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 CLARE ABBEY; 
 
 TRIALS OF YOUTH. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE, ETC. 
 
 Awed and dazzled, bending 1 confess, 
 Life may have nobler ends than happiness. 
 
 Kino Arthur. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LOiNJ)ON: 
 COLBURN AND CO., PUBLISHERS, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STRKET. 
 i8r)l.
 
 L ON HON : 
 •KIN'TED BV WM. TYI.KR, ItOI.T-CC.UWT.
 
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 Pnnsc 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 I made a posy while the day ran by ; 
 
 Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 
 My life within this band ; 
 . But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they 
 
 ■^55^ By noon most cunningly did steal away, 
 
 (^ And wither' d in my hand. 
 
 '^ My hand was next to them, and then, my heart; 
 
 5 I took without more thinking in good part 
 
 w Time's gentle admonition, 
 
 Which did so sweetly Death's sad taste convey, 
 Making my mind to smell my fatal day. 
 Yet sugaring the suspicion. 
 
 Farewell, dear flowers ! sweetly your time ye spent, 
 Fit while ye lived for health and ornament, 
 
 >Y And after death for cures ; 
 
 I follow straight, without complaint or grief, 
 
 ^ Since if my scent be good, I care not if 
 
 ^ It be as short as yours. 
 
 George Herbert.
 
 Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2009 witin funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/clareabbeyortria01pons
 
 CLARE ABBEY; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE TRIALS OF YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Our feelings and our thoughts 
 Tend ever on, and rest not in the present. 
 As drops of rain fall into some dark well, 
 And from below comes a scarce audible sound ; 
 So fall our thoughts into the dark hereafter, 
 And their mysterious echo reaches us. 
 
 The Spanish Student. 
 
 "Mamma! are you busy?" inquired a 
 little boy, sliding down from his chair, and 
 approaching his mother's seat with a pencil 
 in his hand. 
 
 Mrs. De Grey laid down her book. " Is 
 that unfortunate point broken again?" she 
 said, with a smile. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 "Oh, no ! mamma, it was not that ; but if 
 you are not busy, I want to speak to you. 
 I have something very particular to say." 
 
 The child was only six years old, but 
 from his appearance you would have sup- 
 posed him to be older. His dress, the open 
 jacket and waistcoat (although the bieauti- 
 fully plaited frills of his falling collar be- 
 spoke a nurse's fanciful care), was the dress 
 of a boy ; his brown hair curled close round 
 his head, and the fresh and blooming grace 
 of his childhood was animated by an ex- 
 pression so resolute, so boyish, even so 
 manly, that you would already have dig- 
 nified his beauty with the manly epithet of 
 handsome. 
 
 "What a little king!" was the hourly 
 exclamation of his old nurse, as the child 
 left the nursery, terrifying her by his jumps 
 down the stairs ; or when her keen glances 
 caught sight of his youthful limbs peril- 
 ously perched on the topmost boughs of 
 the old fir trees that surrounded the house ; 
 and when you heard the exclamation you 
 were inclined to agree with her..
 
 CLAKE ABBEY. 6 
 
 Of Mrs. De Grey more will be said here- 
 after. Now, only let my readers picture 
 her as one not young in years, and having 
 in her appearance other marks than those 
 of time alone. 
 
 Struck by the seriousness of his coun- 
 tenance, the mother drew her son towards 
 her. 
 
 " AVhat have you got to say, my dear 
 boy?" 
 
 " I want to know, mamma, what trade 
 I am to be ? " He opened his large blue 
 eyes, and fixed them upon her face with 
 an expression of intense interest. 
 
 " That is rather a difficult question to 
 answer, Ernest," said his mother, smiling. 
 " If I were to tell you what I tliink, I am 
 afraid you would not understand me." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I should, mamma. I under- 
 stand those sort of things very well. Do 
 tell me." 
 
 " Well, then, Ernest, I don't think it will 
 be necessary that you should have any trade 
 or profession, as it is called. You will have 
 something else to do." 
 b2
 
 4 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " I thought everybody was something," 
 he remarked, with a puzzled and disap- 
 pointed air. 
 
 " What is your father, Ernest? " 
 
 The little boy pondered for some minutes. 
 
 " I don't know, mamma, now : but I sup- 
 pose he was something when he was young." 
 
 " No ; never a soldier, nor a sailor, nor a 
 lawyer, nor a clergyman. He was rich. He 
 never had to work for his own living ; all 
 that you see about here — this house, and 
 the park, and the fields, and the trees, all 
 belong to him, — and if you live, Ernest," 
 she added, seriously, " I suppose some day 
 they will belong to you." 
 
 " But what shall I do then, mamma, when 
 I am a man? Shall I do nothing? " 
 
 " I should like you to try and think what 
 ought to be the duty of those to whom God 
 has given riches. There are only a few in 
 the world who need not work for them- 
 selves. Perhaps you, my dear boy, will be 
 one of those few. Now, tell me what you 
 think those few should do? " 
 
 " I suppose, give away all they have got,"
 
 CLARE ABBEY. O 
 
 the child replied ; but he spoke listlessly, 
 and as if the subject did not much interest 
 him. 
 
 "Not quite that, perhaps, Ernest," she 
 said, smiling, " but something of the kind. 
 You will not be idle, I hope, though you 
 may not need to work for your own living. 
 Don't you think you should like to work 
 for others ? " 
 
 " Yes, mamma, in some ways very much," 
 — but he looked puzzled. 
 
 " We will talk these matters over another 
 time ; run back to your drawing now, my 
 boy. I don't think you are quite old enough 
 yet to understand me." 
 
 The child obeyed, took up his pencil, 
 and began to draw without making any fin^- 
 ther observation. He was engaged upon a 
 battle-scene ; and, however strange in some 
 respects the youthful composition might be, 
 he certainly had contrived to give a vivid 
 picture of the horrors and confusion of a 
 field of battle. He now added a few more 
 wounded tnen to his heaps of dead and 
 dying, and mercilessly condemned them to
 
 b p CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 be trampled upon by gigantic horses, and 
 officers, whose waving plumes were con- 
 siderably higher than themselves. 
 
 These new features of horror occupied 
 him for about ten minutes. He then again 
 laid down his pencil, and gazed at his 
 mother. 
 
 '' Mamma, why do all the Leslies have 
 trades ? Harry is going to be a sailor, and 
 George is to be a clerg^iiian, and Leopold, 
 oh ! mamma, do you know, he is going to 
 be a soldier? " 
 
 'Mr. Leslie has a great many children, 
 my dear Ernest. He means them all to 
 work for their own living." 
 
 '' Then, mamma, I wish you had a great 
 many children besides me. I wish . . . ." 
 The little boy paused, for the names of 
 many little brothers and sisters, whom his 
 eyes had never seen, crowded upon his me- 
 mory. He stopped, sorry and ashamed, and 
 seizing his pencil, bent down liis head, to 
 conceal his crimson cheeks and startinc^ tears. 
 
 His mother called him to her side, and 
 kissed him with her tenderest smile.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 7 
 
 " What have you got in your mind to-day, 
 Ernest, that I am not to know ? " 
 
 "Oh, mamma!" exclaimed the child, as 
 if the words were bursting from his heart, 
 " I do so wish to be a soldier. Do you think 
 you ever will let me ? I wish it so much, 
 so very much." 
 
 A cloud came over his mother's pale 
 brow, and she averted her eyes from his 
 countenance. He was gazing up into her 
 face, with such flashing eyes, such an ardent 
 glance, as she remembered to have seen 
 once, and but once before. 
 
 " No, Ernest," she replied, at last, gently 
 but firmly. 
 
 The little boy stood aghast at the de- 
 cision of the reply. This question had for 
 months, — it would scarcely be too much to 
 say for years, — been agitating his childish 
 heart with hope and fear, and had only been 
 withheld in dread of the fatal " No," which 
 now had been spoken. 
 
 " Never ^ mamma ? " he repeated, after 
 gazing at her with open eyes and lips apart. 
 
 " No, Ernest, never, I am sure you would
 
 8 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 not wish to make me unhappy ; and it would 
 make me more unhappy than I can tell you 
 now. You must not set your mind on being 
 a soldier." 
 
 " Don't you wish me to be great and 
 brave?" asked the child, with something 
 of sadness in his voice. 
 
 " Yes, Ernest, 1 do indeed wish you to be 
 brave ; but there are many ways of being 
 brave, many ways of being a hero. It is 
 very great and very good to be a brave 
 soldier ; always think so, my dear boy : but 
 do you know, there is something quite as 
 great, and even better still ? " 
 
 " What, mamma ? " and he gazed eagerly 
 at her. 
 
 " Fighting a harder fight than against a 
 foreign enemy," she said, smiling ; " con- 
 quering our own wishes, our o^vn will. Do 
 you understand me, Ernest? " 
 
 " I don't know," the little boy answered, 
 sadly. 
 
 " I think you may be something of a hero 
 now," she continued, stooping and kissing 
 his fair open brow, " if you try to give up
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 9 
 
 your first great wish, because I ask you to 
 do so." 
 
 The child looked in her face for a mo- 
 ment without speaking ; then returned to 
 his seat, took up his drawing, walked stea- 
 dily and resolutely to the fireplace, and 
 tore his battle-scene into twenty pieces. 
 
 That same evening, as his old nurse sate 
 at work in the outer nursery, she heard a 
 sob from the adjoining room, where Ernest 
 slept. She took up a candle, and pushing 
 open the door, which was just ajar, stole 
 softly to his bedside. 
 
 The little boy betrayed his wakefulness, 
 by the violent movement with which he 
 drew his sheet over his head, and com- 
 pletely buried himself beneath it. 
 
 " Mr. Ernest ! " she called gently, again 
 and again ; but he remained silent. 
 
 She was not one, however, to be baffled ; 
 and, excited and troubled by the unwonted 
 sound of weeping from Mr. Ernest, set her- 
 self very determinedly to discover "what 
 the matter could be." 
 
 She put down her candle and entered
 
 10 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 into conflict with the little vigorous fingers 
 that pinned the sheet tightly round his head. 
 It was a work of some difficulty, but ex- 
 perience conquered at last ; and, although 
 the child immediately concealed his face, 
 his glowing and tear-stained cheek was not 
 to be hidden from her scrutinizing gaze. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Ernest, what is the matter ? " 
 she cried. 
 
 " Go away, nurse," he said, peevishly, "I 
 don't want you ; I want to go to sleep." 
 
 '' Rut, my dear, I must just settle your 
 things, for you have got your sheet all of a 
 ruck, and your hand is quite hot. Are you 
 ill, my dear? " 
 
 '' No, nurse, not a bit." 
 
 ''• Well, to be siu:e, something must be the 
 matter. Are you hungry, my dear ? " 
 
 " No, nurse, not a bit," more petulantly. 
 
 '' Then, are you afraid, my dear ? Shall I 
 leave the door open? " 
 
 '^No, nurse, not a bit," he cried, with 
 vehemence and indignation. 
 
 The old Avoman had her own pecuhar 
 acuteness ; she saw that if she pressed upon
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 11 
 
 tliis String, she should penetrate the mystery 
 of his tears. 
 
 " I 'd better leave the door open, I be- 
 lieve ; many a one finds it lonesome to be 
 in the dark. There, my dear, lay down 
 your little head, and you shall see the glim- 
 mering of my candle upon the wall, to help 
 you to go to sleep." 
 
 " I don't want your candle, nurse. I tell 
 you I'm not afraid." 
 
 " Then, what is it, my king? " she said, 
 coaxingly. 
 
 " I 'm not such a coward as to be afraid," 
 cried the little boy, vehemently. " I was 
 thinking .... Oh, nurse ! do you know, 
 mamma says that I never, never am to be a 
 soldier," and his voice died away in a low 
 sob. 
 
 " Bless him ! " remarked the old woman, 
 partly in surprise, partly in affection. 
 
 Having conquered his first shame at 
 having been found in tears, the little boy 
 was ready enough to pour out his griefs. 
 " Oh, nurse," he continued, " I have thought 
 of it for such a long, long time, and now
 
 12 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 it never can be. Mamma says it will make 
 her unhappy, and she says I must bear it ; 
 and I thought I could bear it, but I can't, I 
 can't indeed. Nurse, why should mamma 
 be unhappy ? wouldn't she like me to be a 
 great, great soldier, like all the people she 
 tells me about?" 
 
 " No, Mr. Ernest," replied the old woman 
 shaking her head ; " it would go very near 
 to break your mamma's heart if you was to 
 think of such a thing ; and I will tell you a 
 story about it to-morrow." 
 
 " Tell me now, nurse ; do tell me now." 
 
 '' Well then, my dear, you must promise 
 to go to sleep as soon as ever I have done, 
 and not to cry any more." And she sat 
 down on a chair by his bedside. 
 
 " I will try to go to sleep as fast as ever 
 I can, nurse, and I don't think I ever shall 
 be such a baby as to cry again ; now do 
 nurse tell me a nice story." And the child 
 fixed his bright wakeful eyes upon her 
 face. 
 
 " Well, my dear, it is a great many yeai's 
 ago now; but I must tell you first, that when
 
 CLAEE ABBEY. 13 
 
 your mamma was a little girl, she lived in 
 a liappy home with her papa and mamma, 
 just as you do now, only that perhaps she 
 was a bit happier, for she had a brother 
 born the very same day that she was born ; 
 such a beautiful merry boy as Mr. Henry 
 was, — just such another as you, Mr. Ernest ; 
 I often think I sees him come back again 
 when I looks at you, my dear; and they 
 two was as fond of one another as turtle 
 doves, as I heard a lady say. And they 
 played about together all the day long, and 
 at times Mr. Henry was as gentle as a young 
 lady, and at times Miss Gertrude was clam- 
 bering about like a little tom-boy. I was 
 a girl then, 1 was the nursery-maid Mr. 
 Ernest ; and I used to have such work with 
 Miss Gertrude at times." And she made 
 a pitpng sound as if she recalled the 
 black hands and torn frocks of her former 
 charge. "Well, my dear, your mamma's 
 papa was a great general ; they said he was 
 the bravest man in all the king's army, and 
 he had been in I don't know how many 
 battles, and he was wounded .... but my
 
 14 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 dear, how red your cheeks are, and how 
 your eyes do sparkle ! I don't know what 
 your mamma would say to me for telling 
 these tales over-night. Better . . . . " 
 
 " Go on nurse," said the child, raising 
 himself on his arms. " I won't go to sleep 
 all night, if 3^ou stop ; tell me about these 
 battles." 
 
 " Well, well," said the old woman, no- 
 thing loth, "just for this onest .... Well, 
 my dear, and so at last Miss Gertrude came 
 to be a woman." 
 
 " But the battles, nm"se, and the wounds?" 
 
 " We shall come to the battles, Mr. Ernest, 
 if you be patient ; and so, as I was saying, 
 Miss Gertrude came to be a young lady. 
 Sweet seventeen ! oh ! she was a rosebud — 
 she was ; — and Mr. Henry he was seven- 
 teen too, because they was both born on 
 the very same day, — and Mr. Henry was like 
 you, Mr. Ernest, and he had set his mind on 
 being a soldier, ever since he was a child 
 so high, — and the general, he thought there 
 was nothing in all the world like the king's 
 armies, and he was as readv to make a
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 15 
 
 soldier of ]\Ir. Henry as Mr. Henry was 
 himself; and his mamma too, she thought 
 they was noble fellows them military. 
 Only Miss Gertrude, the tear was in her 
 sweet eye when the thing was settled ; she 
 could not a-bear to lose her brother ; and 
 I was a bit sad myself; but then he comed 
 to see us in his grand dress, and he did 
 look like a prince, with his fine feathers 
 tossing in the air, and his sword that he 
 swung; about, and his brio-ht blue eves 
 dancing like the very stars themselves, just 
 as yours do now — lay down, my dear, lay 
 down .... Well, it's no matter now ; he 
 went away and we never see'd him again. 
 I dare say you knows about Boney, as we 
 called him then ; nobody thought of any- 
 thing but Boney ; and he was for taking to 
 himself all the kingdoms of the earth as 
 they said, and he was for making himself I 
 don't know what beside ; but it's no matter 
 now, for he's dead and gone with all his 
 greatness. Well, at that time there was 
 great work in Spain, a country you knows 
 about I dare say my dear ; and the Dooke of
 
 16 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 Wellington, he were n't a dooke then, he went 
 off to the war, and Mr. Henry he went with 
 him, and the general too, for all his wounds, 
 he went off to the war. Oh ! that was a 
 day; I thought Miss Gertrude would have 
 broken her heart ; though young Mr. De 
 Grey, your papa, my dear, he w^as coming a 
 courting even then ; but Mr. Henry he was 
 full of fun and spirits to the last ; bless his 
 heart ! only just at last, when he kissed 
 Miss Gertrude, there was a tear shining in 
 his bright eye ; I see'd it myself, but he 
 dashed it away and said he know'd he soon 
 should see her again ; and so he went off 
 to the wars." The old woman stopped and 
 wiped away a tear with the corner of her 
 apron, and the little boy said nothing but 
 gazed more earnestly mto her face. 
 
 " Well, my dear," she began again, " the 
 time went by and there came a day at last 
 when there was a great victory; it was a 
 bloody victory they said ; and we heard 
 there was a victory, and we heard that 
 many was killed and many was wounded, 
 and we feared and feared, and Miss
 
 CLABE ABBEY. 17 
 
 Gertrude, poor dear, she became as white as 
 any pale white rose, and we did not know 
 whether they was dead or alive ; and then 
 there came the firing for the victory. Oh ! 
 how well I remember that night ; how the 
 guns shouted in the air so triumphant like, 
 and yet so sorrowful, for they was firing 
 over a thousand of the dead. Poor Miss 
 Gertrude sate so white and so trembling, and 
 she held her poor mamma's hand, and she 
 never shed a tear, though she knew, as she 
 said afterwards, that they was firing over 
 her brother's death ; and so they was ; we 
 heard all after a bit. The General he was 
 wounded, but he came back to us to die ; 
 but Mr. Henry he never comed again. They 
 said, ' He had died as a young hero should 
 die,' them was the words ; ' and he sold his 
 life dear, they said, for his country's sake ;' 
 and they said, ' Never was a young arm so 
 strong, or a young heart so full of bravery,' 
 — them was the words ; and so Mr. Henry 
 died." 
 
 She paused, and tlie little boy pulled the 
 sheet over liis face ; but the next moment 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 he threw it back,, and looking up, his eyes 
 sparkling with tears, he said, "Oh! nurse, 
 how I should like to die as Mr. Henry 
 died." 
 
 "No, Mr. Ernest, my dear," she said, 
 rising from her chair and beginning to 
 arrange his disordered bed, "you must not 
 die as Mr. Henry died ; your mamma has 
 never been herself since that day. Afore 
 that she was as merry as a lark ; bless you 
 her voice sounded like a bird, as she sang 
 about the house ; but I never heard her 
 sing since that day ; and my belief is she 
 could not abear such a grief again. No, Mr. 
 Ernest, you must stay at home and make 
 her happy ; won't you, my dear ?" 
 
 The child sighed — a real heavy sigh ; 
 " One battle, nurse, if I could have oney 
 
 *' Well you must think of this, my dear, 
 you or your mamma must give up your 
 will — ^you must think which will be the 
 best. But now, my dear, go to sleep as you 
 promised me you would ; there's ten o'clock 
 I do declare." 
 
 " Yes, nurse " he said, tm-ning obediently
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 19 
 
 on his side and closing his eyes — but as she 
 was leaving the room he started up again, 
 "Nurse, will you tell it me all again to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 " Well, well, go to sleep, my dear — we 
 will see when to-morrow comes. "What a 
 little king it is! " she murmured, as she took 
 her place again before the large nursery 
 work-basket. 
 
 c 2
 
 20 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Blessings in boyhood's marvelling hour, 
 Bright dreams and fancyings strange ; 
 
 Blessings where Reason's awful power 
 Gave thought a bolder range. 
 
 Lyra Apostolica. 
 
 Oh ! he is bright and jocund as the morn, 
 And there is not on earth that wilderness 
 Which he could not reclaim, and in its wastes 
 Detect the springs of fruitfulness and joy. 
 
 Edwin the Fair. 
 
 The wishes of childhood are rarely ob- 
 literated, for they are the expression of 
 some strong feature in the character. I do 
 not mean common wishes ; I do not mean 
 such a common desire, as the fancy to be a 
 soldier, which is expressed by most boys, 
 and even by many girls, in the course of 
 their early years ; but I mean wishes of a 
 rarer and more determined kind ; such a
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 21 
 
 strong passionate wish as that which ani- 
 mated the youthful heart of Ernest De Grey. 
 
 Such wishes are rarely obliterated ; but 
 they are often superseded by a new passion, 
 and so it was in the case before us. The 
 peculiar feature in his character which had 
 prompted so intense a desire to be a soldier, 
 remained unchanged within him ; but the 
 desire itself with advancing years, with the 
 awakening of new interests, was lulled to 
 sleep. At sixteen his whole heart, his 
 whole affections, his fancy and his imagina- 
 tion were centered on Clare Abbey, the 
 abode of his forefathers, and his own future 
 inheritance. 
 
 ^' II y a des lieux," says La Bruyere, ^'qu'on 
 admire — il y en a d'autres qui touchent, et 
 ou Ton aimeroit a vivre," Clare Abbey 
 was of the latter class. It was very pretty, 
 but in describing the great features of its 
 beauty, you would seem to be describing a 
 thousand other places which ornament the 
 face of the country in England. There was 
 the broad clear stream, the verdant mea- 
 dows, the luxuriant woods, the fine spreading
 
 22 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 trees, the sloping hills, which the inhabit- 
 ants of the district dignified with the name 
 of mountains, but which had no claim to 
 the name ; all these beauties it had, and yet 
 with all these it might only have been a 
 fine place, and, as I think is the case with 
 many fine places, would have had little 
 power to " toucher le coeur." Clare Abbey 
 had however its own individuality, and it 
 was in the small touches which gave it its 
 distinctive character that the attraction 
 lay ; it had many features of a fine place, 
 but no admirer on record had ever been 
 known to comphment it with such an 
 epithet. I must endeavour to describe it, 
 that the scenes of this tale may have a local 
 habitation and a name. 
 
 The Abbey stood on a flat piece of ground 
 which formed a terrace, beneath a wooded 
 hill which protected it from the north, and 
 with about a quarter of a mile of gently slop- 
 ing meadow above the river. On one side it 
 was approached by a long avenue of elm 
 trees ; on the other side was a low copse 
 wood, interspersed here and there with oak
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 23 
 
 trees and firs of larger growth ; and through 
 this wood, which formed a kind of pleasure 
 ground, many wandering ways had been 
 cut, which led with more or less directness 
 to the pretty village of Cranleigh. On the 
 south front the Avindows opened on a broad 
 gravel walk with a lawn beyond ; beyond 
 the lawn was another gravel walk, and a 
 flower garden stood on each side ; the upper 
 part of the lawn was ornamented with a 
 variety of dark shrubs of low growth, and 
 beyond the further walk, on the verge from 
 whence the meadow began to slope, tall 
 cypresses and stiiF-looking pines planted at 
 regular distances, and forming vistas into 
 the park, stood like sentinels, as if to guard 
 the precincts of the dwelling from intrusion. 
 The architecture of the Abbey was irre- 
 gular, and perhaps, strictly considered, was 
 liable to many objections. A part of it was 
 very old, — long, low, and ecclesiastical-look- 
 ing, with cloistral passages, jutting but- 
 tresses, and chapel-like windows. Additions 
 had been made from time to time, both in 
 old and modern days, and sometimes in
 
 24 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 some defiance of the laws of architecture ; 
 yet upon the whole, notwithstanding some 
 strange blending of styles and periods, a 
 certain order and proportion in all the addi- 
 tions had been observed, which delighted 
 the eye ; and you felt as you often feel Avith 
 the human countenance, that it was beau- 
 tiful, although by right and rule it had no 
 business to be so. All in, and around, and 
 about the house had the same attraction. 
 There was nothing regular : everything had 
 a distinctive character, not amounting to ec- 
 centricity, but possessing a mixture of wild- 
 ness and quaintness, formality and grace, 
 which came home to your heart, and took a 
 place in your imagination. Hie ground fell, 
 sloped, or broke, where you least expected 
 it, and yet you could not but say that it was 
 well done ; the stream curved, now grace- 
 fully, now with a sharp an€l angular turning, 
 wliich astonished and yet delighted you. 
 The trees grew as trees should not grow, 
 losing their leaders, hanging and drooping 
 in quaint and picturesque attitudes ; and the 
 mazy pleasure-grounds, although they had
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 25 
 
 been laid out with art and care, appeared 
 but to wander at tlieir own sweet will, and 
 that will, however sweet, a very wayward 
 and capricious one. Altogether, though it 
 was not to all minds equally attractive, Clare 
 Abbey had the peculiar gift of taking hold 
 upon the fancy, and becoming, consciously 
 or unconsciously, the haunt of the airy castles 
 and fantastic creations of those who even 
 once beheld it. 
 
 To Ernest De Grey it was at once the 
 home and resort of his every day fancy, and 
 the ideal of his imaginative perfection. 
 
 At one of the drawing-room windows 
 opening to the ground, on a soft summer 
 evening early in August, ten years after the 
 date of the last chapter, the youthful heir of 
 this fondly-cherished abode sate with his 
 mother alone. The lapse of years, and of 
 those years which seem like eternity to 
 youth, had made but little change in him. 
 The handsome child had grown into a tall 
 and handsome youth ; but in his smile and 
 in his eye you read that he was still a boy. 
 In his whole air and manner there was a
 
 26 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 fresh and boyish grace, which I regret to 
 think is now but seldom seen at the mature 
 and advanced age of sixteen. In some re- 
 spects he was even more boyish at sixteen 
 than he had been at six ; for as his added 
 years left him more free and unrestrained, 
 the natural bent of his mind towards sport 
 and action had developed itself, the exercises 
 of the body usurping a greater share of his 
 favours than the exercises of the intellect. 
 His character, however, will, I hope, be suf- 
 ficiently gathered in all its points and varia- 
 tions from the record of the following con- 
 versation ; and trusting to this hope, descrip- 
 tion shall be spared. 
 
 " You are very thoughtful to-night, Er- 
 nest," said Mrs. De Grey, breaking at last a 
 long and, when Ernest was present, a rather 
 unusual silence. 
 
 " Yes, mother, I was thinking," he replied, 
 raising himself in the chair on which he was 
 comfortably reclining. 
 
 " And may I ask the subject of these se- 
 rious meditations? " she rejoined, smiling. 
 
 " Why, yes, mother, you are to know some
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 27 
 
 of my thoughts ; but I was thinking of so 
 many things, that I hardly know what to 
 begin upon. Do you remember Mr. Mark- 
 ham, mother, how angry he used to be be- 
 cause I said I could think of twenty things 
 at once ? I remember his telling me at last, 
 that I was very insolent to set up my opinion 
 against that of the wisest philosophers, who 
 had pronounced it to be impossible. But, 
 notwithstanding Mr. Markliam and his friends, 
 my opinion has remained unchanged. I don't 
 know what philosophers can do ; but I can 
 think of twenty tilings at once — twenty at 
 least — and so I have been doing to-night." 
 
 " I am afraid, Ernest," said his mother, 
 with a smile, " these variegated thoughts are 
 not very wise ones." 
 
 " They are good, I think, some of them. 
 Some I hope, some I am sure, will please 
 you. They are plans, mother, — ^plans of 
 things I want to do. I plan till I am quite 
 mad. I will tell you one, now, which I tliink 
 you will like : it is about the old church. It 
 is so pretty, it is a pity to leave it as it is. I 
 want so much to repair and improve it."
 
 28 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " Really, my dear Ernest, have you thought 
 of that?" his mother said, with some sur- 
 prise ; for the sportive and pleasure-loving 
 boy was little given to schemes of a serious 
 or a useful kind. 
 
 " I can't say that it is quite my own idea, 
 mother : it was put into my head ; but, 
 having been put in, I get very mad about it. 
 You know that Lady Frances Leicester, who 
 is so good-natured to me and the other boys 
 at Overton? Well, she has new done the 
 church there : it is quite beautiful now. And 
 one day, while I was admiring it, she asked 
 me about our church ; and when I described 
 it, she laughed excessively at the high pulpit 
 and our great pew, and said Avhat a shame it 
 was, and drew me a sketch of how it should 
 be. It might be the prettiest church in Eng- 
 land, mother, that I am sure of; and I never 
 shall rest till it is so. I meant to have asked 
 my father to do it when I came home tliis 
 time ; but he has been looking so grave, and 
 you too, mother, that I thought perhaps I 
 had better not." 
 
 " You are right, Ernest ; you had better
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 29 
 
 not," his mother replied, a shade passing over 
 her face, which always was a sad one. " Your 
 father is worried about money just now, and 
 he could not attend to you. But, my dear 
 boy, your wish makes me very happy, and I 
 hope you loill dream of it. Young as you 
 are, you might already begin to think of ac- 
 complishing it." 
 
 " Not very soon, mother," he said, laugh- 
 ing. " Lady Frances said one or two thousand 
 would be necessary. I should not care to do 
 it badly. However, we must wait for that, 
 and many other things. Oh ! mother, don't 
 you wish my education was over." 
 
 She shook her head with a smile. 
 
 " Whj^ mother, then I could always live 
 here, and always be with you; don't you 
 care for that?" 
 
 " I am afraid, Ernest, I think you want a 
 little education ; and, besides, I am too old 
 to wish away years as you do," 
 
 " I don't wish them away," he said, eagerly. 
 " I have got enough to do for years and years 
 to come. I only want the time to come when 
 I may use the years. This education takes
 
 30 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 me up entirely. I will just count over some 
 of the things I want to do here. There is 
 the church, and then there is a tennis- 
 court . . . . " 
 
 Mrs, De Grey again shook her head. 
 
 " You mean that is very expensive too. 
 Well, but, mother, I thought we were rich. 
 However, never mind ; only let me tell you 
 my wants. 1 am so very fond of tennis : 
 Lady Frances lets us play in her court at 
 Overton, and sometimes I feel as if I could 
 not live without it. Then I wish to have a 
 pack of hounds. My father said something 
 about it five years ago, and I have been 
 watching, and waiting, and expecting to 
 hear more ; but he has never mentioned it 
 again to me. Does he ever speak about it to 
 you, mother?" 
 
 " No, Ernest, never," she said gravely. 
 
 " I hope he will. I should like to hunt, 
 and look after hounds .... Well, and then 
 a very good cricket-ground ; and then, mo- 
 ther, there are some of our plans, yours and 
 mine, the cuttings, and the new di'ives ; and 
 then, besides all that, I want to do a great
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 31 
 
 deal of good. I have no end of plans about 
 the poor people. Lady Frances talks to me 
 whenever I go to Overton, and shows me lier 
 plans, because she says I have a good head 
 for such things — and I thmk I have." 
 
 Mrs. De Grey said nothing in reply to this 
 enumeration of his wants ; but he read in 
 her countenance a mother's interest in all 
 his plans and desires ; and, to say the truth, 
 it was no unusual thing for Ernest to bear 
 the principal share in their confidential con- 
 versations. 
 
 He paused for a moment, then continued : 
 " And now, mother, about my plans." 
 
 " Your plans, Ernest ! " she said, laughing. 
 '' Why, have you more of them ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! I have only been telling you 
 my vague dreams, for I dream about Clare 
 Abbey day and night : my plans are more 
 formed, and are very important. They must 
 begin with a question. My dear mother," — 
 he spoke in an anxious, and rather an insi- 
 nuating voice, — " can you tell me — am I to 
 go back to old Crackinthorpe's ? " 
 
 " Your father has not quite made up his
 
 32 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 mind. / wish you to go for another year 
 before you go to Oxford. What do you think 
 yourself? I meant to talk to you about it 
 some day." 
 
 " I had much rather not," he replied de- 
 cidedly. 
 
 "Why, Ernest?" 
 
 "Why, mother," he said, again raising 
 himself eagerly in his chau", " the fact is, I 
 am not made for what is called a sedentary 
 life. At Mr. Crackinthorpe's we read from 
 morning till night, and I am getting tired 
 of it." 
 
 " I thought you were fond of reading, 
 Ernest. I am sorry to hear you speak as 
 you do." 
 
 " I am fond of reading in a certain way ; 
 but then it must be my way, and not Mr. 
 Crackinthorpe's. Percy and Lovel call me 
 a book- worm sometimes, because I like to 
 read Shakspere, and Hollingshed, and Plu- 
 tarch's Lives on a rainy day. I do like that 
 sort of reading very much ; but I don't care 
 for what old Crackinthorpe likes. I don't 
 like Greek and Latin ; and as to mathematics.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 33 
 
 if I go on with them, I know, mother, the 
 end will be that you will have to visit me in 
 Bedlam. And, after all, as I am not to be- 
 long to any learned profession, what is the 
 use of it ? Really, mother, I had much better 
 do something more improving, and not bore 
 myself with things I hate any longer." 
 
 " Do you think you never are to do any- 
 tliing you dislilve, Ernest ? " his mother asked, 
 rather gravely. 
 
 The boy coloured. " Not never ^ mother ; 
 and I don't object to doing what I dislike, 
 when there is any use in it ; but when there 
 is no particular use . . . . " 
 
 " And are you the best person to decide 
 what is useful or not?" she continued se- 
 riously, though she smiled. " You nmst not 
 suppose, Ernest, that I don't understand what 
 you mean. When I was young, I felt and 
 argued just as you do. I remember when I 
 was first made to learn German, that I hated 
 it ; and because I hated it, I thought it was 
 useless to take any trouble about it. I told 
 my governess that, when once she was gone, 
 I never would look at it again ; but, notwith- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 Standing all my entreaties, she insisted upon 
 my going on ; and I found afterwards that 
 her reason for making such a point of it was 
 because I hated it. I was rather a spoiled 
 child ; and she saw that it would be good 
 for me to overcome my own feelings, at her 
 desire, without regard to the usefulness of 
 the study. And she was right. My dislike 
 to the language has always continued, and I 
 have looked at it but little since she went 
 away. But I feel, in other ways, that the 
 hard study at the German I hated has been 
 more useful to me than almost any other part 
 of my education. Do you see the application 
 to yourself, Ernest? " 
 
 " Am I a spoiled child, mother ? " 
 " Not quite spoiled, I hope," she replied 
 fondly, as she met the glance of his clear 
 bright eyes ; " but you are a little too much 
 accustomed to have your own way, and to 
 think that all your mshes must be gratified ; 
 — rather fond of your own will and pleasiu'e. 
 Is it not so? " And she looked smilingly in 
 his face. 
 
 ^' Perhaps," he said, thoughtfully.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 35 
 
 " Then, my dear boy, you will not, I hope, 
 be surprised if, notwithstanding your strong 
 msh, I still think it better for you to go to 
 Mr. Crackinthorpe's again." 
 
 Ernest made no answer : he was medi- 
 tating. When he spoke, it was with some- 
 thing of timidity and anxiety. 
 
