"Unhappy man!" said Dr. Barlow, "little does he think that he is, if possible, more the object of my compa.s.sion than poor Mr. Tyrrel. Tyrrel, it is true, is lying on a sick, probably a dying bed. His body is in torture. His mind is in anguish. He has to look back on a life, the retrospect of which can afford him no ray of comfort. But he _knows_ his misery. The hand of G.o.d is upon him. His proud heart is brought low. His self-confidence is subdued. His high imaginations are cast down. His abas.e.m.e.nt of soul, as far as I can judge, is sincere. He abhors himself in dust and ashes. He sees death at hand. He feels that the sting of death is sin. All subterfuge is at an end. He is at last seeking the only refuge of penitent sinners, I trust on right grounds. His state is indeed perilous in the extreme; yet awful as it is, he _knows_ it. He will not open his eyes on the eternal world in a state of delusion. But what shall awaken poor Mr. Flam from his dream of security? His high health, his unbroken spirits, his prosperous circ.u.mstances and various blessings, are so many snares to him. He thinks that "to-morrow shall be as this day, and still more abundant." Even the wretched situation of his dying friend, though it awakens compa.s.sion, awakens not compunction.
Nay, it affords matter of triumph rather than of humiliation. He feeds his vanity with comparisons from which he contrives to extract comfort.
His own offenses being of a different kind, instead of lamenting them, he glories in being free from those which belong to an opposite cast of character. Satisfied that he has not the vices of Tyrrel, he never once reflects on his own unrepented sins. Even his good qualities increase his danger. He wraps himself up in that const.i.tutional good nature, which, being partly founded on vanity and self-approbation, strengthens his delusion, and hardens him against reproof."
CHAPTER XLVI.
In conversing with Mr. Stanley on my happy prospects, and my future plans; after having referred all concerns of a pecuniary nature to be settled between him and Sir John Belfield, I ventured to entreat that he would crown his goodness, and my happiness, by allowing me to solicit his daughter for an early day.
Mr. Stanley said, the term _early_ was relative; but he was afraid that he should hardly consent to what I might consider even as a late one.
"In parting with such a child as Lucilla," added he, "some weaning time must be allowed to the tenderest of mothers. The most promising marriage, and surely none can promise more happiness than that to which we are looking, is a heavy trial to fond parents. To have trained a creature with anxious fondness, in hope of her repaying their solicitude hereafter by the charms of her society, and then as soon as she becomes capable of being a friend and companion, to lose her forever, is such a trial, that I sometimes wonder at the seeming impatience of parents to get rid of a treasure, of which they best know the value. The sadness which attends the consummation even of our dearest hopes on these occasions, is one striking instance of that _Vanity of human wishes_, on which Juvenal and Johnson have so beautifully expatiated.
"A little delay indeed I shall require, from motives of prudence as well as fondness. Lucilla will not be nineteen these three months and more.
You will not, I trust, think me unreasonable if I say, that neither her mother nor myself can consent to part with her before that period."
"Three months!" exclaimed I, with more vehemence than politeness. "Three months! it is impossible."
"It is very possible," said he, smiling, "that you can wait, and very certain that we shall not consent sooner."
"Have you any doubts, sir," said I, "have you any objections which I can remove, and which, being removed, may abridge this long probation?"
"None," said he, kindly. "But I consider even nineteen as a very early age; too early, indeed, were not my mind so completely at rest about you on the grand points of religion, morals, and temper, that no delay could, I trust, afford me additional security. You will, however, my dear Charles, find so much occupation in preparing your affairs and your mind for so important a change, that you will not find the time of absence so irksome as you fancy."
"Absence, sir?" replied I. "What then, do you intend to banish me?"
"No," replied he, smiling again. "But I intend to send you _home_. A sentence, indeed, which in this dissipated age is thought the worst sort of exile. You have now been absent six or seven months. This absence has been hitherto justifiable. It is time to return to your affairs, to your duties. Both the one and the other always slide into some disorder by a too long separation from the place of their legitimate exercise. Your steward will want inspection, your tenants may want redress, your poor always want a.s.sistance."
Seeing me look irresolute, "I must I find," added he, with the kindest look and voice, "be compelled to the inhospitable necessity of turning you out of doors."
"Live without Lucilla three months!" said I. "Allow me, sir, at least to remain a few weeks longer at the Grove?"
"Love is a bad calculator," replied Mr. Stanley, "I believe he never learned arithmetic. Don"t you know that as you are enjoined a three month"s banishment, that the sooner you go, the sooner you will return?
And that however long your stay now is, your three months" absence will still remain to be accomplished. To speak seriously, Lucilla"s sense of propriety, as well as that of Mrs. Stanley, will not allow you to remain much longer under the same roof, now that the motive will become so notorious. Besides that, an act of self-denial is a good principle to set out upon, business and duties will fill up your active hours, and an intercourse of letters with her you so reluctantly quit, will not only give an interest to your leisure, but put you both still more completely in possession of each other"s character!"
"I will set out to-morrow, sir," said I, earnestly, "in order to begin to hasten the day of my return."
