ;
*' ffood John Bunyan's sxass of faith, — ^all see alike through thal^
old and young, rich ancLpoor ; isn't it so ^"
" Aye, aye, sir," said the old man, shaking his head, " an' we
look steady enough — all see alike there ; no doubt of that."
" I can't make her out yet," said Henry, still examining the
vessel through the glass ; *' she seems to labour prodigiously.
What is she Bkely to be ? Is there any steamer due ?
" No, sir ; none of the g^at ones, any how."
*' Let me look at it," said Lady Constance : and she watched it
£or a few minutes.
*' It is not a steamer," she said, ** I see it distinctly now—- it ia
no steamer, but I do not know what kind of vessel it is."
"It would puzzle a much more experienced eye than yours, Con-*
rtanoe, to make her out now," replied Henij : " but we will take
another turn, for it must be shivering work tor you to be standing
here, and we will ask Dickson to give us another look bv and bye.^
** It is not cold," said Lady Constance, " though it is blustering ;
it is Uke billows of cotton in one's face, the wind is so very soft.".
" Have you often such gales in England at this time of year ?**
asked Henry. " I have been so long away, that I almost forget
^e behaviour of the elements in this remote comer of the globe/'
" Do not speak slightingly of us^" replied Lady Constance ; " re*
mote we may be, but like the spider in a oomer, we spread our
dominion far and wide."
'* And do you think I've touched my hat to the royal colours so
many, many hundreds of times, ' asked Henry, " without fully
appreciating the power of the flag which 'has braved a thousand
years, the battle and the breeze ?' '
**No, I dare say you are very proud of it as it floats over your
lead. But why do you touch your hat to it ?"
** It is the ensign of the sov^eignty we serve ; and no sailor in a
man-of-wttr eVer moQnis tixe sMp^s aider -wftlioiit tofaolmtir ^ ^^
to it, as he puts lib loot upon the deok. Maj^tria always sap-
posed to be preewst there."
" I like that/' said Lady Gonfltoace ; '' fbir I am sure those ex-
ternal things keep up the inwazd h^mg Tery mneh. I wonldn't
have been bom in & ramblio fbr any^migr T tke feelinr of loyalty
ift 80 ennoUin^r and deKghtfaL I am snve I could die jfor th&
Clueen!"
" Well, dearest Cosfttance/' rsf^cl Henry, Ieokin|r at her am-
mated and beautiful countenance, ** I trust for both your sakes
you TviU neret be pat to the trials thoogh I feel sure you would not
**I do sodelifkt^" aoid Laity Conslanc^ <^i» the juztapositLon.
of those two apostolic injunctions — *Fear God, honour iheting,' "
" So do I," replied HiBnry ; '* ani notihsEigr is wattling yAea one is
sure, that in following cme's own feelings ofae is alsi^ obeying' the
Lord ; * duty and delight poing hand in hand.' **
"How bnght^ then," merved Ladr Cb&stonce, '*wfU be t&e
time when in obeying the Loitl, we bbaU be inysriably fE^owing
our own feelings— our wiU, as we were saying the other day, beinsr
lost in God'Sk Kew it is a perpetual warmre, the oLd nakire,
against the new; and the heart is often so backward too, in itsen-
deayours for others ! !No one knows the ezertioii it is to me Botas^ '
times to go to the school, or the cottages^ to read to the peo^e, or
teach the children. On hot indolent summer days, how often I
long to sit on the oliffis. aaid do nothing but ^oy mj existence,
listening to the booming watens wwtching tiie woods jttst stirring'
in the air, or flzingmy ^e Msdesiiy to ages on the ceaseless waveff
which roll on and on, tiU they 'die upon the shore/ And then
what trouble it is to maka mymM gfy and do w^t I ought ! And
yet I love the poor children, and my heart quite yearns over them,
when I am amongst them ; and if 1 see any gooa doing in any one
of their souls, oh ! it is worth all the kadscapes upon earth ! Bofe -
it would fare ill with me if I lived amongst tliose who did not
keep up the warmth of heavenly lo^^e in my heart. Here you all
help me ; my motherwitii her most persuasive war, entiees me on :
you animate me, and make all cheemi with your mgh spirits ; ana
Bcdand," and a sigh composed of mingled fedings rose to her lipa .
— ** witii him I am convineed I eouldg^ to tite stake ; his standard
is so high, hia zesi so vnflagffing, ms love so perfect !— i>ne is
ashamed to be left so far behina ¥
Henry's brow was knit fbr a monMiLt; he loved his brother
almost, if net to the fiill» as intensely as he did Lady Constance,
but anything whkk seemed to bring' ^ hearts of those two be-
loved being's too near to each other, eave him a ^ang whidi mad»
him inwardly start, asid whieh mSM fbr the instant the deej^,
pure stream of his brotherly kve. To a superstitious fancy it
might have seemnd that he intnitively dreaded evil from that
quarter, though there was then no appearsEnee of anything to •
tvonthie him. His brow, however, soon relaxed, as the secret
conviction (which he certainly had) that h« was ^ most beloved *
(^ite two^ stole overlus mind, and ag^Low Oi reventaiBfrlQfvetO*
wards his biotLer wanned his heart as he answered —
" Yes, one could not only go to l^e stake toUh him, but /or him/*
*' Dear Henry!'* exdaimed Lady Cemstaaoe, ha heart faQ of
affbetion for both the brothers.
Affain the cloud passed oyer Henry's mind and brow, and he
QonlcLBot return her bn^kok with on imtaroiibled smile ; for he
knew not whether it was Ute sense of what his Imvther deser^vd* .
or his own deToti<m to him, whkh had brought forth her aAproymg
exclamation. But hating himself §ai the feeling whi& oamft
tiins, like the glanees of a demon's eye^ aorose his breait, he drew,
himself hastily up with a sort of shudder; and imoMiseioaslsr
quickened his pace, as if to escape from some haimting evil.
" Are you eold?" said Lady UonstaAee, wtMdmng at hdsf^ver-
ing, and at his rapid moyements, "tMs blustering ^aleis^ I thinks-
so warm ; it is sank aaexeciioAto ' make head agamsiiV as you
would sav."
" Yesy* replied Hemy, aa his mand varamed its quiet, '^and
yoamisarahle womaoL eaDry so math sail, I wosd^ you oanmake
any way at all."
^' I tmsk I should have been bkwzi down, several times to-day,'*
axis#6red Lady GonstB&c^ "if it had not been for your . strong
They drew near again to the dd aeaman, with whom they^
found Lady Aahton talking, she haying been tempted forth by
Lady iloreaee.
" Well, Dickson^ can tou make her out yet ^"
** Yes, Mr. Heiury, plain enough now ; she is some merohant
vessel, and seems terribly cripplea by the storm. She has got up»
signals of distress, and I doubt whethear she will hold out long."
y Longenough to get into fahnoatht I hope/' said Heni^ ; " Uie
wind blows a hurrieane again sow* aaad she ought to fly like thd
send befnse it"
" She'll neyer get fhese^ sir ; she is wates-Iogged, I'm thinking,"^
replied the man.
^* Give me your giass^ She is indeed," said Henry, af^r care-
folly eixamining the yessd, which was now about a mile to the
westward of tlMsi, with scareely a sail set,, and the wayes continu*
ally breaking oyer her. " If she ships many more seas she will go
down. We must get out to her, Bickson, or all hands may periah."
, ''Bless youl mt. Henry, what boat eouJd liye in such a sea»
amongst these rocks and breakers } It would be a sheer tempting
of Ptcmdenoe."
"It must be tried Hioug^, Master Diokson," replied Henry^
coolly ; '' you don't think 1 shall let those poor £^ows go down,
bafore my eyes without an effi»t to saye them }**
lS.e again raised the jksa. " There's a woman on board," ba
ejrolaJTnad, *' I am sure 1 made (me out. Do you look, Dickson."
" There are two," said the old man quietlsr, as he kept the glass,
fiteady to his eye, " and a child too, or I'm mistaken.'^
" Diekaon," said Henry husziedly» " you oaxmot leaye your pest
aoft am bolaih) ashtoit.
I know, bnt yoiir walk extends nearly to the honse ; do yon g^!>ack
with the ladies, in case the wind prove too strong for them. I
must go and get help down at the Tillage."
'* It's madness— and can't be thought of/' said the sailor, grasp-
ing Henry Ashton's arm like a vice ; " we must let matters take
their course, for we can't mend 'em.*'
" Tou talk like a hard-hearted wretch," exclaimed Henry, his
eyes flashing as he shook off the old man's grasp.
Dickson touched his hat in quaint acknowledgment of the com-
pliment paid him, and auietly answered, *'Not a bit, sir; I'm as
0orry as can be, both for the women and the young 'un ; but nothing
will save them, and there's no use throwing away good lives after
bad."
Hemy Ashton turned from him, not choosing to argue further
when his mind was made up.
" My dear mother," he said, '* you will go home, will you not,
with Constance and Florence? It will only make you nervous
watchinor my cockle-shell as it tosses about; but I assure you there
will be but little danger when we have once passed the surf and
rocks near the shore."
''Ay, token !** said Dickson, doggedly--8haking his head.
Henry felt infinitely provoked at the old man's pertinacious
doubts; especially as by expressing them, he was likely to ala^rm
Lady Ashton as to the result of his venturous experiment. With
a somewhat quivering smile he said, ''Do not mind him, dear
mother, his blood is old and cold ; but a stout heart and a stnmg
arm will do much, with the blessing of God, in such a cause."
*' But if it is so hopeless," said Lady Ashton in terror— evidently
divided between her natural affection and her warm benevolence,
— and clinging to her son's arm.
" It is not so hopeless, dearest mother," replied Henry, sooth-
ingly ; " and how could you endure for me to ffo home and sit
qmetiy, whilst the ocean was swallowiog up my fellow-creaturesh-*
iTalmost within hearing of their cries. Ix>ok at that vessel, and
remember it contains human beings, who to all appearance must
soon meet witii a watery grave unless we can help them. Think
of all their terror, their a^ny— the loss in many cases perhaps
of soul as well as body— think of women like yourself, and of that
little child!"
He paused, and Lady Ashton burying her face on his arm, mur-
mured, " Go— go, I cannot keep you— their blood would be upon
my soul."
She threw her arm around his neck, and kissed him— as if per-
haps for the last time ; but her heart was strong, though her tears
burst forth. He pressed her to his breast, and then motioned to
Dickson to follow her, as she resolutely turned to go home. Lady-
Florence went with her ; but Lady Constance, who had watched
with fixed look, and bloodless cheek, the result of Henry's con-
ference with his mother, stood like a statue— utterly incapable of
moving.
" Constance," said Henry, with a tremor in his voice— for he was
fully aware of the danger of the venturous attempt he was about
8tB BOLAin) ASHTOir. 209
to make — "yoa will "wish me • God speed,' will you not ? You will
pray for me? — ^My best— my deare8t---my most beloved !" he oon»
tinned yehemently, as he pressed her hand to his lips, and burst
into tears — ^for he thought that this might be their last meetinjr.
and all restraint gave way before his sto)ng emotion, — " you wul
pray for me ?"
liady Constance could not speak, nor did a tear wet her eye ; all
she seemed to have of life was the power of breathing, and of
suffering.
" Speak to me, Constance," continued Henry ; " time must not
be lost, but even now, if you teU me to stay— but no, you could
not €*o it— you could not desire it. But oh I if you knew what I
feel at leavmg you— you to whom now for the first time— it may
be for the last^I dare to say how much— how completely you are
all the world to me— my hope— my joy— my first— my only love !
Oh ! forgive me," he aaded, — " you will forgive me at such a time
as this ; and if I perish— you will at least know how you were every-
thing — everjrthing to me ! My dearest! you wifl bid me go, will
you not ?"
He listened for her answer, and at last caught the scarcely
audible word by which she sent him from her. He stood, for a
moment, as if he could not part— Uien fiew down the path that led
to the village, nor once turned to look on her, whom he felt he might
be leaving for ever.
Lady Constance sat down on the cliff, where Henry Ashton had
parted from her, with her hands clasped on her knee. She seemed
perfectly torpid ; as if a sleep had come over every thought. Her
eye followed the waves as they rolled in towards the shore, as if
her only motive for staying there was to watch their ceaseless
motion. At times she looKed at the unfortunate vessel, but regarded
it without the smallest emotion, nor remembered that there were
perishing souls on board, whose fate at another time would have
awakened the utmost anxiety in her breast. She did not even
think of Henry ; for in fact her mind was for the time incapable of
framing or retaining any one defined idea. " Feeling itselr seemed
almost unfelt ;" for the terrible emotion which for an instant had
swept across her soul had benumbed her by its very intensity. She
felt no pain of body or of mind, only a sense of suffocation seemed
to rest on both. The spray, continually dashing up from the thun-
dering waves below, almost drenched ner, ana the wind blew her
hair across her face and eyes, but she was scarcely aware of it»
though sometimes she raised her hand and mechanically threw it
back.
It was not the sense of Henry's danger which thus oppressed
her ; had that been her grief, her spirit wakened to double
life, would, as it were, have lived in the ijresence of CK)d, for him,
and for his safety — ^but it was his love which stunned het — a love
80 fatal — so unlocked for — so fraught with every evil and every
misery ! Yet even that was scarcely so overwhelming to her, as
the conviction which the last few moments had brought with it
that she returned his feelings— that he was indeed all to her, as she
wsks everything to him ! She might have remained in his presence
JilO sat BOLAin) AJSBTOK,
for ever, without beiiig aware of the nature of her ieeHngn; Irat
parting i-Hhat it was whioh rent the vdi from her eyes— and by
showing her her own heart, hrought with it an aopiish so intole-
rable !— that had its impreanon remained long on her mind in aH
its lirst vividness, li& or reason must have given way. She re-
mained on that bleak point till old Dickson, having seen Lady
Ashton and her young ocaapanioiL safe under the shelter of the
trees at liaaavei^ retumed to her.
" You'd best let me see you home, my lady," said the old man,
as he stood scnrowfiilly by Ihe poor girl; ''it's bad walking against
finch a storm &r one like you, by yoiuself . You'll scarcely keep
your feet a miaute^ and mav be might be blown over the clin when
the wind takes one of its liaats. bhail I help you up »" he eon*
tuiued« taking her am with rough kindness; tor he saw the utter
sorDOw of her faoe.
She rose, and walked hj the sailor's side, who often stayed her
with his arm, wheai the wind was too strong against h^, and who
strove with hom^ feeling to eheer her evident dejection.
" It was hard," he said, " to see fellow-creatures in such jeopardy ;
hnt nuny had been saved in worse straits than that, and Mr. Henrv
had a oool head as well as a stout heart and arm ; and as he wauii
go, it was to be h<md Qod would take care oi hon, and send him
eafo ashore again.'
These and other topics of consolation passed Lady Oonstanoe's
<ear, but one wc^d chaaed another ^m her mind. At the entrance
to Ihe ahiubb^ry, however, she turned to thank the kind old man,
whose features worked with strong feeling as he answered,
" You Ihank me for nothing, young lady, — ^but you will pray, no
doubt for Mr. Henry, that it may pkaae the Lord to nrosoer
him, and send him baiok; it is no eommon job he has got in nana."
And he turned to reswne his watohfol walk.
lady Constance nauoed when she had oloaed the idurubbery gate :
" Pniy for hiiU} she thou^t, as her powers of mind began to
Touse a little from their aleep ; " psav fsi his return!— Oh ! no-
better for him to sink into the oeean, man retom to heax^--what he
must hear."
6he walked on, and her thou^ts became gradually dearer and
clearer, though her feelings stm continued unmoved. When she
had psjBsed the thi^ ehrubbeij, she came upon the open lawn
which stretched quite to the 0I1&' edge; and there she &und her
lister who, as the view wa£ intercMited from the house by trees,
had had a table brought out, and set under the shelter of the
shrubbery on the opposite side, to support a standing teleseooe,
through which ^ was intently gazing on the veaseJ, which was by
that time almost ofiposite the house.
" It seems lower in the water than it was, Constance," she aaid,
when' she saw her sister approachi "Oh ! if it should go down
l>efore any help ooaes ! and I see nothing of the boat yetl
; IMUULNO ASSTCMb 2U
{MASTER XXYHL
*■ Whf ihonld T fear became tbe raigcs toTI ?
I have one Wb ! — 6od gare It me — one lift
Ob asefor Him and laaii I nill not Hear r—KS.
The spot where Henry Ashton bad left LmLj Oonstanoe, was a
bluff, high point in Lk&aYai Ptark, &&m whkk the ground gra-
dually desoendin^oa both sides, fiiDaed two ootbs, beytod which the
high diffs immediatelT rose again, fiur Boland's house was situated
about midway down the descent to the west, the gronnd oontinuing
to slope from it, quite to file level of the shore. iHie woods, feather-
ing in some parts almost to the water's ed^e, and in odiers, mmne
over the cliffs, were iaterspersed with glades of the greenest tui£
and with dells, where the de^ coached down anud mgh fern, and
glowing heather, and where the ddioate heath peculiar to Cornwall
grew in rich pro&ision ; ihe scene altogether contrasting beauti-
Silly in its cahn and quiet, with the ioR sweU and bright, restless,
spai^ding, of the eyer-«oimding sea.
In the ooye to the east of the high point (which bare ^e name
of Tower's Cliff )« was situated the little Tillage of Oamoombe, abo«t
a mile from Llanaven ; and thither had Henry Ashton flown, witii
all the speed which his hi^ motive eoukL laid him« to endeavour
to procure assistance in his bold and generous enterprise.
He found most of thefoiJars and ^s&Bxm&n. beianging to the place,
collected together on the shore, looking attiie vessel, which seemed
fast settling, and which was drifting on to the east in utter helii^
" We must do something for her," he exclaimed, as he arrived
almost breathless with the zapidU^ with which he had descended
the hill.
The men all teoehed their hats to him, but answered as with one
voice, " I^tiiing to be done, ar."
^ ** Something we must tiy, however," said the youss^ officer ior
dignantly ; ** unless we wirald wish to pass, as Cornish men too
often do, for wreckers." And he sent a glance &*om his fearless eyie
through the little crowd assembled; a g£inoe which some could but
ill stand. *' I hope, however," he added more diaerfuliv, " that we
shall be able to rode^n a HttLe the honour of oar coast
"I am afraid, sir," said a respectable-looking man, ''that no
hdp can be given these poor lelkws ; we have unluckily no means
of getting a rope out to tbem, which would be the only chance."
''I think, and I beUeve," replied H<enry, ** that by good care and
management, Terry, we might get a boat out to them with ropes;
theyare not near a quarter of a mile ofiL If not-*I'il swim."
'^ 1 on'd be dashed to pieces codi these ro^s, sir," observed the other.
"Not a bit of it," said Henry, gaily; "at any rate Til trj!:. But
ire will make an attempt the <»ner way first Here i who will lend
a hand te get my boat down to the shore, as you preventive men
daren't lend yours I suppose, as your <^ELcer happens te be absent"
Several men voluntecrod for this safe piece of service, and the
V 2
212 ffiB BOXA^D ASBTOV:
light boat was soon at the brink of the wayes. Henry jumped
into it.
'* Give me all the ropes von can muster/' he saicL And coil after
coil was laid on board. 1*11 tie one end of this round me," he
continued, laughing, " and then perhaps you will be able to haul my
empty jacket ashore when my body is all ^one to bits ; that will oq
better than nothing. Now who will go with me ?"
Kot a voice answered his appeal.
*' Cowards !" he exclaimed ; with a glance which literall^r shot fire.
Then shouting between his hands, his sonorous yoice rising above
the roar of the tempest, while laughter danced in his clear blue
eye, he exclaimed —
"Holloa! are there no women astir there? Is there no Grace
Darling on the Cornish coast ? Must Northumberland carry away
all the honours?" Then speaking a^in to the men around, he
said : " Grace Darling— a woman !— risked her life to save men ; —
here— men leave women and children to perish before their eyes !"
" Are there women on board?" asked Terry, in an altered tone.
** Yes, and a child," answered Henry Ashton. " Couldn't you
make them out with your glasses I Perhaps not though, down
here, but on the point, old Dickson and I made them out plain
enough ; two women and a child, and there may be more for aught
I know."
" If I thought there could be a chance " said Terry, hesi-
tatingly.
" There can be no chance," replied Henry, in a kind but earnest
voice, "if we do nothing ; but God may bless our endeavours, if,
in dependence on Him, we * do as we would be dene by.' "
" 1 11 go with you, sir," said the man, stripnin^ off his heavy
jacket, preparatory to setting out. " God's Diessmg is the best
inheritance ; and though my wife and children depend wholly on
me "
" Tou all remember," cried Henry aloud to those on shore, " and
bear my words to m^ brother, that if we perish, Terry's wife and
family are to be provided for.'
A loud cheer answered this injunction, while a voice from the
crowd exclaimed —
" He wouldn't want the telling."
Tears started into Henry's eyes at this tribute of confidence in
his brother's generosity, and Terry, quite overcome, stooped to
arrange some of the ropes at the bottom of the boat.
" I want another hand still," said Henry, looking round ; '* come^
you have strong voices among vou, have ye aU weak hearts ?"
"If you'll give me a hundi^sa pounds, I don't care if I go with
Su," said a bold, reprobate-looking young man, whom Henry-
Lew bore but a bad character.
" I'll have no such Jonah on board," he answered ; *' unleas to
heave out to the fishes, if the boat wants lightening."
A loud lau^h followed this reply; and the unfortuate object
against whom it was directed got pushed about from one to another
in a most unmerciful manner.
"Well, Terry" continued Henry, "you and I must brunt the
8ZB SOZAIO) ASHTOEir. 21)
waves alone I am afraid ; but never mind, one volonteer is better
than twenty pressed men. ^ Now mark, you men on shore— for I
suppose some of you will wait to see what becomes of us — above all
thinffs take care that the hawser does not chafe agaiimst the rocks,
for if it breaks, we may all go down with one foot almost on the
shore." And he threw them the end of the rope he had fastened
to the stem of the boat.
" I'll ask them once more," he said in a low tone to Terry, " for
three would be far better than two— that is, three that could be
depended on."
Then raising his voioe, he called out, "Now, men, I give you
one chance more— will any of you come ?"
'* I will," said a pale-looking lad, who had but lately joined the
group.
** You !" exclaimed Henry, as a buzz and murmur rose amongst
the men ; " you look, my poor lad, as if the weight of an oar would
crush you."
" I am strong," said the youth, holding out his muscular hands,
" though I look so thin. I don't mind going a bit ; I have no one
to leave behind."
''Have you any one to go to?" asked Henry kindly, pointing
upwards.
** Yes, the same God as you have Mr. Henry," replied the boy,
his pale cheek flushing up.
"In with you then," said Henry, " and sit down there.— But
stay, can you swim?"
•^Yes, sir."
"And you, Terry?"
"No fear of that, sir."
"Now then, my men," exclaimed Henry to those on shore, "be
sure you have an eye to the rope, and watch as I told you, that
it doesn't chJE^e against the rocks."
All was now ready.
" Trim the boat well, Terry," said Henry, " and sit still both of
you. Now, boys, be ready to shove off, but don't stb a finger fill
I mye the word."
W ave after wave dashed up, but yet Henrv Ashton sat mute at
the helm. At last— " Now,'*^ he cned,— "the moment the next
wave has broken— off witii us.— Now,— yo— ho— y."
The boat grated on the shingle, then, partly rising over, partly
going through a heavy wave wmcn came thundering to the shore,
it soon rode safely belund a ledge of rocks which at a short distance
from the land, rose some feetout of the sea. Henry and hismen were
drenched from head to foot, but that was a matter not the least
refl»rded.
The danger of swamping at the first outset was hapnily passed;
but a far greater diffLoulty remained to be overcome. On each side
of the Uttie reef, behind which they now lay in comparative quiet,
the sea was pouring in furiously; and the waves— dashing against
the seaward side oi the rocks, which to the left were little more
tkan a wall— came over into their boat, tJireatenine to fill, and sink
her. To remain tharefi>ie, was impossible, as well as wholly use-
21f SIS SOLAim lABXOOV
less ; but how to stand ajsraiiist tiie msh. of wsien on. either side^
was a ouesdon not so easily decided. To the left the opening wag
tolerably if ide between the zeef and a neqrhbonriBg range of rocka^
and tiie waters therefore had kiss wwet ; but there was a shoal at
that point, so near the sur&oe in waoes, tiiat tiie boat might have
been stove in an instant had she been daahed ea. it. To toe right»
on the contrary, the sea was deep, but the cvpenisg was nanrow—
high rocks rising near ; — and a oontinnoiia terient g£ confiietins[
waters came in with snok fnry— forming imiamerable eddies ana
whirlpools-^that it seemed impossible that any boat conld be got
through against it in safely. On tbda side however, Henry Aahton
was compelled to attempt Ms passage into tiie open sea; and after
a brief but ener|^tio commenaatioiL of their souls to God — ^in which
his two companions joined most sincerely — and a blessing implored
on their exertions, he ordered his men to puU for the opening.
They did so r—but the ioiree of the cnnent seizing liie boat, tnmed
her round like a shuttlecock ; and she was only saved from destmC'^
tion by a wave of tremendous force ooming in nrom the right, whidi
overpowering the rest of the waters, wlurled her hack to the qmet
spot from wmch she had made so ineffectual an attempt to escape.
' " It will never do» sir, I am afraid," said Terry, drawing a long
breath.
" We wont give, it up yet, my friend," answered Henry; " we
must think of the women and children. How would it be f<v us
to get out upon the roek at tiua rig^ side where the reef is
deepest, and taking everything out of the boat, draw her by a ro|»
at her bows through the passage ? She might graze a little, but if
we could get the rope over that jutting rock we conld surely
puU her round, and she might spin like a miniuiw if she liked it,
when we were out of her; and eome the wcrst, should the rope
break, or the boat be bea;t to pieces, W9 should be prot^ safe on
tiie reef till the storm abat^."
This idea was instantly acted upon, though not withoofc nmeh
difficulty, for tiie rocks were aiipnery with sea-weed, and offered
but litde on which either hand or mot oould take &rm hoUL How-
ever, with perseverance, they at last succeeded in ^etdnr ontiie
reef ; and havinfir taken everything that was looae ont of the k)«t»
they proeeededto pass a strong rope whidh l^ey had attaidied to
her bows, over a mass oi the rook whi^ praieoted some feet acma
l^e narrow paasaffe. Haying done this, they endeaTonred to ob-
taon footinr on the other side firm enough to enable them to rtaiflt
the fdrae drthe ourrent against which thepr woold have to haul the
beat;- fer, if b<f a andden jerk tSiey shfldu be jneoipitaited into tfaa
soa at that point, death would be almost memtabie. They tkoee-
fore scraped away the slippery sea- weed, and fixed their feetfizBl^
in niches, and broken parts ca the rook; and having aonieved tiiis
important {Kont, tiiey not forth all their atrengtii to make the boot
tuBL the point, and to drag her through tho tomnit of the aminting
irateis. To add to their other difficulties, tike waves— thooBn then
feree just there was much diminiflihed by the depth ol tba reef <n
vrMi^ they stood, and also by the shelter of the roeks wfaick xaa
oat, on the right, a oonsKdezablfi way iaiio tibuB sear-€Niitiniia]|y
broke over them, blinding them with the spray, and rendering
their hold of the rope almost hopelessly slippery. However, their
stout hearts did not give iwiy, and -mm desperate energy they put
forth all their strength for the final eflTort. They felt the boat
Sield to their ftsreniMnui paHf and tffter a fewmonents lliey saw
er head appear loimd the point, under the projeetmg rock ; but
there the resistance was tremendous.
** I almost wish we had thought of hoisting her over the reef,"
said Henry, " she is but a light thing; or ix we could even now
drop the rope with the hook, irom the end of that locli^ so as to
grapple her, and keep her head out of tiie water, we might be able
to get he]r throogh; but thie way we shall nerer succeed; l^e
rope will never stead the strain. She's tearing at it now like a
dog at its chain."
Terry mounted the reek with the rope and hook, and after maay
failures, suoeeeded at last in making it take last hold of the fore
pOErt of the lioat. He then with little dilBoalty raised the head
above the waters^ and Henry and his flseble-lookin^, but stout-
hearted eompanion, hauled away manfully ; and when it had passed
the point of »>ek where Terrv stood, he dso descended to where
the others were standing; aad-^he main force of the current being
Hieii passed— their united efforts soon brought Hie little boat along
iide of Hiem.
" StoF away aU Hie things, and lump in, my men," said Henry.
And following them, he seized tne rudder. *' God has been very
mereifol to ns, and we will trust Him yet a little forther. Mfe
nmst watch our opportunity though, or we shall get swamped at
last.— ICow for it— strike with your oars." And they rose nuoy-
anHren the crest of an advancmg ware.
"Well!" he cried, "we've 'hoped afanosi against hope;' but
we'ife been brought well through, thank God, and I can never
sceflbiently thank yon, my men, for your steadiness and courage.
Now then,— pull away as fast as you can. I would take your oar,
Wamer, and let you steer,'^ he added, *' but yon have not know-
kdgB enough to manage the helm in such a sea as this; and if the
wn.ve once took m on the broadside, we should be capsized in a
monent. '
••I can hold on, «r," said the boy, " never fear.**
Ihey proceeded in siknce, for it was hard work for the rowers;
and Henry Asditon's attention, and stren^ too, were folly ooon^
pied in keeping tibe boat's head right against tiie wnves.
916 Sm BOLAITD ASHTOir.
CHAPTER XXIX.
** Tlioa haft paid the penalty of thoaghtleu Iotb
]>earer than most." Sullivan.
** How affection grew
To this, I Jmow not ; day succeeded day.
Each Ihtnght with the same innocent delighti,
« Without one shock to raffle the disfrnise
Of sisterly regard which veiled it well,
nil M» changed mien revealed it to my soul." «
Talfoubd.
The nuuMBuvies of the little boat and its crew, had leen watched
with intense interest by the assemblage on shore ; and when they
were seen dancin? over the waves, after the peribus passage
through the rocks had been passed, the spectators sent up a shout
of exultation, and waved their hats in the air to cheer on the in-
trepid little party. They, however, needed no such stimulus to
their exertions; and the acclamations of the neople — which
sounded to them scarcely louder than the "wauing sei-bird's
cry," — added but little to the enthusiasm with which they had
undertaken and carried on their noble enterprise.
Lady Ashton, on reaching home, had retired to her owi room,
to pray for the safety of her son, and for the rescue of tie jpoor
creatures in the vessel who were in such awful peril. She resisted
the inclination she felt to watch the progress of the wreck, lor she
knew the only help she could affora would be by offering upher
earnest supplications to Heaven; and she also knew that by liat
means only could she obtain for herself the strength and composure
which she so much needed.
The projecting point of Tower's cliff prevented any; of Heory
Ashton s operations from being visible from Llanaven, tiU his lE>at
had got some littie way out irom the rocks. But when it wat at
last seen riding safely on the waves, Ladv Florence, in an ecs^sy
of joy, called to her sister to inform her of it; and Lady Constaice,
then Arst roused to anything like feeling, threw herself on her
knees and burst into a passionate flood of tears.
" Do not, dear Constance," said Lady Florence, her tears starling
in sympathy with her sister's, "do not cry; they seem to go oi so
safely — and the people in the ship appear so animated by seong
them. Henry has a rope tied to the back of his boat ; so you «e,
dear ConstaDce, he has taken every care. I can see his dear &oe
every now and then as he turns — ^this glass makes things so vary
clear. I see that littie child, too, quite well now— one of ^e
women is holding it in her arms. Poor little thing ! how welit
must be, for the waves ^ over the deck continually, though I dire
say it is not half so mghtened as its mother. The boat is voy
near no Wj and the ship does not drift away as it did. I see Henry
making signs to them about something. jOo oome and look, Cox.-
flCEL BOLUTD ASHTOIT. 217
stttnce ; you would not feel half so anxious if you saw better what
was going on. Do oome."
" No thank yon, dear," replied Lady Constance, who had resumed
her cahn composure ; " I could not look steadily through Ihe glass
now — ^I am sure I could not ; and you can tell me what happens.
Besides I can see the vessels very well, though not what goes on in
them/'
*' I do think they must have struck on a rock," continued Lady
Florence, " all the people seem in such a ferment ! There — Henry
has reached the ship at last;— gnite dose — and they aj^ trying to
get a rope to him, but the wind blows it away.— He has got it now,
and is fastening it to a cable he has in the boat. Ah !" she screamed
suddenly, " he is over !— he is over ; he is gone down !" — And she
threw herself on the ground, and in her frwitic terror, tore up the
verygrass with her hands.
"Florence, my dear Florence," said Lady Constance, with stony
coldness, " do not be so frightened ; remember how well he swims,
there is no danger for hSa." And stooping over her sister she
raised her up.
"JSTo, I am sure he's dead— 'drowned," rei)lied Lady Florence, " I
saw him go down ; — ^I saw something strike him when he went
over." And again she threw herself upon the ^und.
Lady Constajice was horrified ; vet still retaining her unnatural
calmness, she knelt down and looked through the glaiss. It was some
moments before she could sufficiently make out the scene— now brought
80 near to her view— as to understand what was gpiuff on ; but
when she did — sinking back, she covered her face with her hands,
and passionate tears again burst forth. She seemed capable of
enduring with a cold— almost stem resolution, the idea of Henry's
danger— of his death !— but now again she saw that he was safe —
and ner heart melted within her.
** I knew it," cried Lady Florence, mistaking very naturally the
cause of her sister's tears, "I told you he was gone ! '
" Oh ! no, dear Florence," sobbed Lady Constance, "he is not
gone, he has reached the boat asain. I was selfish, and forgpt you.
— ^Do you watch again, dear," she continued, rising and giving her
place to her sister, "you will see better than I shall what happens."
Lady Florence had. joyfully sprung from the ground at nearinflr
of Henry's safety; and she now, wiping away her tears, resumed
her attentive watch.
^Lady Constance sat down again on the grass by her side. Her
thoughts were still in a whirl of confusion ; yet across the deep
^loom which hung like a cloud over her faculties, there shot at
times a gleam of joy, indescribable ! at the recollection of Henry's
words; — ^but these short moments of unallowed happiness were ever
followed by a deeper sense of horror, and misery, and benumbing
dread.
••They have lowered one woman into the boat," said Lady
Florence, " and now the other is safe ; but it seemed as if they must
have missed it, it is so tossed about : and now a man is swmginjg
down the roj)e with the child in his arms, and Henry is holding his
oat to receive it; and one of the poor women too, got up tor a
218 Sm WOBLkJm ASH90V.
mameat, lyot maatd. tlurowa dawn again b>;tlie roeldng of iheba«fc»
Henry has given her the child, and she is holding it to her, and
wrapping it up ; I soppooe she is its mother. Poor thing ! — oh !
poor thmg !" And the blinding tears prerented her for a few
moments firom seeing what was going on.
She soon however continQied,
" Henry is waving something white as if to the people on shore,
for his face is tamed that way. Yes—be has moved the rope from
the back to the front of the boat, and I suppose they are going to
draw them back, and they have a rope fastened to the ship too,
which makes it so mudh safer I I mnat go and tell my mother; or
will yon, Gonstanee }**
•• No, do yoa go, Florcnee."
She went, and aimoimeed to Lady Ashten the joyfol news of
Henry's success, in bringing off the women and the child. Lady
Ashton's tears flowed fast^ lor her heart was thankful ; and it also
yearned paisfnlly over the sfm whose held intrepidity had been so
much blessed.
" Well, now, dear Florence," she said rising, " our part comes ;
wemnst go down to the village^ and see what can be done for these
poor sufferers."
" I am almost sure," said Lady Fkrenee, "that one of the womeii
in the boat is a ladj ; she did not look the least like a common
•w».^^ ;— tiie oiqvtain^s wife perhap*— and the child seemed to be
" Do yon think so }** naked Lady Askton ; " then we will have the
oarriage, and send some belter things £ov h(» to put on. I have
ilbeady sent some common ones with other comforts down to the
fSlage, but if von are right in your eonjecture we will bring the
poor thing up nere."
" And the child }" exclaimed Lady Flonenee, *' that will be
ddightfiil ! Put on your bonnet, dear mother, analet na go; or do
you mean to wait for the earriage ?"
*' No, that will detain iul for it is not yet ordered ; and it will
have to go round by the road ; but witk the wind at our backs we
shall be at the village in a very short time."
They sallied fortib full of joy, and buoyant with the hope of useful*
BOSS, and Lady Aahton imvited Lady Coofltance to join them as thev
passed near where she was sitting on the lawn; bat she dedinedr
saying she would attend to having comfortable arrangements made
in the house in ease Lady Ashtxm loought any one baek with her
fiom the viUaga
The two happy ones then pvooeeded on their joyfol way, leavmf
tile wretched Xadj Constance bdbind;— she whose kindly spirit
would at another tmie have been the first in all acts of bene volenee,
hat whose powers both of body and mind seemed now almoet gone
^-broken down by the weight of her oppressive misery. When shft
was again alone she quite f ori^ what she had undertaken to do»
and for a lonsr tune remained with torpid mind, seated on the ffnm
with ont the s&i^test motion, till at length recolleGting herseli, she
started up, and entered the house.
When me had finished all the arrangements necessary for ^
fix snfiAini Asiu'CUL 819
accommodatioii of any guest who might come, she went into her
own room, and throwing* herself on ner knees, implored of God
guidance and strength. The little affairs in which she had heen
occupied, had hrougnthaek her wandering semM^i to the realities of
life ; and she now with a dear mind, and determined will, hegaa to
consider what she must do. There seemed indeed hut one course
pointed out hy duty, and that she resolutely determined to follow.
She sat down instantly, wad wioto to Hemry, informing him of her
engagement to- Sir Boland, and telling him why it had not been made
known to him before ; entreating him also to leaye Llanayen as
soon as possible. She expressed her deep sorrow for the unhttm>y
error into which he had been led, assuring him t&at never till mat
day had she had the slij^itest suspieion of his sentiments— and
beseeching him to think of her no more. Of her own feelings she
said nothntg; she couM not say tiie tratiL~and she would not say
that which was not true.
When die had finidied tSisfoying letter, she ooneealed it in bet
drees, intending to put it into Hen^s hand when she should take
leave of him at night ; and haying fulfilled her hard task towards
him, she sat down to look mto bar own heart. 8te 8Bw--she Mt;
how^ much, nnz(^ more tendeny she loved ^x> one she must psrt
from, than the one to whom her fidth bdonged, — and her sonl was
oyeorwhelmed with shame and snef. fiSie comforted herself in some
degree by the hope Ihat neitker b]^ word or look had she e?er
betrared foelings^-whose existence, mdeed, had been unknown to
herself but a few short hours before ; and she deterxnined noTcr
to reveal to living soul the weakness of her heart.
It was not her intentioiL> moet oertainly, to marry Sir RolasiQ
whilst her heart remained ftul of his bmther ; but ooiuidering her-
self bound to him by every tie : — ^by her own reiterated promise—
hy her fo>ther^s wirfi— and 1^ his own deep love, and true devotipn,'-^
sue determined in the strength of Gk>d, to subdue the faithless pre*
forence she folt far Henry ; notinng doubting but that her heavenly
Fattier would in answer to oontinual prarer, and in furtherance (n
eonsoientious exertion, do for her» in her neart, what she despaired
of ever domg for herselfL Forti^d by these thou^|htB she deter-
mined to give wajr^-no, not for an instant— to yam— and as she
eoold not help foeHng^tfaem— einfid regrets. She resolved to drat
out all tenderness of reeolleetion ; and not even to dwell witii pity
on the thoughts of Henry's woimded heart, lest her own shonla
oontinue to feel for him too mneh.
Miserable, wretched, indeed nhe ootud not help bexn^ ? but sho
mtmnured not, nor blamed any bat herself: and in her deep aoram^
leagned herself entirely to the will of Goo.
JHH) .SOL XOLAITD ASHTOir*
CHAPTER yyX-
** The psoM of aaxioDfl tear, awaittaig soon
The dlmlj-Tkioned otjeet of its dread ;
When the hiuhed bosom fears to pant or sobb
And the heart dares not throb." Ahov.
" Mj n6Ue bojr-whom ereiy tongue
Blflit at that honr.*' Sodthit.
Ladt Ashton and her young oompanion arriTed at the village
jnst as the party in the boat reached me reef of rocks which it had
OL Henry so mnoh trouble to pass, in his waj out ; and where
dif&cmties arose. His prompt and energeUo mind, howeYer»
soon determined what oonrse to pursue ; and the moment the boat
neared the reet he made a signal to the men on shore to leaye off
hauling in the rope. It might haye been possible to haye shot
the boat through the opening in the rocks without its being upset*
but the rii^ was yery great ; oesides which, there were many more
still to be brought from the sinking yessel, and he determined,
therefore, to leaye his boat on the seaward side, and endeavour to
induce some of thepeople on shore to come out that little way to
their assistance. He made all the party get out on the reef, shel-
tering the women and child as well as he could from the soaking
spray ; after which, he clambered to the other side himself^ ana
endeavoured to speak loud enough to make his voice heard by some
of the spectators on shore. But his attempts were wholly unavail-
ing, the tumult of the storm being so great ; nor could he make
an^r one understand his signals ; so, in despair of otherwise obtaining
assistance, he threw himself into the sea where it was calmest, ana
after buffeting for a time with the waves — ^which, when no longer
sheltered hj the reef, rolled with tremendous powei^— he was thrown
with stunninff violence upon the shore. He lay senseless for a few
minutes, to me agonizing alarm of his mother and Lady Florence,
who had witnessed his bold leap into the sea with dismay ; but
soon recovering—after a few words of deepest love to his mother —
he entreated some of the men to go with him out to the reef with
another boat. This request was more readily complied with than
his former one had been ; for, besides that it was attended with
much less risk and difficulty, the hearts of the men were wanned
with the enthusiasm and bravery which Henry and his companions
had displayed ; and the success of their enterprise had animated
them all. The sight too, of ihe women and the child, so near, yet
^vided from them by me boiling surge, seemed to kindle every
Madly feeling in their natures ; and now, instead of a general
xefosal, Henry had many more offers of service than he oould
accept. He selected, however, two men whom he knew to be amonff
the boldest and strongest of them, to go with him ; and obtainea
their promise, not only to take the boat to the reef, but afterwards
to go on with lum to tne wreck in the place of Terry and Warner,
who were both much fatigued with the great exertions they hxA
already made.
SIB SOLAKB AflHTOir. 221
The boat was soon ready, and a rope attaolied to the stem ; and
Henry Ashton committed idmself once more to the mercy of the
waves. He was not, however, so happy in his ontset tiiis time as
on the former occasion, fbr the men, oeing over-full of zeal and
animation, did not wait for him to give the signal for lannohing^
but pushing off immediately after a huge wave had broken on the
shore— without perceiving that another was foUowing fkst upon
it— the boat was struck, and immediately swamped. The danger,
which is always great in these cases, was much increased now by
the tremendous weight of the billows ; but the two men, who were
active swimmers, soon refrained the boat, which was at no very
great distance ; and clinging to it, though it was bottom upwards*
were quickly drawn to snore. But with Henry it fared less well ;
he had received a blow on the head as the boat went over»
which confused his senses ; and before he could recover £rom its
effects, the waters had drawn him a considerable way out. He
was exceedingly exhausted with his previous efforts, and having
missed the ropes which were thrown out to him at first, he was left
wholly dependent on his own powers for regaininjpr a place of
safety. He felt his strength almost fail him, and for a moment
the torpor of despair— added to the effect of the stunning blow he
had received-— made him almost cease from exertion ; and casting
an imploring glance to Heaven, he was nearly sinking unre-
sistingly in the foaming waves, when he caught a fleeting glance
of his mother, standing on the shore, with the most agonised terror
depicted on her ooxmtenance, and with her arms stretched out
towards him. That sight roused his almost dormant faculties, and
fresh-strung his weakened arms, and he determined to make one
more effort for his life. He dreaded, however, being again dashed
on the shore, having suffered so much from the rude shock he had
sustained on the former occasion ; so he determined, if possible, to
reach the comparatively calm shelter of the reef; reeling certain*
that if once he were seen on the rock&— should he have strength
enough lefb to mount them— the men on land, whose spirit and
courage he knew were now completely roused, would not fail to
risk every danger to reach him. He was happj enough to be able
to succeed in this attempt; and it may well be imaffined with what
emotions of transport Lady Ashton heard one of the fishermen
exclaim, " That he saw Mr. Henry on the reef." He had been lost
si^ht of for some minutes, the height of the waves intercepting the
view of him from those on shore ;— who also, imagining that he
woidd certainly endeavour to regain the land, had fixed all their
attention in that quarter. No time was now lost in launching the boat
again for the rescue of the gallant yoimj^: sailor,— for whom at that
instant every one would gladly have risked his own life— and as.
liie men proceeded tMs time with more caution, it was happily and
safely sent on its venturous way, witii Henry's two former com-
panions in it, and another volunteer, who took the helm.
The first danger at starting being over, there was no great
difiiculty in reaching the littie naven under the lee of the reef; and
Henry, cheered by seeing the strenuous efforts made to loin him.
crawled over tiie rook, as well as his weakness would aIlow» and
22S flat BOLAIKS ASSTOIR.
dineoted the par^ there to oonte over to ihe side naaeest the shore,
vhence liiey oofnid be eodly let down into the boat Ab this would
be eomparatiTely a safe btuiness— when he bad seen Terr^ in the
boat, he desired die new reinforoement of lowers to oome with bim
in order to set out on a second expeditka to the wreok. They all
cndeavonied to iiezsQade him to let the otiiber sailor go in his plaoe,
fleeing howsujffiiaing and eachanated he was; but he well knew that
Ibo presence of an officer was infalna}de on snoh oooaaions, whose
vrder was as essential as eooxage ; and that unless he were there to
direct and eootml both his own men, and those <hi board the wre<&,
there would be in all probability swck a msh ibr the boat, as would
inentably sink her. He therefore peraistad in going, tiiough he
f <^ at times almost ut if he should die~-80 eztremdy spent was
he, as well as suffering from the efSaets of the stunmug blow on
ids head, and of the vidbBntoontusiQns he had reeeired on his chest
and side when thrown with such loroe on the shore. He felt, how-
ever, a trust in God whiidi was most refreshing to his soul* and
wkdoh kept him in perfect peace aa he sped foxwazd on his dangerous
way.
In liie meantime tiie party on tiie leef having safely descended
into Hie boat, were all, after tremendous tossing in the surf^ safely
iandad; and every one was anxious to be of sendee to those wbo
had so narrowly escaped a watery gmve. The women and the
iittle child were of course objects of eapeeial interest ; and Lady
Ashton accompanied IJKm to a respeotame ootta^e, where she had
provided freah ciothing for them« and indnoed tkem to tske some
refreshment ; and peroeivii^ i^t Lady Florence was ri^^lit in her
eonjeoture that one of them was a person of superior situation in
life (the other— a foreiflin^^— being evidently her servant) she ex-
pressed her hope that she would go to Uanaven ; which mer being
gratefully accepted. Lady Ashton, after seeing the party safdy
depoiited in the oaniage under lady Florence's care, returned hi^w
eeff to the ahore ; bexojr now fer too anxious and uneasy about her
eon's fate, to think of going home till ahe had seen him again
tetum from his dangenyus expedition.
Henry's strength was happuy not ao muoh taxed with having to
manage the hdm on his second expedition, as it had been on the
first, as the ropes at the bow and stem served muoh to steadv the
boat. He succeeded in bringing off six more of the men and bind-
ing them on the reef; and tfim set out a third time for the captain
and feur other sailors who were all that remained on the wredc
mie vessel had-— as Lady Florence had coiyeotured when watching
it through the telescope---«trQflkon a rode, which though an advan-
tage as prevmting its drifting awav from those who were goinsr to
its reHef, yet made it inevitable that it nnist socm be dashed to
pieces by iSbe viol^ice of the waves which broke incessantly over
it. That it had stoodso long the fear of the ihodcs itevery instant
received, had been matter of iojrfni surprise to Henry; and he
trarted that it would bold togetner, till he had made this last expe-
dition to it; but to his horror, when he had now got about half
vniy, he saw it suddenlyjpart asunder, and in a moment, as it were,
tlissolve m the waters. He instantiy out away the rope which at-
8EB Boauuni iunnnnr* 9S^
tsehed faii boat i» it, snd in great agitation* aochortad lii« Biea i»
EodDuble their exertiana to reach the spot. They rowed gkiksLsAj
jGMrward—though the difficaltf was anan mueh inoreaBed by having
lost all assistaaoe from the ship— aaid in a short time tkey saw two
men bating on a spar« and &mer on still, another; and lumng
with great diffieuhy got them into the boat, they learned from
than* that having aqpeoted the diip to go to pieees from one mo-
ment to another, they had all seciued aometiung with which to
keep themselves afloat, till Hbe boat should reach them. This
aooonnt greatly eniDonraged Henry and his men, and after a short
time they were ha|my enough to rescue also the oaptain and the only
qflier jftmaining sauar.
CoBipletely exhausted, Henry now gave np the management of
the heun to me oaptain of tiie merohant-yessei* and threw himself
at the bottom of the boat, for his life seemed almost «me. Wh@a
thev drew near to the reef he endeavonred to speak, but conld not
make one audible sound ; and the men not bein^ aware of what he
wished to say — (whidi was to desire them to dmib over the reef,
and let a hoist mm tiie shore to take them off as the others had
dcue) — went on unhesitatingly to the dangerous opening between
the rocks. Henry, who saw their fearful mistake, and oiew that
it waa then too late to remedy it, thought all hope of being saved
wtis gone ; yet, in his extreme weakness, he ooold soareely keep hie
mina soffieiently aliye to watoh the event. And when, contrary
to all rational ex^ctatkm, the boat was hauled, by the exertioBB
of the excited men on ahcne, safe through the awrol torrent, and
was borne by a tremendous wave fai^ upon the beach, amid shouts
iibat rent toe air, the gallant spirit which had infrised its high
enenry into so many heurts, seemed flown for ever.
" He woidd go ! exclaimed Dickson, (who had been relieved
from his watch), olaq;»inff his hands above his head, while tears
gushed from his eyes, as ne saw Henry Ashtoa'sMfelees body lifted
&om the boat, " he would go !**
Lady Ashton, whose soulseemed at the moment raised above her
mighty grief, laid her hand on the old man's arm, and said,
"If ne has perished, he has periidied as a servant of God should
do."
" Ay ! he has perished nobly/' repHed Diokson, *' but he was
80 over-venturesome !"
Henry was carried into ihe nearest cottage, and every effort
was used to recal animation; but thouffh it was, happilv, soon
evident that life %as not extinct, it was long before anythmg like
oon&ciousness could be restored. Lady Ashton be^^ged the men to
procure something on which they could convey him to lianaven,
as the carriage was not then at tne village ; and a litter ot hurdles
amd a mattress being soon procured, his exhausted frame was laid
on it, and carefully covered with cloaks that the wind might not
chill him in his wet garments. There was not a man there who
was not forward in offering to be one of ttie bearers of his rude
touch, for his frank, generous character, and cordial manners, had
llways made him a tavourite ; and at that moment the remem-
brance of his brave daring, united to the deathlike appearance
224 BIS 30ULB0 AIULXUA.'
of Ids fine oonntenajioe, awoke in their rude breasts a sympathy and
admiration seldom called forth. Almost all the inhabitants of tiie
vOlagre, excepting those who were busy in attending to the sufierers
from tiie wreck, accompanied him and Lady Ashton over the cliffy in.
token of their deep interest and respect ; and then, after having
seen him safe home, they took their leave with expressions of so
much kind feeUng and aandration as moved Lady^ Ashton to tears.
She said she could not then thank them as she wished, but hoped
soon to visit Uiem all at their own homes.
Thoughtful at all times, and for every one, she had previously
sent a messenger to warn the sisters ot Henry's state, lest they
should be too much shocked at the sight of him ; all was therefore
ready for his reception and comfort when he arrived, and he was
immediately conveyed to his bed, and laid there in peace and
tranquillity.
Then, and not till then, did Lady Ashton's strength and spirits
give way, and she sunk fainting, on the floor by her beloved child's
bedside. After a time, however, she recovered, and a few hours'
rest enabled her to be again unweariedly watchmg over one whose
late noble and generous conduct had endeared him a thousand-
fold to her heart.
To Lady Constance the trial was dreadful of seeing Henry
brought home in the deathlike state in which he had reachea
Llanaven ; and it was impossible for her at the first moment to
repress the floods of unspeakable tenderness and grief, which
would burst forth. The anxiety of eveiy one on his account too—
his praises on every lip— conspired to heighten her feelings for him»
and to add to the mais of her heart, left alone, as she was, to oom-
bat the worst, and most powerful of spiritual enemies,— those that
steal into the breast under the guise of the gentle, sweet, and de-
lightful affections of life. Alone indeed, she was not, for God was
wiHl her; and on His strong arm she leant, and was supported.
CHAPTEE XXXI.
The doctor who was called in to Henry Ashton blooded him
immediately ; and having watched him for some time with great
attention, was able at last to cheer Lady Ashton with the hope that
no matenid injury had been sustained, although the blow on the
head, he said, would make it necessary for him to be kept quiet and
free from excitement for some time, lest inflammation should take
place. This, though not wholly satisfactory, was yet a great relief
to Lady Ashton's mind ; and enabled her to devote some of her
attention to the stranger who had been cast by Providence on her
care and kindness.
This youn^ creature, lliough a mother, seemed scarcely beyond
girlhood ; while her quiet, distressed countenance spoke of early
sorrow. Lady Ashton learnt from her that her husband was with
his regiment at Gibraltar ; and that circumstances rendering it
advisable for her to return to England without delay, she had em-
• SIB S0£A2n> ASRTOK. 225
barked with her little son a fortnight before, in the merchant-
vessel which had met with so disastrous a fate. Her name was
Montagne, and she had purposed proceeding, she 8ajd« directly, to
the house of an nnde who resided in London.
This was all that Lady Ashton learnt from herself; and she had
too mmib. delicacy to intrude any farther into the secrets of this
evidently soirowrol heart. ^ The child's nurse, however, (a Maltese
woman,) more communicative than her mistress, occasionallv men*
tioned circumstances, from which Lady Ashton gathered, tnat the
husband of this poor girl had been most unkind, and neglectM of
her ; and that, having been lefb in almost perfect destitution, and
abandoned by her la^Tul protector, she had at length determined
to accept the repeated invitations of her uncle, Mr. Stanhope, and
return to England, to take refuse with him in her distress.
This account filled Lady Ashton's kind heart with pity for a
Toung creature, so earlv tried with such severe afflictions ; and
ner compassion was still farther, and most painfully excited by
the fear which she could not help Entertaining, that she might soon
be called to endure another sorrowinthelossof her little boy, who
seemed her only joy and comfort. The poor child, she was informed*
had not been strong for some time before he left Gibraltar ; and a
feverish restlessness and irritating cough had much alarmed his
mother, and made her fear for his lungs. The continued exposure
for many hours on the wreck, while the sea was breaking over
them, had greatly aggravated his illness; and Lady Ashton felt
extremely anxious and uneasy about him. He was a pretty child
of two years old ; and seemed to know no rest or happiness but
in his mother's arms.
Mrs. Montague, unwilling to intrude on Lady Ashton's hospi-
tality, had been desirous ot setting off directly for London ; but
Lady Ashton would not permit that ; and was glad in any way
to be of service or oomiort to her. With her usual untaiUng
kindness, having obtained Mr. Stanhope's direction, she wrote to
invite him to Llanaven ; and in a few days she had the pleasure
of announcing his arrival to his niece, and of seeing the comfort
his presence afforded her.
An were most assiduous in their attentions to her, and her child ^
and it was with a pleasure, second only to that of the poor mother
herself, that after a few days they saw the severe illness of the
patient infant give way, and heard the doctor pronounce him out
of danger.
Xiady Ashton was exceedingly pleased with Mr. Stanhope, whom
she found a most ^gentlemanlike and agreeable person, as well as
an enlightened Chnstiau. He told her many circumstances in the
lustory of his niece which much interested her ; and which made
her feel more than ever for the desolate state of this uoor young
creature. She was, it seemed, the only child of his sister;
and had been brought up by her mother in the indulgence of.
every wish and fancy. Mr. Lindsay, her father, was a man of
ordinary mind and thoroughly worldly character; but some year
after their marriage, Mrs. Lindsay had become decidedly pioa
226 SIB BOSAVD AflEnOir
and very earnest in Ber desires to servo Gkni* She had, howerer,
unfortiinately, adapted hi^h Celvinistic views, which preventiiig:
her, as those extreme opmicms invariably do, irom '• rightly diyid-
ingr the word of truth/ hud led lier to look, in all events, solely to
the sovereim decrees of God ^ instead of ■nsiiig--in dependence on
his ^^race— ier own exertions in the path of duty, For^tting the
distinction (which ib ^o admirably set forth in Wilberforoe's
"Practical Christianity") between apiritnal life and moral power,
she imagined that— be eaiLBt- it is impessible lor any one to obtain
the former, unless taujrht hy the Spirit of God— that ther^re all
human instruotiQns and bjdiortations wero ui^i^bb.
" My sister would often tell me," said Mr. Stanhope, ** that she
could not make ^neral invitationa, when she knew that Christ
died only for ' His people.' I used in yain to show her that by-
refusing to do so, she was refusing to do what God Himself had
dcme throughout the whole of the Scriptures : those sacred books
being not only full of exhortations, ana promises, but also of re-
proaches, that men * would not come to mm that they might have
fife.' I nidged on her the passages in which dod repeatedly an-
nounced that he had ' no pleasure in the death of the wicked' —
that it was not his wiU * that any diould perish j but that all should
oome to everlasting life ;' and I reminded her how St. John, after
r to the Christian oonyerts on the subject of Christ havingr
died for their sins, adds, * and not iar ours <mly, but also for the
sins of the whole world.' I endeavoured to show her how these
passages, and many others equally strong, proved that, though we
cannot even think a good thought of ourselves, yet that we must
necessarily possess a moral power by which we are enalded to go
to Qod for 9piritual^paweit; otherwise, that all CK)d's promises and
reproaches, would be but awfiil mockery of the unhappy beings
mom He in fearful power had created, only to destroy— <mly to
oonsign helplessly to everlasting oondennation ; a thought hornble
as untrue ! But she was blinded. I would vrge at other timee
that the ungodljr were said to be condemned because they rejected
the blood of Christ ; and I asked her, how^-if, as she said, ' Christ
died only for his elect'— these ungodly ones could be said to reiect
that which had never beoi offiered to them i She could not explain
—hut her awful delusion still continued; and the effect was, that
though she delighted in the society of real Christians, and did all
in her power to forward them in a life of holiness, yet unless she
saw that God had visibly drawn any particular heart to Himself,
she never used the slightest endeavour to awaken the deadness of
that heart, to show it the way of life, or even to restrain it from
outward evil. To her husband she never spoke on the subject of
rdiffion, and Mary— Mrs. Montague, of w&m she was doatingly
foncL she suffered to go on in every way exactly as her fancy dic-
tated. To my earnest entreaties on this subject she would rei^y,
' that when the converting grace of God came to the soul of ner
child, all evil would be subdued by it ; but that if it was decreed
that s he was never to be one of Christ's redeemed, all her endea-
vom to improve her would only add to her final oondemnatioii.*
I a*ed her one day, what oouree she had pursued the year before.
.8d SDXiAin) AsasTox. d27
when the ddld had had the scarlet feyer? whether she had sent
for a&y phyBidan to her > Unfinspicious of the deduotion I meant
to draw from her words, she answered, that * of course she had
had a physician, and had followed his prescriptions/ * And yet,'
I said, 'yon knew that without the hlessin^ of GK>d, that man's
advice and prescriptions could be of no avail.' She admitted it.
•Then why, I ursed, * will you not do for the child's soul what
you did for her body } Why will you not guide her to the ereat
Physician, and follow all His spiritual prescriptions for her, look-
ing to Him for His blessing on your work ?' She was sLLent— but
stm imconvinced; for Satan, who delights in stirring up the aoti-
vity of the wicked, rejoices equally in keeping the godly idle."
*^ I was afraid at first," said Lady Ashton, " that you were going
to say that all the power is in man nimsetf."
" Oh ! no," replied Mr. Stanhope ; " I am convinced that that is
not ike case, for it is God alone wno can make us either 'to wQl or
to do of His good pleasure.' But though I know full well that we
liave no power of ourselves to turn to BSm, yet the power is surely
promised, if sought In the parable of the marriage-feast, itis, I
think, plainly shown that all are invited—all may come in. Those
who did so, were certainly compelled, but the others were freely
and honesty invited t and the guilt of the refdsal was distinctly
laid at their door; for it says, 'those that were bidden were not
worthy to come in.' That some are forced to enter, does not argue
that others are forced to stay out I — ^These things, I feel, are far
beyond our comprehension; and it is, I think, in the endeavour to
be ' wise above that which is written,' that we make so many mis-
takes. I believe that man must have power of some kind, or God
would not entreat and invite him ; neither could he be considered
a responsible agent. Again, I receive as perlect truth our Saviour's
word^, 'No man can come unto me except my father draw him.
These two things I cordially believe, though I cannot understand
how the seeming contradictions they involve are reconciled; but
feeling with adoring gratitude that it is G^ alone, who has drawn
me to the knowledge and love of His Soil, I accept with, I trust
a fiinoere heart, all my salvation from Him. When we have cas
off the dulness of these mortal bodies, then, and not till then,
fihall we comprehend these things. But in the meantime much
evil arises from taking up either side of this question, to the de-
terminate exclusion of the other."
*' I folly agree in what you say," said Lady Ashton ; " and feel
that indeed much evil is done bv endeavouring to explain infinite
things according to our finite ideas. When we can understand
how» in ourselves, mind acts on body, or body on mind : or when
we can even find out how one blade of grass grows— then we may,
with some shadow of reason, reject what we find in the jBible,
because we cannot oomprehend it in all its beadngs. Will you
tell me farther about your poor niece ?"
** Her disposition," replied Mr. Stanhope, *' was always ronark-
ably gentle and amiable; and therefore the evil effisets of her
mother's injudicious treatment were not, fo la length of time, so
visible in her, as they would have been in most others. Bat whea
i^2
228 CIB SOLAITD ASHTOV.
she was about fifteen, she took a great fancy to one of her ooob^,
a niece of Mr. Lindsay's; and her mother allowed her to have her
continually at the house. I never liked this girl ; she was yain.
and foolish, and affected, and fall of feoitastical romance ; and was
always filling poor Mary's head with nonsense. There are barracks
at the town near Mr. Lindsay's estate, in Lancashire, and among
other young officers, in an evil hour, appeared Mr. Montague. He
was flood-looking and agreeable ; but as wild and unnrincipled as
poesiole. Mary, it was supposed, would naturally inherit all the
proper^ belonging to her parents, which was very considerable ;
and Mr. Montague, really I believe liking her, and certainly likingr
the idea of her * broad acres,' contrived te make himself particu-
larly acceptable te her, though he was far firom being a favourite
wiw her parents. Indeed I have understood that he rather endea-
voured to displease them, for the purpose of making them refuse
his offer; trusting that poor Mary's love would overcome her sense
of duty, and that he might persuade her to run away with him;
for he thought that if he married her without settlements, he
should obtain unshackled power over the fortune which he fancied
was irrevocably settled on her. He therefore, when forbidden the
house, induced this foolish cousin of hers to contrive meetings
between them, and to convey letters to and fro, which the unprin-
cipled ^1 was but too ready to do; thinking it very fine and
interestmg to lead her young but indiscreet oompamon, into a
sentimental and clandestine correspondence. Bhe filled her ears,
too, with continued invectives against the cruelty and tyranny oi
her parents, whom she represented as sordid and unfeeling, ob*
jecting to her marriage only becouse it would oblige them to part
with some of their fortune. At any other time Mary's affectionate,
feelings would have made her resent such language; but then, she
was blinded by her own wishes, and could see nothing clearly;
and being contradicted now, for the first time in her Ufe, and on
the point on which naturally she felt the strcmgest, she gave way
to £[reat irritation; and was finally induced by her two worthless
advisers to leave her home, and set off' for Gretna Green. Her
father, who was of the most harsh and irascible nature, took no
steps to follow or reclaim her; and when after a short time she
wrote to him, asking his forgiveness, he returned her letter un-
opened: desiring her cousin— -the author of all tiie mischief—- to
inform hef , that as she had chosen to act in defiance of her paxenta*
commands, she must thenceforth consider herself an alien from
their hearts and home ; and moreover, that as his fortune was not
entailed, he should most decidedly leave it away from her. From
her mother she heard nothing; for though that Kind parent's heart
was broken with grie^ she oared not venture to oppose her hns-
band» who had forbidden aU intercourse. Things were in this
miserable state when Montagrue's regiment was order(^ abroad*
m seemed to consider his wile merely as anexi)en8ive incumbrance.
However, as she had no Qther home, he could not refuse her going
SIS BOLAND ASHIOK. 229
ont with lum ; so she accompanied him to Gfibraltar, to whioih place
Ids regiment was ordered. 1 went to see wliat I could do for lier
before she set off, for I always loved her very muoli ; and I never
saw a creature so altered— so thoroughly miserable. It was dreadful
to her to leave England without agam seeing her parents, especially
her mother, of whom she was excessively fond ; out her father was
inexorable, and would not allow even a letter to pass between them.
My poor sister sunk under this cruelty; and the first letter her
unhappy child received after arriving at Gibraltar, was to announce
the death of this most tender but mistaken parent; and no mes-
sage of love or forgiveness was forwarded to soften the terrible
blow, or soothe the wretchedness of this early victim of sorrow
and folly. A few posts after, she received the news of the death
of her father also, which had taken place very suddenly; and this
intelligence was followed by the account that all his property had
been left to his brother ; and that her mother's fortune— about five
thousand pounds— was all that she was ever to expect. From that
time Montague, I have understood, ceased even the outward ap-
pearance of kindness and respect towards her, spending his time
and monev in the worst ways. At Gibraltar her little boy was
bom ; ana there, for nearly two years after his birl^, did she coidure
privations and neglect of every kind; till, nearly starved, and her
child's health as well as her own declining— she at last acceded,
to my often-expressed wish, that she should return and live witk
me. Montague was most willing that she should do so. as he was
hy that means relieved from the charge of both her and her child;
and, anxious to escape from him, she set out in that unfortunate
vessel, in which, had it not been for your son's bravery, she must
inevitably have perished,"
After this sad account of the unhap^iness of her guest. Lady
Aishton felt more than ever interested in her fate ; and was very
desirous of finding out whether she had any comfort in looking te
God for pardon and consolation. In conversing with her sooa
after, however, she discovered that the same mistaken views which
liad acted so injuriously on her mother's mind, were working
much mischief la hers. She fancied herself to be one who was by
an irrevocable decree, condemned for ever. She knew that her
oenduct had not been such as was in accordance with the will oS
€Fod : and never having been taught the willingness of her heavenly
Fatiier to pardon and accept all who came to "Sua m Christ's name,
die thought her doom already fixed,— her eternal portion appmnted
nith the lost. Ther^ was something in her gentle and meek re*
signatLon which was most touching to Lady Ashton's feeling
lieart ; she acknowledged the justice of God in all the bitter trials
that Had been sent her, blaming herself alone for all her sufferings ;
and her gratitude at the im^jrovement in her child's health was
unbounded. Yet still the chill sense of God's anffer and of her
own hopeless state, as she imagined it, prevented her enjo
peace or mind; and for a length of time ane seemed incap *
xeoetmg uiy spiritual consolatioiu
2S0 SIR BOLAJO) ASHTOK.
CHAPTER XXXII.
** What a lot Is mine I
I who woold rather perish than requite
Long yetn of kindness with one thr(A> of pain.
Host make that soul a wreck." Tai.foob1>.
As soon as Lady AahUm's nneasineBB on aeoount of her fion had
l)een allayed sufficiently to enable her with comfort to leave the
honse, she was yenr anxious to revafd the men who had so bravely
assisted him on tne day of the wreck. She took measures fw
establishing Terry in a small farm close to the yills^ which liad
long been the oljeot of his ambition, but which hitherto he had
not had sufficient capital to undertake; and as she had liber^
from Sir Roland always to do what she thought ri^ht and kmd,
she desired the steward ta provide for him every thmg which was
necessary, and to have the lease of the feirm made out for hm
dhrecUy. When this was settled, she requested him to take the
lad Warner, who was an orphan, into his service; she .herself, also
bestowinff upon the brave boy a handscnne reward, as well as on
aU the other villagers and sailors who had exerted themselves on
the late occasion. The vessel which had been lost having been
insured, the captain, who was also the owner, was not a leser to
any great amount; and the sailors who had formed his crew, after
being liberally svcpplied with clothes^ &c.. by Lady Ashton's ^ne-
rosity, were provided by her also, with the means of immediately
reaching their homes, or wherever else they had intended
8<«ig.
Henry Ashton very willingly submitted, fgr the first few dxn
after his f atigruing exploit, to me confinement and quiet which had
been prescribed tor him, for he felt almost incapable of 8peidan|r»
or of making the least exertion ; but when the eflfects of his
fktigaes and injuries began to wear off a little, he became most
impatient to rejoin the party down stfdrs, being naturally ex-
eeedingly anxious to see Lady Constanoe again. He half howem,
dreaded their meeting, for he had no idea how fidie would recem
him after the avowal which his excited feelings, at the moment of
their parting on the cliff, had dtawn from him ; for though he was
fnllv persuaded that he was net an object of indifference to her,
yet ner former maimer had given him no encouragement to speas
as h* had done. When constantly in the habit of being with her,
he had not thought deeply on the snWect— giving himMlf up
simply to the enjoyment of her society ; mit now, when a^o^^J^
his Chamber, where his weakness kept him still reclining, he thoni^it
over each oirouaastance whic^ had occurred during their late inter-
oouse together ; and when he recalled her rebuke on the fint dsT
ol his arrival, and the restraint he had always felt since that time
astothe expression of his fe^ings, he began to be terrified atthc
idea that he nnght perhaps have deeply offended her by his te-
hnMDt deolaratiomi of atta<^iment at their late interview But
then again, the conviction of her alfeotlon came to cheer him, and
so. SOLAini ASHTOIT. 231
he thouglit, "Why slioxild I not love her?" He knew no reason
indeed* why he ahiwld not, — and yet he was anxious, and uneasy ;
and the uncertainty began to prey upon his mind.