 " I am afraid, mother, you will think I am 
 only anxious for my jpleasure^ if I tell you 
 my plan, my chief plan of all — the one I 
 have been coming to all this time. But, in- 
 deed, if I can judge about myself at all, I 
 don't think I speak only for my pleasure. I 
 don't wish to be idle ; I really wish to im- 
 prove myself — I wish to be usefiil when I 
 am a man ; and, after a great deal of con- 
 sideration, I think that, under my plan, I 
 should learn a great deal more than if I went 
 on in the regular way." 
 
 He stopped, and looked at his mother. 
 She smiled, but rather anxiously. 
 
 " Don't be afraid of speaking, Ernest ; you 
 know I shall not be afraid of telling you 
 what I think." 
 
 "Well, mother, then the fact is, I don't 
 d2
 
 86 CLAKE ABBEY. 
 
 want to go to Oxford : I want to travel in- 
 stead. You see," he continued, speaking 
 very fast, to prevent a remonstrance until 
 all his arguments had been laid before his 
 mother, " I don't think I learn very much 
 from studying. Perhajps it is my fault ; but 
 I think it is the fault of my nature. I always 
 find that from anything I see or hear, I learn 
 twice as much as I do by reading. When I 
 see anything curious or striking, it sets me 
 thinking, and I find that I very seldom forget 
 what I have once seen and thought about ; 
 but wdth reading it is different — nothing 
 makes much impression. I was reading about 
 a man the other day, who seemed just like 
 me. His biographer said that he could be 
 taught nothing, he was obhged to learn every- 
 thing by observation and experience ; and 
 so you see, mother, that if I were to travel, 
 and to observe and take pains while I was 
 travelling, I should learn a great deal more 
 than if I went to Oxford, where I should 
 only see one set of things and people. Do 
 you see what I mean, mother ? — do you like
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 37 
 
 what I say ? " And he bent forward to look 
 at her with eager sparkling eyes. 
 
 "I am afraid, Ernest," she said, rather 
 sadly, " that your old soldier fancy is stirring 
 again. You will not be satisfied without 
 some great excitement." 
 
 "No, mother, no, no, no," he repeated, 
 vehemently, " I don't want to be a soldier : 
 I should hate to be a soldier. I wish edu- 
 cation and all the bother of it was over, that 
 I might come and settle here for good ; for I 
 care for nothing but Clare Abbey in all the 
 world. I only wish, as this education must 
 take place, to get over it the best way I can, 
 and to learn as much as I can while it is 
 going on. So, my dear mother . . . ." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by a 
 loud ring at the door-bell.
 
 38 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Droop not, but nobly struggle still, 
 
 For others look to thee ; 
 And they would cease to strive with ill, 
 
 If thou shouldst conquer' d be. 
 
 Georgiana Bennet. 
 
 Mrs. De Grey's life liad been a life of 
 trial — trial, not so much startling and out- 
 ward, as inward and oppressive. 
 
 She had married early, and in her mar- 
 riage all who loved her had supposed her 
 happiness to be insured. The husband of 
 her choice had every advantage of appear- 
 ance, station, and mental qualification which 
 the most fastidious could desire; and the 
 second home to which her destiny brought 
 her, was sufficiently attractive to win (what 
 is rather hard to be won) that tenderness of 
 interest and regard, the especial property of 
 the home of our childliood alone. But,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 39 
 
 though all was outwardly smiling, clouds 
 were even in early days hanging over the 
 young wife's lot. Her husband's temper was 
 bad — not passionate, not jealous, but bad. 
 He could not bear thwarting ; small trials 
 depressed, small vexations soured him. His 
 spirits were restless and uncertain ; he needed 
 amusement and excitement, not from weak- 
 ness or deficiency of mind, but simply to 
 prevent him from brooding over petty con- 
 tradictions. 
 
 Mrs. De Grey's education had little 
 fitted her for the duties which such a 
 temper required. A sunny-minded active 
 wife might have brought sunshine to her 
 husband's mind ; but she had been a spoiled 
 child, one ever petted, ever considered, — the 
 chosen and constant companion of a twin- 
 brother, whose sweet, cloudless disposition, 
 had been miruffled by a single care. She 
 loved her husband ; but the very strength of 
 her love made her sink and tremble beneath 
 his gloom. Saddened by her brother's loss, 
 her own spirits required cheering. During 
 the early days of courtship they had been
 
 40 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 cheered by a devoted lover. She was not 
 prepared for the new duties required of her : 
 she failed in performing them. Then trials 
 came. Mr. De Grey wished with more than 
 ordinary anxiety for a son. Three daughters 
 appeared in succession; but almost before 
 their father had banished the frown that 
 greeted their birth, the mother wept over 
 their loss. Two sons followed, welcomed 
 with love from both their parents, received 
 with rejoicing, almost with triumph ; and 
 they too pined and died one after the other, 
 and the house remained desolate. The father 
 was embittered by trial, the mother crushed. 
 Over the married life, which had dawned so 
 happily, appeared to be settling a hopeless 
 gloom. 
 
 But pure and beautiful natures, although 
 for a time they may abandon themselves to 
 an excess of grief, cannot for ever close 
 their eyes to those duties which are laid 
 alike upon the happy and the afflicted. She 
 awoke at length to the sinfulness and rebel- 
 liousness of the despondency to which she 
 had yielded herself; and before the bii^th of
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 41 
 
 Ernest, her youngest child, flinging off the 
 weight that oppressed her, she set herself 
 seriously to consider the responsibilities of 
 her life. Unhappily, evil is hard to undo : 
 the mind of her husband appeared to be 
 hopelessly embittered. The birth of Ernest, 
 and the interest of liis young life, which 
 brought thoughts of gratitude, and peace, 
 and reviving to her, were ineffectual in 
 cheering him. He loved his son, cared for 
 his son, toiled even too much for the fliture 
 prosperity of his son ; but, except at rare 
 intervals, he remained, as by the habit of 
 years he had become, morose, and hard to 
 please. Of late, sadder and darker fears for 
 his peace and welfare had oppressed her. 
 Bitten, in common with many of his coun- 
 trymen, by the spirit of speculation, he had 
 thrown himself headlong, as was his nature, 
 into the excitement of money-getting ; and 
 a short time of restless and excited cheer- 
 fulness had been followed by weeks of 
 deeper gloom, and more incurable despond- 
 ency. Never again, however, after her first 
 awakening, did Mrs. De Grey yield herself to
 
 42 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 melancholy. The time was past when she 
 could summon elastic gaiety to her aid — 
 mirth and gaiety will not come at our call ; 
 but patience, serenity, tranquillity, soft words 
 and loving smiles — these, which are in our 
 power, by slow degrees she had made her 
 own, and these she never failed to give. 
 
 A few words describe the trials of years ; 
 but deep and ineffaceable are the traces 
 which those years, so easily described, leave 
 as they pass. Though not yet fifty, Mrs. De 
 Grey looked like an old woman. She had 
 been very lovely in her youth : she was 
 beautiful still, but it was the beauty of age. 
 Her cheek was blanched and faded, her hair 
 white as the purest silver, her figure slightly 
 bent, and even in the peace and serenity 
 which her countenance had now attained, 
 you felt that it was the hush and repose 
 which comes after, not before, a storm. 
 There are some beautiful words of Mac- 
 kenzie's, which present a perfect picture of 
 the mother of the hero of my tale. 
 
 " She kept her sorrows, like the devotions 
 that solaced them, sacred to herself. They
 
 CLAKE ABBEY. 43 
 
 threw nothing of gloom over her deportment 
 — -a gentle shade only — like the fleckered 
 clouds of smnmer, that increase, not dimi- 
 nish, the benignity of the season." 
 
 A loud knock or ring is an event which 
 even the most accustomed ears do not hear 
 with indifference. Even if repeated twenty 
 times a day, to some speculation, pleasing or 
 unpleasing, it gives rise ; and, coming unex- 
 pectedly, it is sufficient to cause an answer- 
 ing vibration in the strongest nerves, and in 
 the most unexcitable heart. 
 
 Mr. De Grey had been absent for some 
 days from home, and was expected to be 
 absent for some days longer. This notice, 
 therefore, of an arrival was an unexpected 
 one ; and though some people are in the 
 habit of coming and going without exciting 
 much of hope or fear, or any disturbing sen- 
 sation, he was not one of these. Mrs. De 
 Grey, whose nerves were weak, started and 
 trembled, and her pale cheek became paler. 
 Ernest, little inclined to fear, or to think 
 that there was any cause for fear in this
 
 44 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 world, was yet swift to read his mother's 
 anxious countenance. He quickly left the 
 room, and as quickly returned again. 
 
 " It 's my father's carriage," he said ; " but 
 my father is not come yet. Foster says he 
 got out at the top of the hill, and said he 
 would walk home." After a moment he con- 
 tinued : ^' Shall I go and meet him ? or will 
 you come too, mother? It is such a beau- 
 tiful evening." 
 
 " Perhaps we had better not," she said, 
 gently. " He has had some harassing busi- 
 ness in London ; and you know he likes a 
 quiet walk alone. But you shall go and 
 order some dinner to be ready, and ring the 
 bell for candles. "We have been talking so 
 long, that it is quite dark." 
 
 When the candles were brought, and 
 Ernest sate down opposite to his mother, he 
 was struck by the unusual sadness and pale- 
 ness of her countenance. 
 
 "Is anything the matter, mother?" he 
 asked. " You do look so ill. Do you 
 really mean that that stupid bell frightened 
 
 you?"
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 45 
 
 She smiled at his inquiries ; but the ex- 
 pression of disturbance remained the same, 
 or rather increased, during the long hour 
 that passed before her husband appeared. 
 
 He came at length ; and then, if there was 
 any secret cause for anxiety, his countenance 
 did not tend to set it at rest. One rapid 
 searching glance his wife directed to him, 
 and withdrew her eyes ; but in that glance 
 she fancied that his stern features were 
 sterner, his form more bent, his hair whiter, 
 and his whole appearance more aged, than 
 when she had parted from him a short week 
 before. 
 
 He scarcely appeared to notice their pre- 
 sence, retiu*ned no answer to their affection- 
 ate greeting; but turning gloomily to the 
 empty fireplace, placed himself before it, 
 and, with a muttered complaint, exclaimed 
 against the cold. 
 
 "Cold, father!" Ernest exclaimed in as- 
 tonishment, for the day was intensely hot ; 
 " do you really feel cold — shall I light the 
 fire?'' 
 
 " I usually mean what I say," he replied
 
 46 CLAKE ABBEY. 
 
 sullenly. — "Do light it, Ernest," said his 
 mother, " and shut the window." 
 
 The fire burnt as fires perversely delight 
 to burn on a hot summer's day : the wood 
 blazed and crackled, the coals kindled, the 
 room became like a fiu*nace. 
 
 "It is hot enough now," remarked poor 
 Ernest, his cheeks more than rivalling the 
 fire in their brilliant glow. 
 
 " Hot ! what else should it be with such 
 a fire as this ? — there is no bearing the 
 room." And Mr. De Grey, with an impa- 
 tient movement, rolled back his chair. 
 
 A warning glance, grave and entreating, 
 witliheld the answer that was bursting from 
 Ernest's lips ; but though he could restrain 
 himself where he only was concerned, he 
 could not patiently endure the contemptuous 
 remarks and bitter replies with which his 
 mother's anxious inquiries, and soothing 
 endeavours, were received. Gloom, depres- 
 sion, and peevishness were no unusual sym- 
 ptoms in his father's temper ; but the mood 
 of this night was uncommon ; — contempt- 
 uous replies to his mother, in his presence
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 47 
 
 at least, were unusual, and he could not 
 bear them. Finding the risins^ wi^ath of a 
 hot though sweet temper difficult to subdue, 
 he suddenly left his seat, snatched up a 
 book, and retreated to pass the evening in 
 his own room. 
 
 The door had scarcely closed when ]\Ir. 
 De Grey rose, stood before his wife, and the 
 volcano burst forth. Its fire was directed 
 ao'ainst himself, not ao^ainst her. The tem- 
 
 O JO 
 
 per which he had inflicted upon her and 
 on his child was but the expression of the 
 despairing misery that filled his heart, — was 
 but the smothered rage which inwardly was 
 lavished on himself. He began to speak, 
 and now with passionate remorse, now ^vith 
 bitter despair, he told her the tale of his 
 utter, hopeless, irretrievable ruin. 
 
 As the aifaks of this night are important 
 only so far as Ernest is concerned, I will not 
 dwell upon the scene, but shortly state the 
 particulars of the case. 
 
 Mr. De Grey had originally engaged in 
 speculation for amusement — to occupy liis
 
 48 CLARE ABBET. 
 
 restless nature — nominally to replace a sum 
 lost by the failure of a banking-house in 
 London. Then the fever of gain — that 
 blinding, maddening fever — had taken pos- 
 session of him. He went on and on : suc- 
 cessfully at first, — then fortune changed, 
 but the fever remained. He lost and won, 
 lost and won, and lost. He awoke and 
 found himself a ruined man ; and in this 
 ruin not himself alone, but Ernest was in- 
 volved. From circumstances connected with 
 the property — the estates had not been 
 placed in settlement, and all was lost : 
 Clare Abbey, the possession of his fore- 
 fathers, and the beloved home of his 
 youth, must be given up into the hands of 
 strangers. 
 
 This was the sum and substance of the 
 startling announcement which fell on the 
 ears of the loving wife and doting mother. 
 As my readers will have perceived, she was 
 prepared for some blow : she had seen the 
 gradual growth of the new passion, the 
 " haste to be rich," in the mind of her
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 49 
 
 husband ; and, without pain, she had seen 
 of late that his speculations were failing to 
 answer his sanguine anticipations : she was 
 prepared to hear of a great loss, — of the 
 necessity of a change of life ; she had even 
 contemplated the probability of being driven 
 from their home and their country, of living 
 for a time in poverty that Ernest should 
 never suffer ; but his share in the trial had 
 never even suggested itself to her imagina- 
 tion, and the announcement came with the 
 startling violence of a thunder clap. It 
 was the uprooting the treasured hopes and 
 dreams of years. 
 
 She did not fail however — as what loving 
 wife could fail ! — to meet the trial as it 
 should be met. She was not naturally what 
 is called a strong-minded woman ; but she 
 had acquired strength in the experience of 
 her life, and this kind of strength, mingling 
 as it does the softness of feeling with the 
 calm of self-control, is of all tempers the 
 one best fitted to deal with misfortune, and 
 to heal the pangs of remorse. Soft words 
 turn away wrath, and many other are the 
 
 VOL. I, E
 
 50 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 hidden powers and virtues they possess, — 
 disarming misery of its sting, often changing 
 evil into good. From the soft words that 
 night spoken, blessings unhoped for and 
 unexpected came ; for through their influ- 
 ence a tie of trust and confidence was 
 cemented between those whom the joys 
 and trials of life had hitherto failed to unite.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 51 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I pray not, dearest, thou mayst be 
 
 For ever as I see thee now, 
 Unruffled as the summer sea 
 
 Without a care to cloud thy brow; 
 I know that thou wert sent to share 
 
 Life 's mingled cup of good and ill ; 
 Child of a Holy Father's care, 
 
 Submit thee to His Sovereign will. 
 
 Sewell's Sacred Thoughts. 
 
 Ideas on education are so various, that the 
 system pursued by Mrs. De Grey in the 
 education of her child would probably have 
 been liable to objections of opposite kinds. 
 Some, because of the high principles, reli- 
 gious and moral, which she instilled, would 
 have called it strict ; but the larger number 
 perhaps in the present day, seeing her atten- 
 tion to his wants and wishes, — her earnest 
 care to encircle his young life with an atmo- 
 sphere of happiness, would have pronounced 
 it to be over-indulgent. 
 E 2 
 
 IIRDADV
 
 02 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 There is no doubt that, provided the great 
 principles of reverence, obedience, and self- 
 denial are properly instilled, the early years 
 of a child can hardly, for its future good, be 
 too happy ; — the strictness that brings dis- 
 comfort and unliappiness in its train is a 
 false and perilous strictness ; nevertheless 
 there might have been some truth in the 
 accusation of over-indulgence. Content with 
 feeding his mind with high and noble 
 thoughts, the mother may have been less 
 careful to bring those thoughts into action. 
 Satisfied with acting steadily for his good 
 in great points, she may in those lesser 
 thinc^s which far more than crreat ones form 
 the character, have been too desirous to 
 gratify his wishes, to guard him from disap- 
 pointment, to make the earth he trod a 
 flowery way, and the sky above his head a 
 cloudless one. Such at least was the re- 
 proach that conscience made when the time 
 drew near to speak, — to speak those words 
 which Avould blight his sunny, sanguine 
 dreams for ever. 
 
 Mrs. De Grey had delayed the disclosure
 
 CLARE ABBEY. b6 
 
 till the last moment : she shrank from it. 
 None knew as she did how great the trial 
 to her son would be ; for it was she herself 
 who had twined the thoughts of his home 
 with his very heartstrings. Shrinking, with 
 something perhaps of weakness, from his 
 first wish, so warmly and passionately ex- 
 pressed, she had woven the idea of his home 
 into all the plans for his education, — into 
 all his visions of the future, — she had 
 made it at once the motive for exertion 
 and its reward : Clare Abbey had become 
 — and it was she herself who had made it 
 so — the idol of her son's heart. 
 
 Something to blame, no doubt, there was 
 in this, but it was rather an excess of a right 
 principle than the enforcement of a wrong 
 one. In such strong early local attachments 
 there is so much of good, — such concen- 
 trated affections are so powerful as weapons 
 in a future warfare with evil, — that praise 
 and blame might almost equally be distri- 
 buted ; — we might almost say, that even in 
 its excess the failing leans to virtue's side. 
 
 Again the mother and son sat alone, to-
 
 54 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 wards the close of an August day. It was 
 three weeks since the evening of the fatal 
 announcement, and those three weeks of 
 glorious summer weather had been passed 
 by Ernest in a state of intense enjoyment. 
 To his numerous active sports and pleasures 
 he had lately added a love of boating ; and 
 as day after day he returned from his excur- 
 sions on the water, with companions gay and 
 eager as himself, his mother had averted her 
 eyes from his sunburnt cheek and dazzling 
 smile, and to the promptings of her inward 
 monitor had still replied, " Not to-day ! let 
 me spare him yet; the time will come all 
 too soon." The time, however, at length 
 had come, and could no more be delayed. 
 ^Ir. De Grey was gone to London to com- 
 plete his arrangements for the sale of his 
 property, and before his return the dis- 
 closure was to be made. 
 
 Ernest had been at home all day; his 
 young companions, the Leslies, younger in 
 years, though not in nature, than himself, 
 had returned to school. Fulfilling, at length, 
 of his own will, an often postponed promise,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 55 
 
 he had been engaged for many hours of the 
 afternoon in making a catalogue of some 
 curious old prints for his mother, and had 
 devoted himself to his task with unusual 
 quietness and diligence. 
 
 "There, mother!" he exclauned at last, 
 closing a large portfolio which lay before 
 him, laying down his pen, and stretching out 
 his arms, with a slight sigh of weariness — 
 " There, it is done at last ! and I hope, for 
 once, you will tell me that I have really 
 been industrious." 
 
 "You really have," she replied with a 
 smile. After a moment she continued affec- 
 tionately, but gravely — "I hardly expected 
 you to persevere in such a long and tiresome 
 task, and I have been watching you with 
 pleasure. Patience and industry may be 
 necessary even for you, Ernest" 
 
 "You always speak like that, mother," 
 he said, colouring slightly, for his conscience 
 took her praise rather in the light of a re- 
 proof : " I know you think I care for nothing 
 but my own pleasure, and perhaps you are 
 right. Ever since our conversation the other
 
 56 CLAKE ABBEY. 
 
 night I have been thinking of what you said, 
 and trying to find out if it was true ; and 
 
 I am afraid it is true .... rather 
 
 but I don't mean it to be true. I hate 
 selfishness." He sat for a moment thought- 
 ful, then laughed as he spoke — "Didn't some 
 old heathen say something about knowing 
 oneself being a great object? if so, I have 
 made a great attainment these last few 
 weeks. I always used to think I was a 
 hero, something very superior indeed, — 
 made to sacrifice myself, and to delight in 
 it, and now " — he paused. 
 
 "And now .... what?" and his mother 
 watched him with a smile, but an anxious 
 one. 
 
 " And now, mother, I am afraid that I 
 should prefer doing what I please to any 
 sacrifice whatever." 
 
 " You do not, I hope, look upon yom'self 
 as incapable of a sacrifice?" she asked, 
 with a gravity that made him dwell upon 
 the subject. 
 
 " No," he said, after some consideration ; 
 "I don't think I should mind one sreat
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 57 
 
 sacrifice, — even if it were a very great one. 
 1 think, on the contrary, I should rather like 
 the excitement of it : but what I mean that 
 I have discovered is this, — I never thought 
 before that I was very fond of having my 
 own way, and my own wishes gratified, but 
 after thinking of it, I am afraid I am. I 
 am afraid I never could bear to go through 
 a long course of sacrifices. I am afraid, I 
 think, that always to do what one disliked, 
 as some people do, would be very hard." 
 
 Mrs. De Grey took a book from the table, 
 and opening it, read aloud the following 
 sentence : 
 
 " I have no doubt that happiness is to be 
 found rather in renouncing one's own will, 
 than in gratifying it. Looking back from 
 the eminence of a long life on the valley 
 through which I have passed, I have no 
 hesitation in saying, that those spots which 
 now shine the brightest, are not those which 
 were illuminated by enjo}anent ; but rather 
 those which were hallowed by sacrifice." 
 
 "Well, mother, I can understand that to 
 a degree," Ernest said, after listening to her
 
 58 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 with atttention. " I dare say when one 
 looks hack one had rather think of what 
 one has given up, than of what one has 
 merely enjoyed ; but looking forward is 
 quite another thing. Giving up in expecta- 
 tion one's hopes and wishes is a melancholy 
 thought ; don't you think so, mother?" 
 
 She was bending over her work, — she 
 did not appear to hear him. 
 
 "lam afraid, mother," he said, looking 
 at her with some earnestness, " you expect 
 me to wish to be disappointed. I can't 
 do that." 
 
 " No, indeed, my dear boy ; I have heard 
 some people express a wish for trial, and 
 I have always considered such a wish both 
 unwise and presumptuous ; but if trial came, 
 dear Ernest, I hope you would not shrink 
 from it." 
 
 " I hope not," he said, thoughtfully, struck 
 by something unusual in his mother's man- 
 ner ; but the cloud of momentary gravity, 
 was not of long duration. A few minutes 
 afterwards he walked towards the window, 
 and leaning out of it, continued playfully.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 59 
 
 " I think that gentleman, mother, must have 
 been rather melancholy m his mind, for I 
 disagree with him about looking back. / 
 think there is something very bright about 
 a place where one has once been happy — 
 merely simply happy without doing any 
 good to anybody. Now those bushes, mo- 
 ther," pointing to a large clump of under- 
 wood on one side of the lawn, "you will 
 laugh at me, I dare say, but I never go by 
 them without a particular feeling of happi- 
 ness ; and that comes from a remembrance 
 of the house that Harry Leslie and I built 
 there a hundred years ago now ; and just 
 in the same way Clare Abbey will always 
 look bright. I fancy that when I am a 
 horridly old man, I shall still feel happy 
 while I can creep about it, and think of all 
 I did in ... . my dear mother, in my hapjpy 
 youth," and he came suddenly towards her 
 and put his arm round her neck. 
 
 She rose up hastily from her seat, and 
 gently repulsed his embrace ; she could not 
 bear it at that moment. 
 
 "Will you walk Avith me this evening,
 
 GO CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 Ernest?" she asked with a gravity and 
 meaning in her manner which he could not 
 understand. 
 
 " Yes, mother ; I should like it very 
 much;" but while he spoke he was examin- 
 ing her countenance. 
 
 Mrs. De Grey was quickly ready, and they 
 set off together. Her health, though good, 
 was not strong, and Ernest's arm was 
 the common support of her languid foot- 
 steps when she made any unusual exertion. 
 Now, without expressing any definite pur- 
 pose, she insensibly guided him up the 
 ascent, to the brow of the hill, from whence 
 the finest view of Clare Abbey was to be 
 obtained. In sight of all its beauty she 
 wished him to give it up. 
 
 They walked along in silence. There are 
 ways and means independent of any out- 
 ward sign or expression by which those 
 between whom there is a strong bond of 
 sympathy communicate their impressions to 
 each other. Such a power was used now 
 by Mrs. De Grey. She said no more ; her 
 countenance was serious, but no more : all
 
 CLAKE ABBEY. 61 
 
 around was calm and quiet, as it was wont 
 to be ; and yet Ernest, as they pursued 
 their silent way, plunged in deep though 
 unconscious reflection, felt as if he stood on 
 the brink of some extraordinary event. 
 
 They reached the brow of the hill, and 
 there Mrs. De Grey paused and turned to 
 gaze. The sun was setting, and such streams 
 of rose-coloured light were falhng from the 
 sky and bathing the woods and waters, that 
 a landscape poor in natural advantages would 
 have been transformed into a fairy land. Its 
 effect on the pecuhar and romantic scenery 
 around and about the Abbey, is easier for 
 the fancy to imagine than the pen to 
 picture. 
 
 Mrs. De Grey turned, however, from the 
 landscape to gaze on the hving beauty of 
 her son's countenance, glowing and sparkling 
 with admiration and pride. 
 
 " You are very fond of Clare Abbey, 
 Ernest?" she said, with a grave inquiring 
 sadness. 
 
 "My dear mother, do you doubt it?" ho 
 said, reproachfully; "why do you look at
 
 62 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 me so strangely ? You cannot misunderstand 
 me, surely? you cannot suppose that because 
 I said the other day I wished to travel, 
 I care for travelling or anything else in the 
 world compared to being at home, here, at 
 Clare Abbey with you? You must have 
 misunderstood me most strangely !" 
 
 " No, I did not doubt it ; I know very 
 well what you feel; but in my weakness, 
 Ernest, I postpone the tale of tidings heavy 
 to your ear. I have something to tell you, 
 my dearest boy ; you may have discovered 
 that I have spoken much of the necessity 
 of sacrifice ; it was to prepare you to make 
 one. I must ask you now, are you capable 
 of a great sacrifice — a sacrifice of that which 
 is very dear to you ! can you give up all the 
 hopes and dreams you have pictured for 
 your fiature life, and not murmur? " 
 
 He looked at her in vacant astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " I am speaking the truth, dear Ernest ; 
 you will have indeed much to give up ! 
 Your father has lost all — nothing remains 
 for him or for you. This place, Clare Abbey,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 63 
 
 must be given up into the hands of 
 strangers." 
 
 '' But how, mother ?" he asked, wonder- 
 ingly, too much amazed to realize or to feel. 
 
 " You shall know all in time, Ernest. 
 There has been error — I do not shrink from 
 telling you so — error on your father's part, 
 and through error this misfortune comes ; 
 but it is not for us, for you or for me to 
 blame : your own heart will tell you that, 
 dear Ernest. I would rather have you feel 
 that though human conduct and human 
 error may be the cause, it is not less the 
 hand of God that sends the trial and asks 
 from you submission." 
 
 He stood by her side in silence, his eyes 
 fixed upon the ground. His thoughts were 
 not of his father's error, nor his own sub- 
 mission ; but flitting before him there came 
 the past joys of his childhood, the present 
 joys of his youth, the pictured joys of his 
 fixture days, all centered and treasured in 
 that one spot before him ; and vaguely fell 
 the words that it must be given up. Ernest 
 was right ; he was not a hero.
 
 64 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " Will you not speak, Ernest?" his mother 
 asked, gently; "will you not tell me how 
 you will bear the change ?" 
 
 He gave a rapid glance around, then said 
 hurriedly, " If you can bear it, mother, 
 surely I can ! " But in his heart he felt as if 
 the glory of life was ebbing from the spot 
 where he stood. 
 
 She said no more, neither in exhortation 
 nor in sympathy. She saw that even she 
 had scarcely estimated the weight of the 
 blow that had fallen ; but there is a time 
 for all things, and it seemed to her then to 
 be a time not to speak, but to keep silence. 
 She left him to his own thoughts. 
 
 " Shall we go home, Ernest ?" she said 
 at last ; " it is getting dark." 
 
 " So it is," he replied, looking around 
 him, — with a half smile adding, "how 
 changed it is since we came up here." 
 
 They retraced their steps, and walked in 
 silence till they approached the house. As 
 they were entering it Ernest said, 
 
 ^' I will talk to you to-morrow, mother. 
 I am afraid I have disappointed you ; you
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 65 
 
 expected me to speak more nobly, more 
 bravely, but I am not quite sure yet what 
 I do feel. It is very easy to speak, but I 
 should be sorry to speak well now, and to 
 fail afterwards. I must think. I can only 
 say, mother, that I hope you will never have 
 reason to be ashamed of me." 
 
 And without saying or waiting to hear 
 more, he left her ; appeared at dinner with 
 a sniiling countenance, and talked cheerfully 
 on other subjects during the whole evening. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 (iS CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 He that is born is listed. Life is war. 
 
 Young's Night Thoughts. 
 
 Clare Abbey was sold, and sold well ; 
 which was a satisfaction to Mr. De Grey's 
 creditors, though it was of no advantage to 
 him. It was bidden for and eagerly pur- 
 chased by a gentleman of large property in 
 the county, whose house was inadequate to 
 the size of his estates, and who had often 
 contemplated the antique beauty of the 
 house, grounds, and park of Clare Abbey 
 (speaking as they did of an ancient family 
 and a far descent), with the eyes of hope- 
 less envy. The sale was a private one ; the 
 house was not dismantled ; pictures, books, 
 furniture, with few exceptions, everything 
 was sold. Mr. De Grey, with his family 
 and household, departed in the month of
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 67 
 
 September, and in the month of October 
 his successor, with his family and house- 
 hold, took possession of the Abbey. There 
 was little noise or conversation on the sub- 
 ject. The change was so quietly made, 
 that few remembered how, in that change, 
 the hopes of a young life were shattered, 
 and a young man's buoyant heart was sad- 
 dened for ever. 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! what a pretty, pretty 
 place ! " said a lovely little girl of about six 
 years old, springing up in the barouche, 
 which was conve^dng the new family to 
 their new abode. 
 
 "So it is, Camilla ; " and Lady Vere, for 
 the first time indolently raised her veil and 
 looked around her. " What a fine avenue ! 
 I wonder how many trees there are. 1 dare 
 say there are fifty." 
 
 " Fifty! my lady," said the nurse, " there 
 must be three hundred at the very least." 
 
 '* Dear, you don't say so ? " and Lad) 
 Vere opened her beautiful eyes. " What a 
 quantity ! " 
 
 '' Oh, Reginald ! isn't it pretty ? " said the 
 F 2
 
 G8 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 little girl, springing up again, as they came 
 in siglit of the house. "What a nice gar- 
 den, and what nice grass, and what nice 
 bushes ! Oh, Reginald ! a'n't you glad that 
 we are coming to live here ? " 
 
 " You always like everything new, Ca- 
 milla," said the boy, coldly ; and there was 
 a cloud on his brow. 
 
 " Sit still, Camilla ; you rumple all my 
 silk," remarked her mother. 
 
 The carriage stopped. Camilla was lifted 
 from the carriage, and the brother followed 
 her. 
 
 " Oh, Reginald, pigeons ! " she screamed ; 
 and, seizing her brother's hand, she scam- 
 pered off into the stables, from w^hence she 
 had observed the top of a pigeon-house. He 
 stood by her side in silence, neither joining 
 in, nor noticing, the screams of delight with 
 which she watched and endeavoured to 
 seize the pigeons that were picking up the 
 grain around her. 
 
 "Miss St. Maur! Miss St. Maur! come 
 back directly ;" called the fat nurse, wad- 
 dling towards the place where they stood.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 69 
 
 " Your mamma never does allow the stable- 
 yard, as you know very well." 
 
 " But I must look at the pigeons, nurse. 
 Look there ! look there ! " clapping her 
 hands, and screaming, as seven or eight 
 flew together, with one movement and one 
 sound, to the top of the pigeon-house. 
 " Oh, nurse, what a nice place this is ! 
 how glad I am papa bought it. I like it 
 fifty times better than our stupid old house." 
 
 "And in a week, Camilla, you will be 
 wishino' for a new one asain," Reginald 
 said, still gravely. 
 
 " And if I do," replied the child, look- 
 ing wistfully up in his face, " what does it 
 matter ? Why shouldn't I wish, and what is 
 it that makes you cross to-night, Reginald?'* 
 
 " I 'm not cross," he said, with an em- 
 phasis on the word. 
 
 " Now, Mr. St. Maur, do you please to take 
 Miss St. Maur into the garden. Here comes 
 the carriage, and the stablemen, and the 
 servants, and it isn't at all a proper place 
 for a young lady." 
 
 " I 'm not a young lady, nurse, and I
 
 70 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 won't be a young lady. But I '11 go into 
 the garden with Reginald, if he likes it 
 better, and if he will play with me there. 
 Come along," seizing his hand; "do come 
 along ; and goodbye you pretty pigeons till 
 to-morrow." 
 
 But when they reached the garden, Re- 
 ginald was as indisposed for play as he had 
 been before. He sate down on a garden- 
 seat, looking about him with an air of grave 
 contemplation, while the child flew from 
 bed to bed, from bush to bush, from vista 
 to vista, in an ecstasy of delight. She came 
 at last, — her bonnet throAvn back, her long 
 curls floating, her cheeks crimson, — and 
 threw herself at her brother's feet. 
 
 " Oh, Reginald ! what do you sit here for, 
 and what is the matter, you silly, silly boy?" 
 
 '' I was thinking of the people who are 
 gone away, Camilla." 
 
 " What people ? " and she looked up 
 eagerly in his face. 
 
 " Didn't you hear what Margaret was 
 telling me last night, about the lady and 
 the boy who used to live here?"
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 71 
 
 " No, I didn't. What sort of a boy ? was 
 he as big as you? " 
 
 " I don't know. Margaret said a boy ; 
 and she said he was fonder of this place 
 than ever you can be, Camilla, and that 
 it had quite broken his heart to leave it. 
 I know she made me wish never to come 
 near the place." 
 
 " How does a heart break, Reginald ? 
 Does it crack? " 
 
 " I don't know what it does ; but I feel 
 what she means by it. She said he had 
 everything in the world that he could wish 
 for ; and such a pony, that knew him, and 
 ate out of his hand ; and all the people so 
 fond of him, that when he went, everybody 
 was crying, she said, as if they had lost a 
 child. ..." 
 
 " Then, what a silly boy to go," Camilla 
 said, emphatically, 
 
 " But he couldn't help it. Margaret said 
 they were too poor to live here any longer, 
 and that the boy must go and learn to earn 
 his bread." 
 
 " What is, to earn his bread ? "
 
 72 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 '•To work, I suppose, Camilla; not to 
 play any more." 
 
 " Oh, poor, poor boy ! "she said, pityingly. 
 
 " I should not mind the working, Camilla ; 
 but the going away and never coming back ; 
 and leaving all his things, his dogs, and his 
 pony, and . . . ." 
 
 •' Oh, look, look at the pigeons! " screamed 
 Camilla, jumping up and running along the 
 lawn, while the pigeons flew over her head. 
 