"Now you are as much too precipitate on the other side," replied he. "A few days, I think, may be permitted, without any offense to Lucilla"s delicacy. This even her mother pleads for."
"With what excellence will this blessed union give me an alliance!"
replied I. "I will go directly, and thank Mrs. Stanley for this goodness."
I found Mrs. Stanley and her daughter together, with whom I had a long and interesting conversation. They took no small pains to convince my judgment, that my departure was perfectly proper. My will however continued rebellions. But as I had been long trained to the habit of submitting my will to my reason, I acquiesced, though not without murmuring, and, as they told me, with a very bad grace. I informed Mrs.
Stanley of an intimation I had received from Sir George Aston of his attachment to Ph[oe]be, and of his mother"s warm approbation of his choice, adding that he alleged her extreme youth, as the ground of his deferring to express his hope that his plea might one day be received with favor.
"He forgot to allege his own youth," replied she, "which is a reason almost equally cogent."
Miss Stanley and I agreed that a connection more desirable in all respects could not be expected.
"When I a.s.sure you," replied Mrs. Stanley, "that I am quite of your opinion, you will think me inconsistent if I add that I earnestly hope such a proposal will not be made by Sir George lest his precipitancy should hinder the future accomplishment of a wish, which I may be allowed remotely to indulge."
"What objection," said I, "can Mr. Stanley possibly make to such a proposal, except that his daughter is too young?"
"I see," replied she, "that you do not yet completely know Mr. Stanley: or rather, you do not know all that he has done for the Aston family.
His services have been very important, not only in that grand point which you and I think the most momentous; but he has also very successfully exerted himself in settling Lady Aston"s worldly affairs, which were in the utmost disorder. The large estate which had suffered by her own ignorance of business, and the dishonesty of a steward, he has not only enabled her to clear, but put her in the way greatly to improve. This skill and kindness in worldly things so raised his credit in the eyes of the guardian, young Sir George"s uncle, that he declared he should never again be so afraid of religious men; whom he had always understood to be without judgment, or kindness, or disinterestedness.
"Now," added Mrs. Stanley, "don"t you perceive that not only the purity of Mr. Stanley"s motives, but religion itself would suffer, should we be forward to promote this connection? Will not this Mr. Aston say, that sinister designs influenced all this zeal and kindness, and that Sir George"s estate was improved with an eye to his own daughter? It will be said that these religious people always know what they are about--that when they seem to be purely serving G.o.d, they are resolved not to serve him for nothing, but always keep their own interest in view. Should Sir George"s inclination continue, and his principles stand the siege which the world will not fail to lay to a man of his fortune--some years hence, when he is complete master of his actions, his character formed, and his judgment ripened to direct his choice, so as to make it evident to the world, that it was not the effect of influence--this connection is an event to which we should look forward with much pleasure."
"Never," exclaimed I, "no not once, have I been disappointed in my expectation of consistency in Mr. Stanley"s character. O, my beloved parents, how wise was your injunction that I should make _consistency the test of true piety_! It is thus that Christians should always keep the credit of religion in view, if they would promote its interests in the world."
When I communicated to Miss Stanley my conversation with _her_ father, and read over with her the letters of _mine_, how tenderly did she weep!
How were my own feelings renewed! To be thus a.s.sured that she was selected for their son, by my deceased parents, seemed, to her pious mind, to shed a sacredness on our union. How did she venerate their virtues! How feelingly regret their loss!
Before I left the country, I did not omit a visit of civility to Mr.
Flam. The young ladies, as Sir John predicted, had stepped back into their natural character, and natural _un_-dress; though he was too severe when he added, that their hopes in a.s.suming the other were now at an end.
They both asked me, if I was not moped to death at the Grove; the Stanleys, they said, were _good sort_ of people, but quite _mauvais-ton_, as every body must be who did not spend half the year in London. Miss Stanley was a fine girl enough, but knew nothing of the world, wanted manner, which two or three winters in town would give her.
"Better as she is," interrupted Mr. Flam, "better as she is. She is a pattern daughter, and will make a pattern wife. _Her_ mother has no care, nor trouble; I wish I could say as much of all mothers. I never saw a bad humor, or a bad dinner in the house. She is always at home, always employed, always in spirits, and always in temper. She is as cheerful as if she had no religion, and as useful as if she could not spell her own receipt-book."
I was affected with this generous tribute to my Lucilla"s virtues; and when he wished me joy, as he cordially shook me by the hand, I could not forbear saying to myself, why will not this good-natured man go to heaven?
I next paid a farewell visit to Mr. and Mrs. Carlton, and to the amiable family at Aston Hall, and to Dr. Barlow. How rich has this excursion made me in valuable friendships; to say nothing of the inestimable connection at the Grove! I did not forget to a.s.sure Dr. Barlow that if any thing could add a value to the blessing which awaited me, it was, that his hand would consecrate it.
Through the good Doctor I received a message from Mr. Tyrrel, requesting me to make him a visit of charity before I quitted the neighborhood. I instantly obeyed the summons. I found him totally changed in all respects, a body wasted by disease, a mind apparently full of contrition, and penetrated with that deep humility, in which he had been so eminently deficient.