"I must ffo down stairs again, he said to his mother one
morning; "I am much better, and this confinement gets in-'
tolerable."
'*I shedl be delighted to see you again among us ," she replied,
" if you feel equal to it."
** I feel quite equal to eiuoying my life again among you all, dear
mother," he answered with a smile; "but not to staying up here
aj^ longer."
_Ie accordingly went down that eyening, though it was with
difficulty that ne was able to move his stil»ned Hmbs. When he
entered, leanuur on his mother's arm. Lady Florence josrfuUy went
to meet him ; but Lady Gonstanee remained at the winidow, where
she had been oouYersing with Mr. Stanhope. She was fuller aware
of his entraikoe, but she continued lookixijg: out, as if watching the
pale light fading firom the sea ; tHough sight, hearing, every tiling
was for the moment gone ! But when at len^jth Florence called to
her, saying, that " Henry was c<»tte down again," she was obliged to
show that she knew he was there, and to come forwar^and meet
him. Speak to him she ooold not— iutd they shook hands in silence ;
Florence happily by her gaiety preventing any one beside them-
selves bein^ aware of the restraint which lay so coldly on them.
The twUight- hid the expression of their oouhtenances — and they
were thankful that it cud so. Henry's heart sweUed almost to
bursting ; he saw that it was not the melting of afiection at meeting
again what it loves after perils and dangers past, which was work-
ing in Lady Constance's mind— had it been that, her silence would
have been more eloquent to him tiian thousands of gentlest words !
but that it was coldness, and, as it seemed to him, di^leasure,
which marked her manner ; and fhe instant her passive hand had
quitted his she left him to return again to the window.
Mr. Stanhope begging Lady Ashton to introduce him to Henry,
began directly to oSer his grateful thanks to the preserver of his
niece ; and to express the high admiration which he felt for his
gallant and noble conduct.
HeoTy could not be insensible to the warmth of his commenda-
tions, or to tiie kindness of his expressions : but assured him that
far grest^ exertions than he had made, would have been overpaid,
b^ the happiness he had felt in being the means of rescuing
his fellow-creatures— especially Mrs. Montage and her child—
£rom such a dreadful death. But conversation was irksome, and
painful to him, in the present excitement of his mind, and he soon
became silent ; Ti^ile Lady Ashton and Mr. Stanhope continued to
talk tocher with great interest.
Cons'^noe still remained at the window ; and after a time
Henrjr's desire to go and roeak to her became so strong, that he
could no longer resist it. He with difficulty rose, and was en-
deavouring to make his way quietly alonff by the help of
ch&irs and tabks, when Florence perceiving him ran to offer her
assistance.
282 Sm SOLAKS ASRTOXr.
He was annoyed, and said quickly,
" I am not a baby, Florence ; I can manage very well for
myself."
But seeing the colonr rise in the litHe girl's obeek, and the tears
fill ber eyes, bis heart reproached him ; and smiling down. with.
* good-bumonred crossness' on her sweet face, he added^
"However, as you are here, you tormenting little animal, I
may as well make use of this strong shoulder of yours." And hd
playfuUy leant on her, till her slight form bent beneath bis pon->
<Lerous band.
" There, he said, when Ihey got to the window, " I think 3roa
have had enough of playing the crutch to such a ' gouty old oom«>
modore' as I am ;>" and he put bis aim round ber and kissed her
afiectionatel^. " But you, he continued with a bitterness which
reacbed--iis it was intended— Lady Constance's very soul, " you
have a heart within your breast ; and that makes you land
and strong, to love and help. But now go," he dontinued, " and
brin^ Monsieur Jacko to pay his respects to me ; and mind he is
in his best trim, combed and brushed to a nicety— not a kair out
of its place— or I shall have a terrible word to sajr to his ^ouni^
mistress.!' And having despatched his little helper on ws — as
he hoped, lengthy busmess— he sat down near where Goastanoe
was standing. For a long time both were dlent ; at length Henry,
whose miud was in a complete turmoil of anxiety, and sorrow, and
indignation, and affection, said in a low voice,
" And is this the way we meet, Constance, after a week's absence —
after such a parting ? Is this your first greeting, after allmy pain
and danger?"
Lady Constance Tms moved even to tears ; but endeavimring to
repress them, she said in a calm voice,
** You are better now, are you not?"
" Yes, I am better, I thank God— for my mother's sake— not for
yours. You care not how I am ; and for myself— I could tbnost
say, would God I bad perished in the ocean rather than hav« lived
to see this hour !" 2nd he leant bis head down on the window.
** Constance/' he aald again, *' why are you thus ? My dearest,
rk to me— I cannot bear my existence if this is to go on. Why
bitter unkindness ? Have I offended you by the worls that
were forced from me when I felt that we might be parting for
ever? I thought not of offence; and would rather navd sunk
fathoms deep into'the sea, than have spoken of the feelings tbat
had so long dwelt in me, could I have thought they would
have been so displeasing to you. Think them unexpressel, dear
' Can you not forgive me ?" he added.
"I have nothing to for^ve, Henry," replied Lady Constanoe,
sadly; "only do not again"— and her voice trembled— "repeat
words like those — and then all may be well again in time."
"But, Constance, my dear Constanoe, why may I not sptak
tbose words again ?"
ant BOLAITB ASHTOV* 238
** Because it would be Tsm-—tisele88— worse than useless !" she
answered hurriedly — endeayourinff to pass him.
fie canght her muslin dress to detain her— it rent in his rongh
grasp. Lady Constance hurst into tears.
*'0h! forgive me/' he exclaimed; *' rude ruffian that I am ! I
did not mean it, Constance ; you know I could not mean to hurt
a thing of yours."
*' Oh ! I am not weeping for my dress/' she answered with a
half-smile struggling through her tears, " I care not if it were
torn to atoms; out a bird flying across one sometimes would
overset one's foolish spirits ; and I am not guite well. Do not look
80 ruefully at that work of ruin/* she added (for Henry sat with
the torn dress still in his hand, as if mourning over it ; though in
fact his thoughts were far olherwise occupied); *' there!" — and
she playfully tore it still more:— '* you see the destruction
of that slight thing does not cost me a sigh." Tet one rose to
her Hps.
" But there kre things," replied Henry looking up at her, though
the fednt light scarcely enabled him to read her countenance,
** which you would rend with a light and careless hand, but whose
destruction ifr— 'iny destruction."
"Henry," saia Lady Constance firmly, though she quivered
in every nerve, "there must be no more of this. WiU you bo
again my Mend, and brother, or must you be to me as a stranger ?"
" Let me be your friend again, then, if I may not be anything
more. But oh! Constance, think how long we have known—
how long we have loved each other— though not perhaps as now
I love."
Poor Constance did think of it— and the thought choked her
utterance. At length she said almost inaudibly,
" Henry, you do not know how much it costs me to move one
I have loved so long; but it must— must be done, lou must
forset me— you can never be to me more than you have been from
childhood."
" But why may I not hope that in time I may be more, Con-
stance?" urged Henry vehemently ; "I would wait years— my
life almost. Why must I be silent ?"
Lady Constance dared not tell him why, for she dreaded its being
too much for him to bear. She paused a moment, endeavouring to
ouell her overpowering emotion, then spoke almost haughtily— for
she had wound herself up to end this cruel strife —
" It should be enough lor you, Henry, that the subject does not
please me — ^that I request— nay, desire— it may never be renewed.
KoW;" she continued in a kinder and more cheerful tone — ^for she
was in terror lest helshould be over-excited—" let this subject rest
for ever, and let us talk of other things— that is," she added
anuling, " when I come down again in respectable ai)parel ; for I
must change this poor dress before the lamps come in, to betray
my misfortunes." And disengaging herself, with a kind look, she
left the room.
Henry remained sunk in thought. He was somewhat happier
than at first, for Lady Constance was kinder, and that removed a
284 snt saLUfD ashtok«
load of ice from his heart : bat yet, on farther tiioiight, he almost
Tdshed that she had retained her cold r^>ellant manner.
" It would soon," he told himflelf , ''have made me oease to love
her ; or else I might still haye hoped that there was something
misnnderstood— somethings— which if removed— onr hearts might
have been drawn together again. But this cold command ' not
to speak because she does not like it/ seems as if there were no
cause of displeasure, except the love whioh she forbidsr-'fis if she
really did not care for me. And yet"— and he dwelt fondly on
the many things which had brought '' ooBfirmation strong" to his
mind that he was more to her than all otiiers in exist^ooe. He
mused, and mused, till his heart grew dark within him.
"Can she be ambitious^" hetfi»ufi^; *' and <»n she be willing
to sacrifice her love for me, beoause I am not rich and great ? I
cannot think it— I cannot believe it-^-ehe was ever so noble ! and
B4>land would surely help me if I wanted it."
The thought of his brother brought with it a sudden dart of
anffuish. "Did she love Boknd? He had been long with her,
ana she admired his character so much, and so continually wrote
to him ! But no," he thou^ £«ain, '* I know— I feel her love is
mine, and she used to wnte orben to me too. "So — her heart is
with me, and there must be some dreadfol — some fatal reason
for her conduct, unknown to me. Any how it makes me mise-
rable— nnserable !"
Florence and her monkey— and lamps and tea, came in— and
lastly. Lady Constance. She had not before been able to see
Henr/s ooontenanee ; and she was now greatly shocked at the
change in his appearance. Not less so was he, at that which had
taken place in her, and which was wholly unaecountable to him.
"For,' he thought, "she has had no illness— no fatigae— no
stunning blow !" Aks! shehadhadthesicknessof the heart— the
weariness of the labouring and perplexed spirit— the stunning
force of agonising; sorrow !— worse— a thousand times wone than
all he had suffered !
She seated herself at a distance, oat of his sight ; and wearv,
depressed, and miserable, he soon pleaded a fatigue he truly feit,
and retired to his own room.
CHAPTEB XXXTTT.
** But absence — absence !•— anjrthing bat this I
I cannot bear
This present agony t tbis nearness of despair."— if if.
Whbn Mrs. Montague's little boy was quite out of daaager, she
felt verjr anxious to leave Ilanaven. fearful of being burSenaoMe
to her kind hostess, though Lady Ashton wished her much to stay;
but as the country air was considered best for the child at tbat
time, it was determined, that instead of accompanying her ande
to town, she should take ti cottage which was pleasantly sitoated
near the village of Gamcombe, and stay thne for some montha, or
till the child's health sheold be quite jre-eataUished.
SOL XOLAKD lAHTOV. 235
Lady CoiiBtaiice mm most aiudous to be able to tell Henry of the
reason of her late eondoot towards him, but it was some time before
Le was suffioiently reoovered to make it safe for him to haye any
exeat excitement; therefore, all she ooukL do, was kindly, bnt
Smdy to repress anything like a renewal of his former expressions,
and to keep as muoh as possible out of his society. The party of
Mends who had been invited to IlanaTen had been requested by
Lady Ashton to d^er tbeir visit in consequence of Henry's illness,
and of the i^eoaiions state of Mrs. Montague's little boy ; but when
both the invalids wese ccmvalesoent, another day was named for
them to come, and they aooordin^ly socm arrived.
This was nerhaps the most tryinff time (»f all for Constance, as
&r as reeaiaed the steadifftstness <n her resolutions ; for it being
impossible whilst otiier oompanv was in the house, to keep away
£rom Henry, she found it most oiffieult to resist showing him more
kindness and cordiality than she wished. Evaythinff, indeed,
conspired to tr^ her unhappsr heart to the very utmost; mr his late
brave action, mrmine a ocmtinual subject of conversation, kept her
feelings for ever onTue stretdi* ^e could not enter a cottage but
the £rst person inquired after was " Mr. H^iry;" — and loud praises,
and long discourses always foflowed the mention of his name, which
she had to listen to and bear as best she might; so that even in the
vary path of her duties, trial and temptation rose up before her.
The first dav that he>>traB thought equal to it, Henry drove down
with Lady Ashton to the village, to visit Terry and some of the
other peoi^e. and thank than for the assistance ther had rendered
him on the day of the wreck* Constance had g(me there previously
not knowine ca their intention, and was in Terry's Cottage when
they entered it. The remembranee of Henry's gallant behaviour,
together with his changed looks and unexpected appearance, so
overcame poor Terry and his wife, that they ourst into tears ; and
some of the other villaffers also, hearing that he was come, crowded
in, making it altogetiaor a touohing scene. Lady Ashtonf'-s mo
thier's-heart was quite overeome, and Henry himself was much
moved. To poor Constance it was teniae ! especiallv as Henr/s
eyes continually sought her, as the peo|^ poured fortn in the best
manner they oonid their delight at seeing him again. But her
eyes were dry, and thoudk every nerve within her trembled, she
endeavoured to subdue all outward appearance of emotion. She
made her escape as soon as possible; am wben alcme again on the
wild shore* she sat down benind a look, concealed from every eye
but His who ** knows our bitterness !"--aad her foil heart bursting
forth, — l(Hi^» long did she weep.
After atmie shie heard the carriage pass on its wayhome; and
seeure then £toBt the chance of being seen, she rose and pursued
her sad and solitary way back over tne clil^. She hastened abn^,
fioff ev»y step was magki with remembrance ; and though m
ffeneral she had much e(Hnmand over her thoughts, and never suf*
feted them to rest on the forbidden ground, yet lust then, her
jfeelinffs were so miwh excited, and her spirits so shaken, that it
seemed abnost as if nature mnst give up tne xmequal contest.
In the evening, Henry was gkKsny and silent. To Lady Con-
^36 SIB BOLAITD ABHTOIT.
stanoe liiB maimer was abrupt and cold; lie would not speak to her,
or remain near her; and onoe when his mother asked him to sing^
a partictilar duet with her, he answered aloud that ** he woidd sine
it— but with riorence;" casting on Lady Constance as he passed
ker a withering glance of disdain and indignation. She endea-
Toured to be calm, and occupied herself in promoting the pleasure
of her guests; but her heart bled within her, for she Imew what
must he the force of the feelings which could make Henry act to*
wards her in such a way; ana though at moments, perHaps, sha
felt her pride roused by his manner, yet she grieved more tor him.
than for herself; and she could not long feel angry with one whom
she was— how unwillingly ! making so unhappy. Though he might
be now quite able to bear the lata! intelligence she had to commu-
nicate, yet amidst the bustle of a large party she could not find aa
opportunity of being with him alone a sufficient time to inform
him of it; and seeing the impetuosity of his character— which was
80 much greater than she had imagined — she dared not siye him
the letter she had written, lest some violent and uncontrolled out-
break of feeling should reveal to others what she was so anxious t»
keep concealed from every eye. She longed to be separated from
him—to be anywhere rather than with him; for his dispirited
countenance, and eyes for ever fixed on her in sorrow or reproa4Bh
—or in affection, still more trying— kept up a never-sleeping strife
within her. Lady Ashton, too, added frequently to the difficulty
and misery of her situation, by begging her to watch over him, ana
prevent ma over-exerting himself, when the younger portion of the
part^ were out together~«utreating him also to keep quietiy by her*
At times he would obey this injunction, and giving her nis arm*
would endeavour to win from her kind and encouraging words;
then— failing to do so— in anger and despair, he would almost
violentiy cast her off, and go and join, with mad and reckless mirth,
in the conversation and amusements of the others.
How often in the bitterness of her heart would she contrast the
oonduct of this wayward child of impulse with Sir Eoland's feeling
.and devoted tend»ness ; and wonder why she could not tear her affise-
tions from Henry, and bestow them on one who loved her so perfeotLy,
and so nobly ; and who would never, she felt sure—even could Ee
at that moment have looked into the depths of her fSedthless hearts
have treated her otherwise thaa with generous kindness. Sbe
trusted, indeed, that she might in time do him full justice: that
she might truly give her heart where her vows were paid, aud be
enabled to look back to this harrowing period merely as to a levered,
distracting dream. She omitted nothing in her power to efieoi
this \ she banished Henry as much as possible from her mind, and
continued unremittingly to correspond with Sir Boland. She con-
stantly carried his picture about her, that she might remind herself
of his claims uuon her; and often did his full dark eye seem to re-
proach her for ner want of love, and to renund her of the noMe,
devoted spirit which animated the original. But above all, she
looked to God for strength ; and if He cud not as yet give her foil
power over her wa^ard feelings. He at least enabled her to escape
the guilt of ever willingly yieloiog to them.
SIB SOLAHTB ASHT017. 237
Mrs. Montagne was at length established in fier new home ; the
other friends who had been staying at Llanaven had all by degrees
departed, and the little party there were again alone. Constance
had wished it so to be; yet now, how did she shrink from what
lay before her ! Just at that time she received a letter most unex-
pectedly from her cousin, Mrs. Mordaunt, regretting that her
absence from town that year had prevented tneir meeting; and
saying, that her sons having engaged a moor in the Highlands, she
purnosed going there with them, and taking a littie tour in Scot-
oma. She invited Lady Constance most kindly and cordially to
accompany her in her expedition; assuring her of the extreme
pleasure it would ^ye her, and begging her to join her in London
as soon as she possibly coidd.
At any other time, Lady Constance would instantiy, for many
reasons, nave declined this proposal; but at that moment all she
seemed to desire in existence, was absence from Henry. Li the
letter she had written to him, she had entreated him to leave
Llanaven, knowing of no other means by which they could be
separated; but now she felt that her departure would be by far the
most desirable step; as besides depriving Lady Ashton of her son's
society, his sudden absence would have looked most unaccountable
and suspicious. She remembered also that her father, though he
did not wish her to reside with Mrs. Mordaunt, yet had expressed
his i)articular desire that she should in every possible way show
gratitude for her cousin's kindness in offering to take charge of
Her and her sister; and this, joined to the other consideration, at
last made her determine to request leave to accompany her to the
H^fhlands.
laady Ashton did not like the proposal at all; and was much as-
tonished at Lady Constance's wi^ to leave friends whom she loyed
so much, to go witii tiiose of whom she had hitherto known so Httie ;
and she said, moreover, that ^e thought Sir Roland would not be
pleased at her doing so. Lady Constance, however, repHed, that she
was sure Roland would approve of her motives ; and urged that the
change would do her good. Lady Ashton looked at her pale coun-
tenance, and saw indeed that she seemed ill ; and not liking to
oppose her farther, she yielded a reluctant consent to her wish.
Constance thanked her with an aching heart; and anxious that
she should not have time to retract, instantiy wrote and sent off a
letter, gratefully accepting Mrs. Mordaunt's mvitation.
She lelt now that deliverance was at hand> yet how did her
spirit sink at the thought of separation ! She determined no longer
to delay the terrible task she had to do, but resolutely and at
once to perform it; and more aware now than she had been before
of the irritability of Henry's temper, she tiiought it would be best
to speak to him, and endeavour to sootiie the violence of his iirst
feelings, rather than to leave Mm to sustain alone the unmitigated
severity of the blow. She therefore asked him to accompany her
on a walk by the sea-shore ; and he, though much surprised, in-
stantiy compHed with her request. He gave her his arm, and once
xnoxe, in silence, they descended together the comiche path down
the oli^. Ihey reached the shore—yet still they were silent, for
238 out Boujn) Asarm.
Heiuy was in a sUte of tortaringr expeetation, and Lady Constance
knew not how to speak. Suoh an anguish seised her heart at the
thoneht of what she had to say, as ahnost paralysed her. At
length with a trembling voice,
" Henry," she said; ** you have been angry with me lately."
" Have I not had reason, Constance ?" he exclaimed, vehemently;
"have you not been omel--nnjiist I"
" If you will only listen calmly I will try and explain "
'* Hear me first, I implore you," interrupted Henry. " And oh !
forgive me for the impi^enoe ai^L unmanly temper I am conscious
of having shown. But you are so changed, so cold, so heartless
towards me, when formerly you were so affectionate, so . I
have felt almost mad ! for you would not speak — ^you would not
tell me why I should not love you. Constance, who can love you
better than I do r— Oh ! let me speak," he added, for she had en-
deavoured to interrupt hxn. " I know I am not rich; but I feel
certain that Boland would do everything to make me happy ; and
then— will you not be mine }"
Lady Constance turned from him, incapable for the moment of
speaking, for her very heart sickened.
" Say at least," continued Henry, ** that I need not despair —
that you are not axtgr^ with me !"
"I am not angry with you, Henry," she repHed, as her tears
flowed; "but I cannot "
They heard voices at a little distance; and looking baek saw
Lady Ashton and Florence walking towards them.
"Come with me this way," said Henry, impatiently. "Con-
stance, I must have your answer."
" You have had it, Henry," she replied, sa^v. " I have told
you that you must not love me, far I never can oe yours. But, I
beseech of you restrain yoursdf; for the sake of all you love, do
not let your mother see your feelings. — Oh ! I entreat of you, be
calm when they come up !" And she looked at him imploringly;
for she dreaded lest his vehemence should be observed.
" I cannot wait for them," replied Henry, in gloomy agitation.
" Will you not come with me ?"
" I dare not ; your mother will think it so strange if we go
when she is coming to join us. Henry, dear Henry ! will you not
stay, and be tranquil ? Walk for a moment towards the sea, and
then retom to us, and I will go and meet them. Pray— pray do !"
And she dasped her hands in agony.
Henry looked at her, and his oountenance softened.
"I will do anything you wish," he sighed. And he walked
slowly away; whue Lady Constance went to meet her sister and
Lady Ashton.
"I am glad to find you," said the latter. " It is such a refief
to be without strangers again, and able to enjoy each other's
society."
" I am very glad the house is quiet again," said Lady Gon-
stance ; " visitors, with whom one has not much in common, soon
weary one."
"We are all out early to day," observed Lady Ashton; "we
Sm BOIJJn) ASBTOK. 289
will sit heze a little wkile, and get Henry to read to us. I dan
eay he has some book with htm ; he is like Roland in that."
*' I had strolled down here for a little while," aaid Lady Con-
stance, with some embarrassment, for it was most distressing to
her to remain with Henry ; " but I thiok I must now oocniyy
myself at home."
" Oh ! not for this one monmu: ; it is so oharming to feel oneself
so free again. Stay and enjoy this delightful air witii ns."
Lady Constance oomplied, fearful of attracting attention if she
persisted in a refusal.
"WewiU sit down here," said Lady Ashton; "and Florenoe,
go and ask Henry to come and read to us, if he has a book."
Lady Florence went, and taking hold of Henry's reluctant arm,
drew him back to where the others were sitting. There was a
languor and dejection in his manner which terrified Letdy Oon*
stance, who dreaded lest it should be obsetved. She was seated a
little behind Lady Ashton, and she looked at him with a beseech-
ing countenance. He was touched by her distress, az^ exerted
himself to appear oheerful.
''Will you read to us, Henry ^" asked his mother ; " haye you
aboek?"
** I have nothing but mv pocket Testament."
*' Well, read us something out of that. I am sure when one
looks on this ocean, which had so nearly taken you from us the
other day, we cannot enough tkbk of God, or ULank Him suffi-
ciently for His mercy. But who that sees it to day— its little
sunny wayes chasing each other as in sport, would think that it
could eyer be roused to the force and fury that we witnessed
then!"
"Like the human mind," said Henry, as his brow lowered;
" calm till roused by the winds of passion, and then the storm is
terrible !"
He looked towards Constanoe, bat she had placed herself so that
he could not see her countenance.
" How soothinflT the plashing of the water sounds," said Lady
Ashton, " as it rolls so gendy oyer on the beach !"
''And yet," said Henry, "its bright smiling look, and soft
wliisperinss, seem but like the blandishments of a murd^er, when
we remember how many it 'has roughly cradled to their last long
sleep.'"
" l)oes it not rather seem like penitence ?" said Lady Ashton,
*' Mourning with low regretful murmur, fi>r the deeds
Its fury and its wrath so ruthlessly have done r*
•' Did you eyer see any one lost, H^nry ?" asked Florence ; " it
must be so dreadful."
"It is dreadful," he replied; "though I never saw but one*
Tliey say a field of battle is less trying to the feelings, than one
solitary death ; and I suppose it is the same with the wide fields
of the ocean ; for I am sure the destruction of a whole fleet could
scarcely haye shocked me as that one thing did. It was a little
240 8ZB BOLAJfO) AfiHTOlT.
lad, a nice little fellow, who fell orerboard wKen reeiinff one of tlie
topsails in a tremendons gale of wind. It was impossible to stop
the ship, for we were running at eleven knots an honr ; and I
believe 1 was going madly after him, without knowing what I did,
had I not been held back by a brother officer, who knew I must
inevitably have been lost too. But I saw his face a little
wa3r off as he rose on a great Vave— and oh ! the expression
of it !^ The remembrance is terrible even now. We had soon
le£t him £Eur behind ; but for a length of time we knew where*
abouts he was, by the flock of vile sea-birds which hovered about
him."
'* Horrible !" exclaimed Lady Ashton.
"Yes; this life is full of miserv*"
"Yet you, dear Henry, can Know 'of misery but the name;'
excepting as your kind heart makes you feel for others,? said his
mother.
Henry was silent. Then, " Shall I read i" he said. And he
drew forth his book.
His mind was full of a strange mixture of tenderness and wav-
ward anger towards Constance ; and he threw himself back on the
shingle so as to be able to see her, as he said,
" After all, life saved is sometimes only sunering prolonged !"
Lady Constance, startled by his sudden action, looked towards
him for a moment; but when she caught his eye, and saw the
terrible expression of his countenance-— almost alarmed, she shook
her head, and turned awav—her own emotion being almost uncon-
trollable. She would ^aoly have risen and left them all, but she
dared not stir ; and Henry, now feeling for her distress, opened
his book, and read out of it some of the sublime chaxyters of the
Bevelations. The subject, as he proceeded, took full possession of
his mind, and raised it to the contemplation of the magniflcent,
splendid, and eternal things of heaven. Earth, and its sorrows,
or a moment faded from before his eyes, and the love of God
seemed aU in aU to him; and when next he looked at Lady
Constance, it was with a calm elevation of expression, far different
from that which before had marred the character of his beantiiiil
oountenance. They soon after rose, and giving his aim to Lady
Ashton, he assisted her up the cliff*; and when they reached the
house he retired immediately into his own room.
SEE BOLAin) ASHTON, Sit
CHAPTER XXXIV.
^ niera are hidden bnt mairelloas inspirations through which the tempted
Imt pore spirit reoeires strength to triumph over eyen that which ia dearest
tott."— F.r
** Will he not pity ?— He whose searching eye
Beads all the secrets of thine agony ?—
f Oh I pray to be foigiren
Ihy fond idolatry— thy blind excess."—- Mrs. Hebkahs.
** Help me to raise these yearnings fiom the dust.
And fix on Thee, th* Undying One, my heart"— Mas. Hbmahs.
Henby Ashton felt thorooglily miserable ; not only because bis
hopes .seemed all dasbed to tne around, but because be was
eonscious that bis conduct towards Lady Constance was not wbat
it sbould be. He was sbocked wben be reflected on bis violence,
contrasted witb ber gentleness, and forbearing patience ; and be
felt bimself, indeed, utterly unwortby of ber Iotc. His soul was
humbled before God; and earnestly did be implore strength to
subdue bis bastv temper, and to bear bis great tnal.
Instead of tbe narsb, indignant feeling be bad so often of late given
waj to, be now felt full of devoted tenderness towards Lady Con-
stance; and willingly would be liave endured any sorrow ratber
than have seen ber suffer. He wrote on a slip of paper, '* Can you
forgive me? and will you come out witb me again tms evening }'*
and then, it being near tbe time of their early dinner, be went down
into tbe orawing-room. Lady Constance was arranging some music ;
and going up to ber be silently put tbe little paper mto ber band.
8he read it, and wrote underneath bis words, "I do truly forgive,
and will eo out with you." He was looking over her, and felt
overjoyed as she traced these words ; but wben he saw ber add,
*' but hope nothing," — ^his impatient indignation again returned ;
and he was about to leave her in his former abrupt manner, wben
cheeking bimself, he quietly tooh tbe pencil from her hand and
■wrote, "Then may God have mercy on me."
Dinner was announced, and they proceeded to the dining-room,
where, in pursuance of bis kind desire to spare Lady Constance all
uneasiness, he exerted bimself so much to be gay and pleasant,
that bis spirits really were relievecL and at moments he lelt almost
oheerfol. His mother remarldng the difference, said .
" You are more like yourself to-day, Henry, than you have been
sinoe your illness. I like to see that your spirits axe better wben
we ore alone than whm there is company ; I always pity those who
aeed excitement."
"I require none," he answered; "I have too much already
within myself, of one kind or another."
After dinner, while they wereyet sitting round the table, a ser-
Tant came in with a letter for Henry, saying that a man had just
brought it over express. He opened it wben the servant had left
the room, and having read it witn a quivering look and heightened
&
242 SIR SOLANS ASHTOX.
colour, he threw it over to his mother, and coyered his face with
his hands as she read it.
" To-morrow, oh ! that is cruel !" she exdaimed.
" To-morrow !" cried il^orence ; " yrh&t of to-morrow ? You are
not going to-morrow, Henry? 'Oh! you cazmot go." And die
threw herself on her knees by his side, and leaned her head against
him, sobbing violently.
He glanced for a moment at Lady Constance, who was sitting
pale and tearless ; tiien bending over the Httle girl, he stroked her
hair and caressed her, to hide the tears he was ashamed to show.
At last, jSnding he could not repress his emotion, he started up,
and gently remoTing her, said,
'* Get you gone, you little witch ; why do you come and wile
these great tears from a sailor's eyes }** And going to his mother,
he sat aown bj her and leant his head on her shoulder. She em-
braced him with a fall heart.
"This is, indeed, short notiee,'.' she said. " What can be the
cause of this sudden summons ?"
" I do not know," he implied ; " you see it only says that ordras
have been received for sailing without delay. I must be off to-
night, I fear, but will speak to the man who mought the letter."
^* Shall I send for him here ?"
" No," he repHed, *' I wiU sto to him, when I am fit to be seen.
But it won't do," he added, forcing a smile, "to show these
woman's eyes to all the world. Let us go into the drawing-room,
ftnd after a turn on the lawn I shall be more of a man again; but
this is a cruel wrench."
As he entered the room with his mother he turned to look ior
Lady Constance ; but she had taken tibe opportunity of escaping to
her own room. When there she sat down quite overpowered ; for
her heart sunk within her.
" Yet why," she thought, " should I grieve ? it is what I have
been desiring. Absence ! how hx better than being together— yet
80 divided !'
I%e had, indeed, determined to go away, herself; but then ahe
would have left Henry at home in quiet and safety. But for him
to go-;-to enter again on his perilous duties, was terrible to her !
Yet still, after the first shock, she fdt it was best for him ; his
mind would be occupied, and when far away from all the seenee
which could recall his ill-fated affection, he would sooner be likely
to overcome it. She again thought of writing to him^ and of giving^
him the letter at the &8t moment, as then all fear oi his betraying^
his emotion to his mother would be over ; but she dreaded for mm
the effect of such a stroke coming on the pain of parting* ; and de-^
termined again, cost her what it mi^ht, tiiat she would speak to hka
and try to soothe his lacerated feelmgs. She prayed eaxneatiy that
strength and comfort might be imparted to them botli ; and be*
ought that nothing might escape her whidi might serve te b^ny
he state of her own heart
She was yet on her knees when Lady Aahtom came to the door
V ~, ^F ^ ^^^ ^^ ^^ ^>^ <^ lart "^"^^ with them befo»
JleniT's departore. She started up onhearing henelf oalled; and
ing,bi
The
SIB BOLAin) ASHTOlf; 243
though she would infinitely have preferred staying at home till
she could take the promised lonely walk with Henry, yet she could
not refuse the invitation ; and in the confusion of tne moment was
indeed glad to busy herself by putting on her bonnet, and makings
other little preparations, so as to hide her agitation.
Henry had spoken to the man who brought oyer his letter, and
found that it would only be necessary for him to join his ship early
on the morrow; therefore, he declared he would not go that evenr
E, but would start very early the ensaing^omin^.
"hey then all set off for the yillage, that Henry might take leave
of Mrs. Montague, and of some of his poor neighbours there ; and
they afterwards walked home by the shore. When they came to
the little cove to the west in Idanaven Park, Lady Asnton pro*
posed that they should sit and rest there a little, before she went in
to make her linal preparationB for Henry's departure. The sun
had just set behina the woods, and the full moon rose from the
ocean.
**£epeat me something," said Lady Ashton to Henry, who sat
between her and Lady Constance; "sometiiing that I may re-
member when you are gone."
'* I will repeat, then, that beautiful entreaty to be 'thought of,^
which you like so much, and which is, indeed, suited but too well
to this sad and lovely hour/' And he spoke in a low, and often
broken voice, those exquisite lines :
** Go where the water glideth gently eTer—
Glideth through meadows that yet greenest be ;
Go listen to our own beloved river.
And think of me !
Wander through forests where the small flower Uyeih
Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree ;
Listen the dim brook pining as it playeth.
And think of me !
Go when the sky is silver pale at even.
And the wind moaneth on. the lonely tree ;
Go forth beneath the solitary heaven*
And think of me I
And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming
And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea,
Go, silent as a star beneath her beamings
And think of me!
Tes ! think of me in Joy's most blessed hour.
And when afSiction draweth tears firom thee ;
In the world's orowd-r-and in thy lonely bower.
Oh] think of me r
He took his mother's hand as he finished: and Lady Ashton
nsed his to her lips with a mother's painful love. He looked at
y Constance ; her head was turned away, but the moonbeams
flhone on the tears which fell abundantly on her handfl and dress,
and he sadly felt, ** At least she loves me.
B2
244 sea BOLANB ASEIOIT.
" I could linger bere with yon till midniglit, Henry/' said bis
mother; "but Imnst go, — ^I have so much to do."
" You need not all go," he answered ; " and I shall be of no use.
Constance^ stay with me, and let us enjoy this scene a little
longer."
Sie remained by him. — He waited till the others were out of
hearing, then tummg to her he said,
" Now at tbis last moment, Constanoe, will you not bid me hope ^
Bo not be cold and heartless, when we must part to-night— never
more, perhaps, to meet."
He waited for her to speak ; but she was silent ; while in her
bent brow and agitated oountenanqe he saw evidences of the
deepest emotion, and most agonized distress.
" You terrify me I" he exclaimed. " I entreat you for my sake —
for our early love's sake, tell me why yon look so wretched?"
" What can I say?" she replied in broken accents: " how can
I tell you, that you must not think of me— must not love me, but
— as— engaged to Boland." And her head simk upon her clasped
Lands.
Henry started to his feet, as if a scorpion had stung him— aacL
xecoiled from her in horror.
** Engaged to Boland !" he shrieked. Then in a low voice, and
dowly , as if endeavouring to imderstand the meaning of the words,
he repeated, '* engaged to Boland?"
"Oh, yes!" murmured Lady Constanoe; "I am— have long
been— engaged to him."
He rushed from her. He walked up and down the beach in a
state of distraction; his wild actions and frantic exclamations
speaking the intensity of the anguish which tore Ids heart— his
senses were bewildered imder this dreadful shock. Though Ladj
Constance had forbidden him to hope, still he had hoped; but Una
— ^this was worse than death! "Engaged to Boland!" Had it
been to any other, it would have been less torturing, but Mb own
brother!
And then the thought of that brother rushed over him,— Hiat
generous, devoted brother, to whom he had been looking with lull
confidence to smooth his path to hanpiness ! His whole soul melted
with agonizing remorse as he felt that he was the destroyer of that
brother's happiness, for he knew that he was the one loved; and
delightful as that conviction was, it brought with it pangs un-
spetuLable. Then fury flashed over his mind as he thought of this
tyrant claim standing between him and Constance ; and raising Ids^
arms a moment as if in supplication to heaven, he dashed himself
on the ground.
By degrees he became more calm; and rising, he sat for some
time almost in a state of torpor. Lady Constance, from whom he
still kept aloof, was even more severely tried than he was. She
had not, indeed, the flrst force of the stunning blow to sustain;
but she had to witness the expression of Henry's anguish, and to
resist the strong temptation of saying what would have turned that
anguish into ioy. Sir Koland's often-repeated entreaty that she
would never let his claim interfere witn her happiness, rushed
SIB BOLAWD ASHTON. 245
aoross her mind, and at tunes she could scarcely control the impulse
which promptea her to fly to Henry, and speak words of peace and
happiness; but she could not so abuse the generosity ^ich had
made her free ; and in agony of spirit she implored of God to direct
her path aright, and to heal these tearing wounds. She f^cied
her loye for Henry had been wholly unperceiyed by him, a.M she
resolyedto conquer it; yet the sight of his misery distracted her,
and unable to bear it any longer, she coyered her face with her
hands and wept conyulsiyely.
Henry arose at length, and walking slowly towards her, stood
rigid by her side. He knew that she loyed hmi— he saw her grief
— ^yet for her, at that moment, he felt no pity ; he looked upon her
as the betrayer of both himself and his brother, and his soul was
fliled with bitterness.
" Why," he said, addressing her in a voice of stem coldness,
•* was not this told me before ? Why was my happiness to be thus
cruelly, thus wantonly destroyed ?"
Lady Constance felt his injustiQe, and was terrified at his words
and manner. With a trembling yoice she told him it had been Sir
Eoland's wish that their engagement should not be known.
** And was it his wish, too, that his brother's love should be per-
mitted-— and then crushed?"
" Oh ! Henry," said Lady Constance, distressed beyond endur-
ance, " do not speak so. I take God, who knows my heart, to
witness, that I never knew you loved me — ^never dreamed of your
feelings towards me, till that day on the diff ; and surely I have
not since encouraged them."
He looked in her troubled, yet ingenuous countenance, and he felt
her truth, and his own harshness.
"No," he replied, in a faltering voice; "no, you have been
kindly, kindly cruel. But you, Constance !— has it been no effort to
you r
" I am.bound, Henry," she replied, with dignity, " by every ti .
to Roland."
Henry's heart sunk within him ; he sighed bitterly. " Tell me,'
lie said, " when this miserable engagement was formed !"
Lady Constance gave him the outline of the case; ondhe then
clearly saw that her heart had never had a part in it. This con-
Tiction relieved him greatly as removing the painM impression
which had at first rested on his mind-— that hers were fickle and
light affections, easily won and as soon lost; but as his value for
her love increased, so did the intense wish to claim it as his own»
increase also. He thought if he could but once hear her confess
that it was his— that he could go and live on that remembrance fbr
ever; but he saw that she strove to hide her feelings, — ^thatshe
seemed to think they were unperceiyed by him ; and respectuur
her the more for the hieh principle which guided her, he restrained
his earnest desire ; ana determmed, with an effort worthy of tma
love, not to let her see that he had read her heart.
" You are sure," said he, at length, " that Roland loves you?"
*• Yes," she replied; her heart torn with the remembrance of
hifl devotion.
246 HIE EOLAin) ASHTOIT.
** But can lie love yon as I do ? Im^Jssible !"
** He does;;-oli ! yes— lie does," cried Lady Constance, with
terrible emotion.
** Dreadful ! — dreadful ! — every way miserable !" exclaimed
Henay. And as he reflected that ne had stolen from Sir Roland
the treasure of Constance'*s love, he ejaculated with heartfelt
anguish, and deepest affection, " My brother— my brother !" while
burst after burst of grief broke from his labouring breast.
When he grew calmer, Lady Constance rose, and with foreed
calmness said, " And now, Henry, we must part— and you "
" Not yet, oh ! not yet," he cried. " Think, Constance— it is a
parting for ever ! Never can I see you again, never— never !"
" Try, dear Henry," she said, terribly shaken, " try to look to
God for comfort, and then in time '*
" Oh, never !" he said, despairingly, " never ! — ^No ! I am an exQe
from my home, an outcast — a heart-broken, miserable wretch !
You— ^loVt to me ! — ^Roland ! Oh ! my Qt)d ! my God, have mercy !
— he to whom I was going with hopeful heart— ^now— worse than a
stranger ! And to see him no more ! the dearest, the noblest, the
best ! — Oh !" he exclaimed, again throwing himself on the stones,
" I cannot live through this— this agony is insupportable ! Prav
for me, pray for me, Constance, that my heart may break, and life
cease at once."
The strt^gle in Lady Constance's mind was dreadful as she
looked on Henry as he lay before her in his extreme agony. She
would have given worlds to have been able to say that which would
have raised nim to life and h9pe, and again she thought of Sir
Roland's entreaty that she would consider herself as perfectly free
—that she would for^t her engagement to him, should it ever
interfere with her wishes. For a moment her heart throbb^
'wildly in indecision; and tiie fatal words had almost passed her
lips, which would have made her guilty and miserable for ever.
But Ihere was u merdfal restraining power over her; and though
she could frame no prayer, yet her heart was drawn to C^ and
she continued mentally to exclaim, " My Father ! my Father ! my
Father !"— till lie mighty force of the temptation was subdneo,
and stiength and clear thought were again restored. Then were
rapidly brought to her mind her solemn and often-renewed vow&—
the love so de^ep, so disinterested, so long cherished, of him whose
nobleness had set her free— fmd with renewed power she fought
and conquered.
" Henry," she said, in gentle yet firm accents, " you must not
give way to these feeling^ and I — ^must not again witness them.
In time, do not doubt it, Gfod will give you comfort if yon seek it
from Him ; but now I must leave yon— I cannot tstaj*'
Henry continued lying on the ground as if wholly insensible to
her words, till the ringing sound of the pebbles beneath her retreats
ing steps roused him. He sprung up, exclaiming,—
^' Constance, yon cannot leave me thus. Oh ! do not go from.
me when I am so wretched. I would not — I will not offend joa ;
l^ut still at least say Farewell !— tell me you forgive me — ^all my
ea B0LA2n> ashtok. 247
^iraywwdneiss— my intemperaaoe— ^ my folly and w">4T)fiffff Say
Farewell."
" Farewell, Henry, and may our God bless you !"
She turned, and took the homeward path alone. He longed to
follow her, to support her steps once more along ike way they had
so often trod together ; but a feeling of deep respect checked hiny,
and he remained immovable, gazing on her retreating form, till it
was wholly lost to sight.
'* Now I am indeed alone," he thouffht. '* Home ! blessed home !
is lost to me for ever. All gone !— My mother ! from you too I
must part !— Oh, that I could but feel resigned ! that I could but
lift my heart to Gh)d. But such a blight ! so sudden, so terrible —
and on everything. My very life seems gone. But di ! my God,"
he exdaimea, raising his eyes to heaven, '* Thou wilt have mercy,
though I cannot aak Thee as I should."
He lingered yet for some time on the beach, for he could not
endure the thought of returning home. How could he again see
Lady Constance i How meet—now part with her ?
At length the great dock struck ten : and fearful that his mother
might remark ms prolonged absence, he slowly took the road
towards the house. The mo<m, now high up in the skies, was
bathing everything in her silver light, as he turned to gaze on the
well-known scene; and mentally he took leave of every endeared
object.
"Never," he ezdaamed, " will these wear^ feet tread this dear
path again ; never more shall I dare, even in heart, to visit Ihis
h>ved^Uboe ! The sea must henceforth be my only home— for I am
severed from every tie. Oh ! that I dared lay my head upon my
mother's breast, and tell her of my grief !— But I must not narrow
her dear heart with my wretchedness. Oh ! GK)d, lead me to rest
an Thee !"
WixBD. he entered the house, he found Lady Ashton in the hall ;
^nA hurriedly saying that he had staid out later than he intended,
and had stiU some little things to arrange, he retired to his room.
When there, he locked the door ; and opening his desk, he proceeded
to take from it all the many little things which he had treasured im
for Lady Gcmstanoe's sake. There was a little sketch of her, which
he had taken but a few weeks before— the purse which she had
worked for him— a seal— a pencil-case ;— and other little tokens of
remembrance which she had given him from time to time. All
must be parted with— he dared not take with him one thing that
had come from her. But oh ! what an agony it was to put each
cherished trifle aside, and feel it must be his no longer ! Each
fresh thing, in succession, seemed to tear away a portion of his
existence ; and when at last he came to the most valued of all— ^the
golden lock of haiiv-his powers of endurance seemed completely to
five way, and his head sunk upon the table amidst outburstings of
eart-broken anguiidi. B.ecovering a httlc; he looked up, and felt
that it must be done— that this too must be put away from him ;
and with a feeling of despair he opened the case, where the bright?
lock had so long hun, m^Tigl*^ with the scarcdy less beautiful hair
of his mother and of Imj Florence, and contrasting well with a
248 6IB B0LA3n> AflHTOlT.
jet-l>lack enrl from Sir Boland*8 forehead, wMcli lay immediatelj
-within it. He took it np to separate it from the rest, and as ite
slender lensih unfolded before him, how well did he remember the
day— juirt before he went last to sea— when Lady Constance had
let him choose it from among her girlish curls, ana his mother had
cut it off and arranged it with the others — cherished remembrances
all, of those so dear to him ! whose thought had then, brought witJi
it nought but neace and joy. He coiled it again in his hand, and
felt as if it could not be given up ! ^
Glancing, however, at the vacant space it had left in the case, he
felt a gloomy satisfaction at having separated it from Sir Roland's :
and in a bitter mood he cast away his brother's also, as bringing
with it now none but hatefol thoughts ; but a sense of proud, dis-
dainfol indignation succeeding, he again took it up, and replacing it
within the folds of Lady Constance's pale-gold tr^ he determined
to send them both, so united, to her. Hatred and wrath, however,
were such strange ^ests within his heart that they could not long
maintain a place there ; and gradually his breast began to heave
with mingled emotions of tenderness and brotherly love; and
pressing both the beloved locks he held in his hand together to his
lips, he rested his head again upon the table as gentler tears flowed
forth. They remained undriea upon his cheek, for nature was ex-
hausted — and he slept I
After some hours of imeasy rest, he was awakened by the ser-
vant coming to tell him that the carria^ would soon be round.
He started ; and f(Slt bewildered at finding himself up, and his
things strewed all around him ; and at first he could not recollect
what had happened. But then the sad reality retained to his
mind, and he nad again to take up the load of misery, whidi he
had forgotten for a while. He exerted himself however to shake
it off; and having added the lock of Lady Constance's hair to his
other treasured tokens of her affection, he folded them all together,
and merely writing within, "Pray for me," he sealed the packet^
and left it directed to her. Then, with repentant love, he put his
brother's curl back into its ctiie, and locked it in his desk ; and pro*
ceeding to change his dress, he descended to the breakfiE^roain»
where he found Ids mother and Lady Florence waiting for him.
CHAPTER XXXV,
** I bid adieu
To every recollection whicb might toaoli
My doty to him. I shall never muse
On childhood's pLaeures, innocent no mo
Forme • • » •
• • ♦ nor repeat
One name — never I — I am very weak,
I did not know how weak/'— Tax.toubd.
^ LiBY AsHTON h&d been too much occupied on the previous even-
ing to remark the paUor and agitation in Lady Constance's ooun-
SEBL £(MULin> ASHTOK* 249
tenaace wlien she returned home ; and sayingr she was tired, the
latter soon vent to her own room. She was more tranquil than she
had been for a length of time ; for the dreaded hour was over, and she
had been enabled to act as she felt dutv required. Tet the remem* ^
brance of Henry's agony was terrible to her ; and al^orbed in
miserable thoughts, she let the hours pass unheeded by, tiU the sua
rising warned her that the time of his departure was near. She
had not thought of rest ; for the trying scenes she had gone through
had left her too feverish and excited for sleep. But now she dr^ed
lest a summons might come for. her to go and take a last leave of
Henry ; for she knew that her sister and Ladv Ashton purposed
beiufir wp to see him, and they might naturally suppose that she
would wish to do the same.
Terribly indeed did her heart yearn to see him once again — and
she would have given worlds to have watched even the vessel which
was soon to nut leagues of ocean- waste between them, till its lessen-
ing sails had disappeared from the horizon ; but she dared not meet
him. Fearful, however, lest her resolution might fail, she hastily
threw off her dress, and laid down on her bed; and had scarcely
taken this preeaution, e'er Lady Florence's light stenwas heard at
the door, and her* young &ce looked in, bright and glowing as the
morning, though a tear was on her cheek. She approached her
sister's bed and told her that Henry was down, and that Lady
Ashton had sent her to say he would soon be gone.
" I cannot go down," said Lady Constance, " I do not feel well ;
you must wish him good-bye for me." And dhe turned her &oe
to the pillow to hide her tears.
Lady Florence returned to the breakfast-room ; and Henry was
rdde ved by knowing that he should not have the struggle of a part-
ing before witnesses, though his heart sunk at finding that he should
no more see her whom he felt he was leaving for ever.
The entrance door was on the north side of the house, and there*
fore at a distance from Lady Constance's room, which faced the
sea ; but in the stillness of the morning, when nothing was astir
but the wakeful birds, the sound of the carriage was distinctly
heard ; and when it drove up to the door, and the rushing of the
wheels reached Lady Constance's ear, the desire of seeing Henry
once more was so irresistible, that springing from her bed, and
hastily throwing a cloak around her, she opened the door, and ran
down a passage at the end of which was a window looking out on
tiie entrance.
There was the carriage which was to convey him away; and
footsteps moved to and fro beneath in the hall— and there were all
the busy sounds— the " dreadful notes of preparation ;" and then
— his voice was heard. That loved sound in a moment recalled
Lady Constance to a sense of her dul^. Though it was impossible
she could be seen by any one inside tne house, yet if Henry looked
up as he got into the carriage, or lookeb back— as he was sure to do
— ^when driving away, she would then de distinctly visible to him ;
and her secret stand there would speak more of encouragement to
his love, than any open appearance down-stairs,amongst Ihe others,,
would have done> and might indeed too clearly mark the natoze of
^M SIB XO^AJfD A8HT0H.
the feetinpfl yrbxk made her so urgently crave for vet one m(»o look.
She felt that this was wrong, and she]mew that she had no right to
make even this small conoessicm to her own heart ; and flying hadL
^ witibi greater speed than she had come, she happily reached her own
apartment imohserved. She felt strengthened h^ this self-denial:
and though when she heard the carriage drive oft, her heart seemea
to die witiiin her, yet her conscienoe was at ease, and she was ahle
wholly to give herself up to the will and guidance of Gk>d. She
threw herself again upimher hed, and wozn-out both in body and
mind, she fell asleep, and remained in that happy state of forget-
fulness, till the day was far advanced.
The evening which followed was a mekneholy one to all the
party ; and the beauty of the weather, and the glorious moon,
instead of being enjoyed by than as usoal, seemed only to add to
their depression. Lady Constance proposed returning nome eaxly
irom their walk, and strove to occupy herself so as to distract
her thoughts from the subieet which yet would ever present itself
to her mind. The pang of parting was too recent for Ladv Ashton
to bear to talk of it, and Lady Constance was thanknd to be
«pared the burden of converaaiion ; and ihey therefore both took
up their books.
But Morence-*vhose re^t for her late playfellow and com-
panion, though perfectly sincere, was by no means the de^
feeling that oppressed her two comi^anioas — rather enjoyed
^nl^1l^gillg her sorrows by feeding Ihem with melancholy thoughts ;
(as many young and unwise spirits love to do;) and sitting aown
at the pianoforte, she began singing that saddest song, the
^* Treasnres of the Deep/' fier voice was rich and beautiful, and
her pswers in the ddi^tfol art of musio were, as has been said,
far beyond her years.
Constance kmged itom the first to stop her, but a conscious
feding restrained her from d(»ag so; and Ladj Ashton, who
never liked to inJtoilwe with the pleasures of o^ers, bore the
harrowing sounds in ddence, though they were the last she would
willingly have listened to at timt moment Both of them sat
tranqml even during those sad and beautiM lines—
** But BUHe— thy bUlowB and thy depfha bave more I
High hearts and hraye^ are gathered to thy hreast <
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders cannot break their rest;"
but at the next verse it seemed as if Lady Censtaale's nature
could sustain no more, ^le was never one whose emotions oooUl
readily express themselves m tears; but the <|uiveiing of ber
countenance, and her sob-like breathings became so uBOontrallahle
as her sister, continuing to sing, came to the words —
** Daark xoU thy tides o'er nanhood's noble head ;^
.that fearful she must be betraying her intolerable sufierin^ she
instinctively looked up to see if she were observed. But Xady
jlshton's affectionate heart was at that moment wholly absorbed
SIB SOUJTB ASHTOF. StSl
in its own regretfol feelings ; and she was stealtibily wiping away
the quiet tears of love and sorrow which had flowed down her
cheek. At sight of her emotion, Lady Constance's endurance
completely gaVe way, and, in an agitated yoice, she called to her
sister —
" Oh ! Florence, do not sing that song."
** Dear Constance," said Lady Ashton, turning her tearful eyes
towards the poor girl, and holcGng out her hand, " yon are ever
so thoughtful!"
Constance kissed the kind hand which was pressed in hers ; and
completelj overccnne, sunk upon her la&e& at Ladv Ashton's side,
and Duryingher face in her lap, hurst into an aJinost hysterical
flood of tears. Lady Ashton hent over with the fondest adSection,
saying,
''Do not, dear child, do not grieve yourself, or mind me; he
will soon i)erhaps return, and I ought not to giye way; but he is
eo dear — so very dear !"
Constance knew that but too well ; and she longed to nour forth all
her feelings to Lady Ashton ; and not to be forced to Keep cdlence»
while that kind mend attributed to sympathy alone in her
sorrows, the tears and sighs of anguish wnic£ burst fortli chiefly
for her own.
Poor Florence was in consternation at the efibcts of her song,
and added her tears to those of the others, as she stood with her
arm round Lady Ashton's neck; till the latter smilinjrly said,
" We are really all very silly; we must not let such trifles over-
set us."
'' Trifles I" thought Constanee.
She was stLLl further tried when, on going to her room that
' ht, she found lyinsf on her table, the packet which Henry had
" ^ ^ which r " ' ^ " * " " ^ ' '
left for her ; and which the servants, havmg but just found, had
placed there. Recognising his writing, ms opened it with a
trembling hand, and how was she overcome at its contents ! Not
aE the most agonized expressions of grief could have touched her
as did those mute evidences of his uncomplaining misezy— of the
eomplete separation which had taken place between them, and
which must thenceforth for ever exist. She knew what it must
have cost him even to let his eye rest upon the little tokens which
lay before her, fraught as they were with such sweet, yet bitter
xeoollectlons ; but what must have been the struggle to part with
-^em — ^to cast away all that could link his memory with the
iiappiness now gone for ever ! She wept for hours— she could not
Teslrain her teus, Perpetuall^r did Henry's ima^ appear before
her ; first as the bright, joy-pn^vinff creature which ne had ever
bitherto been ; then as the nuseralue wanderer he now was from
his home. And all for her ! She was the unhappy cause of all
his misery— herself most miserable ! At length her eye caught
the words which he had written within the cover of his packet,
and which she had not observed before : — " Pray for me. ' She
instantly sunk upon her knees, though fresh tears burst forth, and
earnestly did she pray for him, and for herself. Sks rose calmed and
strengthened, and then went to seek the rest she so much needed.
252 8IB BOLAjn> ASHTOir.
The next momingr ahe arose vriih. an animated desire to do Iter
duty in every way. She determined that the example which
Henry had set her, should not be lost, but that she would also put
away from her idl that might recall softening impressions, or lead
her thoughts to dwell on tiiat, from which sne ought so carefully
to withdraw them. She could not indeed, as he had done, cast
away all that might remind her of her unfortunate love, for the
whole atmosphere was filled with his remembrance; but she
determined on the more difficult task of denying him a place in
her memory ; and strengthened by renewed supplications at the
tiurone of grace, she went down fall of the wise and pious resolu-
tions which had been ^yen her from aboye.
Mrs. Montague's society proved a great resource to her just at
that time, for she felt a strong rega^ for her, and really loved
the little child ; but even there the name she most wished to avoid,
ever sounded in her ears ; for Mrs. Montague, naturally grateful
for what Henry Ashton had done for her, was continually speaking
of him. The two friends, however, often conversed on other,
higher subjects ; and though Lady Constance was very humble in
her estimate of her own powers, yet she was encouraged to believe
that her words were not entirehr imblest. Lady Ashton's unre-
mitting kindness towards Mrs. Montague in endeavouring to lead
her to "the Holy Spirit— the Comforter," seemed after a time,
by the aid of Almighty power, gradually to melt the seal from
her heart, and open it to receive the joyful intelligence, that there
was mercy and pardon for her, through the blood of Christ, as for
all who would accept it; and as this conviction began to enter
her mind, she seemed to gain a new existence. Joy and love
sprung up out of the former darkness; and in the transporting
hope that the gates of Heaven were indeed open to receive her»
she seemed for a time to lose all sense of earthly sorrow. When
she was in this happy state of mind, it was a great comfort to
Lady Constance to be with her; and many a time did she reproach
herself for her own unhappiness, when she saw Mrs. Montague's
oheerfol resignation to the many sorrows of her lot ; and her taitli
too was often invigorated and refreshed by the conversation of
one to whom the pure truth of Ood was so new and so delightfdL
As the cause which had made her wish to leave Llanaven was
now removed, she was very anxious to give up her engagement
with Mrs. Mordaunt; but Lady Ashton would On no account allow
of her doing so ; for she thought that she had enjoyed the idea of
it, and that she now only wished to relinquish it on her aooonnt.
It was determined, therefore, that she should go the ensuing week»
and, after staying a few days with Mrs. Mordaunt in London*
proceed with her to the Highlands ; and Lady Ashton decided cm
going up with her herself, wishing to see her safe in her cousin's
charge.
Lady Constance had seen but little society beyond that wlii<&
she had had at her father's, or in Lady Ashton's house ; and she
would have shrunk from the idea of going thus among strangers^
had not the harassed state of her mind made her feel as if *Nany
filB BOLANB ASHTOir. 25S
ohange must better her conditioxi." She longed to be taken awav
£rom ner own thoughts ; and to be forced into conversation whioh
had no reference to the object whose remembrance she wished so
much to banish. She indeed most conscientiously fought against
the indulgence of her feelings, at all times; but everything at
home tended to encourage them. She had not only herself, but
every one else to struggle against, for it was so natural to talk of
Henry ! She never intentionally suffered herself to be unemployed ;
yet often would the open page remain unturned for ages, or the
needle rest idle in her hand, while her thoughts were following
one solitary vessel tossing about on the stormy sea. She wo^a
rouse herself when she found her mind thus wandering, and renew
her efforts to fix her attention on what was before her ; and by
degrees she began to obtain some command over her fancy ana
iTdCollectio^.
Never from the very first had she permitted herself to dwell on
Henry's name— excepting in prayer ; but she would sometimes be
for hours supplicating God for him ; and the faint light of early
dawn would often creep into her chamber, while she was yet on
her knees. She was young, and had still much to learn of the
deceitfulness of her own heart, and of the wil^ strength of her
£reat spiritual enemy. We may be, perhaps, in a general way,
' not ignorant of his devices," as St. Paul expresses it ; but the
last moment of our lives ydll probably be the first which shall free
us from his attacks, or dehver us from his delusions. Lady
Constance soon found that this seemingly pious exercise, was only
a snare to bind her to that which she should strive to for^t ; and
unutterably bitter was the moment when she felt that this indul-
gence, too, must be resigned. She continued, indeed, in heartfelt
terms to commend him she loved to his heavenly Father; but
from that time she did so in brief words ; nor ever sufiered his
cheridied name to linger on her lips.
When the day came for her departure from home, her spirits
drooped anew. She had never before been separated from her
sister for even a day ; and she felt as if driven away from all she
loved. At parting, she threw her anus round the child ; and all
the sorrow of her heart seemed to burst forth in the continued
:aoods of tears which she shed. The little girl had gathered for
lier a nosegay of the sweetest flowers in the garden ; but she
"urould not take a bud or leaf away with her from lianaven ; for
all there breathed ot him whom she was determined to forget.
Not liking, however, to pain her sister by refusing her little
prei^nt, she took it ; but before she had got manjr nules on her
1'oumey she threw it away. She held it long, it is true, in her
Land on the carriage window before she could resolve to give it
^p, for trifles are at times so precious ! but she did let it drop at
last, and then her heart was lightened.
254 SiR BOLAITD jifiHTOK.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
'* Why, what a motley thing is this same life t
Laoghter and sij^ ooramingling ! Scarcely ends
The smile, hnt tear-drops stray adown the cheek
From griefs Aill anguish pressed. — Uneqnal war !
The smile may gleam apon the Up, yet bring
No message ftom the heart; — ^bot who that weeps.
Knows not the bitter foimt from whence these waters flow 7*^~MS.
Wheit the trayellers arriyed in London, they dtove directly to
Mrs. Mordaunt's ; and Lady Afihton, having oonsigned her
charge sa&ly to that lady's care, returned herself the next day into
Cornwall.
If Lady Constance liad heen under the influence of a £Edry'i
wand, she could scarcely have undergone a greater change tluui
fiihe experienced in going ^m Lady Ashton's at Llanaven, to Mrs.
Mordaunt's in Lower Qrosvenor-street. The house was large and
liandsomely *fumish€d, and Mrs. Mordaunt herself was a clever
and lady-like person, and lived in the high society in whioh she
had been bom. But there was an air of refinement about every-
thing at Uanav^L which Lady Constance looked for in vain inner
new abode. Even in Henrv Ashton's exuberant spirits, there was
never the sli^test approach to anything but what was gentleman-
like ; and Sir^land s manners as well as his mother's were particu-
larly pleasing and delightful. But at Mrs. Mordaunt's there was
frequently a something in the conversation which seemed to require
repressing, lest it should verge on what was disagreeable, so that the
r^y refined and Chiistian mind felt no repose ; whilst a word on the
subject of reli^on was never dreamed of. It was, perhaps, the air of
roirituality diffused over everything at Llanaven, which made
tne society there so peculiarly delightrul; for though its iumatefl by
no means thought it necessary to force religious observations into
all their social mtercourse, yet amongst themselvea they felt that
such topics, when occurring naturally, were ever welcome ; and
f aUiujg in with the accustomed tenor of their mindi, seemed never
out of place. Indeed the pure invigorating sea-oreeze does not
differ more from the muiky atmosph^ of the great Emporium of
the world, than did this nealthy tone of feeling from that of the
society into which Lady Constance was now thrown ; and, spite of
all her unhappiness at Llanaven, she would often gladlv have
returned to the seclusion and quiet of that dear, deli^tfnl place.
That was, however, out of the question now ; and amidst* her
many unpleasant feelings she was forced to acknowledge that the
change really had a good effect upon her spirits.
Only two of Mrs. Mordaunt's sons were at home at that time :
Bobert, the eldest, and the youngest— Augustus. The other-
Philip — ^who was evidently the mother's favourite, was just then
absent ; but was to join them, it was said, in Scotland. He waft
in the law, and by no means one of those who are said " to follow
that profession without overtaking it ;" for he was very clever, and
was getting on exceedingly welL The eldest son, however, had
SIB SOLAS!) ASHTOK* 255
attained erem a greater deeree of exoellenee than bk brother in
his particular profession, wnieh 'was that of perfect idleness ; "vrhile
ijbe yottnffest, a youth of most moderate abilities, -was in one of tiie
pnblic omoes.
Mrs. Mordatoit pursued tiie ordinaay routine of a London life ;
and though it was late in the season, there were still dinner-partie&
going on, while a few lingering balls and ooneerts serred oooa-
fdonadly to diversify the soene.
A short time after Lady G<mstanoe's amval in town, there was^
a large dinner-party in Grosyenor-street ; but all there were
strangers to her, except Mrs. Mordaunt and her two sons. At
dinner she found herself between Augustus Mordaunt and another
young man whose name she did not £iow, but who had evidently
determined to place himself next to her, and who, as soon as
they were seated, without the slightest pre&oe or introdnotion,.
^'You are quite wdl I hope, Lady Constanee, and eigoy your
Tisit to London?"
She was rather surprised at this abrupt and familiar oommenoe-
ment of aoquaintanoe, and answered his inquiries with cold
civility. He then proceeded in the same tone to ask after Sir
Boland Ashton and the other members of that fiunily, speaking of
them as if he had liv^ all his life in their societj^ . Lady Con-
stance looked at him with astonishment, and asked if he were well
acquainted witili them.
" Not particularly," he replied; *' I once saw a man's back half
way down Grafton street, and I was told it was Sir Roland
Ashton ; and I think, yes I am sure, that a few montJis ago I read
the name of Henry Wuliam Ashton as proBQU)ted to the rank of
lieutenant in her Majesty's navy. That is- all the personaL ac<^
quaintance I have with them."
Lady Constance was alarmed ; she supposed of course that her
i&eighbour was mad, and die sat with &ar and trepidation bv his
side. She endeavoured to give her attention to the low-toned obser-
rations of her other companion, but that did not improve the
state of things at all : for- the stranger seemed seized witn the rage
of persecution towards the unhappy Augustus^ though lie appeared
to be as perfect a stranger to him as he was to Sir Boland. AH
his timid insinuations were oau^rht up and repeated in a loud tone ;
and an inquisitorial examination entered into, as to the motive
and whole oearing of what he said, even if he only observed that,.
'•August was often a very hot month." The unhappy youth
suffered dreadfully under tms process, being evidently m extreme
terror of his tormentor; and ne at length took refuge in total'
silence, his face having become purple from the continual coatings
of colour which had overspread it during his many confusions.
Lady Constance was exceedingly embarrassed ; and longed for
i^ moment of retiring to arrive. But the crowning stroke to her
dismay was put at last by the stranger's asking her m a loud tone,
** How she liked the Mordaunt family }" adding, " they are gene-
rally considered, I believe, a very odd set."
Lady Constance gazed at hbn now in utter consteniatian ; but'
256 8Ut BOLAin) ASHTOir.
gaddenly^ a onrioualy sappressed smile lorkinff in the oomer of tiie
sapposed maniao's mouth, caused a new Unit to flash upon her,
and her own lip curling in sympathy, she replied, " that she liked
them all very much, excepting one.
"And that is the youngest of course I I have heurd he ia a
very "
The unfortunate Augustus coloured deeper than ever, and seemed
readjr to sink into the earth ; but his dismay changed into an ex-
pression of extreme, and childish delight* when liady Constance
repUed,
^* No, not the youngest/
"The eldest thenT
"No— the second.".
*' Well now YOU really are a cousin worth havinff! — one after
my own heart ! exdaimed Philip Mordaunt (for such the lunatic
proyed to be), his quick black eye shining with delijght. *' En-
chanting 1 after passing eight-and-twenty years upon tins dull earth,
* to meet at last with a kindred spirit^ one who can discoyer one's
deyices. Lad^ Constance, how is it possible that two souls, oast
io evidently in the same mould, should not have been drawn
together b;^ strong attraction long ere this }"
/''It is just possible that there may be some antagonistio prin-
ciple which has counteracted the force of the attraction," answered
Lady Constance, with somewhat of gravity tempering her smile:
for thoug:h all fears of his sanity had ceased, she did not yet feel
quite satisfied at her cousin's manner.
" Oh ! ay !" he replied, pretendinff to muse deeply ; "like the
oontracting and exi>anding power of the metal in the pendulum,
keeping it always in ibS proper place. Well, it may be sol"
Then tuming round with a really pleasing smile, he added in a
lower voice,
" But my fair cousin need not contract her Idndlv good-natore
for fear of my presumption expanding too much ; I shall ever keep
jny proper place as respcts her, I trust."
Xady Constance snmed, and inquired if the mode of introduction
lie had used towards her was that which he usually adopted in sooh
oases. He answered,
"No, but that he knew he was not expected, having been absent on
business, which it was supposed would have detained Him much longer
than it did ; and the fancy having seized him of preserving a brilliant
incognito, he had threatened Augustus with extincUon if he re-
vealed his secret." He then asked her how she had found him out
"I perceived by your ill-suppressed mirth," said Lady Constance,
*'that there was some mystery ; and catching a likeness to year
mother, I felt sure you were— you."
Philip Mordaunt then entered on many amusing subjects of con*
Tersation, and made himself so agreeable that Lady Constance grew
qmte at her ease with him ; and now instead of wishing for it» waa
rather sorry wijen the signal for retiring was given.
^^en Mrs. Mordaunt had been a few minutes in the drawinv-
»>om, she went up to Lady Constance, and said she hoped Philip
flIB "BGtkKD ASHTOir. 267
had made Mmself very agreeable. Constance in reply informed >
her of his proceedings ; at which she was much amnsea, and said it
was exactly likehim, for he delighted in distracting and mystify-
ing people ; but that he was, nevertheless, a dear, good-natnred,
clever creature.
As they were talking together a singalarly lovely person came np
to them ; and in the pleasantest manner possible oegged of Mrs.
Mordannt to introduce ner to Lady Constance, as she said she be-
lieved they had a mutual Mend, of whom it would give her much
pleasure to hear some news. Mrs. Mordaunt performed the requisite
ceremony ; and then leaving them, went to devote her attentions to
her ot^er guests.