 " I wish we never had left Evesham," said 
 Reginald, gloomily, as she rejoined him; 
 " I never shall feel at home here. I feel 
 as if I was taking the boy's things." 
 
 " I dare say he has got a prettier place, 
 as we have," suggested Camilla, consol- 
 ingly. 
 
 " No, he hasn't. He 's gone to London, 
 to live in a dirty street." 
 
 " Oh ! I wish we could go to London, too. 
 Mamma says they have such pretty things 
 — such dogs, and horses, and dolls, and 
 teathings. What a happy boy to go to 
 London ! "
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 73 
 
 Was Ernest De Grey happy in London ? 
 In answer to some such question regarding 
 one of his heroines, Walter Scott has beau- 
 tifully answered : " Reader, she was happy ; 
 for, whatever may be alleged to the con- 
 trary, by the scomer and the sceptic, to 
 each duty performed there is assigned a 
 degree of mental peace, and high conscious- 
 ness of honourable exertion, corresponding 
 to the difficulty of the task accompHshed. 
 That rest of the body which succeeds to 
 hard and industrious toil, is not to be com- 
 pared to the repose which the spirit enjoys 
 under similar circumstances." The truth 
 of this passage few will be disposed to 
 doubt; and yet I am bound to say, that 
 it was not perfectly exemplified in the case 
 of Ernest de Grey. He had behaved most 
 nobly. To his father, to his mother, — in all 
 the painful tasks that were assigned him, 
 wdthout a word of miu-mur or repining — 
 he had shown the same generous, dutiful 
 disposition, which had characterized his 
 childish years. He did not think of him- 
 self; he spoke little of the past, cheerfully
 
 74 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 of the present, hopefully of the future ; and 
 after the evenmg of the first announcement, 
 even his mother's eyes failed to read how 
 deeply the sacrifice was felt. But when the 
 excitement was over, and they were esta- 
 blished in a small house, in one of those 
 dull, uniform streets beyond the gay-look- 
 ing world of Belgravia, his spirits and his 
 resolution began to sink. He was too young, 
 perhaps, to feel in its full force the blessing 
 which the peace of an approving conscience 
 brings, too restless with regrets for the past, 
 and dreams of the future, to feel peace ^ in 
 thoughts of peace of any kind. He could, 
 as many can, heroically submit to one great 
 trial ; but he failed, as many fail, in the 
 smaller trials of everyday existence. 
 
 Accustomed to the freedom of a country 
 life, fond of all sports and active amuse- 
 ments, his spirit began to rebel against the 
 imprisonment of London. He could have 
 borne it, however, and borne it well, if there 
 had been a prospect of future release ; but 
 one word, which once inadvertently had 
 fallen from his father's lips, haunted his
 
 CLAKE ABBEY. 75 
 
 imagination and oppressed his spirits night 
 and day. That one -w^ord was clerh. To 
 be tied to a desk in London for ever ! — 
 every feeling within him revolted from such 
 a destiny. And yet jDerhaps even to this 
 he would have taught himself to submit, if 
 it had not been for the sudden reawakening 
 of an old fancy, after a slumber of many 
 years. Superseded by the love of his home, 
 suppressed by the perfect satisfaction found 
 in that home for all the adventurous tastes 
 and active habits of his boyhood, his martial 
 ardour had been lulled to rest — but it did 
 but sleep ; springing up in the monotony 
 of the present, consoling for the disappoint- 
 ment of the past, it took possession of his 
 fancy with a violence that startled and 
 mastered him, gilding the future with 
 visions as glittering as they were idle and 
 delusive. He knew that it was impossible, 
 during liis father's lifetime . Thek only means 
 of support was his mother's fortune, a sum 
 of £13,000 ; and the purchase of commis- 
 sions from an annual income of barely £400 
 a year, even his vague imagination told him
 
 76 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 was not a very practicable scheme ; but the 
 imagination, especially of the young, is little 
 bounded by the limits of possibility. Good 
 sense and good feeling kept him silent; 
 neither by word nor look did he betray the 
 secret of his heart's desire, but satisfied 
 with this exertion, he repaid himself for the 
 sacrifice by dreaming a never-ending dream. 
 Instead of battling with the excitement of 
 his mind, he fed- it by every means in his 
 power. Wherever soldiers were to be seen, 
 or sounds of military music were to be 
 heard, there his steps were wandering. 
 Day by day unfailingly he presented himself 
 at the Horse-Guards, to watch the mounting 
 of the guard ; hour after hour he would hang 
 about Apsley-House, for one look at the 
 Duke of Wellington — then would return 
 home, to wile away the long dull evening by 
 the perusal of the lives of highwajmien, 
 pirates, and other celebrated and adven- 
 turous characters (picked up for a few pence 
 at a book-stall), which sent him to bed in a 
 fever at once of excitement and despair. 
 So he passed the early days of his life in
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 77 
 
 London ; dissatisfied with all around him, 
 and most of all dissatisfied with himself. 
 
 jVIrs. De Grey saw her son's failing spirits 
 and sighed : of the cause of his greatest 
 depression slie was not aware. She did not 
 know that the word ''clerk" had reached 
 his ears ; for ]Vir. De Grey, unaccustomed to 
 deal openly with Ernest, had forbidden the 
 mention of the plan, until some hope of its 
 success could be obtained, — and Ernest in 
 the dread of hearing the certainty of his 
 doom, forbore to make an inquiry. But 
 she could guess from his restless deport- 
 ment, the hopes and fears, the dreams and 
 regrets that were agitating him, and she 
 sighed. But though she sighed, it was for 
 him, not over him. She w^as not one of 
 those who groan at the least failure in 
 human perfection — experience had taught 
 her that, with rare exceptions, it is through 
 mental struggle and mental failure that the 
 character is formed and perfected ; and 
 though she sighed for him during the pro- 
 cess — though she could not but si^i^h that 
 disappointment should so early cloud his
 
 75 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 sunny brow and buoyant spirit — she felt no 
 fear, no despondency as to the ultimate 
 result. 
 
 One night, Ernest went to bed fresh from 
 the attractive and exciting annals of the life 
 of Claude Duval. Though within a day or two 
 of November, the night was hot and close, 
 and Ernest could not sleep ; he tossed to 
 and fro, restless and excited, and, turn where 
 he would, the word clerk presented itself to 
 his eyes. There is, I think, no madness or 
 wildness to be compared to the insanity of 
 even the sanest of mortals in the course of 
 a restless night. Small things assume such 
 immense importance in the mind — the 
 future, whether the dreams of that future be 
 joyfiil or sorrowful, swells into such extra- 
 ordinary magnitude. For " a solution of a 
 bright hope," it seems impossible to wait — 
 a trial, a coming or a fancied trial it seems 
 impossible to bear ; we appear to have 
 suddenly become all sensation, and with 
 giant feelings to be waiting, or preparing 
 for gigantic events. In such a mood of 
 mind and such a state of nerves, Ernest was
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 79 
 
 lying on this restless night, when there 
 passed before him in dreamy ^dsion, but in 
 giant proportions, the life of a clerk : — he 
 saw himself rising in the morning to the 
 impenetrable gloom of a yellow November 
 fog (it was in the month of November, that 
 his imaginary life chose to picture itself), he 
 saw himself at breakfast in the small dark 
 dining-room of their present habitation ; 
 through the dismal misty streets he followed 
 himself at ten o'clock to his office — there he 
 passed his day in the midst of figures which 
 it made his brain ache even to think of. He 
 accompanied himself back to his home, 
 when the scanty daylight had long since 
 faded ; and there with dizzy eyes and a 
 bewildered brain, endeavoured to wile away 
 six weary hours till night and sleep should 
 come to his release. Again, and again, and 
 again the vision passed before his fancy, till 
 at length he saw himself a decrepid old 
 man, feebly tottering along the streets to 
 his hateful and hated task. I hope my 
 readers can imagine the horrors of a life 
 like this when presented through the mag-
 
 80 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 nifying-glass of sleepless and feverish eyes. 
 Poor Ernest turned from side to side, 
 endeavouring to find one ray of light to 
 gild his dreary picture, but in vain; not 
 even a sunshiny morning would come at his 
 call. He sprang out of bed, looked round 
 his tiny room, rushed to the window, and by 
 the faint moonlight gazed upon the rows of 
 roofs and chimneys, — the only prospect com- 
 manded by his room; then drawing back 
 with a feeling of despair, and stamping with 
 his foot upon the ground, he pronounced that 
 it could not^ and it should not he. If no 
 other means of escape offered themselves he 
 would enhst as a private soldier and win his 
 way to distinction. He returned to bed 
 calmed in mind, and possessed by the 
 beauty of the new vision. Unlike the last — 
 colours, bright colours, came thick and fast 
 to add to its brightness. His late studies, 
 which probably suggested the idea, suggested 
 also the pictures in which to adorn it ; he 
 saw himself an object of interest and admira- 
 tion ; his short probation was quickly over, 
 he was received amongst the officers, distinc-
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 81 
 
 tions were showered upon him; he was 
 captain, major, colonel, in less time than it 
 takes to write the words, and he fell into a 
 sweet sleep, a general officer in full uniform, 
 leading on his troops to victory. 
 
 These seem childish dreams, but Ernest's 
 mind was youthful enough to be lulled and 
 dazzled by dreams even more childish than 
 these. He was still nothing but a boy. 
 
 With the dawn of day, something of the 
 brilliancy of his last consolatory vision 
 faded; nothing is more disappointing than 
 a morning light on a midnight picture ; but 
 still, even considered in the sober colours of 
 morning, it retained enough of its beauty 
 and promise to induce him to repeat with 
 calm resolve the feverish determination 
 of his restless hours ; it should be his last 
 resource, but a resource it should be. 
 
 In such a mood and with such a purpose, 
 he went down to breakfast; his night and 
 morning meditations had made him late, and 
 breakfast was half over before he appeared. 
 His father was laughing as he entered the 
 room ; rather an unusual and as it might have 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 seemed a gratifying occurrence ; but Ernest 
 was in no laughing mood, and irritated by 
 the sound, he hurriedly kissed his mother, 
 and sat down without raising his eyes. 
 
 "Half-past nine, Ernest," said Mr. De 
 Grey looking at his watch, " tliis will never 
 do." 
 
 Ernest finished the sentence to himself as 
 he fancied had been intended, ^'^ never do for 
 a cleric^'' and he answered his father with 
 some petulance. 
 
 " Are you ill, Ernest?" inquired his mother 
 gravely. Ernest looked up and met her 
 anxious affectionate gaze; his irritation van- 
 ished in a moment, and he said, colouring 
 crimson, 
 
 " Not ill, mother ; but I am afraid a little 
 cross." 
 
 '' And why cross, my dear boy ? " she 
 asked smilingly. 
 
 He shook his head and said no more. 
 
 " Your father was laughing, Ernest, as you 
 came in, at a strange letter I have had ; it 
 partly concerns you — will you read it?" 
 
 As she spoke she put into his hand, with
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 83 
 
 a quiet smile, a strangely scrawled and 
 tumbled letter. 
 
 Ernest looked over it, and as he read his 
 colour deepened and his heart began to 
 beat ; it was as follows : — 
 
 " Berners- street, Oct. 26. 
 
 "My Dear Gertrude, — You don't re- 
 member me ; but I remember you. The 
 last time I saw you, you were in a dirty 
 pinafore. I know it was a dirty pinafore ; 
 your parents didn't bedizen you as the new 
 generation are bedizened ; I hate the sight 
 of them. Since I saw you I have been in 
 India, and now I am come back. Because 
 I say I have been in India, don't you sup- 
 pose that I'm come back a Nabob. I'm 
 not. I've got enough and that's all. I 
 want to see you and your son. I suppose 
 he is a young man by this time. I hate 
 young men \ they're all coxcombs ; empty- 
 headed coxcombs ; very diiferent to tlic 
 young men in my day ; but as he's your son, 
 and my old and best friend's grandson, I 
 want to see him. Come and see me if vou 
 G 2
 
 84 CLAKE ABBEY. 
 
 think it worth while. I've heard of your 
 misfortunes and I'm sorry for them, but I 
 can't help you. I tell you at once I've got a 
 relation, and I shan't cut him out for any- 
 body. But I shall be glad to see you and 
 your son, if you think it worth while to visit 
 an old, wizened, paralytic scarecrow. 
 " Your father's old friend, 
 
 "Mark Watts." 
 
 " Shall we go, Ernest?" asked his mother 
 quietly. 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment ; bright 
 visions were dancing before his eyes. 
 
 " Yes, I think you have no doubt," she 
 said smiling ; and the letter was folded up, 
 and the conversation changed.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 85 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 Moments there are in life — alas ! how few 
 
 When casting cold prudential doubts aside, 
 
 We take a generous impulse for our guide ; 
 
 And following promptly what the heart thinks best, 
 
 Commit to Providence the rest ; 
 
 Sure that no after reckoning will arise 
 
 Of shame or sorrow — for the heart is wise. 
 
 Oliver Newman. 
 
 The following day, Mrs. De Grey and 
 Ernest set off for Berners-street. She said 
 little as they went along, and that little was 
 rather intended to damp than to excite his 
 expectations. She herself scarcely knew 
 what to hope or think ; that he intended 
 to do something for Ernest she could not 
 but suppose, but the idea that presented 
 itself, " India," was a saddening one to her. 
 Of Mr. Watts himself she had little re- 
 membrance, though with the once familiar 
 name visions began to return of a little old
 
 86 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 man, — so her fancy pictured him, — who used 
 to kiss and pinch her cheeks somewhat too 
 heartily. 
 
 They reached the door, rang the bell, 
 and were admitted by an old servant, who 
 shut them into a room without a fire, and 
 with both windows open. 
 
 Mrs. De Grey sat down ; Ernest wandered 
 restlessly about, gazed at some stuffed birds 
 without seeing them ; stared at the clock, 
 and wondered what o'clock it was, without 
 perceiving that the clock had stopped and 
 the hands were off. 
 
 At last the door was opened, and the 
 little wizened, paralytic old man was 
 wheeled into the room. He took no notice 
 till the door was shut, and the servant 
 gone, then, quietly stretching out his hand, 
 he said, "How d'ye do, Gertrude?" 
 
 Something of old familiarity, of former 
 days and former friendship, stole over Mrs. 
 De Grey at the sight of him. 
 
 There is so strange a freshness in the 
 remembrance of the friends of our early 
 years, that of them it may be truly said,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 87 
 
 '' There is no sucli thing as forgetting possi- 
 ble." The memory may seem to be effaced 
 for a time, but when it does awake, it 
 awakes perfect, as it was : there is nothing 
 to be done ; we meet as we parted. No 
 after friendships have this peculiarity. 
 
 " The friendships of our youth are often seen 
 To share the freshness of those vernal years, 
 And spite of hardening trials, withering cares, 
 Deep in the heart to blossom ever green ; 
 Needing but few soft breezes sweeping o'er, ' 
 To bid them lift their heads and bloom once more." 
 
 " You see we have obeyed you,*' she said 
 with a smile, as she drew her chair nearer 
 to him. 
 
 "Ah! Gertrude," he said, looking at her 
 and shaking his head ; " I shouldn't have 
 kno^^Ti you. Where is the dirty pinafore 
 and the long fair hair?" 
 
 She smiled, and then sighed. Her thoughts 
 were flowing strangely back to the merry 
 days of her childhood; and upon her ear 
 there came the sound of a light laughing 
 voice, long hushed in death. 
 
 The old man contemplated her, and his 
 thoughts seemed to follow liers. He held
 
 88 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 out his shrivelled hand again ; in the move- 
 ment his head turned, and his eyes fell on 
 Ernest, who had withdrawn himself to the 
 window. 
 
 "Who's that?" he said in a startled voice. 
 
 Mrs. De Grey roused herself, and looked 
 up. The shrivelled hand was pointing at 
 Ernest, and the small grey eyes were dart- 
 ing from under the pent and shaggy brows. 
 
 " That is Ernest, my son," she said. 
 
 The head dropped, and the eyes closed, 
 and he remarked mournfully, " The old 
 dotard thought it was Harry." 
 
 " He is like — very like — " said Mrs. De 
 Grey, almost for the first time struck with 
 the greatness of the likeness. 
 
 " Ah ! Gertrude," exclaimed the old man 
 again; and he dashed his slirivelled hand 
 across his eyes. " But this is behaving 
 like an old doting fool. Come here, young 
 man ; let me look at you." 
 
 Ernest approached, and stood before him, 
 too much occupied in examining the strange 
 old being to feel awkward beneath his 
 scrutiny.
 
 CLAKE ABBEY. 89 
 
 "What is your name, young man?" he 
 began, like the Catechism. 
 
 "Ernest." 
 
 " That's a fool's name ; I'm ashamed of 
 you, Gertrude." 
 
 " It is my husband's name," she said with 
 a smile. 
 
 " The more fool he ! Why isn't he Mark, 
 or John, or Thomas? I hate your new- 
 fangled names. How old are you, Mr. 
 P^rnest?" 
 
 " Sixteen." 
 
 " It's a bad age, now-a-days at least ; all 
 the boys think they are men ; empty-headed 
 coxcombs, I hate the sight of them ! Look 
 there ! " he said, nodding his head out of 
 window ; " look at him ! five-foot high, and 
 a cigar in his mouth — addling his brains 
 with smoke — thinks himself a king. Draw 
 down the blinds, Mr. Ernest ; I hate the 
 sight of him !" 
 
 Ernest obeyed, laughing. 
 
 " Sit down, young man, I want to speak 
 to you. What did you come here for?"
 
 90 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 and he fixed his penetrating eyes on tlie 
 boy's face. 
 
 Ernest coloured, and laughed again. 
 
 "Did you expect to get anything out of 
 me? answer me that." 
 
 Youth, it is said, is acute in perception. 
 Mrs. De Grey might have been puzzled to 
 answer this home question ; but Ernest, 
 without apparent thought or reflection upon 
 what it would be best to say, answered 
 steadily, though with a colour mounting to 
 his temples : — 
 
 "Not expected^ but hojped.'' 
 
 "You did, did you," exclaimed the old 
 man in extreme delight. "Well, young 
 man, j^ou shan't be disappointed. I can't 
 do much, but I'll do something. I know you 
 think I'm rich ; I'm not, I tell you ; I've 
 just enough, and that's all. I hate your 
 money making ; I always did. I might have 
 had more, if I pleased, but I didn't want it; 
 and if I had it I shouldn't give it you. I tell 
 you I shouldn't ! I like young men to work. 
 Now listen to me, Mr. Ernest. There are 
 l)ut two professions in the world — so I think,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 91 
 
 at least. I hate your lawyers ; they're all 
 rogues. I hate your physicians ; they're all 
 quacks. Sailors are necessary evils ; I hate 
 their noise ; I've had enough of them. 
 There are but two, the army and the 
 church : fight for your country, or take 
 your countrymen to Heaven. Now, Mr. 
 Ernest, listen to me. I give you your choice ; 
 I'll buy you a commission, or I'll send 5'ou 
 to college, as you please ; take your choice ; 
 but mind this, if I buy a commission, it mil 
 be in a good marching regiment : I'll have 
 none of your Guards, none of your swag- 
 gering puppies ; you shall see the world — 
 work your way. Now take your choice." 
 
 Ernest sat with downcast eyes ; he would 
 not, dared not speak, but his heart was 
 beating as if it would have leapt from the 
 feeble bonds that withheld it. The object 
 of his existence was attained : the loss of 
 what he had so much loved had been then 
 but to bring him to this, the gratification of 
 the first and strongest passion of his nature. 
 
 There was a silence — a short one, but it 
 seemed an age. It was broken by ]\Irs. De
 
 92 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 Grey. With her quiet smile, and soft voice, 
 and with that steady, serene manner which 
 is so often a covering to deep emotion and 
 inward struggle, she said, 
 
 "We shall not be long in making a 
 choice; Ernest is already in heart a soldier." 
 
 " I didn't speak to you, Gertrude," cried 
 the old man sharply ; " let Mr. Ernest speak 
 for himself" 
 
 There are moments in life — single mo- 
 ments in duration, — yet in their consequences 
 so weighty, in operation so wonderful, so 
 full of thought, feeling, and action, that they 
 seem to rise out of time, and to belong 
 rather to that state of being when time shall 
 be no more. Such a moment was that now 
 passed by Ernest De Grey. In that moment 
 he lived whole years of life ; thought as he 
 never had thought before ; pondered upon 
 life, and its meaning ; weighed, conquered, 
 armed himself; caught from his mother her 
 quiet spirit of self-conquest ; and calling 
 into memory all her love for liim, repaid 
 it with a love and devotion which contained 
 within itself the sacrifice of his existence.
 
 CLAEE ABBEY. 93 
 
 It was but a moment ; he then looked up 
 at the old man, and said, 
 
 " I choose the Church." 
 
 " Ernest !" exclaimed his mother in a 
 tone of warning, anxious, loving remon- 
 strance. She saw his fading colour, his eye 
 averted from herself; she read the sacrifice, 
 and for the moment refused to suffer it to 
 be made. 
 
 "My dear Gertrude, will you be still?" 
 said the old man impatiently ; " Mr. Ernest 
 is old enough to decide for himself. Don't 
 you speak another word. Well, young man, 
 is your mind made up ; I ask once more, 
 and once only. I '11 have no shifting and 
 shuffling afterwards. Take your choice." 
 
 " My mind is quite made up," Ernest re- 
 peated. He got up, approached his mother 
 and kissed her ; and then looking at her 
 with his clear, truthful eyes, said, " I know 
 that you think I have made a great sacrifice ; 
 but, mother, it is no sacrifice since I feel 
 that it pleases you." 
 
 Mrs. De Grey raised her eyes to his face, 
 but said nothing ; not for worlds would she
 
 94 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 have further opposed his will ; not ibr 
 worlds w^ould she have refused the offer- 
 ing he made to her love, not for worlds 
 would she have deprived him of the blessing 
 that rests upon the conquest of a selfish 
 passion ; and yet she felt at the moment a 
 very certain truth, that there is often as 
 much heroism in submitting to the fulfilment 
 of our wishes as there is in conquering them. 
 
 The old man held out his hand ; Ernest 
 took it and thanked him. 
 
 "I won't be thanked!" he cried, impa- 
 tiently ; " what are thanks good for ? I hate 
 them. Do your duty, young man, and I 
 shall be thanked enough. But that wasn't 
 what I 'd got to say ; what I 'd got to say 
 was this." He paused, and taking the young, 
 healthful, vigorous hand between his trem- 
 bling, shrivelled fingers, continued with a 
 slow, reverent manner, " God bless you, Mr. 
 Ernest ! anay the blessing of an old man 
 rest upon you all your life long ! It isn't 
 a light thing — don't forget that you have 
 had it. And now go away," he dropped his 
 hand ; "go away both of you, and never
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 95 
 
 come again. I don't want to see you any 
 more. Go away, Gertrude, and mind what 
 I say ; don't come again. I tell you I won't 
 see you," he said, raising his voice impati- 
 ently, as a few words of earnest remonstrance 
 fell from Mrs. De Grey. " I know what 
 I wish, and I will have my way. I will 
 have no sweet, young, loving, innocent faces 
 to tie me and bind me to the world I want 
 to get free from. Go away — go away, 
 and never come again. I won't see you, 
 I tell you, — I won't. I turn away the first 
 servant who lets you into the house." He 
 waved his hands impatiently, till alarmed 
 at his excitement, they both left the room. 
 He kept his word, — he saw them no more.
 
 96 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Though, as you have said, the vernal bloom 
 Of his first spirits fading, leaves him changed, 
 'Tis not to worse. His mind is as a meadow 
 Of various grasses, rich and fresh beneath. 
 But o'er the surface some that come to seed 
 Have cast a colour of sobriety. 
 
 Edwin the Fair. 
 
 Let us go forth, and resolutely dare 
 
 In sweat of brow to toil our little day ; 
 
 And if a tear flow on our task of care 
 
 In memory of those spring hours past away . . 
 
 Brush it not by ! 
 
 Our hearts to God, to brother men 
 
 Aid, labour, blessing, prayer, and then 
 
 To these, a sigh. 
 
 R. M. MiLNES. 
 
 Time flies. This is sometimes a truism, 
 trite, uimieaning, and common-place ; and 
 sometimes a truth of very serious import. 
 At the present moment, the latter character 
 may certainly be claimed for the remark.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 97 
 
 for we have to fly rapidly over a large space 
 of time, and a large portion of life. Ten years 
 have come and gone, — ten years of youth 
 and vigour, — ten years full of feeling, and 
 full of event, had we the time to dwell upon 
 them. 
 
 It was at the end of these ten years, and 
 again at the close of a beautiful August 
 evening, that Ernest De Grey stood on the 
 brow of the hill which overlooked his former 
 home, on the very spot which had witnessed 
 the announcement of his lost hopes, and his 
 altered destiny. 
 
 It is difficult exactly to define in what 
 romance consists ; but there are events in 
 life, peculiar combinations of circumstances 
 to which the epithet romantic is at once, 
 and without thought, apphed. These events 
 need not be strange or startling ; they may 
 be brought about in the easiest and most 
 natural manner ; the steps which lead to the 
 combination may be each in themselves 
 obvious and commonplace ; and yet qver 
 the whole there rests a halo — a poetic 
 colouring, which is felt by the most un- 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 poetic and insensible. Something, no doubt, 
 there is in the character of the persons to 
 whom such events occur ; for there are per- 
 sons whose cold hands and shallow glances 
 turn all they touch, and all that is spread 
 before them into dryness and insipidity. It 
 would, however, have required a very re- 
 markable degree of coldness and dr}Tiess to 
 dissipate the romantic colouring which 
 rested on the circumstance (although no- 
 thing could be simpler or more common- 
 place than the events which led to it), that 
 Ernest De Grey was appointed to the living 
 of the parish in which his former home 
 stood. This appointment was, as it seemed, 
 a mere chance. He was a curate in an 
 adjoining county, but there was a distance 
 of thirty miles between his new and his 
 old abode. He was invited by his rector 
 to accompany him on a visit to the bishop 
 of the diocese. The visit lasted but a few 
 hours. Ernest spoke little, and little was 
 said to him. He was not aware, — his rector 
 was not aware, — that he had excited any 
 peculiar degree of attention ; yet a few
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 99 
 
 weeks afterwards the living of the Parish 
 of Cranleigh was offered to the young curate : 
 
 " A chance it seem'd to be, 
 But such a chance as rules our destiny." 
 
 And once more Ernest stood and gazed 
 upon the beauty of his lost inheritance ; — 
 and fondly and admiringly his eye wandered 
 round ; but the bound of the heart with 
 which he had heard of his destiny, — but the 
 rapture with which he had contemplated a 
 return to the scenes of his youth was stilled 
 and faded now. He stood and gazed, but 
 his heart was heavy, and his thoughts were 
 joyless and sad. 
 
 We are, I think, too much disposed to 
 look upon the clergy as an order of men 
 separate from ourselves ; not separate in 
 that sense in which we should so re^rard 
 them, separated by a peculiar seal and sanc- 
 tity, but separate in nature : we are not, I 
 mean, disposed to allow for them the tempta- 
 tions and infirmities of a common humanity ; 
 we are too much inclined to suppose that 
 the vows which sever them from their fel- 
 lows, withdraw them also from the trials and 
 h2
 
 100 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 failures common to all in fi^htinf? a<rainst 
 " the world, the flesh, and the devil." So 
 at least it has always seemed to me, when 
 the errors, negligences, and infirmities of 
 those who, while they are clergy, still are 
 men, are dwelt upon by a harsh-judging 
 world. 
 
 Ernest De Grey was not one who would 
 have fulfilled the perfect ideal of what a 
 clergyman should be. As a child, as a boy, 
 he had been what has been happily called 
 "very human;" and very human he was 
 still. The life he led was a life opposed to 
 every feeling and natural impulse within 
 him ; and though he struggled manfully to 
 submit himself to it, there were many 
 hours Avhen his spirit was bowed by the 
 weight of unwelcome responsibility ; and 
 when his fancy revolted from the picture of 
 the perpetual struggle and warfare before 
 him. He was one of those separated by 
 the seal of Heaven from their fellow men ; 
 but many unmarked by that seal were less 
 tied and bound to earth than he, by the 
 weight of a craving earth-loving nature.
 
 CLAKE ABBEY. 101 
 
 He had never repented of the resolution 
 so suddenly taken in the old man's room, — 
 he would have repeated it again and again : 
 but that resolution had been taken not from 
 any call he had felt to duties so serious, to 
 an office so holy, but simply from a motive 
 of love and duty to his mother ; and that 
 motive being but a human motive, was not 
 at all times sufficiently powerful to animate 
 him amidst the painful, and often thankless, 
 tasks to which he was called to devote him- 
 self. Let it not be supposed that Ernest 
 should be blamed for having undertaken 
 a responsibility so solemn, from a. human 
 motive. That motive, filial duty, is in itself 
 so pure, is from " passion's dross so refined 
 and clear," so contains within itself the 
 germ of all religious feeling, that none 
 have ever acted upon it, in any course 
 of duty, or condition of life, and failed to 
 find a blessing. It is but the statement — a 
 fact, — it was a human motive ; and though 
 sufficiently powerful to prevent his resolution 
 from wavering, it could not at all times tiu-n
 
 102 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 his repulsive tasks into a labour of love and 
 delight. 
 
 There was no want of seriousness in the 
 manner in which Ernest first prepared for, 
 and finally entered upon his labours. Once 
 resolved, he endeavoured as best he could 
 to render himself not unworthy the holy 
 office he held. His mind was so true and 
 sincere, that there was no tampering with 
 his conscience, — no excusing himself under 
 the plea of natural unfitness ; so far as he 
 saw his duties, he tried to fulfil them. He 
 was not perhaps very quick in discovering 
 them : other eyes might see them straight 
 before him, and he might pass them by ; 
 but once beheld, they were firmly and un- 
 shrinkingly performed. On minds of this 
 character a blessing must ever rest ; for 
 there is nothing to be compared in value 
 to truth and sincerity of heart. But im- 
 provement is a gradual process : day by 
 day the strife of inclination with duty has 
 to be renewed ; and they are strong indeed 
 who never faint and are weary. Ernest
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 103 
 
 had not this strength : he was far, still very 
 far, from perfection ; his duties were to him 
 but duties still, hard oftentimes and labori- 
 ous : his life was warfare still ; his future, a 
 future still on which his eyes scarcely dared 
 to rest. 
 
 Since last we met him he had passed from 
 boyhood into manhood ; and the deepened 
 expression of his countenance, and the sub- 
 dued and even serious quietness of his man- 
 ners bore witness to the change. But the 
 change was not very deep, — in heart he was 
 still a boy : the thirst for happiness was still 
 as strong, the tastes of his boyhood still 
 springing up as fresh and vigorous within 
 him. It was not therefore strange that as 
 he stood and gazed upon the scenes of his 
 free and happy youth, — as he thought of the 
 days when the name of duty had been a 
 light and unfelt burden, his spirits should 
 sink and a cloud of unusual melancholy 
 settle about his head. 
 
 Fully, however, to understand his mood 
 of mind, more perfectly to pourtray his 
 character, and to reveal him in all the
 
 104 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 weakness and humanity of his nature, we 
 must go back to an earher hour of the day, 
 and bear him company on his first arrival 
 at his new home. 
 
 It was about four o'clock Avhen he dis- 
 mounted from a post-chaise, and entered the 
 parsonage house. It was a pretty low-roofed 
 picturesque building with a green lawn be- 
 fore it, and a flower-garden on one side. 
 It stood at the borders of the village, thirty 
 or forty yards from the road, shadowed 
 from the heat by fine spreading oaks, and 
 guarded from intrusive eyes by a well- 
 covered trelHced paling. In former days 
 he had often regarded it with admiration; 
 of late he had often thought of it with plea- 
 sure, but as he entered it now he sighed. 
 It was in all the dreary discomfort and 
 untidiness of a new arrival ; and although 
 such a state of things is to some minds an 
 incentive to exertion, and an agreeable ex- 
 citement, it was not so to liim. He was not 
 luxurious, — he had never been so : but he 
 liked comfort, — he liked domestic comfort, 
 he liked to feel at home. He walked into
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 105 
 
 the lonely drawing-room, and sighed again. 
 He was now to live alone ; and of late he 
 had thought of this with much pleasm^e — (for 
 although naturally of a joyous and elastic 
 disposition, he was fastidious in his tastes ; 
 not endowed with superhuman patience when 
 those tastes were offended ; and much had 
 suffered mider the trite remarks and harm- 
 less, but unmeaning pleasantries of the good 
 dull rector, with whom he had hitherto 
 resided) : but now as he entered the dis- 
 orderly room, a sense of desolation made his 
 heart sink. And while still looking about 
 him with a gaze of blank despair, his tem- 
 per was assailed, and well-nigh overcome, 
 by the worry of domestic cares, and the 
 demand upon his wandering attention for 
 considerations of household economy. In 
 short, the first effect of the return to scenes 
 which, at a distance, he had pictured as 
 " redolent with joy and youth," was far from 
 bringing with it the fresh and joyous feeling 
 of ^' a second spring." 
 
 " Pray have these boxes carried away, it 
 l(joks so uncomfortable," he said to the lady
 
 106 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 who had been selected from the village to 
 preside over his household, as he wandered 
 round the carpetless drawing-room, strewed 
 as it was with hay and straw, paper, and 
 lids of boxes. 
 
 "I can't do it myself, sir," replied Mrs. 
 Cook, who was heated with scrubbing and 
 unpacking, and who among her many vir- 
 tues did not boast of an impurturbable 
 temper ; " and Thomas says he can't do it, 
 and John is looking after the horse." 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Cook, I shall go out for a 
 walk ; and if you can get anybody to clear 
 the room, I shall be much obliged to 
 
 you." 
 
 " If you please, sir, will you give me the 
 keys of the linen-chest? The tilings must 
 be got somehow before night ; and there 's 
 more to do than a horse could do already." 
 
 " I haven't got the keys." 
 
 " Thomas bade me ask you, sir : he says 
 you gave him no keys." 
 
 After a search, the keys were found; and 
 Ernest took up his hat and prepared for a 
 retreat.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 107 
 
 " What do you please to have for dinner, 
 sir? " Mrs. Cook began again. 
 
 " Oh, I leave that entirely to you. I sup- 
 pose you have ordered something into the 
 house? " 
 
 " I did, sir, make so bold, without orders, 
 for I got no orders from nobody. And 
 where will you please to dine ; and what 
 time, sir, do you please to have dinner 
 served up ? It isn't my way, sir, to be with- 
 out orders, and it 's more than a servant can 
 abear to have no notice taken when she 
 does her best." 
 
 " I will take more notice another day," 
 Ernest said, good-naturedly. " Put dinner 
 where you please, wherever you can find an 
 empty table ; and it had better be ready at 
 seven o'clock." 
 
 " There 's no end of things wantinp^ in 
 the kitchen, sir ; there isn't a boiler to be 
 seen, and the jack is in a sad ricketty state, 
 and I can't find no pastry-roller nowhere ; 
 and to-morrow's Sunday, too ! " 
 
 " Never mind for the present," he said, 
 indifferently ; " I suppose we shall get right
 
 108 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 in time." And he put on his hat and opened 
 the door. 
 