He earnestly intreated my prayers, adding, "though it is presumption in so unworthy a being as I am, to suppose his intercession may be heard, I will pray for a blessing on your happy prospects. A connection with such a family is itself a blessing. Oh! that my nephew had been worthy of it!
It is to recommend that poor youth to your friendship, that I invited you to this melancholy visit. I call him poor, because I have neglected to enrich his mind: but he will have too much of this world"s goods. May he employ well what I have risked my soul to ama.s.s! Counsel him, dear sir; admonish him. Recall to his mind his dying uncle. I would now give my whole estate, nay, I would live upon the alms I have refused, to purchase one more year, though spent in pain and misery, that I might prove the sincerity of my repentance. Be to Ned what my blessed friend Stanley would have been to me. But my pride repelled his kindness. I could not bear his superiority, I turned away my eyes from a model I could not imitate." I now intreated him to spare himself, but after a few minutes" pause he proceeded: "As to Ned, I trust he is not ill-disposed, but I have neither furnished his mind for solitude, nor fortified his heart for the world. I foolishly thought that to keep him ignorant, was to keep him safe. I have provided for him the snare of a large fortune, without preparing him for the use of it. I fell into an error not uncommon, that of grudging the expenses of education to a relation, for whom I designed my estate. I have thus fitted him for a companion to the vulgar, and a prey to the designing. I thought it sufficient to keep him from actual vice, without furnishing him with arguments to combat it, or with principles to abhor it."
Here the poor man paused for want of breath. I was too much affected to speak.
At length he went on. "I have made over to Dr. Barlow"s son two thousand pounds for completing his education. I have also given two thousand pounds apiece to the two elder daughters of Mr. Stanley in aid of their charities. I have made a deed of gift of this, and of a large sum for charitable purposes at the discretion of my executors. A refusal to accept it, will greatly distress me. Ned still will have too much left, unless he employs it to better purposes than I have done."
Though deeply moved, I hardly knew what to reply; I wished to give him comfort, but distrusted my own judgment as to the manner. I promised my best services to his nephew.
"Oh, good young man!" cried he, "if ever you are tempted to forget G.o.d, as I did for above thirty years; or to mock him by an outward profession as I have lately done, think of me. Think of one who for the largest portion of his life, lived as if there were no G.o.d. And who, since he has made a profession of Christianity, deceived his own soul, no less by the religion he adopted, than by his former neglect of all religion. My delusion was this, I did not choose to be good, but I chose to be saved.
It was no wonder then that I should be struck with a religion which I hoped would free me from the discipline of moral rect.i.tude, and yet deliver me from the punishment of having neglected it. Will G.o.d accept my present forced submission? Will he accept a penitence of which I may have no time to prove the sincerity? Tell me--you are a Christian."
I was much distressed. I thought it neither modest nor prudent for me to give a decisive answer. He grasped my hand. "Then," said he, "you think my case hopeless. You think the Almighty can not forgive me?" Thus pressed, I ventured to say, "To doubt his will to pardon, and his power to save, would, as it appears to me, sir, be a greater fault than any you have committed."
"One great comfort is left," replied he, "the mercy I have abused is infinite. Tell Stanley I now believe with him, that if we pretend to trust in G.o.d, we must be governed by him, if we truly believe in him, we shall obey him; if we think he sent his Son to save sinners, we shall hate sin."
I ventured to congratulate him on his frame of mind; and seeing him quite overcome, took leave of him with a heart deeply touched with this salutary scene. The family at the Grove were greatly moved with my description, and with the method poor Tyrrel had found out of eluding the refusal of his liberal-minded executors to accept of legacies.
The day fixed for my departure too soon arrived. I took a most affectionate leave of Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, and a very tender one of Lucilla, who gratified my affection by the emotion she evidently felt, and my delicacy by the effort she made to conceal it. Ph[oe]be wept outright. The children all hung about me, each presenting me some of her flowers, saying they had nothing else to give me; and a.s.suring me that Rachel should be no loser by it. Little Celia was clamorous in her sorrow, when she saw me ascend the curricle, in which neither she nor Lucilla was to have a place. I took the sweet child up into the carriage, placed her by me, and gently drove her through the park, at the gate of which I consigned her to the arms of her father, who had good-naturedly walked by the side of the carriage in order to carry her back. I drove off, enriched with his prayers and blessings, which seemed to insure me protection.
Though this separation from all I loved threw a transient sadness around me, I had abundant matter for delightful reflection and pious grat.i.tude.
I experienced the truth of Ph[oe]be"s remark, that happiness is a serious thing. While pleasure manifests itself by extravagant gayety, exuberant spirits, and overt acts, happiness retreats to its own proper region, the heart. There concentrating its feelings, it contemplates its treasures, meditates on its enjoyments, and still more fondly on its hopes; counts up its mercies, and feels the consummation of them in looking to the fountain from whence they flow; feels every blessing immeasurably heightened by the heart-cheering reflection, that the most exquisite human pleasures are not the perfection of his nature, but only a gracious earnest, a bounteous pre-libation of that blessedness which is without measure, and shall be without end.