The moment Lady Constance had heard her new acquaintance
named as Lady Stanmore, she recollected Sir Roland's having often
mentioned her with great interest : and she felt sure that he was the
mutual friend who had been alluded to. The thought of him, and the
dread of what might be said, made her feel ready to sink ; but as
she was one who possessed par excellence the painful but beautiful
habit of blushing, her heightened colour passed very well for the
little embarrassment of introduction. Lady Stanmore instantly
began on the dreaded subject, and spoke of Sir Roland in terms
of such excessive praise, that Lady Constance's mind was Med
with a painful mixture of gratification, remorse, and pride. The
conversation was most trying to her ; and yet after the hrst minute
she felt it a jo^, in such a land of strangers, to speak of any mem-
ber of the fanuly she loved so much ; and she listened with delight
to the high character given of Sir Roland.
Lady Stanmore said that he was admired and esteemed by every
one ; and that there were many she believed, who would gladly have
had nearer ties than those of mere acquaintance with him ; but that
he was a perfect disciptle of Plato's ; and seemed to bear a charmed
life about him ; walking unscathed through all the " dread ar-
tillery" which was directed against him. She then adverted to
his "peculiar opinions," as she caUed them ; and playfully, though
not without some emotion, spoke of what she caUed his attempt
** to convert her." " And I am angry with myself," she added,
" for not being angry with him for it ; for it has often made me very
imoomfortable. ' *
"Roland's ouinions if rightly received could not create discom-
fort, I should think, in any heart," said Lady Constance.
*' Then, I suppose, you would insinuate that I am uncomfortable .
because I have not rightly received them !"
Lady Constance smiled.
•• Then are you one of the advocates of those dreadful opinions ?"
*' I am an advocate of the opinions Roland holds ; but I do not
find them dreadful."
" Ah ! I see you have held, one the right side, and the other the
left, of the same book ; and learnt together what he would call * its
lutprar lessons.' '*
^*They are happv lessons," said Lady Constance. "The only
happy ones," she added abstractedly.
'^That is a bold word," observed Lady Stanmore ; "and a sad
s
om too, ftomfOBBm ywwt I he^t^.moM^ Hiai .flk TWiftfat
fllndy of tiie.phy«0opiffi»<iMft Hfyfc so^¥evr':^o£»iHid» Aawa ateoadL
iBHOcently sBBpooMLit. to be. Bnt Itnw^r^' bIib oontimied^&i:
afciB saw tEiMftble oa Lady C^Dfta&tt^'s ooBntieiiiiMe,; ''-stody lAat.
he mi^ht, and whom he might, he did his masters n&^diaiBreditr
:^t it is ewteoiflhingr howrhia lydvohiag wttdfl-ocmfeiTmaIly>iing in
my eeoro^ aAdd]:»P:theix hittanieMinUKoveiypleamifk Ipei^etiiidly
800 Yisionfr of servants^ ctamM to xmiasDnlj eodsr heeansoof Ihe
tegnptatiQiis whioh he says I. tiffow thorn into ) aad the lightest of
hfUl-dreeses hangs heavy> (ml mo, beeaiuo hie terdfiBo ma ^lith
htmag to easwet for the use of. eyei^thing I hare."
** But did he press on you merely me evu of those tluDgB ? That:
Unotlikehim; housHiOlyg^aiiohdefiSfBi^aadi^ that the
ehange mustJie in the heait*
"Ohj yeSihadiddotfaat. ButlbfOioyerhiooght thelfiobne.
eotteerning those thii;^xather:xipon myself, byrasiinshimto do
SK^metfadng, whieh he wafr nngsradoos enough to refdse.'
*' I am sure he felt he ought not to do what you wished, or ho
wonld never hare refused," r^edLadyCkxnstance.waimly-; "for
h^hateft saying 'no' to any one/'
" You need not bo afraid .thttt his refnaal made nshate each other
T«ry bitterly," said Lady Staxuaaore, " for he has the art of inoMng
his 'no' almost as pleasant as* yes;' and that is agreat thing for
fM- to 'Say, who haw bein^T'COi^tradiated: above, all thing8ia.ezis-
teaee. Butdoyounevec^gooutinthewoxldi'^
"Nottolatepaxties,"
" And do you not long to do so ?'* '
*' ]^ot yer7 much," replied Jiady Confltftnoe, smill&g. ** I shiidd
sot think dissipation oould.be yery desirable in any way*'*
" Perhaps not— particularly ; but Ihen what is one to do ! A^
3JJDU notTery dull at home ?'*
" DuU !" ezolaimed. liady Gdnstanoe, '^no; the happiest and
Use merriest people in: tha world." (She^forgot all her siorowB at*
tiiat. moment.) '
"I wish I coold decide one way or th^ other/* sighed Lady
fiftanmore; "fdrnowLenjoy nothing.'"
Lady Constance lookedat her. till Ibettear almostsweDed injier
eye, and she lOn^d to speak ; but ever difSdent; she ahmnk frmn.
the idea of seeming.to ^b&ack one oldes thanhorseli, especially after
ISO short an acquaintaoce.
Lady Staomore read ' herj ezpro^TO' ooimteuBsee howerer; and '
add^d,
" Say what you like, f or r see- you are'resthaniinr^onietihiiigT
and you cannot make me more uncomfortable than I am. l^t I
do not know what makes ma talk so freely to you, unless it is that
I'take up your friendship 'vdtere- 1 left'c^ Skr Poland's, and dioose
to fancy I haye kno^m you a loxig time ; though he deoHaed beinir
much of a counsellor t6 me, and referred Ime- rather cavalierly to
my husbknd."
'* Is Lord Stanmore then a religious . person V asked Lady Gdv»-
stance with pleased surprise.
" ^-^, pyerhaps not ezaotls: wiittt yoa would call areligioiisp^e*
80A<; bat Hft is^tto beet-. Imftband^ aaid tbe bestietaiytliiDS. in tbft
world."
' But why then, skonld. Eokod re&r yipii to Ida oa these
«^*
'* Beoause he w9a my husbaaad* I. su|ipo6e ! ' He pieoiMihlj wisely:
thought that as such he was the beat coanaeilor I could haire*~bet-
ter at least than any. other young man."
Lady Constance was silent, for she felt piusled.
" I should howevev. add^'/ continued Lady. Stanmove. rather re-
luctantly, ''that he named another counselor before even him ;
but I scarcely like«pealdng of se awful a Beii^. in^this plaee."
"Why net? we are s&yjoig no haim»!' said Lady Constance, in
the simplicity of a heart to which the thought of God was as the
breath of life — ^though His name never lightly passed her.lips.
" I do not know*; out it seemaout of 'place, in oommen, every-
day life."
*' But we are talking of .the things of Qtodif andwhy should we
not, with all reyeraaoe, mention HisnamerHfor it- musthaye been
Him to whom £.oland referred yon."
* * I will not d^iy that it mui— but I- hate, all app^axanoe of parade
in these thiiu^."
** L think Ishoulddo so too/' said Lady Gonsteaoe^^ntly ; "but
2X0 one can hear us now."
Ladv ^anmoire loolfied^rouad'to aicertain if that'weee seally the
ase, th»L said —
L remember his words as if I had heard them but yesterday,
' Seep God eyet first, .^^Mor hneband^ evev. next, andiyou* cannot go
wrong/ "
The tears sprung to Lady Constance's eyes,.and. rolled in an in*
stant down her. cheeky as she heard words whieh so oompletdy
brought before her.him whose, wisdom andpiety had dictated them;
and slie felt a Ibye for him at that mement whioh banished eyery
other feeling.
" I am very foolish," she said ; " bat' what.yon repeated was tho
only word of religioK I had*, heard ever sinee LadytAshtonleft
me, and you do not know howdt has refreshed .me ; , ittwas quite a
spring, in the desert. I have never in. aU m^ life before, been
separated from those who had.the love oi God in them ; and you
cannot conceive how I thirst after their conversation, now, alter
being derived of. it for tixree whole days."
Lady Stanmore smiled.
** There certainly must besonething very fascinating," she said,
" in that which makes its absence so totterly felt* Bo you talk oi
religion for ever at heme, and of nothing else ?"
" Oh ! no, of a thousand other Ihings; but stiOr- it is thnre— W9
always feel that."
" Well, I dare-say you good people are very good; but you seem
to me to be always m the cSbads."
'* You have a little bojr» I knew, Lady Stanmoroy and* when he
is old enough to go tosonool,.will you not often talk of him with
Lord Stanmore, and iind pleasure in doing so because you know he
loTes him as weU as you do; and even tEough yon. often, talk of
8 2
260 OB BOLAHB ASHTOIT.
other things, will it not he a delight to know tiiat whenever yon
are inclined to speak of him, it will he a welcome snhject? And
do you not think it would he an irksome restraint to live only with
those who were strangers to him, and did not care for him ? to find
that if yon spoke of hun jonr companions thouccht the snhject dis-
agreeahle, and changed it as soon as possihle }
** It would, indeed !" said Lady Stanmore, as a glow of emotion
flooded her sensitive countenance.
" I was sure you would feel it so." cbntinned Lady Constance.
"Well, then, only," and she lowered her voice, " put the name of
God in the room of that of your child, and you have hefore you the
feeling of those who truly love Him. Would yon mind my quoting
something from Malaohi }'*
"Oh, no."
" He says, ' Then they that feared the Lord spake ofben one to
another ; and the Lord hearkened and heard it, and a hook of re-
memhrance was written heforo him, for them that feared the Lord
and that thought upon his name. And they shall he mine, saith
the Lord of Hosts, in that day when I ahall make up my jewels;
and I will spare them as a man spareth his own son that serveth
him. Then shall ye return and discern hetween the rifirhteous and
the wicked, hetween him that serveth Qod and him that serveth
Him not.' "
"His jewels," said Lady Stanmore, thoaghtfnlly; "what a
heautifal idea ! To he one of the jewels of the Lord ! What high
praise !"
"High privilege rather," ehserved Lady Constance. "The
earthly jewel is without lustre till the light shines on it, so are we .
till the Spirit shines on us."
" Ah, you— what shall I call you, for I hate cant names ^— yon
thorough-going Christians are dreadful persons to argue with; you
have something ready to say at all times."
" I do not like to argue, I feel afraid ; hut what we have been
talking of now seems so plain."
" Tes, as plain to you, pehaps, as Freneh is to a Fren(^unan,*but
di£Scult to those who are not accustomed to the language. I un-
derstand now, however, what yon mean about the love of God;
but do you really so love him as to feel unhappy when not talking
of him ?
" No ; but I do feel uncomfortable when I am with those to
whom I can never speak of Him with satisfaction ; and this little
conversation to-night has been very pleasant to me, for at least
you do not seem to dislike the subject."
" I do not dislike it as you represent it, or as Sir Roland Ashton
did; but I have some cousins who provoke me infinitely. They
are always talking at me, or finding fault with me, and weary me
to death. They look, too, like — anything but ladies^ and say, * they
cannot afford to dress well, and subscribe to Missionaiy Societies
also.' They fly from meeting to meeting, and talk of dear
Mr. this, and sweet Mr. that, and then go home and are so cross to
their servants, and so easily put out ! and talk of Christian tempers
in such an unchristian manner i But you dress yourself as well
Sm BOL&HD iJBHTOir. 261
as possible, and look so nice ! and do not seem to repent of every
snule you give. And he, too— Sir Roland I mean— looked always
so very gentlemanlike; and as if he thoug:ht it worth while to be
agreeable; so that he gained 'golden opinions from all sorts of
men/ To be sure, your looks, poor things," she added with a
smile, " you cannot help; but you do your best to compensate to
society foryour want of beauty, and that is- all tiiat can be ex-
pected. However, not to talk nonsense, I confess I like clean
religion— not dirty; I like civil religion— not rude; I like quiet
religion — and not a perpetual flutter of 'spiritual dissipation;'
and I like warm, loving religion— and not a spirit of detraction,
and of cold harshness.'
" I remember," said Lady Constance, ** that Eoland used to say,
' if ever you were led to God, it would be through tiie affections ; —
by love and not by fear.' "
*' Bid he say so?" exdaimed Lady Stanmore, a tear swelling in
her soft, dark eye, and a lovely expression of pleasure overspread-
ing her countenance; "he juag:ed of me too wdll; for it is more
fear that I feel, than love, at this moment. I am a&aid of being
condemned— afraid of losing heaven — ^afraid of— everything I be-
lieve. But I find no love to God in this cold heart; though some-
times I think I should love Him, if I were more worthy of Him.
does appear to me, that you scarcely as yet see, or feel what Christ
has done for you."
*' What do you mean ?"
" That He has saved you."
** Saved me ? Oh, no ! Oh, no !" she said, in some agitation.
" Why do you say so ?"
" Because I know I am not £t to go to heaven."
** Can you teU me of one who is fit to go there ?"
** You seem to be so, and I am sure Sir Roland Ashton was."
** But, dear Lady Stanmore, if we are fit, how have we become
so?"
'* By being virtuous and good, and loving God."
" Oh ! no, that is not it. It is by believing in and trusting to
Him who is ' able and willing to save to the uttermost aU who come
to God through Him !' Chnst has borne the punishment of our
sins, and of yours too; for His was an all-sumcient sacrifice. If
we are saved, it is by beUeving that He has suffered in our stead,
and that we are pardoned for His sake. Then we appear before
God as clothed in His righteousness— as He appeared before God on
the cross clothed in our sins. It is Christ who must open God's
gates tons ; and then as His redeemed— the purchased of His blood,
we shall be allowed to enter in, unquestioned."
She spoke rapidly, for her energy quite for the moment overcame
her dimdence. Lady Stanmore was much moved.
"I cannot think this ban apply to me," she said.
•* To whom then ?' ' asked Lady Constance.
" To people who love God."
'* Christ OBse to asTe those -wbiok wendflat^aMtihiiae wko «niki
•:go to heaYen withoot Him."
** I do not say that asyxMii do tikataxnel^."
" Christ idll he aa entirre Bamur, «Fiuiiie. If nre look .to wiff'
thin^ hvt E]iin»'Sis Bpirit^is niitiejidiiM' vs."
*' Bat weiaay' do our .b66t» And thfiaiHe-«fiI]Jia:ve.iniezey on as."
'* Had tkel^f <iniiie.oi»8sik»ne hisfiKat?"
" Ko, :theEt tUmtesrs 3)iiziiies.aie."
**^ He ;vfas. 8aT«d in th&^alywafy which fsapeiL lams : Jie-heliffTBd
that Chxist sofPeved, in oidertiiatiiie* ought he pai^dsnedt nadiihefe-
toe he<w»nt*to:€k}d and. 'sought Ibe .-pardon, ^hidi had heen.so
dearly purchased, and so freely given. Rolaaad has dcmeitha same,
I haye dose the same; 7ou«vill--<«h'! LtmstTou will. he able also
to iLo so in tine. Bemember what 'Isadsdi rnajA of Christ : ^.He was
wounded for our transgressions, He was braned for«uriniq«itifls;
the diastiseiMnt of ovr 'MoetPBsiuiMnffim,.' and >wit^ fiisstri^
WB are healed TheLofdhaih. laid n9«n.fiim'theiaiiqmt9^
ef U8 ail.' Yoat8ae,*1iiere'ris na mentioKL^iiade of 4axrrighteoiiBiefl8,
only of Christ^s meritorious, Tioarial sacrifiee.''
''Oh! you 'must speHik plainer to ^me," aaid I^dy fitsamaie,
smiling smd eolouring.
'* I mean l^iat His death had-saeh-yaltieinCbd's eyes, tiiat for
the sake of it. He 'grants ^Him -tiie >pezd«n of all who seek lor it
through Him; am hy -ealling ^it a *yioarial -sacrifioe, I mean of
eourseliMEt it is anMMriiiee of one personfer enisther-^instead of that
ot^€i^-of Cfhrist instead of ns."
" Yet you, who say you are saved so entirely without any merit
of your own, seem to desire so much to do what isriffht."
"Not half so much as we oi^ght," answered LadyConstBaoe,
quickly. ** Besides we l9ve-Him who 'has loved 'US, «iid He said,
• if ye love me keep my commandments.* And when we gye our-
selves up to Him, He -puts ffis spirit into our hearts— ^His pure
Spmt, and that makes us love holiness. As ^cnme old writer said,
* We work fr&m Kfe and not fn- life.' BHt«till if you knew all,
you would seewe had nothing to beast c?;'and it is tiiat which
makes us feel so thankful not to have to depend for gaining Heaven
on our own merits. Itiis such an unspeakable eommrt also, to be
able for His sake to go to God at all times; when we have done
wrong^-4ar a new sense of pardon; when we are unhappy—for
comfort; and we always find it, because He 'ever Hveth in neaven
to make intercession -for us.' "
** Your^words are so new to -me,** said Lady Btanraoie, *''they
really almost seem like anoflier language ! Jftut '&ere i|reatiies
such an exalted spirit over these Ihings as almost overpowers me.
There must be a great reality in them, of which I, akd '&oae I
associate with, have certainly no idea. E v er y th ing wiiii yon and
Sir Koland seems to go up, and up — ^to €K>d ! and at times I aeem
almost to ^ with you a fittle way. T cannot say what I feel at
moments, it seems as if a curtain were li^d, showing something
mdescribable, and bright, and awfol ! I almost seem as if oil tiie
verge of an invisible world."
"We are so, undoubtedly," said Lady Constanee ; '^noQung
V
tM3
.%at ihe Tdidaefs of--^. But hate is Ifve. ^CtrdanAt ooiftidir
.tO'flS."
" TfaectiaeoflBkn owiWBniagrTW)*? *tn«rt»al Menfd' seems to have
^be<ii*Teiy':8flenia)tod^«»d iMemstiiigr," Hmid that IfUdy as she ap-
proached ; ** shall I be very unwelcome if I intermpt it ? I loi^
for MntetauBie,. uodymrpmmrs- m-etflc^U kawm, Ladv Steu-
more, form&iiotvtoippealrto'yoii tcftAe odrnpaaawntrnme?'
•M shaU.ke'fieTy.ii^y/' Teplitfd Lddy*S1»»aMire. " Lady Cott-
irtBnoe do yoariwt-ninr r '
•-•Wilhyaa4W^3wilJi-we ?"
•*0h! 7B8,.if lyta-imaih it;^«id'tf tlie*e Is anytJiSag -ire boHi
JBIMW."
Ti wsrwwtt to theiiaa«flo>te/4aid'«o«ii*ll»fi!idMMfmiethkig^ which
Wtod them. ^W%^0t Litdy Sliwniore 'WftsBlayiit^'the introduotoijr
•fmiplMoy, idle mid in a JMr T^we 4jo Lady ConSlaaioe, " I should
Jike^to<tcfe^yoii.«g«iB ; wuld i^^fttt dri^Ffe out with^me to^mcwow ?"
•^Oall. lieiie,^ aada unlllf I 'c«n ; Iishcrtfld- like ity«y much."
The soond ^f^tMrlD^aa^lM vtsiofts soon bi^ugfkt up the party
from below,"Wtei<fc'Was in fttdtlfes. Mofda«nt s hope and inten-
tMn;;for.M!ay«matloiLhed begun 0i$relyto19ftg between her and
km lac^-gfueste. Theininn^ilt Hie g^tlettLen* watered the drawing-
yewn. Lord SfeMlm«fe twk his fe?ro«rite^fiftation by the side of m
lovek* wife, who^wvs^ter glad'^e httre him- by her; and Augiistds
Mordaunt also took that which was his favourite^-by Lady Oon-
4rt«TOe'ssid0?orMttier,*s his brother Phiiip'aftei'wards designated
It, **to 4^ *aotth*eftst of h^r." He feepton mtmnuring small,
inane praises' of her singing, dJorteg the bars «f symphony whicdi
<x»a9i«Bally'0e<mrreid; 'Which ^exevted Lady Oon^nee's tisible
faculties to so trying a degree, that she had difficulty sometime^
when she opened her lips, to preveiit a burAt of merriment from
eomin^ fonh insteeld of l^e patheltic nx^tes of BeetiMyven or Rossini
Phihp'M<xpdauiit, perceiving what^Jnw going <m, and ever bent
<iii tti8cbi^,*took hisHrtxition in sight of Lady Constance, though
•c«Bc©aled from others, and owntriyed to attract^er eye from time
to time, imitating in large all his brother's small ^rformances;
till at length, having succeeded in making it Impossible for her'to
trust her voice at all, during one -very important passage, he fdt
Mtistted with his ffacoess, and 1^ h^'in.peaco.
'Robert Moi^auiit in the meantune stood by, and with the air of
a connoisseur propounded his admiration of both Lady Stanmore's
and Lady Gonatanee's poirers. ^ut ^en the latter retired f^m
the pianoforto, and gave way to other performers, his attentioifii
•^wsere ostentatiously and pompously devoted to her. He stood
before her making speeches, a-id taking up her trhole attention ;
«iid stooping, would frequently say a few ^words in a low tone,
in ordier Iteit his intimacy with nis beautiful cotisin might be
observed by the rest of the company; determined evidently that
they should imagine there was sometmBgtory partiouhur between
them. •
•Xaidy CoQStanee disliked him at all times, and now more thaa
JSRie wotdd fidn havetisen from l&e 80£a and haye left hiar '
264 a
Imt he stood 80 immedistd j befoce lier» ^bat ahe eooll not do w
without asldiiff him to let her wus, widdk she was &r too shy to
do; and thoo^ cohmnng with yezatioii at his ahsmd and oh&n-
siTe attentionsy die was ioroed to lesign heiaelf to her fsle, ttid at
stilL
Lady Stanmore, who knew Mr. Mordanntrs old halitt of devotiog
himself pointedly to whosoever was tiie "hri^t particolar stai^
of any party, and had often herself soffered firam his peraeCTtkxoi,
felt for Lady Constance, though she ooold not refrain oeeaaioiiaily
from giving her a look which made it most difficult for her to keep
hCT conntenance ; hnt at length seeing her look really nnoomfait-
able, she heggea Philip to go and ''get Lady Gonrtanoe ont of
qnarantine/ He prooeedea immediately on his mission; and,
delightinfir in tormenting every body, went np to his brother, and
whisper^ that Lad^ Stanmore seemed mudi hurt at his negiect of
her, and that in met he believed^ she had something very par-
ticular to say to him. Highly gratified, Mr. Mordannt went off to
Lady Stanmore, who soon, bcnea to death by him« formed aecrel^
strong resolutions never again to snecoor the nnf oortimate.
Phuip meanwhile seated himself by Lady Constance.
** I b^ you will observe that I do not stand before yon," he said;
*' for I can afford to give joa freedom, certain that yon will not
wish to exercise it liy leaving me. Are yon not infinitely obliged
to me for delivering you from the ' Giant Despair^ who vras im-
prisoning you?"
** I think yon might leave it to others to langh at yoor brothefs,
and not do so yonrselC replied Lady Constance half joking, but
half gravely. " I am nsed to see brotnirars love each other."
"Ah! when one has left people behind, they seem so very per-
fect!"
Lady Constance felt that they did.
'* But now what would you have me do with -such a oonple of
brothers as I have }" contdnned Philip ; " the one such a ' Pom^oeo
fiirioso,' the other always fall of his 'sentimentalibas lachrymiro-
mm.' What can happen ? I must either laugh at them, to show
the world I am wise enough to see their follies — or cry over them,
to show how much I feel for them. Your gentle nature might per^
haps make you lake the latter course ; I confess the farmer better
suits the temper of my genius. But I wish narticularly to ask yon
one question. Are you in the habit of making every one in loTe
with you?"
Lady Constance laughed and coloured; "Ido not call that love,"
she said.
" The ' sieur' Bobert means his to be taken for such, I can assme
you ; and if you managed well, I think you really might beoome
laAj Constance Mordaunt ! which would not sound so ul after all,
would it ? But as for the wretched Augustus, his really is love—
I can see that"
" Then why do you laug}^ at him ?"
" Because tiie love of a simpleton is always laughaUe."
" I do not think it is ever a subject mr laughter, wheai it is
genuine, let it be in whom it may. But as for your brother
flIB BOLAITD ASHTOir. 266
Aagrastas, I tliink he would like any one wIlo was good-natared to
him, and did not langh at him."
" That is a very sweeping piece of insinuated oensure, Lady
Constance/' exclaimed Philip ; " including a mother and hoth her
^dest hopes,"
" You seem to me by far the worst."
" Oh ! no, I assure yoiL I am sometimes very kind to him, and
take him out a walk with me, or show him the exhibition, or the
Zooloncal Gard^is. But there he stood at your north-east
ehoulder— (whispring, by the bye, as if he had been the * cooling
western breeze'; and it was irresistibly ludicrous ! But again 1
ask— are you in the habit of making every one in love with you ?
I only want to know— as you wiU be with us some time I hope —
what we have to expect — ^what will be the average of suicides, Ac,
which may be looked for. I have something to do with a lite in-
Burance omce, and it mav materially aJBfect the fands of that com-
pany, should you have the habit alluded to, and stay long in a
place like this, where population is dense."
" Oh no, I have no such habit ; you ma^ be quite easy about
TOUT Mends. I think, however, that nothing is so absurd as to
lanoy, because people Hke to talk to each other, that therefore they
must necessarily be in love. There are pleasant men in the world ;
why should not one be allowed to talk to them in i>eace ?"
**^We were not, I believe, talking of pleasant men at that
moment," replied PhQip. " But even then, though it may per-
haps be play to you, it may be death to the pleasant men ; and is
alwavs, believe me, a dangerous exneriment. Cease to try it, I pray ;
and leave people to die of natural deaths. It is very difficult to
define the exact line of demarcation between * liking, and some-
thing stronger; (a pang went through Lady Constaince's heart, for
she felt that indeed it was so;) and when once that imperceptible
line is past, retareat is impossible— recovery hopeless, therefore,
my dear cousin, take the advice of an old and experienced man,
and tread not those precipices; for with all your pretended tender-
ness of heart, you of the flowing robes, always put us nearest the
edge. However, I must now take myself oft and leave you, lest I
should be set down as one of the slain ; which I am not, mark
you," he added, shaking his head defyingly, ** and never mean to
be; which fact I think it best to state at once, in order that you
really may be able to eiijoy my agreeable conversation and sweet
society without scruple or remorse."
The moment PhQip Mordaunt had vacated his seat, Augustus
took up his station again near Lady Constance. He had not dared
to do so as lonff as his brothers were there, but he lost not a moment
when tiiey had departed. He did not venture to sit down by her,
however, but leant on the back of her sofa, and said — as nearly
nothing for some time as possible. *
Lady Constance was too shy to get ut> and cross the room alone
(for she was sittiog rather apart from all the others) and encouraged
by her remaining neav him, Au^stus began at last to speak in in-
teUigible language, which was highly distasteful and embarrassing
to hsF ; mWe JBUMp ihom. « dktaace locked Mestod]^ «,t 4ur,
glancing also at Augustas, and diakbigiilB head ina^eBinxe-
Ytfrnug' mmmBt; till -st last imiieapeiiatiQii sihe rose, and .joined
iirs. MoxibHUkt,*>w]io w«b ibe nearest >pergaii with whom she couM
take refuge. She longed to escape and go up stairs, knt feared
being thought rude ; and soon after, the party, to her-great rdbef,
hroke up, whenimaisdatttely widiiog her eousios good night, and
tlioroagyy WEeaxied, she. retreated toiiKr ownrosm. When thsre
fl^e sat for some time enjojriiie the rritef of^fldlitade,.y€t8adiiL
spirit. Her nsms haag mties&iy by her < side, smd it was long he-
fore she could zoQfleJMTflelfso&fiMntiytDb^l^in. the task of iw-
* And is .Ihis r&B Jife that p«]ple kad?" «he th^qght. "^ Ah !
^dear Ilaziaven!"
Starting tesrswanied her timt di&musiaot^paMQe that sul^Jset ;
-Slid with 41 sigh as if of iMfftiagg witii thssB i&e lored, she reso-
lutely closed l^iatipageiof findTaooUectMu.
jCHAPTER*XXXVII.
**!««« Is eOTspukNiAlfUii NtttaNtormiei,
JOid her teigM ICMkk makM tfm .tkufwmmr^*f^iHA.
Btttin the crash ^C m a n 4 i w >twrol»g flrite,
Tlie teartfB Wkd sotttade-^ow ctoaHy «»& !*-^S.
** 0*111011 Tidh-worid wueai I
^nicni.iinrtsinM'ml]& of spirits ^^ i^
« » » -« -dott'tlioalle
Bpresd all sironiia, y«t by n—m llliny mmoi
fibotfiMmm^tr?' Jlta.;Hnii9iB.
The breakfttst^taJble the nest -meming was not quite so weari-
.wme a jsoea^ as usual, for Philip Mordaunt made himself very
agreeable.; nefraininff moreover, <£rem laughmg at his brothers so
. audaciously as he had done the previous evening.
Before they had separated, a note oame from. Lady Stanmore to
OoD^taaee inviting her to dine earl^ with her that day ; and as the
weather was very hot, to take a dnve afterwards into the country.
This proposal arrived just in time to save her much embarrass-
;ane&t ; for Mrs. Mordaunt had just before asked her if ahe would
like to go to the opera with her that evening ; and though she
would on no accoimt have gone there, yet she would have found it
:^ery difficult to have declined doin^ so-; for few things are so un-
lileasant as having to refuse that wiuch another offers irom a good-
natured wish to please ; there is something ^parettUy so un-
.gracious in the rejection of proffered kindness ! And it almost ibh
^variably ffives offence ; particularly wh^i, as in a case like the
present, the refuial necessarily implies a eensuie of that, in whicdi
tihe kind uroposer seesmo harm.
J^rom this diffieuity Lady Staamwe's note ImppUy relieved poor
•Gontftanee, who haa been sitting in nervous trepidation — har
Bh e o k a gutwiiig hattoc, and her heads beooming eoldar eveiy
zimfeant---*4lLinkmg: how ^ihe etrald^ with most -mtltdb, and Uett
xfSlesaoe, decliae gobiG: wit^ Mrs. Merdaont. Bhe inmeoiately eaE-
piessea-Bo stpong a aeaire to aoeept the isntation to diae witii
Xady -Btanmere, ihat her *eoBflin, Who was Ihwrqnhghly gtMd-
natared, imtently 'agreed to her doing so; t^liag her *^ not to
eonsider Jber, for that aherwosild find-Bonoe oneiidserfeo gouwith her
to the opera."
Lady CiRistonee joyfoliy wiote her vamrest ; aod^tliEEee o'doek
fshe went to Lady fttaaimore^a. LoivL 18team«re <iras ^oiiig to «
parliaBientBary dnuMr, eo theyweve mire of thewhtle e^eninsTto
themselTes ; and atdbovt five o'olook 'thegr'aet out en .their drrta.
The^wentto Hampttead; and enjoyed eoceeediagly the pore air
of the heath, tad Iheamseanniee of-iealaonatry whiah now and
then ixresents itself on that beautiful dde of London ; and than
retnining by Primeeeffill they drove all downOdcford^treet to
Lady Btamnore's htnue in 'Paik Laaw ; that pErtieuiar had toi
Tetozn being choaen at Lady Gonatanee's iuui'aaBdafjiit, as durmg
her foRoer Tkits to London «he had ahrayadelis^tedixnsweingihB
eremng aky ^ficom that'point.
Certainly 'there -axe few «odnes -which eaanl Ootfoad Btreet, jst
Ihe time i^ien te sun is ainhisg in the tar weat. Xhe.^koaRiy
fiTenne of hooaea-^tfae msiky atiooaphiare, all an fire with the
lurid lE^lendoor of Ihe aatttqg aun-^the nunsFre aloodsyindistinat
in thenr Tugsed outiinea, bat Tefleeting e^avy ihade of swarthy
colourings-altogether form a scene of heavy, oppressiTe .grandenr
seldom to be surpassed.
'Whan ihe spirit within ose k dirtnrbed and nnhappy, these
soanasaasiuneaehaiactar'neeaiiBrlyinipTOasivB'andatrila^ The
«nmtry with its <dear lotvely anoaats, its peen fields, its murmur-
ing nvers and shining lakes, seems in unison with'iue quiet giiefiay
«i3. gentle w irru w s of the heart; or eren if wilder 'passions are
abroad, nature rather aoo^s than irritates the wretchedness of
man. But in London the unhappy spirit has to battle againtt
eTer:fthing ! There is gaiety to mook it-Hhare is mnery to har-
row it^there ia activity to kaep it attve ix) its oufiGeringe— evecy-
thi ng in short but what it craves — ^peaoe !
We paas, perhaps, in all tiie outiraid aplflodbanr fH equipage and
attendants — sorrowing', solitary ereatarea— famidit Ihrongs of
hnman beings who looow us not, nor oare for ub. '* Biyers of
Iranian faces pass by ns, bat:not one'tamsto look on ub ; or if it
did, could it r^ the deadlr a^pony which periiaps lurks within !
And they too have their leehngs !— Eaoh one inihose thousanda,
who paas us in the orowded ** atony •hearted" .streets, is a world to
bimaelf : a world of love, and liate, and azi^ing want, and
torturing^ anziety'—ofjoyfiilaniieipationr-flr.ornufleiy^^ dull,
dead-heartedness !
Then niffht S-^-^ght, when all tiie vwt <eano|iv of «m<^e whioh
the busy day kept pouring fdrth, .'has aonk, 4Enn hit the ^^ at
last clear .and bri^tr-^how si^emn is night over .the sleeuini:
fitreetsl The moonbeams bring -so whito on the houses, and the
fihadowB so doubly bhuk.; the rolting <d the whealB heard at inb>
aaaaamshb diBtmoaaihxoagh the en^y Bgnaases ; auid;thfr diuxiol^
268 sot BOLAITD ASHTOIT.
docks taking up the tolling hour from each other, and repealing it
all around, till me last faint chimes scarcely fall upon the ear ! all
is so sullen— fio mournfully silent. And the cold moon which goes
80 noiselessly along, over the heads of the hushed multitude — as if
she thought that hush were peace ! Oh ! could she look with
intelligent eye, on that over which she glides so gently and xm-
moved, what scenes would be revealed to her watching glance !
Unroof but one single street of all the miles of habitations which
compose the largest capital of the world, and what yitsissitudes of
life would be unveiled ! Here, death with all its grim and fell
accompaniments— there the £rst child's welcome birth ! Here
avarice and hatred— there love and peace ! Poverty— sin— luxury
—desperation— joy— madness— grief ! all mingled together — ^yet all
80 separate !
Thoughts like these make London a scene of deep and harrowing
interest for those who sympathise with their feuow-creaturea—
who feel for human woe and suffering. And amid the thousand
causes of sorrow and reeret which iill the labouring mind, the only
source of real comfort flows from the knowledge that all must ho
right ! That though the moon— herself but a creature of Gbd's
hand— knows nought of all the things over which she spreads the
mantle of her light, yet that the Lord— the imiverssQ Father,
knows, and sees, and permits all this ; and that when " The wrath
of man has worked the glory of God— the remainder of wrath will
He restrain."
When the drive was over, and the oarriaffe stopped at Lord
Stanmore's door, the eveninjg: twilight was sml so bright, and the
young moon was shining so mvitin^y, that Lady Stanmore pro-
posed to her companion to take a uttle^ walk in the Park betore
tiiey went in ; and dismissing the carria^, and taking the foot-
man with them, they strolled along the crisped and parched grass,
down to the springs near the Magazine. The fine trees looked
beautiful in the moonlight, for that white tint served to oonoeal
the blackened hue of the foliage; and their walk altogether was
delightful.
" These are the hours I love the best of aU the time I spend in Lon-
don," said Lady Stanmore — ** these little odd hours, stolen as it were
from the world. Dearly as I love my husband, I sometimes enjoy his
dining out alone at these great dixmers (for he never leaves me for
other oinners) that Imay get a little quiet evening, either quite alone,
or with some one who is really comfortable to me, as you are. Some-
times I remain at home, and open my windows to listen to the
dear street organs which I love so much ; and sometimes I drive
into the counter, or take a walk Jike this. I always think London
the most romantic place in the world ! Maxiy people do not know
what I mean when I say so, and I cannot denne it myself though
I feel it. How solemn and grand that sunset was just now ! and
how quietly the moon shines now amid such thousands of human
bein^ ! and we perhaps almost alone, of all those thousands, ei^oy-
ing It I never know what it is I feel at these times ; a moumfiiL
tearful sensation fills my heart as if I had onoe been happy, a ^4
8ni BOLAKD ASHTOSr. 269
were so now no longer ; and yet I never was. so happy in all my
life as I am now. How strange it is that so many things should
pass within us, which we can neither control, nor comprehend ;
which seem something beyond earth — and yet are not of heaven —
for they are sorrowfuT."
" I, too« have often wondered whence these sensations come,"
said Lady Constance, " and what they are ; for as you say, they
are too sorrowfid to be feelings which can exist in heaven, and yet
they soften, and refine the heart. I think they must be aspira-
tions of our higher nature, pent up in souls which are too narrow
for them. There are some thin^ which we know we shall enjoy
hereafter, but the foretaste of which even, is too much for our poor
spirits here. Music is one — ^that we know we shall have in perfec-
tion from the golden harps of the angels, and the songs of the re-
deemed : yet music here — ^how sad it often sounds ! amidst brightest
happiness making one's heart as ' a fountain of tears !' Beautiful
scenery, too, how oppressive that is ! But tJ^ere, the everlasting
hills and clear fountains of God's paradise, will form a part of our
perfect happiness."
** Yes, and love," said Lady Stanmore, " that, too, is painful here
—that, too, wifl be perfect there. I do not mean only what is
usually called— ;love— but affection of all kinds; doating love of
relations — especially of children — ^how painfiil it is ! Sometifties
when I look at my oaby and press its soft cheek to mine, I feel as
if my heart must burst. One may truly say of love, * *Tis bliss but
to a certain point— beyond 'tis agony I Of all kinds of love that
certainly appears to me the most perfect, for it is unmixed with
anything else. My husband loves me, or I should soon cease to
love him ; but besiaes that, he is pleasant to me in a thousand ways :
and all my Mends I love for something in themselves. But my
baby— what can that do for me ? At first it does not even know
me — and yet upon that little thing I bestow love enough to fill the
world."
*• I cannot, I dare say, judge of that," said Lady Constance ;
** yet I can believe all you say about it. Oh I it is happy that this
world is not our last— or best."
Lady Stanmore sighed.
** I wish," continued Lady Constance, " that you felt a clear hope
of salvation. A heart like yours cannot even here, I am sure, oo
satisfied ^th earthly things."
** It is not. — ^But last night, when we were inteirupted, we were
speaking of being on the verge of an invisible world. What were
you going to say about it ?"
" That we always are so ; we walk surrounded by beings invisi-
ble to us."
" Why should you think so?" asked Lady Stanmore ; "it is a
most uncomfortable idea."
" It is certainly uncomfortable when we reflect on the evil beings
that are ever at o^x side, seekinfir to tempt, and to destroy ; but it
is delightful when we Ihink of the angels of Gfod who are sent ' to
minister to those who shall be heirs of salvation.' "
" How do you know that they are so sent V*
2911' OKsomiD'Amos^.
" Him asrmtanBtrilni of i^"
«' In the firit'itf : EEefaiewi/'
** I must, I aee^ nad the SoriptoeBimaee attentiTely/'
*' Do/' said Lady Coiurtaiioe ; " you will find them aa heantiMi
aa "WW. aa ocwiifwfang asd stmig thaoiiig'*' '
*'BirtdD7rama]iy8iqipoae," aakedLadyfitaonuir^ ** thatthBie
are spintabefofe msr.eyea at this memeni; and yet inrviaibie to me?
The thoQKhtiBA tmdbling. one."
" Probably liierei axe. Soixptaxe ghreant leaaento believe that
tiiere are eyil . spmta. ever by. ua ; and eDeoora^es na to hope tdao
that there are good <aa» eyurreadj- to snoeoorjthe tiied and t^npted
people of God."
"Where } Deeft Boriptnre apeak o£ it^.beaidea in theplaee you
mentioned.^"
'* Yesi You Tenember-when the Ma^ of Syria sent horaea and
ohariota, and a ^^eai hoat to compaaa the oity' of Dethan about, in
ovder to take Mnha pnsentr, .that hiasenraBti'WBa afraid ; and the
prophet told him not to fear, for there were more, with thun than
agamst-diem^iand tlwn he prayed thathia a^rvont's eyea might
be opened ;. andat* BagrB$ ' And the Lord opened tiie eyea of the
yoimg man, and he bbov^i and behold the moontain waa fioll of
norses ami chaiiota offfire^- joond abontMisha.' "
*' Can-it reaJly be? Can/ tiwre be dreadfolr and gbiiena spiiitB
oloae to ua^ and. we unconacieva of tiiieir pre8eBee>^"
"No doubt;. Indaed; we know by oar. oiPRn easperiaioe, that
diaembodied spinti nnurt^at timea^ be. iu' the yevy room, wit^ ua
without onraeeingtfaem."
"Whatdoyoameanr? Qhoeta^"
" No. Buti bare you eTer been in the room when- any one haa
died?"
" Oxuce— oniy.oaoei . It wea: a Uttle brother: of mine, sweet little
oreature ! He died leaning on me, with his dear arm round mj
neck. It waa *manyv':|^ar& egir. * '
" His spirit* wliear it Jei't met body muat* then have been in the
room, and close to you, for an instant at. leaatrf~and yet you oould
not see it."
" That is tnie ; . tirangih it neverrstruck me b^ore. Butwfaat a
fearful ftelinf this ia^;— 4taeenia tocoameot ua: se intimately wiUfc
another world."
" It la, I think, very aiwfoL In alliirobaiMiit^. also,- aounda fpaaa
olose to our ean» and'-axeyet unheard. We are eiYea to undersUnd
in Scripture, that the moment the soul depprts-fiom the body, it ia
either ' preaent'wiih the Lozd,' ov^lae otmai^^ned to Satan's kin^
dom. And can we suppyose that when the painfol moment of deam
is post, and rail the gtones oi heav^o, burst.' on the redeemed soul,
that it utters no sounds of joy and praise } Or can we believe that
when the careleast ungodly, unbeheviuf sinnar, is seised hy the
dreadful bein^ who aarein waitiaar for their pveyj and is drained
down— wberevii is.grief to think of :!— can we brieve that no abnek
of horror or despair bnrsta forth ? Yet no aomuLreaehes our ear—
and menwilloftenoallit' a happy releaser Saehtheiightsajitbeae
and made * their calling and electaon sure/ througu Him^ and li
-would never -wiDingH^ d» with any> one at; the hsdor of. death, by
whose side I did not ho^ to ■stand in thO'day of. judgments"
They walked on^in silesoe iot a iMirthof time, but' Lady Goir-
stanee felt the arm that h^d heTB^xemble violently.
" These things are horrible — overpowering 1 " said Lady Staa*-
more at length.
Lady Constance jnressed her arm affectioxately;
** Better/' she said, '* to feel tiiem so now, dear Lady Stanmore,
than then— first— wh^ escape is impossD^ Bist I like rather.ta
dwell on the bright sido of t^e thftng; for 'it ia better,' as seiaft
one said, *to be drawn, than driven to heavoi!' Think of tfa&
ecstasy of joy when all trouble is past, and we eccohaiLge perhaps a
STijfferinff death-bed for all the glories of heaven;" fier' voice
trembled, for she thought of her father.
"Do you remember," she coatiimed, alter alitlie pause, /'liie
beaxrtifal words in the Revelation f
" Which do you mean }"
" * They shafl hunger no moi>e, neitber^-thifstt any more^ neither
shall the sun lighten them, nor any heat: Eor the Lamb which is
in the midst of tho throne ^aU feea them, and shall lead :them unto
living fountains of waters : and God shall wipe away: aU tears iiom,
their eyes.' "
The tears swelled into LadyStamnox^'s-ey^^ as: she heard tixesfr
words.
''How new all 'these thoughts seem to me," she said; '* while
your heart and memory are faH of God's word.'.*
** It is a letter written to us by our beet fxKuA/' repHed Lady
Constance. '*Dear Lady Stanmorc) will you^ not read it, till the
Spirit which it promises fills your heart with the love of God. and
of Christ ? Then, thenonly, will you bO reaUJ; happy !"
CHAPTER . XXXVni.
*'Gette infatigabl^ persdfA^Biice tie la sottise qi^ ne muiqae Jamais une
occasion d'^re sotte."
Whek Lady Constanee retuEoed home from Lady StaimuMre's,
she found the attenttvo Atnustusready to hand her out of the car-
riage, he having resigned "the ohaxms^of the *' ballet " in order to
secure that privilege, hoping afterwards to enjoy a little conversa*
tion with her. She however retired immediately to h3eriro<»a ; and
lie was obliged, much to his mortification, to coajtenti himself with
lighting her candle, wishing her good night, and watching her with
a pathetic look^ as she- went- up^ the first M^ of* stairs from tho
drawing-ro<»n.
Lady Constanoe went to rest that^ i%ht, haprpier than sh» had
been for a long time. She felt a ffreat interest in Lady Stanmore,
and trusted l£at ib»bifBaBiiasyiuuiis^^ JuAJboem
272 Snt BOLAND ASSTOir.
whdlynmprafitable ; and the God whom she had tried to serve, left
her not comfortless.
The next day heing Snnday, the whcde party walked together to
St. George's church ; and then retomed home to luncheon. While
that essential occui>ation was going on, Mr. Mordaunt's groom
brought round his horses, and walked them up and down before the
house.
" You are going out early to-day, Bobert,*' said his mothor;
" how does that happen ?"
" I promised to go to Roehampton. Murray has got a new
horse, and wants me to look at it ; and if it goes well, he is to drive
me over to Hampton Court to dine with the T ^'s; so perhaps I
shall not be at hoine till late."
" What will the Paric do without you," said Philip, " now,
when there are so few stars left ? The * Gog,' wiU be all agog !"
" Tour language is elegant !" replied his brother, contemptuously.
" Why cannot you call things by their right names, and say ' the
statue of Achilles !'— -it sounds much better, I assure you. 1 wish
I could polish you a little."
" Many thanks; but I was always particularly obUged to ' John
Bull* for supplying me with the very appropriate name of * Goy,'
for that unpleasant man in the green skin, and uneasy attitude*
opposite our Duke's house. Don't you think * Gog' is a delightfol
name for him, mother? Lady Constance, does not* Gog' sound
remarkably well ? so aristocratic ! something so decided and autho>
ritative in it. * Gog !' what can one want more? Augustus, you
have often told me that you knew nothing like it in the Greek of
Homer or the Latin of VuTp:il. * Gog !' "
" There, Philip," said his mother, " yon have convinced us all I
dare say, by this time, even Eobert, so we will let the * GK>g' alone
for the present."
" I am never to be convinced by Philip's rhetoric," said Mr.
Mordaunt, witii an indignant glance.
PhiUp shrugged his shoulders in token of resignation.
" Where are you going, Philip ?" said Augustus, in a timid
voice.
" My steps are free and unconfined as the wind, and the dust in
this weather. I go unquestioned, and unquestioned come."
" You can 'drive with us in the carriage, Augustus," said Mrs.
Mordaunt, " if you like it."
Augustus' countenance grew very bright.
" Constance, the carriage will be at the door at three."
** Thank you," said Lady Constance, colouring highly, ** but I
shall be going to church."
"What again?" '
" Yes, I am used to goinfi[ twice."
" You can go in the evening to some other church, if you like it,
for at St. George's the service is at such an inconvenient hour,"
said Mrs. Mordaunt; " and then you need not lose your drive. Or
perhaps (for she was thoroughly gpood-natored and desirous of
pleasing her young guest) you would rather ro now; and then wo
will dine early, and go to the Zoological Goraens afterwards; it is
SIB BOLAITD ASHTOIT. 273
quite the fashion to do so now. I will pnt the carnage off if you
would like it best."
" Thank you very much," said Lady Constance, " but I had
rather be quiet to-day; do not think of me."
** Are you not well, my dear ?" asked Mrs. Mordaunt, anxiously;
** or is it," she added, looking sideways at Lady Constance, with a
smiling eye, and a mouth jokingly puckered up, ** because it is
Sunday?"
Lady Constance coloured higher than before, and said, '' I cer-
tain^ do like being quiet on Sunday."
" Well, my dear, I am for letting everybody go to heaven their
own way," said Mrs. Mordaunt, " and I dare say yours is a very
good one; but I am afraid I should find it rather dull."
Lady Constance made no answer.
Mr. Mordaunt rose, and ringing the bell, ordered his horses to
be called ; he then took his leave with somewhat of less parade than
usual, and the remaining quartet sat sUent, doing notmng.
" Shall we go up stairs, Constance ?" said Mrs. Mordaunt.
Lady Constance rose.
•* You, of course, are going out Philip," said his mother, in a
low voice, and with a peculiar smile, as sne passed him. He mur-
mured an assent; then turning to liuiy Constance, he whispered,
" I am not quite a heathen; I am going to church again, though
I am sorry I cannot go with you."
** Augustus, at three I shall be ready," said Mrs. Mordaunt.
" Thank you," he answered, consequentially ; " but I am going
to church." And he gave a triumphant, and appropriating look
at Lady Constance.
His mother cast up her eyes with an air of resiarnation at his
folly , and knowing that he wished to bo persecuted, merely said,
** Oh ! by all means ;" and passed up stairs with Lady Constance.
The latter fondly hoped to escape Augustus' unwelcome com-
panionship when sne went to church; and in order to do so, she
sent her maid down stairs when she was ready, to summon the
footman who was to walk with her ; and then descended quietly
herseK, without going into any of the rooms. But her watchfiu
cousin, intent on his prey, was sitting with the dining-room door
open, on purpose that she should not escape him ; and the moment
her light step fell on the i>avement of tJie nail, he issued forth with
his hat on, and his gloves in his hand. She was very much annoyed*
but could not i>revent his walking along the pavement at her side,
or going into his own mother's pew; though ane determinately and
coldly refused his related entreaties that she would take his arm,
and sat as far from him in the pew as possible. On their return he
still accompanied her, ma^ng solemn observations on many parts
of the sermon (aU of which he misunderstood,) and asserting that
" this was the only way to spend the sabbath.
After she had oeen in her room some little time, her maid
brought her a sealed note from him, entreating her to come down
into the drawing-room, as he had somethins: of importance to say
to her. She went down accordingly, and ne, encnanted beyond
X
fl74 SIB XQSAJD JflBXOR.
measure, eave her « ehak with somewhat of hk eldest bTothei^a
pomp, added to his own niaUerie, This, however, she declined.
" Lady Constanoe," he began, '* I feel happy in being able, as I
hope, to render some tnfting serrioe to one whom it wHl ever be
my happiness to make happy."
Lady Constonce made a sli^t inolination. '* Painfal duties
arise ia life sometimes, and thos is (me. (A pause.) But ceone
what may, we must do our duty. I can no longer coneeal irwai
you. Lady Constanoe "
He paused a^rain, and Lady Coaistaflakce, who had at first been
dreadfully inclined to laugh, aow became rather alarmed; and
yague ideas of some bad news hayiiiir anived &om Llanayen, took
possession of her.
" What is it?" she said; "pray' tell me. There has been no
news £rom home, has there ? Tell me, pray, Augustas."
** Oh ! dear no," he answered deliberiiMy, uid with a look
which seemed to say how Isiflisg he otmsidered all from thence,
compared with his own deep respoiudbilities ; *' but I must tell you —
that, unknown t>o you, my mother is making preparations— for
giving a ball on Thursday next!" And he seemed overpowered with
tilie importance of the iateUigenoe he had eomBumicated.
" Is that all }" said Lady Coiwtainee, mueh relieved.
** That all !" exclaimed Augustus, waib mirpcise and indiffna-
tion. " I thought I had understood that you abominated mose
things—tbat they wef<e repHgaaat to every feeling of your nature
— ttiat you abhorred "
'* Thank you, Augustas," aaid Lady GonEtance, kindly; "I am
really much obliged to you for havinjg taken so much trouble about
me, and fcH* having: told me about thas, as it will perhaps spare me
a great deal of diffi<»]lty ; for th<NU^ tlie terms you use are rather
strong, yet I certainly oo not like mw late-houxed dissipatioDs."
Augustus' joy was beyond bounds. He wiw Beally kind-hearted,
and was rejoiced to have been of use ; aaid Lady Constance's maimer,
80 cordial to what it had been before, petfeoUy enchanted faioL
He was begianing to pour forth foolish words; but Lady Constanoe
resuming her ccdd and distant masmer* said,
"I feel smre <^t you are glad to have beea of service to me,
Augustus, in tbis affair; bat vou wwld also much oblige me. If
you would cease that way of aadzeMUig me. We are couaiiis^ and
as such, I should wish always to hare a friendly feeling towards
you ; but tiiat is all-^and nmst oyer h» all* betweoi us."
Augustus was daunted for a BMNDeat^ but his excessive Tani^
soon recovered from tilie blow it had XMStved; and indeed his
manner to her was often so exeeedinglT disagreeable, that she £elt
inclined to write to Lady Askton* and ei^ niat she mnat zetBm
home. But she feH that A» eoold net d0 l&b witibout giving great
offence to Mrs. Mordaunt ; and remembenng also, that her oonng
at all had been against Lady Adrton's with, she fdt averse to tdce
such a step ; so dhe gave up the ideaef it, andht^^ by eoniiiuial
repression, to get rid in time of his distasted flod pramaytiKBBS
assiduities.
What had been said about ths ball brought with it ahw mocih
I
^ !i te one flo yonn^, and w dinnoMfied to <fpptm
wiU and wishes of oilers. Though she had 8aid> *'l8 thrifc
all V' at the mameaA; when 'her mind was relieved by finding thA
fhat ** was all," yet no^ on tlimking over the snlijeot, she loiind
it placed her in a yctty disagveeahle sLtoation as re«fkrded Mnk
Mordannt ; but knowing: that the 'plainest path is ever the smootiieet
and best, ^e determined to speuc to her aboat it as soon as i4»
ooidd Wsibly find an opportiuiity. She determined vdt to attesd
1^ ball, for she laiew Ijms Ashten would not Uke it; and i^e ate
well remembered her father's^disflm^obaitionof 'tiiose things, whiek
woxdd have been quite sufficiient for her, ev^ if she had not di»-
liked the thoughts of it herself. She felt also ifor a moment
displeased at the idea of being deceived into doing a tiling whioh
she did not approye ; but be&ng sure Hbaib M^. MOTdaunt had been
actuated entirely li^ « wish to piease^hoWeveir migtakflm,— that
dieht shade of anger soon passed m>m her mind.
Sirs. Mordanmt had indeed iteagined, that by suiprnuig Ladj:
Constance into a scene ef tiiat 'k£ad» tdw wonM be giving her 4
great pleasure. She had ««ften seeiD. gMs who—though forbiddet
certain things— yet were -very glad wml eiroDsnstanoes seeaned t»
affer a sort of apcdogy &r their dosg them; (those for in^aaoe^
who not being allowea to waltz, deligkted in those daoees whet«
wsakzuLg was introduced wader another name ;) dad matfining thai
Lady Constance possessed the same lax mindplea, she thought tim
would be but too gkd to find heiself obliged to go to so «ay aaod
t^easant a Hung as a ball; and Ihemtfre, with Teaily kind
]iitentioii» had arranged this Mttfle surprise Jfor her.
T!he n«Lt morain^ Constaoce spoke at once and (mtely to her ott
the subject ; thanking her so sincerely and cordially for her ki&A
wish to nlease h0D» and ex|i»esidiig suoh paised conoem at seeming
vngratetal, (liie tears spriaA&ag idto her «ye8 as she spoke) th«A
His. Meidaunt, «ilber the fiist moKoat of mapleastn^e, ksssed hMt
affectionately, sayiz^* she was ''a dear oreature, though a sad
litde Puritan^** and « gnater degree H>f kindly feel&ig and inti<.
macy was established between i^Min firMn that aKHeut, than hwi
ever before existed,
Ihey8pentthere6t«fl2ientiondBgin''uiiavoida]biyi
the nnLmpy ball ; and mu«h pleasant «onTana«io& |MUMed 1
them whust so employed.
GHAPTSB XXXIX.
** (Ai! c^e« neiez^CEaUepiteMiM ^pie «eile4e to settiM toi aMrche 4 a«A
b«tr
<'*Oiit ttlB aa«stflrabi»p(Mi«^to4lMKtdrM7,iAidiiui«iies« stNdpi
to its d^Mt"*^
Oir the 8tlL Off August, Lady Constlmce and her friends set ^
{bTSootknd; and their journey haviog been hapiMlyaieceaiplidi^
the party found themselyes u a smaU but WiMhly eoM»iiM>le
bxraseiuthe neighbourhood of Lech Lomond. Mr. Mordaunt had
T 2
276 SIB BOLAin) ASHTOV.
engaged a moor in that neighbonrliood ; and whilst lie and Ids
brothers were shooting, Mrs. Mordaunt and Lady Constance
wandered about the beautiful scenery that surrounded the Loch.
When the first ardour of the ' chasse ' was over, it was proposed
to take a little tour ; but Mr. Mordaunt, who had some little discern-
ment— though not much — ^had found out by that time, that his de-
Yotions were anything but acceptable to Lady Constance; and
though maryeUing that so handsome a pNerson as himself, and with
80 ^ood a fortune, should fail in creating an interest where he
desired it, ^ret findine that such unfortunately was the case in
the present instance, he accepted an inyitation from a friend in
the neighbourhood, and went to stay some weeks with him at
his house, instead of accompanTing the tourists in their journey.
With many pompous speecnes ne took leave of his ' fair cousin,'
and of his moth^, and left them to the care and guardianship of
Philip and Augustus.
Augustus was enchanted at seeing one rival off the field ; and
his assiduities towards Lady Constance became greater than ever.
He was far more insufferable to her than even nis eldest brother
had been ; for to the weakest intellect, he joined the most egregious
vanity. He was good-looking;-all the fanuly were so — and thought
himsSf particularlv irresistible. He was exceedingly afraid of
his mother, and of nis brothers also, because they laughed at T^im
without his ever beinff able to discover why ; and Laay Constance
having at first pitied his embarrassment, and spoken kindly to
him, (as she would have done to a frightened child,) he set it
down immediately in his mind that she must be in love with
him. This feuioy never left his head, and nothing could discourage
him.
Her provocation was extreme, and she would often tdt for hours
in her own room in order to avoid him. She wished herself at
Llanaven a thousand times a^day ; and yet again a thousand times
a-day felt it was best to be awa^ ; for the petty annoyances of
her present life, were far less tryinff she knew than the heart-
struggles she would have to endure there.
Mrs. Mordaunt and Philip were excessively amused at Augustus'
proceedings, and ^icoura^ him bjr being unusually gracious, and
cordial ; but at last Phihp perceiving that it annoy^ Lady Con-
stance, determined to put an end to it.
They were going out one day in. a boat to one of the islands
in the Loch, when Mrs. Mordaunt having fra^tten something in
the house, after Lady Constance and Augustus were in the boat,
returned with Philip to fetch it. Constance was going to follow
them, when Augustus, thinking it would be a very acceptable
piece of pleasantry, pushed off from the shore, and declared he
would TOW her to the islsnd, and lenyo the others to follow in
•nothei boat. She reqnMiied nim to return, and insisted indeed
«B las doing so, but he only laughed ; and finding all argument
useless, she was so extremely displeased that she sat perfectly
sflent, nd refosed even to answer a word that he said.
He was not used to the water, and rowed veiy ill; and Hie boat
Sm BOLAKD ASHTOK. 277
rocked from side to side so yiolently tliat at times Lady Constance
was really alarmed for her safety ; out. havinfi[ made an exclama-
tion of fear at one particularly dreadful lurcn, and receiving the
assurance — hy no means consolatory — ^firom him, that " she need
not fear, for if she went down, he should perish with her," she
determined for the future to repress her terror, and sit as quiet as
existing circumstances would allow.
Philip meanwhile having perceived what was going on, ahraptly
left his mother; and oallmg to a lad to help him to push on
another boat, he jumped in, and seizing the oars was sooti in hot
pursuit. Augustus saw him from a distance, and exerted himself
more vigorously than ever ; but Philip's more stalwart arm made
his little skiff soon gain upon the other. Lady Constance was
truly thankful for this prospect of deliverance, whilst Augustus
continued to cheer her, as ne fondly imagined, with hopes of
escaping from their pursuer.
Seeing his brother, however, gaining on him much more than he
liked, he turned the head of the boat away from the island which
thev had nearly reached, and rowed out again into the open loch.
Lady Constance now grew desperate, and though not much versed
in such matters, she got up, and taking hold of the rudder, sud-
denly turned it so as to point the boat's head again towards the
shore of the island.
Augustus was exceedingly vexed, but he tried to laugh it off;
and Philip having by liiis tune come up with them— in a voice of
thunder, and with flashing eyes, ordered him instantly to row to
tiie shore, and let Lady Constance land. All Augustus' fear of
Philip returned when he received this fierce injunction ; and he
began to be afraid he had gone too far in his sportive wit. He
obeyed, therefore, and Lady Constance, to her great relief, in a few
moments found herself a^ain safe on solid ^ound.
As soon as they had all three landed, Philip knowing that Lady
Constance was tiien beyond the reach of annoyance from Augustus,
felt his love of tormenting return strong upon him. Still keeping
up the appearance of violent anger, wnich had at first been per
fectly natural, he drew Lady Constance's arm through his, and
placing himself between her and his brother, exclaimed, with a
menacmg air,
" Augustus, your aim is perceived; and though, doubtless, had
Lady Constance's heart been disengaged, your talents and abilities
could not have fisdled to make her completely devoted to you, yet
learn to your confusion that her heart is no longer hers— nor yours
— but mine ! I claim her as my own ! We are engaged to each
other by vows and promises innumerable ! Speak to her again,
therefore— at your peril !"
Augustus was rendered furious by this announcement; and he
would not tamely submit to have his bright castle of vanity
crumbled to the earth. His fear of his brother vanished for the
instant before the violence of his excitement; and he vowed that
Lady Constance should be his, and his alone.
*' Ask her," said Philip, oooUy.
icogustiuk aSMdfid to Lady CcmstaBoe in T^hemwi tesns; Imk
"Mfxte she oonld uMer a word, Phalip ^daimftd, " There, you J^eatd
irhat ahe said/'
" I did not hear her voice/* replied Ai]gsttgi3i&
*' Then yon. should. haiRe liibened, ^ sa«4 ' ahe waa,inifie» and
vine only / and abe will prove it to you by going where I lead hem
while you must instantly return* aad hiingrmy motbar here* ]Sow»
begone !"
Augustua still h^tated; but Philip. teUng hold of X«ady Con-
fltence g^atly but fjisuly by the wrist,, conunenoed sorambllnir ^ a
ledge of rooks— ^suppor&ig her with suph stisengtib, that her 6et
aoarcel^ needed the slight bold they oould take of the rugged, paitib^
wav— till the unhappy Augustus,, sedng all facfeher remonstmuxi
iiseless, proceeded, slowly towards the boats.
Lady Oonstanoe was really t^iTified by Philip's ircnih and man*
ner. Her first fear of him returned to her imfAl and she thoudbit
^ had o nly escaped ^am. an idiot to fallJ into the hands of a
Viadmaa. Wheu they had reached a smooth e^ot, howeyer, he
i^easod her ann>.aiLd gave way to a dicill. burst of laughter. Bbo
9tUl feared for his senses* and her ternfilsd look adding to his un-
oontrollable memment, only prolonged, the t^m of her fean; foe
he could, make no intelligible sound* and it was lonp^ era he oould
cease wiping away the tears his immoderate nm^ caused, to
4ow.
" I bejt your pardon/' at Ifist. hci said^ "I wall, i^eak in a
v^nute/'
Lady Ooiistaiiiie iiie& saw tha4^ her fears ware Taiu,. and. relieved
!pm ner- anxiety i^e could not help laughing with him; and
ugustas was gone BOT»fi lit^e disteju^e before th,ey were beeonifi
eftmposed aiid rational again.
' Li a few minutes, howeyer* a.new Ibar seemed tp seize uponLadj^
Can^tance, and she exclaimed, eamestl]^
. ** Oh ! gbJI him back* pray,.Philip; call him back, aikd tall: him
9 was but a joke about our being engag^ed/' And. she called him
h%iwelf at the height of- her silvery voice.
*'If you choose to have him ba^," said Philip, ** I dedaze I wiU
l^ye him here, and. go. back, myself; and wl nevier help yoa
again/'
But Lady Constance's mind w»a too much, exoited; and again
she called to Augustua, i^id signed, fbr him to return. Too happyt
tp obey her, he instantly turned, the boat's head, and. rowed b««&
again towards the island.
" Why have you brought hipi hack ?" said PhiUp» indignantlF.;.
** Lady Constance, must X. helieve that you like that intpleisaluft
sUlyton T*
*^ Like him ! oh ! no, I oaimotr bear him ! I beg your pardon for
8«Q^g so. But I am so afraid^-'-as he becomes sullen sometimfia—
that he may refuse to return with Mrs. Mordaunt, and may eHudbj^
himself in writing to that fellow-derk of his in the Foreign Offiioa»
to whom he sends such volumes every day; and if he should, mfiii*
tion your ridiculous accoimt, and, it was repeated, it migh^ j:eaeh
279
Lknoveo. Oh ! FliiHp,.lie ia near; if yaa ha.'we naiH^ any Meod*
ridp foir me, tell him it was only a. joke.f*
"^I devour my 0"wai words ! Never !"
But seeing distaEess evidently painted, on. Lady Constance's faoe,
and having himself moreoYer some little private reasons for not
wishing a repoit like the one in question to reach England, he
promised quickly to- arrange the matter with his hrother.
When Ausrustos had huided^ he oame up toLady Constance with
a look of soon imbecile triumph ouhis oountenaaoe, thai Philip
felt tempted to throw him into the loch* Se did not do so; how-
ever; but addressiiur him in a low, aolemii voice, he told him,
'* that if a syllable of what had passed was repeated by him, either
by letter or word' of month, to any living soul, excepting his
mother, his pvospeots in Hfe wonld be mined for ever. Instant
expulsion from me Foreign Office,, and all fhtore hopes in that
quarter, would be tiie first step; and it was impossible to say what
would be the second !"
'* And now," he added, "having wanted you,. I bid you again
depart. As you row our mother here, you may freely pour forth
an your griefs and wrongs to her; but a syllable tetany one else,
and you know— -or ratfa^," he added». impves8ively,"yott do no^
know— what will happen !"
** Why did you not make him. xvromise }*' said Lady Constance,
when she saw Augustus again in his boat rowing away ; for she felt
but half satisfied.
*' Make him promxse, my dear cousin; V replied Philip ; ** certainly
sot. That would haiFe made him supnose that I depended upon
him— whereas I mean him to feel that ne depends upon me,— and
happily he believes every word I say. Let me advise you never to
give orders in such a way as to allow people to fancy you can be
disobeyed; if you do, you. may be sure you wiU be."
'* But why did yon say he might tell nis mother }"
** Because I know he oare not for his life ; besides which I should
Bot mind if he did tdl her. Ifhe does not, I shall."
"Tell her what?"
" That we are engaged^" answered Philip, very solemnly. " The
words which I spoke, and whieh you did not contradict, in this
Ssotland, you know, ane sufficienib of themselves in & court of law,
to constitute us man and wi&; soyou cannot retract, even if you
wished it. But I have no fear of that being the case."
Philip Mordaunt was so inoomparable an actor, that his mother
even, who knew him best, was continually taken in by him ; and
Lady Constance, who was unused to this species of jokmff, at that
moment really fiBlt an. actual terror take possession of her; for
tiiongh PhiUp had always been on the pleasantest terms with her,
and had never shown her anything but a brother's kindness, yet,
in this vain, and extraordinary family, she felt as if she could be
secure of nothing. Her persecutor, however, not wishing really to
terrify her, and seeing ^e was uncomfortable, hastened to reheve
her in purt, by saying,
''But do not feaz; I wiH promise never to claim you. till yon
280 >™ BOLASP AflBiaV.
claim me; bo unless AngnstnB bwrwitncai ajwinst ^ y«ir fjAe
Seski yoi- own hands. No, my dear consin," lie ^^"f^^^
«^Si: tS^^ way, "theri is happfly noUiing of that M>rt be-
li^erhad a^rter, and have often lon^l fe one; and jo^i seem
mS^likeitthanailyhodyleyermetw&i. You donot n^d mv
Sways calling yon ^consin/ do yon? I am so W of B^^Tta
foS, 'iaX^Constence/ and Angosti«i' ^^^f^. }S^
C-o^n^Oance/ that I hate the very sound. My mother s Con-
stance' sonni charming; hut I should not perhaps qmte like that
WmyUps; hut may I always call you/deareonsm, or lair
cousin/ or even »fat« 'cousin' sometmies? «t.«4. „^
Ladv Constat smiled. "Take care." she repbed, "lest we
should quarrel irrecondlahlv in the latter case. Do you not re-
membe/that when Horace Walpple was aS^edtomakeun aqm^
between two ladies, he said. 'Ihd they ^^h other uglyr
• Then,' he said, ' perhaps I may succeed.' However, y^^."^®^
me by whatever name makes you feel me the most of a frimd and
^**^on are trnly kind," said Philip. " I often long to talk to
you as if we had known each other all our lives. I have no one
who is quite comfortable to me here. My dear mother listens to
me with exempl^y patience ; but then! feel that it is patience,
and I want sympathy. Now you I am sure would qrmpathize
with me— if you kaew I were in trouble." ., ^ , „ ^
" My dear Philip, I am sure I should," said Lady Constance,
with energy; for her heart melted at the idea of any one bemgm
trouble. . ,, •• j
" Now you are really my own delightful cousin, he aiMrwered,
taking her hand and kissing it with the utmost attection ; " aad I
will talk to you, and tell you all my misery. You see— I ameii-
gaged ! but 1 can't marry ; and that troubles me." ,
" You are engaged?' said Lady Constance, surprised; thea
why not marry ? You are not very poor, are you ?" , .