 " There 's been no orders given, sir, about 
 the rooms ; there 's been no orders given 
 about nothing. I never heard of such a 
 way of coming to a place. I made so bold 
 as to choose an apartment for myself and 
 my small matters ; but Thomas has got no 
 orders, and he doesn't know where to lay 
 out your honour's things ; and the house 
 will all be topsy-turvy, if there isn't some 
 notice taken." 
 
 Ernest put down his hat, and followed 
 his conductress over the house, agreeing to 
 every suggestion she chose to make ; till 
 coming to a room a few steps higher than 
 the others, from the window of which a 
 sight of Clare Abbey might be caught, he 
 said, " No, Mrs. Cook, I change my mind : 
 this shall be my room." 
 
 " This, sir ? Why, it 's no better than a 
 coalhole compared to those more spacious 
 apartments. It will do for a young gentle- 
 man from college, sir, or for a traveller for 
 a night or so, but not for your honour."
 
 CLABE ABBEY. 109 
 
 " It must do for me," he said, laugiiing, 
 " and the travellers shall have the more 
 spacious rooms ; " and he stood leaning 
 against the window, unheeding the remon- 
 strances which were poured upon his ear. 
 He was choosing for himself a dangerous, 
 induls^ence. How dano;erous he could not 
 guess. 
 
 "Is Lord Vere in the country? " he in- 
 quired at last. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; his lordship is always in the 
 country." 
 
 " Has he many children ? " 
 
 " He has but the two, sir — Mr. St. Maur 
 and the young lady." In the anticipation 
 of a httle gossip, Mrs. Cook drew nearer, 
 and laying aside her state and offended 
 dignity, and with her dignity her more 
 select phraseology, she continued : " If you 
 wants to know about the fam'ly, sir, I can't 
 tell you but very little about them ; for 
 though they lives here the whole year round, 
 they never comes amongst the poor as your 
 o-ood mamma used to do. Sometimes I 
 sees her ladyship and the young lady in the
 
 110 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 bairooche, as they drives through Cranleigh 
 now and again ; and now and again I sees 
 them at Church : but they isn't very regular 
 church-goers, only when Mr. St. Maur is 
 at home. He is a very fine young gentle- 
 man, sir, and discreet in his ways, I hears ; 
 but then he 's as haught and as proud as 
 — , I forgets the caparison, sir. Oh ! they 
 all wants a deal of good doing to them, 
 and a deal of preaching, sir, and that 's the 
 truth." 
 
 " We all do that, Mrs. Cook," said Ernest, 
 gravely, retreating from the window. There 
 was no feeling stronger in his mind than 
 charity in his judgments. His sense of his 
 own weakness made him, perhaps, even 
 faultily tender in dealing with the temp- 
 tations and infirmities of others. 
 
 "Well, they does, sir," she said, com- 
 placently ; " but some wants it more nor 
 others : and I often thinks as I sees my 
 lady prancing along in her bairooche, how 
 hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom 
 of heaven." 
 
 Ernest said no more ; but leaving Mrs.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. Ill 
 
 Cook to arrange the house, he set off on 
 the lonely ramble to which alone his me- 
 lancholy mood of mind was suited. Few 
 as her words of gossip had been, they had 
 excited another train of sad and a new 
 train of repining feeling within. He re- 
 menibered liis own youthful dreams of 
 philanthropy, vague indeed, but dwelt on 
 many an hour fondly in his breast. He 
 remembered how he had intended to be 
 the father of the tenantry ; realizing some 
 perhaps never perfectly hiliilled ideal of 
 a gentleman of the olden time, — how his 
 cares and attentions to their welfare were 
 to bring in " a golden year," where there 
 was to be no more want, no more distress, 
 no more crime. He turned his eye as he 
 passed along upon the Church, still dis- 
 figured by unsightly additions and mon- 
 strous deformities, and he remembered the 
 hopes he had once so enthusiastically 
 formed of restoring it to the beauty and 
 purity of its original proportions ; and 
 dreaming as he went, he marvelled why 
 the opportunities had been denied to him
 
 112 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 which would have been used to the glory 
 of God and for the good of man. And 
 while he indulged in the easy pleasure of 
 imaginative virtue and benevolence, he 
 scarcely thought of the holier, if not higher, 
 labours to which he had been called. 
 
 He reached the brow of the hill which 
 overlooked the valley, and there, leaning 
 his back against a gate, he stood with folded 
 arms indulging in a luxury of meditation ; 
 while unreproved, although unbidden, these 
 vague, regretful, distrustful thoughts chased 
 each other through his mind. 
 
 He was roused from his reverie by the 
 sound of a sweet voice and a musical laugh 
 from the high-road. Turning hastily round, 
 he observed two figures on horseback ap- 
 proaching at a rapid pace. He felt inter- 
 ested and excited, and contemplated them 
 with much curiosity. One was a young 
 man, extremely handsome and aristocratic 
 in his appearance, whose proud and stately 
 bearing, visible even at a first glance, suited 
 well with the lofty style of his beauty. 
 The other was a young lady, — very young,
 
 CLAEE ABBEY. 113 
 
 — she could not be much more than sixteen. 
 Her likeness to her companion betrayed at 
 once the nature of their relationship ; but 
 it was a likeness of a peculiar kind, which 
 struck you strangely at first, and was almost 
 forgotten afterwards. Her features were 
 the same finely-carved regular features — her 
 head had the same peculiar stately grace — 
 her whole appearance the same air of " pa- 
 trician beauty." But in her movements, in 
 her countenance, in her large, long-shaped 
 hazel eyes, half mischievous, half melan- 
 choly, there was a wildness, an airiness, a 
 grace, which gave to the character of her 
 beauty an expression totally dissimilar. She 
 was dressed in a fashion which is, I hope, 
 gradually displacing the modern ungraceful 
 riding-dress. A prettily-shaped jacket of 
 black velvet fell over the skirt of her habit, 
 and the long curls of her bright gold, or 
 pale auburn hair, floated from beneath a 
 low Spanish hat, round which a lace veil 
 was loosely streaming. She formed the 
 very ideal for the lady of a hawking pic- 
 ture of the olden time ; indeed about her 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 and about her companion likewise there was 
 that idea], poetic, colouring, which one ex- 
 presses, perhaps somewhat vaguely by the 
 words "looking like a pictm^e." 
 
 In passing the place where Ernest stood, 
 the horse of the young lady, either from a 
 rut or other obstruction in the road, or from 
 some carelessness on the part of the fair 
 rider, stumbled, and, for a moment, there was 
 danger of her being tlii'own to the ground. 
 With one bound, Ernest swung himself over 
 tlie gate, and laid his hand upon the bridle ; 
 but before he could grasp it, the young 
 lady had recovered her seat, and laughingly 
 patting the beautiful and penitent creature, 
 exclaimed, " Poor Brenda, I wonder whose 
 fault it was ! " 
 
 Looking up immediately afterwards, she 
 was about to thank Ernest, who had re- 
 treated to the side of the road ; but she was 
 forestalled by her companion. With some 
 haughtiness the young man raised his hat, 
 and slightly bending his head, said, 
 
 "My sister is much obliged to you for 
 your assistance;" then, stooping down, and
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 115 
 
 Stroking Brenda's flowing mane, he conti- 
 nued, '' Come, Camilla, it is late ;" and im- 
 mediately put his own horse in motion. 
 
 The young lady followed without speaking, 
 but turning with a smile to Ernest, and a 
 flitting blush on her fair cheek, she cour- 
 teously bowed her head, her long curls 
 sweeping over the horse's neck as she bent, 
 and rode away. 
 
 Ernest looked after them mth an eager, 
 intense, inquiring gaze, till they were out of 
 sight ; he then bounded over the gate, and 
 rapidly retraced his steps homewards. But 
 he was no longer the same person who had 
 so languidly wandered along an hour before. 
 He glanced over the valley, and brighter 
 than the noon- day sun fell the shadows of 
 approaching evening across his path. Where 
 was the gloom of despondency, where were 
 the cheerless prospects of a life of struggle 
 and warfare ? A ray of light had fallen 
 across his path, a spark of interest was 
 kindling the future into beauty. His hfe, 
 which of late he had contemplated as 
 "toward evening," shone bright again with 
 I 2
 
 116 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 "hues of the rich unfoldmg morn." New 
 thoughts, new hopes, new strength, new self- 
 devotion, new animation, 
 
 " By some soft touch invisible 
 Around his path were taught to swell." 
 
 How or wherefore tliis change of temper, 
 he could not perhaps himself have explained ; 
 yet there was nothing strange or miraculous 
 in it. The mere sight of these two beings, 
 by fancy easily named, — strangers in their 
 individual character, but no strangers to the 
 haunts of his imagination : — the sight of 
 them in their youth and their beauty, and 
 gifted with that lofty high-born air, which so 
 strongly appeals to the fancy, this was in 
 itself enough to lure him into a futm^e he 
 sometimes shrank from contemplating, with 
 thoughts of hope, and interest, and compa- 
 nionship. But such sudden changes of mood 
 are by no means uncommon. Ernest's lively 
 and sensitive mind was peculiarly suscep- 
 tible of sudden impressions ; for his was 
 
 *' That nature of humanity 
 Which both ways doth rebound — rejoicing now 
 With soarings of the soul, anon brought low."
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 117 
 
 But all men — with the exception of a very 
 few, who, as Fuller says, " seem to be made 
 of one entire bone, without any joints " — are 
 as easily acted upon as the chords of the 
 ^Eolian harp. A fleeting cloud, whose form 
 we have scarcely time to seize, passes over 
 our brain, and we sink into gloom ; a soft 
 breath, coming we know not whence, and 
 going we know not where, plays upon the 
 cloud, and it dissolves into mist again. 
 There are some verses by Hood, which 
 quaintly, but prettily, describe one of these 
 sudden, insensible changes, from darkness to 
 light : 
 
 '* Farewell life ! my senses swim. 
 And the world is growing dim ; 
 Thronging shadows cloud the light, 
 Like the advent of the night. 
 Colder, colder, colder still, 
 Upward starts a vapour chill ; 
 Strong the earthy odour grows, 
 I smell the mould above the rose. 
 
 "Welcome life! the spirit strives, 
 Strengtli returns, and hope revives ; 
 Cloudy fears and sliapes forlorn 
 Fly like shadows at the morn ; 
 O'er the earth there comes a bloom, 
 Sunny light, for sullen gloom ; 
 Warm perfume for vapours cold, 
 I smell the rose above the mould."
 
 118 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 On Ernest's return to the parsonage, he 
 found an invitation awaiting him, from which 
 he would gladly have freed himself. His 
 young curate stood in the doorway, express- 
 ing his regTet that duty should have com- 
 pelled him to be absent during the afternoon, 
 and requesting, with an earnestness which 
 would take no denial, that Ernest would 
 leave his uncomfortable home, and pass the 
 evening with his mother and himself. ]\Irs. 
 Cook warmly seconded the propriety of the 
 step, and Ernest gave way. He had spent 
 four hours of an unceasingly rainy day at the 
 house of his curate on the occasion of his 
 induction, a month before this time, and the 
 remembrance of those four hours were such 
 as to make him shrink from a repetition, 
 especially on this day, when his mind was 
 full of thoughts on the past, the present, and 
 the future. But he was one of those people 
 who have an innate dislike to a fuss ; and he 
 was too happy to escape from Mr. Hervey's 
 persuasions and Mrs. Cook's remonstrances 
 by a hasty acquiescence. 
 
 Mr. Hervey, the curate, was an amiable
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 119 
 
 young man, exemplary in his conduct both 
 as a son and a clergyman ; but he was dull 
 and commonplace, and more tedious than 
 dull people usually are, from the insatiable 
 desire which possessed him for information. 
 From dulness of a talkative narrating kind 
 it is easy to escape, the unfettered mind 
 wandering pleasantly during the flow of the 
 discourse ; but questions are a serious inflic- 
 tion. ]\Ir. Hervey's conversation was chiefly 
 confined to the interrogative mood. He 
 loved information, — not valuable information 
 only, but all information. He would ask in 
 the same breath the price of a horse and its 
 name ; he would follow up a question on an 
 abstruse point of geology or astronomy by 
 an inquuy as to the relative heights of two 
 unconnected individuals ; and the answers to 
 every question were laid side by side in his 
 mind, comprehensively classed together un- 
 der the head of so much information. His 
 mother was homely and unrefined ; but she 
 had more sense and observation than her 
 son, and a goodness of heart with which it 
 was impossible not to be pleased. For her
 
 120 CLAKE ABBEY. 
 
 habit of narration also, often tedious and 
 pointless as it was, there was tliis great ex- 
 cuse to be made, that it had been acquired, 
 and necessarily fixed, during the long course 
 of years in which she had been engaged in 
 bestowing information on her son. They 
 were both, however, considered in the Hght 
 of companions, rather serious trials to a pre- 
 occupied and wandering mind. 
 
 " Did you make a long journey to-day ? " 
 asked Mr. Hervey of Ernest, as they sat 
 down to dinner. 
 
 " Yes ; I came from London." 
 
 " Wliat do you suppose to be the exact 
 distance from here to London ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I suppose between eighty 
 and ninety miles." 
 
 " You came by the railroad, of course ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, of course," Ernest said, smiling. 
 
 " And I dare say you came in five or six 
 hours. Wonderful ! wonderful ! " sighed old 
 Mrs. Hervey. " I don't know how it may be, 
 I hope there is no harm in it ; but I some-, 
 times do think it never was intended that 
 men should fly through the air as they do
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 121 
 
 now-a-days. Wlien first I came to this part 
 of the country, — we came on a visit to old 
 Mr. Hargrave, at the Woods, — it 's fifty years 
 ago — I was a girl of eighteen — we were 
 tlnree days in coming from London. The 
 first night we slept at Henley-on-Thames, 
 my father was knocked up even then ; but 
 he was an invahd, to be sure ; and the second 
 night we slept — where did we sleep, Edward? 
 — how strange, that I should forget ! I know 
 there was a waiter with a spotty face ; for 
 my mother, who was always nervous about 
 infection, said, ' I wonder if he has got the 
 small-pox.' But, however, that is no matter 
 now : and the third night we arrived at the 
 Woods." 
 
 Such is a specimen of the conversation 
 with which Mr. and Mrs. Hervey entertained 
 their guest during dinner and the early part 
 of the evening. Ernest exerted himself, 
 however, to attend, to control his thoughts 
 during some thrice-repeated narrations from 
 Mrs. Hervey, and to bear patiently his cu- 
 rate's more tedious interrogatories ; and he 
 was at length rewarded for his endeavours
 
 122 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 by the sudden raising of a subject which 
 possessed a strange attraction for him, and 
 which a distaste to prying and gossip, joined 
 to some other mysterious feehngs, had alone 
 prevented him from introducing. 
 
 " What do you suppose to be the prevail- 
 ing style of architecture in which Clare 
 Abbey is built ? " inquired Mr. Hervey. 
 
 It was the first time that his former home 
 had been mentioned, Mrs. Hervey, with more 
 tact than her son, leaving the subject for 
 Ernest to introduce or not at his pleasure ; 
 but the quietness with which he now entered 
 upon the discussion convinced her that her 
 abstinence (a very painful one) had been 
 needless ; and she joyfully seized upon a 
 topic on which her tongue had been " itch- 
 ing " to expatiate,. 
 
 " Are 5^ou acquainted vntli Lord and Lady 
 Vere, Mr. De Grey?" she asked, when the 
 architecture had been discussed, and her 
 son was satisfied. 
 
 " Not at all," he replied. 
 
 " You are not singular in that respect," 
 remarked Mr. Hervey.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 123 
 
 " Edward is quite right," rejoined his mo- 
 ther. " Nobody can be said to know them. 
 I don't know how it is ; we have dined at 
 Clare Abbey — how many times, Edward ? — 
 three times, I think, in three years, and Lady 
 Vere has called here as many times, per- 
 haps ; but I don't know how it is, we don't 
 know them ; and everybody about here says 
 the same thing Lord Vere is never seen. 
 Lideed, ]\ir. De Grey, you will have hard 
 work : if he comes to chm^ch half a dozen 
 times a year, it is all he does do. I hope I 'm 
 saying nothing unkind, Edward ; but ^ir. 
 De Grey will have eyes as well as we have, 
 and the truth is the truth. Lady Vere was 
 not much better a year or two ago ; but Mr. 
 St. Maur, they say, persuades her to be more 
 regular ; and we shall see her to-morrow, as 
 he is at home, I don't doubt." 
 
 " Did you ever see the young St. Maurs?'* 
 inquired Mr. Hervey. 
 
 " Not unless, as I suppose, I met them 
 riding this afternoon." 
 
 " If you met young people riding, Mr. 
 De Grey, there's no doubt that you met the
 
 124 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 young St. Maurs. When Mr. St. Maur is 
 at home, he and his sister are always toge- 
 ther riding and walking. Mr. St. Maur is at 
 Oxford at present (that is, not at present ; 
 you understand, Mr. De Grey, vacation time); 
 and he remains there a year longer, I . be- 
 lieve. He is remarkably clever as we hear, 
 and they say he is to come into Parliament 
 in a year or so, and altogether he looks very 
 high. It is a sad pity that he is so haughty, 
 for there's no doubt but he is a well-dis- 
 posed young man ; but that's the way with 
 genius in this world. There's not a soul here- 
 abouts that he thinks fit to associate with. 
 Edward would be very happy to be a com- 
 panion when he's not too busy, but if he 
 meets him in his walks or his rides, Mr. St. 
 Maur bows and asks him how he does, and 
 there's an end of it ; — and the young lady 
 never leaves her brother when he is at 
 home ; and when he's not at home nobody 
 knows what becomes of her. She leads a 
 sad dull life, poor thing, and she feels it 
 I'm sure she does ; but she's a sweet pretty 
 creature, — is'nt she, Mr. De Grey?"
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 125 
 
 " Very pretty," he replied quietly; but lie 
 coloured slightly as he spoke, for a quiet 
 " very pretty " was not what he had thought 
 her. 
 
 " What a strange thing a family likeness 
 is ! " remarked Mr. Hervey. 
 
 " Ah ! Edward, you say that because you 
 think Miss St. Maur so like her brother; 
 but I don't see it. For my part I had rather 
 have one like Miss St. Maur, than twenty 
 such as that proud young gentleman. It's a 
 shame for me to say so, I, Edward's mother 
 too, for Mr. St. Maur is far more hope- 
 ful and religious, than his sister ; but then 
 she's young, Mr. De Grey, and she's a sweet 
 pretty creature, and that's the truth ; and 
 when she smiles, I could kiss her a hundred 
 times over. I never see her, but I think of 
 a cousin of my own, dead and gone these 
 thu'ty years ; sweet Amy Mills ! She was 
 just such another sweet thoughtless thing; 
 there was no seriousness in her ! but she fell 
 ill before she was twenty, and she bore a 
 long painful illness with the patience of a 
 young saint as she wa^^ ; and when she died.
 
 126 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 for she died in her early youth, she looked 
 so lovely, that there was one who said she 
 was not a dead child of earth, but a sleeping 
 angel of heaven. And I've often seen it ; 
 such is the end of those wild sweet heedless 
 things. But you are not going, Mr. De Grey ; 
 it's early yet." 
 
 "What is the exact hour by your watch,"" 
 inquu'ed Mr. Hervey. 
 
 " Nearly ten o'clock ; and I have a good 
 deal to arrange to-night." 
 
 " Do you suppose that your time is per- 
 fectly correct by London time?" 
 
 With some difficulty, Ernest extricated 
 himself from the offered society of Mr. 
 Hervey, and walked thoughtfully home 
 alone.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 127 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 
 Some chord in unison with what we hear 
 Is touched within us, and the heart replies, 
 
 wherever I have heard 
 
 A kindred melody, the scene recurs, 
 
 And with it all its pleasures and its pains ; 
 
 Such comprehensive views the spirit takes ' 
 
 That in a few short moments I retrace 
 
 The windings of my way through many years. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 The family at Clare Al3bey, were assem- 
 bled at the breakfast table, on the following 
 morning. Lord and Lady Yere sate opposite 
 each other; one side of the table was 
 empty ; on the other side, Camilla St. 
 Maur sate, as she always chose to do, by 
 her brother. Though there might be 
 some few points of similarity, nothing could 
 be more dissimilar than the general cha- 
 racter, and common habits of these two, and 
 yet the affection subsisting between them,
 
 128 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 was of that close and devoted kind, which 
 is sometimes said to be peculiar to twins, 
 but which probably only needs some simi- 
 larity of age, and the days of childhood 
 passed together. This affection and union 
 was the stronger, because in their home, 
 they were thro\\Ti entirely upon each other 
 lor companionship, meeting with little atten- 
 tion from one parent, and finding little 
 sympathy in the other. 
 
 Lady Vere's character may, I hope, be 
 tolerably well guessed, from the few words 
 she has already spoken. She was very 
 beautiful, at forty still beautiful, an utter 
 want of thought and sensation preserving 
 to her all the smoothness and freshness of 
 youth. Besides this uncommon beauty, she 
 had little to attract, for her only other 
 marked qualities, were indolence and folly. 
 She was, however, a patient and forbearing 
 wife, and though an injudicious, or rather an 
 unthinking, yet in her way, was an affec- 
 tionate mother. She was proud of her son, 
 and had reason to be so, and treated his 
 opinions with deference : to her daughter she
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 129- 
 
 allowed (except on a few points, where some 
 strict rules of her own youth, chiefly of bodily 
 restraint, were remembered and enforced) 
 unlimited indulgence, and if there was no 
 s}Tiipathy, there was no want of harmony. 
 
 Lord Vere's character had more expres- 
 sion. Lady Vere always called him, " My 
 love," but he looked very unlike anybody's 
 love, — most of all unlike hers. He was a 
 tall, thin, dry-looking man, whose features 
 once had been, nay still were, handsome ; 
 but were disfigured by an expression of 
 mingled sourness and discontent, sternness 
 and melancholy. His character in early 
 youth had not been without promise ; re- 
 sembling, in many of its features, the proud 
 aspiring nature which now characterized 
 his son ; but his son's ambition was of a 
 lofty and generous kind, his own had been 
 simply selfish. It might possibly have been 
 turned to good ; success, that salutary medi- 
 cine to many minds, might have enlarged 
 and purified it ; but it was disappointed, 
 and it shrank into the recesses of his spirit, 
 and turned to sourness. 
 
 VOL, I. K
 
 130 CLARE AEBEY. 
 
 Many trials await the pride of those who 
 at once court and despise their fellows. 
 Lord Vere suffered much, but struggled on 
 till a blow was struck which raised his pride 
 and withered his ambition. He came into 
 Parliament ; and if liis heart could ever have 
 been said to glow, at that time it glowed, 
 — not with the noblest passion, the desire 
 of being an instrument of good, yet with a 
 not ignoble one, the desire of fame. He de- 
 termined to make a figure, to earn a name : 
 a question arose on which he felt some in- 
 terest ; he took advantage of it ; he devoted 
 himself to the study of the subject, made 
 himself master of it ; at length rose to speak : 
 spoke, — and failed. His manner was hard 
 and dry, his arguments, though plausible, 
 false, — and words and manner both alike 
 were tinged, and more than tinged, with the 
 only youthful fault which produces harsh and 
 malicious criticism, — arrogance. His speech, 
 his argument, nay he himself, was turned 
 into ridicule, not only by his opponents in 
 the heat of the moment, but by many of 
 the leading papers of the day. Stung to the
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 131 
 
 quick, too proud to retort, too scornful to 
 explain, lie withdrew into himself, and ab- 
 jured friends, foes, and political life for ever. 
 His father's death shortly afterwards chang- 
 ing his condition, he retired into the country 
 and lived on his o^vn property the life of a 
 recluse. So ended his dream of ambition ; 
 ever afterwards all generous sentiments, all 
 lofty aspirations, if expressed in his presence, 
 were crushed with a cold sneer of scorn. 
 
 His second dream was of love ; and from 
 love his second disappointment came. It 
 might have been said, his friends had 
 often said, that love was a passion which 
 could find no place in his heart ; but human 
 nature is strangely inconsistent, for ever 
 escaping from the rules with which we 
 endeavour to trammel it ; and so Lord 
 Yere, inconsistent as it was with his pre- 
 vious habits and openly expressed opini- 
 ons, was betrayed, not only into a romantic 
 passion, but int) a foolish and romantic 
 marriage. He was some years more than 
 thirty, when he was ordered to Buxton ior 
 his health ; he there saw, admired, and 
 k2
 
 132 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 voluntarily made acquaintance with a young 
 lady of no fortune and no family, but whose 
 beauty was of a remarkable and dazzling 
 kind. Perhaps the extreme languor and 
 softness of her voice and manner were 
 soothing to the hardened nature of the man, 
 who fancied himself injured by his kind : 
 however this might be, he married her after 
 a short acquaintance; and so extreme was 
 his love and devotion, that it was many 
 months before he became aware that the 
 lips of his beautiful wife were incapable of 
 uttering anything but the most intolerable 
 folly — and that she was still more incapable 
 of comprehending the fervour of that affec- 
 tion, which, overcoming all barriers from 
 within and from without, had prevailed to 
 make her his wife. Such a discovery once 
 made, is made for ever, — the illusion which 
 casts a spell over folly, once dispersed, 
 returns no more. For the second time Lord 
 Vere withdrew into himself, and the spark of 
 unselfish feeling which might yet have kind- 
 led the dormant energies of liis nature, 
 appeared to be extinguished. Henceforward
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 166 
 
 he lived to himself only, — and the life with 
 his own dry self was dreary and uninspiring 
 indeed. In vain the beauty, the infantile 
 charms, the youthful grace of his daughter — 
 in vain the talents and promise of his son — 
 he took no heed of them ; and if it was with 
 an effort that pride and affection were some- 
 times restrained, it was not apparently so. 
 He was not an unkind father ; though cold 
 and repulsive in manner, in action he was 
 rather indulgent than otherwise. Except on 
 such points as interfered with his determined 
 plan of seclusion, he never thwarted their 
 wishes, or their will ; but a wish thwarted 
 with an expression of interest is worth, a 
 thousand times over, a careless acquiescence 
 in our desires, — and so his children felt. 
 
 " You have got a letter, Reginald," ex- 
 claimed Camilla, laying her hand on one 
 which her brother put down beside him ; 
 " where does it come from ? May I read 
 it — pray let me read it ?" 
 
 In some houses letters are even too plen- 
 tiful; but a letter was a rare sight at Clare 
 Abbey.
 
 134 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 "It will not interest you, my dear Ca- 
 milla." 
 
 " Oh ! yes it mil ; ever}^thing interests 
 me that interests you; and besides, I like 
 to hear of things that happen in some other 
 world than this. Now, let me read it — 
 pray do," and she put her hand on his arm. 
 
 He gave her the letter. 
 
 "What is it all about?" she cried, looking 
 up with a puzzled look ; " I can't under- 
 stand it ! What have you been doing, — and 
 what has made a sensation, as the man 
 says?" 
 
 " I told you, Camilla, it would not interest 
 you," Reginald said, smiling, and he held 
 out his hand. 
 
 " But it does interest me, and I "s\dll 
 understand it. Now take your hand away, 
 for I mean to make it out. Now I begin 
 to see ; you have been making a speech, and 
 your friend says that it has been so much 
 admired, that Somebody Somebody — I wish 
 he wrote a little better— calls you Demos- 
 thenes. Oh ! Reginald, when did you speak; 
 and why didn't you tell me?"
 
 CLAEE ABBEY. 135 
 
 "My dear Camilla," he said, with a look 
 of annoyance, '' I wish you would not make 
 such a fuss. We occasionally meet to speak, 
 to practice speaking at Oxford; and one 
 night, there was some rather good speaking, 
 that was all." 
 
 " I thought people only made speeches in 
 Parliament," remarked Lady Yere. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, don't you remember Co- 
 lonel Ashby's speech at Salisbury, last week, 
 which they said lasted two hours ? " 
 
 " Yes, to be sure ; I wonder what it was 
 all about. What did you speak about, 
 Reginald ?" 
 
 " It was a mere question for the purpose 
 of debate, mother; it was of no importance." 
 
 ^' What was the subject?" asked Lord 
 Yere, shortly and suddenly, — looking up 
 from the newspaper. 
 
 Reginald coloured, but replied in the re- 
 spectful tone in which he always addressed 
 both his parents, 
 
 " The question that was proposed was on 
 the subject of ambition ; whether greatness 
 was or was not desirable simply for itself?"
 
 136 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " And what might your sage opinion be ?" 
 
 " I said that to rise was in itself an 
 object for ambition;" and his eyes flashed as 
 he spoke. 
 
 His father turned to the newspaper with 
 a slight scoffing laugh ; but Camilla ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 " Right, Reginald, right ; who were the 
 dull, stuj)id people who could think other- 
 wise t 
 
 " They were not dull or stupid," he said, 
 gravely; ''and though for some reasons my 
 speech was the most applauded, / know that 
 there was no comparison between mine and 
 that of the person who answered me. He 
 did not convince me," he added, with a 
 slight sigh ; " but I felt that his words were 
 better, and wiser too." 
 
 "Applauded! Reginald!" exclaimed his 
 sister, eagerly; "were you cheered? — oh! if 
 I had but been there." 
 
 " Talking of speaking," said Lady Vere, 
 in her languid voice, " Mitford tells me that 
 we shall have a new preacher to-day. Shall 
 you go to church, my love ?"
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 137 
 
 " My love " took no notice of the question. 
 She turned to her son, and repeated it. 
 
 " Yes, mother, certainly." 
 
 " I think I shall go, because Mitford has 
 trimmed my new bonnet, — a sort of white 
 fancy straw, with blue marabout feathers ; 
 it 's exceedingly pretty. What shall you 
 wear, Camilla?" 
 
 " The same as usual, mamma," she replied, 
 carelessly ; "I didn't know that we need 
 dress for Mr. De Grey." 
 
 Reginald glanced at her : her disrespect- 
 ful manner to her mother was the subject 
 of his constant but unavailing remon- 
 strance. 
 
 "Now, my dear Reginald," she said, 
 always distressed by his displeasure, though 
 rarely amended by it, " can you say that there 
 is any necessity for a new bonnet because 
 a new clergyman happens to come to our 
 dull church?" 
 
 He shook his head with a slight grave 
 smile, but said nothing. 
 
 " Do you know, Reginald," she added, 
 suddenly, " from what Mitford was telling
 
 138 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 mamma last night, I think our very civil 
 friend must have been Mr. De Grey." 
 
 "Do you think it was?" he asked, ^vith 
 interest in his manner. 
 
 " I am sure it must have been ; because 
 Mitford says when she went do^\Ti to buy 
 some ribbon she saw him arrive, and when 
 she came back, about half an horn* after- 
 wards, she saw the same person walking in 
 our direction. I hope it was ; I liked his 
 looks, didn't you, Reginald ? " 
 
 " I really hardly observed him, Camilla, — 
 I was thinking of you ;" and he looked at 
 her with one of the sweet fond smiles which 
 brightened and softened his proud beauty. 
 
 "/thought you were very short to him,'* 
 she said, laughing ; " I liked his looks, not 
 the least like a clergyman ; how different 
 to that poor, ^vretched Mr. Hervey. I 
 don't know if mamma was not right, and 
 that he would have been worth a new bon- 
 net after all ;" and she looked mischievously 
 up in her brother's grave face as she spoke. 
 
 He shook his head again, but indulgently, 
 as at a pretty naughty child whose wilful
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 139 
 
 ways are too winning for anger, and left the 
 breakfast-table. 
 
 Untamed and unrestrained, Camilla St. 
 ]\Iaur had gro^^n to be a woman ; a few 
 strict rules laid upon her body, forming the 
 only yoke of her education. Unless when 
 emancipated by her brother's presence, her 
 body was a slave to the precincts of the 
 Abbey ; for Lacly Vere had strict ideas as 
 to what a young lady should, and should not 
 do : but no such restraint was imposed on 
 her mind. She had had one or two foolish 
 governesses ; but folly exerts no authority, 
 or if it exerts, fails to obtain it ; and so her 
 mind had grown in unfettered freedom, with 
 few principles to guide her, and those few 
 caught from her brother's example, or 
 springing up naturally in a mind as fruit- 
 ful in flowers as in weeds. She spent what 
 she chose ; did what she chose ; read what 
 she chose ; learned what she chose, or 
 wasted her time as she chose, — and so at six- 
 teen and a half, she was nothing but as j\Irs. 
 Hervey said, " a wild, sweet, heedless thing," 
 surpassingly lovely, quick in apprehension,
 
 140 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 vivid in imagination ; yet all these good 
 things wasting their sweetness from want of 
 culture. 
 
 Strange, unspeakably strange, were the 
 feelings of Ernest De Grey as he stood in 
 the pulpit of the village church, and pre- 
 pared to address his parishioners for the first 
 time. The voices of the school-children were 
 singing the hundredth psalm, the favourite of 
 his childish fancy ; and as the sounds fell 
 upon his ear (the same discordant tones from 
 the old grinding organ, the same unsoftened, 
 unmusical notes from the children), memory 
 transported him from the spot on which he 
 now stood, and once more placed him a 
 child by his mother's side, and once more 
 he gazed upon the old organ as the wonder 
 of the world, and the twang of the children 
 fell pleasantly upon his ear. A sudden failure 
 in the organ, such as he remembered in the 
 olden time, aroused him from this fh^st back- 
 ward flight of his fancy ; and there came a 
 remembrance of the hour in his boyish life, 
 when the idea first dawned upon his mind
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 141 
 
 that the music in Cranleigh church was not 
 such a concord of sweet sounds as he had 
 childishly imagined ; and then, connected 
 with this discovery, he almost smiled as he 
 recalled the day when, in the independence 
 of enlightened boyhood, he had left his 
 mother's side, and had chosen for himself a 
 prominent and luxurious position in the large 
 cm-tained roomy pew, which of all the de- 
 formities of Cranleigh church was the most 
 unsightly and the most indefensible. Led 
 away by this recollection, he involuntarily 
 turned his eyes upon the interior of the pew, 
 until this moment hidden from his sight, and 
 there, in his boyhood's chosen seat, stood 
 Camilla St. Maur, the \'ision of the preceding 
 evening. A bright slanting gleam of sun- 
 shine was falling upon her, encircling her 
 fairy figure, her airy dress, making her laugh- 
 ing eyes to sparkle, and her hair to shine 
 like threads of gold. It was too lovely a 
 vision for such a time, and almost 
 
 " The preacher in his parting prayer 
 Shut his dark eyes, and warn'd men to beware 
 Of beauty."
 
 142 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 These trains of thought are long in de- 
 scription, but they passed through the mind 
 swifter than the arroAv from the bow. The 
 last verse of the psalm was singing, when 
 Ernest stood up in the pulpit and looked 
 around him ; the verse concluded, and calm, 
 grave, and composed, he began the words of 
 the opening prayer, driving back with one 
 strong resolute effort the feverish dreams of 
 the past and the futiu*e into the recesses of 
 his mind. 
 