" Oh ! no, I am getting on very well ; but my * love is a inino?,
and rich ; and her guaraian will not hear of me, and forbids ne
the house— wanting her, I am sure, for his own son — like all ojd
guardians in plays and farces ; so for the next two years I cann)t
marry, and can only see her indeed occasionally, and at other
people's houses; for since my unfortunate proposal, he keeps h^e
entirely in the country, and seldom allows her even to go to his
sister, who is in town. She was there, however, the last Sunday
we were in London ; and it was with her that I went to church
that evening, for she is a good girl, and as lovely as she is good;
much too good indeed for me ! Iwish you knew her, Constance.—
There ! now that I am talking of Clara all reserve seems gone willi
you, and I can and may call you Constance, may I not ? it seems 80
natural and comfortable. But do you not pity me ?* '
' I do truly ; but still you know that she loves yon, and you
know that you love her : is not that joy enough ? And after two
years, if all go on well, you will be happy— how happy V And a
'^ '^■^d rested on her beautiful brow. *' But tell me aoout her, and
sot BOLAITD ASHTOir. 881
abont yonrself," she oontmued ; " for I am fliire it must be a idief
to speak ! Clara — what is she ?"
" Clara Leslie. She is very lovely,^aot perhaps so stiiotly so
asvou are, but—-"
'Never miad comparisons/ ' said Lady Constance, laughing ; " she
is beautiful in your eyes, for she has the best beauties, goodness and
love for you ; and that is enough to make you happy. Now, go on
till you are tired."
" Ah! when wiU that be?"
He went on, however, and relieved his heart by pouring it forth
into Lady^ Constance's kbd ear. She grieved over his trouoles ; but
as she hstened to them, her own sadder ones, disturbed by his
words from the depths in which she endeavoured in general to oury
them, rose up in such overwhelming force, that leanmg her iauoe on
her hands, she gave way to imcontrollable tears.
" I did not mean to distress you, my dear cousin," said Philip,
with much emotion; "I will not say another word of my foolish
love."
** Oh, yes !" said Lady Constance, " go on, and do not mind me ;
it is a reuef to ciy sometimes — even for notliing." And her tears
flowed afresh at tmnking how much she had to weep for.
After a time Augustus and his mother arrived at the little
island, — ^the former beingevidently very sullen and very imhappy;
and after a rather dull walk (for Lady Constance and Philip were
both saddened by their late conversation), they all returned to the
mainland.
Lady Constance was now much more at her ease than she had
been before with her relations. She felt a great regard for Mrs.
Mordaunt, who was an amiable person, and full of agreeable con-
versation, and who was indefatigable in her endeavours to make
the time pass pleasantly to her ; Augustus was subdued, and for
Philip she really felt a great affection. She saw much in him that
was solidly good, and amiable, though mixed with a good deal of
worldliness and vanity. He would often talk with her on serious
subjects, which he promised to think more of than he had hitherto
done ; and he said he should like her to know and talk with Clara
Leslie, and help her to clearer views than she then had. She
could not, however, always persuade him to behave to Augustus
as she wished; for lie would often encourage him in his folly, and
then at other times, when really he might, by accident, have
s]X)ken a sensible word, he scared his few senses from .him, by
ms contemptuous, dogmatical manner.
Augustus Mordaunt was certainly a person whom it was almost
impossible to improve. The least rebuff seemed to annihilate him
— excepting where his vanity was concerned— and the smallest
meed of praise made him think himself Solon redivivm. He was
not able for a length of time perfectly to fathom the affair of the
engagement ; for he saw evidently mat though Philip and Lady
Constance were much more together than they had hitherto been,
yet that there was no love between them ; and his own hopes
would flicker up, if Lady Constance for a moment forgot the oold
her natore. Once, indeed, when a& felfc pained at aometyng
Philip had nid tohim,. tuAsfaka kindly whisn the finmei had left
the room, he recoYering the imoleof his presomptum inan instant,
and was- aboob to poor Ifarik a i«liimft ol alnDsditf, whan ahe
stopped faiflL h^ aaying^
'^AugfQstoSy X afaul apeak tn mt no naia;.ainoa I find yoa aze
weak enoneh to imagine I can nave any motive in.heiiig kind to
yon, heyond that of the commonest conmaBmoa."
This-seTere rebnlBe^ hadj happfly the^ oesijEed ^Eeet,. and nothing
more waa heard of hia hopes or pratenBianB; and dorinfl' the re-
mainder of th^ sti^ in Sootiand, he oonfaoited himself by heing
aOfint, and very arosB^ and hy^poinlBd]^ ainiding^lAdy Ckmstance
an ail occasian8»
After hwving>mado aavaral littb tonx8» the party, joined again
hy Mr. Moidfumt^ setnaied ta London; and at laist the sad yet
joyfdl day was £bi:ed for Lady Constance's return to Llanayen.
Lady Ashton wxote a pmssing in^^tation to Mza. Moidaiint to
aocompan^r her chaDgahaekinlo Comara]!, and gi^e her the pleai-
sure of a ^at ; and Mah. Mcmlawnt^ i^ wasmnoh softened in. her
dislike of "Methodists," and felt a real affection for her young
eensin, whose eaBtreme aimaliililQr aodnnaflfeeted piety had greatiy
won. upon her^ aoeadod witiLpleaanrato the proposal ; and, aooooL*
panied by Philip, set ont wioLLad^ GaDstanos mc LLanaren.
CHAPTER XL.
*'Hoiin came for-nm in irHaah no cxniaQlfltfca worid appetv ny hrnit, la
wfiieh I in ynn comlMrted myMlf, and nid, * How I will n(Kl».Mid then prar,
and then deep;* Inrt yetangntah woold not 1«st» ma^bnt followed ma stiU
when I read, prarooAed. me ihungEajei; and abated awax deep ;*-ye8, maBf
sadi boon bare besn.?>-4L Bbbbsbi.
Life had gpDne on most smooffily witiBL Lady Ashtondoring^Lady
€anstanoe's absenee. She had heard repeatedly from, both Sir
Boland. and Henrv., and nooeiyed good accounts of both. Sir
Bdiand, who had also wiitton continually to Lady^ Constance, was
atiU fully employed, in. the business of ms mission; he deeply re-
mtted his proknged absenoe, and. added that it was impossible
m him yet to- name a time for his return; He spoke to Lady
Constance in unabated teims of His deep attachment; and of the
hapmnesawithi which, he looked: forwam to the time when they
ahonid meet again». never he honed, more to partr. These letters
ffled her. with sadness, though tney no longer rent her heart as
oncte they had dona. She felb her regaia for him grew eyen
atronger aind stronger; for his was a. character whose beauty wav
tba moxe yalned, the more it was known ; and her efforts to bring
far aflfeotion» into their legitimate oHannel* seemed not whofly
wsthoufr a blessing. It had been a fireat relief to her haying' so
UDohjoaw matte X to QomniiinioAtR tft hiiyi ^^^lyfng her stay in town.
and lies tour in Scotland^, as it enabled hemior Wl hem liattos wxthr
ont alludij]^ nmoh to wsel£ or home oonQasQ^; aaud also ft&YQ a
tone o£ oheerMness to lier Qonunimicatioiis^ wluoli db0.,oould not
Qtherwise, kave qomsiAnded^
Henry's letters to liis nuothar were written ut appaxently tfaa
Bigbest spicitsi^or he ooidbi not bear ber tQ> be tDonbled by bis
Tumappiness— yet at tunea at few word»of tbe.deepesti malanoboly
would reveal tne grief tbaib never left him.
When be bad driven fix)m tiile door on the sad day of bia licpacr-
tare from Uanacven,. be looked: baok at the disar home — wbore bk
boyish pleasures had been so perfect, and wheTC hi? htid lutdy ex^
perienced both asidh, ezoess of happiness^ and Buiih rackini; misery
—Hind ezamiued over and over again each window, in the hope,
yet dread, of seeing Lady Constance; andtbonidi h& felt the blakk
of disappointment at finding she waa not tiiei^i yet he loved her
the more &r the resalutionand principle wbii^h he felt sure alaim
bad prevented her fxmxi taking one last farewell. Ho looked on
every object, as be passed rapidly along, as knowing he should
look on it no more; and his heiUTt seemed aluiost to break as h&
heard the park-gate swing to and fro on its hiu^ea alter he had
passed it Tor ever. Amidst alL bis enshy bo we v or > hiA kindly
teart did not forget the f eelinas of others ; and knowing tjiat the
old woman at the lodge would be waiting for him i bo mastered
himself sufficiently to look out for a moment as he parsed ; and
waving bis hand, be threw out a little sum. of mo&cy a^ a farewell
r^oaexnbrance.
When every thing of home was gone, he dropped on bis knees
in the carriage, and leaning* bis bead on the seat, ga;re vent to bis
great grief. His spirit was young and unsubdued ;. and for a time
bitter murmurs rose in bis heart against the crueltnr of a fate,
which not only separated him from all wham be loved, but made
even the thought and remembranoe of them misary to him ! On
her, the dearest of all, he dared not let his thoufi^hts dwell for fk
moment ; princi|de as wdl a& feeHng shut ber lo^d image for
ever from his mind ; and be could, no^ at. that distraoted moment,
form even tbewidii, or hope, that the time might, ever oome in
which be could think oi her, and. not be miserable.
It was too much wretchedness,, howover^ for him: to be at emnil^
with God, as well as cut off from all eajrthly a^Bsotioins^ and Mk
heart, soon softened, towards^ the powerful yet gracdaus Being whose
compassions fail not, and who drew his soul to Himself for comfort
and peace. Mtar deepen and uaom j^rvent prayer than he bad been
able to ofE^ up for many dayi^ be felti his spirit muck relieved*
and bis heart calmed. He would; be thought, tcy to live for.
others more than he had hitherto d&ne ;— be would look more tD>
the end for which be was created, namely, the glory of God;, and^
would strive to be more like his blessed. Lord,, inpatioence,. and.
exertion ;r-«nd.in> these gxeat and heaven- gmded resoluMonSi be
obtained somewhat ol tranquillity.
When he joined his ship, he found it was tO' sail with sealed
orders, but be cared not ior that ;there was but one spot in the
284 sot BOLABB ASHTOV.
world for him— the rest was a vacant wilderness; and when at the
proper time, the orders were examined, and it was found that the
ship's destination was the Mediterranean, it seemed almoat sur-
prising to him that others should rejoice so much, at heing sent to
that fQways feiYourite station, when it was a matter of such total
indifference to him. He felt that this was wrong; hut sach a
coldness had again crept over his heart, that he walked the deck,
almost like one in sleep. He strove to animate himself, and tried
to talk, and listen to the conversation of others ; hut hefore half a
sentence had reached his ear, his mind was again far away.
The ship had a fine passage out, and soon reached (nbraltar;
and the ofacers had leave to go on shore, and examine the pecu-
liarities of that curious place. Henry landed with the others ; and
while wandering with listless steps over the rock, he suddenly
remembered that Mrs. Montacue's husband was stationed there.
He determined instantly to find him out ; and leaving the others,
he directed his steps hack towards the town, inquiring for the
military quarters. Having been directed to them, he soon disco-
vered Captain Montague amidst a group of officers ; and going
Tip to him, with a sailor's frankness, he introduced himself, saying,
that, " as he had had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Montague yer^
lately, he ttiought he woidd oe glad to hear a good accoxmt of her.
The young man coloured up painfully, and instantly taking his
arm, walked away with him. One or two of the more thoughtless
of his companions called after him, saying,
"You'll let us have the interesting news, Montague," &c. ; hut
he took no notice, and continued on ms way in silence, till he was
out of sight and hearing of them.
" You saw her lately ?— In Cornwall ?" he asked, in a low voioe-
" And the child, how was it ?"
"Much better."
"Thank God I They said it was dving/'
" Yes," said Henry, " my mother reared at one time that it conla
not live."
" Your mother ! You are not ?— can you he— Mr. Ashton ?"
" That is my name," said Henry, smiling.
His companion grasped his hand without speaking a word, while
every feature quivered 5 then quitting him aoruptiy, he walked np
and down in jn*eat agitation. In a few minutes he returned, and
again taking Henry's hand, said,
" How can I ever thank you for what you have done— for savmg
me. from being a murderer." ,
Henry, who knew nothing of Captain Montague's history, (t^TO
from several littie things which had reached his ear, he had iudged
him nota very attentive husband,) was rather startled by this address;
but taking no notice of the latter part of it, he answered that ne
had merely done what any sailor would have done in his place;
adding, good-humouredly,
" Touland-fighters thmk a great deal more of these things than
we do. The water is nothing to such fish as we are." .
But Mr. Stanhope informed me that it had been a most desperate
BIB SOLAin) AAHTOK. S85
risk for yon; and that you had been seyerely iojvred by your
exertions."
'< Ah ! that was only by my own folly. I need not have been
linrt^ had I ta^n oare." *
** I cannot express to yon what I feel, Mr. Ashton," a^ain ex-
olaimed Captain Montague, " for I am the greatest wretch on earth ;
and my cruelty and neglect had nearly consigned those I should
have watched over, and loved best on earth, to a watery crave."
•• Of that," said Henry, much surprised, " I know nothing ; but
if you have formeily, as you say, been unkind, you are happy in
having it now in your power to make the future a different scene."
" I will leave nothing undone to atone for my past conduct."
"Atonement is out of our power, Captain Montague, either to
God or man," said Henry, gravely ; " nothing we can do oan tdfect
the past."
Captain Montague's eye sunk under the remonstrance of his
young companion— whose senior he was, however, by several years
— ^but feeling that his intentions were sincere, he soon answered,
" True, nothing can undo the past ; but I trust the future wiU be
very different."
'* Be it so," said. Henry, kindly ; " and I shall be much mistaken
if you find it hard to obtain forgiveness. Mrs. Montague seems
to be one of the sweetest persons possible ; and it is a dear little
child."
Captain Montague sighed, and was silent a moment, then said,
" 1 had written to you, Mr. Ashton, to try and express my
thanks; but probably the letter had not reached you before you
sailed &om England.
" It had not, repHed Henry ; " but thanks were not needed. I
oame off without Knowing where I was bound, or I should have
been happy to have brought out anything for you which 'Mxs,
Montajgue might have wished to send.
(Captain M!Qntague thanked him, but looked confused, for he
knew that his wife would not have thought of writing to him at
that time ; though when he despatched Senry Ashton s letter, he
iiad written a most kind and affectionate one to her, full of remorse
for his past conduct, and of loving promises for the fature.
The report of the loss of the vessel in which Mrs. Montage had
sailed, had reached Gibraltar, unaccompanied by any particulars^
several days before Mr. Stanhope's letter arrived, mentioning her
safety, and that of the child ; and during that fearful interval, he
bad had the weight of their blood upon his conscience; which
dreadful fading had left so strong an imj^ression on him, that»
when he was relieved from it, it seemed as if all other sensatioiui
were absorbed in joy and gratitude; and his affections, turned
back into Iheir natmral dumnel, seemed to flow in a fuller tide
than they had ever done before. After a few minutes' silence, he
oontmueo,
"I have applied for leave of absence, for I long to return to
Ei^land ; but I fear I shall not be able to get it for some weeks yet ;
and perhaps I may we Tou again before that time. I shall be
SM 8M !E«LOn) JtiSBT(fir.
BioBt haq)p^ I'gp^ l^tafke fheme sny^migTmii^
or to do anything in my power to serve you. Will you dine ^wifli m
tfns e^Bmag at Hke mess ?" .
Henry accented the invitation; and Captsfai KontaSfue Qm
walked ^th lum about the place, poiirtang ottt -all thtft ws most
worthy of >obflervation--^lad ind^ to imow acoy civility to one to
whom he feit so deefAy inderbted. EEenry was vm^k pleased Tritt.
liim, and wiOh wefvemL of the officers whom he met at table; and
taiking leiwe kindly of them all, when dinaer wius over, be retimed
to his -veesel.
This me«txn|[ wi1& Oaiptam Vetftagtie seemeA for Ifhe tiiiie to
relieve ifads spinlts a Isttie, for it dvew mB liherogbts away 'from him-
wilf ; bat WMn aigain on board, and foUowmg the monotonoiu
routine eff a «sBlerNs life, las fiense «f sdsney isceoM almoin deepened
-qpon him.
He had wmvt bc^re been in the MeStemoifian; and hal ius
heart befen «t 'ease, how wovAd he have eirloyed its lovely (dfiiate,
and its besntiM shoresi But new, as he IdokBdi into the xAeai
Asiiths &£ lis blue waters, he only seemesd to lone for repose within
Iheir bosom. He seemed incapable of peace, and to bedriven from
CFVvry «al>jeot «n which his thoughte oooid reA ; fat everv avenuB
to feding was Med with the objedte iiiat fiheuM fc« avosiM. EfS
wesj ^rayeni had been so ifoll «f herl fer he was com whose ^niit
had mtherto sought rather to bring the blessing of God doviL<n
his«Bi4My lieasmB, Ihaa to raise itoelf vpte Bb
Yet it was Mt the feeimg SMrely «f tdisapnomted tdBPeetaons, or
•f f»paratk>n 6om witat he loved, which brou^t 1ii» deadly bqp
on everything ; it was the fear of sin, the dread -of fpailt upon mB
soul, which sadecrerytfaoovht of hCTie«o ten^ ffis
ycmxg^ nmmitic heart, w<oaMi«tber ha^ ^de&gbbed t^ihermse, m
smrisbjag up ite vegrrts, and dwelfinig upon lAte recoUedsooB «
former happiness ; but his awabeaied oenseieDLee, attdhagh "pimap^
would not allow of ^m4omgaomm; aadmet ksvHig strengtii to
oepe with the evil, and 4nbdoe it» he found Ids wily icfoge wasm
tBdeavouniw to ahvt out mmory altogether, like Me wldeh be
led unhappify (■wu e utod nalhing ta fill tthe spaee thus left »
vacant ; sail all that he ioitthereiBve in g^tenl, w«a avoid, ahao^
mnflpdmJde sense of ujtter desohttion.
Ilierew«re none ^n board widi whom he hederrer saikdbefts^j
sod if asy of his ioraier afainnaijles had seen him the^
searoely have leoocniwd in his fdbe, mefauaeholy ooantenanee, A*
tetuves of his, w&na onee huayant anftd^ and Monding heart, had
Made all br%ht«nnDid,«nd ofteiafusedits ^Mnem «Ten into tin
weary night-wvtoh.
Aniongalllui now ooKpanieBSi ttsrawushut «ne whocxcM
any interest in him; and that w«i Mr. SI. Gfaur, Hm Urslrli^
tenant fie was « middle-ttged man, with a gnrve hut {Aeaw
oountenance ; and though he was one who spoke but little^ yet tan
little was invariahlF iiiid sbhI (waalifltii^. A hmgh or joki
seldom indeed passed Ms own li^; hot ai ofteer on boafdw«B
mora tolecantof the laaghtsr sadjokw «f oUmps. Sven vbcn
the "sky-larking" of the half-crazy 'mids/ passed ahnost all
fiS7
iKrands of ondxuraaifie, Bpd oaHed fantk luod woiids «nd aemte loaks
from, otkera inldteiBfaip, liiBindi4gart amile, and kmd excuse, weoe
ever ready.
''There s agisat neiflfi %eloir Hiese, Ms. St CHair/' ths oaptmn
would exelaim.
"Yovmg Bpirhs, sir, ymmg spiixtB^ all the hetfcer when work
ooi&efi," would he the kiaod-Akeartod answer.
Yet when in passing along deok«, his "Have a care, youi^
gentlemen," was heam, it was isLvariahly tseaited with respect ;
and tiie " At, a^;, fiir," was never more i^heenfiiLly returned than
to him ; while quiet would he for a moment fosteFed.
The ligiut-heartod heongs over wbem he exetwised ^is 'mild
eontrol,' used among themselves to call hia St. John St. Clair —
John hieiing his dinstiaaBL name; hut the ajppeHation was given in
all kindliness, for he was greatly heloved ; and the strong religious
opinions whidi ansgested tbe name hzinging withtheon no harah-
nesB, were tdesated for his sake; and in mas^y instanoes indeed*
hecame, through him, reverenced for their own.
Under eixcnmstanoes of less intolecahle mdksna^h HJeniy Ashton
wooM often have gladly conversed with hian ; hot it was imposfidhlo
for him to talk rniMh on indifior^it suiyeots, and the souroe of liIs
affiction was one whieh he eonld lay '0|>en to no hnman eye, nor
could he seek aocsifiart under it from any hionaa vetce. Scapody
indeed, to Hea-vien oovld he, at that difitressful time, kok for ccta-
solation. " II ^toit triste de la tristesse, qui §toit alors le fond de sa
vie," ("Se wns sad, with Hut sadness whieh was then the gzoand-
wwk of Us liie,^) and all his eneo^s seemed g(»e.
Alter <erai8ing about fo):.BQ(me tuae- the ihip touched at Malta^
and when there, Mr. St. Clair received a letter from a friend of hU
who had formerly sailed with Ebnry, and who »ade partiocdar
inquiries afisr kim ; asking if he were still 1^ Mfe of the<Grew, as
helial fenneriy been. SmpriicMi at neoeiving a chaiaotier of him
so vnlike what his piesent anpeasanoe wan*anted> Mr. St. Clair
wstohed him more closely; aiMlhe s0en heeame eanvinoed that it
was trouble of faeort wiudli had eonvserted tibe once|:ay and high-
iq^iited young saJlQC, into tiba silani; mftlmniholy being who then
trod the deeks with so absbEsetednn aic !DiiB oonvietkMi roused
all his kindly fediags; and mnde han wuaoiis if pessiUo ta
assuage the fl0Rtmr«f so ymag a heart.
When Henry's turn, tiMBBfom, eawe for looeinQg thenija^ht-watehy
hue lingered sone tine on deck, watdiing for ano^portuaity (^ q^
oonwwaation with Urn. fiaBry« unaware of hu objeoL took no
notice of him, bat eontinBed Ms numoteBons wnU: up and down in
silence ; till at length, fiiUof his own aul theugliis, he stopt and
leant over the f infeaay^ hiaiwe bncied oa his una. . A strong but
kind hand laid on nis shoidder, aoon roused hisx froai his revezie.
Ho started, aadwasiathar anrprandfltfiadin^it was Mr. St Clair's ;
iat he had seaxaeljr ezohanged a sylkhle witiLhha, ecBoepting on
matters <^ duty, sinoe fas had hesaon beard.
** These nlg^t soeaes witon mrianflh^ tiamghte, ICr. Aaht<Bi»*'
add tiie first-lieirtaB8Bt.
^ IIMaMra m thm^nnvfaiiB^" aepHwi Hiwi^iibaBnlyv
288 Sm BOLAin) ASHTOK*
** Not if we like holding oommiuiion with the Father of ouz
epirits," said Mr. St. Glair ; " but otherwise darkness is generally
felt to be a dreary thing."
** All times are much alike, I think/* replied Henry.
'* To me, I confess," said Mr. St. Clair, '* these tiimqiiil honrs,
when most of the poor fellows are below in their hammocks, are
particularly delLgh^al ; the unusual quiet makes one more mindful
of * Him, ne'er seen but ever nigh.* "
Henry was silent, and again lefint down his head.
" Has the thought of him no charm for you, Mr. Ashton ? " con-
tinued his kind companion.
" It used to have, answered Henry, without raising his head.
"You have not the look of one whom sin has separated from his
Gbd," said Mr. St. Clair, in a tone which would have unlocked
the closest heart.
" No," said Henry. " I have sins enough certainly, but I have
no fears of Qrod's anger; though I cannot just now enjoy His
love."
His young heart was touched by Mr. St. Clair's manner ; and
with that yearning for commiseration, so natural to all, especially
1k) the young, when affliction is new and bewildering to tnem, he
longed to pour forth all his miseries. But that was impossible*
His troubles did not belong to himseK alone— the most sacred feel-
ings of others were involved in them ; and those he could not
betray.
** Prayer will bring God's light back into your heart, young
man," replied Mr. St. Clair, in a softened voice; **no sorrow can
withstand His gracious presence there. You have found that I
daresay at times."
" I have never known sorrow till now."
" Then you must have had the life of one of a million," sighed
his companion. *' But nevertheless the burthen is not the lightor
because our shoulders are unaccustomed to bearing it. I don't seek
your coi^dence as to your earthly trial8,'^you can tell them to :sroui
God ; and it is but poor pleasure to hear th© record of sujfferin|;s
which make one's heart bleed, while one cannot raise a finger m
help. But a little word of God's peace will sometimes oheer a
drooping spirit, if Satan's power is not too hard upon it. You seem,
I am happy to see, to have some hope beyond this world."
" I hi3— but everything now seems gone ! "
'* Oh ! that mustnotbe?' said Mr. St. Clair with kindly warmth;
''you must rouse yourself, and not let the evil one gain so mudi
advantage over you. B«member,--doubting of God's mercy is a
sore sin ; and so is, rejecting His consolations."
*' I used to think," said Henry, " that sorrow would always raise
the heart to God ; but I find it far otherwise."
The recollection of his conversation with Lady Constance when
he was walking with her on the shore, on the first day of his arrival
at Llanaven. rushed over his mind at that moment, and completely
overwhelmed him. He remembered so well his own words, *' Joy
on the one side, sorrow on the other, lift the soul to God ; " and as
he felt how litue thatwas now his ownejqperienoe, and wemflDunry
ECS SOLAND ASHTO:Br. ^9
of that, delightfal hour flashed across him, his spirits completely
gave way, and a deep burst of grief broke for an instant the silence
of the night.
Mr. St. Clair felt a painful compassion for this young and
sorrowing heart; and spoke words oi kindest sympathy. After a
few moments Henry became more composed.
"I am very weak," he said; "but I Ixust I shall be able to
look more to God than I have done lately, and then I shall be
strengthened."
Mr. St. Clair remained with him during the whole of his watch.
They walked up and down the deck together ; and in the course of
their conversation, Mr. St. Clair adverted to circumstances in his
own life which had shown forth the power of Gbd to sustain under
trial and afliiction ; and as Henry Asnton expressed a wish to know
what they were, Mr. St. Clair gave him the outline of a life which
did indeed show that God is "a very present help in time of
trouble."* Henry as he listened felt grieved and shocked at the
rebellion of his own heart; and fervently, though secretly, im-
ploring the pardon and strength of his Heavenly Father, he
found a peace of mind to which he had long been a stranger.
From that time he took great delight in the society of his new
£iend ; and though the source of his sorrow was one which he
could not ever touch upon to others, yet he felt his faith so
animated by Mr. St. Clair s example and conversation, that he was
enabled with some success to combat its terrible power in his own
heart.
His ship was stationed for some time at Beyrout; and Henry
obtained leave to go on shore and visit some of those places in
Syria which must ever afford intense interest to the truly Christ-^
loving heart; for though
— fast as eyening snnbeams from the sea.
Thy footsteps all in Sion*s deep decay
Were blotted fh>m the holy ground,-— yet dear
Is every stone of here, for Thou wast sorely here.**
When he saw the dreadful degradation of the ancient people of
Qodf ground down as they were under a second Egyptian bondage^
and tyrannised over in every way— his heart burnt within him I
Devoutly did he pray Ihat the Lord would soon arise, and appear
in behalf of his afflicted people; and his ardent spirit recovering
somewhat of its old enthusiasm, made him eamestlv desire, that
if human means were in any way to be instrumental in the pro-
mised restoration of Israel, his arm might be amongst those
permitted to uplift itblf in the cause. Yainwish! Yet doubtless
not forgotten by that Gt)d, whp has said, as regards this, His
beloved nation : ** Blessed is he that blesseth thee !
* The flrst-lientenant's stoiy was found too long an episode to introduce U^
thiswork. (It is now pnblisbed alone. 1804.)
fOR BOLAJTD ASHTOQf.
CHAPTER XU.
•IheabMtt liiiiitepoiftr to MArtriUeh is biMidiipiB oar i
iKfng."— CArMtot Ladia^ Magmdm,
•* GhetchoE uprte de Diea Is fime qpe vou as Uumefo en mil aBtre."-^
1gAi>A»ng SB GVTOK.
(8eek from God the strength 70a ivill fiftd in none other.)
HsNBT AsHTOir contiimed to write freqtienthr to his moilLer,
tbougli it was eyer a task to Mm to do so. To Lady Constaace of
course he wrote no more, nor could he master himself sufficient)^
to continue his correspondence with his brother ; but he sent many
kind messae€fl to them both, in h is let ters to Lady Ashton, and
endeavourea in every way, as&r as troth would allow, to prevent
her from suspecting the real cause of his unusual silence.
After remaining for a few months at Beyrout, his ship was to
return to Malta ; and she was on her way back, when a mgfatfial
accident occurred, q[>reading sudden death and angruish around.
Henry, and Mr. Bt. Clair had been conversing together for some
time on deck one day, while l^e men were practising at the ^uns,
when a violent shock was felt from the explosion of a oartndge-
1x>z near them, which tore sway and scattered in all dir^tions
a considerable part of the bulk-head by which it stood, killing two
.unfortunate men on the spot^ and severely wounding severaloSiers.
Mr. St. Clair providentiany escaped with a siisht graze; but Henry
Ashton, who had been standing quite close to the spolL was instantly
struck backwards — fragments both of metal and of wood having
entered his side tmd cnest, carrying portions of his clothes also
with them into the fear^ wouiids. It was thought indeed, at
first, that he was dead, for he lay MotJo nki B s on the deck, with a
ghastly pallor on his ^heek ; and the surgeon under that impression
passed him by, and naturally gave his attentaon where he thought
it would be of more avail Mr. St. Glair also thought that all was
over ; but restraining his feeliirgs with seamanhr self-command, he
likewise went to render assistance to the usfertunate men who
irere wounded. When eveiything had been done for them, how-
ever, and ine bodies of those who were dead were about to be
removed, a slight contraction on Henry's brow, as" they were bear-
ing him away^ proved that Mfe in him was not quite eztinet. The
surgeon then instantly attended to him, and entered into a minute
examination of his wounds; and while he was doing sO; Mr St.
C3lair watched his countenance with the moerintenso anxiety: and
his heart sunk within him when, "after a time, the other show his
head, saying,
"There is life certainlv, but I see no hope; it is impossible he
oan recover; feeling is almost gone, or he never would have en-
dured what I have been doing, without bavins' betrayed evidences
of extreme pain— lus side is full of splinters.'^
He was carried carefully to his berth, where every attention was
Snt BOIiAlf]) ASHTOir* tti
Mid lam, and tiaabi time to time the surgeon was able to extraet
from some of Ids many woimds splinters of irood or metal, and
portions of Ms drees; ont it was some days before anytfainfl: like
oonscioitsBeBs retamed. Mr. St. Clair was unwearied in his lind-
»BBB, nnrsiaff him with the utmost tenderness, and deyotin^ all the
tisne he could spare ^m his duties towatohinff oyer him; and
Seat was his delight, when, after davs of almost nopeless anziety^
at last opened his eyes and enaeaTOured to utter articulate
Boimds. His weakness, howerer^ still continued almost like deatiii :
and the utmost he could do was to whisper ocoaeicmally one word
at a time. The surgeon stiU gave no hopes of his life, for he said
it was impossible that his constitution could stand what he must
kaye to undergo before all extraneous matter was extraeted from
his wmrnds.
By the time he reached Malta his consoiousaess had quite re*
turned, but with it also the most ex9[uisite sense of pain ; and the
noise and bustle of the ship became intolerable to him. ** Home,
was ever on his lips, and he implored that he might be sent there.
fie felt that he ooidd not Mve, and the trials thAt had formerly
aeemed so great* faded away before the near view of eternity*
JSe oottld now think of Gcnstanee and his brother with deep but
flafan affection : and longed only to see them once again, and .then
to lay his head on his mother's breast — ^his mother, towards whom
his heart yearned so painfhlly !— and >die.
The " Oriental " was net at Malta when his yessel arriyed ; and
Iw there w;as a ship of war just sailing homewards, it was thought
hdst for him to go by that, as he would then haye the advantage
of the SBigioal attenaance on board. His mind was much relieved
when he found he was to return home; and he often exj^ressed to
Mr. St. Gair his de^ sense of God's goodness in arranging all so
omdi in accordance with his wishes.
"Ah!" he exdaimed, *'hcrw eternity ohaagos one's view of
things! Sin now seems the only evil."
" But sin is waahed away frdm your soul, is it not }'* asked the
«thffir«
" I trust so," he replied ; ** but I recretits existence all the more^
and my late rebellion has been terrible."
"You seemed to hate much to bear/' said Mr. St* Clair.
" I had," replied Henry, sighing^deeply ; '* at least I thought so
ihftn, but now I am thankful for it. It has loosened my tie on
life ; and I nave now no wish but to go to !&im whose love and
mflfcy has pardoned, and wiU receive^ me."
" But mere disappointment in the thjflftgs of life is not the best
frame of mind in which to die, Mr. Ashton," said his friend ; who
felt most anxious that his ground of hooe i^uld be clear, and
ifaat loye to Him who had died ferhis saJie should he the acting
principle of his mind.
" I kndv- that," said Henry, "and it is not so with me; buthad
aH bean bright on earth, tne pain of parting would have beoi
gteater."
"You are at peace with Gh>d, then^"
Jl nailet the first Mr. St. Clair had etei Men pasa oyer
TJ 2
892 SIB 'BOTJJSTD ASHTOir.
Henry's sad and rafB^ring oonntenanoe, lighted up his fioll Uue
eyes, and was his only answer.
" Trostdng only to the merits of Christ ?" oontiniied his Mend.
" Only/' mnrmnred Henrv, raising his hand involuntaiily in
the feryonr of his feelings ; thons^h the next moment anexpression
of extreme pain oonTnlsed his features, for the slightest motion
agonized him.
His removal from his own ship to the frigate in which he was i»
return home, was attended by the most excmciatinflr torture, and
the surgeon scarcely thought he would live thronj^h it. Mr. St.
Oair supported him the whole time, and not a single murmnr
escaped his Ups; though the nnbending contraction of his brow,
and the frequent, irrepressible sounds of anguish which burst frtmi
him, show^ how much he had to endure. When lowered into
the boat on his hammock, he put out his hand as if to search for
something.
"What is it?*' asked Mr. St. Clair.
"My desk," he said.
It was the one in which he had been used to keep Ladv Con-
stance's picture, and his other treasurer— remembrances or her —
and he had forgotten for the moment that all had been removed;
but recollecting it Ihe next instant, he added, " It does not signify,
I care not for it."
•* Everything is in the boat with you,'* said Mr. St. Clacr.
" I shall need nothing long," replied Henry.
Mr. St. Clair turned away to hide the tear that filled his eye, at
the thought that indeed, in all probability, the fine and noble-
looking being before him would soon be beyond the reach of human
comforts, or of human sorrows.
He accompanied him on board the frigate, and made everything-
as easy about him as he could ; and earnestly did he wish he were
able to return home with him, but that could not be ; and as the
vessel was getting under way, he was forced to go. He bent oyer
thepoor suSerer, and in solemn, affecting words, commended him
to Gfod; though Henry could only answer by a kindling glance of
gratitude, and a slight pressure of the hand, for his strength was
almost exhausted.
The vessel had to touch at Gibraltar on its way home ; and, as
it lay there. Captain Montaj^e, who had just obtained his desired
leave of absence, and had mtended returning to England by the
next steamer, hearing that Henry Ashton was on board and in a
dying state, entreated the captain of the frigate to give him a
passage home with him, in order that he might, if possible, be of
comfort and service to one to whom he owed so much. His reouest
having beengnuited, he went immediately on board, and took his
station by Henry's side; and it was impossible for anything to
exceed the devotion with which he watched and tended him.
Henry soon felt the comfort of his kind cares ; but he greatly
missed the sustaining power of Mr. St. Clair's fervent pie^, and
was thus left wholly to the resources of his own mind . God, how-
ever, did not desert him, but poured strength and light into his
Bom J showing him hb sins in the strongest colours, but support*
SIS BOLANB ASHTOK. 293
mg Mm at the same time with His own graoious promises of
{wrdon; so that, in fact, the time so apparently destitute of spi-
xitital oomfort, was to him richer in heavenly jovs than any former
period of his life had ever been. He learned to depend simply
upon 6bd, and found stren&rth every moment in close communion
-with Him; and happy as his former years had been, he expe*
xienoed now, when tortured in bod]r> and separated in heart mm
all the earthly objects of his affection, a peace and "rest which
belon^th only to the people of Gk>d." He longed contLuually to
be able to speak of these things to his attentive but thoughtless
companion, who, though full at that time of all kindly feeling[s
towards him, seemed whoUy indifferent to the love of God; but it
was such pain to him to speak, or to make the slightest exertion*
&at he was forced to remain silent ; and could only pray, therefore,
for one who seemed so little to feel the value of prayer for himself,
but whose unceasing kindness, night and day, filled him with a
deep concern for his welfare.
Life indeed seemed at times almost ebbing away £rom his enfeebled
frame. Many splinters had, from time to time, been extracted
from his wounds, but each succeeding operation seemed to leave
him weaker than the last ; so that the surgeon dreaded any further
attempts, lest the exhausted sufferer should die under his hands.
Yet in this weak and almost lifeless state Henry Ashton was per-
mitted greatly to glorify God ; for the few words he ever voluntanlj
spoke were those of bright and heavenly joy, and of perfect aoqui-
esoenoe in his Heavenly Father's will.
Patience and resignation are indeed often shown by those who
have no solid ground for hope as regards the next world, — ^natural
gentleness and amiability often preserving the mind from mur-
muring imder pain and sorrow. But it belongs to the true Chris-
tian alone, to feel the brightness of assured hope at such times ; and
to be enabled to justify by his clear, full testimony, the unfailing
truth of the " Rock of his Salvation."
CHAPTER XLIL
**It b not that which is apparent, not that which may be known and told*
^vbich makes up the bitterest portion of human suffering — which plants the
deepest flinrow in the brow, and sprinkles the hair with the earliest grey, ft
is the grief which lies fathom deep in the soul, and never passes the lip — ^that
which devours the heart in secret, — * * * that which springs from crashed
Sections and anniliilated hopes." — PJumUumagoria.
" So be it. Lord 1 I know it best.
Though not as yet this wayward breast
, Beat quite in answer to thy voice ;
Yet surely I have made my choice 1
• • • •
So * * rather let me die
Than dose with aught beside to last eternally.'*— Kebub.
Lady Goi7STAKCE had found her return to Uanaven extremelf
trying, and for a time every wound in her heart seemed oponaa
894 'Snt SAZiAin) UBKTOir.
a^esh ; but she determined to guin the mastery orer her faftHngi,
and not to giye way to vandering thoughts. She theiefore wa^
lutely set herself much active employment,— «tteiidinff hax sebMib
-wit^ diUgenoe and perseyerance ; and she soon fonna that in this
path the peaee of CFod, and His great consolations, were still ofgm.
to her. Bne was glad to see that Lady Ashton and Mrs. MorcUimt
apneared pleased with eaoh other ; and her hopelbl spirit mndfi her
look forward to the dav when her kind cousin would he of one mind
and one rairit witli tkem. In Philip Mozdannt she felt great in^
terest, and there really did seem in nim some awafeening of tk»
heart ; so that she began to hope that the yisit which had ia sobm
2«specta been so irksoone to her, might prove in the end of mmeh
The captain of the ship in which Henry Aahton had gone out,
knowing that l^e Oriental steamer, though later in ite oepnrtnce
from Malta tiian the frigate, would yet reach England first, had
written to Lady Ashton by that conyevance, informing her^ in the
gentlest manner possible, of the dreadful eyent which had tniken
place ; and saying that her son was returning home at hia onv
earnest reauest, and would probably airiye within a few days of
the time when she would reoeiye that letter ; beseec^inr her te be
prepared for the worst, as the sui^en had expressea it ae hu
opinion that his lif^ hung by the slenderesi threacL
This terrible announcement reached Lady Aditon iuat as aU her
guests had departed from Uanayen ; and it may well be ooftoeiyed
with what feelings it was received. She was walking in liie ewden
with Lady Constance when the letter was given her; ana alter
reading a few lines^inthout cry er gsoan, she annk upm the
earth. Lady Constance in great alasm hastened to xmied neiv and
called for help, but they were too far from the house lor her
bought
or fears, faintly murmured,
"IshestiUaHver
Lady Constance, whose whole thoughts and attention had been
solely devoted to her, asked in die utmost terror, " Alive ? Who ?"
** Henry !" exclaimed the almost distracted mother. ** Oh, Con-
stance! read— and tdl me at once 1 Oh, tell me at onee I" AodslK
buried her face in her hands.
' Lady Constance took the letter, but for a moment she eenld die*
cem no distinct word ; though* feeling even through her dreadful
agony the necessity of selx-commana, she exerted herself to be
calm; and passingher eve rapidly over the prnge till she came to
the assurance of Henry s not having been Killed, she threw her
arm round Ladv Ashton as she lay by her side, exclaiming,
" He may still bo alive !" and then mingled her burning tears
with those of her afliicted fiaend,
"Constance," said the latter after a time, raising herself up,
what has happened ? for I scarcely know."
- ^^''ywtanoe strugpling again for composure, aidcavonred to read
•tHe lotto aloud, but every word came forth almost singly, and
was 'Iteredaswithaspasm; till at last when she read of Henry's
e&dbMiak» danger, iA» tiivMr hermAi iftto Lady Aabton's arms, and
wept in uncontrolled, nneontroUable anipiish. Tet her aoft'eringa
at that moment were almost entirely for Lady Aahton ; she knew-
bow dotingly she loTod her 9(m»*-iBw every feeling ms bound
lip in tiieir loved idea ; and ikda dreadful stroke aeemed abnoafe
insup^rtable. At length Lady Aditon exolaimedrHmddenly dia-
tibgfl«ing heaeaeU,
**' We must be going, CoBstsnoe ; we must not leave him, if—'
oh, my God !" — and fshe dasped her hands in angni^ — "if he b*
still alive !-^we must not leave him alone, with no OAe to receive
him or attend to him when he lands. Order the carriage in-
stantly. Tou will 0OB6 witibi nie ? He may bo even now at Fal-
mouth. Oh! how oould I lose a momccLt.^"
These words instantly brought. Oonstanoe's thoughts baok unoit
herself; and a torrent of oonfUoting emotions rushed over near,
mind. Was she to go to meet Honir? Was she to go to him,
firom whom, if living, she ought to fly to the ends of the w(»*ld^
What would he think? What would he feel ?
Tet how oouid she bid Lady. Asfaton go akme to meet her dving
^'-her pechaps dead som? How bid her sustain the anguish of the
ribook, — the tovtare of suspense, alone, — with no one to speak to^
her. none to comfort her ? How could she say, " I will not 0»
with you to tiie soene of trial?" What excuse could she frama
for suoh apparentiy unnatural oonduet ? What d&e should do-*
what she ouffht to do^-she knew not ; and she felt almost on the
-rerge of madness, for in her eztremiiy she forgot to appl^ to tha
Fountain of Wisdom. Her course was, however, soon decided Iqf
Lady Ashton's returning to her, and .saying,
*' Would you like vour maid to go as well as mine, Constance ?
I thought perhaps me might be useful. Bhe is putting up your
tMngs, but you bad better see that all is ri^t. The length of
our star must be uncertain, so take aU you want. Tou have
ord««d[tho carriage, my deer, have you not V*
'* Oh V said Constance, pained to the heart at having in her dis^
tress foagotten to do so, and colouring deeply, " how could I be se
cruel— so forgetful !" And fljring to the house, she hastened to
repair bar neglect.
The servants, however, knowiinr the state of the case, had pre«
pared tke carriage, in case it should be wanted, and were only
waiting for orders to come round ; so no time happily was lost.
- WhMi Constasioe next met Lady Ashton, she threw her armi
tound ber neck, and said,
" Can you forgive me?"
" F<»r what, my dear ddld ?'*
** For forgetting what you wished me to do.' *
^I an sure you would not have done so, had not your heart been
too fill of us and our troubles," replied Lady Aanton, with that
gentle kindness which never deserted her; **but you wiU come
witii me, my cMLd, and help me at this cruel, cruel moment.'*
' Laly Constance could not refuse; yet unable to consent, she
droe^ her head on Lady Ashton's shoulder, almost in a state <£
iBsemibility. Her silence surprised and pained Lady Ac^ton, who
aid in a d&turbed and somewnat reproacnful voice,
7M snt soLAjrp
*' Do Ton slmiik from the sad taak« Coiutaiiee >— All ! if itbeknd
to yon to see him suffer, think* my dear, think idiat it most be to
me 1" Her voice fSEuled, and she hurst into tean.
"Oh! no/' said Lady Constanoe, almost distneted; "Ishiink
from no pain. My God knows how willingij at this moment I
would die to ffive yon happiness."
** I know all your affection, dear Constance," said Lady Ashioa;
** hut the young heart dreads witnessiiu; pain and soirow; and I
will not ask yon to go with me, if yon leel ayerse to it."
** There is nothing I would not do for yofo," replied Lady Con-
stance.
** Thank yon, mir dear," said Lady Ashton, kissing Ber with
renewed love. ** And my iNxxr hoy, too— yoar brother I nufflit
almost say— he has also a daim on your affectian; and yim will, I
am sure, gladly be of use and comfcnt to him."
She again kissed the miserable girl, who was incapable of qw*
ing; and telling her to hasten her preparotianSy ahe left heri&s
state of misery not to be described.
Indecision was howerer at an end ; she had no choioe, and she
must go. Mrs. Montague having heaid of the affliction wfaii^flsd
occurred, had instantly offered to come and stay wilh lodv Fk)-
tence ; and her kind proposal having been gladly accepted, ue un*
hapjyy mother, and her still more unhappy companion, setoff <A
their Journey to Falmouth, there to wait for news of Henry.
They had not long to be in suspense; for after only one niriitw
restless anxiety, the early dawn showed them a frigate whbn had
arrived during the darkness, Iving in the Falmouth Beads. Lady
Ashton instantly rung and sent her servant down to mquis ww
vessel it was; and the man soon returned, saying that it vas the
— which hadr just arrived from the Mediterranean, anc wbj^
was lying-to, in order to land an invalid officer. This newi fiU^
Lady Ashton with overpowering jov ; it was the frigate ii wlucli
Henry was to return, and she could not doubt Dnt tl&t he fras toe
officer mentioned. She went directiv to inform Lady Gonsaooe d
the happy intelligence, and to beg ncnf to dress quickly aid C€Oi0
down with her to the uiore.
CSonstance would gladly have been spared the latter triad ;o^
she could not refuse, and was soon ready to join Lady Asoton.
^When about to set out, however, a sickness came over hff wmcb
made it seem impossible for her to proceed ; she paused* aid sskea
if it would not be better for her to stay belund, uid make any I^re-
parations which might be necessary ; hut Lady Ashton exyreMW
a wish to have her support, she could say no more.
When arrived on the shore, they saw a man-of-war's h)at ap-
proaching ; and as it drew near they plainly distingnishid ti^
some person was in it lying down and supported by another,— <na
their nearts felt convmoed it must be Henry. Lady Coistaao^
oould not bear to stay amongst the group of idlers whowerebegiA-
ning to collect about the spot, and begged Lady Ashton to p> ^
«ome little distance; but the latter, whosawnocrowd— or any»iD?
m existence excepting Henry-— could not move; till LadyO^
wanoe in an agony, suggestingr that the sight of her atthcfim
Sm BOLAKD ASHTOK. 29f
Ifdoment might oyerpower hini, and be too much for his strength
during the ezhanstion and fatigue of landing, at length induced
her to remoye a little way off, and leaye her servants to receive him
at the first moment.
Gilie boat neared the shore ; and at length Henri's form became
plainly visible to those who watched his return with such intense
anxiety ; but the gentleness with which the men rowed, and with
which they finally let the boat just float to the shore, on the sur-
face of the —happily calm--sea, told a tale of the sufferings they
were so carefiil not to increase, which sent despondency and anguish
again into their hearts. Lady Ashton could scarcely restrain her-
sdf from rushin? to meet her son as she saw him lifted on his
hammock from the boat, but Lady Constance longed rather to fly
and hide herself from every eye. She felt as if all Ihe world were
watching her, and reading the agony which struggled in her heart.
When I^y Ashton had seen Henry safelv taken out of the boat,
and being carried to the hotel— for he could not bear the motion of
a carriage— she turned back, to go and receive him there herself^
and Lady Constance mechanically ^ve her the sup^rt of her arm.
7hey walked on quickly, but in silence ; and having reached the
hotel, they prepared a couch for Henry to be laid on as soon as
he arrived. But when Constance heurd the sound of the men's
steps who were carryinQ: him in, she could endure to remain no
longer^ but telling Lady Ashton she would leave her alone for a
time with him, she quitted the room, and had scarcely escaped by
one door before he was brought in at the other.
When he was laid on the sofa he remained perfeotl^gr without
motion; and as his face was covered with the handkerchief which
had been put over it to save him from the prying curiosity of the
crowd, terror seized La^s^ Ashton lest he should atlast have died—*
even at the very moment of their meeting. She stood breathless,
and without power to move or speak; and. never would she have
had courage nerself to have uncovered the features which might
even now be rigid in death; hut Captain Montage, who had
aceompanied Henry, gently removed the handkerchief; and Lady
Ashton then relieved from her terrible feat by seeing life still in
his countenance, though agonized at heart by witnessing the ravages
which suffering had made on his appearanccj sank on her knees t>y
his side, and pressed her lips to his death-like cbJeek, He openea
his eyes, and seeing who it was, a deep sob rose from his breast,
and every feature became convulsed with emotion.
** My mother !" he exclaimed with difficulty. " Oh I how I have
longed for you ! longed, — once more to see that dear, dear face !"
Lady Ashton could scarcely answer— the mixture of joy and
sorrow in her heart was so ffreat ; but she spoke broken words of
tenderest love, and over ana over again kissed the pale and faded
cheek which had so ktely bloomed with health and happiness.
Henry held her hand, and seemed as if he could not bear for a
moment to take his eyes from her loved oonntenance ; but weariness
and pain soon forced him again to close them. He entreated if
possible to be removed to Llanaven directly; and Lady Ashton»
who had already ordered arrangements to be made to enable bini
to ]ht dtini in iht oarriage, nwe to see if flU wmm ntdy. (hi
opening the door the again observed CapUia Montagae, and le-
toned for a nuNB«nt to aak Henry wko he wm. (M being in-
formed, her kind heart rejoiced at the thought of the happinea^
hiaietom would afibrd hit poor Tnfe; aad heaiiw of all hia attea-
Ham to Henry during the voyaM, ahe went inmiediately, and in her
own ^pneions manner exnreflaed the gratitude ahe so truly felt for
hia kindneas. Captain MontaffiM, knowing that in all iKrobaUtity
Lad^ Aakton must havo beaia from Mr. ^anhope of hiaoondoet
to his wi£s, was exeeaaiTeiy oonfoeed at seeing her, and would
glsdly have eaoaped from her thaokas but huwiag said something
about his oontrition for his past oonduct, Lady Ashtoo* who knew
of the adfeotioKate letter he Md written* niiling kindly, said, "that
all waa forgotten ; and that she was sure he would nev^ again a»
aot, aa to bring baek the remsmbranoe of £onner troubles. She
then gladly availed herself of hia offiar to go and see that eTerr-
thing wua ready; and begging that the oarriage might be hroaf^ht
Xtnm. as aooin aa nossihle, ue returned to Hfiiury. After having
sat by him for a while, she aaid#^
'* 1 mnat go though* and tell Gonstanee to get ready to return/*
" OoBstaneehere !" ezolaimed Henry ; with a start which brought
ipaams of pain over him £rom head to loot, and forced £ram him
wnnda of extremest anguish.
*' Yea," repUed I^y Aahton, after she had done what ahe oould
to relieve hmu '* she oame to be a oomfort to me, though I think
ahe would gladly have been ^Mured tiie trial ; aho is always ao fed^
iag, as yoQ wdl know."
Henrv remained silent, for his apintB were overoome; and he
groaned within himself to find what power tiie things of earth
atiil had to troable him.
Lady Aahton left the room, and went to tell Constance that ih»y
were to return immediately ; and begged her to oome down ana
see Henry. Lady Constanoe instantly complied ; for she had for-
tified her mind by pra^r, and was determined not to give way to
her fedings. It reauired, however, her utmost self-coatrol not to
mnk to the earth when, on entedng the room, she saw bow fear-
folly he waa ohanged; but being meroifnlly enaUed to rotain
somewhat of the exalted frame of mind whioh her late oommunion
with GK>d had in^[iired, she proceeded, with soaroely a pause of
JiMBtatioB, 1^ to the aofa whne he lav* He, however, oould not so
eommand his fediogfr— the knowiedge that she waa aoquainted
with them adding greatly to the difficulty of the task; hui having
caught si^ of hor for a moment, he shut hia eyes, and avertea
hia liead, while great dropaof weakness and agony poured from
his closed lids. She spoke to him, however, calmly ; and he Just
^Te her his hand* and withdrawing it again immediately, reosaaned
silent and exhausted; and Lady Constance, soon ^^^'"g an exeuas
in returning up stain, gladly left the room.
'* Why," she thous^t, as in uneontroUabk miaeiy ahe aat down
wher owu cham b er, " why is Ihis world such a scene of aoffiering)
Why diooli not aU be hau^y}" But she aocm subdued this qoea-
MUBgand&iihkas anio^ and with a heavy heart row to nukB
^^parations for their departure.
ant ]I09JJ»> ABKTON* tM
CHAPTER XTiTTT.
*SMh on hit cross by Thee we hain$ awliUe,
Watohuig Thy patient snvUe ;
Till w« hsYtt lettnied to say, * Tia JnsUy done.
Only ia. glory. Lord, Thy slofbl senraiit own.' "— Kbbu.
Whsv an was ready, the m^amcholy partjc sot off, and Gaptaia
Mantagrae, haying proeoved a horae, n>de forward to Lknayen, to
annouBoe their approach ; hemg naturally, of ooorse, most anzioua
ako to Me hia wife and ehild* The journey to the others waa
tiym&r in every way ; forthough the oarnage went at a foot's paoe»
and Lady Ashton nad oauaed the board which supported Henry'a
mattress to be slimff from the top, yet still every jerk or motion
bNugkt on Buoh viofent pain that they were obliged continually ta
stop. When at last the:^ had passed through the park-gate, and
Henry again heard it swing to and fro after them, now distinctly
did he remember the feelinga whifih he had experienced when last
he had heard that sound; and, amid all t^at he was enduring at
Uiat moment, he wvui enaUed to thank his God that the severity of
tko blow UBder which he had then so nearly been crushed, was in
some de^fe» mitigated ; and that he could now almost look on the
kyyed bemg before him, and yet remember that Heaven had greater
happiness, even than her amdkm, to bealow.
It was now near the end of October, and the day was so calm
Ukai seareelv a solitary leaf floated to the ground, though the touch
e# an infunt s hand would have breught a loight profusion showering
d»wn. A dull mist shrouded the half*despoiled trees, adding, by
Ito grey shadowless hue, to the heavy oppression of the scene ; ana
a moumfrQ sO^nee hunjg: over everything, to which the stillness of
mekinoholy thouffht which reigned in the bosoms of those who were
r«fc«niing so slowly and sadly to their once joyous home, responded
but too well.
"Wben they arrived, they found the servants waitin^r iii the hall«
aad Florenee, vntk Captain and Mrs. Montague, there aliso. Through
aQ her own ^efs. Lady Ashton felt a sensation of extreme
lileasure at seeing the happiness painted on the countenance of tha
latteis though that bright look soon gave place to tears of deep
regret, as Henry's pale, weak form was borne into the house.
Lady Ashton had given orders to h&ve the library prepared for him.
aa it was on the cround -floor $ and thither aooordingly he was at
Ottca conveyed. It was some days before he was sumciently re-
aevered from the fatigue of his removal to be able to leave his
^ed ; and ev^i when he coadd do so, he preferred remaining quietly
im his own room, as that saved him from the pain of being ooli^^
t» see Lady Constance. He stiU believed that he should not hvc^
aad he was most anxious that the peace of mind he now enjoyed
s]tioi4d not be disturbed by earthly thoughts. Even when, alter a
time, othttrs began to indulge in famt hopes of his recovery, he stiU
endeavoured to shut out the idea of such an event from his own.
sdBdt-4t brought with it no comfort to him— for he fdlt the weak*
dOO SIS BOLAITD ASDTOK.
ness of his own resolutions, and dreaded a return to tlie ungradonB,
rebelling frame of mind which had formeiiy given him so muon
distress.
Several trifling operations took place soon after his return home,
which he bore better than could nave been expected, and as he
then really seemed to rally a little. Lady Ashton urged him to allow
himself to be carried into the adjoinm^ drawing-room, thinking
that society would help to raise his spirits, which appeared to her
so greatly depressed,— for calm and quiet in him looked like
melancholy. But in that she was mistaken; his mind was not
sad when he was left to his own thoughts, or when he listened to
her voice reading his favourite books ; and often would he lie for
hours at night, sleeplessly enjoying the comforts which his par-
doning God. poured into his heart. But the slightest allusion to
Constance agitated his excitable mind, and brought back for the
time all the weight of his former intolerable anguish, and he fedboi
would have kept for ever out of her presence ; for the more he
recovered his strength, the more did the thoiurht of her regain
power over him. it was natural that it should be so, for that
which softened the pang of death to him, made life burdensome
and dreary ; but his conscience, more alive than it had ever been
before to the evil of sin and of ingratitude to 6k>d, made him fear
that it had been disgust of life rather than desire of the presence
of his Heavenly Father which had induced his former resignation
imder the stroke which seemed likely to consign him to an early
grave ; and had he had the smallest idea that he coidd have re-
covered, he would rather a thousand times have borne aU hia
illness and sulfering alone, and unsoothed by the voice of affection,
than have again thrown himself into Constence's society. But he
had thought that he had but to reach home, and die, — and his
young warm heart yearned to see those aeain whom he loved, and
to have his mother's hand to smooth his pillow and to close his eyes.
Lady Ashton' s desire for him to join the others in the drawing-
room, therefore, troubled him greatly, and long did he resist com-
plying with it: but at last he feared exciting ner suspicion, and
thinking it selfish also to keep her so much in his room — ^for aha
could not bear to be away from him— he yielded to her request;
though could she have known the trial to which she was exposing
him, she would have been the last to have inflicted it. He, there-
fore, one day desired his servant to wheel him in on his sofa while
all the rest were at dinner, in order, by that means, to have time to
recover the little fatigue of removal, and the excitement of going
for the first time into a room so peculiarly fraught with remem-
brances of former happiness, before the others came in; and when
they entered, the pleasure which most of them expressed at seeing
him again amona: them, and his little agitation at receiving their
congratulations (for Captain and Mrs. Montague were still at
Llanaven), served to hide the trouble which he felt at first again
seeing Constance.
The evening which ensued, passed heavily, for talking waa in
every way painful to Henry ; and his being there in his present
weak state, put a check upon the conversation of the others^ who
Sm BOLANB ASHIOK.' 80i
spoke in a subdued tone as if fearful of disturbing him. At last
Ijady Ashton wishine to enliyen the scene, begged Constance to
sing ; but that she comd not do. The remembrance of the many times
she had sung with Henry, made the sound of musio oppressive to
her at all times ; and now, — ^before him, and in the room too in which
they had so often suna: together,— it would have been impossible for
her to have commanoed her voice to steadiness, or perhaps even to
have repressed the outward signs of a sorrow which was continually
swelling in her heart. Besides she knew the effect which her singing
would have on Henry's feelings, which were always so susceptible ;
and she was most anidous to avoid anything which would increase
the force of trials which she could estimate but too well ; she therefore
excused herself, though not without difficulty, and after another
half-hour, the party separated for the night.
When Henry had been conveyed back to his own room and was
left alone, his spirits whollv gave way ; his mind had been forced
back to earth, andspito of the many eiaculatory appeals to Heaven
wldch he had made during the time ne was in the drawing-room,
he had been most miserable. He had indeed found relief at the
moment of prayer; but the next instant the waves of trouble
seemed to close in upon him again, and overwhelm his stren^rth.
It had been one never-ceasing s&ife between duty and inclination;
and never having been accustomed to exercise much self-control,
the effort, so new, was almost more than he could sustain. During
that niffht he scarcely closed his eyes; and instead of the cheerful
heavenly frame which he had of late so often enjoyed in those quiet
honrs-^so peculiarly delightful to the Christian— his piUow was
wet with the ceaseless tears which in his state of weakness he could
not repress, and his breast heaved with sobs, which tortured his
wounded frame, yet which nothing could subdue. He felt inclined
mnrmurin^ly to question the mercy of that Providenoe which had
preserved in life one so torn both in heart and frame ; and im-
patiently asked why suffering so terrible should be appointed for
nim. Yet throughout all, his heart clung to God, and he con-
tinuaUv implored His forgiveness ; and that He would not cast
him off, but would again send peace and strengtli to his soul.
He was not so well the next day ; but thinking that perhaps it
was best after having gone through the first tnal to endeavour to
inure himself to bein^ with Constance, he did not decline that
evenincr ^oing again into the drawing-room ; and when there, he
exerted himself more than he had been able to do before, to shake
off the weight that oppressed him, and to join in the general con-
versation. Again Lady Ashton asked Constance to sing, but again
she excused herself, and engaged in chess with Captain Monti^e,
taking her station out of Henry's sight ; and another heavy evening
A few days afterwards the Montagues went to their own cottage,
and then addilional trials commenced ; for Constance had no longer
the resource of having others to attend to, and the little home
party was drawn again more closely and intimately together.
Captain Montague's sooiety was also missed, for he was very agree-
^09 am BOLilffD ABBSCaS.
able and eoiiT6nable, and his lirelmeflB had oftea pimred 4 gieat
TesonTce, when no one seemed inclined to speak ; for even Florence's
spirits had been sabdtted by the sight of Hemry's nale eheek and
languid eye, aad she 8p<dce and mored as if afraid oi her own Toioe
anastep.
Lady Ashton, knowing how fond Henry had erer been of ue
society of the two sisters, proposed that uiey should now all sit
with him in the morning in her little boudoiri— whiah htang next
to the. library, she had giten np to Henry's use ; and as no one
dared to obf ect to this amoigement, they retomcd again aM^atcntly
to their old intimate style of oompandonshzp. ^
Daily and hourly trials now arose, and seeing Honr/a aTident
eonstralnt. Lady Oonstanoe was in continual fear kst kis feelings
should at some unguarded sum^t bust forth before others ; ot
he be tempted to speak of them when with her alone. And her
fears were not unnatural, for she Judged of him only by what she
had seen him in former times; aad cud not know how mueh the
power of affliction had been sanctified to him^ nor how sineer^y,
m all great points, he was regulated by high and Christian, prin-
ciple. He would so(mer have (Med than have renewed ike ambjeet
of his love to her, now that he kB«w she was engaged to another ;
and that other being his brother, brought afieotM)n also in aid of
ff odly feeling to subdne the strong taiaptation. He peroeiyed her
fears, howeyer, and determined by one painfol o^nrt to set them at
rest : and as he could not And an opportunity of spealring witii
her alone, he had determined to write : when one day as abe was
flitting in the boudoir with hm and Lady Aahton» thelattar nmagt
aaid,—
'' I am i^ing out, Ooostanoe, bat (disH not adc yon to go witii
me this rainy day, for yon haye « little oongh, and are better at
'* Oh ! no," retried Lady Condtaace; '< I should like to «o."
** No, stay and finisli yo«r drawing; it will be mmsh better lor
you."
She had risen notwithstanding, to f oUifw Lady Ashtoii eat of Hm
room, when Henry^ detersuning to speak to her, made her a sb^
to stay. Her heart sunk with terror ; but she could not refuse his
mute appeal, so sat down again to her drawing.
'* Constance," he said, when his mother had left the roo^ "I
wish to speak to yon."
He etopped and i«ttained aiknt to some minntesi at taigtib»
with an eraort, he oontiniied,
" I feel that you do not tmst me— that yon do net yet kaoiw bis»
and I wish to rdieye your mhid of the Isar I see papetnally ep-
tnressit; andfi>r timt reason it is that I haye asked you thaa enes
to stay with me a momeat. Ton need not fear me, Conatanee> s*
imagine that I would eyer again speak as I did when I thought I
might do so. We are tegether indeed in prcsenoe, but Imay truly
aay that neyer for an instantdo I forget the galf that lies botwem
vvand I should not haye retomed home had I imagmeditpee*
mble I oould haye liyed. But when dying, I fteoipit I th$M
uke-^to see-^I eenld think of yra allttai mladr^^^
8Z& BOLAJXJk jlflHT«r« 908
He was tmable to proceed, till haying eonqneied his a^tatioiii
he added,
" Ton will be glad I am ERire to know that Gkid has been mort
I meroiful to me, and given mo more strengtii and oomJ^:lttr than
I deserved; and I trust that in time . But I only now wished
I to assure you that you need never fear my fozgettiBg what i» doe
to jou — and to my dearest brother ; and indeed," and a gl«w of
( pnde flushed his eneek, *' I should say— -to myself. Were I with
I you for centuries, no word would ev«r pass my lips, hut what ivas
( nttin&r for me to speak."
A teeling of bitterness unconsciously tinged his mann«r« aa he
( uttered the last words ; and Lady Constance felt in pait relieved
) by it, as it helj^d to subdue the emotions of tesademess whieh
. had arisen within her. With that stranfe inoenttstcney of the
liuman heart, however, which makes us desire at the saae mMMot
for things most contrary, though she would have oiven woflds that
Henry had never-loved her, or sne him,— and thoqgh anxaooa beyond
, measure to overcome her own feelings, and ceaselessly striviAfl: to
f do so— yet when she heard him speak of beoeming reeenoilta to
, losing her— a pang not to be described shot through her heart;
. and bitterness also crossed her spirit as she thought, " Is it for one
. who can so lightly forget, that I am suffering aH this ?*' Yet die
felt she was imjust to him, and deeply sinful towards God in
j harbouring such feelings ' for a moment ; and her soul, humbled to
the dust, poured itself forth silently, in supplications for pardon
, and strength, so earnest, so engrossing, that for a moment she
forgot where she was, — and with whom she was. Henry's voice
' soon, however, roused her again, aa he said in a tone from which
all bitterness was ^ne,
" I will not detain you now. Constance, or ever again allude to
this subject. It is best it should be forgotten; and Gfod, who
never tnes us beyond what He gives us strength to bear, will, I
feel sure, when this trouble ha9 done its work, remove it £rom me.
I have been very sinfbl, very murmuring, but I am not so much
so as I was, and that makes me feel that God has not left me to
jyouc
Lady Ashton at that moment re-entered the room, ready for
walking. ^ She stonped suddenly at the door, surprised at the ex-
pression in Henry s countenance, for the effort of speaking as he
was doing had imparted a sad sternness to his look, most unusual
in him; and his contimsted and rather frowning brow, told of a
displeasure which seld<mi rested on his features. She had, how-
ever, too much wisdom and good feeling to make any ohservatieAy
and recovering herself, she crossed the ioqhl to £etehwhat wka
wanted, and merely makings some indifiesent remaik, again went
out.
Lady Constance rose as soon as she was ffone, aiKL weuM fhBjSkf
have left the room without speaking, but sbe felt that by doing so,
she would be betraying her own feelings too much; so she con*
tinned for sometime busied in putting by all her Tazious drawing
304 Sm BOLAinO ASHTOir.
materialef, hoping: to be able to acquire tranquillity of voice and
manner; but she knew not what to say, and the longer she put off
speakinff, the more impossible did it seem for her to begin. She
arranffecL and rearranged her paints and pencilsi as Henry lay
with his hand covering his eyes ; and she was about at last to
leave the room in silence, when he looked up, saying,
** Yjpu are not angry with me, Constance >*
"On, no !" she replied, hurriedly, with her hand on the door.
But then, with sudden self-control, returning a few steps into the
room, and resting her hands on the back of a chair, to prevent her
tremblingfirom being perceived, she continued with calm dignity,
"No, Henry, I am not angrjr; I am much obliged to you tor
speaking as you have done; it wUl gniye me much more ease than
1 have hitherto had. I feel that laid you injustice, and I sin>
oerely trust tiiat you may soon be able quite to forget ever^
thing that is painful."
Henry could not answer, but again covered his eyes with his
hand; and Lady Constance, thinking it best not to prolong a need-
less intercourse, turned away and left the room.
CHAPTER XLIV,
<*Tniy art thou thna?
Have the AiU chords of kindly love, which once
Sent forth sweet mosic through thy heart, been hushed ?
Or has the world nnstmng the lyre? or stmck
Bad discord fh>m its trembling strings ?"— MS.
•* Nature on ns, her snlfering children, showers
The gift of tears — ^the impassion'd ciy of grief
When man can bear no more ; * *
• • • • TomeaGod
Hath given strong utterance for mine agony,
When others, in their deep despair, are mate!**
HB8.HEMAII8.
" Tes, 'twill be oyer soon I This sickly dream
<K life will vanish from my fevered brain;]
And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wHd region of unvaried pain.**— Eirke White.
Lady Ashtoit, while pnrsning her solitary walk towards the
village, whither she was bonnd on some charitable errand, pon-
dered with feelings ofgreat disoomposure on the strange exnression
she had observed on Henry's conntenance. It has been said before
that she was of a singularly nnsuspicions temper, and was never
in the habit of looking beyond the things which met tiie eye ; bnt
she had for some little time past had vagoe ideas that all was not
as it had fonnerly been between Henry and Constance. Henry*»
brusqne maimer before his departore for the sea— Constance's
coldness to him, and nnaccoimtable desire at that time to leave
lianaven, where previously she had been so happy—het disinidi-
SIB BOLAlfD ASHTON. 305
nation to go to Falmouth— and her subsequent reserve of manner
— ^all had at different times struck her with surprise; but the
slight impression they had made at the time had quickly faded
away, and she had nearly forgotten some of the circumstances,
when the scene she had just witnessed— where not only Henry's
countenance, but Constance's heightened colour as die bent over
her drawing, had caught her attention— brought them all back to
her recollection, and seemed to afford a ke^ to what had before
been so mysterious. Not having the faintest idea that Henry was
attached to Constance, and beheving that her heart was wholly
given to Sir Boland, tiie only solution of the difficultv which oc«
ourred to her mind was, that some serious disagreement had taken
place between them, and cooled the affection of those who had
formerly seemed to love each other with the fondness of brother
and sister ; and knowing that the fault could Scarcely rest with
Constance, she felt a dread lest she might have heard somethinfir to
Henry's disadvantage, unknown to ner--8omething which had
caused him to lose her esteem and affection.
Harassed by this nainfal thought, she hurried back as soon as
she had performed ner kind mission at the village, and, with the
single-minded fervour of her character, determined immediatelv
to sj^eak to Lady Constance on the subject. She could not brooK
the idea of blame resting unjustiy on Henry's hitherto spotiess
name, and she resolved if that were the case to clear him to Ladj
Constance and all the world; while at {he same time knowing his
rather ungovemed temper, ske thought he might really in some
way have offended, and if so, she felt it would oe best to try and
show him his fault at once, for " a word siK>ken in due season, how
good is it !" At any rate, she wished, if possible, to restore peace
and good feeling between the two beings whom she loVed so much,
and whose mutual alienation was the nrst painful tone of discord
which had ever sounded in her tranquil and happy home; and
bent on this kind object, she went directiy on her return to the
house, to Lady Constance's room, and finding her there, entered
immediately on the subject.
"Constance," she said, "has an3rthing unpleasant occurred
between you and Henry ? for he looked so exceeoingly discomposed
when I last went into the drawing-room, and you also seemed so
little at your ease, that I could not help fearing you had had some
little quarrel— though it seemed hardly posaible. Tell me, my
deax, was it so ?"
Constance, in the most inconceivable terror, scarcely heard a
distinct word of what Lady Ashton said : but making out suffi-
cient to prove that she had no suspicion of the real state of the cas^
she felt m some degree relieved, and was just able to command
herself sufficientiy to answer,
** Oh ! no, there has been no quarrel between us."
** What is there, then, my dear ? for I see plainly that there is
-something which is not pleasant. Now, dear Constance, toll me
truly, I beg of you— have you ever heard anything against Henry ?
anv report a^nst him }"
^*1} Against Henry?" exclaimed Lady Constance, her cheek
X
90$ SIB boulkd ashtok.
f^frmg ynth m^fra&ikm, ajad fozgettinr at tike momoit, all \m
Imts; "never I TVho ever spoke but iniiis praise ^'
Tears of ajSeotioa rose to Lady Ashto&'s eyes, as she aasweied,
^' Then, why, ny dear ohild» if th^e has been no qoanel, and
aoihktg has oeemred to change 3rour opinion of hiin>— wh^ ha^«
yon, m soiae time jMist, been so cold in your manners to him, s»
•*-4hougrh I do not inah to pain voit-'so ahnost, nnkind } Now—
when he is snfieringr and lancroid — ^incapable of taking any exeis.
iiM»^ or of moving from his so&^soareely able even to be«r tbe
eanwtien of reading to himself— yon never o£fer to do anything foar
him, or to amnse hun in any way, but leave him often either qnite
alone, («^as at thia moment— with only Florence, — and wili not
em pky <» sinp to him, thongli yon know how exceeddi^ly fond
he is of your doing so."
Con^tanoe, in a trcmnlons voioe, mormursd tiiat "^ noraoiee often
ssng to him, and that he always liked hearing her."
'*But still," oentiniied Lady Ashton, " there are many thingayon
used to sin^ together ; and even sometimes if I have asked you, Om^
atanee, to sing some paxtiottlaihr favourite song of his, yon have re-
l^d. I do not like to say a worn to yen, my dear child, or to repioaok
youin any way,, fori know that the yenng cannot be expeeted to be
as eonsiderace as those who are <dder, and who have seen more ol the
tionblies and afflictions of l^e world,—bnt still I have, I confess^
sometimes fdt it hard, that yon should have seemed to enter so
little into onr feelings^ — that yon shonld have been so wboUy nn-
nunred* when my heart has been torn with anguish." And the
Imjcs flowed fast as she spoke.
Lady Gonstaace took her hand, and xMwssed it to her lipcy while
her tear»— bitter, bnming teara— fell npon it. She oould not
sneak, and hex heart conld <nily, in silent agony, app«al to Him,
who knew its weakness, and who gave its strength, saying, " Then
Bod. knowest."
Lady Ashton embaaoed her afifeotionately, saying, with a smile—
** After alt I believe I must carry my complaints to Roiand,
though I much doubt whether I shall obtain redress even Aran
him ; for I am afraid he will be but too much inclined to forgi\e
your forgetfnlaess of those who are present, when it proeeods £pom
the engrossing thought of one who is absent, and that one-<him-
self."
'* I am sore," said Lady Constance, in a voiee broken by 8obs»
** I would not willingly neglect any one ; I have never naean^^
mover intended to be imkind."
'* Well, my dear love," said Lady Ashton, agasiii kissing her,
*' I have been myself, perhaps, unkind in speakine so strongly, bat
JHenry's agitated countenance disturbed my mind so mneh, that I
could not rest till I had asked you about it; for I really feared-^
knowing you axe not naturally oapricioua— that he might in
.flome way have given you cause for displeasure ; portioulfirly as
you never once wrote to him, or he to you, during hu last abaenea
«* sea, though you used to do so frequently in former timee. How-
ever, 1 trust that this little doud, whatever it may be, wili qniddy
msL soxAifm ashtos. 307
pcwB awaT» and fhai Roland will be booh here^ makiiig all bright
flgaia with his dear, delightful countenanee/'
Lady ConstaiKse felt really iU after this oonTersatioa, and her
0|irita seemed compktely to fail under the many and oontiniial
trials to whi<di she was subjected. At times she almost doubted
whether it would ziot be best to teU. Lady Ashton at oaoe the state of
her faelings, and seek her oomiael how to aet ; but the shame of
the oonfession. oy^pcame her, and the thought of Roland and his
deep love determined her to strive again to subdue her rebellious
heairt. But it was a hard straggle, with Henry and his suffering
oounteosanoe perpetually before ner; and she soon found that fresh
forrowB were preparing to try her fortitude still further.
It was known that 8evx}ral splinters still remained in Henry's
side^ though for some time they had giTen him but slight uneasi-
2UMS. Gradually* howeyer, they had changed their plaee ; and
some of them, pressing upon the more sensitive and vital parts,
■not ooly gate lum the most eiLoruoialing agony, hut plaeed his life
2A extreme danger. He was emaciated to the utmost denree, and
hfts onoe joyous oovuitenance now wore the traces of oeaseless pain.
He bore up against it as long as it was possible, but at length he
fouAd he could no longer endure the fatigna of sitting up ; and he
hearly fainted one evening from exoess of siiflfering. While his
mother was making some arrangements with the servants, by
iKhifih he could be conveyed back to his room, in an easier manner
tihan usual, he beckoned toOonafcanoe and her sister to come to him.
He took thsir hands, and thanked them both for all their kindness
vod aiSeotion to him. He felt, he said, that he might see them again
xio more ; and imploored of them both to pray for him, and to thank
their Heavenly Father that he was so early to be taken from a
werld of sin aoad sorrow.
*' Constance," he conlinued, in a lower voice, " tov knew what
mBiiflcm I have to be glad that my life will not last long ; but pray
for me that my x>atience fail not, and that my faith may be
strengthened. I am a great sinner, but I thank God that He
leaves me not hopeless, nw comfortless. I know in whom I hare
tntnted; and unworthy as I am, He will, i caanot doubt, redeem
iDy soul from death I—Oonstanoe, Florence, my dear, dear sisters,'*
lia then exolaimed» with deep emotion, ^* may the G^ of all mercy
and love be with you both."
His head dreppad on the cnshien as he spoke ; wad his mother
and the servants approaehing, he wns carried, nuNre dead than
sdiTe, to bds diamber. ' I
He continued aU night in a most alarming state ; and when the
ssBorgeon who had beea summoned, and wuo sat up with him, vr\<i
able to examine his wounds by the next morning s light, he tbund
4hat unless one <»r two of the ragged ^rtiuns of ^netal which were
pausing such agony were removed, death must speedily ensue:
axxd tli^ug^ the operation of remioving th^'m woutd be attended
frith very great ^ain and riak« yd it would, hededared, be the
only ehance for ms Ixfs.
*908 SOL BOLAITB ASHTOlT.
Henry himself had no wish to live ; he seemed to have parted
tranquilly with life, and all ita hopes and fears, and to be calmly
waiting: tor the Lord's pleasure ; ont he offered no opposition to
nn^hin^ which it was thouf^ht advisable should be done, and only
desired mat his mother's wishes should be attended to on every
point. He was told at length, that as every effort ought to be made
to preserve life, it was thought right for the operation to be at-
tempted ; but he was gently warned at the same time, that it was
but too probable that Eis strength might sink under the trial, and
that he might therefore not live to see another day.
''I am ready to eo," he answered; "and ready, also I trust;
patiently to stay, if God sees that further trial is necessary for me."
He begged to speak to his mother alone before the operation took
place, as he could not endure tiiat she should be with him at the
time ; but she said that nothinor should induce her to leave hinu
and that she would support and. attend him through all his suffer*
^%eing she was resolved, he did not oppose her ; but taking^ her
hand in his, and pressing it fondly to ms lips, he laid his
. , ^ , - head
upon her shoulder and told the surgeon that he was ready for him ;
aading with a faint smile of inenressible affection, —
'* You see I have the best of all supports ; a heavenly Fa&er^s,
and an earthly mother's love !"
Lady Ashton did not write to Sir Eoland when first she te*
ceived the letter informing her of the dreadful accident which
had befallen Henry, for she thought that if all were over, she
ought not to derange the course of the important business he was
transacting?, merely for the selfish gratification of having him
with her m her sorrow; but as soon as she found that Heniy
was alive, and, as it was then thought, in a hopeless state
— she sent off an immediate express to Lord JS- , in-
forming him of the dreadful event, and begging him to forward
the news of it instantly to Sir Eoland wherever he might be. A
messenger was accordingly despatched^ alter him witu all pos*
sible haste, but did not reach him till he had arrived at St.
Petersburg, where he had gone to obtain the Emperor's final agree*
ment to the business he had in hand. The news of his bro&er's
danger completely overwhelmed him ; and instantly entreating a
private interview of Nicholas, he informed him of the event, saying
that it was his earnest desire to return instantly to England;
and beseeching him therefore graciously to waive all further cere-
mony, and without delay to sign the document in the completion
of wmch he was engaged. This request was instantly complied
with by the Emperor, who at the same time expressed, in the
kindest terms, his regret that Sir Boland's visit at his capital
should be so soon brought to a close, and his concern at the melanimoly
nature of the event which occasioned his departure ; and Sir fioknd
having now finished all necessary business, immediately set out
wr -; and delivering the documents about which he had been
5?£*8e"» into his uncle's hands, he begged him now, as no further
<iimculty remained, to conclude the affiur withput mm, and to let
SIB EOLASn) ASHTOX, 300
him instantly proceed to Eng>land ; and this being of course agreed
to, he set off on his melancholy journey home.
The anxiety of his mind would not allow of his stopping a
single hour for rest, either on his journey from St. Petersburg
to , or from thence to England ; and harassed and almost
worn out as he had previously been by incessant travelling, and
the anxiety of important business, nothing but the state of feverish
excitement he was in on his brother's account, could have enabled
hJm to undergo the excessiye f ati^e to which he now exposed him-
self. He scarcely ever closed his eyes even in the carriage, so
racking was his state of suspense ; and if he did so occasionally,
it was only a restless and momentary sleep that he could obtain.
The thought even of Constance could not turn his mind from tke
one painfuUy absorbing subject which filled it ; and he could see
nothing before him but the brother to whom he was so strongly
attached, dying^erhaps dead!
When at length he arrived in England, and after manv hours'
iaravelling began to meet with the old f axmliar things which re-
minded him that he was near his home, his agitation became
almost insupportable; and that deadly sickness of heart came
OTer him, which those but too well know, who have had expe-
rience of such facing moments. He could almost have turned
away from the entrance to his own park; and could scarcely pre-
vent himself from stopping the carriage when he came within sight
of the house, so much did he dread what he might have to hear.
He felt as if he could not have survived hearing of his brother's
death; and nothing but ceaseless, though almost imconscious,
prayer, gave him power to remain in the least tranquil. He covered
Lis eyes as he drove up to the door, lest he should see by dosed'
shutters, or mourning ffarments about, thtf evidence that all was
oyer ; and, sinking m/ok in the carriage, he had become nearly in-
sensible from intense anxiety, when old James-— who well knew his
strong attachment to his brouier, and who had for some days been
continually looking out for him — catching the sound of his wheels,
came to the carriage-door almost before it had stopped, and with a
joyful voice exclaj;med— though his starting tears seemed to belie
his statement,
*• He's better now, Sir Roland ; better, sir, now."
310 eXR BOLAND ASIITOK.
CHAPTER XLV.
"AndBMriotheeAeoomei; ■tlU, stUl lihe tame,
As in the hours gone onrei^Bcded try.
To thee,— ^lioir clumged,— conies as Ae ever euBe.**
*«0h! hearmttlMlkiaptmmel hovrnfbsait,
After Umg desolfttion, man iMfaliin
Tlnto this new deUght. * • •
* * * • Oh.giv«mcfi*y,
* * * The eternal Ibnnt
Leaps not more hri^idx forth fh»m cliff to diff
Of high PamaaBos down the golden vale.
Than the stroqg joy borstB giuihhig ftom my heart,
Aad sweUs aroond me to s flood of bHas —
* * * * Hyhrotherr
Mag. ttBMAny 2> ww l al fe»</ €te«naE*g Ipklffmlt.
Old James's aocomit of HJenry Aflhton ww perfeetiv tme. ffi>
constitution bad sustained tke oainf ul operation wiiicn Y» had had
to go through, better tban bad been expeioted ; and though stall ei-
tremely weak, be had been able for sooieilayB jjast to rncan Lady
Ashton and her wardsin the bevdoir, vhcn Ba Eolaiid retoiiw
home.
The latter, when he had heard his servant's joyfdl iirtelligcBoe,
sdll remained in the carriage for servral minutes, being nenljrtf
much OTerccoue by the reTuision of feeling whidi joy bad broagiit
with it, as he bad been before by exeess of amdety. Jnaas, b^-
ever, not equally infiliaed to aUenee, spoke to bim again, wed Sir
Boland then rousijig hiiaself, got out, aad grasping the old att'>
hand, entered the. hall, aad passed onwards towardB the dmmg-
loomdoor.
It was open, and Lady Omstanoe was etaading there aknWf >^
ranging some flowers at the taUe. The sound of the eaniafe had
not reached her ear, and when she turned aad so unezpeetednr M
Sir Roland^who at the sight of her bad for a momeik stooa tm
checked by strong emotion — ^the flowers fell from her hand, sad
uttering an excteaation of joy, she finuid heraelf pressed to 1^^
noblest neart that ever beat in the breast of man ! The sight of
that well-known and long-loved countenance had banished at the
flrst instant of surprise all the present from her mind ; and old-
accustomed aflection, flooding her heart, swept before it the recol-
lection of the many reasons me now had for dreading his presenoe
—but only for a moment. The next breath she drew, brought witj
it confused and horrible feelings of remorse, shame, dread, and
anguish ; and no defined idea could she form, but the earnest wiso
that she might die before full consciousness returned upon her.
Sir Eoland, finding that she could not support herseli, placed her
on the sofa, and sat down by her ; but the sound of his voice— that
voice so unlike all others — ^murmuring rapid words of happinetf
and deep aJftection, roused her, and in an instant all the horrors w
her situation rushed over her. What had before seemed but as
flat BOUOn) ASOSTOiT* 111
mfearfid dream, was nowadread reali^; asd Imt sool shrunk
from the precipioe on which ahe stood. She ooald not endure Sir
Bolaad's expressions of confiding happiness ; and longed to throw
hcfself at his feet and ooafess all her faithIes8Be8s--all her un-
werthiness of his loTe— and beseech him to hate« and to forget hen
But she GoukL not speak-^eoaid scarcely think ; and though her
eyes were tearless, yet eoveringhez faoe with her handkerchief, she
sat tramhiing in every limb, mile he endcayovred by the Idndest
words to calm and cheer her.
'* I know, dear Gonstanoe," heeaad, "how wooh y(Mi must haye
had to go through; but it is all, I trust, ov«r now, and nothing but
joy a{)pears beiore us. Henry will, I folly trust, now get weil s
ffuL thmk what happiness it will be tiien. to be^aU united."
. BtiJiehe ovoid not sjEieak ; 4nd Sir Bdand might perhaps ha^a
felt suspicion rise in his mind, had it not been for hw first joyfuL
aidmated greeting which had set hia heart oomi>letely at rest, and
filed it with a lui^piness he had nevet known before ; for delightM
as may be the communications which the pen can eonvey, there is
sothinp: like the speaking countenance— the radiant eve— -the '* soul-
mi tuioe"-*4ooairy the«oavietianof aifeotion framhBart to heart.
Se had felt this, — and no doubt had- entered his mind; and ka
4Rrald<Rdy therefore aittEsbnte Lady Oouteaoci'a prennt distress, to
ikB excitement of •verwvaucrht feelings, fib m»th»'s cooitranae
at that moment prevented any further conversation between then^
aiid his heart femaiaed tiled with the aiest bliflsfoi «notioBs.
Lady Ashton was muoh afiedted at aeehsg him ; and it wasvona
tiaie before she oouid SMWK. fiter distoss calkd forth those tears
from Lady Constance's eyes which her own misery could not (
4» fl^ow, but which gave aome relief to her oppteased spirits ; and
when she saw Lady Ashton wore oeayoaed, she giadiy escaped from
tBexoonik
Sir Roland was most anxious to see his brother, and afrer a frw
minutes' convenatien with Laiy Ai^toa, be ifldoad her if he might
not, do so. She said she wucddgo and aee if he was then able to
receive him, as he atiil from time to time snflbred eKcesdve pain ;
aaid tho«^ all imsaiediate doUger was over, ;^t his Ufr oould not
ev«n Hien be considered aafe. After a diort tune die returned, and
Sir Roland with a trembling heart followed her into Ids brotiier'a
vaoin.
*' I wiU leave you together," i^ said, amilittg; '*«aad shall h»p«
to find Hemy all the better Isr this happunas."
> Sir Roland ce«kLaoaroidv€eKtrol his emotiMiatthesightof his
brother ; and he. advanced to the couch wheve he lay, with thi
lightest posiahle tread, for it seemed, us if any emotion, or
noise, must dieatroy the weak ^smaeiated being before lum.
" Ck)uld that be Henry } " he asked himself. " That, the beiliff
whom he had lelt, the very image of health, and strength^ and
happiness?"
IScarcely a trace indeed remained of what he onoe had be«n. fie
mBB much grown siiiee Sir Bxdand had seen him ; and the ehange
from boyhood to man's full proportions is always gteat ; but it Ww
fivfiiering aaid sorrow which had altered him. the most, and de-
312 BIB SOLAin) ASHTOIT.
stroyed almost eyerv vestigre of his f onner self. With the eagerness
of strong affeotion ne had looked towards the door as his brother
entered, out the sight of him then seemed to blast his very soil;
and suddenly messing his hand upon his eyes he turned his head
away. He cud not speak or move, as Sir Koland with swelling
heart stooped to kiss his pale forehead, for the conflict within km
was terrible. Affection for his brother straggled in his bretst
with wounded feeling, and with a sense of wrong, which— though
he felt it was unreasonable and unjust— yet he could notovercon^;
but above all, the sense of the injury he himself had inflicted on hii
brother, and his remorse for it, overwhelmed him ; and he oouU
not bear to raise his eyes to one from whom he felt he had stolex
earth's best treasure. He longed to throw himself in his armi,
and tell him how he loved— -how he had injured him ; and h
strove repeatedly to speak, —
• • "Imthefelt
A goBhing ftom his heart, that took away
The po?rer of speeoh."
Sir Roland, pained by Ids silence, knelt down by him, and sail
in a troubled voice, —
" Speak to me, Henry, or at least— somehow— show me— that yoi
are glad to see me onoe again. Oh I I have suffered so much for
you?'
Henry's heart could not resist the appeal; he turned, and
throwing his arm round his brother, he pressed him convul-
sively to him, while passionate, soaloing tears burst from his
eyes.
Both were silent for a time; but at length Sir Roland, en*
deavouring to command his voice, said,
" This is a sad meeting, my dearest brother ; but all will soon bd
well again, I trust."
Henry shook his head, and exclaimed vehemently,
" No, never— never ! No — ^I can never "
He checked himself, fearful lest by come unguarded word he
might betray the secret of his feeHnes; but Sir Roland, who
naturally attributed his expressions to doubts of his own recovery >
replied in a cheerful tone,
"Oh! yes. There may still be uncertainty^ but you are flO
young, and have borne your sufferings so well mtherto, that there
IS every ground for hope ; and at UmB moment I cannot bear te
admit a doubt into my mind; I seem sure that God will grant yon
to our ceaseless prayers."
"Pray not for me— at least not for my life," said Henry^^^*
8pairizi|sly. " It is a burthen— a burthen to me— and to aUi ' he
added mdistinctly.
" Do not say so, Henry," replied Sir Roland, much pained ; ** J«
not sink under this trial ! It is not like you to do so— not like the
lion-heart you used to have."
^ **I am in nothing like what I used to be," murmured Henry;
but I am wretched, — and there would be peace in the grave." .
iie felt possessed byamad desire to pour out his sorrows to htf
SIR BOLAKB ASHTOIT. 313
brother, as if lie f orffot that of all persons in existence, he was the one
^m whom he ought most sedulously to conceal them ; but he had
in former times been so accustomed to go to him with every
trouble of his heart, that now to see him by his sid&— to feel himseu
supported on his breastr—and yet to hide his thoughts fix>m him,
gave him a feeling of almost bewildering pain.
"Happier thoughts will come when streng^th returns," said Sir
Koland, who— though grieved at his brother's want of patience
and submission, yet possessed too much of the spirit of Him who
*breaketh not the bruised reed,' to sneak to him harshly or re*
proachfully . * * Do you not remember the lines we used both to be so
fond of?
* Oh ! come that day, when in this restless heart
Earth shall resign her part ;
When in the grave with Thee my limhs shall rest.
My sool with Thee be blest !
Bat stay, presomptnons— Christ with thee aUdes
In the rock's dreary sides ;
He from the stone will wring celestial dew,
If but the prisoner's heart be fkithftil foond, and tnie.*
And will not you, Henry-Hhe 'prisoner of the Lord,' *be faithful
found, and true?' "
" Oh ! yes," replied Henry, his heart soothed^ by his brother's
voice, and by the words he had so often heard in former happier
days, " oh ! yes, I am not always so faithless, but the sight oi you
seems almost to— -to-^estroy me."
'* You are so weak, that I dare say emotion is most painful," said
Sir Eoland ; "but you will soon be yourself again. To find you
here at all, is such excessive joy to me— such a relief after all the
racking anxiety I have had.— that I can hardly, perhaps, feel enough
for the sufferings you still have to endure. It is a comfort to know
too, that you have been here so long ;— not left to the rou^h mercy
of sailors, but tended by most gentle nurses. It were a pain almost
-worthy to be called pleasure, to be sick, and nursed by my motiier,
and Constance."
Henry started fram his brother's arms, and threw himself im-
patiently upon the pillow of the sofa, murmuring inaudibly,
*' Such nursing was not for me."
" Do your wounds pain you much now ?" said Sir Roland, aft^
a minute, risinfl" £rom his kneeUng posture, and sitting down by
his brother's siae.
"Some do," replied Henry, gloomily,— " but not all," he
added, in a milder tone— for he saw that his brother was hurt at
his manner, and he felt ashamed of yielding so much to the power
of his wayward temper. — " At one time, I could not move without
agony," ne continued ; " but, thank God, since the last terrible
operation, I have been much relieved. — ^Forgive me," and he held
out his hand to his brother, though he could not yet bear to look
at him ; " forgive me, dear Roland, for my imi)atience. — ^You wiU,
I fear, in that at least, recognise my old disposition ; and indeed I
am afraid you wiU not thiuK me much improved in any way since
31i SOL BMiAJKD ASHTQVw
last we BMt ; but I luiTe had aaooh to trysie, andr-tai I Imt you.
mil iMt a^ain see me «o childiali and petoknt. — ^I was not ao «
little while ago ; and I cannot tcU 3Mm at times wliat kappineas I
luiye had in thinking t)f Ood, and enjoying tiie oomforts He has
poujed into my heart. I hvfe lain awake eone nights for hoars
and hours, — sej)arated in heart &om a,U earthly ties, ent filled with
peace and joy in tkinJdng of tire Lwd, in fediiBg Hun present
with me, and in looking 4m» that time-^^rhidi I toon thought so
near-when I shonld he with Him for ^efcraaore. B«t now^-to feel
how earth again grapples my weak hea«t-4o see how impatL^it I
am— how £or netful of Ood— how imkiBd to the best and dearest —' '
His voice failed, and Sir Koland, much affected, said,
" He who has once stren^^ened, will strengthen again, Henry.
He * who is touched with the sense of our infirmities, wiU restore
you all your lost peaee. — ^My poor, poor brother, would I could
take your place !"
" God forbid you skonikd ever have to bear wi»t I have !" ex-
claimed Henry with energy, fifing his largo eznressiye eyes for
the first time on his hf(Aher n^xm^isiaBDa^ ; ^* Cbdaseop such suffisr-
ings ever far from, yoo, Boluid." And at that tnoiiient he would
have given worlds to have known that Lady Constance's affection
was wholly given with her fiiflii. '* Bat bow pale yon look/' Jm
continued, " have you been ill ?"
"Oh ! no,^' replied Sir Rolaad, "tat yon hnve; and anxiety
about that, >and the fktigiBe «f MCf^d, ceaseless travelling, ibbt
perhaps have made me look pate inr Ike Bsoment. But one g«oa
night s rest, with a heart happy as unne nmr is» will tnou set «U
that to rights."
*' Roland," eaid Lady Aslston, who then oaaie ttdo the xoom, "I
think peihaps Heatj kad better be ^ukit now; he oaimot Mir
much mtigoe, and you can eome to him again in a liMte while.*'
*' Must he ^ ?" saad Henry, who, having <got over the first ema-
tion of meedng, seemed afaaest to lose ail pain and aorrow, wh3e
looking at his looter; "X wns jvtft beguming to ei^oy baviis
him with me."
*' He oan come ogam soon, hut yon wist reMfittber he too vrtats
refreshment."
"Ketum soon then," said Henry, veinotnistly parting with his
Inrother.
" I wiU," repUed Bk fioknd, looking kindly back when he got
to the door. Henry's eyes followed hun, and all the old love of
their boyhood beamed iigain an their toouoiteitaiioes.
It was many days befove Hkejme^ agam^ and th6ii-^*inth what
changed feelings 1
Sm EOLAND ASQTOir. ZIS
CHAPTER XLVI.
** Oh ! there are giiefii for natefe too intense,
Whose first rude shook but stopiflc^s the soul ;
Nor hAth the fragile and o'erlaboured sense
Strength e'en to feel, at once, their dread control.
But when ^is past, that still and speechless hour
Of the sealed bosom and the tearless eye.
Then the roused mind awakes with tenfold power
To grasp the fUlness of its agony!" — Mbs. Hsmaits.
'« I hcve known feaitfU heart-fltivgg^es; bat tUs
KakBs aU seem nvttiittg.*'— Tjxfoobd.
WHE»r Lady ABhton zod Sir Eohnd httd left Henry, ^&y^rmt
ud» the diiuiiff«ro0ai to limeh«on, whcae tliey foond Florence, ^lio
ivas endiaiitea to see Sir Bokwd ngaia^ but Goastanoe was not
there. Sir Eoland felt disappointed, bat said sothii^; and
limeheQii beiag'&iidKd tihury left the room, and Sir Roiniid groing
into the drawii^-ioom, icioA Gonstaxkee th«re busily painting;
and went immediatelv and sat down by her.
'* Have yon painted many tilings siKee I left yen, Conttanoe ?**
be asked.
"Yes/' ake vepiied; ^'I teok a great many sket^es in Soot*
land."
*'Toa seemed to Mke yovr tonr then T«ry mn»h," eaid Sir
Eoland ; ** though I rather wondered," he added with a smile '* «t
yonr oonmee in nndertakiaK it ; and never cottld <|aite make out
what was the charm which drew you forth &om this place, to M
among strangers ; but I was delighted to iind you enjoyed yourself
6omiidi."
"It was very delightful," said Lady CoDstanoe. " Would yon
like to see some of the drawings I made there ?" And she gave him
her portfolio, though in doing so her eye evidently avoided his»
He perceived it— and a olond dimmed the happiness tiiat had
been ao bright before. He tamed over the drawings; but his
mind wandered from them to her whose hand had traeed them;
and often did he look troubledly at her as she sat by him, with a
eheek deadly paJsy and with a composure in her air wMeh was
wholly unnatural. He felt a ehilling, ioy fear ereep over him )
but he tried to shake it off, telHn^ himself it might only be the
£rst embarrassment of renewed intercourse which made her so
reserved. Still it pained him, though he continued to endeavour
to draw her on to conversation.
. " Your cousin, Philip Mordaunt." he said, " seemed an agreeable
person by your aeconnt. I hope he will oome and nay you a vi^t
affaia soon, tiiat I may make his acqnaintanoe, — and Mn. Merdaunt
also. You seem to nave been a ^eat favourite with her, Ocm*
rtanoe ; though it must have required all your gentle, yet earnest
piety, to overcome so settled an aversion to anything serious as she
Kmnerly had."
316 SIB nOLAKS ASHTON.
"She was always very kind," replied Lady Constanee ; "but
latterly, certainly, particularly so."
" You did not much like her other sons I think, did yon?"
" Not so much as PhUip. He was bj far the deyerest and most
agreeable ; and so very kind-hearted.'
" When does he expect to be married ?"
" In about two years, I believe, when Miss Leslie comes of age."
" Where you glad to return home, or did you regret leaving the
*La&d of brown heath and shaggy wood ?* *
" Oh ! I was both glad and sorry," answered Lady Constance,
rather more cheerfully, and for a moment lifting her eyes &omher
paper, though still unable to look towards Sir Bioland.
" I do not think the keen air of the north has made tou more
Uooming than you were, dear Constance," he said, as ne looked
at her beautifiupale countenance, which he was now able to ob»
serve more distinctly than he had before done ; " you look quite
iU. — ^Have you not been well ?"
"Yes—no— that is," she said, oolouring and smiling fiiintly,
"I do not think I am so strong as I was ; but it is nothing."
Sir Roland watched her countenance with a troubled mind; for
every instant served more and more to convince him that there was
some secret source of discomfort within her which she strove to
hide— something which made her more embarrassed and reserved
with him, even than she had been before his departure from En|
land. Remaining by her was most painful to nim, yet he cou
not bear to go ; so again he spoke :
" Henry was gone, I think, before you went to Sootiand, was
he not r
"Yes."
"He seemed to have but short notice given him, poor fellow!
It must have been a great disappointment to him to have to go off
in such a hurry."
Lady Constance was silent.
" What did you think of him when he first came home ^ It is
impossible for me to judge of him now* he looks so dreadfully ill!
But was he as handsome as he used to be } — ^His countenance was
so fine and animated."
He waited for an answer ; but for some time Lady Cimstanod
oould give none. At length she said,
" He was looking well I think."
" Is he as tall as I am ?"
" I should think he was."
" Where was it that his terrible accident took place ^ I did not
dearly understand about it froim. my mother's letter ; and have
scarcely had time to speak to her about it since my arrival."
" It was in the Mediterranean," replied Lady Constance, en*
deavourinff to speak oalmlv, " but I do not know exactly where.'
, " Dreadful it must have been !" exclaimed Sir Roland ; " though
it is an infinite mercy he was not killed as those other poor fellows
were. I had known very little of his movements for some tixna
SI^ ILOLAKS ASKTOIK. 817
TureTioady, for he was grown very idle, and had not once written
to me since he left home ; hut I suppose some of you heard
continually/'
** Oh ! yes," repUed Lady Constance, though she scarcely knew
what she was saying, and bent lower than ever over her drawing.
Again the conversation flagged ; and Sir Roland at length
wearied with his attempts at keeping it up, and pained to the
heart by her coldness of manner, rose, saying,
'* Well, Constance, I will not trouble you with questions any
longer, for you seem tired of answering them. I must, I see, ffo
and read one of your letters, if I would And her who was to be
glad of my return."
The blood rushed over Lady Constance's cheek and to her temples,
as die heard these words, spoken in a voice of deepest sadness, and
for a moment she could not speak ; but feeliug the necessity of
overcoming herself, she said, though not without much hesitation,
" Oh ! no, Roland— stay here."
** Do you reaUy wish me to stay, Constance ?"
"Oh! yes-Iwish— "
" Then why Bxeypxi so cold }" he asked ; " why wound me so to
the very heart ? Why— when your letters breathed, at least kind-
ness and affection, — when your first look and word of welcome was
such as to animate every hone, and fill me with joy— why should
you now be colder a thousand times than you ever were before ?
Kemember, I beseech you," he continued in a voice wMch trembled
with strong emotion, "that mine are not feelings which can
endure, or which deserve, to be lightly trifled with.
Constance could not answer ; and Lady Ashton at that moment
entering the room, and asking Sir RolaJid to come with her for a
little while, as she wished to speak to him, happily relieved her
from the terrible necessity of doing so. He rose to go with his
mother, but stopped an instant to say, as his eyes were fixed on
her with intense scrutiny,
" I promised to go soon again to Henry. Shall I then return to
you— or not ?"
"Tes," murmured Lady Constance; as she a^raiUvbent down
her head, — ^though not before the troubled expression of her coun-
tenance had been but too visible. He stood for an instant
rooted to the spot, in utter astonishment at her agitation, though
still no suspicion of the real case entered his mind. His mother
however again calling him, he wa^ forced to go.
•* I am sorry," said Lady Ashton, when they were in another
TOom« " to take you fix>m Constance ; it must be such a delight to
yon to be together again after such a long absence ; but you shall
soon go back to her, only I wanted so much to know what you
thought of Henry. A iresh eye can often judge so much better
than one accustomed constantly to see a sick person. Bid you find
him worse than you expected ?"
" I scarcely know,' ' replied Sir Roland. " I had feared so greatly
to find that he was gone, tiiat his being alive at all was an un->
speakable relief to me. I cannot but hope that he may recover^
918 KES BOLAITD ASHTaif.
foor at his age the oonsiittttion is ^nerally so strong. But ivhst
troables me most is the excessive depression of ms ST»rit8»--M
wholly unlike what he used to be. It makes me fear toat there
mar be more internal mischief than we are aware of.'*
*^I do not think that," replied Lady Ashton, ''for if so, he
would not have improved as he has done ; toad he is oertainly
better thaik he was. I oaniiei at times help fkncying that he mni
have some grief which preys upon his mind, for I naye observed
this dejixression as well as yoo. Often have I sat for hours with
him, withottt his speakinjr one word ; and though he would lie
wiih hi» eyes closed, yet I know he was not asleep, for heayv sighs
would often break forth, and his eyes would be suddenly pernaps-'
ardently lifted up to heaven for a mtoment-4hen cloaea again. It
haa often made me very tuahappy to see him.'*
*'Bnt ia it lik^T, my dear mother," said ^ Boland, "that he
should have any deadly grief, and not tell you of it? He wodi
surely find it a comfort to speak to you of anything that made him
unhappy. Have you ever said aorthizfeg to mm about it ?*'
" I have not liked to do so," replied Lady Ashton, **for he must
know his own feeling best; and if he is not &ee, or willing to
eonfide in me^ I might only pain him by speaking to him on the
snhjeet. He cannot doubt my readiness to hear all he wishes te
lay ; but he senns to have grown resMred with every one."
" His manner to me when first we met was wholly inexpHeahlek"
•aid Sir Roland ; "h» neitiher looked at me, nor spoke to me. I
thought it might be that he was overcome for the minute ; but
when he did speak it was with a gloom and despondency wMeh
grieved my very heart. But perhaps after all it may only be
weakness and ecmfinement to the house which afifeets him; for it
has often been observed, I believe, that those whose S]»rit8 are in
general the lughest, are apt to sink most in times of sickness. I
wiQ try and ^et a yaeht for him ; it will enable him when it is find
to get out a httle, for I am sure he could not now bear Ihe motkn
of a earriaffe. I will see about <me directly.**
" I am glad you have thought of it," said Lady Ashton; *'fd
know he would like to go out, but the carriage torturee him. Bat
you are looking very ill, too» Boland ! What makes you so pale?
Are you not well ?"
" I am as w^ as any oneoan be, who has not laid his head upon a
pillow f(»r nights and nights," answered ^ Roland, smiling sadly;
'* and who has had, moreover, su^ anxiety as I have had ; but r«t
wiU soon restore me. Tou are not looking well either, my dear
mother,-— nor any oi yon, I think."
** Constance is not looking well, c^ftainly," observed Lady Asfl>
ton ; ^* nor has she bef n the least like herself of late. I eannoM^
say the truth, help thinking that something has occurred between
her and H^ury, which has caused disunion and unpleasant feeliBg»
is» thev seem entirely estranged from each other, and both seem
imcomfortable. Constance will never be even in the rocmiwiv
hjm, if she can help it ; and I imagined at one time that she miut
have heard somethings against him, and asked her if she had ; btt
«he said *Ke,' and spoke very kindly (rf him. 8e thmi I stfd I
so, BOMNP ASHIOir* 819
supposed I muat blame you for taking up all ber beart aitd afibc-
Hoxki, and leaving none for those who were about ber. But I do
not Imow why I skould pour out all my little troubleB to you, only
that it is a relief to b&Te some one to whom one oan speak openly ;
and yoa may be able, better than I can, periiaps, to nnd out what
causes this disoomfort, and to make aU smooth aad bampy agrain.
X do not though, I am sure, mean to aeovse Constanoe oi unkind-
Bess> — ^to ma she has ever been as the most attentiye and affile-
tionote ol dangbters; it is only towards Henry that she seems so
•old.'*
^Jlhese words of Lady Asbton'e awakened feeliiif^s in Boland's
mind, which she little dreamed of; and lit a fire within his breast
which no earthly power cottjid have quendbied or controlled. He
scarcely breathed as she spoke, and his very existence seemed to
hang uj^on her woifds ; for he felt the sudden and deadly ccmvictiou
enter lus soul, that it was not hatred, or dislike^ whioh bad arisen
between Lady Constanee a»d bia brother, hurt faelings of a far
different nature. It might be, indeed (and his mind eagerly caught
at the idea), that peroeiving an unhappy attachment in Henry
towards her. Lady C(mstanoe bad kindly and oonaeientiously done
aU in her poww to repress it,-*«nd if so, her heart might still be
bis ; but every thing tended to destroy even that faint hope, and
despair began to lay her numbing hand on all his faculties. It
vas well that it did so at that moment, as it enabled him to sit
with aj>parent calmness while his mother spoke.
He was, however, thoroughly det^mined at onoe to know the
worst, even if it cost him his life ; and calmed by this desperate
resolution, be prooeeded to ask Lady Ashton, in a quiet voice,
when it was that she iirst perceived this alienatioa between Con-
stance and his broker.
'* I cannot exaoUyreoollect,"i^;ilisdIjid7 Ashton; '^butitwas
before be went away.'*
'* Do you think it influenced ber at all in ber wish to go to Soot*
Jand?" asked Sir Roland.
*' I cannot say. She eertaiBly urged me Tsry eagerly to let ber
go, when it seemed likely that he would ba remaining here^ but
when he was gone^ she said she should |)refer staying at home ; but
X thought that was only fiom a kind wish not to leave me alone,
so I insisted on ber going* as she had really seemed to wish it But
it might certainly have been that she only desired to be away from
bim- And yet why should she desire it ^ '
*' That is what we are trying to discover," said Sir Boland, with
deadly calmness. " You said you asked her about it, I think ; but
I have forgotten exactly what answer she made."
^ She said that there bad been, no quarrel, and that she bad never
beard anything^ against Henry; ana I remember that she spoke
varmly, and said, ' fio one ever mentioned him but with praise.' "
fiir Roland compressed his lips, wliieh were white as death; and
lor a moment bis orow contracted.
Lady Ashton continued, *' I am afraid I was harsh to ber, for she
eried very much, poor oMLd! and said she never meant to be un-
]dad to ai^ oaa*"
320 SIX BOLAHD ASHTOir.
''Oh no! oh no!" exclaimed Sir Roland, starting np and waUc*
ing np and down the room ; " she oould never mean to be nnkind
to any living soul !"
" I know she wonld not willingly have been so/' said Lady Ash-
toii« gently; '* bnt it seemed so strange* as I told her, that when
Henrv was ill, and wholly dependent on others for amusement, she
woula never sit with, or sing to him. or, indeed, speak to him, if
she oouldpossibly help it. She seemed, too, to take so little part
in onr afluction ! I pould not understand it— nor do I now,— for
she was always so amiable and considerate; and was so even then
to me— in aU but slighting Henry. But I dare say it will all come
right in time."
" Never !" thought Sir Roland, with a despair which cannot be
described.
'* Now you are come," continued Lady Ashton, " I feel as if
everything must go well, it is such a joy to me to'see you here
again. — But I will not now detain you any longer from Gonstuice,
or from poor Henry, who was so anxious to see you ; and I am
sure you will soon reconcile Ihem to each other, if there has really
been any misunderstanding. Go now, dear Boland, back to the
drawing-room, and I will go to Henry, and tell him you will be
<with him soon ; and, if you can, get Constance to go in with you.'*
*' Reconcile them!" thought Sir Roland, when his mother had
left the room. " Yes— that will not be difficult. And yet it may
be only that Henry likes her—not that she loves him. If so, she
might have shunned him-r-an^ lightlv. But why then should she
be so cold and distant with me ? If sne were inoifferent to himr--
why cruel to me ? And yet, how her countenance lit up when she
first saw me. And her exclamation of joy — how true — how
natural— it seemed ! Oh! this is a dreadftd— dreadfal hour ! But
it must be borne— must be endured ; — and I must— will know my
fate."
He left the room determined to seek Lady Constance, and to
implore her instantly to clear up every diffictdty. His mind was
on the rack; and the strong control he had placed upon his feelings
in his mother's presence beffan almost to give way.
He passed through one arawiuR-room, and was approaching the
door of the other, which was partly open, when he saw Lady Con-
stance standing with her head resting on the chimney-piece. He
paused, for her attitude was one of sorrow and suffering, and his
heart melted within him. All his own miseries — ^his wrongs — her
<$oldness— all vanished before the thought of her distress; and«
aj^r a moment, he was about to enter hastily — ^to entreat her to
confide in him — ^to let him have the joy of, any how, making her
happy,— when she suddenly raised her head, and the expression of
an^xiuh in her countenance, as it was reflected in the glass bv
which she stood, a^ain arrested him. His very breathing stoppeo,
LOS in
as, looking upwards with tearless eyes, and clasping her hand
>agon\% he neard her exclaim,
"Would he had never returned!"
He felt a sudden bewilderment, as in a dream. The very git>und
SIE BOLAlin) A8HT0N. 32t
appeared to tremble beneath his feet, and it seemed as if his senses
had given way ! ^
" Constance to wish he had never returned ! She— for whom ho^
was ready to resign every happiness ! She, to wish hiTn exiled —
dead ! She, whom he had imaged to himseK as the gentlest and
sweetest of human beingrs— to wish him swept from the face of the
earth, so that her will might have free course !"
His first impulse was to rush in to her, and upbraid her for her
treache^— her falsehood. But he had sufficient power over him-
self, even at that fearful moment, to control so violent an outbreak
of his passionate nature ; and hastily throwing up the window^
which opened to the ground, he rushed out upon the lawn, and
with hurried steps pursued the pathway down towards the shore.
Regardless of the chill and biting wind, and of the cold, sleety
rain which fell on his imcovered head, he went on— on — as if only
desirous of flying from home and its miseries ; till at length, reach-
ing the grassy spot, where, twice in former times, he had sat with.
Constance and spoken of their engaj^ement, — ^he suddenly stopped.
The remembrance of that time — of the hopes and fears — ^now all
turned to despair— which had then acitatea him— of his devoted
love and desire for her happiness, who now requited his devotioa
by ingratitude so deadly — quite overcame him, and he fell almost
lifeless on the turf. No burst of anguish came to relieve him — ^nd
tear flowed to ease his burning brain; but his* soul, completely un-
hinged, became the unresisting prey to every terrible and tumul-
tuous feeling. Usually so self-controlled, he lost all powder over
his thoughts ; and, excited almost to madness, it seemed as if all
the demons from the depths of hell had risen with fury to take
possession of the soul irom which they had so long been exiled.
Grief was too gentle a feeling to find a place there at that terrible
moment ; and passions, of whose very existence he had till then
been ignorant, fought within him for the mastery. Jealousy,,
hatred, revenue— all in turn maddened him ; till, writhing under
their deadly influence, in the frenzy of despair, he exclaimed^
" My God ! my God ! why hast Thou forsaken me ?"
In an instant the storm within him ceased,
" The soul that seemed forsaken, felt its present God again,"
and calmed, though not comforted, he rose from the earth.
Slowly did he retrace his steps back to the house, and painfully,
for his Hmbs had stiffened with the chill and damp of the cold
earth, and drenching rain ; and his whole frame, previously ex-
hausted by long fatigiie and anxiety, began to feel the shiverinaf
lassitude of approaching fever. With difficulty he got home, ana
when there, immediately went to his own room, and sent word to
his mother that, not feeling well, he should not go down to dinner.
She went to him, and was much alarmed at his altered appearance,
and the quickness of his pulse, and wished to send for the phjrsi-
cian ; but he refused to allow her to do so, and said that rest would
do him good, if anything could, but that he must be alone, and try
what perfect quiet would do.
T
** Bo notHiiiik me nnldiid, dearest mo&er/' be aaid ; " but I
baye pains so terrible, tbat speaking, or even raising my eyes, is
iatolerable to me."
" Bat tben, I beaeeob yoo, let me send for adyiee^" sbe replied* as
die burst into team.
Gar Roland strained ber to bis breast, and beld. ber long there,
for be felt sbe was now bis only eaitbly comfort ; but no word or
tear escaped to give one moment's ease to tbe feelings wMfib safSo-
oatedbim.
At lengdi Lady Ashton said tbat sbe would leare bim for awbile
tiiat be migbt rest, and then she would return to bim again.
Befresbments were sent up to bim, but they went down again, nn-
touched ; and bis fever increased so rapidly on bim, that be wrote
Ins motber a message benjng her not to return to bim. tbat m^t^
as be felt be could not talL He added a few words of deep a&o-
lion ; but they breathed so sad a tone, tbat Lady Asbton's beart
sank within her, for they sounded to ber affiigbted fanjcy as the
passing-bell of eveiy eaitiJy hope and happiness.
Best, indeed. Sir Eoland required ; but rest he could not get, nor
eren could he seek it ; and for long hours tbroiigh the night, Ladr
Ashton, whose room was next to his, heard bis ceaseless, though
unequal tread, as be paced up and down bis chamber ; while sounds
from time to time reached, her ear, which seemed poured forth in
the bitterness of angnish. She was wuck alarmed, and repeatedly
went to his door, but did not like to go in, as he bad begged ber
not do so. At length, anxious beyond endurance, sbe knocked.
The sound of bis steps instantly ceased ; and all was still asdeath*
Sbe feared to knock again, and waited in silent terror at tbe door.
Li a few minutes, however, Ibe weary steps of restless moving were
a^;ain beard, and summoning courage, she knocked a second time.
&x Boland asked, *' Who was there ?" and she answering, be in-
fltantiy unlocked and opeaed bis door.
'* What do you want with me, dear mother ?" be said. '* Why
are you up so early ?"
'* My dearest Boland," she replied, " why are you rsp ? you who
require rest so much }*'
** Rest !" be exdaimed, *' rest ! Ay ! rest would be, indeed,
delidhitful."
"Then why"will you not lie down, and try to sleep ?"
"I cannot — I cannot," be said, vehemently; resuming- bis
agitated walk.
" My dear son," exclaimed Lady Ashton, in extreme di iiU t aa ,
I6r the wild expression of Sir Boland's eye, and tbe boUowness of
bis voice terrified ber, " what has happened ?— what is tbe matter
with you ?"
He made some incoherent answer, which instaally convinoedber
tbat the fever whose sustaining ex^ntement could alone bave en*
abled bim to endure tbe wearying fatigue of bis oontmual agitation*
wasbeginninflr to affect bis b^ ; and perceiving the neee&sty
of prompt and decisive measures, sbe lert the room, saying m
wo^d return in a few minutes, SLud sent off instantly to D — — ♦
lor the physician, whilst she desired Sir Bolaiid's servant to
SIB BOLAND ASHTON. 338
ffo to him, and endeavour by all means to persnade him to go to
Sir Roland, now the maddening train of thought, which had
throughout the ni^ht been whirling throu§:h his brain, was inter-
m^d, became calmer; and submitted quieUy to aU that was re-
quired of him. But though he consented to lie down, and his
wearied limbs seemed to rest with almost deathlike weight upon
the bed, yet he found no repose of mind. He could not sleep ;
and continued ceaselessly to talk to himself, though the words ho
uttered were not often intelligible. When the physician arrived,
he pronounced it to be brain-fever, and ordered that he should be
kept as (|uiet as possible ; and having blooded him and prescribed
everything which he thought necessary for the moment, he told
Lady Ashton he would go home to make some needful arrange-
ments, and would then come back and remain all the next night
vdih Sir Eoland, about whom he was forced to confess that he felt
extremely uneasy.
In the evening he returned, and found, as he had feared, that
the fever had increased rapidly, and that the danger was very
g^at. He sat up all night with Sir Eoland» who never obtained
an instant's repose, his mind continuing to ramble wildlv, from
sabject to subject without an instant's intermission ; and ms vio-
lence becoming so great that he was with dif&cully at times
prevented irom throwing himself out of his bed. He continually
started up and asked, " Where he was ? and why he was detained
there?" saying, **He must get on, or he should arrive too late,"
that, "he must see him again;" with other such expressions,
proving that his brother, who had been so long the object of his
amdous thought, continued to be so slill. He continually tcdked
of him, sometimes as ill — th^i as at sea— then as by his side ; and
wmdd at other times go back to the days of their boyhood, and
speak of games and pleasures they had had together.
Sometimes his mind seemed to oatoh a glimpse of what had just
ooonrred, and he would speak in heart-rending tones of misery, and
oraelty, and hopes destroyed, and happiness gone. Then all would
seem bright, and he spdce in light and joyml tones, as if talking
dieerfully to those he loved. Towards ms brother he ever seemed
to fdel.the kindest affection, unshaded by doubt or displeasure, but
when he spoke of Lady Constance, whieh he often did, it was with
everv variety of feeling ; and at times his mind seemed as if it
touched on some point respecting her, whieh was insupportable to
him ; and when that was the cajse he grew excited, and violent
ahudderings came over him.
'* I cannot believe it," he would sometimes exclaim ; **it was not
her^— it is false, she never wished it," — ^with other words of horror,
or disma3ring grief . Lady Ashton sat by him all Hiat- night, and
many other mghts and days of hopeless wEdxshing, and throughout
all that time no instant's rest, or sleen ever visited his- eyes. He
knew his mother sometimes , and woulcL then press her hand to his
lips, and speak in tones of love, which overcame the spirits which
could bear up against all else. At other times he was wholly lost,
and would gaze from face to face of those around him, with an air
T 2
324 812 -BOLAJfD ASHTOir.
of tofadTaeaney ; but in general he contumed tnUdiig wildly, and
at times TiolenUy, and almost ceaselessly rolling his head frma side
to side upon his pfllow in the zesdessness of pain. As he grew
ireaker, me ferer ahated, but still he nerer slept, whidi was most
alarming ; as obtaining rest, the physician declazed, was the only
chanee OT his leoorery. Bnt the wretchedness of his mind seemed
to predode all poosibOitT of it; for if he remained more than
nsaally tranquil for any little time, such pauses were invariably
followed by starts of honor and wild exclamations, as if some tio-
knt struggle were going on within.
Lady Awton rarely left him, for she feared erery moment might
be his last; but oocadonally she went down £ai a few instants ta
Henry, to teU him how his brother was, and to see how he himself
went on, for he had a^ain been suffering much pain, andhis anxietr'
about his brother was intense. On one occasion, indeed, whenithad
been thought that Sir Boland wason the point of death, he had in*
aisted on being carried up to him ; but when in the room he was so
overcome that he fainted away ; and the emotion, tc^ether with the
pain of moving, did him so muBh injury, that he was never again
permitted to try the dangerous experiment. His eager mind suf-
fered dreadfdlly under the suspense he had to endure, and his fed-
ings were excited to an almost unendurable degree. He accnsed
himself of being the destrover of his brother's happiness, and per-
haps of his life ; for heoooJd not divest himself of the idea, that
Sir Boland's illness had been produced by some unhappy discoTery
of his feelings for Constance, or of hers for him, working on a
mind and body alr^idy exhausted by anxiety and fetti^rue on his
account. He was miserable beyond expression, and he implored of
God to take him, and not his brother. The thought of Constance
became dreadfdl to him, and he was thankful that now, in his
mother's absence, she never came into the room where he was. So
completely had droumstances altered his estimate of things, that
could he at that moment have been offered the free gift of her hand,
he would have reiected it with horror, feeling it almost as the price
of blood ; and earnestly, and with ail the vehemence of his troe
heart, did he implore of the Almighty, not only to iroare his brother's
life, but to grant that Lady Constance's foil affections might be
allowed to flow back into their rightful channel, and to bless, with
all life's hanniness, the heart that so truly loved her, and that so
well deserved her love. He thought not of himself— or rather in the
warm devotedness of his feelmgs, he imagined that to see his
brother happy again, would be happiness enough for him ; and that
he could then go forth a wanderer— but not desolate.
Day after day passed, and to all Lady Ashton's anxious inquiries
of the several phsrsioians who were then in attendance on Sir
Boland, the only encouragement she could obtain, was the poor
assurance that " where there was life there was hope ;" but to her
Rod mind it seemed evident that both life and nope were fast
departing.
Exhausted to the last degree, Sir Eoland now scarcely spoke or
moved, save that the restless motion of his head still continaed,
anoompanied by low moaning soirnds. But even these faint sigu*
SIB BOLAND ASHTOV. 325
of life, and of suffering, gradually new fednter and fainter, till
they wholly ceased ; and he lay at length with the cold calm of
death stamped on his rigid features.
Lady Ashton, and the physician from D— -, who had never left
the house, were sitting by his bedside. The former had her arm
under Sir Roland's head; and feeling the burden—- to her so pre-
cious ! — ^gradually becoming heavier and heavier, and finding all
motion cease, she looked in alarm at the deathlike countenance ;
and overcome by her terrible apprehensions, was about to give way
to the expression of her agony, when the physician, perceiving her
fears, made her an earnest sign not to speak or move, whispering
that it was sleep, not death, which had at last visited the wear^
eyes of the sufferer.
CHAPTER XLVII.
** Oh ! gentle sleep, whose lenient power thus soothes
Disease and pain, how sweet thy visit to me
Who wanted thy soft aid."— Orestes, TrmialaUon.
** So near— and yet so distant ! Oh, 'tis worse
Than leagues of exile o'er the stormy sea 1
On me ^he fabled Titan's penal corse
Hath lighted. From my lips insnlting flee
The draughts of bliss, the firnits of extacy."— MS.
" Pregar, pregar, pregar,
Ch' altro ponno' i mortali al pianger nati ?'— Alfebri.
" To pray, to pray, to pray.
What else can mortals do, bom but for tears?"
"Am I resigned to die?
It is not so ; — ^that cannot be the word
That speaks the Christian's feelings when he hean
The distant sound of his Redeemer's foot
Hasting to fetch him to his Father's throne ;
When the first beam from Heaven's unclosing gate
Falls on his path to light him to his home."
Ladt Powerscoubt.
. It was some time before Lady Ashton could believe that the
marble-like repose that rested on the countenance of her son was
other than the sleep of death. Not the slightest heaving of the
breast could be perceived, nor could she discern the throbbing of a
pulse. Nature was so utterly spent, that if indeed a spark of life
were still left, it seemed to have retreated to the very depths of the
heart, doubtful whether to flicker up anew, or totally to sink in
darloiess. At length ike physician, who had sat all the time with
his finger on tibe pale arm which lay so motionless on the coverlid,
looked up with orightening eye, and nodded smilingly to Lady
Ashton, intimating uiat all went on well ; and soon the bent brow
xelaxed, the mouth assumed its natural beautiful expression, and
the faint, but regular sound of childlike breathings were distinctly
heard. Then first did Lady Ashton give herseK up to the blessed
3Se BIS BOLAITD ASHTOX.
power of hope ! then first did her heart melt within her, at the
joyfhl thongnt that her son might still he spared to her. For
lonff hours she sat there — scarcely daring to hreathe — sapport-
ingnis head npon her arm, indifferent to the fatigae and mieasmess
of ner constrained x)08ition, and dreading only lea^ anything should
oeenr to disturh slmnhers bo life-giving.
How did her heart lift itself to God ! " Bless the Lord, oh! my
Bonl, and all that is within me hless His holy name," were words
for oyer rising to her lips. As she paed on the features of him
who now lay, aniet and weak as an infiint, in her arms, her mind
rapidly recallea the Tsrions stages of his existence. She pictured
him to herself as he was hronght— her first-horn— -to her longing
arms, and felt— as it had heen yesterday^the
** Mother's prime of bliss.
When to her eager Upt is brooght
Her infant's thrilling Idss."
Then early childhood, when ererythinff is so new, so delightful!
How well did she rcmemher it all, and ail the sweet unfolorngs of
existence, which make " life's early dawn*' so very lovely. Boy-
hood, youth, manhood, all in turn, passed in bright succession
through her mind; and delightful it was to trace him throu|lL
them all, and feel that there was no circumstance of his life she
could have wished blotted from her remembrance. As she dwelt
npon these things, and looked on the pale, still countenance before
her, the tears, so long unwept, streamed from her eyes; and she
felt that had he indeed died, she would have been able to exclaim,
like the noble father of a noble son, " I had rather have my dead
son than any living son in Christendom."
But of all the fond recollections with which her memory was so
happily, and sweetly stored, none were to be compared, in her mind,
with the remembrance that through all the long days and nights
of fever and delirium, through which she had then been watch-
ing over him — ^when his mindf, freed from the restraints of reason,
and caution, and habit, was likely to have opened all its stores of
various f celings— not one syllable had ever passed his lips, that
could have sullied an angel's, or wounded a mother's ear. In his
iiflht^t moods he had spoken but in words of cheerfulness and
fmeotion*, and his deei)er sentiments had ever been thq noble gush-
ings of his heart, and the emanations of the true and ardent piety
which was the habit of his soul. The wild and violent passions
which, durinff the first burst of his distracted feelings, haa rushed
in and overwhelmed his whole being, had been entuely oast forth
by that mighty Power which in former times had
'* Lashed the vexed fiends to the Ibandng deep f*
and his mind had been, during all the hoim of irreqwnsible exist-
ence which he had passed, as pure, as holy, and as n>iritaal, as hi*
^"•^ devoutest aspirations could have desii^d. Ctod had, a» it
gemed, " given his angels charge oonoeming him ;" and thov had
«ept, from his mind every thought that could hav« sullied or
SIR BOLAITD ASHTOIT. 327
injicred Ms bright profession, and from his li^s, every breath that
could have done ** despite unto that Holy Spirit, whereby he was
sealed unto the day of redemption.'*
Nor let this be considered as a mere fancy of the brain. Ima-
^ation in its highest, happiest flights, wonld never have dared to
image forth a thought so beautiful, so sublime — as that Heaven's
hosts could minister to wretched, fallen man ! — could never have
borne up the mind to such soaring heights, nor have brought
Heaven thus down, in aid of our necessities. No ! the winded
•words of truth alone could have suggested or sustained this high
and bright idea ! — could have taught us that the redeemed soul is
the peouHar object of the watchful care of &od ; of Him whose eyes
neither slumber nor take rest, but who, when His blessing nas
been sought for in waking hours, " giveth it His beloved sleep-
ing;'** — making His angels ministering spirits to keep it from
harm.
It has been the happy lot of many who hsnre had to watch by
the couch of pain, when those that were stretched on it have been
the children of GK)d, to witness scenes like this— to see that the
Heavenly Master does indeed thus acknowledge and sustsdn his
servants, even when the mental powers are wholly suspended ;
when outward consciousness, reflection, and memory — are utterly
lost. His Spirit then testifies with the spirit of the suflPerer, " that
he is one of the sons of God;" and speaks through him, to its own
honour, and glory. Often, when the meanings of pain have come
ceaselessly from the unconscious breast, the words of prayer and
holy truth, and they alone, have had power to still them; and
when the shrieks of Dodily agony have rung through the ears, and
tortured the hearts of every being within hearing of the fearful
sounds — ^these too have been hushed by the same blessed power ;
and in speaking thus, we have no hesitation or fear in appealbig
for the truth of what is said, to the testimony of those who have
had blessed opportunities of judging from what has passed before
their own eyes.
In Sir Roland's case resort was of course had continually to the
throne of grace, both for him and with him ; and not only did Lady
Ashton perpetually drop " words of holy balm" into his wounded
spirit, but the minister of the parish, an excellent and kind old
man, who had been there for many years, and had known Sir
B,oland from his biri;h, also continually came and prayed by his
side, and spoke delightfully, and in more cheerful accents than the
poor mother could always command, of heaven's brightness, — of
** that flowery land, whose green turf hides no graves.
Sir Koland's wandering glance at such times wotdd become
arrested, and his eye would dwell upon the countenance of the good
old man, though evidently gathering no intelligence thereby, of
who he was; and he would drink in eagerly the words, that for a
time stilled the unhappiness, which, though borne with deepest
resigaation, yet evidently oppressed his spirit. When the voiee
ceased— then the restless glance would roam again round the
« Gemum Tezsion.
328 Snt BOLAl^S ASHTOK.
ohamber, and the signa of imeasmess would retnxn; but when the
voice of prayer was neard affain— then all was peace once more.
Lady Ashton had ever orawn comfort firom the ** fountain of
living waters," even when her earthly happiness had seemed the
fullest. Where, therefore, should she fly, when her trials were
fio great, but to the same source of heavenly strength? Happily
she had not now "her faith to seek;" but had for long years
known Him who was now sustaining her soul, and saying to her,
" Fear thou not, for I am with thee ; be not dismayed, for I am
thy God ; I will strengthen thee ; yea. I will help thee ; yea, I
will uphold thee with me right hand oi my righteousness." ■
This most delightful passage, and many others of equal comfort
irom the Scriptures, were continually realized, and brought to
her aid ; but God, who often blesses the smaUest things to the
best and kindest purposes, caused also one little line of earthly
poetry to present itself perpetually unbidden to her memory. A
worl(fly spirit might have £scerned in this nothing perhaps, but
•a happy accident, but Lady Ashton's Christian heart, which loved
to trace every-^ven the slightest "good gift, to Ihe Father of
lights," felt that it was He, who kept in her thoughts continually
the word of comfort which so much strengthened her.
She had lately been reading the " Sacred Melodies "of one, for
whom it had been well had he never written in a strain less pure
and noble ; nor polluted the world, as he has too often ^ne,
through the mecUum of his silvery numbers. One line of those
melodies it was, which presented itseK thousands of times in .a
•day, to Lady Asnton's sleepless mind. The beautiful words,
*' Earth has no soirow that Heayen cannot enre,"
sounded perpetually in her heart, and never failed to brin^ with
them comfort and joy. She felt the truth of them; and expenenoed
that Heaven was even at that trying moment sustaining her soul-^
in peace ; and thus was a little word, flowing from a pen too
d&equently dipped in earth's worst colouring, made an instrument
of blessing in the hands of Him, who " chooses one thin^ and
rejects another." Thus also does He often give lessons, in his
marvellous long-sufiering and patience, by which the worst may
be encouraged to forsake the ways of his iniquity, and to turn,
while yet there is time, to Him who " discemeth the evil from the
good."
Oh ! that men would but consider from whom they derive their
powers ! Oh ! that they would but remember that He who gives
talents, says, also, " Occupy till I come !"— that they could but know
the blesseoness of working— speakings—writing for Him, who alone
at the last day can say, " Well done, good and faithful servant,
enter thou into the joy of thy Lord !" Could they know that joy,
never again would tiiey be found ranked with the worst enemies
of God! .
There is a story somewhere recorded, of a sentence of equal
ngour going forth against a man who had committed murder, and
one who had written a work of evil tendency ;— both were con-
SEBL BOLAND ASHTON. 329
denmect'to be biimed to death ! The writer oi the work exclaimed
against the injustice — ^the inequality of the sentence, but received
this just reply : — " That the sentence indeed was unequal, for that
the one delinquent had merely destroyed the temporal life of a
single human being, and that with his existence would cease his
power of doin^ like mischief again ; but that he — ^the writer — ^had
done that, which might destroy the miserable souls of thousands ;
and that, moreover, nis evil deeds, fiar from perishing with him,
would continue to flourish and increase, when he was suent in the
grave !'* " Shall I not visit for these things ! saith the Lord.*'
With what just horror shotdd we not regard the man who could
deliberately poison the springs and streams around a populous
city, sending death into the heedless bosom of all who arank >
** Of how much greater condemnation think you not he is worthy,"
who poisons the snrings of virtue in the heait, tainting the young
mind with all that is hateful — degrading-^HJontemptible ! and
nourishing the vice of age with that which is hurrying it to a
iearful doom !
And do such writers think they are esteemed and honoured in
•the world ? Do they suppose that because a public — careless of
the food it devours — ^living on excitement— loathing the trouble of
thinking for itself^— and rejoicing in the rescue of one hour from
the ennui of a bUzaed existence — reads their works, and passes on
the praise which others bestow, rather than pause to consider its
own verdict— do they suppose that, therefore, the public honours
and esteems the beings who thus cater to their worst feelings, and
speak to the most degraded part of their natures ? Let them not
deceive themselves, for such is not the case !
It is said of CsBsar, that " he loved treason, but hated traitors ;*'
^nd such, let us rest assured, is a most common feeling. Those
who are truly Christians hate the sin, though they may feel for,
if they cannot love the sinner — of them we are not speaking ; but the
p«»ple of this world, how much soever they may be— to use the
words of our Church— "far gone from ori^nal righteousness,"
have yet enough of the image of God left within them, to make
them contemn those, who axe ready to prey, as well as play upon
their vices; and who are — ^unwittingly perhaps— risking all, to
serve them in their base and degrading pleasures ! Yet if the
lingering struggles of their better nature prompt them to despise
those — who are indeed so despicable — should they not consider,
that the encouragement they give to such iniquity, ranks them
amongst the followers of him who is, first the tempter— then the
accuser of mankind ? Let them remember that those who read,
or circulate that which is evil, partake of the giiilt of him who
first put it forth I— for were there no readers— writers soon would
fail.
It has been well said, that " the impression which a book leaves
on the mind, is the best criterion of its tendency." By that then,
let those who read them, judge of the works we have been con-
sidering. Again, I speak not to the true Christian — for works of
this nature, whether m prose or in poetry, form not their chosen
.libraries— ^but I appeal to the consciences of aU promiscuous
380 80^ xoiiAin) AfiraNnr.
readers lyf modem — or indeed of any— ^looks, and entreat iiiem to
sak themselTes — and. to make their sonls answer to the inqmrjr—
-whether the work—whatever it may be, £rom the perusal of wmch
they may have just arisen—- has led their hearts to €h>d, or from
Him-^has lessened, or increased their horror of ain-~-has cultivated
tiie hiffh, and pure, and ennohlin? emotions of their souls, or
nmniahed the degrading views of an evil nature? Let them
nmemher the folly— to use no stronger term — of aoting by one
rnle when they know— for they all do know— that they must be
judged by another ! Let them remember that there is no neutral
ground in this world— no halting spaoe between God and Satan ;
and let them, therefore, with open eyes, '* choose whom they will
serve," remembering that our Lord has said, " He that is not for
me, is against me ; and he that gatherelh not with me, soattereth
abroad."
Hour after hour did Sir Koland's deep, deathlike sleep contmne,
and hope in Lady Ashton's bosom began almost to be tmged again
with dread, lest his exhausted nature might not have power to
rally; but might gradually sink away from Bleep to death. The
physician, however, from time to time whiro^?ed words of
encouragement; but though his assurances soothed her anxiety
for a moment, yet 'when again alone watching the quiet slumberer,
sickening fears would eome over her. At lengtn a deep sigh
heaved his breast, and a jBbw moments after, 6ir Roland opened
his eyes* The weight of illness hung heavy upon them ; but tber
had lost their vaocmt, wild expression, and oonsdousness beasied
from them once more. He turned his head, and so relieved Ladj
Ashton's aim; and seeing her, he smiled faintly — and again he
idept. His slumbers, however, did not this time last long, for he
grew restless, though he had scarcely strength to move a hand.