 The discourse of the new rector of Cran- 
 leigh was not heard unmoved by his congre- 
 gation. Many tears were shed by the poor, 
 who have those outward signs of emotion 
 ready at every call of sorrow and of joy ; and 
 even in the less excitable hearts of the rich 
 there were feelings unexpressed, inexpress- 
 ible, whose only outward sign could have 
 been tears. And this not because Ernest was 
 a fine preacher — far from it. His sermon 
 was short, his language simple and concise ; 
 his manner serious, and no more. There was 
 no kindling of the eloquence wliich, whatever 
 may be its ultimate effect, for the moment
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 143 
 
 few can resist ; there was no fervour of reli- 
 gious feeling, no ardoiu* of youthful zeal ; 
 there was but that which goes straight and 
 direct to the hearts of all men, young and 
 old, rich and poor — Truths — the plain and 
 simple expression of natural feelmg. He 
 spoke of its being the first time on which he 
 was called to address them — quietly, with a 
 kind of restrained feeling, far more touching 
 than its full expression ; he spoke of his 
 former connection with them, and of the 
 additional interest which that connection 
 must give to his duties amongst them, and 
 to his wishes for their welfare. He spoke of 
 the awful responsibility that was laid upon 
 his shoulders, and touchingly, as if he felt it 
 in his heart, of his own weakness and unwor- 
 thiness to bear it ; concluding with a short 
 and earnest appeal to his flock, imploring 
 them to make that burden less by their own 
 attention to their duty, and by assisting him 
 with their endeavours and their prayers. 
 
 If to such words be added the influence of 
 a voice low and melodious, and of an appear- 
 ance singularly prepossessing, few perhaps
 
 144 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 will be disposed to wonder at the good reso- 
 lutions made that day by many a youthfid 
 heart, — resolutions frail and fleeting as youth 
 itself, — that neither look, nor word, nor deed 
 of theirs should ever grieve the heart of him 
 who had looked down upon them " as ten- 
 derly," a young girl said, " as if he had. been 
 the father of them all." 
 
 Remnald St. Maur sat during the sermon 
 with his hand over his eyes. Once Camilla 
 looked at him, and smiled — smiled as the 
 young, ashamed of being touched are apt to 
 do ; but he did not heed her. The interest 
 with which he had early thought of Ernest 
 De Grey had strengthened with his advancing 
 years ; and that interest his present position 
 amongst them, and his appearance and lan- 
 guage that day, were further calculated to 
 increase. There was that about him, in his 
 manner and in his words — speaking of feel- 
 ing and the conquest of feeling — a kind of 
 " brave tenderness," as it has been happily 
 expressed, which went to Reginald's heart ; 
 and as he gazed on the youthful preacher.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 145 
 
 and hung upon his words, he felt his spirit 
 stirred with undefinable emotion. 
 
 At the conclusion of the service, when he 
 had assisted to place his mother comfortably 
 in the barouche, he drew back, sa}dng he 
 would walk home. 
 
 " Now, Reginald," exclaimed Camilla, lean- 
 ing out, and looking at him reproachfully, 
 " what are you going to do ? Wliy didn't you 
 tell me ? I would a thousand times rather 
 walk." 
 
 He smiled, but made no answer, and de- 
 sired the coachman to drive on. He stood 
 in the churchyard, while the throng of vil- 
 lagers passed by, raising his hat to every 
 bow, even to the curtsey of every little child, 
 with the grave and distant comlesy which 
 distinguished him, — speaking to none, fami- 
 har with none, but courteous to all. When 
 all had departed, and he was left alone, he 
 turned into the path wliich led from the 
 porch of the church, and there waited till 
 Ernest and Mr. Hervey appeared. He then 
 went forward to meet them, and begging Mr. 
 Hervey to introduce him, he held out liis 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 hand to Ernest. His manner was not cordial^ 
 for the word cordiality implies a heartiness 
 of welcome which was foreign to Reginald's 
 natmre ; but there was in it a deep and 
 respectful interest, far removed from the 
 condescension usually characterizing the 
 unbending of stateliness. 
 
 "I did not know you last night, Mr. 
 De Grey, or I should have done more than 
 thank you for your khidness to my sister." 
 
 " Neither did I know you," replied Ernest^ 
 smiling ; " though, perhaps, I guessed who 
 you might be." 
 
 They stood for a few moments in silence, 
 a little awkwardness and constraint on both 
 sides ; but Reginald seemed determined to 
 overcome it. 
 
 "If you are going home, Mr. De Grey," 
 he began again, " perhaps you will let us 
 go together as far as your house." 
 
 And together they set off: but little 
 advance was made in acquaintance ; for Mr. 
 Hervey, feeling for once somewhat import- 
 ant, could not refrain from making an exhi- 
 bition to Ernest of his intimacy with " tlie
 
 CLARE ABBEY, 147 
 
 proud young Lord," as Reginald was com- 
 monly called. It was a momentary ebullition 
 of vanity, for usually he was humble enough ; 
 and, in fact, his pride in Reginald's notice 
 was prompted by a better feeling than mere 
 servile vanity : it was far rather the uncon- 
 scious homage paid to a character above the 
 common level of humanity ; and Mr. Hervey 
 was but one among many by whom this 
 homage was paid. 
 
 " I hope Lady Vere and Miss St. Maur are 
 quite well," he began, as they walked along. 
 " Quite well, thank you," Reginald replied, 
 with cold civility. 
 
 " I suppose they came to chm-ch in the 
 barouche, as usual?" 
 
 " Yes. My mother is not a great walker." 
 " What do you take to be the distance 
 from here to Clare Abbey?" 
 
 " I don't know," Reginald said, coldly. He 
 was annoyed at the mention of the name. 
 Those whose minds are fixed on one parti- 
 cular event in the life of others, are apt to 
 fancy a power to wound in allusions which 
 the most interested do not even remark. 
 l2
 
 148 CLAKE ABBEY. 
 
 " I suppose it is rather more than a mile 
 by the road," Ernest said, indifferently. 
 
 "Mr. De Grey is better acquainted ^\dth 
 the country than either you or I," was Mr. 
 Hervey's next opportune remark. 
 
 Reginald coloured, and they walked on in 
 silence till they came in sight of the par- 
 sonage. 
 
 He then stopped; and after shaking hands 
 with distant civility with Mr. Hervey, turned 
 to Ernest, and, colouring again, said, he- 
 sitatingly : 
 
 " I hope to see you again soon, Mr. De 
 Grey, and my mother and sister also wish 
 to make your acquaintance. May we ex- 
 pect, if it is not disagreeable to you, to 
 see you at ... at home ? " 
 
 " May I call at Clare Ahhey to-morrow?" 
 Ernest said, with a shght smile and a slight 
 emphasis on the words. 
 
 Reginald smiled also, and held out his 
 hand. Each understood perfectly the feel- 
 ings and the meaning of the other. Al 
 awkwardness vanished between them ; the 
 awkwardness on Ernest's side, of fearmg to
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 149 
 
 remind of what he once had been ; on Re- 
 ginald's side, of seeming to patronize him 
 who had once stood in his position. It 
 was such an understanding as could never 
 have been given by the comparatively 
 shackled language of the tongue. 
 
 " I don't know how it is, mother," said 
 Mr. Hervey, throwing himself with some 
 vexation, though without a spark of resent- 
 ment, into a chair, in the little drawing- 
 room of their cottage ; " I don't know how 
 it is, but that young St. Maur seems to 
 take more to Mr. De Grey in this one day, 
 than he has to me in the whole three 
 years that we have been acquamted with 
 him?" 
 
 " It is but natural, Edward," said Mrs, 
 Hervey, consolingly ; continuing, with some 
 observation, " you know, as one may say, 
 there is something between them that binds 
 them together. One stands in the other's 
 place ; just so, I remember, when your sis- 
 ter, Mary, and Anne Morrisson, poor girl, 
 were both in love with Alfred, and didn't 
 know for the life of them which he liked
 
 150 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 best. They were always clinging together, 
 as if, though they said nothing about it, 
 there was something that joined them ; and 
 so it is with these young men. And what 
 did you think of Mr. De Grey's sermon, my 
 dear?" 
 
 " It was very good, mother. What do 
 you suppose the length of it to have been? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't Imow. It made me feel aU 
 up and down, and I didn't think of the 
 length. I am sure, though, that it was not 
 long, for I could have listened for another 
 hour with pleasure. And how sweetly pretty 
 Miss St. Maur looked to-day. I don't know 
 what young men are made of now-a-days ; 
 they 're not a bit what I remember- In 
 my young days we should have had them 
 falling down and worsliipping such a sweet, 
 sprightly blossom as that ; and now you are 
 all taken up with Mr. St. Maur, and not a 
 word of that young flower. However, no 
 doubt, it's as well as it is," she added, with 
 a nod of her head and a look of recollection.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 151 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Mad, natural graces, that extinguish art 
 
 King Henry the Sixth. 
 
 Words uttered from the heart, find their way to the heart. 
 Character is power. — Cecil's Remains. 
 
 Ernest still felt as in a state of previous 
 existence while passing along the corridor, 
 and entering the drawing-room at Clare 
 Abbey, in which so many happy hours had, 
 in former days, been passed. All was pre- 
 cisely as he had left it : the same pictures 
 hung against the walls ; the same china 
 ornamented the marble slabs ; though it all 
 looked bright and fresh, it w^as the same 
 patterned chintz, with its well-remembered 
 bunches, that covered the furniture ; and the 
 furniture itself stood in precisely the same 
 forms in which it had been left by Mrs. De 
 Grey. Most people have a fancy of their
 
 152 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 own as to the arrangement of their rooms ; 
 and even if they come to the perfection of 
 comfort, make some little change to mark 
 their own individuality ; but Lady Vere had 
 no thoughts ; and if she had found her draw- 
 ing-room arranged after the approved fashion 
 of houses " to let/' with a round table in 
 the middle, and a sofa against the wall, it is 
 probable she would have been perfectly 
 satisfied with it. To complete the illusion, 
 in the same place, on the same sofa to which 
 ill-health had for many years confined his 
 mother. Lady Vere was indolently reclining. 
 One object only spoke not of the past ; and 
 as his eyes, dreamily wandering around, 
 rested on that one, it was sufficient, as once 
 before it had been, to drive him from dreams 
 of the past to still more dream-like thoughts 
 of the fiiture. That one object was Camilla 
 St. Maur, who was seated at the piano-forte, 
 at the farther end of the room. 
 
 Lady Vere half rose as Ernest approached 
 her, bowed her beautiful eyehds rather than 
 her head, and, without speaking, occupied 
 herself for the next few moments in placing
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 153 
 
 her feet on a footstool, and arranging a cushion 
 for her back. Camilla came hastily forward, 
 and with the unconscious grace and fearless 
 self-possession which is often the effect of a 
 retired education, held out her hand to him, 
 saying, mth a bright smile and a bright blush, 
 " We are not strangers, Mr. De Grey." 
 It has been said, that her beauty was 
 very perfect and regular ; but the impression 
 left by her beauty was not that of a perfect 
 and regular kind ; it was rather that which 
 is expressed by such words as " interesting," 
 and " fascinating." Its peculiar charm seemed 
 to consist in its rapid changes and strong 
 contrasts ; all blending into one harmonious 
 whole, but keeping the attention constantly 
 aUve, forcing you to watch her countenance, 
 tliat you might trace what inward feehng it 
 was which in one instant banished her colour 
 and banished her smiles ; or, on the con- 
 trary, lit up its melancholy beauty into the 
 sparkling loveliness of a child. She was 
 prettily dressed this day in a light muslin 
 gown, ornamented with sea-green ribbons ; 
 her long curls loosely turned up, and falhng
 
 154 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 from the back of her head. Ernest, an 
 admirer by instinct of all that was beautiful 
 in art or in nature, thought he never yet had 
 seen in all the world of beauty an object 
 so exquisitely lovely as the young creature 
 before him. 
 
 She sat down, slightly moved a chair 
 towards him, and went on. 
 
 " I told mamma of our meeting the other 
 night, and how nearly you made our ac- 
 quaintance under very unpleasant circum- 
 stances." 
 
 " Yes, Camilla told me she had almost had 
 a fall," said Lady Vere, settling herself com- 
 fortably in a slanting posture ; "it would 
 have been very disagreeable. I am glad 
 you were there." 
 
 " Not that you were of any use, IVIr. De 
 Grey," Camilla said, shaking her head. " I 
 can't allow you to think you were." 
 
 "I assure you, I did not think so," Ernest 
 rephed, smiling; and he scarcely wondered 
 at finding himself at once on a footing of 
 perfect intimacy ^vith those who, as stran- 
 gers, had occupied so much of his thoughts,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 155 
 
 SO careless and unconscious was the ease of 
 the young girl. 
 
 " What a hot day it is," remarked Ladj 
 Vere. 
 
 " The sun is hot, but there is a cold 
 wind." 
 
 " Did you walk all the way from Cran- 
 leigh ? You must be very tired." 
 
 Ernest smiled. 
 
 Camilla said, " You are a great walker, I 
 am sure, Mr. De Grey." 
 
 ^'Why do you think so?" he asked, 
 smiling ; "not because I have walked from 
 Cranleigh?" 
 
 " no ! I think nothing of that myself ; 
 but I am sure you are given to long solitary 
 rambles. You could not stay quietly at 
 home on Saturday to arrange your things, 
 as you ought to have done, but you must 
 set off and walk for I don't know how many 
 hours on your first evening." 
 
 " It was my things which drove me out," 
 he said, laughing. " I could hardly fuid a 
 place even to put my hat upon. If you 
 know the wretched desolate look of a new,
 
 156 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 disarranged house, you will not wonder at 
 my escaping from it as fast as I could." 
 
 " I don't know anything about it ; and 1 
 am sure I should like it if I did. I am 
 sure I should like a change, even to be 
 uncomfortable. We never once have moved 
 since first we came to this dull., stupid^ 
 tedious place ; and I don't care how soon 
 a change comes." She spoke the words 
 with emphasis. 
 
 Ernest involuntarily coloured, and looked 
 annoyed. Was it really thus : the home 
 over which his own heart was yearning — 
 was it but dull and stupid to those who 
 were the envied possessors of it ? 
 
 Camilla saw his look, reproached herself 
 for her thoughtlessness ; and, moving her 
 chair nearer to him, said, blushing deeply, 
 and bending forward, " Now, I should 
 not have said that to you. I am very 
 sorry." 
 
 " Pray, don't be sorry ! there is no need. 
 Pray, don't think that you have annoyed 
 me," Ernest said, angry with himself, and 
 feeling — ^but it would be difficult to describe
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 157 
 
 exactly what he did feel towards her at that 
 moment. 
 
 "What did you say, Camilla?" asked 
 Lady Vere. 
 
 " Something, as usual, that I ought not to 
 have said," she repHed. Then jumping up, 
 she rang the bell, saying, " I quite forgot to 
 send for Reginald. He told me to let him 
 know if Mr. De Grey called." 
 
 "Where is Reginald?" 
 
 " Reading in his room, mamma. I went 
 and rattled at the door a little while ago, 
 but he would not notice me. He fastens 
 his door to keep me out," she went on, 
 turning to Ernest, " for five or six hours 
 a day ; he says he can't read if I am there. 
 Isn't it very hard ?" 
 
 The thought that passed through Ernest's 
 mind would, if expressed, have taken the 
 form of a vapid compliment, — and he was no 
 complimenter ; so he only laughed, and said 
 nothing. 
 
 " You have no sister to worry you at your 
 studies, have you, Mr. De Grey?" 
 
 " No. If my studies don't get on as well
 
 158 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 as they should, I have nobody to blame but 
 myself." 
 
 "But they do get on very well, I suppose? 
 Reginald says, — ^but here is Reginald." 
 
 " Mr. De Grey is here, my dear Reginald," 
 remarked Lady Vere. " Camilla sent to tell 
 you." 
 
 Camilla got up, and drew a chair for her 
 brother between herself and Ernest. He 
 thanked her with a smile, and sat down ; 
 but the ease of the visit was gone. Camilla 
 left her brother to speak; and he, anxious 
 as he was to make Ernest feel at home, and 
 unrestrained, had not the gift of easy con- 
 versation, which his sister possessed. Long 
 pauses ensued, and the mtervals were filled 
 up by wise observations from Lady Vere, 
 which seemed, in her son's presence, to be 
 more utterly witliout point or meaning than 
 before. 
 
 Ernest soon got up and took leave, and 
 Reginald followed him. He took down his 
 hat in the corridor, and, opening a side glass- 
 door, led him into the garden. He then 
 said —
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 159 
 
 " Another day, Mr. De Grey, I shall ask 
 you to pay me a visit, and a longer one. But 
 I know that your first visit to us must have 
 been painful, and if my presence annoys 
 you, and you would rather go through these 
 well-known ways alone, only say so, and I 
 shall not misunderstand you." 
 
 Ernest's heart was full of many thoughts 
 and many sensations, but they were not now 
 thoughts of himself, or regretful mournings 
 over the past ; they were rather strange 
 sweet feelings of gratitude and love for those 
 who had shown such unbidden thoughtful- 
 ness and consideration for him. It took 
 a moment to overcome a perhaps some- 
 what unmanly softness, which the combina- 
 tion of these new feelings, with the feelmgs 
 natural to the spot where he stood, was 
 tending to produce ; and Reginald, fancying 
 he was answered, turned away. 
 
 " Pray, don't think I wish to be alone ! " 
 Ernest said, recovering his bewildered 
 senses ; " I was silent only because I could 
 not thank you for your kindness as I should 
 wish to do. I will not deny," he continued,
 
 160 CLAKE ABBEY. 
 
 after a moment's thought, " that it was pain- 
 ful to me to come here to-day ; I was very 
 fond of this place, and I had not quite made 
 up my mind to see it in other hands ; but if 
 I say this honestly, will you equally believe 
 me when I say that it is painful no more." 
 
 They walked on together. Reginald 
 suddenly said, 
 
 " I have thought so much of you, Mr. De 
 Grey, all my life long." 
 
 " Have you?" Ernest said, with some sur- 
 prise. " I have thought of you, — but then 
 that Avas but natural." 
 
 "Have you thought of me as I have thought 
 of you, ivith envyV Reginald asked with a 
 slight smile. 
 
 " With envy ! — of me ! " Poor Ernest 
 had never been m the habit of contem- 
 plating his own destiny as one to be 
 envied. 
 
 " You wonder that I should envy you," 
 said his companion; "but it has always 
 seemed to me that 3'ou were born to be 
 great. . Beginning life with such a sacrifice, 
 thrown entirely upon yoiu-self, yours was a
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 161 
 
 destiny to create ambition, and to fulfil it." 
 The eyes of the young man sparkled, and 
 his cglour rose as he spoke. 
 
 " And how do you think of me now ? " 
 asked Ernest, with some sadness in his tone. 
 
 Reginald was silent. 
 
 " Not with envy now? " 
 
 " I confess," Reginald said, after a short 
 silence, " that when I first heard, three years 
 ago, of the life you had chosen, I heard it 
 with such wonder and regret, that I ceased 
 to ask about you fi:om old Mr. Temple, 
 ceased to think of you as I had done. I 
 was disappointed in you. I thought you 
 had thrown your destiny away. But lat- 
 terly, since I heard of your returning here, 
 although I have ceased to env}^, I have 
 thought of you again." 
 
 '' You despise the life I have ..." Ernest 
 hesitated before he said the word, but he 
 did at last say it — "chosen." 
 
 " No, not despise," replied Reginald, 
 gravely. " I respect, even admire, those 
 who devote themselves to it. But then, it 
 IS a life open to all ; it needs no peculiar 
 
 VOL. T. M
 
 162 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 talents, it leads to no greatness ; it is a good 
 path, a holy life, but it is not a life for the 
 ambition of those who would rise high and 
 do great and lofty deeds. I do not think it 
 was the life wliich you should have chosen, 
 Mr. De Grey." 
 
 Ernest had said the same to himself a 
 hundred times ; his constant feeling wavS 
 (though prompted by motives less high than 
 those which animated his youthful compa- 
 nion), that he was "cabin'd, cribb'd, con- 
 fined ; " but answers which we seek for in 
 vain, to the questionings of our own discon- 
 tented spirits, come at our call when those 
 questionings fall from the lips of others. 
 Arguments unthought of before now rose in 
 Ernest's mind. 
 
 " I have often felt as you do," he said, 
 thoughtfully, " but I suppose we are wrong 
 in thinking so much of the greatness which 
 is in the sight of men. Your ambition would 
 be to influence on a large scale, to influence 
 or lead your countrymen, to guide the des- 
 tinies of nations. But if we consider the 
 point seriously, and remember how nations
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 163 
 
 are made up of separate individuals, the 
 life of a country clergyman, whose office 
 is to lead to the highest virtue, say but 
 five or six hundred ignorant human beings, 
 is, in fact, as important, — as important in 
 the fate even of nations, — as the more en- 
 larged but less certain influence of a states- 
 man. Should not we who are Christians 
 think the greatest of all deeds, the highest 
 as well as the holiest, to preach the faith 
 which we profess ? " 
 
 " If you were speaking of the life of a 
 missionary, I could understand and agree 
 with you," Reginald replied. " To convert 
 the multitudes of the heathen, to be the 
 first to plant the Cross on an idolatrous 
 shore — I have dreamed of such a life my- 
 self," he added, with a smile and a sparkling 
 eye, " but it is, not too high, but too holy 
 for me." 
 
 Ernest looked up at his companion, and 
 while he gazed with strange feelings of ad- 
 miration on his pure and lofty beauty, his 
 heart was stirred and saddened, — stirred 
 with vague, aspiring, ambitious dreams, and 
 M 2
 
 164 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 saddened as he thought of the vows and 
 chains of filial duty, which bound him to a 
 life from which for the moment he recoiled 
 with something of contempt. But he never 
 yet had expressed to a human being, not 
 even to his mother, the reluctance with 
 which he had entered upon that life, and 
 the struggles tlirough which its duties were 
 performed ; and they were not expressed now. 
 With a violent effort, quelling the rising 
 discontent, he said, with a grave smile : 
 
 " You must not make me discontented 
 with my hfe ; at any rate, for the pre- 
 sent, my duties lie in England, and here ; 
 and lowly as those duties may be, even 
 already I feel that they are higher than I 
 can perform." 
 
 Reginald made no answer, but walked 
 thoughtfully on. Stopping at last, and turn- 
 ing suddenly round, he waved his hand 
 over the landscape which lay stretched, and 
 smiling, in the luxuriance of early autumn, 
 before them, and said, musingly : 
 
 " How strange the destinies of this world 
 are, Mr, De Grey ! I remember hearing,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 165 
 
 when first we came here, that it had broken 
 your heart to leave your home; and still I 
 see that, however well and nobly you have 
 borne the loss of your inheritance, and the 
 change of life to which that loss has con- 
 demned you, your mind, and thoughts, and 
 love are centred upon it still ; and yet it is 
 taken from you, and given to me-^-to whom 
 it is nothing y 
 
 " Is it really so? — Is it nothing to you?" 
 Ernest said, sadly and wonderingly. Regi- 
 nald was right; every floAver of the field, 
 every blade of grass that was trampled 
 under his feet was dear to him. In some 
 minds, the sense of local attachment is a 
 passion strong as the attachments of human 
 love ; and his was one of these. 
 
 " I see and own its beauty," Reginald 
 replied ; " I like it as my home ; and if I 
 were allowed to choose my home from all 
 the world, I might probably choose this 
 one; but still, it is nothing to me. My 
 hopes are not here. The duties which may 
 one day be mine, — important ones, I own, 
 and which you, I feel, would so well have
 
 166 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 performed, — are trifling and irksome to me. 
 I long to be free and unshackled, to follow 
 where my destiny would lead me, — free as 
 you were, Mr. De Grey." 
 
 " It is strange," said Ernest, thoughtfully. 
 After a moment, however, he continued, " But 
 as we are bound to believe that the circum- 
 stances in which we are placed are, if we 
 use them rightly, the best disciplme for our 
 minds, I think I can see, without much 
 thought, the use which we should make of 
 ours. You must learn to stoop, and I must 
 learn to rise. Yours is the easiest task. 
 A very short experience will teach you, that 
 events and duties are not great and small 
 in themselves, but in the motives that 
 prompt, and the consequences that follow 
 them. My task is harder — " he paused, and 
 sighed; then added with a smile, though 
 rather a melancholy one, " I believe I have 
 been using my office and preaching to you ; 
 but I feel much more the need of your 
 preaching to me." 
 
 They parted shortly after, and each went 
 thoughtfully on his way.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 1B7 
 
 A character like Reginald's had never 
 crossed Ernest's path before. Had he met 
 with such an one in earlier days, it is pro- 
 bable that he would have been less tied 
 and bound with the chains of human 
 feelings, and human infirmities than he 
 now was ; for his nature was impressible, 
 needing but a spark to kindle its fire and 
 animate it into exertion ; but such characters 
 as Reginald's are rare, — and more rare, I 
 think, in men, at least at the present day, 
 than in women. The cold outside, — the am- 
 bition burning and consuming within, — the 
 indifference to all which the world calls 
 good, and the eyes set on dreams in which 
 the world perceives no beauty ! — such are 
 not, I think, met with more than once or 
 twice in life ; or if they are, it is under cir- 
 cumstances which, from position, command 
 less attention ; or from want of outward at- 
 tractions, have less power to win admiration 
 and love. If there were many like Regi- 
 nald, with pure hearts and lofty dreams, 
 with the prominence of position to win all 
 eyes, and the seraphic beauty to fix them,
 
 168 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 I do not know what this world might 
 not be. 
 
 There is no subject of meditation so 
 strange or, it might be said, so awful, as the 
 consideration how one human being seems 
 to be given into the power of another to be 
 moulded at his will. Words at random 
 spoken — good words and evil words — serious 
 yet unintentional expressions of good feel- 
 ing, and light sportive words of unintentional 
 carelessness or irreverence — have had power 
 to form a character, to direct a destiny for 
 ever. We cannot open our mouths and be 
 absolutely certain that our words will not 
 sink deep into the heart of some man, 
 woman, or child, who may be an unobserved 
 or neglected bystander; — a single sentence 
 has before now haunted a mind for ever. 
 Such considerations give an a^vful responsi- 
 bility to the power of speech ; and yet how 
 few think of this ! even of the best, how few 
 sufficiently consider it 1 Happy those who 
 use their tongues as responsible instruments ; 
 and happy, too, those who from the truth 
 and purity of the inward fountain do a good
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 169 
 
 work, and know it not. There are many, 
 I hope and believe, of the latter sort. Nei- 
 ther Ernest nor Reginald were in the habit 
 of considering their words in so solemn a 
 light. In their conversation this day, each 
 had but expressed his feelings as they rose 
 in his mind, and yet the words which each 
 had said, were carried away as new prin- 
 ciples by the hearts of each. Ernest was 
 animated, strengthened, and filled full of 
 thoughts of a higher zeal; for a few hom^s 
 the hopes of earth, earthly passions, earthly 
 ties, seemed " like dust and dross to his 
 eye," and he turned to his lowly duties with 
 an ardent spirit, mth fresh and vigorous 
 resolution, and with glowing pictures of suc- 
 cessfiil labour in his high calling. If this 
 strength, and these higher hopes quickly 
 faded, it was not the influence that faded, — 
 that remained on his mind ; it was the 
 stronger influence of human feeling and 
 human weakness which superseded without 
 effacing them. On Reginald the effect of 
 his companion's words was less felt, and less 
 immediate ; but an effect they had.
 
 170 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 In joyous youth, what soul has never known 
 Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own ? 
 Who hath not paused while beauty's pensive eye 
 Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh ? 
 Who hath not own'd with rapture- smitten frame. 
 The power of grace, the magic of a name ? 
 
 The Pleasures of Hope. 
 
 ''My love," said Lady Yere, addressing 
 her husband, who came one afternoon into 
 the drawing-room, to look for a book, " Re- 
 ginald wishes his new friend, Mr. De Grey, 
 to dine here." 
 
 " As Reginald pleases," replied Lord Vere, 
 coldly. 
 
 " Very well, then, my love, shall he come 
 to-morrow ?" 
 
 "As you please," he replied again, and 
 taking up his book, was leaving the room. 
 At the door, however, he turned round, and 
 after a moment's thought, observed ; " As
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 171 
 
 you have the rector, you may as well have 
 the curate and his mother too ; they have 
 been due these six months." 
 
 " Very true, my love. Reginald shall 
 write a note for me;" and she sank back 
 on the sofa, and reposed till her son ap- 
 peared. 
 
 " Reginald," she then said, " I want you 
 to write a note for me ; you must begin, 
 ' Dear Mrs. Hervey,' and end — I forget how 
 I end — Camilla mil know. Ring the bell, 
 if you please." 
 
 "What am I to say, mother?" Reginald 
 asked, sitting down at the writing-table. 
 
 " I thought I told you ; your father says 
 they are to dine here as well as Mr. De 
 Grey, — ' Dear Mrs. Hervey, will you dine 
 with us to-morrow, and yom' son ? ' — you 
 know about the hour ;" and she closed her 
 eyes, as if after the exertion of explana- 
 tion. 
 
 Reginald looked excessively annoyed at 
 his mother's communication ; but he made 
 no remark upon it. 
 
 "Camilla," Lady Vere began again, open-
 
 172 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 ing her eyes as her daughter entered, " how 
 do I end to Mrs. Hervey ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know, mamma," Camilla 
 said carelessly- Meeting her brother's eye, 
 she added, laughing, " I should think, ' yours 
 truly' would do." 
 
 " Yes, that was it, Keginald," remarked 
 Lady Vere in a satisfied tone ; ^ yours truly, 
 Florinda Vere.' " 
 
 " It would be a good deal too much for 
 me," Camilla observed, seating herself by 
 her brother ; " not that I dislike that poor 
 old woman, either. Dining here ! my dear, 
 Reginald, are they going to dine here ? that 
 Mr. Hervey ; you must talk to him — I can't; 
 he is quite beyond my patience." 
 
 " I will talk, Camilla, since he must 
 come." 
 
 " I really do pity the poor man," she con- 
 tinued ; " it must be unpleasant to be such a 
 bore. It is quite impossible that anybody 
 ever did, or ever could, like him ; and that 
 seems a hard fate." 
 
 " His poor mother seems to like him," 
 observed Lady Vere.
 
 CLAEE ABBEY. 173 
 
 " His mother ? yes, it would be hard in- 
 deed if she didn't hke him ; but that must 
 be all. His sisters can't — I shouldn't 
 like you the least, Reginald, if you were 
 like Mr. Hervey. It is a thing that often 
 puzzles me ; you now, my dear Regi- 
 nald, who know everything, will you tell 
 me what Mr. Hervey was made for? I 
 am sure the world could manage to get 
 on without him." 
 
 " Everybody has their place," said Regi- 
 nald smiling ; " and dull as you think Mr. 
 Hervey, I dare say there are some things 
 which he can do better than you." 
 
 " Dull as / think him ? now, my dear 
 Reginald, I will not have all the blame 
 put upon my shoulders. I am sure I say 
 many more words to Mr. Hervey than 
 you do ; / am very civil and say a great 
 many pretty things about the weather 
 when we meet him — you, just say, ' Good 
 morning, Mr. Hervey,' and bow as stately 
 as a king." 
 
 " I don't want to have Mr. Hervey for a 
 friend or companion — he does not suit me ;
 
 174 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 but I rather respect him, Camilla, than 
 otherwise. He does well what he has to do, 
 and seems contented and satisfied in what I 
 should think a dull and tedious life." 
 
 " I am not sure that I particularly admire 
 contentment," Camilla said, laughing, *'but 
 what are you writing now, Reginald ? Mr. De 
 Grey — is he to dine here too ? oh ! well, 
 that is something better ; mamma will talk 
 to Mrs., you to Mr. Hervey, and I will 
 have Mr. De Grey." 
 
 " What will you wear, Camilla?" asked 
 her mother. 
 
 ^' Realty, mamma, I have not thought." 
 
 " I think I shall wear my primrose silk, 
 with pinked flounces." 
 
 "With pink flounces!" exclaimed Regi- 
 nald, with an expression of astonishment and 
 disgust. 
 
 " Yes," said his mother, raising herself 
 on the sofa, pleased at his appearance of in- 
 terest ; " six pinked flounces ; it came from 
 Madame Elise." 
 
 Camilla, laughing, would not explain ; 
 and Reginald, after a look of wonder, but
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 175 
 
 unwilling to offend his mother by a faither 
 expression of dissatisfaction at a dress with 
 which she was evidently so well pleased, 
 sealed his letters and left the room. 
 
 The presence of Mr. Hervey, at the dinner- 
 party at Clare Abbey, was rather an assist- 
 ance than otherwise, especially after the 
 ladies had left the dining-room ; indeed if 
 he had not been there, it seemed probable 
 that total silence would have ensued. 
 Reginald had little of what is called "small 
 talk" — as minds absorbed in subjects of 
 little interest to those about them rarely 
 have ; Ernest, though more conversable and 
 with many more feelings of general sym- 
 pathy, was naturally unpresuming, required 
 to be drawn out ; and was, above all, 
 extremely averse (no uncommon aversion) 
 to being snubbed. Having therefore been 
 three times snubbed by Lord Vere, he felt 
 little inclined to make a further trial of his 
 or of Lord Vere's forbearance. But Mr. 
 Hervey, either more used to Lord Vere's 
 manner, or less conscious of that which lie 
 had long been in the habit of receiving from
 
 176 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 the world in general — or all such lower 
 feelings being overcome by his desire for 
 information on several points connected 
 with the dining-room, talked placidly on, 
 well satisfied if the desired information w^as 
 gained. He wished to know the date of the 
 building of the dining-room, which was 
 e\ddently a modern addition to the house ; 
 the relative sizes of the drawing-room and 
 dining-room, and the names of the grim- 
 looking De Greys, who still hung in large 
 ak frames against the walls of the apart- 
 ment. As these subjects may not be of 
 universal interest, we will pass them by, and 
 follow the party into the drawing-room. 
 
 Lady Vere was, as usual, half-reclining, sup- 
 ported by cushions on the sofa ; her prim- 
 rose silk with pinked flounces, was extremely 
 becoming to her fair fresh complexion and 
 beautiful dark hair ; and a stranger would 
 have gazed at the young mother of her tall 
 handsome son, mth surprise and admii'ation. 
 She was covered mth lace, and her arms 
 and fingers were bright with jewels — alto- 
 gether forming a strange contrast to the
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 177 
 
 homely Mrs. Hervey, who, in a black go^\Ti 
 and close white cap, sat by her side on the 
 sofa. Lady Vere was perfectly happy ; she 
 never wanted conversation or amusement — 
 but when it came to her, particularly in the 
 form of narrative, which saved her the 
 trouble of answers or comments, it was 
 agreeable to her, and she sat listening to 
 ]\Irs. Hervey's anecdotes of persons whose 
 very existence was unknown to her, with a 
 complacent smile. 
 
 At a little distance, Camilla was engaged 
 in copying music. She was fond of dress in 
 her way, but her mother had never succeeded 
 m inspiring her with a love of finery. 
 Notliing could be prettier or simpler than 
 her toilette this evening, — nothing more 
 graceful and interesting than her appearance, 
 as she sat stooping over her music-book, 
 her long bright curls carelessly streaming 
 over her white shoulders, or resting on her 
 beautifully-formed hand and arm. 
 