Beeing Lady Ashton still by him, he looked at her with the
deepest ajQfeotion, just murmuring, " My dearest mother," then hiT
tranquil as before. He did not, however, sleep ; but his mind
remamed in a dreamy state, imable to think, and eonsciouB cintf
of what passed immeoiately before it at the moment. . i
Lady Ashton sat by him for a few moments in a state of hap^-
ness too great for words ; then rose and busied herself in preparDi; i
for him a cooling drink. He watched her as he lay quietly ^
his pillow ; his eyes following everv motion of her hand, thon^ I
his mind was unable to bear even tne alirixt exertion of thin^f I
of what she was doing. He drank what she gave him, and again
laid down his head, and watched her motions ; and when she At
down quietly by him again, his eye was oaaght by the sU^
waving and fluttering of the window-ourtain, as it was adtattd
by the draft from tne partially opened window. He watdied rf
lon^; and the gentle motion seemed to soothe his senses. Then
agam, and for many hours he sleptr-a quiet, tranquil, arndTefrcff-
ing sleep.
Immediate danger, it was then hoped, waaover, but theexsesoi*
weakness in which the violence of the leaver had left him»&^ ^
Sm SOLAIO) ASHTON. 3S1
Sir Roland like the sinking of death ; and not aware of what had
liroueht hixn to that condition, he naturally imagined he was in
the last sta^e of existence. Yet this thought hrought with it no
trouble to his soul ; on the contrary, he dwelt on it with joy and
delight. The late nainM circumstances which had occurred,
seemed completely obliterated from his mind, and all his old and
liao^ impressions remained unchaaged. He spoke of Constance
as nis, both in heart and faith — of his brother as in their happiest
days; and yet, he was willing to die— wiUing to leave all, and go
to nis heavenly Father's home.
When Lady Ashton heard him speak in this manner, her mind
again misgave her; but the physician assured her that, though if
any relapse took place, his strength must immediately give way,
yet unless that occurred, there was much to hope. Me confessed
thiit, when Sir Roland had first slept, he had felt a fear that all
might not be well, as in some cases, patients had been known after
suon repose, to res^ain their reason for a few transient moments,
then instantly sink into the crave ; but that danger was now past;
and though life in Sir Roland's state must necessarily be exceed-
ingly precariotw, yet, he repeated, that if noliiing unforeseen oc-
curred, he felt confident that he would finally recover. He advised
Lady Ashton, however, to leave Sir Roland's mind in its present
happy and spiritual state, as it was one much more favourable to
his recovery, than the idea of returning life, with all its re-
awakened and exciting teelings could possibly be. She therefore
took no pains to make him believe he was recovering, but left it to
the Almighty Father who had brought him up ,&om the gates of
death, to strengthen his mind gradually to receive the tm1^—to
feel that he should live-~4hat he was destined for a longer period
than he then thought, to struggle with the mixed and wearying
stream' of this world's interests.
It was delightful to Sir Roland to contemplate his great change,
and his thoughts seemed already more in heaven than on earth.
He could not speak much, for his weakness was very great; but he
reposed for hours in blissful anticipation of his summons home,
fie thought with devest afiection of Lady Constance, — ^for his
mind, but partially recovered, still anayed her image in all its
former bright and lovely colours, — ^but he was enabled .to give
even her up for higher joys; and he longed to depart and to be
with God. Yet he earnestly desired to see her once again, and
asked his mother if he might not do so. She consented, andbrought
ber into the room.
At sight of her a burst of natural feeling swept across Sir Ro-
land's breast, and he felt that life would be still worth preserving ;
but, turning his eyes towards heaven, he implored that Mb mind
might be kept steadfast, and fixed on things above.
" Constance," he said, taking her hand as she knelt down beside
him, " I have wished to see you thus once more, to bless you for all
your love — all your kindness to me. I have not been to you all
-tiiat 1 could have wished,— at least, I was not once, though I had
begun to hope that my long, long love had found some little answer
in your heart. But all tiouat is over now— and love cannot save
332 SIB BOLAin) ASHTON.
from partiiiflr. You will not cease to pray for me, my dearest,
whilst I am here, and you will praise Croid on my behalf when 1 am
•gone ? Yon will do that, will yon not ?"
Lady Constance conld answer only with her tears.
"Do not grieve for me, Constance," he continned; "God has
teen, very mercifhl in weaning: me by this illness, and this d«idly
prostration of strength, from the fulness of my earthly affections,
and by filling my heart with loye to Himself. But stfll to see you
near me — to feel what life might have been with you !— But this
is folly, weakness, unfEuthfiilness, and I must not let earth steal
again into my heart. I dare not keep you with me, your tears
trouble me. Oh ! Constance, look to ffim who will be with you in
all your sorrow, as He is with me at this hour."
one could but murmur words of grief and of affection, as her
tears still flowed beyond all power of repression. He became
Stated, and murmured, —
" My dearest— dearest— leave me— go from me before my weak
heart begins to fail. I longed to see you once again, but now gOi
go — oh ! leave me."
She rose frt>m her knees: but it seemed impossible for her to
leave the room. 3he could scarcely support the idea that she
should see him no more ; and her great am^^tion for him, added to
the overwhelming sense of the wrong she had done him, made his
words of love and trust strike like daggers to her hieart. Again
«he longed to tell him of her fjdthlessness, to hear him pardon and
forgive, thouj^h anger and reproaches would have been more tole-
rable than his undoubtiii|: confidence. Yet she could not disturb
his dying hour with feelmgs so terrible as her confession would
awaken ; but lost in the anguish of the moment, she stood by his
«ide without power to speak or move.
He gazed on her with looks in which the pity of an ang[el blended
with earth's natural affections, till the latter beginning fiast to gain
the mastery, he exclaimed, , .
*' Oh ! Constance, try me not too much ; leave me, for this is
indeed a bitter hour. And yet, oh! my Father," he said, taking
her hand in both of his,, ana lifting it up for a moment towards
heaven, " Thou knowest how I have loved her, and Thou eanst
support me. My God— bless her !' '
Lady Ashton fearing the effects of any lengthened emotion nor
drew near, and when Sir Eoland saw her by hun, he placed Lady
Constance's hand in hers, saying,
"Take her fix)m me, mother— take her from me— and be to her
•the same as if she had really been *'
He cotdd not finish, and Lady Ashton gently drew her away, Sir
Poland's eyes following her as she left the room. When she ^
at the door, she turned ; and seeing him gtiU looking at her, she
felt as if she could not leave him. She stopped irresdute, and was
:About to return, but he shook his head, ana made her a sign to go;
^JidLady Ashton, with gentle violence, drew her from the room.
When the door had closed upon her. Sir Eoland, lifting his eye*
to heaven, murmured forth,
"And now, * Ketum unto thy rest, oh, my souL* "
I
SIR EOLAXD ASHTON". 333'
CHAPTER XLYIII.
** Lull'd in the countless chambers of the bniin,
Our thoughts are link'd hy many a hidden chain.
Awake but one, and lo I what myriads rise !" — ^Rogers.
It would be impossible to describe what Lady Constance wrnt
throTigh durinff all tbe events which we have been recording. She
was conscious now much the affectionate kindliness of her letters
must have tended to induce in Sir Roland's mind an idea of her
attachment to him, and she felt therefore how doubly severe must
be the blow, if at last she were constrained to tell him that she^
could not fcdfil the engagement she had formed. Yet she had done
all with the best intentions, and had hoped to bring her heart sin-
cerely to return his love. But the sight of Henry, in his danger
and suffering, had revived tenfold those sentiments in his favour
Tvhich she had striven so much to subdue ; and though never will-
ingly yielding to them, yet she could not but be conscious that
tliej held a power over her, which was wholly incompatible with
the idea of forming other ties. She naturally supposed that when
Sir Roland returned, he would claim her hand; and she felt how
much her first involuntarily joyful welcome must have nourished
the idea that she would be wilbng to bestow it on him. But she
felt that she could not do it ! — ^let how should she tell him so ?
how tell him to go from her, a miserable, broken-hearted man ?
how tell him that she loved another ? These were her first troubles ^
but soon Sir Roland's illness brought on more distress. Her heart
melted towards him; and she felt as if she could have given life
and all it possessed to restore him to health and happiness. Henry,
she never approached, and the thought of him was as terrible to her
as the idea of her was to him ; but she was ever at hand to assist
Lady Ashton in anything that could conduce to Sir Roland's com-
fort; and during the time of his fearful iUness, she took her con-
stant post in his dressing-room, ready at all times to do what might
be required. Often, during his .state of insensibility, did Lady
Ashton claim her help even in his own apartment ; and as at times
she gazed on his countenance, and recalled the fine feelings which
had so continually animated it, she asked herself, " if there was^
aught on earth she loved as she did him." One mental glance at
the chamber below, however, answered that question but too
fatally.
She never expected to see Sir Roland again after their sad part-
ing; and every shadow of happiness seemed fled from her bosom.
She was told, indeed, that there was no hope; but her spirit was
depressed, and she could feel none. All earth appeared to her one
dark scene of tears and misery. That once joyous house was in-
deed become one of mourning and suffering; and besides all that
the world could see and judge of, she had her own deep griefs to-
bear in her lonely heart, and desolate indeed she felt.
Sir Roland was much shaken by his interview with her, but he
soon recoveied his tranqiullity, and heavenward feelings ; and>
dSt Sm BOLAXD ASHTON.
a shade of disappointment even would sometimes cross his mind,
as the liffht of a fresh morning stole into his chamber. " Still here !"
he would sigh ; " still, still here !"
(Gradually, however, he felt his strength increase, and the idea
rose in his mind that he might live. Tnat thoujrht brought with
it at iirst, restless and uncomfortable feelings, for his mina seemed
unhinged, and the bright and glorious region he had fancied almost
his own, seemed to reeede &om his vieWy and to give place to thii»8
which troubled and agitated his heart. After a time,. however, he
felt, — as it was natural that one so young, so loving, should feel,—
that the thought of being restored to all that life so brightly pro-
mised him was indeed delightful ; and flattering dieamB of earthly
happiness, floated again b^ore his ardent mind.
Lady Ashton had been careful always to follow, and never to
attempt to lead the train of his thoughts, being fearful of over-
straining his mind; and perceiving that his illness had swept
before it all remembrance of the anxiety he had previoQjdy felt
on his brother's account, she never spoke to him on the subject.
She gathered from his questions that he imagined him still
well, and still at sea ; ana he seemed to have lost aU recollection,
both of the fearful accident he had had, and of his being ac-
tually then in the house. This circumstance alarmedher anew, for
she thought that his mind might luive been seriously injured by
his iUness ; but the physician told her not to be uneasy on the snli*
ject for that it often occurred, after such severe illnesses as Sir
iloland had had ; but that as strength returned, so would also t^
full powers of thou^t and memory.
It was well, inde^, for Sir Boland, as far as his reooverv was con-
cerned, that his mind remained for a time clouded ; for haa the recol-
lection of all l^e circumstances which had at first occasioned his ffl-
ness, returned suddenly upon him when in that state of weakness,
— ^life as well as happiness must have been destroved.
He had hitherto spoken but little ; and had seemed anxious
rather to keep his mind on high, than to let it become entangled
again, with earthly thoughts. But now his busy heart prompted
many a question ; and in speaking to his mother one day he asked
her where Henry then was. Lady Ashton not being aware of any
thing which comd make the knowledge of his being at home pain-
fully agitating to Sir Roland, told him with a smile, that his brother
was not far on, and that she hoped he would soon see him. This
led to other questions, and Sir Koland's mind began to open a
little as to the real state of things. At first, however, he oonld
remember nothing dearly; but a vague feeling of uneasiness took
possession of him, and he wearied himself in the endeavour to dis-
cover what there was to trouble him. Gradually, however, the truth
broke upon his mind ; and his thoughts then became every ingfant
darker and darker. Waveaffcer wave of terrible remembrance rolled
over him ; and again his senses sunk under their overwhelming
force. A violent accession of fever and delirium tookplaceTana
the physician himseK began to despair of his life. Youth, and
strengtti of constitution however, surmounted the danger again, and
again he began to rally; but his weakness after this second attack
SIS BOJASTD ASBTOH. 386
TTBS grester even Hiaa at first, and the fall conTiotioiB of Msimserj
— wmeh returned on this ooeasion with renewed consdonsneasr-
semred fearfully to retard his reoovery.
How different were his feelings now to what they had beenon tiio
former ooeasion. Then, liiouffh all seemed bright in life, yet the
joys of heaven appeared still brighter, and he was willing to leave
all below for everlasting happiness above. Now, all seemed dark :
and the troubles of earth mstead of making Heaven appear the
more desirable, came rather like a heavy oloud between him and
God. He implored for resignation— for peaoe— for rest— for death;
—but for a time all oomfoxt seemed domed him.
When the mind is happy, there is perhaps no period of existence
so exquisitely delightfol as the recovery from sickness. The sense
of danger past, the buoyancy of the heart, the enjoyment of each
recovered power, as da^ after day restores us to something we had
lost ! The air from which we have been lonpr debarred, feels so re-
viving, the flowers are so sweet, the song of the birds so exhilara*
ting, — eversrlMng seems to have a oharm and beauty it never nos-
sessed before ; and the very weakness of the frame instead of
4^iminiRhing OUT happiness, rather adds to it, by making us the ob-
ject of peculiar care and love. But oh ! how desolate was return-
ing health to Sir Eoland ! how valueless the life that was aerain
forced on his acceptance ! True, he had the tenderest care and love
about him, and earth's luxuries were spread on every side, and he
tried to feel the thankfulness which he expressed to God ; but the
aspect of everything seemed changed, and nis heart was completely
cast down. Tne loss of Lady Constance's affection, and of the bright
happiness it had seemed to offer him, would of itself have been sum-
oient in that hour of weakness, to have sunk his spirit entirely ;
bat that now seemed to form but the slightest portion of his sor*
row. It was the being compelled to dethrone her nram the high place
she had ever held in his estimation*7-the beinsr forced to feel that
she was no longer worthy of the empire she haa so long maintained
over him—^ihat caused lus bitterest sufferings. At times he could
2)0t-~would not— beUeve it ; and determined, spite of all api)ear-
anoes, still to consider her blameless and true. But at oth^ times
the conviction forced itself upon him, that she had deceived and
betrayed him ; written to him in words of affection— received him
with warmest tokens of love — then— wished him eidled— dead!
Of her love for Henrv he felt no doubt, and he could still honour
her forihe self-denial, which she seemed latterly to have exercised
as regarded him. " But why had she ever permitted herself to
love nim ?" Vain question ! often asked— ever left unanswered.
*' Or why had she not openly and at once told him of her wishes,
and given him the hajypiness of making her happy?" Ah ! it is
easy for the generous heart thus to speak : to tell another to destroy
its peace, and teash it "brokenly to "live on;" but it is not
so easy for that other, if eqtudly generous, to speak that which shaU
annihilate the hopes of affection, and tell the loving heart that it
loves not in return.
It was most natural for Sir Boland, who had. not traced this un*
happy affisiir throughout, to think that Lady Constance had not
336 SIB SOULin) A8HT0N.
acted well by him— that she had deceived him ; and the very effort
tiiat she had made to force herself to love him, bore in ms eyes
the appearance of hypocrisy and untruth. And what could she
have meant by it ? " Could she intend to marry him, yet love his
brother ? Impossible ! " " No ! " his heart would at times exclaim
" let appearances be what they might, he would not distrust her, or
doubt tne purity of her intentions." — But still — ^that terrible sen-
tence, "Would he had never returned !" rung hollowlythrough
his soul, and forbade its having one moment's peace. JBCe deter-
mined, however, if possible to chase away thought, till he was strong
enough to endure the excitement of speaking to her, and of hearing
aU from herself. He would ask her of those thinffs which now so
perplexed his harassed spirit, and he felt she would ever be true in
word, even if her heart had strayed away from him ; and com-
forted by that conviction, he strove to commit his way to God.
Oh ! what a repose it is when the heart can really go to Him
with all its troubles ! — ^pour out the ftdness of its sorrows and per-
plexities, and receive m their place, comfort^ and wisdom, and
race ! No earthly friend can feel for us as Grod does, for none
ke Him can see the griefis that lie shrouded in our inmost sonls :
" Not even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons whj we smile or sigh.
« « « *
And well it is Ibr ns, onr God should feel
Alone our secret throbbings ; so our prayer
May readier spring to Heaven ; nor spend its zeal
On cloud-bom idols of this lower ah:."
When Sir Eoland's recovery from immediate danger had relieved
Henry's mind on his account, his thoughts returned but too much
to their old channel. He felt particularly desolate ; for his mother
was continually with Sir Eoland, and Constance never entered his
room. Florence, indeed, was unremittinff in her cheeifol en-
deavours to amuse him, and proved a most Kind comforter, for the
late sad events had drawn forth much of strength and energy in
her character; and instead of being the childish, ^ddylittle^rea-
ture who used to fly about aU animation and spirits, she was now
grown thoughtful and quiet, and full of affectionate attentions to
every one. She was much grown, and began to lose the appear-
ance of childhood, and to assume that gentle dignity of look and
manner, which is so peculiarly beautiful in early youth. She had
ever been lovely as a child, and her countenance aid not now belie
its early promise. Lady Ashton, in the secret of her soul, had long
hoped that when she grew older, she and Henry would become
attached to each other, so that she might have assembled around
her all those whom most she loved on earth. But Henry's unfor-
tunate love for Constance shut his heart completelv, for the present,
from every one else ; and Florence, with all her beauty ana (uSec-
tion, was to him but as a sister. He pined to see Constonce again ;
and often, as he heard her light step pass his door, or as the sound
of her voice reached him from the next room, he longed to send her
Bister to entreat her to come to him, if only for one moment. But
SIE EOLAITD ASHTOIT. 337
he always resisted the temptatioii ; and, true to himself and to her,
he never even left* his room, though he would have been occasionally
able to do so, for fear cf meeting her, — of needlessly trying the
hearts of both, or of renewing those feelings which he knew ought
to slumber for ever. Yet to feel her so near — with only a slender
door between them, and not dare to withdraw that slight screen, —
was miserv to him in the extreme ; and he wished himself in the
midst of deserts or oceans, rather than in such a state of contmual
trial.
Sir Roland's situation, though equally painful, was very different
from that of his brother. He had to act— Henry had merely to
suffer. Ordinarily the latter is the more painful position of the two ,
for the mind is left — ^unrelieved by active exertion— to prey upon
itself ; but in Sir Roland's present state, the having to act and
«peak was most trying ; and the bare thought of it, bringing on
ax}celerated pulsation, affected his head so seriously, that he knew
not how he should be able to encounter the great exertion. He
found, however, that it was impossible he should recover till his
mind was more tranquil ; so determined, let it cost him what it
zni^ht, to put an end to his painful uncertainties, and to change a
position which daily became more and more insupportable.
Lady Ashton, ever bent on the gratification of those around her,
when Sir Roland was sufficiently recovered to go out of his own
room, had begged Lady Constance to come with her to him for a
short time ; and she, terrified at the idea of going, yet afraid to
refuse, reluctantly complied. When she entered, ner unexpected
appearance startled Sir Roland so much, and his agitation was so
great that he could not speak to her. She approached him timidly,
and held out her hand; he took it — at first coldly — ^but then feel-
ing his heart melt within him, he put it from him with a shudder,
and silently turned away his head. Lady Ashton, whose heart
overflowed wi^ kindly feeling at the thought of the happiness
which she had hoped her appearance would give him, was surprised
and distressed at witnessing the apparently different effect which
had been produced. She took no notice, however, of what she had
observed, but exerted herself for a little while to converse ; and
then left the room, thinking that the constraint which lay upon
them might, perhaps, arise from a wish not to show their feelings
before her.
When alone they sat for a length of time in perfect silence.
Each had much to say to the other ; but it was of so terrible a nature,
that neither of them could enter on it at that moment. Sir Roland
had not been well enough hitherto to think on the over-exciting
subject sufficiently to enable him to decide what would be the best
plan to pursue ; yet he felt it would be far best to speak to Henry
first, and not to agitate Lady Constance's mind till he was positive
as to his brother's wishes.
She was much surprised at his manner — so different from his
earnest tenderness at their last interview ; but conceiving it impos-
sible that anything should have occurred since then to alter his
real feelings, and not knowing how his mind had then been
z
858 SIK EOLAND ASHTOlf.
clouded, she thought it was weakness and debility alone which
caused him to be so silent,, and therefore, exerted herself to speak.
" Is your head quite free from pain now?" she asked.
*'Not quitei"
"There is too much light in this room for you, is there not?**"
And she rose to let down the blinds.
" Do not trouble yourself," said Sir Roland, looking at her for
a moment, as she stood by the window.
She turned back to see if the shade fell properly on him, and
caught his eye ; but the expression of it was so sad and troul^ed,
and his whole countenance so changed, that terror struck to her
verjr heart. He, in whose mind anection could scarcely be re-
strained even by the sense of the bitter Wrongs he had endnrod,
turned away ; yet in her timid glance there had been a sweetness
— a truth and simplicity, that made him feel it was impossible
she could ever really have harboured an unkindly thoi^t to-
wards him, even though she might not return his love.
" Will that do better ?" she asked, in a tremblinar voic©.
"Yes !" he answered : " anything will do forme. * Then fearmg
lie had spoken with irritation, he added: "Thank you very
much: it is a great relief."
He looked at her a^ain for an instant, and his heart eonld
scarcely resist pouring itself out before her. But he felt that fae
must be sure, beyond all possibility of doubt, of Henry's feelings,
before he could speak to her of her own ; and, therefore, he again
restrained himself, though with difficulty, and said, buzriMly,
while every limb shook, —
" It is an effort too great for me to talk to you now, Constaace :
but in a few days, perhaps, you will let me do so."
She sat down unable to sustain herself. There was a tone of
displeasure in his voice which quite overcame her ; and cQie was
wholly at a loss to imagine what could have occasioned so sodden
a change in his feelings. The thought of the conversation, too, —
demanded as it was in a manner so cold, so formal— iilled her with
apprehension, and she could not speak in answer.
Displeasure was, however, far from Sir Koland's mind at that
moment. It was the great effort he was making to suppress his
feelings of 'tenderness, and to keep back from his lips the words he
so longed to speak, which alone ^ve the appearance of it to bis
manner. AU hope for himself, indeed, was past; but it was im-
possible to look at Lady Constance and suspect her of feelings of
hatred and cruelty : yet still her terrible words rung throui^h his
brain, and he felt that he must have an explanation, and be at
peace with her ; must have her restored to her bright plaoe in his
esteem, or his heart would break.
They both remained in painful silence, till Lady Ashton'e re-
entrance in some measure relieved them. She was again struck
with the embarrassment of their manner ; andinvolantarily looked
from the one to the other in the gjreatest surprise. Sbe eaii
notlung, however, but sat down quietly to her work ; yet hir
mind lelt deeply distressed. It seemed to her as if a spell had
Jauen upon the house, and had converted it, from the home of
€0% BOXAKD ASHTOK. 339
pcaee end lore it used to he, into an abode of discord and misery.
She had long traced the expression of wretchedness on the once
.'beaming countenances oi Henry and Constance, and now Sir
•Boland, too, seemed affeotedby the same blightingrinfluence. Butshe
did not like to probe the feelings which appeared so much to court
eonoealment, so determined patientlyto wait either for the passing
.away of the discomfort, or at least for the Toluntaiy explanation
of it. Yet it made her miserable at that moment ; and she coudd
ficareeV Testrain the tears of grief whidi swelled to her eye, at tho
thought of the wretchedness of those she loved so much.
Anxious to divert the thoughts of all from the painful sul^eots
iwhich seemed to occupy them so exduaively, she begged Lady
(Constance to fetch her guitar and siag to them ; but Sir Eolana
.'hastily exdaimed, —
"Oh, no, not that r
"Willitbetoomuob&ryou?" she asked.
** I could not bear it," he answered, hastUy.
fihe sighed, for his manner was so wholly unlike anything sh^
had ever aeen in him before, that she felt perfectly miserable.
Lady Oonstanoe, 1»o^ was oppressed by dread; and soon ibond
same exooseioir Jeaivmg the xoom.
CHAPTER "^TT.TT.
^ Dd BOt ORBh me with more love
'^Cbga HeB in tiie word ^paidofn/ " — Taijoubd.
" 'Tib sweet to stammer one letter
Of tike £temjtl*s laztgaage ; — on earth it is called Forgiveness r*
LoNGF£iii<ow,>h>n the Swidiah qf TEomsa.
Se&Eolakd Was possessed of property in several parts of Com-
vraHL; and at about sixteen miles from Llanaven he had another
-beautiful residence, though wanting the ineffable charm which
Xlanaven possessed, in having the ocean for its boundary. ' Lady
Afihton having some business to transact at that place for Sir
JEU)land, proposed driving over there early the next day, and Con-
ostance, glad to escape from home, even for a single day, asked to
Accompany her. The offer was of course accepted, and Plornoe
also expressed a wish to go. Lady Ashton, however, fancying ner
sons would feel lonely, said she thought she had better remain
rat home ; but Sir Rolsuid, begging he might not be considered, it
iras finally determined that both the sisters should go.
Sir Uoland felt that their absence would enable him, without
fear of interruption, to obtain his dreaded interview with hisbrotL jr ;
and he deterouned that he would not weakly put off the trial,
though he scarcely knew how he should 8pea&, or what he should
say, for he had nothing but his own strong internal conviction to
act upon. He knew not even Whether Henry was acquainted with
liis engagement to Lady Constance,— whether he had ever spoken
to her on the subject of his attachment ; or whether his evident
> 340 Sra BOLA39D ASHTON.
melancholy were produced merely by her havingr fihoim Ihat Bhe
would not permit or encourage it.
" Yet," he thought, in the latter case, " why should his maimer
have been so cold and constrained towards me at our first meet^.
If he had had no^reason for uncomfortable feeling towards me.
would it not have been more natural that in his grief he should
have rejoiced at the sight of one, whom he well knew would sym-
. pathise with him in allhis troubles ?"
Still he would not admit the idea of Henry's having acted in
any way dishonourably, or of his having pursued his own wishes,
. when aware of his claims. In short, his mind was in a'state of
the most painful perplexity ; and he could not close his eyes dniing
the whole of that distractmg night. He knew but too well that
his every prospect of happiness was doomed to extinction; yet it
was agonising to think of hearing the dreaded words which must
end it for ever. His mind at times began almost to wander, and
he feared lest the strong excitement he was under might again
bring on his fever. He prayed earnestly that his senses might be
preserved, at least till he had spoken that which, if it destroyed
hia own hopes, would secure the happiness of those to whom he
was so mudi attached ; and he continued in ardent, im^rtonate
prayer through much of that lon^, long, weary night; till at last
his soul found a peace which, even in the happiest days of life, had
never been bestowed. God does indeed impart " to the still wrest-
liuM of the lonely heart," His own sovereign peace and strength ;
ana when Sir Eoland rose in the morning, it was with a calmed
and tranquil feeling, which he would have tkought it impossible to
have attamed.
When Lady Ashton and her companions had set out on their ex-
pedition, he instantly sent down to know if his brother could see
him; determining to give himself no more time for harassiM
thought, but to force himself at once to go through tiie dreaded
trial which lay before him. He knew that, however great his
sufferings, the Lord would impose nothing but what he would give
him strength to endure ; and that the longer he put off the painful
duty, the more difficult its performance would become.
" It can but last a few years," he repeated to himself, to stm
the tremors of his mind while he was waiting for his brother's
answer ; — " life can but last a few, few wretched years, and then-
there must be peace."
He lifted Tip his heart to Heaven in prayer for composure ; yet
he felt a deaa faintness come over him (for ne was stiU very weak.)
when his servant returned and said, that **Mr. Ashton womd
be very happy to see him ;" but determining not to give "^^Y*^
instantly rose, and, taking his man's arm, he slowly descended
the stairs.
Knowing that Henry was still confined to his sofa, he entered
the room, purposely, oy a door which was behind him, that he
might avoid bein^ seen on his first entrance ; and then leaning on
the back of a chair for an instant, he directed his servant, by a
sign, to place another for him near the end of the couch against
Snt BOLAIO) ASHTON. 341
•wluch Henry was leaning, in order that lie might be enabled still
to kecD out of his sight.
Neitner of the brothers spoke till the servant had left the room ;
but when he was grone, Henry put out his hand to Sir Roland, and
the latter clasped it in silence, for his breath came thick and short,
and he could not speak. ,
"Thank God! you are here once more," at length exclaimed
Hengr. " I had feared never again to see you."
" Yes, I am better," said Sir Koland, kindly ; " and you ?"
"Oh! I am well enough," replied Henry; "you are now the
one to be thought of. I uttle imagined when last we parted how
much we should have had to endure before we-met again."
" Nor I," said Sir Roland, in a Toice so choked by emotion, that
Henry, surprised, turned round towards him, sayin^^ —
" Roland, you are still, I am sure, very ill ; why did you venture
down here so soon ?"
" I am, indeed, still ill," replied Sir Roland ; " but I knew I
should never be better till I had spoken to you, Henry, and there-
fore I determined to come."
" Spoken to me !" said Henry, in sudden apprehension.
•* Yes, I must speak to you," replied Sir Roland, becomiag
calmer, now that he had entered on the subject.
He paused a moment, — Henry's agitation was extreme ; but he
felt not a doubt as to the subject on which his broiler was about to
enter : and ima^^ining he was come as a successful rival, to speak
with blamefol indignation, his proud heart rose up against him. ,
** And what have you to say td me ?" he asked, fiercely.
** Much," said Sir Roland in a stern voice ; for his brother's
manner was not such as to conciliate him.
It must ever be a hard struggle for any man to feel kindly
towards another who has obtained the place—refused to him — ^in
the heart of the being he loves better thaJa his own life ! And Sir
Boland was but man— young— devoted— and about to part with
hopes which had been his for many ft vear— hopes — ^which had
seemed the sum of earthly existence to Mm— part with them too,
in favour of one, who at that moment seemed to meet his noble
and generous advances with a harsh and repellent spirit. He was
soon however enabled to overcome the emotions of an^r within
him ; and rellecting that Henry could not know of his intentions
towards him, animated and softened too by his own generous feel-
ings, he continued in a milder tone,
** Yes, I have much to say^ to you ; and you must bear with
me patiently, Henry, for mine is a tried and wounded heart. How-
ever, I did not come to speak about myself, but about you
You love Constance, Henry !"
Henry was silent. His heart beat with desperate emotion, and
his breath came audibly.
" I do not ask you it you love her," continued Sir Roland, with
increasing agitation, " I know— I feel that you do. But I do ask
you as a man— a lover— a brother — does she love you ?"
Henry still could utter no sound.
9^ SIB BOLIND ASHTO^.
"Answer me" ooutinned Sir Boland, endeaTouiing to speak
calmly, though his features worked convulsively, for he Mt as if
the reply he expected to receive must kill him.
Henry at length replied, but almost inaudibly,
" She never said she did."
" For God's sake, do not trifle with me," exclaimed Sir Boknd,
with a vehemence wSioh terrified his brother. ** Tell, me at onoe—
for you must know— does die love you?"
"I thought so once," replied Henry, in. a voice which seemed to
deprecate his brother's anger, " but she OAFer saidso, and I have
np right therefore to say she did."
" Said so ! No !" exclaimed Sir Eoland, " how should she say
80 to you, when "
He suddenly checked himself, {bmot knowing whetherhis brolhw
was informed of his engagement ox not, excited as his own mina
was, he coiv<l yet feel for him ; and not till after a deadly pause of
several mb itee, could he bring himaelf - to say,
" Henry, I do not laum whemer you know it^ but Constance is
eng^ed to me."
*• I know it,",, replied Henry, with a hauphty look- fire flaahiiffi
ftom his eyes ; *' I have long known it--elae I had not brooked
your questioning."
A storm of passionate feelinflr swept furiously through Sir
Boland's breast ; but its very violence warned him not to speak
till it was past; He dropped nis head up(m. his hand, and his better
nature struggled for the mastery ; his heart was full to overflowing,
and he strove to prav, though his mind could form no petition.
At length he looKea up, and said calmlv, and in a tone of soflli
deep anguish, as struck ms brother to the neaxt,
''^I did not come here to intrude needlesdy into your feelings
Henry, though now I find I had more richt to do so than I haa
thought. No tongue but your own should have dared to tell md
that you permitted yourself to love« and sought a return, whenyoa
knew of my engagement; that blow Fate had reserved as the
last, and the severest."
Henry's whole soul repelled this accusation, and he was about
vehem^ly to exclaim, that his brother wronged him--that Be
was guiltless of all meditated wrong against him— but his ficond
heart would not bend, and he maintained a determined silenee.
" I came," continued Sir Boland, finding that Henry would sot
speak — " though I confess with different feelings &om those which
harrow me at this momentr— to seek your confidence, for your own
happiness' sake—to learn as much as you would tell me of touc
own sentimente — and as fax as yiou knew them» or felt justiflecL in
speaking of them — of hers."'
^ He was unable to proceed, and Henry, torn by contending emo-
tions, still remained silent. His mini was in a state or otter
hewilderment ; he could scaroely believe in the existence of sooli
noble intentions as his brother's words seemed to imply ; he ooold
not believe that he had come to sacrifice his own love— to destroy
w?^A*PP"^®^*» ^ ^^^^f ^ possible, to secure his,— it
Deyond the power of human nature so to act.
Sm BOJJLlXB ASHIOX. SttS
"Uo," lie thought, "he only comes to warn me that I have no
hope ; to tell me not to waste my heart's affections vainly. He
annot intend to give Constance up ! No one could do that !"
" Will you not answOT me, Henry ?" said Sir Roland, after a time,
hurt and displeased at his hrother s apparently img^rateM silence,
"What boots it," said the other, with sullen gloom, "to repeat
what you know already ! You tell me I love Constance — ^I can telL
yon no more !*'
'* You might at least tell me in a more gracious — a more feel-
ing manner," said Sir Roland, in a voic 3 of deep emotion; "you
cannot suppose it to be a matter of indifference to me, either as
segards your happiness or my own."
" What would you?" exclaimed Henry, distractedly, dashing
his hand to his forehead, " Constance is yours— yours by promise —
hj engagement ! I know she is yours, and I have no wish, no
nght— Oh!" he added, bursting into a passion of tears, "I need
not change the word, for, Grod knows, Ihave no vnsh to separate you !**
Sir Roland pressed his shaking hand on his brother's shoulder
with the earnestness of affection, and said —
" Henry, listen to me — listeu to me quietly ; and I beseech you
answer to what I shall ask. You seem to say, that you have
allowed yourself to love Constance, though you knew of our
engagement."
**ISo," exclainiedHem^, vehemently interruptinghim,andspring-
ing from the sofa, regardless of pain, or weakness ; " no, Roland, I
deny it; I never knew or 'dreamed of your engagement till I had
spoken of my love; and then she told me. "No," he continued,
in violent excitement, " I take God to witness for me, that I would
sooner have t<»n my heart quivering from my breast — ^sooner have
committed any other crime under heaven— yes, any othw crime !
than have wilfully, knowingly, sought to* gain Constance's love:
£rom you !"
Sir Roland was greatly affected.
"I believe you, Henry," he exclaimed; " I folly believe you— it
is your nature. Forgive me for believing the contrary for a mo-
ment. But I have been so tortured of late, I scarcely know whom
to credit, whom to doubt! Your own words alone could have
shaken my trust in you ; but I understood you wrong. And now,
my dearest brother — ^for such through all tnal you must ever be !—
tell me — as you value my peace on^ your own— have you reason
to believe that Constanoeprefers you?
"Roland," answered Henry, turning round, and leaning from
the couch tiU one knee bent before his brother^ as he sei^ his
hand forcibly in his own, " you shall know all. But oh ! how ill
fou look" (for he then Urst saw his brother's countenance), " and
have been the cause of it." And he leant his head down on his
brother's hand.
"Nothing comes but by God's permission," said Sir Roland,
kindly ; " but teU me all, and then I shall be easier."
" I will, — and you will judge us kindly."
Sir Roland's lips quivered for an instant, with pangs too great
for speech, and then became pale and motionless as deatL
344 SIB BOLAIH) ASHTOK.
" I came home," continned Henry, " and found Constaace— suet
as you know her to be. On that first day, I sj^ke words, partly
foolish; words of— of— what I felt, though it was but a light feel-
ing then. She checked me, and forbad such expressions again.
Never from that time did 1 say or do a thing to make her think I
loved her, more than I did Florence. There was something in her
manner that made it impossible for me to pass the barrier she chose
to place between us. But still I knew oi no. reason why I should
not let my feelings have their way, and I gave them fiill scope
within me. Koiand, we were together from mom till night;
walked together— read together^sung together— till it seemed im-
possible to live asunder. I saw she did not observe my feehngs,
and that she was not aware either that she *'
He stopped; his feeling nature made it impossible for him to say
what must be so torturing to his brother.
• ''Go on," said Sir Roland, leaning his face on his hand; "g»
on."
He continued : " I should never, I believe, have spoken-— but on
the day of the wreck here — ^which you have heard of— I thought I
might perish and see her no more, — and then I could not nelp
speaking. She answered not a word. I did not see her again for
many days, for I had been much hurt; but at last we met, and she
was cold, and bade me never speak a^ain as I had done ; but she
looked pale, and so ill and miserable, that I saw— I fancied at
least that '* again he stopped, but Sir Boland waved his hand
for him to continue,
** I thought, in fact," he said, " that it was not anffer or indiffer-
ence which made her speak as she did ; but I was iU, and at iirst
I believe she dared not tell me all; for I was violent and intern-
r^rate, and— maddened by her conduct. At last, the night before
went to sea, she told me that she could never be more to me than
she was then, for that she was — engaged to you. I appealed— jes^
Boland, I confess— that at that distracted moment I appealed to
her heart ! She answered "
" What?^ What?" exclaimed Sir Eoland, almost frantic, as his
brother hesitated to proceed.
'* She told me," continued Heniv, his eye falling before bis
brother's searching glance, ** that sne was bound by every tie to
you I"
"My precious Constance !" ejaculated Sir Roland, in a voice of
the deepest tenderness, while covering his face with his hands, hi&
tears for the first time gushed forth. His soulNbent beneath the
mighty grief that lay on it, and for a time all was silent, save the
full heavings of his troubled breast. At length, he exclaimed,
"Yes ! bound to me by every tie but the one— the only one I
value. That gone — she is free as the unfettered winds !"
A throb of such ecstasy passed through Henry's heart as he heard
these words, as sent the Diood giddily through his brain; bnt ^e
next instant he abhorred himseK for the s^shness which couJd
make him feel ioy at that which was worse than death to his bro-
ther ; and he felt that he could never bear to profit by his unbounded
generosity. A sickening fear also came over him, lest Gonstanoe
SIB BOLASTD ASHTOir. 345-
now might really liave learnt to prefer Ms brother. He himself
had been absent from her for some time, and the constant endea-
vours he was convinced she would make to subdue her feelings,
added to her ever strong regard for Sir Roland, might, at last, no
thought, have enabled her affections to return to their allegiance^
His heart sunk within him at the bare idea. And "yet," he
thought, "how have I prayed, and wished it might be so— but
He felt humbled to the soul, andT silently, with earnest heart,
did he implore that his brother's example might not be lost upon
Mm.
" Henrv," said Sir Roland, after a long: silence, "you have not
told me all. Qto on, let me know everjrthing, that I may see my
path clearly."
" I have little more to say," replied Henry, throwing himself
back exhausted on the sofa. *' I went to sea the morning after
that evening; I sent her back all I possessed of hers— I have no*
thing left— and I never wrote to her again."
"Nor to me," observed Sir Roland, — "I wondered at it then,
but do so now no longer."
"No, I could not write to you," continued Henry, "my heart
was full of remorse and misery; I could not speak to you about it,
and dreaded even thinking of you. Never either would I have
returned home, had I not believed that I was dying; and then, I
thought that I could give her up, and desired so cravingly to b&
with my mother. She went with her to Falmouth to meet me ;
and though for a moment, I confess, my heart bounded at thinking-
it a proof of her interest in me, yet I soon saw it was no wish of
hers that had brought her there ; for she was cold and distant, and
rarely spoke to me. I have seen her alone but once since my re-
turn, and then o^y for a few moments."
" And what was then said?" asked Sir Roland, in a voice wMch.
struggled vainly for calmness.
" 1 merely wished to tell her not to fear my ever renewing the
subject— as I saw she apprehended itr— for that worlds would not
induce me to do so ; and she replied that she was glad I had given
her that assurance, as it relieved her mind. We have had no fur*
ther intercourse toffether."
"You have acted, nobly, Henry," said Sir Roland, with a deep,
sigh ; " and she has had feelings that were but too natural, ana
has fought against them, it should seem, in a way that unassisted
nature could not have done. I cannot blame you— either of you—
and I thank God for it. It now only remains for me to ascertain
her wishes, and then— they shall be fuMlled."
"You cannot mean," exclaimed Henry (still scarcely believing*
that Sir Roland could intend to resim Laxly Constance to him)»
" yon cannot mean that you can give ner up ?"
" To you?" said Sir Roland, calmly; " certainly, if she wish it;;
and I feel no doubt about it."
" Oh ! but there is a doubt," replied Henry, warmed with
generous feeling; " she ever loved you so much, and has been sa
cold and distant with me."
3M SIS SBIaASD ASKTOIS.
** She would mot hare been distant, had she not dxaaded beiiur
nearer, Henry. No, no, try not to deceive me into a Yain ana
hopel^ hope. She loves you, and you know it .... so do I. But
we nraat not quite dispose of her," he added, with desperate calm-
ness, and endeavouiiiifi^ to smile, " without her own consent. Must
I ask her what she wianes } or wiU you }'*
"Oh! not I-^iot I," said Henry, ahnddering; "her answer
either way would kill me."
**0h! no," replied Sir Eoland, "joynerver kills! and if grbf
eould kill— I should not now be heve. No!" he exclaimed, and
his manner grew excited, — " if mortal aeony could destroy— it
would have been done by this uprooting of a' love which remem-
bers no beginninfi^-and can know no end."
All Henry's feelings were roused by this burst of passionate
desraair in his brother, and he earnestly addressed him :
'^Eoland," he said, "hesur me; and I bea^ch you weigh my
words, and do not lightly throw away a happiness which may stul
be yours. It is lonp: since Constance and I were together; the
foolish feeling we mig^t for a moment have had, will soon have
passed; she reveres and admires you beyond all earthly thinge— I
£now she does," for Sir Eoland mook his head; "she has spoken
of you OB if you were almost more than human ! She must lov9
you if she were long with you, and you will remain here with bar
when I*— for I shall do soon wdl enough— «m gone agaia to sea*
I shall be hopny in your happiness^ and "
** Do not so deceive yourselt, Heiuy," said Sir Roland, much af-
fected by his brother's generous burst of feeling. " We may>
indeed, be comforted in the loss of our own happiness^ by zninister*
ing to that of those we love ; but in this worid we must live in
oureelTcs, we cannot wholly live in others."
" But when you were ill, Eoland, the' tiiought of Constance waa
tendbletome; and I would have given wonds to have seen 7011
well and happy with her ; and eamesUy did I pray that it might
be so; thereiore it is possible you see that change ot drcumstanees
may bring change of feeling, and "
"But how did you feel when I was out of danger?" asked Sir
Eoland, again interrupting his brother; "did you then feel so
indifferent to your own happiness ? Did you not then find that
another change of cioQumsta&ce could bnng another change of
feeling?"
Henry was silent.
"I know all your arguments, Henry," continued Sir Eoland;
''for I have used them all myself— but vainly. No, do not trust
for comfort to any excitement of mere human feeling, it is too
4q[>hemeral; but there is comfort to be found, and I shall find i1^ I
doubt not."
" But still I implore you," continued Henry, earnestly, "do not
rak to Constance now — ^not yet. I do not — ^I say it in truth— I
not know her feelings now, oven if I ever did, — and 1 shall sooa
be gone. Do not speak of me to her, nor perhaps of your engage-
ment yet, and I feel sure that soon — vcBy soon — ^you will see Uflt
she loves you, and then all will bo well."
SIB BOXJJTD ABSXDBk t4Z
** I will not a^ot a Tain genflrQsitf, H^suy," reified Sir Boland.
*' or say, much as I love you, that under some circumstances, I
might not periiaps have made the trial you so nohly siupgest ; for
I do think that viewed alone, msj. feelings deserve pemaps more
consideration than yours. Yours^-daldng as you have said they
do — only j&om last year, hoirever strong, are not like mine, rooted
in the very denths of my being, — ^woven into the very * substance
of my life !' Our hasty engagement was not the beginning of my
love, Henry ! ¥rom the time we w»re all so much together, before
^ou went to sea, I was oonsciotts— ohild as she then was— that I
felt for her, what I felt for notidzig dse in life— that she was to me
as a thing apart firom all the woiM/'
"Why did you not then let me ioiow yofor feelings^*' said
fienrv, in great agitation.
*' Yours would nave been a young and nddy spirit then to have
confided such feelings to," replied Sir Bolana, kindly; '* and per-
haps I was always over-inelined to ke^ them to mysdf. I spoke
to ner father before I went abroad, but he thought n^ too young,
and bid me say nothing to her. Fatal— fatal precaution ! — ix least
i<n me."
" But why did you not let me know, at least when you were
engaged !" adced Henry. *^ I have oftan wondered why that waA
kept from me."
^ I wM tdil yoo," said fiiv Bolaad :-*" Our engagement was
fbrmed, as you know, under dreumstanfieB of great distress;
li>rm«d hastuy, against my mak\ for I earnestly desired more
time to be given me for trying to win her aflSaction. But, how-
ever, it was f(»iBed tiiiem; ana my iiiotfa£r» -mth nroiNar feeling*
thought it best that it should not then be taiked of. Xou, we
abeuld instamdy haare told, but knew not where to direct to you at
&st, and afterwards 1 did not like to have it mentioned to even.
you ; fat I saw-~ttnd ndserahls it made me— that our engagement
seemed to check, instead of increasing her fonner love for me» and
I determined die should be foee to act as she wished. You see,
therefore," he added, kindly, aaudous to reconcile his brother to
himself, '*that you hanut not taksn her affection i^Kon me, Henry,
&r it was never mine. You have only filled that heart which I
ooield not satisfy; and I feeU therefore* that it is tjhe will of Cbd.
that you, and not I, should "
*^»o** interrupted Henry, '^leuiBet think it; you are suited
to her in every way. Oh! if yon. oould but know new ill I acted
towards her t^en sae reftised me ; how viokntr— how intexoperate
I wasr-you would knew how totally unvrcartby I am of having her
hnypiness oommitted to ay ease."
^And yet she loved yon tto>u9h alL" said Sir Boikaid; and a.
Urnll of an^sh darted through hie heart; ''while she never
looked but with coldnesi upan me, who could not have said one
harsh word to her. The heart speaks but too ulamly there, Heory ;
80 cease this generous strife agamst yourself.
Henry was silent for a few moments, for his heart was
filled with swset yet bitter feelings. At lexu^th he said*
'* But why, Roland, would you not let me be told of your engage-
34S 8IK XOLAHD ASKTOIT.
ment "whsR I retonied home? That would hsve saved all our
• »>
misery.
** It mifljit baTe done so/' nnlied SirBoland; " and liad I been
here at the time, I shonld nnaonbtedly have told yon instantly of
it ;— iiot from any apprehenaum, bat oecanse my regard for you
wonld have made me desire to show Ton all conhdence. Bat for
the reason I bare told yon, I begged my mother not to mention it
to any one till my retam; and not in the least expecting yon
home, I did not think of excloding yon from that generally ex-
pressed wish, and so my dear mother did not like to tell yoa.'*
"Bat yoa knew that I was here long before I retamed to sea,"
lesomed Henry ; " why did yoa not write to me thenr"
" Oh ! it matters not," replied Sir Boland, his pale cheek flnsh-
ing at the remembrance of the straggle he had had at , and
the deep affection which had dictatedliis decision.
'* I wQl not ask if yon do not wish to tell me,'* said Hennr,
rather hart ; *' bat it has perplexed me often when I have thoognt
of it, — so I wished to know.'
** It was merely," answered Sir Boland, '' that I knew you bad
been together for a long time, and I thoaght it possible— judging
from yonr first letter especially— that— in short I felt it best to
leave all in the hands of God— and He has decided— as is donbtless
best."
Henry for a time coold make no answer. G^eroas as were the
impalses of his own nature, he had neTer even imagined sach self-
denying devotion to the happmess of others, as he now saw in his
brother. He felt an admiration for him beyond all boands ; and
his heart throbbed with anguish as he reflected that he had been
the means of destroying his hapmness.
''God win be your reward, Koland," at length he said; "but
yoor words have made me very miserable."
Sir Boland grasped his brother's hand, and he felt that their
hearts onderstood each other.
"Yet once more," exclaimed Henry, " I most beseech— entreat
— ^imnlore of yoa, if yoa do not consider me wholly onworthy to
be called year brother— defer yoor— her decision, at least till lam
gone— tiU yoa have been long together ! I exact this of your
regard, Boland. I shall soon be able to rejoin my ship, and.
then "
" I did tell yon, my dear brother," said Sir Boland, " that imder
some droamstances I might possibly have followed yoor generous
wish, bat I cannot now, — ^I coold not do it ; and perhaps it were
best at once to tell yoa why. In the aotiye life which yoar pro-
fession affords, yoa might in time have foand relief of mind ; hut,
my poor fellow! they have told my mother, that though yoor
health may be entirely restored, and yoar strength to a certain
degree, yet that you never will be able with safety to undertake
again the arduous exertions of a sailor's life."
Henry shaded his face with his hand, and strong emotion ahook
nim ; for fond as he was of his home, and enchanting as was the
prospect, however uncertain, of being united to Lady Gonstanoe*
'Sm ROLiJfD ASHTON. 349
yet he was devotedly attached to his profession ; and the idea of
oeinsT cut off ^m it for ever, struck like despair to his heakt.
" I would not have told you of this now," said Sir Roland, who
saw with regret the pain his words had given his brother, " had it
not been to prove to you how impossible it would be, even if I
wished it, to follow your most dimnterested suggestion ; but I do
hope that the prospect of happiness at home, which I can now offer
you, may reconcile you to your great privation. Do you think,
that I, crowned with every blessing of situation, could bear to see
you cut off from following the profession in which you have always
430 much delighted, and deprived of all happiness here also }
Never ! — ^No, if Constance really loves you, she snail undoubtedly
be yours."
Henry pressed his brother's hand vehemently to his lips.
" This is too much," he cried; "too much— 5 cannot Dear this,
when all I could ever have hoped for, was forgiveness !"
" Let that rest now, Henry ; said Sir Boland, hurriedly. ** To-
morrow I will endeavour to settle everything, and then you wiU be *
happy, I — ^think. I am afraid," he added, after a pause, " that
I have been intemperate and unkind, but you will feel for me, and
forgive me."
" If you would not make me utterly miserable," said Henry,
** do not speak in that way, when you have been everything — every-
thing that is excellent and noble, beyond all power of belief!
It is I who have been ungrateful—violent— unjust ! Yet, I am
blest— and you— Oh ! Roland ! I cannot endure to think of it !"
** Try to look at these things, Henry, as all guided by a Master
Spirit, * replied Sir Roland. "He it is, great and good, *whx»
giveth to every one his portion in due season ;' and when trial has
done its work with me, its heavy weight will doubtless be re-
moved. Do not fear for me, Henry ; my love for Constance can
never indeed cease, for it is myself: but God will in mercy change
the nature of it, and make it the same tranquil, deep affection which
J feel for you. He himself will be my portion, and he is the only
satisfying one. It is the remembrance or the fbrgetfulness of that,
Henry, which converts miseries into blessings, or blessings into
miseries. And now, my dear brother, may God, the God of our
IFather, bless you ! Wehave mutually, perhaps, had something to
forgive, but the deep heart's love has never failed, and never must.
"Now I will leave you, for we both need rest, and I shall find it
best, perhaps, alone. My mind is much relieved, for anything is
better than uncertainty, and thank God, all-— yes, all unhappy dis-
pleasure of feeling towards you is gone ; and I find you still the
same warm, generous being you ever were.— God bless you !"
Henry wrun^ his brother s hand, for he could not speak; and
8ir Roland, rising slowly, left the room.
He passed into the adjoining drawing-room, and sat there for
some time, in that quiescent state which so often succeeds violent
emotions. His mind took a Is^anquil survey of all that had
occurred, as if it had been the record of events long since past,
-and in which he had no concern. He could even bear to remember
350 SIB BOLAJTD ASHTON.
that it was in that very room tiiat he had heard those wards of
Lady CcmstaiLee's whioh had so distraoted him at the time, and
•which still lay so ohiU u^od. his heart.; yet he fait no distvrhanee.
A Tagrue sense of uneasmess was aU he was oonscioiis 4xf ; eadi
aoate sensation heing lost in the dull, deadeniiig torpor thro«|^
which, though he oould see eYeats clearly, he ooold notieel them.
After a time, ringing for his S6nrant,iie aetmmed np^BtaxEs to his
own apartment.
When Lady Ashton came home nbe went directly to visit Ibid,
and he told her, without emotion, that he had been down to «ee
Henry, which had much fatigued him; and Ladj^ Ashton haying
no idea thart iQiere oould exist any cause of excitement between
them, naturally supposed that his eyident lassitude and exhaastxa
proceeded solely from the unusual exertion he had been making;
and with a tranquil ndnd, therefore, she left him, begging hun
to go early to rest, as sleep would refresh him.
Seep, however, was far from his eyes, and for houra he tossed
izpon ms feverish bed. His mind wandered from oljeot to objeiBt»
yet, thoufidi none tortared, none gave it repese, for his senl had
not yet wholly pierced through the mists of earthly trouble to the
imclouded presence of God. At length, finding tms state of mind
intolerable, he involuntarily exclaimed, —
" Why art thou so heavy, Oh ! my soul; end why art thou so
disquieted within me !"
Tne answer was sent in the power of tiie ^irit :^ —
" Trust tiiou in €bd, for thou shalt yet ffive Him iJiaiikB, whidi
is the help of thy countenance and thy God.*'
His mind waked from its dreamy state, and he sank into real
repose.
CHAPTiSE L.
''His bearing is bo altered.
That distant I soaice knew him for hinmelf ,
But looking in his face, I felt his smile,
Gradons as eyer, though its sweetness won
Unwonted mitow in it.*'— Talfodkd.
•* Tain, yain, the things we tell oorselyes— allyaiir!
Hope flatters on, on wounded pinion still,
With a deep life we have no power to eniiii*
The £Btal blow most by another's hand
Be dealt. The rutliless lip of those we love
Alone can teach us that we are not loved.
Alone ean tear Hope's quivering grasp awvft
And bid us, hopeless, loveless, lifeless, to live on.**— ^USL
" Thou hast taught
Hy soul all grief, all bitterness of thought !
'Twill soon be past— *I bow to Heaven's decree.
Which bade each pang be ministered by thee/
KoTwrtHSTAvnnre the great fatigue he had undergone, 8ir
Aoland rose earlier than usual the next morning. Hi« energetic
SIB BaLAlTD ASBTfOX. 351
mind cotdd never endttre weakly to postpone tiie dnties which he
knew must he fulfilled ; and in nis present most trying^ amd diffioult
situation, he felt that the sooner eyerything was dedded, the
sooner should he he enahled to regain his peaoe of mind.
When he had finished his almost untasted hreaktast, he seiKt
Ms servant to request Lady Ashton to come to him. She aocovd-
ingl^ came» and when he had answered all her kind and anxiotB
inquiries, he told herthat he wished much t&8{)eak to Con^anoe alone,
and that he would go down for that purpose into the little drawing-
room, and there wait till it suited her to join him ; leqnestZBg at
the same time that they might not he interrupted.
There was nothing extraordinary in this request, consideidfig
the position in which he stood, as regarded Constance, hut it was
made in so trouhled a voice, and there was so unsettled an
expression in his countenance, that Lady Ashton felt oonvineed
that something most painful had occurred. She would not ask,
but her anxious look was read hy Sir Roknd, who kindfy rspbed
to it,—
" Ton shall know all, my dearest mother, — ^bnt not now. Pray
for me — pray for me, for I am most miserable !"
Lady Ashton approached him, and putting her arm loand him,
stooped to kiss his pale brow. He leant his head against her for
a moment, but though he felt her tears fall upon his eheek, yet no
drop came to ease his own biumin^ eyes. JBis spirit was wound
up for endurance, and he dared not mdulge one softening thought.
After a few minutes,* he said, —
** I must ask you to leave me now, dear mother, for I have need
to strengthen, not to melt my heart, which your dear lov« doe«."
Lady Ashton, full of dismay and anxietv, left l^e room, and
going to Lady Constance's apartment, tola her of Sir Koland's
wish to see her. Constance bad expected soon to receive this
dreaded message, but now that it arrived, the sickness of a faintingr
fit came over her. Recovering herself, however, she got up, and
was about to leave the room, when she caught Lady Ashton's eye
fixed in sorrowful inquiry upon her face. She turned to her, and
throwing her arms round her neck, exclaimed —
'* Oh ! do not hate me, though I have brought such misery inta
your home."
Lady Ashton kissed her affectionately, though she felt more
tban ever perplexed ; but she could not then detain her from Sir
Poland, so said, —
" Go, my dear, go, and comfort Roland if yon can ; he seems so
Tfcry wretched I"
She left the room, and descending the stairs, fonnd herself at
the door of the apartment where sme was to meet Sir Roland.
There she paused, trembling from head to foot. It seemed im-
iwssible to open the door, or go into the presence of him whose
happiness she had so wholly destroyed. The apartment was next
to the one in which Henry was; and as she stood in timorous
indecision, she caught the sound of his hollow cough, followed by
an exclamation of excessive pain. This nerved her at onoe, for
it roused all her deep interest in him, and made her feel the st^m
352 Snt BOLAND ASHTON.
necessity of aiding lier tizihappy ^^agement to Sir Roland. Not
that she dreamed of marrriiifl: Henry ! that could never have
entered her mind, and would have seemed as impossible to her
as fulfilling her vows to his brother ; but she felt in&t she must be
£ree, and then she thought she would leave Llanaven, at least till
flhe, and those whose peace she had so much disturbed, should have
regained somewhat of tranquillity of heart. She was greatly
relieved on entering the room to find Sir Roland was not vet
there, and she sat down on the sofe^ and took up a book that lay
on the table near, in the hope of quieting her agitation a little
before he should come in. She was, however, scarcely seated
when he entered, — slowly, though without assistance. Hereys
rested on him for one instant, but was quickly withdrawn, for bier
heart sickened at seeing him, changed as he was ! His countenance
was grave, but betokened neither anger nor unkindly feeling ; on
the contrary, the sweet expression which generally played round
his mouth, was even heightened by the melancholy which pervaded
his whole appearance.
He did not raise his eyes to her as he entered, but a sHght
inclination as he approacned the sofjE^ showed that he was aware
of her being there. He sat down by her side, and instantly
began.
^'I have asked you to meet me here, Constance, because I have
much to say to you."
He naused a moment, but getting exceedingly agitated^ he
hurriedly continued :
" I cannot wait to find gentle words, for I must speak whilst
I can, Constance, and say that I see— I know and feel that our
«nfl»gement had best— mxist indeed end."
He stopned, but Lady Constance could make no reply.
Then lell, in all its fearful weiarht, the deadly, nving force of
hopeless misery upon Sir Kolanus heart. Tul that moment,
mumown to himself, "hope, which comes to all," a desperate hope
that would not be denied, had lingered in his breast ; though it
was the agonizing pang of its final extinction, which alone made
him aware that it had still survived within him.
Constance's silence proved but too plainly that she also thought
their ill-fated engagement had better cease ; and though he knew
it must be so, vet the moment of final decision was dreads to
him. Not that ne could now have had comfort in the idea of that
which would once have given him such unbounded happiness!
"No ! the thought of his brother would have haunted him, and have
embittered the sweetness of every domestic tie. Yet still the
last crushiuff blow was horrible, and an almost frantic feeling of
despair rusned over him for a moment; but terrified by its
violence^ he instantly laid his cause before Heaven, mentally
exolaimmg, "Leave me not, neither forsake me, God of my
salvation! ' Peace returned into his heart, and when he spoke
again it was in a calmer manner.
" I will not go over all the causes," he said, " which have brought
us mutually to this decision, Constance ; suffice it, that we both of
as know and feel that they are insurmountable. You wUl now, I
SIB BOLAND AS3n^0X. 362
trust, at least let me resume tlie placo I formerly possessed in your
regard, and deal kindly and openly with me. Thougli tlie claims
of later days must bo foregone, you will not forget that from
earliest years I have ever loved and watched over you, with more
than brother's love. That love can never cease, tJiough even that
has had much to try it of late."
He was silent, and she could scarcely command her voice to
speak ; but she munnured words of " regard and friendship ;"
when Sir Roland, with one of those bursts of terrible feefing
which at times overcame him, exclaimed wildly and passionately, —
' * Talk not of friendship, Ck>nstanoe I They Know it but by name
who have never given up love for it !*'
His whole frame shook with emotion ; but after a time, drawing
a deep breath, he added, as Lady Constance sat trembling by his
side, —
" I entreat you to forgive me, Constance, and to bear with me a
little ; for I cannot always now speak, or think, or feel as I could
wish. My spirit has been so shaken by trial and iUness, that I am
no longer master of myself. You will forgive me. It is easy for
the buppy to forgive !
** Happy !— Oh ! Roland," exclaimed Lady Constance, at last,
bursting into tears, — ** I am most miserable. '
"Ana I most guilty for speaking as I have done," said Sir
Roland, all his own gnefs vanishing at the sight of her distress.
" Oh ! I had meant to hide my feelmgs from you— to tell you that
my love was gone, or a light thing that would soon pass away, —
80 that your heart should not be troubled; — but now I have
wounded you, by my frantic violence ; and have shown you that
which I would fain nave hid from every eye but God's, Most un-
reasonable, too, I have been, for I have asked your friendship, and
then rejected it. But still you will give it me, Constance, and
your confidence, too, and I will try to merit them."
Constance's faUing tears proved how much his words affected
her. Her mind, too, was perplexed, for she could no way divine
what had occurred to produce so areat a change in Sir Roland, or
to make him determine so suddenly to break off their engagement.
She had expected him to inquire why she was cold and changed,
but she had not anticipated his having formed any definite resolu-
tion himself. Her conscious mind ii^ade her feel sure that Henry
must be in some way connected with these things, though how Sir
Roland could have become acquainted with his sentiments she was
wholly at a loss to conceive.
Sir Roland felt a great difficulty in mentioning his brother ; he
could not expect that Lady Constance would willingly acknow-
ledge her feelings, or show the interest which she felt in Mm, but
he was most anxious to end a state so fearfully trying to him-
self, and to bring her to consent to that which could alone restore
happiness to Henry. At length, after a long struggle, he began :
I am but a poor advocate, Constance, but I am most anxious
to try my powers for once. Not for myself— do not fear that," he
added, a flush of pride glowing on his features, as he saw Lady Con-
stance look up witn sudden terror to his face ;— " I know myself too
A A
you,]
that]
ivell tomiyplioate in my owxi^ cause ;7*-but I wonU try to mofve f <w
ftowacds anotlker« who loves you with a deep* devoted love ; one
^o woxdd die to make you happy. Yovl ki9(ow that Senry loyes
yoa, Oonstanoe, and it is for hvai that I would plead. You do &ot
aiunrer. Gonstaaoe," he adc\ed, with a sudden burst of feeling,
*' I cannot treat you as a stranger ; I must ^pseak openly and freely
to you, for this constcaiiit is intderable. Mif love is jaow, you
must remember, aiihingr-foi^otten ! but it mioy perhi^s g:ive me
«ome little daim to be h^rd for another. Henry loves you, Con.
stance, and do you not love bim ^ Anaw^ that qvestion to your-
self, not to me— not to me ! but act on the reply your iieaxt shell
make openly— generously. He has suffered lang* and deeply, and
has lieen wholly, wholly without blame. He has told me all ; and I
m come as £rom.him to you, to l)eg jou to ^1 for bun ; and J breech
ou, let me tell him you wiU, in tmie at least, be his. I fe^ sore
[iat Irhave read your feelmga, .Oonfitanoe,; .and Henry jQunks that
Ite lias done so .too."
"Oh! no, Koland," said Xady Constance, espnestly, "he<98ii-
amt-rhe cannot ! J'rom the moment he told me what he f^ I
have never spoken to him if I coidd help it^'^I.baxe^never .wnlte
to him; he hias be«i to me as a.sln:ai)g«r."
**1 know it, Constance," said. Sir JSoland, Jn.ji voice <>f 4^
deepesttendemess and respect, whUe hisheartbl^ataeein^heTcai-
tinued tears. ; *' my mother, though ignorant:of t& cau9e,'tokl me^af
four coldness and unwillingness tc^be wi^him ; -and that, whiAktb
er appeared nnkindness, told m« all the history of your.heact.
Ton have acted» as re^^ards him, jas you were, eauae to do.— :£ut^^*iCo|i-
stance— there .are thmgs I fain wo|dd aak, and which I feel-tl^tl
must know !— T«ll me, I beseech you, why, wl^n you ie^ tha^
ynu- that your— yes, I will say it~^at .you loved &m, why did
you write toAie— twky receive me .as you. did? I cannotwnk
you meant to he insincere ; yet why conld yon seek to lead
me astray ? Why not have told me at once, you conld not be
mine, and have given me :proof of your coni^aing friendship,—
even though you refused me your love ? Jt iiad been better^-^-oh I
fcrbetterr
^* I will try and tell you, Roland,", ahe^aaid, endfiavomring to be
valm. "But first,— I never moke .cqie word to :Henry tihatacnald
jnake him think I liked him.*
** Words ace not ineedfol,^' said gir Boland». sadly* **:bo dvxir
;fiither that we love, or that we cannot love.*'
" But I never, Roland, never did a thing .to nuijke hun fh^tk I
forgot my vows to yon. He.doe¬r.hexaanot say 1 did." §And
^gfun she burst into tears.
'*^Ko, my dearest Constance," 8aid.lSir.Bf0lMlld, ,80oUiin^, '<he
did not say so ; he said only that he tliouffht Jbe «aw that jq/oL woe
not indifierent towards him, but that he was. convinced that ycin—
I scarcely know how to render, his words .without making Wyi n ^p.
.pear presumptuous .and over-confiden^faupt Jie ^as not 90 ; yon
must: believe me wJien 1 say so, Constaiioe ; he sptitke in every .way
wnat ^vna z)gntrand.gett»x»us,.Qnly it ia I wlu>«.am ao wnkdied
Sili KOIAJSD ASHTOIT. 366
^ interpreter. But you were to tell me why you reoeiyed me so
warmly, and oontmued to write to me with so much affection."
" At the first moment of your coming I forgot everything but
the joy of seeing you," she replied ; " and what I wrote, Roland, I
truly felt, — ana indeed, a thousand-fold more, because I knew how
much I was wronging you ; and I feel the same affection now."
Sir Boland pressed her hand a moment to his lips ; then let it
fall again, as he leant back on the sofa, and covered his face.
"I trusted," she continued after a moment, " to feel everything
I ought; and my mind was getting much more tranqoil^md
liappy, when—he returned so ill."
And then all your efforts were scattered in an instant," said
Qh Iloland, with a pang, which made his heart and brow contract.
^'1 see it aU, and! thank Grod I can feel for it' all. Oh ! it is aa
Tain to try to love, as to strive to forget, Constance !"
He 'paused ; then began again, in exceeding agitation—
"There is still one more thing I would ask, and then I have
4oije for ever. Yet my whole soul quivers and trembles as I think
of it, and remember how sense, and reason, and life itself reeled
xmder the blow l"
'* What could it be }** a^iked Lady Constance, in terror, as Sir
Soland sat for a moment incapable of speaking.
** Constance ! my mother, unsuspicious herselff and not thinking
of creating: suapicion in me, had spoken of your coldness ana
strange distance of behaviour to Henry, which she thought pro-
ceeded &om aversion, but which I soon saw watt anything but
that. My soul was miserable ; and it seemed as if I had nothing
more to suffer in life. But as I stood in this room— this very
room— after leaving her, I saw you in the next^for the door was
partly open— 1 saw you dasp your hands, as in agony, and look-
ing up to Heayen, I heard you — ^you, Constance, who were all th^
world to me, for whose sake I was willing to suffer all things V-^
I heard you ,exclaim, 'Would he had never returned!* — Hj
isenses gave way under my torrible feelings ; and— Oh ! I was
almost going impiouuy to say, would that my lile had done
«o too !"
*' Poland," ^aid Lady Constance sei^ng his hand, and forcing
him to turn to "her, "you could not fihinS: it was of you I spoke ^
Or you — oh ! never, never!— No ! it was of Heniy. 1 wished, oh !
Low fervently ! that he had never come back to blight your hap-
piness.— Oh*! notr-not of you!"
Sir Bpland raised the hand he held in his, a moment towards
heaven, while a flash of such joy dione on his countonance as made
every feature resplendent.
" Now I ,am happy," he exclaimed ; " now I can freely ffive yon
up — ^for you are restored to me the same — same being that you
«ver were — ^true, noble, heavenly ! Forgive me that for a moment
I could doubt you; forgive me that for a moment I could think
you unkind, ungenerous ! But it was at the first instant of my
distraction at hnding that yon loved Henry — and it was I
who had just returned ! My heart has long felt that you could not
really wish me evil, but I longed to have your imago, as it has
AA2
356 snt ]u>LAirD ashtox.
eyer been* clear and bright within me,-^-and God has granted me
my earnest prayer. You will iorfslve me ?' '
*' Oh ! I haTe nothing to forgive," said Lady Constance, again
melting into tears, '* but all to be forgiyen."
" Bpeak of that, I pra^^r, no more," said Sir Bbland, with re-
turning ajgitation; " bnt if you think, Constance, that you owe
me any kindness, let me entreat yon to show it in Hstening to this
my earnest entr^ity. Let me teU Henry that you will be his."