 She raised her head, and watched with a 
 mingled expression of amusement and in- 
 terest the arrangement of the party. Mr. 
 
 VOL. I. • • N
 
 178 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 Hervey drew near — down went her head, 
 and with singular care and attention she 
 copied a few bars of her song. She had had 
 him at dinner, — ^and endure him longer, she 
 could not, and would not ; besides, she had 
 arranged it otherwise, — she wished to make 
 more acquaintance with Mr. De Grey, He 
 passed her by, and went to Lady Vere ; whose 
 complacent smile was more inviting. Camil- 
 la's attention to her music then slackened ; 
 and looking up, she observed her father take 
 up a newspaper and seat himself for the 
 evening, and Reginald and Ernest place 
 themselves by the fire and enter into con- 
 versation. The conversation continued for 
 some little time — no apparent recollec- 
 tion of her presence ; she watched them for 
 a few minutes, then shaking back her curls 
 with a slight impatient petulant movement, 
 she devoted herself again to her song. 
 Though not by nature a student of the 
 thoughts of others, Reginald always saw, 
 and was indulgent to the feelings of his sister 
 — and she had only written one or two bars 
 before he and Ernest stood beside her.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 179 
 
 " Mr. De Grey is fond of music, Camilla," 
 he said, laying his hand upon her shoulder ; 
 "will you play?" 
 
 She looked up with a start. " Are you in a 
 hurry, Regmald ? If not, I would rather finish 
 this song, which I have been trying to finish 
 for three days." 
 
 " Not at all," he said, with a smile. Then 
 turning away, went to relieve his mother, 
 who was yawning under the exertion of 
 answering Mr. Hervey's questions. After a 
 moment's consideration, Ernest sat down on 
 a chair which stood near them. 
 
 Camilla wrote a few words ; then rested. 
 " Are you really fond of music, Mr. De Grey, 
 or do you only say so ?" 
 
 " I really am," he replied, laughing ; " I 
 always say what I think. But then I only 
 am fond of it. I don't understand it at all, 
 and I very, very seldom hear it." 
 
 " Why don't you hear it, if you are fond 
 of it ? — ^that must be your fault." 
 
 " Perhaps it is ; but it does not seem to 
 come in my way ; especially of late years." 
 
 " But everybody plays and sings — all 
 n2
 
 180 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 young laches — as I suppose you call them, 
 at least." 
 
 " Do they ? — I dare say they do ; but my 
 acquaintance with young ladies is very small. 
 I know very few people of any kind, — 
 and among these few, only three or four 
 young ladies. Some of them sing and play 
 as you say ; and perhaps they all do, but I 
 really don't remember.'* 
 
 " Why, Mr. De Grey," and she put doTVTi 
 her pen and looked at him, " I begin to 
 think that you must be almost as stupid as 
 myself" 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " I don't know why you laugh," she con- 
 tinued with a kind of sigh, "it does not seem 
 to me a laughing matter. It is a great evil 
 to be stupid ; nobody should be so if they 
 can help it ; and a man can help it." 
 
 " Do you think a man can do everything, 
 he pleases ?" Ernest inquired, smiling. 
 
 "If not absolutely everything, almost every- 
 thing. He must be, at any rate, perfectly in- 
 dependent, and able to go where he pleases, 
 at any moment he pleases. See how differ-
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 181 
 
 ent to my case. If you were to wish as I 
 do, to go to London, or to the sea-side, or to 
 see some of the beautiful Scotch lakes and 
 mountains Walter Scott describes, you could 
 set off to-morrow morning without any fuss, 
 quite by yourself, — whereas I can only wish 
 and wish and wish, as I have done all my 
 life, and I dare say always shall. Oh ! no, a 
 man is a very enviable being, and I never 
 pity a man for anything." 
 
 " But a man must submit to circumstances, 
 in the same way that you are forced to sub- 
 mit. Ever since I was ordained, and that 
 is nearly three years ago, I have been a 
 country clergyman in a very quiet village. 
 If I had wished to move, I could not have 
 moved, and if I had wished for society, I 
 could have had very little except the 
 society of the poor.'' 
 
 Again she put down her pen and looked 
 at him — this time with a look of profound 
 pity. " Is this really true ? Well then, I am 
 sorry for you, though you are a man." 
 
 '' Don't suppose that I am complaining of 
 my hfe," Ernest said with some anxiety;
 
 182 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " I was very far from meaning to do that — 
 I only wished to apologize for my stupidity." 
 
 " But do you like your life? — do you never 
 wish for anything else?" She waited, deter- 
 mined to have an answer. 
 
 " If I wish for anything," he replied after 
 a moment's thought, " it is not for what is 
 generally called society ; I don't much care 
 about that. In former days, I wished for 
 adventures, and excitements, battles, and 
 shipwrecks, and desert islands ; and though 
 I hope some of my wishes are a little wiser 
 now, still I think something of those old 
 tastes remain." She looked at him so 
 eagerly and approvingly, that almost in- 
 voluntarily he continued — "My first wish 
 was to be a great general, a great conqueror, 
 and I used to dream about it so much, that 
 when I was told it could not be, I made my- 
 self very miserable. Then I used to think, 
 that if I was not allowed to be great in a 
 regular way, I should be satisfied to be a 
 pirate, or a highwayman; and yet," he added 
 with a smile, " after all my dreams, I find 
 myself a quiet country clergyman."
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 183 
 
 " Oh ! how exactly like me/' Camilla 
 exclaimed, laughing; " I never expected to 
 hear anybody express just what I feel." 
 
 " Have you a great ambition to be 
 a highwayman?" Ernest inquired play- 
 fully. 
 
 " You are laughing at me, which is very 
 unfair when you are as bad yourself. But 
 really I often have thought, that if I could 
 be nothing else great or exciting, I should 
 be a pirate. You don't know how dull it 
 is here when Reginald is away — nobody can 
 have any idea of it; so when I walk by 
 myself, I amuse myself with wishing and 
 fancying. First, I wish to be Henry the 
 Fifth, or Montrose, or Bonaparte, — but that 
 is quite useless ! so then sometimes I wish to 
 be Joan of Arc, or Queen Elizabeth, or even 
 our own quiet Queen ! And that is almost 
 as useless, isn't it?" she added, laughing. 
 
 "Camilla! Mrs. Hervey, says she would 
 like to hear you play," broke in her mo- 
 ther's drawling voice. 
 
 " Directly, mamma, only one or two bars 
 more. Now, Mr. De Grey, it is your fault
 
 184 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 that I have been so long — why did you talk 
 of such exciting things ?" 
 
 When the song was finished, she went to 
 the pianoforte and began to play. She 
 played well, with both taste and execution ; 
 but Ernest, in common with a large part of 
 the world, preferred singing to playing, and 
 was disappointed. As she finished one piece 
 of music, and was looking for another, he 
 asked her if she ever sang. 
 
 " Do you like singing better than play- 
 ing?" she looked up and inquired. Seeing 
 he hesitated. "You need not mind sa3ring 
 so, for I do sing as well as play in a sort of 
 way." 
 
 " Well then, I do like it best." 
 
 " I am glad, for I like it best myself, and 
 I sing a good deal when I am alone; but 
 I never thought you would like singing 
 best." 
 
 "Why?" Ernest inquired with surprise. 
 
 " Because Reginald does not. He is 
 really fond of music, and understands it; 
 and sometimes he makes me play to him for 
 hours together, while he sits there in the
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 185 
 
 window thinking ; but he never hkes me to 
 sing to him. He says my songs disturb him 
 — and you are rather like Reginald, I think." 
 
 Ernest shook his head with a faint blush 
 of humiliation at the bare idea. " I am afraid 
 that is not true. I wish it was; except," 
 he added more lightly, " on this one point ; 
 I am sure I should like your singing." 
 
 "I only sing common English things," 
 Camilla said; "I can't manage fine music 
 at all." She took down a few songs from a 
 music-stand, and as she looked them over 
 continued, blushing slightly as she spoke, " I. 
 must tell you the reason why, Reginald does 
 not like my songs. If I could find Odes to 
 Mr. Pitt or Mr. Canning, or if I could sing 
 fine sacred music, I dare say he would like 
 it very well ; but my songs are chiefly what 
 are called love-songs, and he says they are 
 nothing but trash. Now perhaps you will 
 change your mind, and object to my singing 
 as he does ? " 
 
 " I don't see why love-songs should neces- 
 sarily be trash," Ernest said, glancing at one 
 or two that lay before him. " Some are so.
 
 186 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 certainly ; but I have sometimes heard such 
 pretty ones, that I should very much like to 
 hear them again." 
 
 " Well, then, I will sing you one. I like 
 them myself. You know it depends a good 
 deal on people's feelings. Reginald thinks 
 them trash, in the same way as he thinks 
 most novels are trash, because his mind does 
 not turn on such follies as love at all. Not 
 that Jam sentimental either," she continued, 
 looking up with a fearless smile, " quite the 
 contrary; and I often wonder why it is I 
 like them. I don't the least care about such 
 things in general ; but people are inconsis- 
 tent. I don't know the reason why, but I do 
 like these songs ; and the more melancholy 
 they are, the better I like them. Here is 
 one, however, that is not melancholy : I must 
 not begin with a melancholy one. This is 
 from a gentleman to a lady ; and afterwards," 
 she added, laughingly, " I will sing you a 
 very melancholy one from a poor forsaken 
 lady to a gentleman." 
 
 She sang a verse or two from one of the 
 simplest and prettiest of love-songs :
 
 CLARE ABBEY, 187 
 
 •* Oh ! if thou wert my own love, 
 
 How I would cherish thee ; 
 Thine image, in my heart of hearts, 
 
 Its talisman should be. 
 And joys that now ideal seem 
 Should make my life one sunny dream. 
 
 " Oh ! if thou wert my own love, 
 
 I could not fail to prove, 
 From thy sweet converse day by day, 
 
 More worthy of thy love. 
 And I would live for thee alone, 
 Beloved, if thou wert mine own." 
 
 Her voice was not a powerful one ; but it 
 was sweet and bird-like, with some pretty 
 low tones, and her heart was in her voice. 
 Better — that is, more critical — -judges than 
 Ernest would have been pleased with her 
 singing. That he was pleased might be 
 gathered from the kind of musing attention 
 with which he listened ; but when she ceased 
 he said nothing. 
 
 She waited for a few moments, playing 
 the last bars carelessly over. As he did not 
 speak even then, she said, a little impa- 
 tiently, 
 
 " Do you dislike the song, Mr. Do 
 Grey?"
 
 188 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 He started from his reverie. " Dislike ! I 
 am only sorry that it is so soon over." 
 
 " I am glad you like it. But, now, you 
 must like this one still better, — at least, I 
 like it better myself. It is one of !Mrs. 
 Arkwright's, and I fancy such a melancholy 
 story in it." 
 
 " And will she love thee as well as I ? 
 
 Will she do for thee what I have done ? 
 See all the pomps of the world pass hy, 
 And look only to thee, beloved one." 
 
 Her changeful countenance became sad 
 and subdued as she sang, but not less lovely; 
 and when this was done, Ernest asked for 
 another, and still another ; and, seating him- 
 self at a little distance, he seemed to aban- 
 don himself to such thoughts and feelings as 
 the music excited. 
 
 His enjoyment (for though he felt rather 
 sad than otherwise, enjoyment it was) was 
 interrupted by Reginald. 
 
 " My dear Camilla," he said, as he ap- 
 proached her, in a slight tone of remon- 
 strance, " what are you singing?" 
 
 " Mr, De Grey likes these songs," she said,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 189 
 
 in explanation. Turning to liim with an 
 appealing, animated countenance. "I did 
 not force my trash upon you, did I?" 
 
 He smiled his answer as he stood by the 
 pianoforte. 
 
 " I will have you speak," she exclaimed, 
 " or Reginald will hardly believe me. You 
 must tell liim you like the songs." 
 
 " I really do, very much," he said, empha- 
 tically. 
 
 " Then, I suppose, I must not call them 
 trash any more," Reginald remarked, with a 
 glance at Ernest ; " but I confess, if I do not 
 call them so, it will be difficult to me not to 
 think them so." 
 
 Mr. Hervey at this moment approached, 
 and seized on Camilla to make a few inqui- 
 ries concerning her songs, and music in 
 general ; and, although he was perfectly 
 aware that she could not have done so, to 
 ascertain whether or not she had been for- 
 tunate enough to hear Jenny Lind. 
 
 Ernest turned to Reginald, and said, — 
 "These songs are the expression of very 
 common feelings, and very common events
 
 190 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 in life ; and the expression appears to me to 
 be, for the most part, very simple and very 
 natm-al. Why, then, should they be called 
 trash ? Have you no sympathy with such 
 feelings as these?" 
 
 " I hardly know," he said* " I have not 
 thought much upon the subject. But are 
 you quite right in saying that these songs 
 express natural feeling ? It appears other- 
 wise to me. Take this one, for instance ;" 
 and, turning over a song, he read the follow- 
 ing lines : 
 
 ' Hopes that now begiiiling leave me, 
 Joys that lie in slumber cold ; 
 All would wake, if thou couldst give me 
 One dear smile like those of old.' 
 
 " Is this natural ? — Is it not forced and 
 exaggerated?" 
 
 Ernest shook his head with a slight, 
 thoughtful smile. 
 
 " I don't know what you will think of me, 
 if I say so ; but I must confess I can quite 
 conceive the state of mind under which 
 such words and feelings would be perfectly 
 natural."
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 191 
 
 " I see we are very different, Mr. De Grey," 
 Reginald said, contemplating his companion 
 with a look of some cmriosity. 
 
 " Have you among your songs, Miss St. 
 Maur, an extremely pretty song, called ' We 
 may be happy yet ? ' inquired Mr. Hervey ; 
 but before he could be satisfied on the point, 
 Lady Vere called her daughter. 
 
 " Camilla, ]\Irs. Hervey wants to go," she 
 said, making her communication as concisely 
 as possible. 
 
 " Pray, don't let me disturb you, Miss St. 
 Maur," said Mrs. Hervey ; " but it's past half- 
 past ten o'clock, and our Jane will hardly be 
 able to keep her eyes open." 
 
 Lord Vere had lent his coach for the ac- 
 commodation of Mrs. Hervey, and a few 
 minutes afterwards Ernest found himself 
 seated by her side, and hearing, though he 
 scarcely listened to, the remarks of his un- 
 congenial companions on the party they had 
 left. 
 
 " How wonderfully well Lady Vere has 
 worn," said Mr. Hervey. " I should hardly 
 suppose her to be above six-and- twenty."
 
 192 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " And she must be as near to forty as I 
 am to seventy, Edward, and that is but a few 
 months. How the time runs away ! It seems 
 but a day since I was down at Mr. Hargrave's 
 at the Woods." 
 
 " Nothing can be more pleasing than Lady 
 Vere's manners when she exerts herself. I am 
 sorry, mother, that you. don't see more of her." 
 
 " It 's as well as it is, Edward. Lady Vere 
 is too fine for me, and I am too homely for 
 her. She smiles very sweetly when I speak ; 
 but, somehow, I don't fancy that she under- 
 stands or cares for what I say. It 's very 
 well for once and away, and I 'm sure I feel 
 obliged to Lord and Lady Yere for asking 
 us ; but, as to conversation, I would as soon 
 talk to our Jane ;" and she slightly yawned 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " I think young St, Maur improves," con- 
 tinued her son. " He was exceedingly civil 
 to-night, and I begin to think we shall get on 
 better. Mr. St. Maur has many good points ; 
 don't you think so, Mr. De Grey?" 
 
 " He has indeed many," Ernest said, as 
 quietly as he could.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 193 
 
 " There is more in him than in his sister ; 
 though, perhaps, her manners are the most 
 generally pleasing of the two. Young St. 
 Maur ivill, I have no doubt, make a figure in 
 the world. What his sister will be, I am 
 afraid, is doubtful. We had more conversa- 
 tion to-day at dinner than I ever remember 
 to have had before, and I confess I was a 
 little startled at her sentiments. She ap- 
 pears to be rather thoughtless on some im- 
 portant points. Did you find her agreeable, 
 Mr. De Grey?" 
 
 " Very," he said calmly, though he felt 
 much inclined to toss his curate out of the 
 carriage window. 
 
 " I inquired what she thought of your 
 sermon on Sunday morning, and she made 
 me rather a singular answer. She said that 
 she had liked it, and had listened to it for 
 once and away ; but that she could not say 
 she liked sermons in general. And I am 
 much afraid she spoke the truth ; for I have 
 often observed her careless way at church." 
 
 '^ Oh ! Edward, don't be severe," said his 
 mother. " To my mind, she is as sweet a 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 young lady as ever I saw. And how like a 
 young bird's her voice is ! I only know it 's 
 well I 'm not a young man like you and Mr. 
 De Grey ; for I should be half beside myself 
 if she smiled upon me." She paused, then 
 added, with a sigh, " I don't know how it is, 
 but that likeness runs strangely in my head. 
 While she was singing to-night, she looked 
 the very picture of sweet Amy Mills. I men- 
 tioned Amy Mills to you, didn't I, Mr. De 
 Grey ? It 's a sad thing to think that death 
 or sorrow must blight those bright young 
 creatures, but so it is ; and yet, perhaps, we 
 should not grieve. Sorrow has brought many 
 a wandering sbeep back to the fold. Well, 
 Mr. De Grey, your house stands first — here 
 we are. Good night."
 
 CLAEE ABBEY. 195 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 It pleases me to bear what you call pain, 
 Therefore to me 'tis pleasure. Joy and grief 
 Are the will's creatures. 
 
 The Saint's Tragedy. 
 
 Bien que le caractere de son esprit fut Tenthousiasnie, il ne 
 savait se passioner que pour ce qui n'etait plus; ses esperances 
 memes n'etait que des souvenirs. — Lascaris. 
 
 Uneventful and apparently unexciting 
 times are not always uninteresting. It is 
 hoped, — but it is a hope much mixed with 
 fear, — that they will not be so in this case ; 
 for it is necessary to pass through many 
 months after Ernest's re-establishment at 
 Cranleigh, and yet in those months no event 
 took place. 
 
 It was a month after the dinner at Clare 
 Abbey, and the day before Reginald St. 
 Maur's return to Oxford. Camilla stood at 
 her brother's door, fastened, as usual, to 
 prevent intrusion, and petitioned foi- admit- 
 2
 
 196 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 tance. Her voice was a shade less gay than 
 was common ; there was even a touch of 
 sadness in it, and Reginald could not resist 
 her. 
 
 He unfastened the door Avith a smile, but 
 when he had closed it again, he returned to 
 his seat, and sat down before a large book 
 open on his writing-table, with an air of 
 pre-occupation and abstraction. 
 
 There was character in Reginald's room ; 
 all who had studied his disposition, saw 
 Reginald in its arrangements. It looked com- 
 fortable, for it looked inhabited, and the 
 windows were all open, and the air flew 
 in freshly and sunnily ; but there was no- 
 thing of ease or luxury, — not so much as 
 a couch or an arm-chair to be seen. The 
 tables were covered with books, — not light, 
 comfortable -looking books, but volumes, 
 whose grave and severe exteriors proclaimed 
 that as little ease was allowed to the mind 
 as to the body. Over the fireplace hung 
 a long print of Mr. Pitt ; and on the marble 
 slab beneath it stood four small busts', — 
 Frederick, of Prussia ; William the Third, of
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 197 
 
 England ; Lord Strafford ; and the present 
 Emperor of Russia. Other prints and busts 
 ornamented different parts of the room ; 
 characters of celebrated men of various ages, 
 various destinies, various dispositions. But 
 the whole selection, whatever their variety, 
 were classed together by one unfailing cha- 
 racteristic — indomitable will, 
 
 Camilla approached her brother, and stood 
 beside him. 
 
 ^'Are you reading Greek, my dear Re- 
 ginald, all by yourself? How I pity you! 
 Wliat is the book ? " 
 
 "Aristotle's 'Ethics."' 
 
 " Aristotle must have been a great man 
 to have such a great pupil as Alexander the 
 Great; but I can't say these 'Ethics' look 
 very attractive. What dirty pages, and what 
 close bewildering lines ! And have you been 
 sitting here poring over this, instead of 
 going out this lovely morning? My dear 
 Reginald, I do pity you ! " 
 
 "Not poring over it much, I am afraid," 
 he said, with a sigh ; " I should have been, 
 but I have been thinking instead."
 
 198 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " I am glad of that ; for then I don't 
 mind interrupting you. You know, Regi- 
 nald, I wish you to be great, and so when 
 I disturb your reading, my conscience often 
 troubles me ; but thinking never made any- 
 body great, did it ? " 
 
 ''Xotmykind of thinking, at any rate," 
 Reginald said, and he smiled. " But is any- 
 thing the matter, Camilla? — do you want 
 me ? " 
 
 " I only want to tell you how miserable 
 I am," she said, sadly, "or rather, how mise- 
 rable I shall be to-morrow when you are 
 gone. I have been so happy, so very happy. 
 My dear Reginald, what is to become of me 
 now.^ 
 
 " It will only be for two months, Camilla. 
 Two months are soon over." 
 
 " Soon over when you are at home, I 
 know, — too soon; but when you are away, 
 the months are years. No, not years, that 
 is not half enough, — they are centuries. I 
 oiily wish I once could make you feel what 
 this place is when you are away ! Nobody 
 speaks to me from morning till night ; and
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 199 
 
 the only change is a walk in the tedious 
 garden, or a drive in the more tedious 
 barouche. I often ^vish I was a child 
 again, and had a governess and lessons." 
 
 " It must be dull, I know," Reginald said, 
 kindly; "but I hope it will not always be 
 so. And, Camilla, why not be so much of a 
 child again as to try to learn ? You are not sc« 
 wise but that 3^ou might learn something." 
 
 '' I would, if it w^as of any use ; but I 
 cannot see that a woman does any good b}' 
 making herself clever. Poor, wretched 
 women ! try as they may, they can do no- 
 thing unless they happen to be born queens. 
 I wish I were a queen." 
 
 Reginald smiled. Arguing with his sister 
 he knew was in vain ; and, to say the truth, 
 her opinion was in a great degree his own 
 also. 
 
 " But to return to what I w^as sapng," she 
 continued; "I am so sorry, so very sorr^', 
 that you are going, and what makes it worse 
 is, that you are glad to go. Now tell me 
 truly, Reginald ; you are not sorry, ore 
 vou?"
 
 200 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " I am sorry to leave you, Camilla," and 
 he put his arm affectionately round her 
 waist ; " you know I am. But in other ways 
 you are right. I am glad to move ; I am 
 glad to think that time is passing, and the 
 future approaching. Only one more term at 
 Oxford . . . and then ..." And a look of 
 intense thought passed over liis brow. 
 
 "And then . . . what?" 
 
 "And then ..." and his colour rose, 
 and the shadow of thought deepened, " the 
 time comes when I must learn whether the 
 dreams I have dreamed are to be dreams 
 only." 
 
 Camilla watched his countenance for a 
 moment; then drawing a chair from another 
 part of the room, she sat down opposite 
 to him, resting her arms upon the table. 
 
 "What are your dreams, Reginald?" she 
 asked, with interest in her tone. 
 
 "I hardly know myself;" and he shook 
 liis head, with a smile. " Sometimes they are 
 clear and bright, and I understand them ; 
 but sometimes they are misty and vague, 
 and so they have been to-day."
 
 CLAEE ABBEY. 201 
 
 " There is one thing I want very much to 
 know, though, perhaps, you will be angry 
 with me for asking you. But, do you think 
 you shall ever marry? " 
 
 " Xo," he replied, rather hastily, " I don't 
 think I ever shall." 
 
 " I knew very well what you would say, 
 and I don't think I very much wonder at 
 you ; but I am sorry. I often dream of your 
 wife, Reginald ; I should be so fond of her." 
 
 " Perhaps not, " he said, with a slight 
 smile ; " I am afraid she would be too grave 
 for you.'' 
 
 " No. If she were erave, it would be a 
 pleasant gra\ity, like yours ; not severe and 
 disagreeable. But Reginald, I wanted to 
 speak seriously. Do you know, I really 
 think you ought to marry, for my sake and 
 yours. For mine especially. I know I am 
 not at all what you wish me to be ; and how 
 can I, when I never have seen a really nice 
 woman ? I cannot wish to be like any 
 woman I ever saw. And then, besides, — my 
 dull life, you really ought to take compas- 
 sion upon me. Sometimes I feel that I shall
 
 202 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 either do something very wrong, or else go 
 mad." 
 
 ^' But, Camilla, you would not wish me to 
 marr\^ this moment, or this year ; and per- 
 haps in a year or two your own position 
 may be changed. Would not that do as 
 well?" 
 
 " You mean, I might marr}' ; but no, Re- 
 crinald, that would not do at all. I should 
 be afraid to marry at present, while I am so 
 discontented and changeable, because how 
 could I tell that I should not be discon- 
 tented and changeable afterwards ? and that 
 would be horrible. I am afraid you will be 
 angry with me for saying so, but I want 
 a little freedom first. I cannot be tied do^^^l 
 to anybody just at present; — and so we come 
 back to your ^vife. You must marry a wife 
 to give me freedom, and to give you just that 
 little bit more indulirence which I think 
 you want. Now tell me, Reginald, is there 
 really no chance? — have you quite made a 
 vow not to marry ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, Camilla, that would be a 
 foolish and presumptuous thing to do at my
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 203 
 
 age. I only feel that I do not wish to marry, 
 and I hope that I shall never feel otherwise." 
 
 " But have you considered the subject ; 
 have you been thinking about it? '* 
 
 " I have been thinking a great deal about 
 my future life since Ernest De Grey came, 
 and the question of marriage did arise among 
 other questions." 
 
 " Well?" Camilla said, eagerly. 
 
 " I have nothing to tell you, Camilla ; 
 your curiosity is quite wasted. Ernest De 
 Grey was speaking one day of his earlv' 
 days, and his happy home, and somehow 
 the cr»nversation changed, and we spoke of 
 oiu^ futiu*e hopes and dreams of happiness ; 
 and he drew a picture of domestic happi- 
 ness, which I could not but own was bright 
 and beautiful ; and it drove me to consider 
 as I had never considered before, and to 
 ask myself, as I had never asked before, 
 what the reality of my future life should 
 be." 
 
 "Well?" Camilla said again. 
 
 " Well, Camilla, and I do not think, after 
 serious thought, that such pictures of happi-
 
 204 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 ness, however beautiful, are compatible with 
 my old, my best, my cherished dreams. 
 No," he continued, and his colour deepened, 
 and his voice took a tone of excitement, 
 " they may be bright, they may be good, 
 — but let them go, they are not for me. I 
 feel as if a steep path was set before me, 
 and that such thoughts are but temptations 
 to draw my eyes away. They shall not 
 do it." 
 
 " But, Reginald," his sister said, thought- 
 fully, " do you know I sometimes think your 
 idea of greatness is too dry. I don't like 
 the greatness that despises common feelings. 
 I never could care about Brutus or Cato. 
 What I like is a young hero who can get 
 above himself for the sake of being great, 
 but who is not cold and dry, and, in short, 
 a monster. You used to like my favourites, 
 Alexander the Great, and Charles the 
 Twelfth, and Henry the Fifth, but I am 
 afraid you scorn them now." 
 
 He shook his head, with a smile, but 
 there was a look of melancholy and ab- 
 straction on his brow.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 205 
 
 "What are you thinking of, Reginald?" 
 she said, anxiously. 
 
 " Your words make me think, Camilla, for 
 you have spoken all the vague thoughts that 
 have been drawing me from my duty this 
 morning. I used to know what I wished ; 
 the very thought of greatness made my 
 blood boil ; but now I find myself asking 
 where are the deeds of those who have 
 left so great a name ? and I cannot answer 
 myself." 
 
 " This comes of talking so much to Mr. 
 De Grey," Camilla said, impatiently. " I 
 knew how it would be. I dare say he will 
 end by making you a clergyman ; or, if not 
 that, at least as severe as he is himself." 
 
 " Severe ! " exclaimed Reginald, his ab- 
 straction vanishing as he looked with sur- 
 prise at his sister ; " do you call Ernest De 
 Grey severe? " 
 
 " Not severe, like a cross old school- 
 master," she said, laughing. " I don't mean 
 that, but I know what I mean. He is full 
 of severe notions, and fancies, and ideas 
 that I don't like at all, and I am very sorry
 
 206 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 to think that he should put them into your 
 head." 
 
 Reginald made no answer ; he was me- 
 ditating again, and he smoothed the pages 
 of his book, as if he were preparing to begin 
 his studies. 
 
 " Oh ! Reizinald," said his sister, drawinsf 
 it from before him, " no Greek to-day, pray, 
 pray. See how fine it is ! Do let us go out." 
 
 He hesitated for a moment, then closed 
 the book and went to the window. 
 
 " Well, Camilla, it shall be as you please 
 to-day. You shall not think of me as severe 
 when I am g;one." 
 
 " My dear Reginald, ?/ou cannot be severe, 
 — 1/016 cannot be anything that displeases 
 me. Even if you were to become a clergy- 
 man, I suppose I should get to like it in 
 time. Don't try me, though," she added 
 quickly and laughingly ; " you had l)etter 
 not." ^ 
 
 He looked at her ibr a moment, and 
 seemed to be on the point of asking some 
 question of interest, but, apparently, he 
 ('hanged his intention, for the only obser-
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 207 
 
 vation that Avas made aloud, was a desire 
 that she should put on her bonnet and meet 
 him in the garden. 
 
 "And where shall we go to, Reginald?" 
 she inquired as she joined him. 
 
 "Shall we go and ask Ernest De Grey to 
 ride with us this afternoon? " 
 
 "Always Ernest De Grey!" she said, 
 playfully. 
 
 "Do you object to it, Camilla? I will 
 not ask it if you do." 
 
 " Object to it? Oh dear, no. I meant to 
 have proposed it myself; but you should 
 have left it to me. I shall be jealous if 
 vou think of nothimr but Mr. De Grev." 
 
 " What do you suppose to be the amount 
 of Mr. De Grey's annual income, mother?" 
 This question was asked by Mr. Hervey, as 
 he sat in the window of his mother's little 
 drawing-room, an hour or two later in the 
 same day. 
 
 "None know better than yourself, Edward; 
 five hundred a year, or little more ; and one 
 hundred pounds of that he gives to you.''
 
 208 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " I was speaking of his private income, 
 mother." 
 
 " There's not much of that, Edward, if all 
 tales be true. I suppose you're wondering, 
 like the rest of them, where his charities 
 are to come from ? It's a pity, to be sure, 
 that he should encourage the idle ; but they 
 say he has not the heart to refuse if any 
 come in his mother's name ; and he'll be 
 wiser in time. For my part, I like to see 
 him talking so pleasantly to the poor : what 
 is it the poet says — ' a heart open as day to 
 melting charity.'" 
 
 " No, mother, I was only wondering if 
 such a marriage would be acceptable to 
 Lord and Lady Vere." 
 
 "What marriage, Edward?" and Mrs. 
 Hervey took off her spectacles to listen. 
 
 "Miss St. Maur and Mr. De Grey, mother. 
 They say that must be the end of it, before 
 long." 
 
 " No, no, Edward ! no thought of that." 
 
 " I don't know, mother ; young St. Maur 
 is never satisfied unless Mr. De Grey is with 
 him, and Miss St. Maur is always with her
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 209 
 
 brother. It is a dangerous position, to say 
 the least." 
 
 "And why dangerous, Edward? If it 
 should be so, I should say there was a Pro- 
 vidence in it. But I doubt it — I doubt it! 
 there's no love there." 
 
 " Come here, mother, and look at them ! " 
 exclaimed Mr. Hervey, pulling the blind a 
 little aside, as the three passed along the 
 road together. "What do you say now? 
 see how Miss St. Maur leans across her 
 brother to talk to Mr. De Grey ! and see 
 how he watches her countenance ! " 
 
 Mrs. Hervey joined her son at the window, 
 and put on her spectacles again to examine 
 the group. " Well, Edward," she said, 
 when she had followed them till they were 
 out of sight, " I believe you are right, as 
 far as Mr. De Grey is concerned. He 
 seems to worship the very ground she 
 treads on ; and no wonder, sweet, sprightly 
 creature as she is ! But it's all on his side : 
 there's no care or heartache in her young 
 face." 
 
 " What do you take to be the exact 
 
 VOL. T. P
 
 210 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 symptoms of love, mother?*' inquired Mr. 
 Harvey. 
 
 " Nothing so frank and free as that young 
 lady is, Edward ; no, no ! depend upon it 
 there's no love there. Mr. De Grey is 
 another thing. Poor young man ! — and is he 
 to be disappointed again ? What a world it 
 is ! " and she shook her head, and sat down 
 again to her work. 
 
 Such was Mrs. Hervey's judgment of the 
 effects of the intimacy between Camilla and 
 Ernest De Grey. 
 
 A windy night, which had disturbed some 
 slates on the roof of Cranleigh Chm^ch, had 
 revived in Ernest's mind his old project of 
 improvement and restoration ; and when 
 sought for on this morning by his two 
 young companions, he was found seated on 
 a bank opposite the church with drawing 
 materials about him. 
 
 Camilla approached liim with her usual 
 careless frankness and winning cordiality. 
 *' What a very, very long time it takes to 
 discover people's merits," she said. "We
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 211 
 
 have known you now for nearly two months, 
 and we have never found out that you were 
 an artist.'* 
 
 *' My merits lie so deep, that it takes time 
 to discover them," Ernest replied, laughing ; 
 " and none lie deeper than my merits as an 
 artist." 
 
 " That is for us to decide. I should like 
 to see your drawing ; may I look at it ?" 
 
 " I was doing it for you to see," he said, 
 as he put it into her hand. " I was trying 
 to express upon paper some ideas I have 
 about the church. Don't you think it a very 
 pretty church?" 
 
 "Is it pretty ? — yes, I suppose it is ; but 
 I never thought so before. I don't think I 
 easily find out beauties in things I see every 
 day; but I do think your drawing pretty, 
 very pretty ! Look, Reginald, are not these 
 windows prettily done? I think you are 
 much too humble, Mr. De Grey : I call this 
 very artist-like, and it makes me wish I 
 could draw." 
 
 " I am afi:aid an artist would say other- 
 wise ; but I am quite satisfied with your good 
 p2
 
 212 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 opinion. Though I was doing it for you and 
 your brother, however, it was not for the 
 sake of your admiration : I wished to interest 
 you in a plan which once, long ago, occupied 
 much of my thoughts. Perhaps you have 
 not thought about it; but if you do think, 
 you will see how spoiled the church is, inside 
 and out, by the strange additions that have 
 been made to it. And I have discovered, 
 since I have been here, that partly from 
 these very additions, and partly from in- 
 crease of population, the church is much too 
 small. There is now neither room nor 
 beauty ; but in this way,** — and he pointed 
 to liis drawing — " with these few alterations, 
 the beauty might be restored, and sujfficient 
 room would be given. Do you think you 
 understand my plan ? " 
 
 Camilla had listened to him civilly, but 
 indifferently, and now, shaking her head, 
 said, " No, nor ever should ; plans always 
 make my head ache. But it does not matter, 
 for I know nothing about such things. You 
 had much better talk to Reginald ; and that 
 you may talk in peace, I will go on to Mrs.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 213 
 
 Pope's, and buy a bit of ribbon for my 
 bonnet." She was turning away, but sud- 
 denly stopped. "Are you disappointed?" 
 she said kindly, struck by a look in Ernest's 
 countenance. 
 
 " A little," he replied, with a smile. 
 
 " Then I am sure I will stay, if you like. 
 But you know I don't naturally care about 
 such things. I should only be a hypocrite 
 if I pretended I did." 
 
 " But you will, will you not ? If you 
 don't care about the beauty, don't you think 
 it might be right to feel regret that so many 
 of the poor people are shut out ? " 
 
 " Right — yes ! I dare say it is right. 
 I only mean to say that I don't care natu- 
 rally ; and besides," she added with a half 
 smile and a half sigh, " I had better say 
 the truth, — I don't think I very much wish to 
 care. Such thoughts only make people look 
 grave, as you and Reginald do. But never 
 mind me now ; talk to Reginald, and I will 
 listen, and understand if I can." She seated 
 herself upon the bank as she spoke. 
 
 With an effort Ernest endeavoured to
 
 214 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 arouse his flagging interest, and turned to 
 Reginald with his plan ; but he was doomed 
 again to disappointment, not this time from 
 indifference, but from want of harmony in 
 opinion. Among those minds which rise 
 above the average mediocrity, two extremes 
 are often to be found, — those who find perfec- 
 tion in the past, and those who seek perfection 
 in the fiiture. A perfect character is formed 
 from the union of the two; for however 
 contrary their apparent tendencies may be, 
 each standing alone ends in narrowness and 
 prejudice, inconsideration, and want of sym- 
 pathy. No circumstances or discussions are 
 too small to prevent the collision of such 
 opposite dispositions, and a student of cha- 
 racter might have been amused at the grow- 
 ing wannth of the argument that followed, 
 the shudder with which Ernest heard Regi- 
 nald's sweeping denunciations of the old 
 edifice, and the scorn with which Reginald 
 turned from Ernest's lowly and simple pro- 
 positions. To restore this was Ernest's only 
 desire, and by restoration to beautify. Be- 
 fore Reginald's eyes, with the first mention
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 215 
 
 of the plan, a fair and noble structure began 
 to rise, which made the suggestions of his 
 companion appear mean and low. 
 
 Camilla, rather amused than interested, 
 listened with a smile ; at last she rose from 
 her seat, and put an end to the discus- 
 sion. 
 
 ''It is no use for you to talk any more, 
 you never will agree. Poor Reginald can- 
 not like anything that is not perfect ; and as 
 to you, Mr. De Grey, though you talk of 
 improvement, it seems to me that you are 
 unwilling to part even with the faults.'* 
 
 "Have I been very obstinate?" Ernest 
 said, colouring slightly, as the consciousness 
 came that he had been so. " I am afraid 
 I have ; but I don't think you can have any 
 idea of what I feel about this old church. 
 Perhaps it is foolish ; but I don't think any 
 degree of beauty would repay me for the 
 loss of its present self." 
 
 "I dare say I am too fastidious," Reginald 
 said, thoughtfully; " give me the plan, Ernest, 
 and I will think about it ; and when I have 
 thought, I suppose other considerations should
 
 216 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 come." But when he took the plan, it was 
 evidently Avithout interest. 
 
 " I hope you forgive me for my obsti- 
 nacy?" Ernest inquired, with a smile. 
 
 " You need not say that, Mr. De Grey ; 
 Reginald likes people to be obstinate, in 
 which I agree with him. I think people 
 who have no opinions of their own are 
 worth just nothing. But, now^ if we have 
 done with our grave conversations, will you 
 come with me to buy my ribbon ? I must 
 have it this morning, for this will be my 
 last walk to Cranleigh for weeks and weeks 
 to come." 
 
 They set off together to the little shop 
 of the Cranleigh milliner, passing Mrs. Her- 
 vey's windows as they went. Camilla's 
 remark had cast a shade upon Ernest's brow. 
 
 " You are very thoughtful to-day, Mr. De 
 Grey," she remarked, after they had walked 
 a little way in silence. " I am afraid you 
 are still grieving over the poor old church." 
 
 '^No, indeed!" and he shook his head. 
 " I had forgotten it. If I was thoughtful, 
 I was thinking of what you said ; and I am
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 217 
 
 afraid I was wishing that there was no 
 such place as Oxford in the world." 
 
 " So do I," she said, bending eagerly 
 across her brother, " with all my heart ; and 
 I am very glad to find that I am not the 
 only person who can indulge in foolish 
 wishes. Now, I suppose," laughing a little, 
 " that, as usual, I have said something rather 
 uncivil ; but, I assure you, I do not thinly 
 the wishes foolish, and that I hope will 
 excuse me." 
 
 This was the moment when Mrs. Hervey 
 fitted the spectacles on her nose, preparatory 
 for her look of intense observation. 
 
 They reached the little shop, and stood 
 before the gay window. 
 
 "Which shall I have?" Camilla said, 
 inspecting the ribbons hanging tastefully 
 and temptingly before her. "I am not 
 bent on any one in particular ; I wish some- 
 body would choose for me. What colour 
 do you like best, Mr. De Grey ?" 
 
 " Blue," he said, without hesitation. 
 
 " You are decided indeed ; that comes, 
 I suppose, from being so obstinate. I wish
 
 218 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 I could make up my mind as quickly ; but 
 I only know that I don't like blue. What 
 shall I have, Reginald? — what do you ad- 
 vise?'' 
 
 " Blue," he said, smiling. 
 
 " I know you don't like blue ; I believe 
 you only say it out of compliment to Mr. 
 De Grey ; and as I don't want to pay any 
 compliments to anybody, I shall not take 
 your advice. I think I shall have that 
 pretty sober brown ; will you wait for me ? 
 I will not be a moment." And she went 
 into the shop. 
 
 "Will you ride with us this afternoon, 
 Ernest ? " Reginald inquired, when they were 
 left alone. 
 
 " I should like it." Ernest paused, with a 
 little hesitation ; then added, " But would 
 your sister wish it this last day?" 
 
 " And is my sister only to be considered ? " 
 Reginald observed, with one of his slight, 
 grave, meaning smiles. " If it gives me plea- 
 sure to have you with us, may I not say so?" 
 
 " Thank you a thousand times, now and 
 always," Ernest said, warmly ; " but I think
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 219 
 
 it is but natural to suppose that your sister 
 would prefer to have you all to herself to- 
 day." 
 
 "We will ask her. Camilla," and he 
 laid his hand on her arm as she left the 
 shop, "Ernest De Grey has scruples about 
 accepting my invitation, and on your ac- 
 count. He thinks," and he smiled as he 
 spoke, " that you will wish to keep the enjoy- 
 ment of my society all to yourself." 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. De Grey," she said, going to- 
 wards him with her sweet cordial manner, 
 and raising her lovely face to his, " how very 
 good-natured you are to think of me ! but I 
 assm^e you, Reginald will break his heart if 
 you refuse, and I like whatever he likes ; and 
 if that is not quite civil enough," she con- 
 tinued, one of the faint, swift blushes that 
 were perpetually coming and going, flitting 
 over her cheek, " I like you to come myself." 
 
 " Then I will say no more, except to thank 
 you," and his looks thanked her very ear- 
 nestly, " and hurry away now, that I may be 
 conscientiously at liberty afterwards." 
 
 " You must just stay to see my ribbon,"
 
 220 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 she said, laughingly, as he was turning away. 
 " You see I have bought the blue, after all ; 
 and, unless I tell you the reason why, you 
 may perhaps take it as a compliment when 
 you see it on my bonnet. But the reason 
 is, that there was not enough of the brown, 
 and that all the others looked too ugly when 
 I saw them near." 
 
 He smiled, and shook his head to disclaim 
 most sincerely the expectation of a compli- 
 ment, and thoughtfully hastened away to his 
 daily attendance at the village school ; but, 
 while his lips, eyes, and ears were engaged 
 with his little scholars, the spirit which 
 should have animated those outward organs 
 was gazing on another sight, and hanging on 
 other words, and framing far other sounds. 
 
 And this was now his constant state of 
 mind, and the danger that assailed him was 
 a danger greater than the danger of disap- 
 pointed affection, in so far as the fear of a 
 failure in duty is greater than the fear of a 
 loss of happiness. 
 
 Ernest had arrived at Cranleigh with a 
 very solemn sense of responsibility, and a
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 221 
 
 very sincere desire to do his utmost for the 
 temporal and eternal welfare of his pari- 
 shioners. That utmost which he set before 
 him was, no doubt, open to criticism, — his 
 standard of right was not sufficiently high, 
 his idea of his duties not sufficiently en- 
 larged ; but still, in all sincerity, that which 
 he saw to be his duty he determined to per- 
 form. Before the idea of sincerity duties 
 are ever opening ; and the sense of respon- 
 sibility, once thoroughly admitted, is a sense 
 that cannot be satisfied. So, had nothing 
 intervened between him and his serious 
 thoughts, it is probable that his mind would 
 have shortly opened to higher desires and 
 holier purposes. But almost before he had 
 thoroughly considered what his new duties 
 were — before he could fully realise the con- 
 viction that some hundreds of human beings 
 were hanging on him, on his words, and liis 
 example for warning, instruction, and com- 
 fort, he fell into such a sweet, bright dream 
 of bliss, as bore him away from the present, 
 and steeped his senses in Elysium. 
 
 It is not good that a new state of life
 
 222 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 should be begun in excitement. When the 
 habits are formed, the map of life well laid 
 out, a temporary excitement has its advan- 
 tages, for it tends to stir up the sluggishness, 
 and disperse the clouds of selfishness, — 
 temptations too apt to intrude on regular 
 habits and a quiet life ; but to enter on a 
 new existence, to learn new duties, to un- 
 dertake new responsibilities, while the mind 
 is diverted by turmoil, and half-dissipated in 
 excitement, is destructive not only to the 
 happiness of the life so begun, but often to 
 the minds of those who thus begin it. And 
 thus it was that Ernest's new life began : 
 — his first two months at Cranleigh were 
 passed as one long summer day. 
 
 The danger is, of course, greater when the 
 temptation comes in the form of good, when 
 the excitement appears to be of a high and 
 useful kind ; and this, too, added to Ernest's 
 peril. Had it been Camilla's society only 
 which so powerfiilly attracted him, he would 
 have been on his guard. His mind was so 
 true, his sense of duty so simple and sin- 
 cere, that no enchantment of her presence
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 223 
 
 could possibly have deceived him as to the 
 waste of time and thought into which she 
 beguiled him ; but the attraction of Regi- 
 nald's society was, in its kind, as great as 
 Camilla's, and that there could be aught 
 but good in }delding to the influence of 
 him whose lofty dreams made the cares and 
 simple duties of life look poor, — this was a 
 danger which even a mind more meditative 
 and experienced than Ernest's might have 
 failed to discover. 
 
 So he yielded himself, without thought or 
 fear of evil, to a new-born happiness, — to 
 the sweet companionship which touched his 
 heart, and kindled his fancy, and awoke the 
 loftiest feelings of his natm^e. So happily 
 the days went by, — thoughtlessly, yet too 
 full of thought, — joyful, yet with a joy so 
 full, that it was almost unfelt, — ennobled 
 with visions of ideal virtue and heroism, — 
 which yet were but dreams.
 
 224 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ' " I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said 
 Mr. Knightly, " of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet 
 Smith ; but I think it a bad thing." — Emma. 
 
 " I THINK I shall take a drive to-day, 
 Camilla," Lady Vere remarked one morning 
 to her daughter, about a fortnight after Regi- 
 nald's departure. 
 
 Camilla was sitting listlessly in the win- 
 dow : a book was in her hands ; but her 
 eyes and thoughts were idly wandering in 
 search of that which in vain she sought to 
 find — amusement and excitement. The more 
 than usual happiness of her brother's visit, — 
 a happiness to which, although without a 
 thought of love on her side, or suspicion of 
 it on his, Ernest's society had very naturally 
 added, — had left her more lonely and me- 
 lancholy even than usual. The expression
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 225 
 
 on her countenance was one of mingled sad- 
 ness and ill-humour. 
 
 She replied to her mother's communica- 
 tion without much interest, or very much 
 respect; for, as the day never came when 
 the drive did not take place, the announce- 
 ment appeared to her a needless one. 
 
 " I shall order the carriage at half-past 
 two," continued Lady Vere, " as I mean to 
 drive to Carrington." 
 
 " Where, mamma ? " 
 
 " To Carrington, Camilla. Mitford says a 
 rich man has bought the place, and she says 
 I ouo^ht to call." 
 
 ^' Who is the rich man, mamma? I never 
 heard anything about it." 
 
 "Neither did I till last night. When 
 Mitford was curling my hair, she told me a 
 great deal. She says he was a merchant, 
 but now he is not ; and his name is Vincent 
 — Mr. and Mrs. Vincent ; and she says every- 
 body is calling ; and she says I ought to 
 call.'' 
 
 Though Lady Vere had a peculiar and 
 rather enviable art of communicating much 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 in few words, this had been a long story, 
 and she was exhausted after it. 
 
 Camilla drew up her head a little state- 
 lily, and there was a little ill-humour still in 
 her words. 
 
 " Six miles there and six miles back is 
 rather a long way to go for a merchant, I 
 think. I can fancy Mr. and Mrs. Vincent, 
 the merchant and merchantess ! We may be 
 sure, at any rate, that they are dull, or they 
 would not have come to settle in this dull 
 country." 
 
 " Mitford says I should call, so I think I 
 had better call," was Lady Vere's languid 
 reply. With more energy she went on : — 
 " And she thinks I had better call to-day, 
 because of my velour epingU. I have only 
 worn it once, so that it is almost as good as 
 new ; and she likes me to visit in a new 
 bonnet. Have you got anything you can 
 wear, Camilla?" 
 
 . " Oh yes, mamma ; I think I shall be able 
 to dress myself for Mr. and Mrs. Vin- 
 cent." 
 
 " There 's a young lady, too ; and Mitford
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 22 i 
 
 says she tliinks you ^vill like to make her 
 acquaintance." 
 
 "Why does Mitford say that?" Camilla 
 replied, petulantly. " She knows, or else she 
 ought to know, that I hate young ladies." 
 
 " Do you indeed, Camilla ? Dear, how 
 strange ! " 
 
 " That is to say, I fancy I do," Camilla 
 corrected herself, laughingly ; " for, as Mr. 
 De Grey says, my acquaintance with young- 
 ladies is small. But I w^as born with a 
 horror of the word ; and I am sure I hated 
 the Miss Colmans, and the Miss Dennisons, 
 and the Miss Burtons that my governesses 
 used to rave about. If one could meet with 
 Die Vernon or poor Sybil, that would be 
 another tiling." 
 
 " Who are they ?" inquu'ed Lady Vere. 
 
 " Only in books, mamma ; but people in 
 books are much nicer than people in real life." 
 
 " Are they, indeed ? I used to know a 
 great many young ladies at Bath, and I liked 
 them very much." 
 
 "Wliat did they talk about?" asked Ca- 
 milla, with curiosity. 
 
 q2
 
 228 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " Oh, they used to tell me with whom 
 they danced, and where they got their bon- 
 nets ; and once I told them that I was going 
 to be married, and they were extremely sur- 
 prised." 
 
 "That is just what I thought, mamma; 
 and the Miss Colmans talked in just the 
 same way. However, I don't much mind 
 going to see this Miss Vincent. Perhaps I 
 may like her, after all." 
 
 " Mitford thinks you will, because, she 
 says, she hears she is pretty." 
 
 " Mitfoi'd knows nothing about it, mamma. 
 But certainly, after the sight of ]\Irs. Hervey 
 yesterday, one may perhaps like to see some- 
 thing young and pretty." And, with a little 
 expectation of pleasure, Camilla prepared for 
 the visit. 
 
 On arriving at Carrington, the expectation 
 grew stronger. Camilla had by no means 
 lost her admiration of new places, and a 
 pretty wooded approach to the house excited 
 her envy and admiration. Several times she 
 rose in the barouche to look about her, and 
 each time, in an agony of earnestness, Lady
 
 CLAEE ABBEY. 229 
 
 Vere implored her to be still, for the sake 
 of her dress. 
 
 " Really, mamma," she exclaimed, as they 
 drove to the entrance, with a colonnade 
 before it, " if this is to be the end of being 
 a merchant, I have no objection to be a 
 merchant myself." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent was at home, and Mr., Mrs., 
 and Miss Vincent were all in the drawing- 
 room, prepared for the reception of visitors. 
 
 They may be rapidly described. 
 
 Mr. Vincent looked vulgar, and was so, 
 and was either unconscious of it or indif- 
 ferent about it. Mrs. Vincent was rather 
 handsome, and looked less \adgar, but was 
 more so; for she was conscious of it, and 
 endeavoured to conceal it. Miss Vincent 
 was very handsome indeed, with bright eyes, 
 a brilliant complexion, and a quantity of 
 dark hair. Her appearance, too, was very 
 diiFerent to that of her father and mother. 
 She looked what, perhaps, is most concisely 
 expressed by the word " fashionable," — not- 
 withstanding (or perhaps, having used the 
 word " fashionable," the word " notwithstand-
 
 230 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 ing" is out of place) she was, could her heart 
 have been searched, more thoroughly vulgar 
 in its true sense than any other member of 
 her family. It was, however, the deeply- 
 rooted, not the apparent vulgarity. 
 
 A great fuss was made with Lady Vere by 
 Mr. and Mrs. Vincent, and she was pleased 
 with it ; though the flutter of receiving 
 thanks and the exertion of answering ques- 
 tions somewhat overcame her. 
 
 She was a little puzzled also by a peculiar 
 habit for which Mr. Vincent was remarkable, 
 — a habit, namely, of asking a . question, re- 
 ceiving an answer, and repeating the answer 
 he received in the form of a question, or 
 else of narration to some invisible auditor. 
 She was once or twice put to the serious 
 inconvenience of making a second response. 
 
 '' It is a long drive, I understand, from 
 here to Clare Abbey," said Mr. Vincent. " I 
 am afraid we have given your ladyship a 
 great deal of trouble." 
 
 " Oh dear, no, Mr. Vincent ; it was no 
 trouble; and the drive is exceedingly pretty." 
 
 " Your ladyship found the drive exceed-
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 231 
 
 ingiy pretty?" he repeated, with a shght 
 accent of interrogation. 
 
 " Oh dear, yes, exceedingly pretty," she 
 returned, politely, but languidly. 
 
 " Your ladyship is, perhaps, in the habit 
 of taking long drives ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ; we drive every day." 
 
 " Your ladyship drives every day?" in a 
 slow, measured tone. 
 
 "Oh dear, yes; don't we, Camilla ? " en- 
 deavouring to draw her daughter to her aid. 
 
 " This appears to be a most populous 
 neighbourhood," remarked Mrs. Vincent. " I 
 am sure we have every reason to be satisfied 
 with our purchase. Sophia — my daughter, 
 Sophia — was rather afraid of the country : 
 she likes society, as all young people do, and 
 her papa had prepared her to find it rather 
 dull, especially at first ; but, I assure you, we 
 have only been here a week, and we have 
 had visitors to luncheon every day." 
 
 " Dear, how strange ! " exclaimed Lady 
 Vere, opening her eyes. " We never see 
 anybody at Clare Abbey." 
 
 " Your ladyship never sees anybody at
 
 232 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 Clare Abbey?" repeated Mr. Vincent, with 
 a strong mark of interrogation. 
 
 "No, indeed, we never do — do we, Ca- 
 milla?" again appealing to her daughter. 
 
 " What, mamma?" replied Camilla, break- 
 ing oif her more flowing conference with 
 Miss Vincent. 
 
 But Lady Vere only yawned : a third re- 
 petition was beyond her powers. 
 
 Miss Vincent approached, and asked Lady 
 Vere's leave to show Camilla the grounds 
 about Carrington, as she appeared to admire 
 them. 
 
 Lady Vere paused to reply, struck by the 
 extreme tastefulness of Miss Vincent's dress. 
 When she had surveyed her from head to 
 foot, she returned to recollection, and very 
 civilly gave the desired permission; and a 
 few minutes afterwards they Avandered out 
 together. 
 
 " You are not at all accustomed to the 
 country, then?'* Camilla said, in answer to 
 some remark of Miss Vincent's. 
 
 " No, not at all. I am a thorough cockney. 
 Our only change from London used to be to
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 233 
 
 Brighton ; and that, you know, is a little 
 London." 
 
 " Don't say ' you know ' to me, Miss Vin- 
 cent ; for I know nothing. I thought Brighton 
 was a sea-side place." 
 
 " So it is," replied Miss Vincent, her man- 
 ner losing the very slight shade of flattery 
 which had tinged it, and assuming in its 
 place a very slight shade of patronizing 
 superiority ; " but such a favourite sea place, 
 that houses can hardly be built fast enough. 
 It is quite a large town now, and a very 
 delightful town, too." 
 
 '' Then I suppose you are accustomed to a 
 great deal of society ? Do you go to a great 
 many balls and plays ?" 
 
 "Not much to the play — once or twice 
 a year ; but people don't go to the play 
 now-a-days. There is the opera, you know : 
 we hardly ever miss that ; and other nights 
 there are balls, or concerts, or parties, or 
 dinners. We always had something to do 
 all the year round ; for there is as much so- 
 ciety at Brighton, in its way, as tliere is hi 
 London."
 
 234 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " Well, Miss Vincent, I don't know what 
 you think, but I think that must have been 
 rather too much." 
 
 " One gets used to everything," she re- 
 plied. " I assure you, it is as strange to me 
 to stay at home as it is to you to go out." 
 
 " Then what \vill you do here ? How 
 dreadfully dull you will be." 
 
 '• I certainly feel it a little, but I am not 
 entirely dependent on society ; I draw 
 pretty well, and I am very fond of reading, 
 and music I like passionately. Besides, we 
 have a large circle of acquaintance, and 
 this neighbourhood seems a good one — when 
 once we are settled and found out, I shall 
 not be much afraid. I dare say we shall have 
 the house always full, and I am told there is 
 no society so agreeable as the society of a 
 country house." 
 
 " That must depend a good deal on what 
 the society is," Camilla said, with a slight 
 nod of her head, " I would rather live in a 
 desert than have to talk all day to people I 
 don't care about." 
 
 " Oh ! of course. Miss St. Maur, cela va
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 235 
 
 sans dire ; but we have a very agreeable, as 
 well as a very numerous acquaintance. I 
 know several authors, and composers, and 
 poets." 
 
 " Do you really ?" and Camilla looked at 
 her with surprise and interest. " What are 
 they like ? are they like other people?" 
 
 " I dare say they are not like any of the 
 neighbours about here," said Miss Vin- 
 cent, with a slight laugh ; " but still they are 
 men." 
 
 " Did you ever see Sir Walter Scott ? 
 Xo, I beg your pardon," she added with a 
 blush, "I ought not to ask that when you 
 must be as young as I am." 
 
 " You may ask it, indeed, and I am 
 very happy to tell you that I did see him 
 once, and that he patted my head. I was a 
 very little girl, but I remember it quite 
 well ; he looked so venerable." 
 
 " No, Miss Vincent, you don't mean to say 
 that?" Camilla exclaimed, looking at her 
 companion with profound vereration. " Now, 
 I envy you for that more than for all your 
 balls and parties."
 
 236 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " I do feel a little proud of it, certainly." 
 
 " Have you read all his novels?" Camilla 
 inquired. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I had read them all before I 
 was seventeen, and that I am sorry to say is 
 seven years ago." 
 
 " So have I — but I read them over and 
 over again because I like them so much." 
 
 " I like them very well," Miss Vincent 
 replied, " but I have not time to read books 
 more than once ; it is difficult enough to 
 keep pace with the books of the day." 
 
 " I like them better than the new novels ; 
 I don't so much care about stories of every 
 day life ; I like more excitement and 
 adventures, and even fights and battles. 
 Have you read the ' Last of the Barons ?' 
 I have just finished it, and I put that with 
 Sir Walter Scott's." 
 
 " Yes, I read it when it came out. I read 
 a good many novels, but it is not my favour- 
 ite style of reading ; I like poetry better." 
 
 " Well, I can't quite say that, but I like 
 some poetry very much. I wonder whether 
 we should agree ; do you like Shakspere?"
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 237 
 
 '' Xo," said Miss Vincent, hesitatingly, " I 
 am afraid I must say I don't. It is very fine 
 I dare say, but it is not my style . I like 
 something a little more intellectual." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by intel- 
 lectual. Miss Vincent," exclaimed Camilla, 
 kindling. " My brother, who is very clever 
 indeed, says, he thinks Shakspere must 
 have had the greatest intellect of any man 
 that ever lived." 
 
 '' Oh ! yes, pray don't think I mean to 
 doubt his cleverness ; it is all my o^vn folly, 
 I dare say. I only mean that it does not 
 please me, I like something that goes 
 deeper — more knowledge of :he human 
 heart." 
 
 '' What do you like, I wonder ? Do you 
 like Sir Walter Scott's poems ? " 
 
 " Not much ; I like Byron best of all." 
 
 " I am afraid we don't agree at all. I 
 read some of his poems last year, and I did 
 not care about them. I expected to like 
 them ; I flew to the ' Corsair' — but I was 
 very much disappointed. I did not care about 
 his gloomy characters. I liked the * Doge of
 
 288 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 Venice/ — that fiery old Doge — but not many 
 of the others." 
 
 " I don't care about the characters or the 
 stories at all. What I like are the medita- 
 tions and reflections ; those I do read twice, 
 or twenty times. Every day, almost, I read 
 some of them." 
 
 " There we disagree again," Camilla said, 
 laughing, "for I hate reflections. I am very 
 sorry that we disagree so much." 
 
 " We shall soon agree, I have no doubt. 
 Perhaps you don't quite understand what I 
 mean by reflections. If you will come with 
 me to my room, I will show you some of the 
 pieces I have copied from Lord B}Ton, and 
 Moore, and Tennyson, and other favourite 
 poets. I have a great collection, and when 
 you have seen it, I think you will begin to 
 admire my style of poetry. You have seen 
 all the prettiest part of the garden; will 
 you come in? " 
 
 " I should like it very much, but it must 
 be another day. Mamma is not very fond 
 of long visits, and though I am sure this has 
 not seemed a long one, I suppose we have
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 239 
 
 been out a good while. What a pretty 
 place this is!" she exclaimed, pausing on 
 the steps to admire ; "it is a thousand 
 times prettier than Clare Abbey." 
 
 " Oh ! Miss St. Mam:," Miss Vincent said, 
 playfully, " I am afraid that is not a true 
 comphment. I have heard that Clare Abbey 
 is a very magnificent place." 
 
 " I don't think it is at all ; but if it Avere, 
 that would make no difference ; one gets 
 tired of a thing one sees every day of one's 
 life — at least I do. I am sure I often wish I 
 lived in some of the poor people's cottages — 
 they look so bright and so picturesque ; and 
 still more in some of the farms — such a 
 bustle seems to be going on ! I often wish 
 I were a farmer's daughter." 
 
 Miss Vincent laughingly took up the idea, 
 and having a number of pretty things 
 always at her fingers' ends, did not suffer the 
 opportunity to pass without some slight and 
 playful flattery. 
 
 Camilla smiled and blushed, and very 
 amicably the new friends entered the draw- 
 ing-room.
 
 240 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 "What pleasant people,'' remarked Lady 
 Vere yawning, as they drove away ; " but I 
 wish they had not sent for cake, because I 
 did not want it." 
 
 " You should learn to resist, mamma, as 
 I do." 
 
 " My dear Camilla, it is not civil." 
 
 " Did you like Mrs. Vincent, mamma ? — 
 did you find her agreeable ?" 
 
 " I thought her very pleasant. Her gown 
 was rather short — I saw her petticoat ; and 
 her stockings were a little coarse — but she 
 was very pleasant. Miss Vincent looked 
 exceedingly neat." 
 
 "Neat, mamma? I called her smart, — 
 rather too smart for me." 
 
 " I thought she looked exceedingly nice, 
 — and her sleeves were particularly 
 pretty; — I shall tell Mitford about them. I 
 hope you liked her, Camilla? — and then 
 she may perhaps give me her pattern some 
 day." 
 
 "Yes, mamma, I think I did like her. 
 She is rather a young lady, but not so bad. 
 Yes, I did like her, and she seems to know
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 241 
 
 everything; I am sure she will amuse me 
 very much." 
 
 The visit was returned by Mrs. Vincent 
 and her daughter, in a very few days ; and 
 Miss Vincent in the course of the visit, 
 criticised so merrily and satirically some of 
 Camilla's favourite aversions in the neigh- 
 bourhood, that, convinced she did not fulfil 
 her shado^vy and despised ideal of a young 
 lady, Camilla determined to see more of 
 her, and invited her to spend the afternoon 
 with her on the next day but one. Having 
 overcome her first prejudice against admit- 
 ting a young lady to her acquaintance, it 
 was not strange that she caught eagerly at 
 any amusement offered to her in her dull 
 and uniform life. 
 
 On this occasion. Miss Vincent having 
 expressed a wish to visit the Cranleigh 
 milliner, they obtained Lady Vere's leave, 
 and set forth together, and on the way the 
 former made some inquiries of Camilla, on 
 subjects in which she felt an interest. 
 
 "Are you fond of dancing, Miss St. 
 Maur?" she said, as they walked along. 
 
 VOL. r. K
 
 ^42 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " That is one of the questions I can't 
 answer, for I don't know. I used to hate 
 my dancing lessons, but that I suppose is 
 not very uncommon. My brother Reginald 
 dislikes dancing, so I never think about it. 
 I fancy, however, that I should like it pretty 
 well, but not so much as riding ; I am very 
 fond of riding. Do you like it?" 
 
 " I think, like dancing, it depends on 
 others. I like a riding party very much." 
 
 " I like riding in itself," Camilla said, 
 " the party would have nothing to do -with 
 it." 
 
 " But you do have riding parties ?" 
 
 " No, indeed. I ride with my brother 
 Reginald ; and if I might ride by myself 
 I should like it still." 
 
 "Now, Miss St. Maur," said Miss Vincent, 
 laying her hand playfully on her arm, " you 
 are so close and reserved, that if I wish to 
 find out what things interest you most 
 deeply, I am obliged to make direct in- 
 quiries. Can you guess what I am going to 
 a.sk?" 
 
 " No, indeed, I can't," Camilla said, and
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 243 
 
 said truly. " What do you want to know ? I 
 will tell you whatever you like." 
 
 " Well then, I wish to ask a question of 
 great importance. Who is the hero of these 
 parts? — there must be one." 
 
 "None that I know of/' Camilla said, 
 with some coldness, though she blushed as 
 she spoke. 
 
 "Don't deceive me,*' replied Miss Vin- 
 cent, looking smilingly in her face ; " it 
 would be impossible to persuade me that 
 such a flower as this was doomed to blush 
 unseen." 
 
 " I don't quite know what you mean," 
 said Camilla, with some impatience ; " but if 
 you mean what I think you mean, you are 
 quite wrong. Reginald and I don't care 
 for heroes and heroines." 
 
 "- Well, Miss St. Maur," she replied, still 
 playfully, " I vdll be as discreet as you are, 
 and ask no questions ; but I shall make use 
 of my eyes, and if I make any discoveries 
 I shall not spare you." 
 
 " You will make none, for there are none 
 to make;" Camilla spoke coldly and shortly. 
 r2
 
 244 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 She thought Miss Vincent extremely im- 
 pertinent. 
 
 "Have you no wish to be liked and ad- 
 mired, Miss St. Maur ? " Miss Vincent asked, 
 after a silence of a few seconds. " You axe 
 very unhke girls, or, I might say, the world 
 in general, if it is so." 
 
 " Oh, I don't say that," replied Camilla, 
 laughing. " If I might choose, I should like 
 to be a queen, and to have all the world 
 kneeling admiringly at my feet." 
 
 " I dare say," said her companion, laugh- 
 ing also ; " but that was not quite the kind 
 of admiration I meant. I meant admiration 
 of a more homely kind. In plain words, 
 have you no wish to be loved V^ 
 
 " I suppose I should have no particular 
 objection to it ; but if you mean to ask me 
 whether I sit at home pining for a hero — 
 I don't. I don't much care about that sort 
 of thmg for myself. I am not sentimental, 
 nor more is Reginald." 
 
 "Well, Miss St. Maur, I believe you now ; 
 for if there was a hero in these parts, I 
 don*t think you would speak as you do.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 245 
 
 You are very young and fresh, I see, and 
 you don't understand tlie pleasures and ex- 
 citements of . . . what shall I call it ? But 
 it will come, depend upon it. One doesn't 
 live very long in the world without it. I 
 speak from experience !" 
 
 Camilla felt a little curiosity as to the 
 natmre of Miss Vincent's experience, but she 
 was afraid and ashamed to ask. Such con- 
 versation was new to her. She was shrink- 
 ingly reserved on subjects of a like kind, 
 even in idea, partly by nature, partly from 
 Reginald's distaste. 
 
 " I don't mean only my own experience," 
 Miss Vincent began again, after a pause, 
 " but I have seen such strange things — 
 watched the progress of such strangely in- 
 teresting stories. I am sure / can say that 
 ^ truth is stranger than fiction.' " 
 
 " I wish you would tell me some of your 
 stories. I should like to hear a real, true 
 story, from an eye-witness, very much." 
 
 " I will some day, if I may ; but you 
 know one must be discreet. Things are 
 confided to me, and I must not repeat them."
 
 246 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " Oh, of course not," Camilla said, vehe- 
 mently ; " I would not hear a betrayed 
 confidence for the world ! " 
 
 " How very fresh and unsophisticated you 
 are," observed Miss Vincent, looking at her 
 with a smile ; " how you would be admired 
 in London ! " 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense, pray. Miss Vin- 
 cent," she said, blushing like a rose at the 
 compliment. 
 
 " Well, I won't, for I see you are not like 
 girls in general. But to give you an idea of 
 the kind of excitements I mean, and which 
 occur every day in the world, I will tell you 
 a funny thing that happened last summer. 
 A young girl, very fresh and very pretty, 
 came from the country for two months, to 
 go out with mamma. She went to a ball 
 the first night and made a few acquaint- 
 ances, but she was tii^ed and soon begged 
 to go home. The next morning early, a 
 large bouquet was left for her at our house. 
 The same thing happened every morning 
 for two months ; and by no means or inqui- 
 ries could we discover whence the bouquet
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 247 
 
 came. She went out a great deal and was 
 very much admked, but rather in a general 
 than a particular way. We could not fix 
 on anybody. You may fancy how curious 
 we were. I really could think of nothing 
 else." 
 
 " Yes," Camilla said, with some interest, 
 " it must have been rather exciting. A mys- 
 tery would always take my fancy ; but is it 
 a mystery still ? I hope you discovered the 
 author of such pretty attentions at last?" 
 