*' No," said Lady Constance, firmly; '* I cannot do that."
** Constance," he replied, " you ahoiild be aboye all false refine-
ment. You know that you have been the cause of much misery to
two beings that love you. Will you refbae to make the only repa-
ration in your power? It were a false boast, to say that audi an
act would make me happy ; we both know that— that could not be
the case ; but it woidd make me happier than anything else could.
I have hitherto lived too much for myself, Ood will teach me to
live for others ; and your happiness is now my care— and Heniy's.
Constance, let me entreat vou at least to go to him— and then let
him plead his own cause ; ne will perhaps do it best. His coming
to vou is, you know, impossible, for now again he cannot leave the
flora,; but you will not let that keen you from him }'*
'* Boland, I cannot go," said Lady Constance.
'* I ipll say but this one thins: more, Constance, and surely," he
added, reproachfully, ** you will not refuse me everything? Think
only for one moment how much Henrv has suffered; think of him
now— in the next room — cut ofl^ for the moment at least, &om all
enjoyment. Bemember that 70U, and you only, can giye him
peace and happiness. — ^And will you refuse ? Constance, I never
entreated for myself, but now I do imj^ore of you— go to Henry.
If you will not alone— come with me. 1 cannot leave you till you
have granted my request ; it is cruel, inhuman, to give pain where
you can relieve it; and vou should know Henry enough to feel
that he could never mista&e 70U— nor I. Will you not, iSaen, Can-
stance, let me take you to him— as my gift ? My heart would be
easier tiien."
** Then I will go," she said, instantly rising.
He took her hand, and they crossed the room to the door which
led into the apartment where Henry was lying. Lady Constance
involuntarily shrunk back as he opened it, but he -wnispered to
her,
" For my sake, Constance," and she again advanced.
Henry was lying with his back to tliem, but he was folly aware
of their entrance, for he had caught the sound of Sir Boland's
voice of Constance's name ; yet he dared not turn, or look towards
them. 8ir Roland went up to him — placed Lady Constance's
hand in his, and silently left the room.
SIB BOIAND ASHTON. 36t
CHAPTER U.
*' n n*j a que Diea qui puisse ainsi m^Ier taut de biens k tant de mauz.*'
Madame de Gotov.
C 1^0 one bat God could mingle so much of good with so much of eTil.**)
** My soul indeed is fixed ;
Yet cannot I but feel
E'en now the sadness cft long days to come t
The cold void left me by a lost delight I
« « « «
How blissfhl was the thought
With her to share each golden evening's peace 1
How grew the longing hour by Jiour, to read
Ber spirit yet more deeply !
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Kow is the twilight's gloom around me Allien :
The festal day, the sun's magnificence,
All riches of this many-coloor'd world,
What are they now? Dim, ^undless, desolate,
Veiled in the cloud that sinks upon my heart,**
Mbs. Hemans* lixaulatUm/ram Goethe's Tosm.
WnES Sir Roland &ad left Constance with Henry, he went up
instantly to his own room.
"Now," he exclaimed, "the worst is over! now I shall find
repose !"
. Alas ! those who imag:me that the active zeal of self-renuncia-
tion — the stirring animation of self-sacrifice, where the noble deed
follows up the daring resolution — are the worst features of trial,
have as vet learned but little in that bitter school. The real suf-
fering of such times, compared to which all else is as ** childhood's
dewy tears," is, when having given up all, there is nothing left
for us to do ; when, after the first moment of unbounded gratitude
18 past, we find ourselves overlooked, amidst the happiness we have
almost died to give. Then indeed bitterness overspreads the heart:
for the very love which helped to carry us through, is cbillea
within us, and we feel indeed deserted; and none but those who
look to God, not man, can be sustained in patience through such
jsoul-sinking, protracted misery.
Such however were not Sir Koland's feelings at the moment we
are speaking of, for it was not the glow of merely^ himian feelings
which had animated his generous and exalted spirit! He had set
God before him throughout all tb at he had done and suffered, and
had shaped his whole course by His laws. To Him alone had he
looked in aU his trials, seeking His blessing, and resting on His
strength ; and He, who is well called " FaithM," now poured into
his soul such strong consolations, as comnletel^ for the moment
^overcame all eartUy sorrow and regret— filling him with unspeak-
able happiness. He felt raised above all griefs ; — severed, indeed,
irom all the painfully changeable ties of liie, but joined, spirit and
soul, with God; realizing the words of St. Paul:— " mio shall
358 SLR BOLAKD ASHTOIT.
separate us from the love of Christ ? Shall tribulation, or distress,
or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword > Nay,
in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that
loved us.'*
He remained for some time in this happy state of mind ; but was
at last roused by Lady Ashton's voice at the door, asking if Ae
might come in. Hq instantly rose, and admitted her. When they
were both seated, she said,
** I find you have been successful in your kind mediation, my
dear Koland, and that Constance has been to visit Henry; I met
her just now coming from his room, but I did not like to speak to
her. However, as I found she was no longer with you, I tiiought
I would come and see you."
" I am glad you have done so," he repHed, " for I wished much
to speak to you. But first, my mol^er must promise an indulgent
hearing of what I have to say."
He then, in the tenderest manner, informed her of what had
taken place ; dwelling as little as possible on his own feelings, and
bringing forward every circumstance which could tend to exonerate
his brother and Constance from all blame. But the intelligence
was so astounding to Lady Ashton, that she was completely over-
whelmed by it, and reproached herself in the bitterest terms for
her want oi caution and discernment. Sir Boland strove to com-
fort her, and reconcile her to herself ; but she was for a length of
time inconsolable at the thought of the unhappiness she had brought
upon him.
" You must not think so much of me, my dearest mother," he
said, with a smile of sadness. *' Kothing can come but by my
heavenly Father's permission, and you cannot doubt but that Be
who has been with me so graciously hithei-to, will be with me
always. If you could but know the comforts He has sent me since
last 1 saw you, you would be fully reconciled to leaving me in His
gracious hands. I remember, some years ago, reading the account
of a man whose only son was dying, and who in great tifouble of
mind had gone into ms own chamber to pray. When he came out
again, he saw bythe countenance of a servant whom he met, that
all was over. 'JDo not be afraid,' he said, *t6 tell me that he is
dead, for, for the revelations tilat Grod has just made of Himself to
my soul, I could endure to lose a son each day of my life.' I recol-
lect at the time I read this, that I marvelled at the degree of com-
fort given; but I marvel now no longer, for I have experienced
the same. You, my dear mother, must help m6 to sustain this
blessed frame of mind, and not to sink under trials which without
God's help must, I think, have destroyed me. Of me, then, we
inll talk no more; but we must now think of promoting the happi-
nom of those whom I have so lon^, and so involuntarily msuie
miserable. Henry, you must feel, is not only blameless, but his
conduct has been beyond all praise. So young^— so impetaons!
yet in this case so self-restraint, so high-princdpled, bo thoaehtfnl
forme! She too "
. Lady Ashton involuntarily shook her head, and, through duMng
"s, spoke something of " change, and light feelings.*^
0tM tffLAXTb AflBtrOir. Sl^
** My ma&iet !*' dzolaimed ^r Roland;, beeommf nesl^ agifeted*
** if you would not add bitterness to mj great truus» and sink ^
Imurt which Gk)d has so sustained, do noi, I implore you, blame her»
or show her coldness, or displeason. Iters are not light feelings-
she has neyer changed-— -for she nerer loyed me.**
"Roland!" exclaimed Lady Aahton, " what ean you mean > She
una engaged to yont"
" I know it," A6 replied, and for a moment his brain felt dizzy;
%nt regainioff his compoBore, he oontinfied, " but her engagement
was formed I am conyinoed solely to ploase her fother. She neyer
joyed me ! I saw that almost direotly after, though I would not
liarass you, or compromise her by seiyai^ so ; but I s]^ke to her
about it, and implored her to break it off if she wished it ; but she
loyed no one else then, and would not ^ain me by doing so. And
remember, too, how much she always loved Henry from a child ;
and then when she was so unayoidaoly thrown with him again,-^
6h ! my dear mother, how oould it be otherwise ?"
" Ah !" said Lady Ashton, ** I see and feel it all now, and all my
own folly too. It was, indeed, blinda 38s ! But I was so fully per-
suaded that she loved you, that had an angel told me otherwise then,
I could scarcely have given the assertion an instant's belief. But
Still my heart Meeds.''
** And does not mine V md Sir Roland, turning away, with
H despaiiing gesture. "Yet will anger against tiiose we love
heal the wounds of the heart? No! most thankful am I,
tiiiat blame and displeasure mix not with my feelings towards
either of them. I should have movumed the loss of my own hap-
piness doubly had that been the case; nay, it would have been
doubly lost."^
** I cannot be liiankliil enoi^h ti> God that such are your feel-
ings, my ever dear Roland," said Lady Aahton, with an expression
of the aeepest affection; "but it in sometimes harder to forgiys
a wrong done to those we love, than one committed against oneself."
" Think of Constance as the being who makes Henry happy, not
as her who has made me— miserable!" And his voice oroppeaso as
to be almost inaudible.
*' Oh ! I love her too well to be unjust towards her," replied Lady
Ajshton, " for she is most sweet and gentle. Ah! now, too, I can
well understand all that seemed at the time so inexplicable in her
oonduct, her avoidance of poor Henry, and seeming displeasure
towards him I Oh ! yes, she has acted well, and I was cruel and un- .
reasonable with her, poor child, when she had already enough to bear
in seeing him so suffering, and in not daring to speak to him one
word of comfort. Do not fear me, Roland, she shall be to me what
she has ever been."
" Dearest mother," said Sir Roland, " now, indeed, you make
me happy : for I could not have endured to see her drooping under
your oispleasure; and for all her new-formed happiness to be
destroyed by coldness on your part. Nevei shall she see a frown on
my brow ; nor, if I can help it, near a sigh from my lips. Hie fatal
subject is of course dosed oetween her and me for ever, bat do you
talk to her openly about her feelings, and her happiness, and Im;
860 SIB IIOLAKB ASHTOK.
else discomfort and distrust will grow up between you. You will
do this for my sake."
" I will," said Lady Ashton, risinjr; " and will seek her now, for
I doubt not ber poor neart trembles at the thought of our meetings
and she will feel relieved when the first words are over."
She went aooordingjy, and found Lady Constance in her own
room, who on seeing her enter, burst into tears. Lady Ashton put
her arms round her, and kissed her with the utmost kindness.
" Can you forgive me ?** exclaimed tlie poor girl, burying her
fieuie on Lady Ashton's shoulder.
" Yes, my dear child, I can forgive you," she replied, " for I
have been we most to blame through all that has happened. But
we will talk of this quietly some other time when your spirits are
less excited ; and you will find me still, as ever, a loving mother to
yjou."
Ladv Constance's heart swelled with emotions painfully tender
as Lady Ashton spoke in accents of such kindness and affection,
and she would at that moment have gladly relinquished every
bright hope of her life, to have restored peace and happiness to
those she had so deeply wounded.
When Lady Ashton returned to Sir Roland, she found him much
exhausted, but still calm and sustained by heavenly comforts. She
told him of her interview with Lady Constance, and cheered him
much by the kindly feelings she expressed ; then left him to en-
deavour to seek reuose. He retired early to rest that night, and
slept calmly. But the awakening next morning ! Oh ! it required
the clear prospect of Heaven». indeed, to sustain through sufferings
like those he then endured !
When he awoke, he looked out on one of the brightest scenes
which nature can present. It had frozen severely durmg: the nighty
and every fibre, and leaf, and slender stalk, was set with crystals
which sparkled with the brilliancy of diamonds, or shone with the
softer gleams of silver in the sun's early beams, making the earth
a palace of fairy frost-work ; while the ocean beyond, lay dark and
trembling under the morning air. For an instant his mind, ar-
rested by the beauty of the scene, enjoyed a sense of tranquil plea-
sure; but when remembrance retumea, in all its desperate loroe,
his very soul gave way under its power, and he sunk back upon his
pillow prostrate with utter misery. He ifelt that no hope, no joy,
no happiness, could ever come to nim again ; that his life was aim-
less—his heart, vacant. He closed his eyes, and groaned, in very
agony and desolation of spirit.
When in the midst of the current of daily occupations, though
the burthen they may have to bear be heavy, yet step after
weary step, the miserable are enabled to drag on their weight of
unhappiness till night again comes, and brings with it a dull and
temporary relief. But the restless, ever-flowing sorrows of our
waking hours do not sleep as we do ; they — ever restless, ever-
nowing, seem to accumulate like a weight of waters, whilst we are
losing the inward power of sustaining them ; and when the tem-
■ porary barrier which sleep has raised against their tearing power.
SIB POLAND ASHTOIT. 861
U remoTod, and we awake again to the liprht of day, then oomes
the mighty torrent down upon the soul witii overwhelming, deso-
lating force !
** Thoa hast been called, oh ! Sleep, the fiiend of woe,
Bat 'tis the happy who have called thee so !"*
Sir Roland, indeed, felt most miserable, and in spite of his resig-
aiation to the will of GKmI, his soul was completel^r oenumbed. ML
call for immediate exertion was over, and nis spirit sunk for the
time imder the oppressive hand of deadly sorrow. Yet there was
no murmuring in nis feelings, but rather a willinfi^ness that God
should rule, and that He should dispose of him in ail ways. Yet it
was impossible but that he should feel the sudden rending away of
ties ana hopes which had been his so long ; and though no* knew,
and blessed God that this was not his home, yet he had — ^for he was
voung, and his spirit had been bright and buoyant— figured life to
nimself in sweet and glowing colours. Now all was changed, aU
one imiversal blank — one deep, dark sea of desolation, over which
there brooded only that calm of utter hopelessness,
" Which leaves the heavy heart in darkness — ^bnt in peace I"
He could not endure this state of mind, however, so he rose, de-
termined to shake off his despondency, and not weakly to give
way to it, as if he knew not where to go for comfort and strength.
He prayed long and earnestly ; and mough he could not feel the
exaltation of spirit which had been granted him the day before,
yet he was enabled to look joyfuUy. oeyond the "waves of this
troublesome world," and to feel that, compared with eternity, life
*was but as a dream.
One thing only now remained for him to do as regarded Henij
and Constance, which was to arrange things for their future happi-
ness, and to make such a settlement upon them as would secure
them in the possession of every worldly comfort. It has been before
stated that Henry Ashton's fortune was by no means large, and
Lady Constance's was not so either, but Sir Koland was determined
that they should never know the want of anything to which they
had been accustomed ; and ever energetic in following up his reso-
lutions, he wrote by that morning's post to his solicitor in London
requesting him to come down to him as soon as possible. The
thought of contributing to their happiness sent a thrill of ioy
through his heart, and he felt there was something yet to live for.
"When he had finished and despatohed this letter, he went down-
stairs, for he felt convinced that the sooner he could resume his
active habits of life, and overcome that lassitude of misery, which j
made the thought of every duty so irksome to him,— the better it |
would be for him. He knew that the first meeting with Lady Con- i
stance must be exceedingly painful ; but he resolved not to defer |
it, knowing how much tne fearful anticipation of things adds to
their difficulty and pain, and anxious also as soon as possible to
set the minds of the others at ease. He went, therefore, at once into
the drawing-room, where he found her alone, reading ; for she had I
9R StB XO£Ain> AfiHTOV.
not fhonjfht he would hare been doiwn so soon, or her fearM heart
ihmld hare sent her back to her own room. He advanced to he*
directly, and they shook hands, but neither at the first moment
oould speak ; and Lady Gonstanoe, soon putting down her book, rose,
murmuring sometiiing about Lady Ashton* eyidently as an excuse
for leaving the room, but Sir Roland begged her to stay with him
me moment, adding,
" Constance, if I am evor to T>aa peaoe of mind, — if I am sot
henoeforUi to be an exile and a miserable wanderer on the eartiiy
imable to endure my own home, I mAst aeeastom Myself to look
<m you, a» what you are now— b6longiiig to sma^et; — and mint
overcome the itoin of tiiinkiBg of ybu^-^t seemg you before me tt
such. II you have any true regard foi' me, you will help mo to
forget my reelings, and not bring them ever to my mind, by sb^iT-
ing that you remember them youn^. I must hope, from yoof
friendship, assistance iii conquering nky weakness, and then it
time — ^I may learn to be at ease in your presence. Do not, I be-
seech you, at any tiAie leave the room becamse I enter it, or I shail
never bear to do so ; and I shall leel an always Hiereasing sense of
misery and dejection, instead of learning to bow to Grod's decision,
and teaching my selfish heaft t6 be happy bl the happiness of
others. Show me this confidence, this kindness, will you, Con-
staiice ? for I feel it will be far easier for me to benn the effort
now while I am still sustained by the fever of the first exertion,
than if I waited for awhile, till iknguid nature left no strength
within me. I ^ow this will be an effort to you, 1 fear an unwel-
come one, but I trust you will feel for my trials, and not increase
them.
He spoke with great difficulty, ana tHth niany interruptioni,
but Lady Constance could not find x)ower to aAswer for some time.
At lengtn she said, with much feeling, " that there was nothinfi[ sbe
would not do that he could wish of nei^;" and taking up her hook
again, she resumed her seat.
He thanked hei^-but nis manner l^as colde^ than before, for ^
sound of her voice overpowered him, and he dared not give way to
the slightest feeling, even of ^aUtude. He could scarcely even
maintain his resolution of continuing in the room, but he felt that
if once he were conquered, the next effort would be doubly diffi-
cult. He asked strength of the '* Strengthener," and was enabled to
overcome himself, and walking to the Window he made some^ ob-
servation on the scene before him, where everything still retained
the beautiful appearance that had so much struck him on his fb«t
awakening; for though the sun shonO brightly, vet its frosen
beams had not had power to displace a single gem of all the tfaoa*
Bands which it lit up in such splendid r&diance.
Lady Ashton then entering aJBforded him some relief And he sooii
after left the apartment, saying he would go and see his brother.
Heniy was excessively distressed at his first entrance, but nr
Solands kind and coroial manner soon relieved him, and after
talking on indifferent subjects for a few momenta, the latter begUL
, "Henry, we have always lived together in the most free aad
mtmiate way, and remember now, that no coldness or restraint
SIB BOLAKD AflHTOlT. Mt
must Le allowed to creep in between vs. We botlfc know Wli»t
mnst for a time be uppermost in each other's thoughts, but it' will
! depend greatly upon you, whether my feelinM contume to be those
of unmitigated pain, or whether thev shall have much of eomfcfttt
or indeed of pleasure mixed with tnem. I will not promise," he
added, with a rather forced smile, " to ta& to you or all my feel-
ings, but you would make m6 very happy if I felt you could tdlt
I to me of yours. Do Aot fear jwdning^ me; your constraint of
manner will pain me much more, for it will make me foel I have
lost a brother as Well as— other ties ; and the sooner you oan forget
[ me, the sooner I shall be able to forget myself." ,
^ " My dear Roland," replied HCnry, warmly, " I will try if pos-
able to forget the deep injury I have done you, as you wish it, a»i
^ only to enjoy the happiness you have bestowed ; and I wiH trf
I also to overcome the pain I reel every time I see you, or think of
f you ; for if I lose you as my brother, all other happiness would 1»,
liideed, dearly purchased."
" Well, Henry,*' answered Stt BolaAd, in a oheerfuJ tone, " aft
* jdvL have now to do, is to get well as fsist as possible. It seems
nappily that no more operations WiH be necessary^ so all is in.
. process for recovery, and the doctor and lawyer must see whi^
taih get thfeir work done first. I have sent for L to come d6wn
here, and the care of your fatitre prospects must be left to me;
;: whilst you and your doctor must exert yourselves to be ready hf
the time we are,"
. It is impossible tc describe Henfy Ashtoii's feeling as his brother
. spoke these words. In former times, aAd under different circum-
stances, he had indeed looked to Sir Boland as he would have
looked to a father for help and assistance ; but noW| to receive wit
only Lady Constance hefself. But the means of being united to hej^»
rrom his naud, was a burden of gratitude he hardly knew how to
sustain. .
Painful thoughts had obtruded themselv^ on his mind on this
subject, immettiaxely^ after the first emotions of halpniness had
subsided on being vKth Constance the day before, for ne had felt
that he could neve^ ask, or wish her to leave the comforts and lux-
uries with which she had from infancy been surrounded, to share
with him a sailor's home ; and yet he could not of course bear for
S moment to look to Sir Boland for anything ; and thus distress
ad mingled itself with his Cup of happiness, and embittered it,
while Sir Eoland's jp6infdl lot had been sweetened by the greatness
of God's mercy. Now, however, bXL anxiety on the subject of his
marriage was removed, and his whole sotu was filled with gra-
titude.
** I have no words, Roland," he ans-^ered, when his brother had
finished, *' to express what I feel. Your own heart must judge for
me what I would say, my dearest brother !"
" Let me see that you ai^ hapi>y," said Sir Roland* " and the gift \
' of a little of this world's goods mn. be more than repaid. Remembef '
what I have said, Henry, and let me see, by your free expressiett
of happiness, that you wish to make me happy. I have said soifle-
what of the same kind to Constance," he added, determined to-. I
364 SIR S0IAI7D ASHTON.
overoome the difficultvhe had in speaking of her, ''and she lias
promised to be everytxiing that is kind."
Henry's colour rose at hearing her named by his brother; and
8ir Eoland, finding the efibrt to sustain an appearance of cheer-
fulness very trying, soon after left him.
As he was going out of the room, he met Lady Ashton with a
letter in her hand, which she held out to him.
" This relates to you," she said, " and I am not quite sure who
it comes from. It is edged with black, and is signed Wentworth ;'
but it is full of anxiety and regard for you, so is very pleasant to
me."
" It is from Scott," said Sir Roland, looking at the letter; "hi
uncle must then be dead. Poor excellent old man ! he ia gone to
his rest, — ^how happy ! I will take this up to my room, mother,*
lie added, ** and will y;ou come there to me ? But first, take Gon-
fitance in there," he said, pointing back to Henry's room, " other-
wise I feel sure she will not go. It is all new to them at present,
and it is not as if he could go to her."
Lady Ashton turned to do as he wished, while her heart swelled
with a love too painful for him whose glorious nature had sent her
on her kind mission. Lady Constance was of course too happy to
go to Henry, though she had not lik^ to do it unasked ; and Ladj
Ashton then went to Sir Eoland, who had by that time read his
friend's letter.
It was written to Lady Ashton, and Mr. Scott, now Lord Went-
worth, expressed in it his deep concern and anxiety at hearing of
Sir Eolana's illness and danger, the news of which, he said, had
but just reached him, for he nad only that day arrived in London
from the Continent. He added, that he trusted he should be v^-
doned for not waiting for an answer before he set off for Coniwall,
but that his uneasiness was so great that he felt it impossible to
endure the delay of the post. .
" He may then be here to-day," said Lady Ashton, " and 1
shall be most happy if he comes."
"Yes, I shall be^lad to see him," replied Sir Roland; thoujfh
his heart writhed under the remembrance of the bounding spints
with which he had last parted from him at , when all hiis an-
ticipations had been so bright, — so different !
A few hours afterwards Lord Wentworth. arrived, and was of
course most thankful to find Sir Roland so much better than he
liad expected. He was, however, much affected at seeing his
altered looks ; while the great depression of his spirits ooxM^
long escape his penetrating eye. JBut he attributed it to the effect
of his illness, and trusted that, with strength, his natural anima-
tion woidd return. .,
" I am very glad," he said, " now that my fright is over, thatij
was strong enough to make me come down here directly; ^*
should have been entangled by the cobwebs of lawyer's chamber^
and never have got free ; for X am threatened witJi a life's worta
oi business."
SIB EOLAND ASHTOBT. 365
Sir Roland spent that evening^ down stairs in the drawing-room
for the first time since his illness. He was anxious to do so before
Lord Wentworth became acquainted with his altered hopes respect-
ing Lady Constance, as he feared that his friend, whose feelings
were warm and keen, might show too much of his regret and
sorrow. How often had he anticipated the day when he should
introduce Lady Constance to this, nis dearest mend, as his wife I
— ^when he shoidd see gathered around him, in his happy home^
all that was most delightfcd to him on earth ! And they were there
now — all collected, — ^but with other uninvited guests: — sorrow,
and blighted love ! He retired early, telUng Lord Wentworth that
he might breakfast with him in tne morning if he liked it, for
that he was not yet equal to joining the family party so early. It
was agreed that he should do so, and they then parted for the night.
CHAPTER LH.
** Come, Disappointment, oome.
Though fh>m hope's summit hurled.
Still, rugged nurse, thou art fofgiren !
For thou severe wert sent —
To wean me fh>m the world ;
To turn my eye
From vanity,
And point to scenes of bliss, that never, never die."
Henrt Eibxe White.
*< Ahi ! null* altro ehe pianto al mondo dura.''~FETRABCH.
('* Alas I nought lasts but sorrow in this world.")
When Lord Wentworth joined Sir Roland the next morning at
his quiet breakfast-table, he was again struck by the air of deep
depression which marked his whole countenance and manner. Sir
iBoland was himself aware of it. and was distressed by his inability
to overcome it, for he would lain have concealed and controlled
every regretful feeling ; but his bodily weakness was so great, that
happiness itself would have been almost a burden, and sorrow com-
pletely crushed him. He inquired most kindly after Lord Went-
ivorth s aunt, and concerning the death of his uncle.
"He died about six weeks ago," replied his friend, "in the
happiest possible state of mind ; his intellect perfectly clear, and
his faith bright and joyful. It was a scene to streng^en one's
heart, which is so apt to lose sight of the value of eternity, amidst
the hurrying"— x^ssing things of time. But Ashton,'* he con-
tinned, " you are far from recovered ; and there is a look of weak-
ness about you that I do not like."
"If you had seen me when I was at the worst," returned Sir
BolandL exerting himself to speak cheerfully, — " judging at least
from what my mother teUs me—you woidd wonder to see me here
at all, instead of complaining that I do not eat a hundred loaves,
and walk a thousand miles- a-day."
" Oh ! I don't oare about your want of appetite, or lack of bodily
Iftrengih," said Ix>rd Wentwojiih ; "but I do care (far I like to be
oxie 01 Job's comforters) about a certain sinking of tne whole being
which I observe continually oppress you. It is unlike youmlii
iuilike the cheerful spirit you used to possess."
'* Well, never iuinq/' replied 6ir |toland ; *'it vt^ aU be veil in
iiine, I doubt not.*'
" One's spirits ought to be good herfi, if ajuyvheie/' oontinued
Loord Wentworth; "with such creatures around, as one has here.
It is very well that vbu warned me that .qne of them was private
property, or I should, certainly have entier^d the lists for the prize ;
and I don't know that I shall not do fo naw> while you are too
feeble to break a lance. But really, AAton, Lady; Constance is
most lovely ! and should be the more so* in your eyes just now, that
she seems as if she had gone through all your illness with you.
and given you back * sigh for sigh,'-^e looks so very pale andilL
Sir Roland intended, of comaet.ia time to inform Lord Went-
wortii of the destruction of all his hopes, though as he had never
known of his actual engagement hfi dia not mean to mention that
at all ; but now, he shrank from the idea of faking on the sub-
ject, and determine^ if possible to defer it till mey were again at a
distance from each other, when he should be able to inform him
oonoeming it easier he thought, by letter. He Ijherefore answered
calmly, *Mhat Lady Constance did look pale certainly, but that
she was not. he believed, ill in any way."
"I should have been ill, I think," returned Lord Wentwortfa,"
" if you had behaved to me a^i you did to her last ^if^ht, Ashton—
that IS if I Kked you— *f or you scarcely either spoke to her or looked at
her, and seemed^ in fact, to take much piore interest in h^r. equally
beautifol*^ and more blooming sister. Yet 1 do not know any-
thing in the world which would so completely subdue me, as
Boeing one I loved suffering from anziety on my account, even if
it robbed her of every trace of beauty. Yours is not a fickle
heart, Ashton, you cannot have changed i''
"My heart changed— my heart changed !" exdaijpoied Sir Bolaodt
his sudden agony too^eat lor repression. ''^{To ! everything has
ehanffed but that."
"My dear Ashton," med Xxnd Went^vortii, shodked and snrr
prised at this )>uist of afflictioxi in Sir Boland, and rising in gpceat
emotion to go to him, '* wh^ has happened! Ib she not ?-:-A£e
you not ■
"Ko. all is oiter between us/'^said S^ IglAhuid, moce calnly ;
*'and 1 had m^ant ndt to q;^eak ot frnoyr-rbut' your words' rouJted
ihB whole ocean of sufferii^ wil^iin ^ne' for the ipabment. Oh 1 it
is wrong, sinful, thus to give way,— but it is ^ xiqw thuQg tp n^
B yet, and— yovi Jtnowliow I loyedherV
'^ And she does not return it ? exclaimed Lovd Wmiwat&L. **l
thought that must have -been i^mp^s&il^, jor I :wpuJ^,never^^ve
spoken.as I did.-'
"1^0," repliedSiriRoland, whornowtl]yeaalje0thadh|^^teBd
on, thought it would be best to ffet over the pai^ o^ disclosure A
once,— and, speaking in a hurried voioe. Yet she has not oaofigei,
4»e iie^^ |oved/Qe»rqfUQ|d ^fnwrrajaeifi kogiifipd. tocr-^ y^^lfy^.
BIS JtXXL^JSrD ASHTOXr. |67
"Qreat God!'* exdaimed Lozd Wentwortiii, clasping hjs bajo^
l^ore his eyes^ " hast Thou permitted this^"
He started trom Sir Roland'^ side, and walked i^ and down the
room for some time in the greatest agitation ; occasionally bnistibo^
forth iQto such.exolaiuai^ons of grief and dismay, as proved that,
in his deep distress for his friend, he even forgot ms presence.
.Sir Eolapd, however, had calmed his own mind by prayer, and
was soon able to speak again in a more tranquil manner.
"You must not forget, Scott, who rules," he said. "Per&ot
wisdom, perfect power, and penect love, cannot do wrong; nor
would I take my cfii^ put of their hand. It would be useless ajid
false to say that tins trial has not been one perhaps of the severest
t}),at mQrt^ hi^art could have had to end^ ; but we, remember,
have a source of strength and comfort in the unwitDjessed soul,
which passes man's comprehension. The Alniighty has boon infi-
ijit^lv good to me !"
".But when did all thi^ happen^" asked ^rd Wentworth, for
tiie moment apparently incapable of vec6nciling;hi8 mind to what
had occurred. " When last you wrote to me, all seemed going on
wejl; and,,thx>uffh you did iiot oay tl)#itanytbi^ w^ seUled, yet
you appeared full pi happiness."
*• I was so then I— fuUof Jtopeandj?f lMiH?W»^. T^tlfitate,hae
but just been decided."
"But where then-is your b?otheri'*
"My bwther? Henry? Heye;-n^own-st^^--Did you not
know it?"
"Here!" Qzckinied Lord Wentworth, in gveat .surprise; *'I
thought you told me when you wrote, that he was ^t sea. W^y
WAS he not with us last night ?"
" He is in top suffering a oonditioq, 4^r fallow !'* J^fiUed Sk
Bolaad.
" Buffering !" said Lord Wentworth, with an involuntary jn^ve-*
xaei^t of fmger in )m heart towards, Hen]y;r-r-"wh^tl^as he to
suffer?"
Bir Boland related to him the apcident which had befallen his
brpthpr, and all hu subsequent sufferings ; .and then lightly touched
on the cause of his own Alness, as prqpeedii^ ^chiedy from over-
fatigue and anxiety of mind.
" Aiid not that alone, I am.suri^, Ashtpn," -returned Lord Went-
worth. "A blow like that you have recieived, was enough to hftve
extingmshed botih sense and. life."
fan is immortal tm his work is done,' ypu knojw," said fiir
itpland,. smiling; '*and, doubtless, there is much remaining forme
ifi :do. But you act but t)ie part of a poor Mend, Scott, in sneaking
^ you do. You should help me to look on, beyond these tnings^-
to .anticipate the eternal joy that shall be, and not to mind so much
the passing griefs that have been— or indeed still are. It is a
DOQUort, howev^, to feel that there are those stiU left, who feel for
xae.so strongly," and for a moment a tear swelled into his eye.
Butbi^ushing it off before it fell, he added, "I find no peace in
let' "• — '
letting my thoughts dwell on these things ; and I endeavour to put
them adde as much as the weak, clinging nature of human affec-
868 SIB BOLAITD ASHTON.
tions will let me. Bat to have had Bacli prospects and then to
have lost them ! — Oh ! the hursting asunder of such ties— and the
seeing them transferred to another— is worse than a thousand
deaths!"
Lord Wentworth mused for some time in silence ; and then
said,
** Ashton, do you mind being perfectly open with me as to this
affair ? If you ao» I will ask no further ; but I cannot but suspect
that there was more than mere unacknowledged and unretamed
affection between you and Lady Constance. You could scarcely
have loved her so long and so devotedly, yet never have spoken to
her on the subject? "
'* I have told you," replied Sir Boland, his whole frame be*
cominflr agitated, "that she never returned my love."
"Well, Ashton, I will ask no more."
Sir Roland saw that his companion was confident that there had
been something more than he was willing to confess between liim
and Lady Constance, and not liking to appear unkind, he at length
answered,
" I know that what I say to you, Scott, is as if it were not said,
for that you woidd never breathe a word upon the subject to an?
Hving soul; so I wiU overcome my pain and reluctance, andteU
you that we were engaged." .
"And she desertea you!" cried Lord Wentworth; his whole
countenance glowing with violent indignation. " I thank God,
then, that you never married her ! "
" Scott,' said Sir Roland, as his eyes flashed equal indignation.
" you must not make me repent my confidence in you by ailowing
yourself again to speak in that way ; you must not even think an
injurious thought of her— not as you value my friendship ! "
"I did not mean to wound your feeliugs," said the other,
gently.
" But it does wound them more than I can bear, to hear her
blamed. She has had no blame— no faidt; she has acted like an
angel !— I beg your pardon," he added, after a moment's pause,
and holding out his liand to his fHend; "my anger is very un-
grateful, for I should have remembered that you were not
acquainted with the circumstances ; but her clear and lovely ima^
is all that is left me, and I cannot endure that a breath cdiould dim
its brightness."
" I was wrong to speak as I did, without knowing all that had
occurred,*' said Xord Wentworth.
" You would not, indeed, have spoken so, had you known what
has passed," answered Sir Roland, kindly; " and you shall know
it, that you may learn rightly to estimate hsr, who must ever be
dearer to me than my life ; and Henry also, whose conduct hs»
been faultless — ^most noble ! "
He then, though with some difficulty, informed Lord Wentwww
of the outlines of the affair ; and the latter was constrained, thon^
evidently with great reluctance, to acknowledge that what bad
occurred was most natural.
SIB EOLANB A6HT0N. S69
'' Natural in all,*' he said, ** excepting in her preferring any
one to you; and tliat certainly surprises me."
" Thank you. But wait till you have seen Henry, and then your
surprise will cease. He is by far the most fascinating being I ever
saw ; so I can well understand his being irresistible to her.
** Yours is a blessed spirit, Ashton," observed Lord Wentworth,
sighing, "to enable you so to feel and speak of a successful
rival. I could never do so, I am sure, were he ten times my
brother!"
"I could not at first feel as I do now," replied Sir EolancL
** towards either of them ; and that was my severest trial,— for 1
seemed bereft of every thing. Now, if I feel much oppressed, I
look back for an instant to that hour of unparalleled horror, when
my mind— totally without power to control itself— was a prey to
every evil passion, and then I learn to be resigned to the simple
bereavements of earth, and to feel them indeed as nothings— when
compared to the deliverance of my soul from the power of Satan.
Oh ! what must those men endure, even in this world, who are
SLven up to his bondage ! Never till that fearful time could I suf-
ciently appreciate the mercy which has delivered me from it, and
brought me into the ' glorious liberty of the sons of Gk>d ! ' And it
is well, perhaps, for once to have experienced what the lashing tor-
ment of evil passions is, that I may fully feel from what depths of
misery and condemnation Christ has redeemed me. No, Scott, if
you nave, as I know you have, a true regard for me, you will
endeavour to keep far from me aU that can excite enmity of heart»
«ither a^rainst God or man."
*' Affliction may well be called no misfortune if it brings such
peace as you possess," said Lord Wentworth; "and God forbid I
should ever again say a word to trouble it. But my heart is still
very earthly ; and though, as I once told you, and can truly tell
you again, I really never did love any one, yet I can imagine what
it must be, — and that made me feel so much for you."
" It is undoubtedly the strongest of human affections," said Sip
Poland, "purposely made so by a Gk>d of wisdom and of love ; else
how should it enable us wiUingly to forego all other ties for its
sake? Yet still we should keep those feemigs ever second to the
love of Gbd! and perhaps, though I thought I was, I might not
have been doing so. These ties are, indeed, when happy, most
delightful! .
* Yet in the world e'en these abide, and we
Above the world our calling boast.'
We must not suffer ourselves to be held down by any earthly
bands. I have long professed (to myself at least,) to have my chid
hopes sot on heavenw things, and God sees fit that the grounds of
my profession should be proved— bitterly indeed-— but, doubtless,
kmdly. He wills thati uiould see and feel the weakness of mj
wavering heart, and be humbled. *It is not a light thing,' as Lady
Powerscourt in one of her letters truly says, 'to profess love to a
iealous God.' It belongs to Him alone to lode thoroughly into the
B B
iyO SIR BOLAITD ASHTOy.
keart and see what it contains ; and doubtless, He teuikt liave seen
innch that reguired destroying in mine, ot He wotdd nerhft
hsLve allowed me knile of exclMon to have ent b6 dee^y as it
" If yon have stood in need ti this, Aditon, idiat m^ist of^en
reonire ? " exclaimed Lord WentwoHih.
" Scott ! — ^forl cannothelpealling yon hylheoldaecTistomed name,
^ijpecially when I am going to find an old fiinlt with yon," said St
Eoland, smiling, " I wish yon wonld not say those thin^ j they
feroe one either to appear ptesnmntaonsly to take to ones^f -praise
that does not belong to one, or to nave the appeaitmoe of a^eted
nnmility, in disclaiming it. Bnt With regard to the general a nestion,.
I am far from considering afSictions in the light of pnnisbin^tB ;.
thongh I think it is well, when the^r befiEdl oneself, to look inlt>
one's heart and see if there is any thin^ parfdoiilariy oi^nsiYe t»
God there ; and even if we cannot convict onrs^ves of hsj knowft
allowed sin, to pmy with more earnestness t^an before, 'Cfteanse^
Thon me from my secret faults/ But I am much incl&sed to be^
lieve that no suffering: either of mind or of outward ^rcnilistafic^
comes in fact, from me hand of God WimBelft tot from ' Him
eometh every good sift,' not evil ones."
" But we are told that 'sanctified aJllietiOtaB are amongflit tSiM
mercies.'' "
"The Banctaftcation is th6 merc^, not Ihe idllicdoni^" n^ffid
1^ Roland ; " for we continually ^tness liie miserable sigbt of nft-
sanctified affliction, fliere we see Satan's nnmitigated Work! But
I believe that all trouble comes direct from him, as cJl on
does, and that it ts, like the latter, permitted by God—ttot com-
toanded." , f- j
•• I confess it never Aruck me sOw" fdpUed. Lold Wetitwofiii,
I* and I think Scripture will scaiioely bear you out in the Ide^ kit
it says ' God does not willingly afflict ns ; ' and many otlier paiK
sages, which infer that He may afflict, though it m&y be ho plewafte
im Him to do so, convey the tame meaning."
**I grant it," returned Sir Eoland; "but we know that mafBy
expressions arc made use of in the BiUe, Whi(^ seem to malce
Him the author of that whidi, in fact. He only tolerates. "Etb H
l^id to have ' hardened people's hearts' Against himbelf, and t»
nave hid the truth £rom theflii, lest they should be 'converted asit
live ; ' whereas, we well know, from the whole spirit of Sopi|)t««^
as well as from direct passages in it, that 'it is not the will of God
that any should perish, but that all ^onli eome to everlasting'
life.' In like manner, I am strongly inclined to believe, that when
He is said to afflict and chasten, it is only meant that He pennits
ihe affliction or the chastisement-— sanctifying it or not, aoooriag
to rules dictated by His own wisdom* but hidden aft pro s o ttt ftet^
tis."
" But what Scripture-warrant have you for saeh an opinion^ "
%sked Lord Wentworth ; "for I well know yon Would not ligh^f
take up any opinion respecting these things on any c4her 'taiOtmf ;
Iret I cannot TecaH anytWnflr that eonld give that idea?"
Look at the history of Job. Does not God say to Satan, 'Be-
«IX SOLAKD ASHTOSr. S71
Twld iiA is i& thy hand, only touch not his life ;' pestraininff his
malignant power within that bound ? And does not our Lord
^wiien he had healed the woman who was bowed down, say, * Shall
not this woman, whom Satan hath bound, lo ! these eighteen yean,
be loosed ? ' St. Paul also says, * Such an one I delivered over to
fiatan for tiie correction of the flesh/ And I dare say I could find
ether passages which do not occur to me at this moment ; though
it may be considered almost as a sort of summary of this doctrine,
where it says, of our great adrersary, * With mm dwelleth oon-
fuedon, and every evil work,' as it expressly affirms that God is
nottiie author of confusion, but of peace."
*' It never struck me before in this lieht, certainly ; but what
WOL have said deserves consideration, tiaough I confess that it
oriag^s rather a f rightM feeling to my mind ; for it is horrible to
inia^e oneself the sport of l&e demon."
'* We know that our souls are so, unless God control his power
tilers," answered Sir Boland; " why should we then start so muck
at ^e idea of our bodies ajotd worldly concerns being so too^
JELemember always, that 'greater is He who is finr us, than he who
. is against us.' *'
** Still it is pleasantep to me to think, when I am in pain and
flomw, that I am in GtMl's hands, than it would he to ima^e I
was in the dutohcB of one who tonments me f <» his own malicious
pleasure.*'
^ It is said that he 'deaires to hav« us, that he may torraent us;*
sad when we are told ^lat he is to torture boUk body and soul in
hell, imless we are amongst Christ's redeemed, and know also that
he certainly has power to torture our souk even here, I do not see
why we are to suppose that our peridiable bodies and worldly ooik-
cems are the only tiungs he cannot touch. The onl^r difference I
ntprehend is, that here bis operations on us are Uaiited— in heQ
l&ey will be uncontrolled,"
" You certainly seem to have some ^^^unds for your opioicm,"
observed Lord Wentworth ; ** but still it is an uncomfortable one."
" Not to me," replied Sir Ex>land ; " for I had much rather view
God as the source only of good, than as the active dispenser of that
which troubles and afflicts the soul. But still our pleasure or dis-
pleasure at aa idea is not what we must go by. We must examine
all things by the light of God's Holy l^irit, and not allow * our
wish to be father to our thought.* But I desire to speak with graiit
diffidence upon tiiis subject, lest I should be wrong ; I was only
speakinff of it as matter of feeling when I said it was pleasanter to
me to think that no shadow could Ml^n us from God's throaa
itself; but tiiat the daik form uf Satan alone coming between va,
ooukL hide the fuR light of His countenance. I think it is vain
also, and, therefore, erroneous, to call pain and sorrow, as viewed
by themselves — good; they are mamiest, tangible evils ; and as we
jKre told that future suffering is carefully to be avoided, and etenud
iuuffpiness carefoUy sought, so I think we are right to avoid earthlj
•unerings, and to seek earthly happiness—in tiieir raieasan^
ihoug;h of course tiiatis gzudl, compBred wi& ths iapoitestoe sad
duration of eternity."
B B 2
372 Sm SOLAITD ASBTOV.
** But do yon think this view is likely to be of nse to mankiiid 1^*
asked Lord Wentworth.
" If it is tmth, we must receive it -without questioning, Scott ;
but I think it is likely to be of exoeedingr use, for it helps us to
realize the dread nature of Satan's dominion, and gives some faint
idea of what we may expeot at his hands, when he obtains full
power over us. If, when in pain of body or mind, we reflected :
This is a sample of the things which await us hereafter in our
enemy^s kingdom,' it would surely, speaking according to common
reasoning, make us careful to be delivered from his power. And
on the other hand, if every pleasure, every sweet affection, every
happy feeling, were felt as a foretaste of those joys which are above
— mose * pleasures which are at Gbd's right hand for evermore,'
•surely our love would be increased towards Him who has prepared
* such great things for those that love Him/ and our zeal womd be
animated by the blessed prospect set before us ; while we should
desire more eamestlv thui ever to obtain a place by the fountain-
head of that * river of life which proceeds from the throne of Gk>d.' **
** Tou make out a good case, certainly," said Lord Wentworlh ;
'* and I will examine the Scriptures more caTefaU^ as regards it,
than I have done hitherto. Indeed I never at all viewed it in this
Hght before, and I think you never held this opinion formerly
either ; at least I never remember vour mentioning it."
"No, I did not always think of these things according to this
view ; but by the continual study of the word of God, and conai-
deration of His ways, fresh views and beauties and delights steal
upon the mind."
" But I have said," replied Lord Wentworth, smiling, " that as
yet this thought is not one of delight to me, for I had rather feel
that all— even suffering—came m>m a compassionate Father's
hand, than from the capricious newer of a ruthless enemy. I like
to be able in all times of trouble or sorrow to say with your old
favourite, Keble, —
* O Lord, my God t do Thoa ihy holy wUl—
# I wUl Ue 8tai—
I will not stir, lest I forsake tbine aim.
And break the charm.
Which lulls me, clinging to my Fathofs hieast.
In perfect rest."*
*'And can you suppose," replied Sir Boland, "that I would
receive any thing whicn broke down that feeling ? Who has need of
it as I have? But my view of the case does not in the least alter or
weaken our perfect trust in God. The only difference is, that yon
would pray to Him for resignation under the sufferings which He
tends, t for resignation under those which He permita ; you would
pray for deliverance from the weight of His hand, I from the per-
mitted weight of Satan's ; we both equally go to God for the merc^.
All I mean is, that it is pleasanter to me to feel that when He is
forced to allow me to be chastened for my good, He delivers me
over for that purpose to one whose ways I may have been too resdy
Sm BOLAITD ASHTON. 373
to choose, rather than take the scourge into His own gracions hand.
But, as I said before, it is truth, not pleasure, we must seek in the
Holy Scriptures. Yet I would speak with diffidence on this, and
on every subject which is not revealed beyond the power of doubt."
" I feel inclined to agree with you in part," said Lord Went-
worth ; " and yet it is strange— if this idea is a true one— that it
should not have been more generally pressed upon men's attention."
*• We know that for years and years the most important truths
were nearly lost sight of, even in our own favoured church and
country," replied Sir Eolaud. " From the time of Charles II. —
when so many pious and excellent men were forced from the
ministry, till almost within our own memory, the leading truths of
salvation were scarcely remembered ; and a cold A^rminianism sent
the whole church, with some few bright exceptions, into the sleep
of spiritual death, till your Mends — as poor JRoberts used to call
them — the Dissenters, roused up the dying embers of discipline and .
of truth too. The Second Advent— the Millennium — and many,
other delightful views, were rej2[arded as wild enthusiasm, or were
wholly unknown ; therefore, this opinion which I cannot but think,
from the passages I have quoted, was taught in the Scriptures, may
have been lost amongst them. But I may be wrong about it alto-
gether. One thing certainly I think is clear (to argue against
myself), which is, that great judgments, and death for outrageous
sins, are frequently snok^ of in the Scriptures as God's express
work. * I, even J, do oring a flood of waters on the earth.' — * ican
do nothing till thou art come thither,' to Lot, when he was escaping
to Zoar. And to Samuel respecting the death of Eli's two sons, he
Bays, ' Behold Z will do a thing,' &c. Yet that does not altogether
muitate against what I was sabring, for the act of death seems ever
to be spoken of as God's especial work; but the sting of death —
sin- is certainly Satan's ; and suffering too — the fruit of sin— I
believe, as I tell you, is his also. Without them, death would be
only as Milton says,—
* A gentle waiting to eternal life !'
However, it is in vain to attempt perfectly to understand the whole
of any — ike smallest portion ot €K)d's dealings with us ; but we can
at least say, * The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice !' One thing
greatly comforts me, which is, that the more any dispensation
crosses my inclination, the more do I feel the conviction pressed
upon me of tiie absolute necessity for it. It were enough for a God
01 Love, who is * gentle as a nurse amongst her children,' to do a
thing merely to please his creatures ; but when He suffers pain and
H^ony to reach us— then it must indeed be that we could not do
without it."
"Well, Ashton, I can scarcely pity you for all your sorrows, for
you seem so full of consolation, said Lord Wentworth.
" Oh ! yes, I am so," replied Sir Eoland, though the allusion to
himself brought back pangs of regret, which the high and holy
subjects of which he had been speaking had for a time hushed in
374 a
Us heart ''Sooa Idoabi not.'* lieaddfidl, ''mbvv ni I dUl
paif* Tet lie leant Iiis head down OB Ids aiinvitk a si^ 80 deep
as proved that ibat parting had still to begin.
Lord WentworUi obaerved hia changed manner; and ie|yB t h« L
having recalled hia thooghls from themea ao fdl o£ eonaolaBon, to
€be sorrows of his own hreaat He waa nknt lor a time. Ihaa
with sodden recoUectioa he said:
** By the hye, Ashton, I have a measage to ddivcr to yon, whidi
will please yon much, thooghsadneaa will he mixed wi& the Isd-
ing/
^'Ameasa^etome! From whan?" said ^Bolaad, looking ip
with that ILsdess half-intereat whieh aeema to say, '^WhaKcn
anv thing avail me ?"
^' Ton remember ICias Haroomt,— Isahdla Hafcomt, I mean." ,
" Bememl'T her, ok I yes," said Sur BaLand» again dropping Im
head, for ho t'elt his colomr riae.
^Toa ki :w, did yon not»" oontinuBd Lotd WentratJi, in a
softened tone, *' that she died last year at ■ ?"
" Yes," replied Sir Boland.
'^ About a fortni^t before her deaih, I letmmed {hete,and^
expressed a wish to see nie» ehiefly I believe beeanae she knew I
was a Mend of yoora. It seemed that what yon had aaid at dift*
rent times on relinons subjects had awakened her nui^ to tiuak
about them; and tbat she, and a young brother also whom ifce
had lost, had both been greatly oon£9ned and anatained, by the
bii^t hopes of eternity which you had been themeaaa <rf impaitiiic
to uem ; and she bened me, whenever I saw s^ou, to tell yaa ok
the comfort your wcBUs had been, in ordfl^ she said, poergiri.! tbt
you might be ' eneouraged to speak for Qod at aiU timea— andeivy-
where. I promised I would Dear her meange to you, and I sm
gbd to do so ; for lam sure you will i^dee at ua tiioni ' '
been the means of saving two soeh young spirits from <
•* I do indeed rejoice, said Sir Eoland. Yet the i
of Isabella Harcourt was most painful to him ; and his heart sank
at the thought of her aonowak thtfos^ he knew they were now all
hushed in heaven.
"Ahrliethou^t, '< how truly maj it be aaid, < Love aMi«
mortak is bot an endleas sish,' heaven la ita only real hoBW r*
** I do not think I ever felt anything in my me so much, as I did
seeing that dying girV said Lend Wentworth; '* hiesr hectic eolaar
made her look so beautiful, and it waa so toudung and ddidktfiu
to see her— so young— supported by such bright hopes* thoai^
leaving all earth s joys, iwaa so soipriaed too at her senf^jBent^
for I fancied her so very diffisrent ;— and she upbraided me^ bm^
justly, for having known the truth myself, yet never having qxiktt
of it to her. But she said, you had been more fjEdthful ; andhff
|mititude to you seemed unbounded. Why did you never tell jbb
thatyou thought bar feelings were dianged r*
*' We never had much conversation together," replied Sir Bo^
land, still leaning his head on the table, ^v A avoiding a diiec*
answer to Lord Wentworth's question.
** But did you not think that alie had become more spiritual than
l)efore ?"
" I really never talked mueb with her," answered Sir !Etoland,
rather annoyed ; '* but I thought she seemed to like listening to re-
ligious conversation between others,"
Xord Wentworth said no more. A suspicion of the truth darted
through his mind, and was quickly confinned by his reooUection of
Isabella's embarrassment while speaking of Sir Eoland, and also
of the sorrow which had occasionally overcome her. He knew his
friend too weU, however, to mention such a subject tQ him ; but his
lieart was fiUed with double pity for the young and lovely creature
for whom he had before felt so mi^oh interest.
" Strange !" he said to himselfi ** that two beings, each so formed
to be lovea and admired, should both have loved in vain !" His
thouffbts raised tken^selves to !pim--the source of love— with tha
deHgntful conviction, that i^QQ^ could love there in vain; and that
llie cravin|f neokrt ^ds t)^e^e alone that which can never disapr
point.
; oHAPTEjt liin,
' ** Ther^ avo »Dffei|f)0S, Sffffeiiiiigi to tiw fidHtbi ¥F)ii«ll V» nut bitter, idilfi|
t possess their f^wn great, ti^^ m^rrellons ei]||ojrmeiit.''-r]P* |iBpyr.B.
f*And who ean stay the tearing might
* Of q^ts weaned from earthly Joys r^-^KsBUB.
[ ** He has not sfdltoed yon to walk sqsoothly down tiie stream of time ; hq^
. ^ large an4 xongh blUowB haa dasli^ you on the prbmiaes.**— Zo^ Powertr
^ €tmFP9 Letters.
It lias ofte^ been said IJiat thjd lot of human beingii is more equal
^ in point of happiness th^n W9W^ at &^ appear to the mere out-
> ward observers ; and perhaps as a general jrula it is true. Thosa
9 wbo axe most capable of enjoying the happiness of li£B. are usually
p also most alive to its griefs j ^hue the apathetic, if theymiss the
F' sorrows of the more sensitive,^ lose their raptures too. Tke ai)pa*
rently tranquil lot of some is vexed by a thousand small, joy-
!^ cankering cares, which e^ectually eat qvi the heaxt of enjoyment,
though they leave the outward form untouched ; while others, wha
i» seem overwhelmed with affliction, fioa perhaps that one great trial
^ which, Hke Aaron's rod, swallows np all l£e rest, making them
i> too light to be felt,— -is in fact eape^ to beax than the slighter sor-
1^ rows pf happier days.
^ Ko one looking at the inmates of Llanaven, at the time of which
we are now speaking, WQuld probably have hesitated in pronouncing
^ Henry Ashton far happier than his protfayer. Though still suffering,
i. yet the worst of even nis bodily pain was over, and he had the da?
; ughtful hope of recovering to the possession of all he most coveted
on earth. His mind was relieved &om the trying grief which had
1 so long oppressed it: and bis loving heart was surrounded by frienda,
all anxioiis to ease his sufferings, and promote his happiness. The
376 8IB BOLAKD A8HT0V.
being in whom all his earthly hopes centred was to be his own^
and the feelings which had for months been torture unto him were
tumMl into souroes of the most deliehtfnl happiness. His heart, too»
was at peace with God ; for he could look up to him as to a recon-
ciled Father, and feel, that thoneh through weakness he had often
fSailed, yet that he had been enabled in all his great and— humanly
speaking— unmerited trial, to keep an honourable and upright
course.
But Sir Boland seemed overwhelmed with trouble. She, wliom
he had loved from boyhood, and of late years, with all the intensityr
which the human heart could feel, was torn £rom him for ever !—
Bud ut Miolt a iiu^ment too ! — during the first joy of re-union after
lonf^ a>»^i^iice, whun all his feeling, roused to the highest pitch of
excik^ happiueas, were almost dizzy with their own excess ;— when
Ma long-tned heart seemed at last to have met with the full retam
of its love, in the joyful greeting of that voice, which reached to the
very dcytbs of bis soul !— then the blow fell ! Then it was that he
foimd the heart be so much coveted was not only not his own, hut
irn;vooablyiEpVitito another ! Weakness and sunering of body too
had lent their nid to depress and crush his spirits, and the inability of
employin g h i a time as he was wont to do—for he could not yet leave the
house, and hia head was not sufficientij recovered to allow of his read-
ing-^-tlirew the whole unrelieved weight of angmsh uponhismind.
Until Lord Wentworth's arrival, he nad had no one to whom he
CDuld in tbc lea^t unbosom himself; for though all those around him
loTcd him ^th the truest hearts, how could he speak to them of
his sufllrings ? How could he remind his mother that what made
Henry happy ^as the source of undying pain to him^ how tell
Henry himself that he had destroyed his happiness ? or how— worst
of all— trouble the peace of her for whom he nad sacrificed his own?
No ; all the depths of his terrible heart-agony had been hidden, as
far as his utmost exertions could enable him to hide them, from
every eye, and he endeavoured in every way to nutke his affliction
appear as light as possible. Everything therefore seemed to com-
bme to make him miserable ; and yet, when alone, and able to raise
his sold to God, he experienced such peace, such joy, such elevating
oommunion wim Heaven, as more, much more than comi>ensatedfor
all that earth could take away. His thoughts could dwell withtme
unaltered afiection on every being around him; and the delightfol
sensation which proceeds m>m the consciousness of bestowing hap-
piness, sweetened every tie of Ms life. That " twice-blcMed" mer<y,
which is the heart's best inmate, shed a *' peace supreme" througn-
out his whole being, which was never lost ; while with Henry on
the contrary the sense of his own happiness was continually dark-
ened by the reflection that he had destroyed his brother's, and made
him, whom he loved as himself, a solitary and stricken being. Thos
did an equal-handed Providence, in mercy, pour its own unutter-
able consolations into the wounded breast, lest it should sink dis-
mayed with its sufibring, while it troubled the joy of the happy
heurt, teaching it, amid all its blessedness, that earthly bliss is not
unsullied, and that the fulness even of earthly affections cannot
satisfy an immortal spirit.
BIE »OLANI) AfiHTON. 377"
"WTien Sir Koland went down-stairs, heproposed to Lord Went-
worth to introduce him to his brother. The tatter consented, bnt
witii a coldness and reluctance of manner which showed evidentlv
that he felt no inclination to be acquainted with him ; and though
Sir Eoland was vexed for Henry's sake, yet he coidd not but ap-
preciate the deyoted attachment which made his friend feel sa
strongly in his cause. He took no notice, however, of what he
observed, for he knew that no one could see Henry and not like
him, and so he left the matter to take its natural course.
And he was right; for Lord Wentworth had not been with
Henrv five minutes, before he felt all his enmity against him
yanisn away, and after half-an-hour's conversation alone with him
— ^for Sir Eoland had left the room— he learnt almost to forgive
Lady Constance for her choice. Still his heart remained firm to
its Old allegialLoe ; though he was forced to confess to himself, that
it would be a most difficult task to decide between two brothers,
who were each so deUghtful in their peculiar ways. He was par-
ticularly pleased at Henry's warm, energetic manner of speaiing
of Sir Koland ; and when the latter re-entered the room, he ob-
served that he watched his countenance with the most earnest
anxiety. StiU it was evident that it was an effort to both of them
to be together, for the very affection whidi animated them, made
tiiem too fiill of each other to be at ease. Sir Roland's endeavour
was to appear cheerful, while Henry's was to subdue his own
spirits out of regard for his brother; though an involuntary sad-
ness would often cloud his countenance as his eye dwelt upon that
brother's altered form.
When Sir Roland and Lord Wentworth left Henry's room, the
former said,
*' I will return up-stairs, but yon should go into the drawing-
room, and make forUier acquaintance with its inmates : and mind
you make yourself very agreeable, as my credit, as far as taste is
oonoemed, you know, is at stake. I have been uiere already."
Lord Wentworth accordingly went into the drawing-room, and
did make himself very agreeable. His manners were so easy and
unconstrained, and his temper so cheerful, that he was always a
favourite ; and in a very short time he had given Lady Constance a
lesson in arawing[, and Lady Florence one in singing, finding much
faidt, and declarmg that he must take them regularly in hand, to
save them from being utterly ruined as regarded the fine arts.
His heart though was far £rom being really happy, for the thought
of Sir Eoland haunted him; and the more he saw of Lady Con-
stance, the more he felt how dreadful a blow it must be to him to lose
her. As she sat by him with her beautiful countenance, and sweet
smile, he looked at her with painful interest, and could scarcely
repress the inclination he felt to ask her how she could have de-
serted Sir Eoland, and consigned one so worthy of her love to such
extreme unhappiness. FeeBng anxious, however, not to betray
his knowledfi:e of the painful circumstances which had occurred,
he continuea Ms lively conversation, till having set each of his
jroung companions a whole week's work in paintmg. which he in-
sisted should be ready for his inspection in an hour, ne returned to
9n n
8irRQlu4.iiAMB«dferiiinbewa8 audbiu in every way to •&»-
'viAte, for Be was eenviaoed, aotwidiBtandiTig liis peilBQt redgBih
tun, that tbey miisi be vwy great.
** Yoa wiU iOfm be w^ eaeogli, I tnui^ to eo oiit araio, J
be midi ** and tbea wbea I bave freed myself from Gbanoery-liinB,
««d liBoolnVim. aod Doctflvs'-oeiB]p.oii8, 4c. &o., will tou ooib^
abroad witb me) It would be soeb a pleasure to me 1 and we haw
atiU 80 muflb to see."
** I should be but a Bpoi gnnpaniea just now,** replied Sir Bo-
laad; *' besides wbidi, | bave too much to do here to oe able to go
«way a^aiA so aoQ&i ajid you too will find tkat you bave plenty of
Qseupatum ea your bands, Ko, my d^er Wentworth/' be addedi.
aigbing beavily, " I leel your londness demly, and your r^aid is
most soothing to me; but J always find it oest to mee^ and not
ton my free from an enemy. Ged is with me eveiywh^e; and
tbere ia something in tbe strcnmnis ^brt to OYoroome seli^ andtM
film determinatum to eonqu/^^^wbii^ suits my inind better than
retreat wfiigbt It migbt bave bew well for my noor brothv ^
leaye bis bome under bis great tnal, evfn if bis pio&ssion bad not
ealled bun away» beeause witb bim, a ppUmgea staTwas m«
longed temptation* and be bad no tie of du^ wbieb l
bsre. But I am in no temptatian, |bougbGod knows, int..,
ewmgb! My lot is east— my frte deeided ; J b%?e bat to take ay
my buiibai in liie strength of Ood, and to go on i^iy way withoi^
taming to Hu^ ngbt or to the left. My «&tion is bare; and m
aoooer I )eeru to endure tbe Mjjs of it, ti)# better it will H
Were I weakly to go away now, I should only b^'Ve to renew my
giirf wban I returned ; a^d n0rb«lW im4Mt« fP i^udi ^^port from
4iboye as I baye at {iresent.'
"Tou art tb9 best judga, MtigUy/' Mid liQvd WentvoiA;
but besideitbe great pleasure it woiu4 be tQ ]a^• I abouUb^T^
^oughi; it mjgbt haye relieyed ypur si»{ntsy"
" 1 do not say tbat it migbt not do w%, tQ a e^rtaJA degree* v4
Unt e time," replied Sir Kolji^idy " and I wou)4 o^ I ^m sure, jun-
fraaiously rejeot any aUey)»tion oif my beayy sorrow^ which God
would allow me; but I do uot fml tim X sbould be ngbt to le^ye
Ivoine «MiA ee ^eon, Therp «re m^^y thiug^ wbicb baye ff^
wrong already owing to my fUw^n^e; a^ many new things wlm
require being done. I am ^2)«eioH4 that in many Wfya I ^^^^^^
rd in my daytban I bave 4one» ior }t is but apoor return for i^voois*
ne^leet the work of tbe best^ower of tbm; wA I think God
permits siBiction often to fajl upon us in order to wean us fron^
self, and to make m wider iiispensers of bis bounty. |n oa^ Uuf^*
especially, I think* I was wrong formerly, and tlmt |s in nB&sm£[
to go intj^ parliament^ hut wben they wanted me last year if> itaaa
% ' * 1 could not endnve the idoa of it. and tried to quiet mj
mind by tellin/g myself it was f^eitnatLon of great temptauoUt ^
ymt it was wisest and best to keep out of th^ way of it. BuU
learitwsathecharmof mybJHB^ wi4 not th^ feju? ^f eyjj, whK*
SIB BOXAKJD AfiHTOiN. W
vas the pceindliBgr aj^oment in my miad. Tlwy kave sent to mft
a^aixL to stand at the next eleotion, and I shall now afioept tlie ia^
* station, for I think I ong^t to do so."
" Why do you think it ao mxyoh of a duty," aaked Lord Wentr
irvrth ; " there are plenty ready to «tand at all tiniest"
" It is not the s&nding, or the sitting, which is the dutr," an-
swered Sir Boland, "but the doing toe best we ean tor our
ocmntry ; and I think that when we eontinually pray for the high
court (a parliaiaent<r-that all things may be * erdered and aottled
by their endeavours, upon the best and surest foundationa— that
peace and happiness, truth and juatiee, religion and piety, may be
established among us'-— we are unwarrai^ble in net usinfir our
i utmost endeavours to promote what we pretend to ask God for.
There may be hi^er dutieB which urevent a person entenng into
^y parliament, but 1 am speaking ox merely preferring one's own
E peace and quiet to doing so; wmch was what I certainly did."
" But would not every member of parliament teU you that the
i only object of his life was ' to immolate himself on the altar of hia
r beloved countrv?' Would he not say that 'he outraged every
> natural f eelinff oy suffering himself reluctantly to be dredged fiQm,
f the bosom of nisfumly/ that his 'retirement horn pnvate Hfe'
i yrsB most painful* and that aU woridly advantages, all hopes of
} advancement or emolument were as an abomination to him? that
lie was ready to thrust his hand in the flames like a 8c»vdla--to
i leap into the golf like a Curtius— to stand alone on the bridge
» -wrhich separates us from destruction like Codes ^-^ r"^"^ -"
destly sneaking, to unite in his own person all the gkNnous deeda
and qualities of the heroes of antiamty,--loeking mr repayment
i solely to a sinking fond of ziatioiuu gratitude to do eitahUshed'*^
*■ en tems et lieu V
I "Ah! elections have been too frequent of late years for the most
( ' amiable simplicity to remain a believer in suehnrofessioaSt" said Sxt
Boland. " f^o— we know perfectly that though there are aoniA who
i really do seek the good of their country, yet that many are totally in-
different as to the meaaures passed-~-«zeepting aa party questions—
'i^ yet like belonging to the ' House,' as the ' oest club in London ;' and
i aoek in it m^y the advsAoem^t of their own prospects and in«-
9 terests. Theutmosteffortsof pseudo charity cannot makae«e view
i the thing differently. Now I am, by the great bounty of Provid»iioe.
• in a situation not to require anything; and I confess the going
r into parliament would be to me a very great sacriiice. Kot that I
I should say so if I agreed to stand, but I say so to you, becauas it ia
i the truth. Whai personal pleasure on earth can it be to me, to, bo
forced to Isave the country at the time when it is most charmimr
i — to go for hours to hear people abuse each other in all manner of
ways, and if called to account for saying so, deny having done it^
• though the whole house has just heard them— to hear them attri*
l)ute all manner of evil designs to those who oppose them, merely
because they do oppose them. And worst of aU— and even here at
a distance, it makes my very blood boil with indignation— having
come into parliament with words of liberality and humanity on
their lip&— by their acts and votes seal the misery of thousands—
3S0' ent BOLA]n> ASHTOV.
tbonsands too of the most guiltless, and most helpless of their
feUow-creatures— children, who because their natural protecton
are too poor to help them, or too vicious (which I fear is often the
case) to forego willinglv the gains which they derive from the
destruction of their ohuoren's bodies and 80uls---are to be left witii
but liitle protection from the laws of their country; while those
who advocate their cause are to be laughed at, as sentimental and
visionary ! * When the poor crieth, I will up, saith the Lord,'
and when I think of those things, I feel that His judgments must
be near, ' even at the door.' I nave never ceased to reproach my-
self since I saw the speech and vote which gave the last
time on this subject, and remember that, but for my selfish
indolence, he miffht never have been in his place so to have spoken
and voted. And yet he called himself a Liberal ! (or I snoold
have opposed him, of course, by my interest, even if not personally
— ^being one myself) ; and indeed, his speech on the hustdn^ was
a splendid outpounng of eloquence about ' suffering humanity,'—
the ' best interests of society, and so forth." , ,^
" One voice would have done very little against such a majority, '
observed Lord Wentworth.
** One voice is aU that God gives to one man," replied Sir Roland ;
** therefore all he is answerable for. God would nave spared the
cities of the plain had he found ten righteous men in them, and
^at * ten,' remember, must have been formed of units. I do noti
however, expect, that the torrent of any evil will be stemmed Aow,
for I fully believe that the jud^ents of the Lord are abroad upon
the land, and that He is hastening the day of His coming, before
which we know that crying sins and great * tribulations' most
oome. But still we are not to be idle at our posts ; so if the electi^
does not come on before I am able to attend to the duties it will
brinff upon me. I shall stand, and state the cause of my doing so.
If God himself prevent my coming forward by this illness, or
otherwise, then I shall feel comfortable in the reflection that,
* They also serre who only stand and wait*
But they do not 'serve' who 'stand and wait,' when they should
be ' running in the way of God's commandments.' That is a flat-
tering unction I have not unfrequently heard indolent negleotors
of their duties lay to their souls ; but it is a fearful eiror." ^
" Well, then, you and I must strengthen each other," said Lord
Wentworth ; " for the battle is pretty well divided between the two
Houses now ; and we of the aristocracy," he added, laufihing, **^
grown as pugnacious as you of the Lower House. I shaU read yovr
speeches the day before ' yoii rise on the spur of the oocasion'—tako
all tiie good out of them-— wreath them round witii 'flowers of
eloquence' all my own, 'and perfectly electrify the House.' p^
will do very well for two or three nights, bv which time it will be
discovered that my beautiful vase ' wasonce Toby Philpot,' and then!
shall be extinguished for ever. But really, Ashton, I wish p^
v^oxlLS. not talk of your conscience, for it rouses the dormant emhtf»
SIB BOLAin) ASHTOir. • 881
•of mine ; and I must, I fear, follow its dictates, and retom to town.
My absence is, I know, a source of neat inconvenience just now
to many ; and haying saved myselTfrom a brain fever by oominf
down here to see about you in yours, I must now go back. But I
may consider myself as ' toujours prie', may I not ? I mean to make
myself always 'kindly welcome,' as people say, and unoommoidy
agreeable."
" You will be both at all times to me," said Sur Eoland ; " and it
does me good to converse on other subjects besides those which in
^neral too much engross my mind. But must you go directly ?"
" I think I ought— to-morrow, and then I shall sooner be able
to return. I may come when I can, without waiting to send notice,
may I not ?"
'^By all means, and the sooner the better."
Lord Wentworth departed the next day for London; and Sir
Boland then, determining to overcome his own feelings in every
way, proposed that they should all go, after Lady Ashton's dinner,
into Henry's room, as the latter was still suffering too much to
bear being removed. He oould not do so while Lord Wentworth
was. there, for he knew that his sensitive mind would have been on
the rack for him ; and that his own embarrassment at being for
the first time with Henry and Lady Constanoe together, would have
been greatly increased oy feeling that his eye was on him. His
mother he could perfectly trust ; for though she was never forward
in suspecting an3rthing, yet when once acquainted with a circum-
«tanoe, she always exhibited the most perfect 'tact' in avoidii
everytiiing that oould possibly distress the feelings of those a^u
her.
Anxious to betray as little disturbanoe of manner as nos-
4dble, Sir Roland went into his brother's room while Lady Asnton
and her young companions were still at their dinner; and after
talking to him for a little while, said that he had begged his
mother to spend the early part of the evening there, for that it was
hard, he thought, that he should be left alone. He did not wait
for Henry to answer, but proceeded immediately to talk on other
subjects, so as to give him time to recover from the nervous ex-
«itemeiit into which his words had thrown him. Conversation, how-
ever, flagged between them, and Sir Boland took up a pencil, fflad
of any employment which miffht serve to hide the trouble which
he was conscious that he could not wholly banish from his oonn-
tenance. The strong impulse of both the brothers, when at length
they heard the dinner-part^ approach the door, was to stazt up and
leave the room, but Sir Koland remained immovable, sketching
some trifle that lay on the table before him ; and Henry, though
he half rose up, yet, controlling himself, rested back again on the
sofa. It was, of course, a most embarrassing time for aU eonceroed*
and for a time no one could talk ; even Florence found her observa-
tions so ill seconded, that she became as silent as the rest.
** Shall we not have some music?" at length said Sir Roland,
anxious to relieve the general painfiil embarrassment. " Florence,
98& snt BMiA3r:D ashtoit*
wthen is no pisBofoite in this room, wimld ymL siind goinr hA»
thft drawing-room a litde while f Witii tiie door op«n, we noiM
hi^tt yon delifrhtfullT."
" It is not lighted, she replied ; ''and akNM. witii ona oandte it
tiMt great room, I should imagine all sorts of ^ings ware danoiag
•ibont ma. If Constance will come witti flia» I wiU go; hmt I aauMft
possibly do so by myself."
"Ton ridioiw)nB child !" aud Lady ABhtoB, good-bnmoiiiedly.
" Howerer, jovl shall ha^ two oandlsB, er a doaen if vea like it*'
"Two and Oonstanoe will do irery well," aaid Lafy FkxreDoe;
and getting np she tried playMLy to make bar airter nse from hsr
ohair.
** Perha|>s you ean persnade her to sing with you," said flir
Roland, with a sort of desperate delen&inalion to endure eyerj-
thing ; for he knew that at that moment, of all earthly things,
perhaps, hearing Gon£(tance*a Toioe would be the moat trying- to
nim. Tet he knew it must aoma day be done, and the aoanar lie
tiiought the beitter.
Lady Constanoe'a eyes tamed far an i&stent to Henry, towaids
whom ^e had not glanced beftve ; but he was looking aiiottierwmy,
and Lady Aakten, thinkng ahe hftd bettar not aing juat tfaea,
aaid,—
"]!re,no, F1eieBoe,4e«otbemnk u litlie eowacrd; go and aiag
by youieelf."
Lady FlorenoetDok vipu oa&dle, balSir fiofamd, knerwiiiglinit;
i&e was vsry timid, said, —
** Ho, dear F^ory,neTer mindto-ngkt^ ToushaMnet go nwKm§^
tiie fuiiea alone to pkuse me.**
He would have offered to go with her, but felt that at that mo-
ment he oould not haTe stood.
'*No,** aaid Florenoe, ^y, takiagup anotlier candle: "tt»
armed, I will defy eywything,**
"Well, I will go with you," aaid Lady Aahton. "And Caa-
■lanee, too," she added the neact moment, xemembering Hut abe
would not at aU like being kft behini alone ;" ao you inJl be 4«ite
vafe."
"6ing a trio, will your eaid l%r Eoland.
Hiey aocordnngly selected one, and their TiRoea, aooadiag tnm
a distance, had a peculiar and beautiful effect.
It was long dnoe either Sir Roland or Henry bad heard hm
Goastance sing; and they were botli greaily alfeoted by it, tiieaffi
natisally ' ^** — " " " ^''"" — "^ -- :^*^
but gradui
possession c. ^^ _. , *'. i.
tkeiirst few notes unmoTcd, out as the music, that "eeaof painfta
delight^*' swelled louder and fdller on his ear, ha mind aeemat
liuite to fail under it; his eight became disay, and a noise as «
rushing waters soanded through hia brain. He had taxed lua
strength too greatly, and natoio for a moment gaye way aa his
head eunk on the table. C<»seicuBness, however^ did not ^oite
leave him, and after a fewaunutas^ making « gnat •Kavtiea.le
raised himaelf again ; and recollecting where he was, he lookedm
llOt>iLin> A8S10K* 9SS-
Idorih at Hetity, feafM th^t bii Ifiigkt IkftTe dlraervid hit tomporarr
faintneds. But Henry, lost in bis own happiness, was lying witL
Mh hand shading his eyes, in perj^t enjoyinsnt; the smile that
tested on his lips ptt)ving how bHsstid were his feeling. Sir B»-
land looked at nis happy oountenanoe for ft moment with mingrlsd
t^otions ; till ftt len^k the blessed thought^ " It is my work^**
KWallowed up al^paim:ttl feeling. His mind beoame tranquiliixed;
tmd he Mt most thankM that his broUier had not obserrad aa
emotion which Would hure giiven him so muoh uneasiness.
The next day Mr. L , the solicitor, arrived from London, and
Sir Roland was engaged with him for a length of time, which much
fatigued him ; but nevertheless, when he had set out again on hi&
feturn — for he was too kurned to accept Sir Roland's invitation to
stay — and the latter joined the party in the evening, his spirits were
far better than they had been before. The sense of the generous
sacrifices he had determined to make in order to contribute to his
brother's and Lady Constanee's happiness, filled his heart with de-
lightful sensations; and when Onoe again he heard the latter^
«ingiiig the well-remembered music which had so often enchanted
fiim in former happy tiiiies> he was thankful to be enabled to enduro
it better than he nad done the night befora, aaid to feel that soma
of the bitterness of his trial was softened.
,The month of February bl*ought Wit^ it £n6 mild weather, and'
Sir Roland was glad to be able again to get out in the open air. He
went about and visited his poor t^ianta, and foond much that
wanted doiog and im|»x)ving.
The ^acht which he had ordered for Henry had been for some
^me lying in the little harbour at Cameombe, mt the weather had
been hitherto too sevefe for it td be used ; but now the tem|>erature
^as so mild that it was thofight tbe air wmld be of use to him. and
he was therefox^ oariied on boanl, where he greatly enjoyed t^
fresh breezes, and the swelling motion of the element he so mvt^
flighted in. At times, indeed, a bitter feeing of i^egret shot across
him at the thought, that he should never now be i^ble to attain
that whioh used to be the highest obj^ot of his amebitton, the «om-
^lumd of one of those magnifiooit 4ihips» whose
Whose home to on the deep^"
tet wh^ tilie thooght of all that home on shoite now <>lPered him^
3^e before his mind, sorrow vanished awsjs «^ he Mt 4ihat it
would be misery to be foroed to leave it.
a^y Oonstanoe and her nster almost always sailed with him,,
^d Lady Ashton also frequently ioined th^pardes.; but Sir Ro-
land, seemed too fuU of business to have time to accompany them.
Ae lound muoh to do at Llanaven, but still more he said at 3>ega-
|^*his other residence.; and he was pei^tually driving over to
^e latter, and speeding the gt«eate^ part 4^ ike day "thire, often
''"Jjring his mother with him.
^us «oiistaAt«sfem(iy prevoited his iwiid Imi fierNr uposi it-
384 fls BOLATO ASEnnr.
lelf ; and greaXLj promoted tlie mtonfioiLof Idi WaliL Jbmj
also became no invufonited by the sea air, tiiot lie wai sotn aUt
to walk instead of oeing canied to the shore. ^ Laid Wt aaiw l h .
returned to them after a short tune, and hafipiiieaB tmof^ once
more to shed its light on Lbmayen. One solitarj heart, ndeed, stfll
bled, still felt its desolation ; bat amid tiie eucig eti e ezcRB^ of
benevolence and piety, and in self-denying exertiim far &&a%, Iks
sorrows of that deeply tried heart were soothed; and peaae and joj
at moments again took their aecnstomed pboes these.
"floistttcm: tohoHjtean,
In looelj boon dulit riten qipcan:
In ioeial hom, who Quitt wvmid iMk
Mnit torn sU tukf to ehaiity.-
CHAPTEB IIY.
" Can thj generous nstorc^
WUle thus it tbedfl fellcitjr around tt»
* Bonsla itoelf nnblcft'd?^ — TAi.FODMn.
« So Ua lift bath llow'd
From ftf mjtterioos nrn, a aaered stream, {
In wbose eahn deptb tbe beaatifbl and pme i
Alone are ndrrot'd ; which, tboogfa shapes of ffl '
Hay borer nmnd its sorfhce, glides in hglbit.
And takes no shadow Aom them."— TAUPOunou
The settlements went on rapidly, and Sir Boland was -rerj
:anzioas that the marriage should take place as soon as poasiUe.
Henrjr was ffreatly recovmd, though it would be long, the sumom.
said, before ne regained his former viffour and actiTity. Stulhe
was perfectly able now to walk ; and the motion of a caniaaie no
longer distressed him, and therefore there was no reason why he
should not be able to travel all over the world if he wished it witk
Lady Constance. Sir Boland therefore begged Lady Aahton to get
the day fixed as soon as it was convenient, and to let him know
when the time was settled. She did so, and the first week of the
next month— the changeful April month— was fixed upon. Sir Bo-
land still continued his drives over to Tregaron ; generally aocom-
panied either by hb mother, or Lord Wentwortii. Florenoe often
l>etitioned to be allowed to go there also, but was continually put
-oS, first with one excuse, then with another.
At length Sir Boland said to her one morning at breakfeist,
" Well, Fbrence, you shall have your wish to-dav, if you like it^
-of going to Tregaron, on condition that you persuade all your ocnn-
panions to go too."
This was quickly arranged. It was a loveW day, without a breath
of wind ; and there was a general petition mr the barouche, whidi
was accordingly ordered, and at eleven o'clock it drove up to the
door. Lady AsbUm with the two sisters and Henry, were to go
inside, and Lord Wentw<nth, who piqued himself he said, "oa a
SIB SOLAin) ASHTOK. ZB5
lineal descent from Ericthonius," was to drive the four beautiful
greys, with Sir Roland by him on the box. As Henry handed
Constance in, he looked for a moment at his brother's plain but
handsome equipage, which, with its outriders, &o., was all in the
very best taste, and a sigh involuntarily rose at thiniing how little
he should have to offer, in comparison of the wealth of which his
unfortunate love had deprived her. But she, reading his thoughts
in the sudden cloud which flitted over Ms speaking countenance,
said a few words as she gave him her hand which more than eased
his heart.
The drive was deHghtfal to all,— even to Sir Eoland. for his
heart swelled with kindliest emotions as he forgot himself in the
happiness he was about to confer on others. When they entered
the park-gates at Tregaron, he desired Lord Wentworth to stop ;
and dismounting from the box, he said rather hurriedly to those in
the carriage, —
'* I am going to speak to some workmen I see out there ; and you,
my dear mother, or Wentworth will shew all the improvements that
have been made — and explain — ^you know — ^all about it."
He hurried off— but Lady Asnton could not utter a word; her
heart was so full that the slightest attempt at speech would have
drowned her in tears. Neither could Lord Wentworth at that time
explain what Sir Roland wished said, but as he drove along, he
continually made them observe new things that had been done,
new views that had been opened, &c. &c. ; till at len^h coming in.
sight of the house which stood beautifolly on some lising ground,
backed by fine woods with a lake in front, and which had lately
been done up in the handsomest maimer,— turning to the party
in the carriage, he silently pointed to it with his wnip, for at that
moment he too seemed to have lost the power of speaking. TTia
heart overflowed with that painful pleasure which generous actions
so often produce — actions which are often more touching to the
mind, than scenes of extremest woe.
When all the ^arty had dismounted. Lord Wentworth led the
way into the orawing-room. It had been 'entirely new furnished^
and was most beautiful. Lady Florence was dehghted, and won-
dered naturally, why a place at which they so seldom resided should
have had so much pains bestowed upon it, and have been improved
and adorned in such haste; for when last she was there with
her sister and Lady Ashton, all was quietly remaining as she hsid
ever remembered i^ and not a workman was to be seen. She was
the only one who could make any remarks on the subject, for mis-
S'vings began to steal across the minds oi Lady Constance and
enry as to the object of all this sudden improvement. It could
not escape the observation of the most careless among them, that
everything in the room was done exactly in accordance with Lady
Constance 8 taste. There was the favourite colour— pale silverj
green — on the walls, arranged in the panelling she so much a£
mired. The windows were cut down to the ground, which had not
been so before,— the sreen silk, and soft white curtains, all such as
she would have chosen I And well they might be ! for they had
aU been ordered and arranged with devoted care, by one who had
c
386 SQL SOUJTD ASHTQV.
studied her iuto too long, and wUh too much inteert, to be iiii»-
taken in them.
She eat down <a one of the aofiis, for a violent tremhling' seised
her, as her sister, sospectiiig notfamg, OQntiniied to make remaxioB
on the TBiious mew objeets which stnidL her eye. Lord Went-
worth,--who joined a peat depee of nervoosness to tiie most feeiing
and ffeneroos heart,— Ending it totally in -vain to attempt to oom-
mand his yoioe, went to the window, and writing in pencil on the
hack of a letter, the words: — *' This ia all for you,"— pnt it into
Henry Ashton's hand. Henry looked at it for a few moments ;
then giving it to Lady Constanoe, hastQy left the room. She burst
into tears; and Ladv Ashton, who had yainly endeavoured to
repress hers, oonld only leave her to her natural emotion. Lord
Wentworth meanwhile escaping unobserved, went in search ol
Henry, whom he found pa43ing one of the walks in a state of the
greatest agitation.
credit of Ihem to be given
elegantiamm ;' — all the sublime and beautifnl has emanated from
me. But now," he added more quieti|y, " do not sav much to your
brother about it; merely say . However I need not dictate to
you ; your own kind feelings will tdl you what to do."
" Oh ! no/' said Henry, " I feel so overwhelmed, Ihat I know not
what to think or say. I knew that he would help us ; but to let
US live here, is what I never dreamed of! And to prepare it all so
thoi^htfully— so beautifully !"
"He does not *let you live here,'" said Lord Wentworfh,
smiling, " he gives this place to you ; and with it, all the property
belongmg to this part of his estate, which amounts, I believe, to
between eight and nine thousand a-year."
Henry oova:«d his fyj» with his hands, and threw himself down
on a seat which was near.
'* Come, come," said Lord Wentworth, "yoit— a sailor— must not
give way in this manner. You have borne pain enough, yon must
learn to bear pleasure now."
"Oh! it is not pleasure," exclaimed Hairy. **1 oonld have
borne anger^-unkindness— anything but this. Oh! Lord Went-
worth, if you did but know all, you would feel for me."
** I do luiow all, and I do feel ibr you," replied the other, laying
his hand kindly on Henry's shoulder, " and! can folly understand
that what you experienoe at this moment is suffering— not plea-
sure. But you must i^member also the feelings of him— who has
not, I fully believe, his eoual upon this earth ! — and try to over-
come your own emotion. Say nothing to him further than to give
him to understand that you accept what he has done."
" I cannot accept it," mtemipted Henry, still unable to recover
himself. " Impossible ! I should be miserable."
" Mr. Ashton," said Lord Wentworth, gravely, "you must have
more command over yourself, and learn to look at these things
calmly. I know you could not have expected your brother to nave
done M much for yon— no one could; but you mart xeanember that
silt SOLAXTD ASHTOJr. 387
Ms nkasord now is in yonf happiness. His fortime is yery large,
«id nis heart very liberal, and you will only pain hun by ezposki-
latLons, which I know will prove useless."
" Lord Wentworthf it i» impossible that I ean acoept gif(» like
these/' r^)eated Henry.
" I do not see that at all. I would not hurt your feelings, bat
surely you have reeeived a much more yalnabie gift ; and you
must be aware that Ihe difference to Lady Constance wiU still be
^reat. And do you think he could endure her to have any priya^-
uon ? Tou know ^ough of true affection, Mr. Asnton, or you are
not worthy of the name you bear, to be well aware that the chief
delight of a noble heart is contributing to the happiness of those
it loves ; and surely you would not deprive your brother of that
remaining pleasure !'
*'0h! no, of iH)ne-~^nQne that I could give him," exclaimed
Henry, passionately ; ** I would willingly die for him."
" I do not think your dying is what would ^ve him most plear
mare just now," observed Ldrd Weotworth, with a playful smile ;
** I rather think he would prefer seeing you alive and happy.
People do not take such pains with things wliich they are indif-
ferent about ; and he has Seen too busy and thoughtful for you, to
make me suppose he can be pleased by anything out your accept-
ance and enjoyment of what he has prepared for you.
** But much less would have done lor me," insisted Henry.
** Probably— for you have been used to ship biscuit, and tar-
|>auling. But Lady Constance has not; and as it is natural he
should think a lit&e of her, he wishes you to have something
beyond mere ship aUowamce to live on. As I said at £rst, I can
truly feel for you : but you must learn to be generous as well as
your brother, and £reely to bestow on him the great pleasure of
contributing to your happiness."
''But in time he ]Bight/'*-'«aid Heiiiy-«"and I do trust he
will *'
" Never," said Lord Wentworth. " I know what you mean, —
hut I have no hesitation in saying I am convinced he never will.
I have known him, and seen him of late years much more than
you have, — and when you last parted you could not have been any
very experienced reader of characters, — and I am as confident as
that I see you before me, that he never will fonn any other tie, — so
that need not trouble you. He has been * wax to receive,' but will
be ' marble to retain.' But do not fear for him on that account^
for his hope is not here, nor ever has been ; and he is even happier
now at times, by having had some of the strong cords that bound
him to earth severed. I should not perhaps say this to you, who
are just now naturally fuU of expectations of earthly happiness,
and value them periiaps almost beyond their true estimate ; only I
wish you to feel no scruple in accepting this portion of your
brother's fortune, for he can have, and I teel sure never will have,
any better use for it. Come, you will promise me to say nothing
to him to pain Mm, or make him think that you feel it unpleasant
to receive nis kindness. A free acceptance of a gift shows that we
have generosity and feeling enough to make us understand the
c c 2 '
388 SIB BOLAin) ASHTOK.
pleasure of ' ^ying/ and that we do not crudge that pleasure to
another. It is, I confess, the more difdcnlt pa^ of the two ; but
if you say one word more on the subject I shall vote you an unfit
^ardian of Lady Constance's happiness — order the four greys out
instantly — and carry her off to the north before your astonished
eyes, bo now choose silence or death."
'* I must perforce then choose the former/' said Heniy, smiling,
though his heart was still heavy. " Yes, I see that it will be best
to let liini have his own generous way ; and well indeed might von
say tiiat ' he has not his equal upon earth/ I often wish I had
never been bom !"
" Then you wish a very foolish, and a very wicked wish," replied
Lord Wentworth. " But do, Mr. Ashton, let me implore of you,
endeavour to overcome that unrestrained habit of &eling which
you seem to have. I say of feelings— because I know that in action
you can, and do restrain yourself ; for your brother has told me that
' The heart is God's province," answered Lord Wentworth, " and
yours ; he could only judge of the conduct,— and that he nobly told
me was most noble ! But I ought perhaps, to say that I do not think
he would have mentioned to me any of tne circumstances, had I not
almost extracted them from him ; for knowing of his attachment
formerly, I naturally spoke to him about it when I came here, not
dreaminff of what had occurred ; and he told me, merely I thinks
because he saw I suspected a good deal, and that he was anxious
that no blame should attach to any. B]^t will 70U now try and
restrain that unsubdued way of thimring and feelmg ; for if you do
not, it may, in the life you are about to enter on, produce much
misery where you least wish it."
'* Ah ! I have troubled her too of(;en already,** said Heniy, with
a sigh. *' Gk>d grant I may do so no more."
** Then/' said Lord Wentworth, smiling, ''you must learn not to
wish yourself dead upon every occasion, — ^for that is a desperate
xemedy— or unborn,— for that is useless. 'Supportez toub, et
supportez les autres,' (* Bear with yourself, and bear with others,')
is a very good maxim. I have seen what self-command can do in
your brother, not only on late occasions, but formerly when temper,
and patience used to be much more tried than now; for a great
event is more tolerable to the irritable part of our composition, than
continual smaller provocations are ; and I have seen him bear, what
Sou and I and other men would scarcely have endured witiiout
an^erous outbreaks; yet. he is by nature £ir more violent and
passionate than either of us."
*' So I have heard him say, and my mother too, but I cannot
remember it to have been so ; he was always kind and considerate
towards me, and now— his patience has been beyond conception."
" Let us profit then, my good fellow, by his example," returned
Lord Wentworth. " But now, come back to tiie house, and show
Lady Constance that you are glad to have some better place to put
her m than the 'Hard at Portsmouth. Ho werer, I f eel in a very
SIR BOUJn) ASHTOir. 989
tolerable humour "witli you after all ; for you have conferred a
special favour on me in giving me an opportunity of finding fault.
It is such an unspeakable comfort to meet with somebody worse
than otie's self ! I generally find myseK oppressed by such masses
of excellence on all sides, that I cannot get in a word of advice
edgeways, and I am generally *en proie' (a prey) to all sorts of
lectures ; but now, * avec cet amour enracin^ d ^tre quelque chose *
(with that enrooted love of being * something ') which pervades us
all, I am quite elevated at having had you to lecture ; and I shall
certainly take some delicate opportunity of informing Lady Constance,
that if she ever enjoys a moment's peace with you; it is entirely
owing to me. Now will you come back with me, or must I order
out the greys?"
Henry Ashton laughed, and taking Lord "Wentworth's arm, they
were both proceeding towards the house, when they perceived Sir
Eoland at a-Httle distance.
"There," said Lord Wentworth, dropping Henry's arm, and
givinff him a slight push on the shoulder, " now, off with you
directly, before my good advice is aU carried away by the winds;
and remember you say anything but what is uppermost in your
mind."
" I cannot go," said Henry, stopping short after having taken a
few steps ; " Icould not meet his kind look, — I feel like a murderer.'
" Nonsense ! " exclaimed Lord Wentworth half angry, yet half
laughing. ** But really," he added in a most earnest tone, " I do
beseech you to try and ^et over these feelings, or they will in time
produce perfect alienation between you. Too much delicacy, or
rather — ^for I will not step down from the pedestal I have mounted
with you— too much pride, is as much the Dane of life, as too much
anytmng else. * De trop m6me dans le bien, n'est plus un bien,'
(* Too much of even what is good, is no longer a good,') remember.
So now, do not make yourself * de trop * any longer witn me, but go
off where your presence will, I am sure, give nothing but pleasure.
I will go and make the agreeable to Lady Coustance meanwhile, and
I daresay you will not be missed. * Au revoir.* "
So saying he hurried ofi^ and would not look back till he got to
the house-door, when turning he saw the brothers together, and felt
perfectly happy.
It was certainly a trial to Henry to meet Sir Roland, for whom
he felt at that moment a love and devotion which would have made
it easy for him to have confronted death or any evil for his sake :
and to Sir Roland too, it was no sHght effort, for his heart wasfiUed
with mixed emotions to which he dreaded giving way. When they
met, neither of them could speak for many minutes ; and they
walked together arm in arm in perfect silence. At length Sir
Roland said in a low voice, and as if following what he knew must
be the train of Henry's thoughts,
" It will be very pleasant to me, youknjw, to have you so near."
"Roland," said Henry pressing his brother's arm convulsively,
" how can I ever thank you ? "
" By enjoying it all, and being happy, and letting me see that you
SOO sea BOLAJTD AflnOK.
are so/' xeplied Sir Roland Idndly nmling, as he retnmed Hasr>*9
ardent preflfure. **I£!he preparing it aU has been a great pleaame
tome; as great as, or greater perhaps than, haying it wiU be to
yon. Yes, my dear brother. Iwiah you to feel that though at times^
regrets, natimd regrets, will cross my mind, yet God makes np my
loss to me in many ways ; and I can Beyer be sufficiently gratefiu
that what has passed, has left no trace of bitterness or diyision
between ns. For a moment my jealous soul was tortured— but that
has long since passed, and I feel a happiness inexpressible in being^
the instrument of happiness both to you and— -Constance. You
must let me continue to loye her Henry, for remember she bore a
double character with me. The one-T-I haye almost learnt to
forget ; but she must eyer remain the being who was the oomiMmion
of m^^ childhood and youth, and who is now-~<« will be soon — a
real sister to me. As to you," he continued, endeayouring to speak
cheerfully, ** you must neyer wonder if I find a pleasure in pleasing'
you ; you were always ' Tenfant gSLt§ de la maison/ (' the spoilt chila
of the house ') and must consent to remain so still. But now, my
boy, go back to the others, and be sure and tell my mother, or
Wentworth, of anjrthing you would like done— either of you, — ^for
the workmen are still about. I haye some things yet to attend to
out here, but will join you in a little while." And he escaped from
his brother's softening affection.
As he watched him spring up the steps of the terrace, pursue his
way with bounding tread towso^ds the nouse, and at last enter to
join those within whom he so much loyed, his heart was filled with
the most exquisite hapmness. He looked around at the scene
which presented itself. The daj was loyely— -the ahr was perfectly
stLll, and the lake had not a single ripple to disturb the perfect
reflection of the tall trees that were pictured on its breast, exeepting^
where the water-h^i or wild duck flew skimming along its surface,
kayii^ behind a glittering train of diamonds, or the swan swam
forth from the high reeds, and, juttmff its fall breast against tho
waters, threw them from its snowy siaes in waying lines, which
diverged almost to the yery shores of the lake. The trees had, in
some places, already assumed a light tinge of ffreen, while the alder
and the lonf sweeping branches of the birch, glowed with that
bloomy purple which marks ike swelling of the buds before the
leayes burst forth. The rooks were in the yery midst of the busy
cares which their newly hatched young required ; contrasting in
the straight course of their heayy flight, with the sinsrularly graceful
and undulating motion of the Comiui chough, which had its more
distant nest among the rocks. The singing of the birds, the early
flowers, and all those loyely things whi^ thnU the heart with an
indefinable joy eyen but to think of, combined to make that day
and hour most charming. But oul^ard things alone cannot impart
pleasure ; it is the feeling within, which arraying them in
** Hiieg of itt own, tnOi bonowed from the heart,"
gther causes " the sunniest flowers that glad with their pure smiles
w«J gardens round," to bloom without o^our or fragnmee for us»
an BQLAjfB AflHiair. Sai
or makes ^the wilderness and desert-Blaoe to blossom like the
rose." It was the sense of deep gratitaae to God, and of glowing
love to man — ^the noble exercise of the *' power diyine ox doing
good/' which made Sir Roland at that moment happier even than
those, for whose dear sakes he bad so long andT so wdl exerted
himself. ^
CHAPTER LV.
<* Ob ! si TODS taviei ee quil y a de paix dans la doalenr aeeept^.** ("Oh t
if yoa knew wbat there was of peace in accepted grief.**) — LeUrea Chrttiennes.
** Oat of the deptlis hare I cried unto Thee, 6b. i Lord. Lord, hear mf
TOioe ir^-Ptabn czzz.
The settlem^itB conld not be finished quite so soon as was ex-
pected ; but at length the twenty-third of April was fixed upon for
the marriage. The delay was trying to Sir Edand ; for much as
be was enabled to overcome his natural feelings, and often as hei.
eiu o^red the highest order of happiness in oonmiunion with God»
snll it was a time of excitement for him, and he thought he should
be better when all was oyer, and he be enabled again to return ta
the tranquillily of his usual ocoupations.
*' Wentworth," he said to his Mend one day, '* I thought it a
great proof of friendship your coming down here to me ; but I am
going to exaet another^— and that is that you should leave me for a
time."
*' Why?" asked Lord Wentworth, surprised, and apparently not
particularly pleased ; '* why am I to go away now, just as I hava
got fitted mto my room, and have made myself at home with,
everybody, and everything ? I do not think it is at all fair to
e3n)ect it."
^*Tou shall retazn again soon if you like it," said Sir Roland^
smiling.
*' ' Retom soon,' does not suit me half so well as staying now I
am here," replied Lord Wentworth. '* My mind will nave to ba
aired again, and got in order—new swept, and dusted— and I hate
all that. Whyamltogor
" I wUl not tell you now," said Sir Roland smiling ; ** you may
stay a week longer before I turn you out, if you like it ; and you
wiU be in a quieter mood some day before that I dare say than you
are now, ana then" — and his colour changed-—" I will tell you why
I certidnly do wish you to leave me before— before the twenty-
third."
The moment Sir Roland mentioned that day a doud dimmed the
Mightness of Lord Wentworth's laughing eye ; for he knew that
iBeungs of a painfal nature must at that moment occupy Sir Ro«
land's mind, and he regretted having answered so lightly.
" Oh ! I am always in a quiet mood, my dear Ashton," he replied
fedingly, *^ when it is anythinfir that concerns your conuort that has
to be discussed ; tell me now all you wish to say. I wiU go to^y
if you like it, and come agaiui wbeoeyer you please."
392 SIB SOLAin> ASHTOir*
" No, no, do not ^ to-day/' said Sir Boland. " But to say the
truths I feel I should be able to go through ^Aa^day better, if you
were not here, than if I knew your kind eye were on me. Now
that I have no particular exertion to make, I find it a fireat com-
fort and relief at times to be able to speak to you openly ; but in
action, I must have God, and God alone, with me ; even your kind-
ness comes between my spirit and His i>ower. Man's sympathy
softens, but God's strengthens. Man can as it were, stand on the
brink of the stream against which we are battling, and speak
words of comfort, and direction, and encouragement ; but God is
with us in the flood — stems ike torrent for us, and bears us up so
that the waters should not overflow us. So you shall leave me
before that time comes ; it is not far distant, and it will be a trying
hour to me, and I must abstract my mind as much as possible &om
earth, and keep it steadfast upon God, to enable me to get through
it at all. That over, I shall be particularly happy to have von
with me again ; for come down to earth my mind must, — and when
there— no one is so delightful to me as you." And he held out his
hand to Lord Wentworth, who grasping it warmly said, —
**Tes! you are right, for nothing but losing the sense of
earthly things can at times sustain the soul ; and I know that a
sympathising look will often trouble and overset one, instead of
oonve3ring comfort. I fear I have often distressed you when I
least wished it ; for in the intensity of my anxiety, I have often for-
gotten vou for whom I was anxious. I have admired Lady Ashton
flo much in that. Many times when my eye has been feverishly, and
thoughtlessly fixed on you, fearful of the effect of particular thingsL
I have looked for a moment towards her, in a sort of agony, and
have perceived that though her lip quivered and at times a tear
forced its way, yet she never raised her eye to your countenanoe,
or did the least thing to attract attention to you. 'Beautiful it has
been to see how completely she has forgotten herself in you, and
indeed in all : and with what wonderful delicacy, and good feeling
she has acted in every way."
*' Yes, my dear mother's task has been no easy one,'* replied Sir
Roland ; " for what makes her happy on the one hand, makes her
miserable on the other* Yet never nas sh6 wounded ine by a look
or word, that might seem eitiier negligent or over-pitying, though
I know her gentle heart has bled for me perpetually; and never
either, I feel sure, has e^e damped Hemry's happiness by a melan*
oholy look or expression, on my account. She is indeed most
precious to me ; and I am blessed in so many ways that I ought to
06 most thankful, even though the dearest tie of my life is broken/*
"Aye, I cannot but wish it had never come to that with you,"
said Lord Wentworth; "the disappointment, however deep, of a
simple unacknowledged feeling, could never have been so great a
trial as the ending of an engagement must have been."
" You are wron^ there, Wentworth, as far as I am oonoemed
at least." replied Sir Roland ; " and my engagement is one of the
things for which I feel thankful to God. For them, certainly, it
''^9^d have been pleasanter heul no previous tie existed, for it
nugnt have saved them much pain ; bat selfishly speaking, it is fiff
tSEBL BOLAin) ASHTOST. 89S
better for me as it is. Had I returned home, loying^ Constance as I
did when abroad with you, a«d found her eng^aged to Henry, —
what would there have been for me to do ? I should of course have
provided well for them, and in the secret of my heart I should haye
oeen happy in so doing ; but my unexpressed emotions would have
smouldered in my own heart, and unable to overcome them, I
should have been deemed morose, and have been a blot upon their
page of happiness. My feelings would have been peirpetually
wounded by things innocently said ; and I should have been a thing
of no account with them. Now I do not say that there is not vanity
and nride in my present feelin«i, but certainly there is pleasure in
the firm conviction /nrhich I nave, that next to each other, they
value me the most perhaps, of anylMng in this world, and that my
happiness is their great object, it is ofelightfal to feel that I have
been the means of making them hapj>3^, and it is soothinf to know
that they are aware of it. As to giving Constance up !— I feel sure
she woTud never have married me while she liked another ; but
still if I had not released her from her promise, I do not think she
would ever have held herself free as to lorminff any other tie ; and
I do not think she would have borne the thought, or at least not for
a len^ of time, of marrying Henry, had I not ur^ed it. Now in
exerting myself for them I have been happy. Activity is the only
earthly resource in trouble ; and I do assure you that often, in
workiuff for them, when you and I have been over at Tregaron, and
I have been busy laying out the grounds, and arranging the house
and everything for them, my feelings have been so buoyant, that
I have at times forgotten that it was at the expense of my own very
heart's-life that I was making them happy."
" Tes, I often wondered when I saw your zeal and energy. Bat
resiniation to the will of Gt)d carries great comfort with it.
"The true thing, Wentworth, is * acquiescence,' not * resigna-
tion ;* it is a much higher order of feeling, and I think a different
one. We ' resign' ourselves, when we cannot prevent what is done ;
we * acquiesce,' when we would not prevent it. That I trust is my
feeling ; I would not rule for myselr— not for all the universe ! nop
would I, if I could, take Constance away from Henry. God's ways
must be best. There is a verse in the Psalms also^ whose beauty is
to me excessive— revealing as it does, so much m so few words:
* Call upon Me in the time of trouble ; I will deliver thee, and thou
shalt glorify Me.' Man's words would have been: 'And I will
glorify thee !' but God who knows what is our highest privilege
and perfection—that indeed for which we were bom— holds out as a
reward, ' Thou shalt glorify me !' I cannot tell you the sublime
ideas with which that passage fills me. The majesty with which
the Lord confers as a favour the power of fi^lorimn^ him, is most
striking ! and as He certaixdy knows the value of His own service^
we must not regret any amotion which makes us go to him to
learn it. I am not yet very old, but I have truly learnt that
' affiiction' need not be ' misfortune ;' for nothing can be called
that, which brings us nearer to Cfod— the source of happiness I
When it is blest by Him, then,
IM SCB SOLAHB AISIOV.
' Sctitm teaidieth as the troth of thingi
Whkh h»Te been hid beneath the crown of flowos
That gUdness wean,*
aid we axe th« better, and tlierefiore tli6 happier £ar il*'
In a few days Lord Wentwortli left Llanaven, ptomtsing to
return when the marriage was over. It wm the wish of aU, that it
ahonld be qiiite private ; and bo one bat their near neigrhbourt and
friends the Mimtagues were invited, excepting Mrs. MordikUDt and
Philip, whom it was thought ri^'^^t to aek as being Lady Constajiee's
nearest relations. Lady Asht^ii also 8e€rotIy wished that PliiMp
ahould come in order to act the part of * father' in giving Lady
Constance away ; which, as it muijt otherwise naturalljr f aU to Sir
Boland, ^ feared might bring witti it most painful feelinira to him.
This thought had neyer even Ki'inced tliroagh bis nund ; for ihoee
who know the reality— the sLth, inward t^t^ality of BuflLTiajor and
sacrifice, are often wholly mmir^ved by the little ontwai'd trifles
which ml the anxious minds of watchful friends with distaay for
their sakes ; and many a thin^ whioh has been autioipated with
terror by others, passes over tiie sorrowing heart ibr which they
were in pain, like the idle wind !
Neither Mrs. Mordaunt or Philip, however, eould come, though
fhey wrote the kindest letters of reflpret and congratulations ; and
8ir Boland was therefore to act m» ^* father's part He eave
orders that a rural feast should be prepared for all the tenants and the
poor of the various parishes around, and provided everything most
uberall]^ for it. Lady Ashton had endeavoured to dissuade him
from tms, thinlring it would be too much for him ; but he said he
wished it, for that ne considered Henry as his heir, and liked that
his marriage should be celebrated accc^dingly.
The tears sprang to Lady Ashton's eyes as she received this
answer, but Sir Eoland entreated her not to be unhappy on his
account.
'* It is not, my dear mother," be said, '' tiiat I detennine netver
to form fresh ties, but I feel I never oan do so^never ! But I shall
not be unhappy ; the busy never are so, and I shall find plenty
to do."
The day of the marriage at length arrived, and was ushered in
by the ringing of bells mmi the old church-tower. The ohurch
itself was at no great distance, so the drive was a short one ; but
Lady Ashton wishing to prevent the necessity of Sir Eoland goinff
in the same carriage with Lady Constance, proposed that she ana
Hrs. Montague, and the two sisters should go in one carriage
and Sir Eoland, his brother, and Captain Montague in another, am
it was accordingly so arranged. Henry was excessively nervous
and imeomfortable, but Sir Eoland was calm and collectea, tiLOUgh
he looked deadly pale ; and the compression of his lips, and coa-
traotion of his brow, proved that his nature was under strong ooa-
f^^i^t. It would indeed have been an insupjxHrtable hour to kin
had he not been sustained by strength from aboye ; for though we
may know Ikat we are to lose what we lore, yet no merioiiB mo-
ment can eompaze with that which actually tean it from ii». As
hmg as he oonld remiain silent, he was happy in the inward com-
mvnion which he ceaselessly maintained with God ; but if any
one spoke to him, his spirit seemed disturbed finm its rest, and his
manner became agitated. When they arrired at Ihe gate of the
ehnrohyard, their carriage b^ng before the other, he desoended
from it, and was walking towards the chnreh, when Captain Mon-
tague, calling to him gaily, said,
^' As yon are to act the part of ' father,' Sir Boland, I believe I
onght to leave to yon the priyilege of handing Lady Constance
ont."
" Oh ! no— no," said Henry, hnrriedly.
But Sir Roland, warned by his brother's agitation to maintain
his own self-command, turned back and assisted Lady Constance
from the carriage ; vid then giyinr her his arm, they walked
together along the path to the church-door. There were children
and young women strewing flowers in the way, according to the
oostom in manr coimtry places, and the whole churchyiurd was
thronged with me tenantry and poor people, anxious to snow their
lespect, and also wishing to grati^ their own natural curiosity.
fSSat £elaBd bowed to the right and left, in acknowledgment of the
eontinual salutations of the people, while Lady Constance who felt
an agonv of heart for him whicn made her whoUj forget herselj^ -
walked by his side incapable of taking notice of any one, ana
trembling so as hardly to be able to sustain herself. Captain and
Mrs. Montagrue i^d Ladv Florence came next ; and the latter gaily
smiled and Dowed to all around, who could not but admire the
lovely creature shiniiig forth, in all her bloom and animation, a per-
fect contrast to her pale and silent companions. Thoughts painfully
oppressive rose to poor Mrs. Montague s mind as she remembered
how diff»rait was her own hasty aim imprudent marriage, and how
f|Teat the anxiety which followed it ; and recollections somewhat
sknilar also clouded her husband's brow. Henry and his mother
came last. She, with her kind and courteous manner seemed to
acknowledge individually every creature in the crowded area, while
Henry, pale witii agitation, bowed on all sides, yet his troubled eye
seemed to rest on no one. At length they all stood in their places
near the communion table, and the dergyman began the service.
Sir Roland took his station by Lady Constance as he was directed ;
he felt for a few moments as m a dizzy dream, and took hold of the
railinffs by which he was standing to support himself ; but this soon
passed, and his mind became completely absorbed in silent, earnest
prayer to God. He lost all sense ofwhere he was, saw no one, nor heard
a smgle w(«d of the service. When the minister came to the
words^-BO aeddentally and painfully appropriate — " Who giveth
this woman to be married to this man ? all those who were there,
exceptinflr Lady Ashton, Constanoe^ and Henry, naturally looked
at Sir Roland ; but he was unconscious of everything around him,
his mind bong at this moment lost in th^ contemplation of that
region where what we love is never taken from us. There was
a slight pause, and then eren Henry and his mother turned
^6 SIB £OLAin> ASHTOir.
their eyes to liim— the latter with fearful apprehensLon. The ces-
sation of the voice, however, aad the slight movement which was
made, roused Sir Roland, and hrought back his thoughts to present
things. In returning to earth, however, his soul still retained
its heavenly feelings ; and when the kind old minister — supposing'
merely that he was not exactly aware of what he had to do — ^re-
peated the question, he looked on Henry's agitated countenance
with a calm smile, and taking Lady Constance's hand in his, placed
it in that of his brother. Lady Constance then first burst into
tears, and Sir Koland for a moment became troubled ; but earnestly
lifting up his heart again to 6K}d, the peace he sought returned to him.
As Henry and Constance were going no farther than to Tre-
graron, it was arranged that they should set off from the church-
door, all being anxious to avoid any unnecessary trial to Sir Boland.
When the ceremony therefore was over, and the business of
signing, &c., was all done, they proceeded together along the
crowded churchyard towards the gate, where their own carriage
was waiting to convey them to their new home. When they
had nearly reached it, Henry anxiously turning round and
missinfl: Sir Eoland, his heart misgave him ; and hastily begging
the old clerg3rman, who was walking by him, to give Constance
his arm, he flew back into the church filled with undefined alarm.
.His fears, however, were instantly relieved by finding; his brother
well ; but his attitude of deep despondency, as he sto<3. resting his
head agapist a monument which had been erected to his fisimer's
memory, struck him to the very heart. He pailsed a moment in
the church porch, unwilling to disturb him, yet incapable of re-
turning without speaking to him ; but the sound of his step caused
Sir Koland to look up, and on seeing him he started, exclaiming,
" Henry, why are you here ?"
" My dear brother !*' cried Henry, advancing, and vehemently
throwing his armsround Sir Koland, as he burst into passionate tears.
Sir Koland instantly calmed at sight of his brother's strong emo-
tion, returned his warm embrace, and said,
" My dear, dear Henry, do not give way so much, nor grieve
yourself for me. I may truly say that Inave that peace whidi
passeth imderstanding, that comfort which God alone can give ;
and though at the moment of parting I ielt that faintness which
at times comes over me, which made me imable to follow you, yet
that is past. The sight of our father's tomb has reminded me of
the troublesome life he has quitted, and of the never-ending nature
of that scene of bliss he has entered. Do not be anxious for me ^
I am happy— happy for you— and for myself."
" Oh ! what can I ever do for you ?" exclaimed Henry.
"A great deal," said Sir Roland, with his ever-winning smile ;
" you must keep, as far as depends on you, every doud from Con-
stance's brow, and strive continually to increase in the grace and
We of ^ God. His blessing be witii you both. Now go, dear
Henry, he continued, for he began to be agitated by his brother's
regretful affection ; " she— they all will be waiting for you. Qo,"
H2S^^S??"^?';:^#I^^ollowyou."^^ ^ ,. ,,
■ttenry stramed his hand once more to Ms lips and tore himself
STB KOIAITD ASHTOIT. 397
away, btitturmiiff at the door he seemed irresolute ; imtil Sir Ro-
land lifting his nand, said kindly and cheerfully, " Not another
•word," ana Henry at last left the church and hurried hack again
to the carriage, anxious if possible to hide his agitation from the
eyes of those around. It was however quickly observed, and being
naturally ascribed to the pain of separation from his brother (their
mutual strong affection beins: well known), it only served to heighten
the interest of the people, who were all much attached both to him
and to Sir Roland. The presence, too, of Mrs. Montague brought
back to their minds the remembrance of his gaUant conduct at the
time of the wreck, and aided in exciting their feelings to the utmost
pitch ; till, amid the tears of many— loud expressions of good-will
and 0^ kind leave-taking sounded on all sides, ending at last in
one simultaneous and imiversal cheer. Henry turned round and
acknowledged it with his open, jfrank manner ; while the tear
that started afresh in his eye, was of a nature far different from
that which had last dimmed it.
Lady Ashton had been very uneasy during his absence, but not
liking to follow him, had endeavoured to occupy the attention of
those immediately around, by kind incjuiries and observations;
J and Plorence, broken-hearted at partinj: with her sister, had
entered the carriage after her, occupying the seat that was waiting
for Henry, and mingling tears and idsses with her last farewells.
At length, however, she descended ; and Henry, after shaking
hands with those around him, and turning to aclmowledge a fresh
burst of cheering, got into the carriage, which immediately drove
off.
Sir Roland then left the church, and at the sight of one who had
80 long been to them all that master ^d landlord could be, the
abeady excited enthusiasm of the people burst forth tenfold, and
oheer after cheer rent the air, as he passed among them. He ac-
knowledged their friendly greeting, smiling kindly, though at
times with a quivering lip, and then followed his mother and the
rest of the party into the carriage ; but turning round on the step,
he said, in his peculiarly pleasing manner, that he hoped soon to-
^ see all who were there at Ilanaven, and that not one of ^em
must be missing; and the carriage then drove off amid the re-
newed cheers of the people.
When arrived at nome, however, he felt quite unequal to sus-
taining the burden of conversation, and soon left Ihe drawing-
room; hoping to find that ease when alone which he was unable to
obtain while with others. But peace seemed for a time to iiy
from hun. He had thought that when all was over, he should be
at rest ; but he now found that of all the hours of his life (ex-
cepting perhaps the very first of his bitter affliction), this was by
far the most overpowering. It is said that the moment of deatrt
^ is not so tnriuff to the survivors, as the day when all that remains
of that wSch has been ao dear is finally shut from their eyes ; and
80 it was now with him. Constance had been virtually lost to him
for months, and he had learnt to accustom himself to that thought ;
but he had never realized what it would be when she was actually
gone ; when he should wander from room to room, and never hear
er voice— roam over cliff and ehcte, through garden, wood, and
398 filS BOIAHD ASMXOS.
^jjide, and never xuieet iier, or aee tiie traioes of her &ot ! Tet ffans
it must be tbrough life for liim. A yisitor indeed she Toa^t be^
bnt an inmate, never more— neva wMle he lived would his hone
again be her home !
He wandered about bewild^rad with a feeliiiir ai of iometHing
lost, for whioh he must look in vain— but eeaicelv able to de&M
the cause of the vacant dreaxiness within him. fie could not at
that mcmient look up to GkMi ; his heart was fixed earthward— and
he was most desolate! At length this deadly, dreamy misery
seemed to pass, and the fall sense of his loss roshed overwhelm*
ingly over niuL. His spirit sunk beneath it; but when that storm
was past, he was relieved, and his heart again lifted itself to dod.
Henry too— he was gone ! gone from, the hcnne of which he had
so often been the life and joy, to form a new home for himself!
fKme—to exchange the thoughUess freedom of his boyish days, fee
the cares, and deeper duties of maturer life.
** Yet still it is but for a time," thought Sii £oland, *' and tiien
all is peace. Yes, all must be peace," he exdaimed, looking up to
Heaven, *' if God be faithfully followed. It is only when with-
drawing our ffaze from Him, and looking to the troubles around
us, that our mith fails, and we feel sinking in the bitter, bitter
waves of this stormy life."
The rural parlj, consiBting of many hundreds, were assembled
by two o'clock in the park at lianaven, and Sir Roland went
amongst them, exerting nimself to the utmost to be cheerful, lest
he should damp the general festivity hj. the appearance of gloom
on his own countenance. He succeeded in a neat degree, but was
not a little relieved when Lord Wentworth (wno at his own earnest
entreaty was to return immediately after the marriage was con-
cluded), made his appearance. He instantly resignecThb diair at
the head of the table, where his principal tenants were assembl6d|
and after addressing a few words to them, he introduced Lord
Wentworth as his particular friend, and one who was much more
fitted than he was to do the honours of the feast to them; and
then retired amid loud and reiterated cheers.
He felt it impossible to talk on ordinary subjects, and dreading
lest his absence of mind should be observed, he would not return
to the rest of the party, but stn^led by himself for some time, and
at lengt^L descended to tiie shore ; but finding that this listless
mood was not calculated to strengthen his powers of endurance,
he walked on at a ^uidLcr pace towards Gamoombe, determining
to visit the old and infirm of Hie village who had not been able to
come to the feast. It was a great effort to him to approach the
spot, at the foot of the dif^ where so many trials had been his;
and where he had not been since the time when his mind was so
eompletely overwhelmed, under its first sudden stroke. He pasud
it, however; and was enabled to thank God for the comparativs
ease and support whidi he then eigoyed. He went to see all who
remained in the village ; and found subject of gratitttde in eyeiy
visit. The presents which he liberally bestowed on the oceasifln,
cneered the hearts of all; and made nim fed, while witneasivg
SB X0LA3n> AfiHTOir. 399
their pieasme, that it is " more blessed to giro than to receive ;"
while the words of faith and trust which he spoke, animated the
flagging: si»rit8 of the suffering, and made them partakers of that
** comfort wherewith he himself was comforted of 0od."
CHAPTER LYI.
" Thoa, O Sfint, that dost prefer,
Selbre all temples, th' npri^t heart and pore."
MlIAON.
** Eyeiy day is dedicated to the service of the Lord, and bears upon its
golden hours this inscription, ' HoUnees to the Lord.* ''
Set. C. B. Tatixxb.
A FEW months after the marriage had taken place. Sir Koland
entered into Parliament, and his hands were then fall of business,
though of a kind particnlarly disagreeable to him ; for it brought
him in continual contact witn many whose actions, conyersation,
and principles were wholly repugnant to him ; and the business
itself was often carried on in a manner and spirit as revolting to
him as his former experience of diplomatic proceedings had been.
Still there were some who had honesty, and a few, though very
few, who had religious feeling, and with those, whether of his own
party or not, he chiefly associated; avoiding the society of the
others as far as courtesy and public duty would nermit, and con-
tinually praying when forced to be with them, thai; at least, if he
€ould be of no use to them, he might be preserved from the con-
tamination of their conversation* and the corruption of their prin-
ciples. Ever delighted to return to Ilauaven, he frequently
collected round him there, those whom he most valued in life.
Yisits were continually exchan|;ed between the inmates of that
place and Tregaron, from participating in whidi he never shrank ;
and the great efforts he made to master himself, enabled him to
feel that the pain of such meetings gradually decreased, while
Henry's happiness with Lady Constance was a never-failing source
of joy to his heart. Se was still, however, conscious that they
themselves were not whoUy at their ease with him : and that they
did not like to show the nappiness they enjoyed in each other
for fear of paining him. But he trusted wat m time that restraint
would wear off, and that l^ey would leam rightly to understand
his feelings.
Time sped on; but the leaves of another summer had not yet
folly clotned tihe trees at Uanaven, when the bells of the church,
were again ringing out their cheerful peals; and this time, for the
birth of one, wnom Sir Roland felt was destined to be the heir of
all his possessions.
Lady Ashton and Florence had been staying some time at Tre-
garon ; and 8ir Roland, taking advantage of a time when there
was but little to be done in the House, had run down to Llanaven,
b^ing too anxious to remain in London ; and his happiness wa3
400 SIB BOLANB ASIITON.
Tinspeakable when lie heard the joyful news. It was early in the
morning that it reached him, and he instantly wrote to his orother
in terms of the deepest feeling', and desiring everything that was
kind to be said from him to Lady Constance.
" And now, my dear Henry," he added, at the conclusion of his
letter, " as you are blest with everything which can make your
heart happy, I entreat you to let me partake your happiness with
you. I nave ever seen that you aud Constance have feared to
shew your mutual affection, and to let your joyful spirits have
their way before me, thinking in your kind hearts, that it might pain
me. But such would not be the case. I should be a thousand times
happier, if I felt that I was no check upon you ; and if you would
let all the expression of your feelings flow out before me. Kow, at
this most joyful moment, I ask this of your friendship : think of
me, — ^not at all; but let me be to you as one whose attachment you
know to be strong and sincere, and do you be to me as affectionate
friends. Let me see the full delight of your hearts in each other,
and in this new claimant on your affections, and then I shall be
happy."
fie despatched this letter, and desired the servant to return as
soon as possible, to let him know how all went on ; and then pro-
ceeded to give orders to his steward for preparations for another
creat day of rejoicing amongst the people. As he was returning
home after a long walk, he saw some one riding un to the house at
fall speed, and was alarmed lest any ill news might De arriving. But
the next moment he perceived that it was Henry himself, who, on
seeing him, threw himself off his horse, and giving the reins to tho
servant, bounded down the green slope to meet him. He had
scarcely read Sir Roland's letter, before he ordered his horse, to ride
over to Llanaven ; and with that delicacy of feeling which was so
sin^arly blended in him with habitual recklessness of action, he
insisted upon hb oominj? back with him directly to Tregaron; and
without makinff the shghtest allusion to the latter part of -his
letter, he immediately aofoptod the spirit of it, and spoke with the
ftdlest and most open delight of all his happiness. Sir Roland was
easily persuaded to accompany him back ; and orderingthe carriage,
they set off together, leavmg the horses to follow. Henry dilated
ceaselessly during the drive on the excessive joy he felt, — a joy
which any one who has been in his situation^ and is blest with
feelings like his, will well understand ; and Sir Roland entering
with the warmest sympathy into his enjoyment, asked a hundred
questions about the new comer, and everything in which Henry
was concerned.
Lady Ashton was surprised and delighted at seeing Sir Roland
arrive, with his brother ; and he himself felt most happy that be
had come.
After he had sat some time in the drawing-room, Henry came iiu
saying, that he must go up with him to see the baby. He rose ana
followed him ; but it was with a strange confusion of heart that he
entered the room where the infant lay asleep. In former days the
*'^^^ghts of having children of his own to watch over, and loye,
and bnng up in the ways of God, had ever been most delightful to
r
SIB nOLAKD ASHTOir. 401
1dm: now, — ^that prospect he felt was shut out for ever; and. it
was impossible but that some natural regrets should struggle in his
"breast. But when he saw this child of nis brother's lymt in its
Seaceful slumber, he felt he was no longer childless, but tnat this
ttle one would be to him as his own.
He was forced in a short time to return to town ; but as soon as
he could escape, he came back to Uanaven. His intercourse with
Tregaron was now, indeed, all he could have hoped it. Lady Con-
stance wasperfectly recovered; and she determined as much as possible
tofoUow Henry^s example in the freedom of her intercourse with Sir
Roland ; and he soon found that the difference of their manner to-
wards him, enabled him to enter into all theiar enjoyments, —
especially the unbounded affection they felt for their cmld.
When the little creature, who was named after him, was old
enough to be trusted alone to his care, he would walk about with
him in his arms for hours together ; and when- about a year and a
half after. Lady Constance's happiness was further increased by
the birth of ^ daughter, he often oe^ged that her boy might be lett
at Llanaven, and delighted in having him with him almost all the
day. He would fain nave adopted mm entirely; but he felt that
even if the parents woujd have coDsented, it would be a great evil
to separate the child from its natural protectors ; and though per-
haps Henry and Lady Constance mig^ht have yielded to his wish,
out of their great consideration for him, yet he knew it would be a
terrible sacrifice to them. He felt for the boy, however, completely
as if he had been his own ; and his heart once moreezpandedunder
the delightful power of love.
Many friends he had too, whose visits were very pleasant to
him. His imcle, who, fatigued with the cares of ousiness, had
resigned his post at , often came to stay with him ; and through
aU his raillery. Sir Roland was thankful to perceive that his mind
was opening continually more and more to the power of truth ;
and that nothing seemed to make him so happy as conversing with
him or Lady Asnton on the subjects of everlasting life. The Mon-
tagues still remained at Carncombe, and were ever welcome. Philip
Mordaunt was married ; but still retained his affection for Lady
Constance, and frequentiy came down with his young and pleasing
wife to see her ; and Sir Roland found him a most agreeable compa-
nion, and one whose mind was much awakened to the importance of
spiritual things. Mrs. Mordaunt, too, cured of her horror of " Me-
thodists," confessed that at Llanaven and Tregaron at least, the
service and love of God seemed "ways of pleasantness and paths
of peace."
But of all the acquaintances and friends of their lateryears, no
one was so welcome at both houses as Lady Stanmore Her heart,
first aroused by Sii' Roland, and afterwards further enlightened by'
Lady Constance, felt no rest till she was able fully to admit the
light of divine truth. She long, and fondly clung to the world,
and resisted the convictions of her own conscience; but God's
mercy was greater than her unfaithfulness, and finally triumphed
over it. From the time of Lady Constance's marriage, she and
Lord Stanmore had paid frequent visits both to her and to Sir
J> D
409 SIB BOLAin) ASHTOK.
fioland ; but it wai the snstaiDing power of hearenly grace, nm
shown 80 wonderfully in the latter, that at last oyercame the
leaistanoe of her heart.
She had sospected when first she met Lady Constanoe in London^
that there was some attachment between her and Sir Boland ; and
in staying at Tregaron, soon after Lady Constance's marriage, she
dUiyfally spoke of the '^mistake " under which she had lam>nred.
The distress which this unexpected allusion gave Lady Constanoe*
escaped her e:^e at first, and she continued, —
" But it is im^sible that either you or lie could haTo loyed in
Tain, so I must give up considering myself a * witch ' for the future ;
but I cleverly thought I had discovered the clue to the secret of
his indijSerence to the many who would gladly have received his
attentions at ; and certain tears which started from your
eyes when I repeated some words of his that night at Mrs. Mar*
daunt' s, made me imagine that his image was not an unwelcome
one to you."
Lady Constanoe had turned her head away, apparently to look
<mt of a window bv which she was sitting, but in met to hide the
emotion which Laay Stanmore*s words pinoduoed. The thougkt of
Sir Roland's attachment was ever most grievous to her ; and though
ahd saw with thankfulness how much he had been able to overcome
his feelings, yet she knew him too well to imaffine that an afifection
snch as his had been for her, could so easilv be overcome, or the
cmrrow of its disappointment so soon be maae to pass away. She
could not answer the observation which had been made, or stem
back the tears which started into her eyes. Lady Stanmore saw
them fall, and kindly said, —
** I am sorry I have grieved you, dear Lady Constanoe, by my
thoughtlessness ; and I now fear I am wron^ again, and that there
must have been something formerly, which it now gives yxm pain
to think of. It could not have been you who were not loved, or
you would not now be bearing his name, through another^ but is
it possible that he could have been unaccepted where he wished to
xdease ? How could you not like him ? ' '
Lady Constance answered only by pointing with her hand out of
the window to Henry, who had just come in sight, walking with
Lord Stanmore.
" I understand you," said Lady Stanmore, smiling, but shaking
her head; "yet I cannot quite f<Hrgive you. Your husband ia
oertainlv very charming, but to refuse Sir Roland, it most have
required the heart of a tigress ! "
Lady Constance was exceedingly distressed, for she would not
willingly have had Sir Roland's feelings made Known to any human
being ; and she felt that her own want of self-command had, though
most unintentionally, revealed them. She sat silent for some time,
uncertain what to say ; but then reflecting that Lady Stanmore
was now aware of Sir Roland's afiection, she determined that she
should be made acquainted also with his nobleness. After a diort
struggle, therefore, with herself, she began .—
"My dear Lady Stanmore, I have foolishly, by my weakness,
revealed that which I had wished should never haye beenknownor
am soLAjri) ashtok. 403
suspected by any one ; bnt let me implore y<m, never to let (Ms
subject pass your lips— not even to Lord Stanmore. It would
dis&ess me beyond measure that Roland's feelings should be made
known. But as you have aniessed them, you shall know also how
he has borne and acted unaer all he has had to endure/'
She then informed Lady Stanmore of the droumstanoes under
which her has^ engagement had been formed and broken, and how
incomparably Sir Eoland had acted throughout the whole.
Lady Stanmore was excessiyely touched, and expressed lier
surprise at his being able to command, and subdue himself sufi-
<iiently to appear to take such pleasure in his brother's happiness.
"Appear! exclaimed Lady Constance, ** he does take pleasure
in it ! and it is his own work. He released me, unasked, from my
fatal promise; he urged— entreated me to marry Heiiry: and to
him it is that I owe the means of doing so, — ^for we were both poor-|
and it was he who gave this place and almost ell the fortune we
have to Henry." And sha covered her £Etoe with her hands and
burst into tears.
Lady Stanmore sat speechless- «lie seemed suffocating. In addi-
tion to the touching sentiments of extreme admiration which she
felt at Sir Roland's conduct, an over^werine sense of the nature
and value of godlv principles, and spiritual ieelings, oppressed her
heart. She felt there must be a reality in religion which she would
never fully admit before ; and her soul humbled, yet elevated,
lifted itself up in silent prayer, that she too might become a redeemed
and devoted servant ox Goa« After saying a few kind and grateful
words to Lady Constance in return for the confidence she had shown
her, and which she assured her should never be betrayed, and ex-
pressing, though but faintly, her sense of the nobleness of Sir
Roland s conduct, she retirea into her own room, and there did die
fervently, on her knees, implore the blessing ana forgiveness of her
God for the long rebdlion of her heart ; entreating Him to put
His Spirit within her, and to make her wholljr His.
'From that time the change in her was evident to aU ; and her
natural amiability, enlisted in the cause of Christianity, made her
indeed a delightful creature. The void in her heart, which had so
long made her restless and uneasy, was filled ; and loving and
beloved, she was a blessing to all who knew her.
Mr. St. Clair, returning to England, gladlv accepted an invita-
tion to visit Henry Ashton at Tregaron ; and was delighted to find
him so different a being, both in health and spirits from what he
was when last he parted j&om him. Henry's gratitude and attach-
ment to him were very great, and Sir Roland was trulv glad to form
a Mendship with one, to whom, for his brother's sake, he felt so
much indebted. Mr. Singleton also paid frequent and ever- welcome
visits to Llanaven, and Lord Wentworth was almost continually
there.
Sir Roland, after a time began to suspect that it was not (mly for
his sake, that his friend showed so much indifference to his own
fine property in Dorsetshire ; but that there was some greater
attraction which drew him so often to Llanaven. Lady Florence
was now near eighteen, very lovely and very lively, and Sir Roland
D D 2
404 Snt BOLAlfB ASHTOIT.
oonld not but perceive that Lord Wentworth was much attached to
her. He did not feel eqnal confidence, however, in her feeling
towards him ; and anxious that his friend should avoid the fate that
had been so harrowing to himself, he determined to speak to him»
and entreat him to be sure of the grounds of his hope, before he
yentored all his happiness on so voung a Creature.
Lord TVentworth was not handsome, but his animated look, and
bright quick eye, gave a most pleasing expression to his coun-
tenance; and the amiabilitv of his uisposition, and his huh
principle, made Sir Roland feel confident that if Florence reallj
liked him, he would omit nothing in his power to make her happy.
"Do you not think Florence very lovely?" he said to him one
day.
^*Very."
" I rather wished to speak to you about her."
•* About her ? You ? exclaimed Lord Wentworth in the greatest
alarm. " Ashton, you do not mean— yow are not "
"Me ? Oh ! no,'' replied Sir Roland, with a sad smile. "Ko,
Wentworth, my heart is shut to that sort of thing. But I have
thought that I perceived that yours was not ; and I would entreat
you to be sure that you have good reason for hope, before you let
your feelings get too much ent^gled. I have no right to ask your
confidence, out only wish that my fate may be a warning to you.
I do not say, 'Love not,' far from it; I would say, 'Love,' but
take care that your love is returned."
"I have taken caie of that," said Lord Wentworth, smiling, with
a heightened colour ; " and was just wishing to speak to you on
the subject, when your question came out and terrified me so
much."
" Why ' terrified you,' if your heart was at rest about it?" asked
Sir Rohmd.
" A deadly fear seizedme, that you might, without my perceiving
it— have "
" No. I see that she is lovely, and know that she is good ; but my
heart can i;iever, I feel, be roused to anything of that kind again.
But how have you ascertained that your feelings are returned ?"
** By asking her," repUed Lord Wentworth, quietly.
" Tnat is good authority, certainly," said Sir Roland, laughing ;
" and I am most truly happy that you have such to go upon. And
have you really settled it all with her ? I am so thuikfiil ! for my
heart has often trembled for you lately."
" Mine has, I know, many a time trembled for itself," said Lord
Wentworth ; " till at last I thought it would be best to put an end to
doubt, one way or the other, and so I spoke to her to-oay, and feel
very happy now."
'^I suppose you do," said Sir Roland, amused at the absurdly
quiet maimer wnich Lord Wentworth chose to assume. " I dare sar
yon preferred receiving a favourable answer to having a refusaL
Well, I am very thankfol,— very thankful !" Though a shade of
sadness settled on his countenance as he spoke.
"Ashton, willyoulet me speak one WOTd to you?" exclaimsd
SIB BOLAin) ASHTOir. 405
Lord Wentworth, suddenly dro^pin^ his affected simplicity and
apathy, and resuming: his natural, animated manner.
" A tiiousapd, if you like."
" But it is about yourself."
" About me ! There is not much to be said about me ; but* say
whatever you like."
" I hardly know how to speak ; but what I want to say is, that I
wish so much that you would give up the determination never to
—form any new ties — ^never, in short-— to marry. I cannot think
it right, that one so young should make such a resolution. Your
heart is formed for affection, and you should cultivate it.~I know
you will forgive me, but it makes me very unhappy to think, that
you should cut y;ourself off from the best joys of life, by a too clinging
re^rard^ to what is past. I know vou love many, and especially that
thing, ' he added, ijointing playfully to Henry Ashton-s boy, who
was, as usual, sitting on Sir Eoland's knee ; *'but it is not like
having thincfs of one*s own."
Sir Eoland. unconsciously raised the child in his arms as Lord
Wentwortti spoke, with a love scarcely less thnlling.than that of a
parent.
" You are wrong, Wentworth," he said, " in thinking I have
determined never to marry. It is not so : but I do not feel that I
could. The strong efforts 1 have made to detach my thoughts from
the world— for she was the world to me ! — seem to have rendered
me incapable of ever loving devotedly again, and without that I
oOuld not marry. I did not think, indeed, that I could ever again
have felt such love for any living being as I do for this tiny thing ;'*
and he pressed his lip repeatedly to the child's soft velvet cheek ;
" so in time I may feel other affections steal upon me :— -but I doubt
it. However, do not be troubled for me— I am happier than I can
express ; and with a far more stable happiness than I pver enjoyed
before, because my hope now cannot fail and the more the tempest
blows, tiie closer does the refuge seem to me. * If it be a daily con-
HiM-. if. ia 4-Tl'«v\Tif»Ti ffl\'anti4- a Aailtr •mtni-rt.viwr * 'Til fllA 1irn-p1<1 ITA alinlf
experienced,
know that they are truths. Earth is not the home of happiness,
for Satan is the prince of this world.
•Grief
Stands symbol of our faith, and it shall last
As long as man is mortal, and mdiappy.
The gay at heart may wander to the skies.
And harps may there be found them, and the bnaoh
Of palm be put into their hands :— on earth
We know them not;^no votary of onr fUth,
Till he has dropped his tears into the stream.
Tastes of its sweetness.' '
" Yet no one ever tasted the sweetness of that stream more than
you did, even before your heavy trial came," said Lord Went-
worth.
" Nothing like what I have done since— oh !. nothing like it !"^
exclaimed Sir Roland. " Then— it was indeed the best of my
SIB SOLAXS AfiSTOV.
bkflfiingB ; now— it seems the only oxie--so oompletdy doee it swal-
loi^ up all others. No, Wentworth* I oan add my testimony to that
of Hemell, where he says" — and reajohing down the book, he -^
read—" * Man may be disappointed in his greatest hopes in life,
without on tiiat aoeoimt beobminff unhappy. I have long suspected. '
and am. daily more and more, by the course of iiie wmd, and
through mj own eiiperience, couTinoed, that there is lio other
actual mifiKntane, «xeept this only— not to have Gtod for our
Friend."'
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