 " Yes, I discovered it at last, and in rather 
 a funny way. One day the bouquet was so 
 very beautiful and recherche^ that I exa- 
 mined it with more attention than usual, 
 and I happened to remark among the flowers 
 a carnation of a very peculiar kind and 
 colour. We went to a ball the same even- 
 ing ; and suddenly, while 1 was thinking of 
 other things, my eyes happened to fall on a 
 flower in a gentleman's coat, — the very same 
 rare and peculiar carnation. He was the 
 last person whom I should have suspected 
 of such a thing; rather an old person — 
 I mean old, compared to Ellen Vivian —
 
 248 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 given up dancing, and that sort of thing. 
 However, I felt there could be no doubt ; 
 and soon after, when he came up to speak 
 to Ellen, I joined them, and pointed out the 
 discovery I had made. You have no idea 
 how foolish they both looked." 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Vincent, I call that cruel. I 
 couldn't have done such a thing." 
 
 "It was wrong, I allow, and I repented 
 of it at first ; for they seemed so much em- 
 barrassed. But I don't repent of it now ; 
 for I am sure I helped them to an under- 
 standing. I heard this morning that they 
 were engaged to be married." 
 
 "Well, it is a pretty story, certainly; — 
 but now here we are at Mrs. Pope's. Do 
 you really Avant anything? " 
 
 "Oh yes; I always want bows and rib- 
 bons — one requires such a variety. Pray, 
 let us go in." 
 
 Miss Vincent became excited in her pur- 
 chases (a country shop is certainly very 
 taking), and Camilla stood by her side in 
 some amusement for a few minutes ; but 
 growing tired, and a little annoyed at the
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 249 
 
 gossipping conversation into which she en- 
 tered with Mrs. Pope, she retired to the 
 doorway, and looked up and down the pretty 
 rambling street of Cranleigh. 
 
 While she stood there, Ernest De Grey 
 came from a cottage opposite, and, with a 
 start of pleasure, approached her. 
 
 "Oh! Mr. De Grey," she exclaimed, with 
 her cordial manner, "how glad I am to 
 see you !" 
 
 He was so extremely glad to see her^ that 
 he did not dare to trust himself to say so. 
 He shook hands with her in silence, then 
 said, 
 
 " It is more than ten days since I have 
 even seen you. You were not even at church 
 on Sunday." 
 
 " No ; and I dare say you think it was my 
 wickedness that kept me away ; but it was 
 not, indeed. I should have gone if I could ; 
 but mamma had a cold ; and you know, 
 or perhaps you don't know, that when she 
 has a cold she fancies that all the world 
 must have the same. She would not let me 
 go."
 
 250 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " I did not suspect you of wickedness, in 
 deed," he said. ^' I thought you would come 
 if you could, because it is right ; but if not 
 that, I knew you would come for your bro- 
 ther's sake." 
 
 " Right, Mr. De Grey, quite right. But, 
 besides, since you have been here, I really 
 like to go to church. Though, I dare say, 
 you don't see it, and though I am sm^e no- 
 body else sees it, you have done me a little 
 good already. And where are you going 
 now?" she inquired, after a pause. 
 
 " I am going home directly, to an appoint- 
 ment. Have you been buying any more 
 ribbons ? " 
 
 " No, not to-day. But you see I have got 
 my blue ribbon on my bonnet." 
 
 " Yes, I see ; I think it is very pretty." 
 
 He looked at her with a gaze of such 
 extreme admiration, that an unenlightened 
 person might have supposed it was excited 
 by some less inanimate object than the 
 ribbon. 
 
 " I put it on, to show Miss Vincent the 
 wonders of Cranleigh. Miss Vincent is a
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 251 
 
 new acquaintance of mine. Do you know 
 her ? " 
 
 " No, not at all." 
 
 " Then I will introduce you to her." 
 
 She turned round to see if her companion 
 was ready, and found her standing a few 
 steps behind her within the doorway, with 
 a smile upon her face. She apologised for 
 having kept her waiting, and then, with her 
 usual ease and grace, begged to be allowed 
 to introduce Mr. De Grey. 
 
 Ernest bowed; and, after a moment's 
 pause, bowed again, and retreated. He had, 
 like Camilla, a shadoi^^ ideal of a young 
 lady, — a being with whom he had nothing in 
 common ; and something in IVIiss Vincent's 
 air and appearance proclaiming her to be 
 one of the species, he instinctively withdrew. 
 
 Camilla laughed, for she read the thoughts 
 that passed tlirough his mind. 
 
 " Now, Miss St. Maur," Miss Vincent said, 
 as they re-entered the gates of the park, 
 " I cannot help reproaching you. I had 
 hoped you meant to allow me the privilege 
 of being your friend."
 
 252 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " Camilla said. She felt in- 
 clined to add, " in a degree,'* for she cer- 
 tainly was not quite prepared to swear an 
 eternal friendship ; but she refrained. 
 
 " Then, why have you deceived me? " 
 
 " I have not deceived you ; I never de- 
 ceive. What do you mean?'* 
 
 " I thought you said there was no hero 
 in these parts." 
 
 " There is none," she replied, impatiently, 
 but blushing as she spoke. 
 
 Miss Vincent shook her head at her, with 
 a playful smile. " Oh, Miss St. Maur ! " 
 
 " I wish you had not such fancies, Miss 
 Vincent, " Camilla said, blushing still more 
 deeply. 
 
 ''I am very sorry for my fancies, but 
 really I cannot help them. I think you 
 must be very fastidious indeed, if you do 
 not allow that young man to be good enough 
 for a hero." 
 
 " A hero. Miss Vincent ! Why, that was 
 Mr. De Grey, the clergjonan of the parish." 
 
 " So I supposed, from a part of your con- 
 versation, which I overheard. But wliat
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 253 
 
 of that? Do you think all clergymen are 
 bhnd ? He is not blind, at any rate." 
 
 '' Bhnd about what? " with a little impa- 
 tient stamp of her foot. 
 
 " Oh ! Miss St. Maur, you are deceiving 
 me now. I see you know what I mean. 
 No!" as Camilla shook her head; "well, 
 I will tell you then. I have seen a great 
 many people in love — a very great many 
 — but I never, no never^ saw any one so 
 deeply in love as that young man is." 
 
 *' How can you talk such nonsense ? " 
 Camilla said, angrily, turning away her head 
 as she spoke, to conceal her crimson cheeks ; 
 but a moment afterwards, with a pathetic 
 tone, which in some degree reproached her 
 companion, she went on : — " I msh you had 
 not such fancies, Miss Vincent. I dare say 
 you did not mean to do it ; but you have 
 spoiled all my pleasure and happiness. We 
 have been very great friends ; but now, how 
 am I ever to talk to him comfortably again ? 
 I never shall ; I never can ! " 
 
 " My dear Miss St. Maur," Miss Vincent 
 said, in apology, though she could hardlv
 
 254 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 help laughing, " I am sure I am very sorry 
 to have annoyed you. But I had no idea 
 that you would dislike my remarks. You 
 are so different to most of my acquaint- 
 ance." Seeing that Camilla's brow did not 
 clear, she went on : " I am really very, very 
 sorry — but I cannot believe that you did 
 not see what is as clear as day?" 
 
 " I did not. Miss Vincent," she said, 
 angrily ; "but never mind now. Let us talk 
 of something else." 
 
 Instead, however, of talking of something 
 else, she walked in profound silence to the 
 house. New ideas had been put into her head. 
 
 On reaching Clare Abbey, Miss Vincent 
 was told that her carriage was waiting. She 
 hurried to take leave of Lady Vere ; then 
 approached Camilla, who was standing at 
 one of the drawing-room mndows. 
 
 "My dear Miss St. Maur," she said, hold- 
 ing out her hand and retaining Camilla's 
 when it was given to her, " what shall I 
 say to make you forgive me ? I would not 
 for worlds have spoken as I did, if I had 
 supposed it would annoy you. I am afraid
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 255 
 
 I have a habit of foolish and indiscreet 
 speaking ; but don't be angry mth me. I 
 did not mean to offend, and you must teach 
 me to correct myself." 
 
 Camilla relaxed. " Pray don't say any 
 more," she said, smiling ; " I am not veri/ 
 angry; only I must say, I think it very 
 foolish speaking — and I don't like it at all." 
 
 " Well, but I am forgiven — and you will 
 not avoid me for the future. Pray do not 
 punish me so much ! " 
 
 Camilla smiled again ; and, pleased to be 
 so much liked by Miss Vincent, rewarded 
 her with a degree of affection much greater 
 than before. 
 
 They became friends, and were often 
 together ; and Miss Vincent (though much 
 inferior to Camilla in natural talent), having 
 the advantage of her in age, shrewdness, and 
 knowledge of the world, she it was who in- 
 fluenced, and imparted her own mind to her 
 youthful companion.
 
 256 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Night visions may befriend ; — 
 Our waking dreams are fatal. How I dream' d 
 Of things impossible. — (Could sleep do more?) 
 Of joys perpetual, in perpetual change; 
 Of stable pleasures on the tossing wave ! 
 Eternal sunshine in the stonns of life ! — 
 How richly were my noontide trances hung 
 With gorgeous tapestries of pictured joys ! 
 Joy behind, joy in endless perspective. 
 
 Young's Night Thoughts. 
 
 With Reginald's departure the summer 
 of Ernest's life passed away, and autumn in 
 more senses than one set in. He was left 
 alone, — alone in his home, alone in his in- 
 tellect, alone in his lieart, — and his spirits 
 sank beneath the solitude. Rousing himself 
 from depression, he endeavoured then to 
 turn his whole mind to his duties, to act 
 upoD his flitting dreams of improvement ; 
 but the fresh and ardent spirit which he
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 257 
 
 had brought to the scene of his labours, — and 
 wliich seems to have been allotted to new 
 duties for the very purpose of overcoming 
 the difficulties attendant upon them — super- 
 seded by a higher excitement, had died 
 away; and it was but with a languid step 
 and joyless eyes that he devoted himself to 
 his tasks. He had been basking in the sun 
 of this world's happiness, and he was thirst- 
 ing for it still ; he had been blessed with a 
 sight of this world's beauty, and he pined 
 for it still ; he had been dreaming dreams 
 of this world's greatness and heroism, and 
 his own simple duties filled liim with shrink- 
 ing and disgust. 
 
 But there is nothing hopeless except self- 
 deception, and in Ernest's sincerity there 
 was ever the golden thread that was to 
 draw him upward again. He had been be- 
 guiled into wastefiilness of his time, and if 
 not into absolute neglect, yet into omission 
 of duty ; but now that the time was passed, 
 and that the voice of the charmer was still, 
 he felt what the effects had been ; and in 
 truth and humility, acknowledging his weak- 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 n^ss and unworthiness, he resolved to arouse 
 himself to fight and to overcome. 
 
 He resolved, — and a sincere resolution is 
 full of strength ; but almost before the reso- 
 lution had passed his lips, and entered into 
 his heart, a change in Camilla's manner 
 plunged him into excitement more fatal 
 than before. 
 
 His love for her, though indulged, though 
 acknowledged, had hitherto lain as passive 
 and hopeless within him, as if he had in- 
 dulged in devotion to a bright particular 
 star. He did not even argue the point, — a 
 combination of feelings, insensibly and un- 
 questioned, pronouncing that hope was not 
 for him. Good sense and good feeling told 
 him that, with her youth and his poverty, he 
 should not seek for it to be ; natural diffi- 
 dence told Mm that it could not be ; and 
 that possibly which gave life and strength to 
 all the others' voices, Camilla's frank and 
 fearless manner, proclaimed aloud her utter 
 indifference. So contentedly he had been 
 satisfied to love her, contented to yield witli 
 thoughts far removed from selfish ones, tlie
 
 CLABE ABBEY. 259 
 
 entire and reverential devotion of an un- 
 wasted heart. 
 
 But under Miss Vincent's influence a new 
 era came. First, conscious and shrinking, 
 Camilla startled the word hope into his 
 heart, then — she must, I fear, greatly fall in 
 the estimation of my readers, but it nmst be 
 owned that she began to flirt with him. 
 She was herself unconscious of it ; she was 
 utterly indifferent to Ernest ; she neither 
 understood the kind and depth of his love, 
 nor, indeed, understood in any degree that 
 love was anything but an amusement at all ; 
 but, hearing the subject perpetually dis- 
 cussed by Miss Vincent, she began to take 
 some interest in it, — began to be pleased 
 with the idea of Ernest's devotion, — began 
 childishly to wish for some outward signs of 
 her power. It was but too natural ; but to 
 poor Ernest it was fatal. 
 
 He did not learn to believe that she loved 
 him ; for her manner was so childish and 
 <:hangeabk% that as fast as the idea arose it 
 vanished again. If a blush or a sweet smile 
 entranced him with rapture, a careless word 
 s2
 
 260 CLABE ABBEY. 
 
 plunged him the very next moment into 
 despair. But this uncertainty it was that 
 destroyed him : it led him to pass 
 
 " The night, the dawn, the noon, the dewy eve 
 In the sweet serious idleness of love !" 
 
 The livelong day it laid him at Camilla's 
 feet, in spirit not in reality, questioning the 
 meaning of her sunny smiles, and the glances 
 of her speaking eyes. It plunged him into 
 that excitement from which there is no es- 
 cape, — the excitement of the mind. Outward 
 excitements leave time for rest, — the most 
 dissipated have their moments of repose ; 
 but in the mental fever there is no pause. 
 It bore him company in his solitary home, — 
 it made his heart beat in the silence of 
 night, — it entered with him into the house 
 of God, and followed him mth syren whis- 
 pers even to the couch of sickness and the 
 bed of death ! 
 
 But such dreams do not last for ever : 
 they must receive either a check, or rise 
 into more tangible being. After a fort- 
 night's mad excitement Ernest awoke, — and 
 it was his own boldness which awoke him.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 261 
 
 He called one day at Clare Abbey while 
 Lady Vere was driving, and was admitted 
 by mistake. He found Camilla alone in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " Mamma is out," she said, going forward 
 with her winning manner to meet him. 
 -'- Did you know it ; or did you expect to find 
 her here?" 
 
 " I certainly expected to find her here," 
 he replied, with a smile. 
 
 "Ah," she said, shaking her head laugh- 
 ingly, " I thought it was a new thing that you 
 should come to see me. But, now that you are 
 come, though by mistake, will you stay ? " 
 
 " May I stay ? " he asked, hesitatingly, — 
 for Lady Vere was particular on points of 
 etiquette and propriety ; not more particular 
 than she should have been, but more careful 
 of the letter than the spirit of such rules. 
 
 " I don't know about ma^ ; I only ask you 
 if you ivill stay? I have got a cough, and 
 that makes me stupid; and the day is so 
 dark, and the wind so howhng, it makes one 
 dreary ; and I am reading a novel of Miss 
 Vincent's, which really is too melancholy.
 
 262 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 So I ask you, out of charity, to stay and 
 cheer me a little. Will you stay?" — she 
 smiled very sweetly as she spoke. 
 
 He sat down. He knew that he should 
 not stay : he knew that, under his present 
 feelings, it was dangerous to liim to be alone 
 with her, — and yet he stayed. As to re- 
 fusing her anything when she looked as she 
 then did, he could not do it. He sat down 
 in silence, conscious of his weakness, warned 
 that he was wTong, but mth a strange feel- 
 ing of pleasure. 
 
 " I ought not to be stupid and dreary to- 
 day," she began, after a moment ; " for I 
 have had a letter from Reginald this morning, 
 full of his plans and his hopes, and he says 
 he shall be here in three weeks. That is 
 good news, is it not ? — I was half afraid his 
 degree would keep him dawdling at Oxford." 
 
 " Good news, indeed," Ernest said, 
 warmly, " for me as well as for you." 
 
 " I thought you would be glad. Do you 
 know, Mr. De Grey, I really think you like 
 Reginald as much as he deserves." 
 
 ^''Lilce him ! " Ernest repeated gravely,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 263 
 
 for the thought of Regmald brought feel- 
 ings of self-condemnation ; '' no ! that is 
 not what / ought to say — I reverence him." 
 
 "So do I," she said, smiling ; ''on that 
 one single point we agree." 
 
 "Only on that one?" 
 
 " Only on that one, I think ; at least I 
 cannot remember any other. I think we 
 always disagree." 
 
 " I should be very sorry to think so," he 
 said with a good deal of earnestness. 
 
 " Why, don't you know that the strongest 
 disagreements make the strongest friend- 
 ships? so at least this book says," touching 
 the novel that lay beside her; "and so I sup- 
 pose that we are to be very great friends." 
 
 He made no answer. She spoke so 
 lightly, so carelessly — it was one of the 
 moments when the vision suddenly faded ; 
 but suddenly, swiftly, and never so brightly, 
 the next instant it rose again before him ; 
 for, leaning forward on her arm, a faint 
 blush on her lovely face, and a faint tone 
 of pique, or rather of reproach, in her 
 sweet voice, she said, —
 
 264 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " You don't seem to care for that. I 
 thought you would have been glad to think 
 that we should be friends." 
 
 He almost started ; and with more than 
 earnestness — with agitation in voice, and 
 look, and manner, he replied, " You do not 
 think so : you know too well what I hope, 
 if I could but dare to say so." 
 
 He was leaning forward, his eyes intently 
 resting upon her. She had forced him so 
 to look, and so to speak : but he never had 
 so forgotten himself before ; and alarmed 
 and displeased, and unconscious what he 
 meant, she drew back with a quick move- 
 ment, and a deep and startled blush. 
 
 And the vision suddenly and silently dis- 
 appeared, — not for the moment flitting and 
 returning again, — but the mist dispersed, 
 he awoke. 
 
 He also drew back, and sate, his hat in 
 his hand, in profound meditation. How 
 wrongly had he judged her — so he mused ; 
 and how wrongly he had acted. With her 
 careless innocent charm of manner she was 
 but inviting him to ease and to confidence ;
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 265 
 
 and how had he rewarded her ? — He had 
 put a meaning to her words they did not 
 bear ; he had taken advantage of her 
 thoughtless frankness, — of the intimacy into 
 which circumstances had thrown them. He 
 was a wretch, unworthy to be admitted into 
 her society ; — this was his conclusion. But 
 he would repair what he had done, — 
 there, in her presence, he would bind 
 himself by the most solemn vow to be 
 tempted to such a forgetfulness of duty no 
 more. 
 
 The silence caused by these meditations 
 lasted for a considerable time. It was 
 Camilla who first recovered herself, and 
 laughing to conceal a httle embarrassment, 
 and, as if to invite a return to their former 
 easy footing, addressed him : 
 
 " Will you never speak again, Mr. De 
 Grey? You are not very civil." 
 
 " I beg your pardon ! " he said, getting 
 up with a grave smile ; " but I had forgotten 
 myself. I have a good many things to 
 take up my thoughts ; but I ought to remem- 
 ber that it is very rude and ill-mannered
 
 2Q6 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 to bring my thoughts here. I ought to have 
 remembered it before." 
 
 " But I don't think it rude ; I hope you 
 don't think I do. You know," she con- 
 tinued with the same enchanting blush, in- 
 fluenced to speak by a feehng of pity which 
 at the moment she scarcely understood, and 
 did not pause to analyze ; " you know, if we 
 are to be great friends, we must not be ready 
 to take offence at every little trifle." 
 
 "You are very kind to say so," Ernest 
 replied steadily and composedly, still under 
 tiie influence of his new resolutions ; " but 
 I hope I shall not try you again. It is a 
 bad day with me in every way : I know 
 that I have offended in more ways than 
 one." He held out his hand, and disap- 
 peared before she had time to say more. 
 
 Camilla quickly forgot the impression of 
 that one look and those few words which 
 had startled her; and in their occasional 
 meetings all went on as it had done before. 
 She was very childish, — very thoughtless ; 
 this was her only excuse, and she needed 
 one.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 267 
 
 The trials of life are various. Some have 
 one hard fight, and coming off victorious, are 
 for ever at peace. The conquest is so com- 
 plete, the root of the evil so completely 
 cut off, that they are assailed no more. 
 Others live in warfare all their life long, — 
 never so yielding as utterly to fall, never 
 so conquering as entirely to triumph ! These 
 are they who are 
 
 " Pinioned with mortality 
 ' As an entangled, hamper' d thing." 
 
 These are they whose thirst for earthly 
 happiness is too intense ; these are they 
 whose strong affections make strong afflic- 
 tions, and raise for themselves trials in paths 
 so peaceful and flowery, that men for the 
 most part would pass along them with a 
 dancing step,— and such an one was poor 
 Ernest ! 
 
 He returned with something of renewed 
 attention to his duties. He resisted the 
 impression of Camilla's manner ; he re- 
 sisted, or thought he resisted, the risings 
 of fresh hope ; but he was restless and 
 depressed, and as he went about his un-
 
 268 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 loved tasks, he was unceasingly asking him- 
 self why object after object on which his 
 heart was set was denied to him, — why 
 desire after desire was withheld ! And 
 while thus repiningly pondering, he forgot 
 — as many are apt in disappointment to 
 forget — that while a few things were with- 
 held from him, a shower of abundant and 
 unmerited blessings were falling upon his 
 head.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 269 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 For oft when summer leaves were bright 
 And every flower was bathed in light, 
 
 In sunshine moments past. 
 My wilful heart would burst awt;y 
 From where the holy shadow lay, 
 
 Where Heaven my lot had cast. 
 
 The Christian Year. 
 
 Think not of rest — though dreams be sweet, 
 Start up and ply your heaven-ward feet ; 
 Is not God's oath upon your head, 
 Ne'er to sink back on slothful bed ? 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Christmas came, and with Christmas 
 Reginald arrived, and with Christmas — came 
 a visitor to Ernest De Grey. 
 
 Lady Vere and Camilla w^ere returning 
 from a long drive on a cold afternoon the day 
 after Christmas day ; the wind was piercing, 
 and the air foggy and cold. At a distance 
 of five or six miles from Cranleigh they 
 o})served Ernest, leaning against a large tree
 
 270 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 by the side of the high-road. At Camilla's 
 desire, to gratify her curiosity, they drew 
 up to speak to him. 
 
 "What are you doing?" she inquired as 
 he approached the carriage ; " how can you 
 stand there in this piercing wind ? " 
 
 "Is it worse for me than for you?" he 
 said, with a smile. 
 
 " Ah ! but look at oui' fur cloaks ; we can 
 hardly be cold." 
 
 " They are extremely comfortable," ob- 
 served Lady Vere ; and added, civilly, " I 
 wish we could spare you one." 
 
 " Thank you very much, but I am not 
 cold. I don't mind a fresh wind, I rather 
 like it ; it seems to drive the clouds away 
 from one's intellect," and he half sighed as 
 he spoke. " Besides, I have not been stand- 
 ing long ; I walked here to meet my mother, 
 and was onlv restin<z : if she does not come 
 soon, I shall go on further." 
 
 " Is your mother coming here ? " Camilla 
 said, in surprise. 
 
 " Yes, I expect her this after no<3u, — but 
 onlv for one whole day."
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 271 
 
 "And is it for fear of losing one single 
 minute of her visit, that you come all this 
 way to meet her ? " 
 
 '' Partly that and partly from other things. 
 I thought," he said with a slight smile, "that 
 she would feel strange coming back here 
 alone ; and I could not go to the station 
 to meet her, because it is St. Stephen's day, 
 and I was detained by the service and other 
 things." 
 
 " You are a very good son, Mr. De Grey ; 
 I must say that for you," Camilla said ap- 
 provingly. " I have often thought so before." 
 
 '• 1 should be so," he replied earnestly. 
 
 She looked at him for a moment with a 
 kind of curiosity; then looked at her own 
 mother's vacant face, and sighed. Her 
 advancing years and deepening thought, 
 Miss Vincent's influence, and the style of 
 sentimental reading and reflection to which 
 that influence led her, enlarging much, — if it 
 could be so, even too much, on the necessity 
 and happiness of sympathy, often made her 
 sigh over the want of such a blessing in her 
 home ; and there was a tone of tenderness
 
 272 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 in her voice, as leaning forward again to 
 Ernest, she said, 
 
 "May I come to see your mother? I 
 should like it ; I am sure I should like her 
 so very much." 
 
 He coloured with pleasure at her tone and 
 her words ; but endeavouring to conceal any 
 too great expression of his feeling, replied 
 only quietly, how happy her visit would 
 make both his mother and himself. 
 
 " Then I shall come to-morrow — and 
 mamma too. Mamma, I am sm-e you would 
 like to make acquaintance with Mrs. De 
 Grey — shouldn't you? '' 
 
 " It would give me, I assure you, the very 
 greatest pleasure," Lady Vere said, with her 
 ever ready politeness. 
 
 " You must be very cold, I won't stop 
 you any more," Ernest remarked, and re- 
 treated from the carriage ; " it is getting 
 late, too." 
 
 '' Reginald is gone, you know ; I am afraid 
 he never will stay here steadily again. I 
 am very sorry his education is over." 
 
 " He told me you were displeased witli
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 273 
 
 him," Ernest said, smiling ; " but I hope you 
 have forgiven him ; he could not help it." 
 
 "I got up to breakfast with him at six 
 this very bad morning ; don't you think 
 that looks like forgiveness ? " 
 
 " I think it does indeed." And the car- 
 riage drove on, leaving Ernest in a reverie 
 of a very lover-like kind; the sound of a 
 rattling post-chaise, however, quickly aroused 
 him, and Camilla was for a time forgotten, 
 in the intense pleasure with which he saw 
 his mother again. 
 
 Mr. De Grey had determined never to 
 visit the neighbourhood of Clare Abbey ; 
 and so uncertain were his spirits, and so 
 constant his desire for attention, that his 
 wife, unwilling to leave him even for a day, 
 had scarcely contemplated the possibility 
 of seeing her son in his new home. During 
 the last few weeks, however, his letters had 
 troubled her. He said nothing of his feel- 
 ings, made no complaint ; he himself fancied 
 he wrote as usual, but there was in tlieir 
 tone a melancholy and depression, so con- 
 stant and so e\ident, that she felt called 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 upon by absolute necessity to inquire into 
 the cause. At a short notice, therefore, she 
 came for a short visit to Cranleigh. But the 
 visit was Httle calculated to set her mind 
 at ease. Ernest was excited by her coming, 
 and was besides determined to be cheerful ; 
 but though something of the depression of 
 his spirits he could and did conceal, he 
 could not (to a mind as true as his, it was 
 impossible) conceal the languor and heart- 
 lessness with which his duties were per- 
 formed. Something more than happiness 
 was at stake, that Mrs. De Grey saw plainly, 
 and though Ernest shrank, as he never had 
 done before, from the least allusion to him- 
 self and his own state of mind, it did not 
 need Mrs. Cook's dark hints and mysterious 
 allusions, to lead her to guess the cause. 
 
 " I hope, mamma, you will be very par- 
 ticularly civil to Mrs. De Grey," Camilla 
 said, as they drove up to the door of the par- 
 sonage early in the afternoon ; " you know 
 it is almost like going to see yourself." 
 
 "How so, my dear Camilla?*' inquired 
 her mother, with a puzzled look.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 275 
 
 " Why, mamma, you know if Mr, De Grey 
 had not lost his fortune, Mrs. De Grey would 
 have been in your place at Clare Abbey.'' 
 
 "True, Camilla, — but," she added, with 
 unusual acuteness, " I should never have 
 been at the parsonage." 
 
 " Well, mamma, I hope, at any rate, that 
 you will be very civil." 
 
 " I hope I always am civil," replied Lady 
 Vere, with complacency. Nevertheless, 
 warned by Camilla, she gathered up her 
 powers for a more than ordinary show of 
 pohteness. 
 
 And she was extremely civil, and kind 
 as well as civil ; but how could her kindness 
 or civiHty be thought of, in presence of the 
 winning grace and gentleness of Camilla's 
 manner? The tenderness with which she 
 and Reginald always thought of the De 
 Greys, and which on the present occasion 
 could so safely and properly be shown, gave 
 an added charm to her usual fascinating 
 cordiality ; and nothing prettier could have 
 been conceived than the half tender, half 
 smiling face — the half playful and half 
 T 2
 
 276 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 serious words with which she gave Mrs. De 
 Grey her own welcome to the neighbourhood. 
 
 With pleased and grateful admiration Llrs. 
 De Grey regarded her, but she turned her 
 eyes from her lovely face to cast them with 
 pity and sympathy on her son. Her attempt 
 at sympathy was, however, m vain. Ernest 
 was not observing her — was not thinking 
 of liimself ; inexpressible and irrepressible 
 feelings were in liis mind as he watched 
 Camilla. Her manner to his mother had 
 placed her on the pinnacle of human per- 
 fection. He thought he never had loved 
 her as he ought — never done her justice 
 before : he was lost and gone in a trance 
 of gratitude and admiration. 
 
 He was standing near the window, thought- 
 ful and abstracted, when Camilla, leaving 
 her mother in the exhibition of her neces- 
 sary civilities to Mrs. De Grey, joined him. 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. De Grey,*' she said, 
 playfully, " I have wished so much and so 
 often to see your house, and though I have 
 often hinted my wish, you never would offer 
 to show it. I am afraid that must have been
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 277 
 
 the cause of my great desire to come here 
 to-day." 
 
 " I never thought of your wishing to see 
 it," he said, smiling, " or I am siu"e 1 should 
 have been only too happy. What do you 
 think of it, now you do see it ? " He turned 
 a chair into a more convenient posture as 
 he spoke, and moved it towards her. 
 
 She sat down and looked about her. " It 
 is not only because I always think new 
 rooms pretty, but really and truly I think 
 this the prettiest room I ever saw." 
 
 And her admiration was justified ; for it 
 ims one of the prettiest rooms of the kind 
 that could have been imagined. The fur- 
 niture was light and suitable ; the chintz^ 
 one of the prettiest of chintzes ; and the 
 sea-green walls were ornamented by engrav- 
 ings (proclaiming the owner's active tastes) 
 from some of Landseer's choicest pictures. 
 All looked fresh and bright and habitable 
 — a perfect picture of domestic comfort. 
 
 " I am glad you admire it," Ernest said, 
 much gratified, " for I must say I think it 
 pretty myself*
 
 278 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " If I say quite what I think — I think it 
 a great deal too pretty for you," and she 
 moved her head emphatically as she spoke. 
 " I had no idea that clergymen made them- 
 selves so comfortable." 
 
 " I assure you I more than agree with 
 you," Ernest replied, laughing, yet seriously 
 also. " I never go to see Mrs. Hervey with- 
 out feeling ashamed of myself. But it is 
 not my fault ; everything you see was given 
 to me. My rector at Chesford gave me the 
 furniture, and his sisters the paper and the 
 chintz, my father and mother gave me the 
 books, and two very old friends, Harry and 
 Leopold Leslie, gave me those pretty en- 
 gravings. Whatever you may think of me, 
 I will not be set down as luxurious and 
 extravagant." 
 
 " I think Mr. De Grey," and she looked up 
 at him, " that you seem to be unusually for- 
 tunate in finding friends." There was some- 
 thing of mingled softness and sadness in her 
 voice which might have been, which partly 
 was, misunderstood. 
 
 " I am indeed," he replied earnestly, and
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 279 
 
 his eyes rested upon her with a look of such 
 deep and grateful tenderness, that his mo- 
 ther, attracted by the gaze, paused in her 
 conversation to watch its effect upon the 
 young face lifted to his. She gazed for a 
 moment, then turned away her head with a 
 sigh. It was not that in sober judgment she 
 desired a return of Ernest's affection — but 
 reason and feeling do not always speak the 
 same language, and she could not read the 
 signs of his perfect love and her indiffer- 
 ence unmoved. 
 
 Of the feelings that prompted Ernest's 
 words — of the meaning that shone in his 
 clear blue eyes, Camilla was apparently un- 
 conscious. Thought, indeed, and something 
 of sadness was on her brow, but it was no 
 thought for him. The subject of her me- 
 ditations shortly appeared. 
 
 " You are more fortunate than I am. 
 There is no one in the world, except, per- 
 haps, Reginald, who would have taken so 
 much thought and care for me." She was 
 expressing a growing feeling of melancholy 
 and discontent which had taken possession
 
 280 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 of her mind — it came she knew not how 
 or whence, but it was filling her with vague 
 jepinings and indefinable longings. 
 
 "Why do you say so?" Ernest replied 
 gravely, for he was endeavouring not to say 
 something else, and the endeavour made 
 him restrained. " You cannot think it, and 
 you should not say w^hat you do not think." 
 
 " But I do think it," she said, sadly ; •' I 
 always say what I mean. Perhaps you think 
 Miss Vincent is a great friend ; but I know 
 just how much of a friend she is, and how 
 much she cares for me. I like her more 
 than she likes me ; and there is no one else 
 — no ; and even Reginald, I sometimes 
 think, does not really care for me; at least 
 he despises as well as cares." 
 
 Ernest made no answer. He would have 
 given the world to speak ; but his own 
 thought w^as not to be spoken, and he could 
 say nothing else. 
 
 " I believe you think I deserve no better,"" 
 Camilla continued, partly in the same tone^ 
 but a little petulantly also. " I dare say you 
 are right ; but, though it may be right, 1
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 281 
 
 often wish it were not so. I often wish that 
 Reginald were not so taken up with his great 
 thoughts ; — at this time especially, I have 
 wished a good deal that he would think 
 more of me." 
 
 " He was very much occupied these few 
 days," Ernest said, suppressing mth a vio- 
 lent effort any allusion to himself, though he 
 thought himself a brute for his coldness. 
 " It will not be so again. Don't tell me that 
 there is any shadow of discontent between 
 your brother and you, for it would grieve 
 me to think so." 
 
 " Well, there is none," she cried, warmly, 
 " or at least," with a touch of sadness again ^ 
 " if there is, it is because I am unworthy of 
 him. Sometimes I wish I were more like 
 him, and sometimes, a little, I wish that he 
 were more like me. Sometimes I feel as if 
 our happiest days were past — that he will 
 grow greater, and I shall grow less — that he 
 will grow better, and I shall grow worse ; 
 and then he will hate me." 
 
 " If I were you," Ernest said, still gravely, 
 " I would not allow myself to think of the
 
 282 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 possibility of such a thing. You know we 
 don't grow worse quite without our own 
 will." 
 
 " But I am not sure that my will is quite 
 against it. I don't know — it seems to me 
 that everybody is growing very grave and se- 
 vere, and I don't like gravity. You, too, Mr. 
 De Grey, you are graver than you used to 
 be. You are as grave now as Reginald is, 
 and much more severe." 
 
 " Severe ! " he exclaimed hastily, startled 
 into anxiety ; " do you think me severe ?" 
 But, whether consciously or unconsciously, 
 his mother's eye fell upon him as he spoke, 
 seeming to warn and to restrain him, and 
 with something of formal quietness the sen- 
 tence was finished. " I certainly have no 
 right to be severe with any one except my- 
 self." 
 
 " But you are severe — " she was persist- 
 ing, when they were interrupted. 
 
 " Mrs. De Grey says she won't dine with 
 us, Camilla." Mrs. De Grey smiled at Lady 
 Vere's concise communication of her re- 
 fusal ; but she did not contradict it.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 283 
 
 " Then I was right, mamma," Camilla said, 
 leaving her seat, and taking another on the 
 opposite side of the room. " I said," she 
 continued, leaning towards IVIrs. De Grey, 
 " that you would not : I said that it would 
 be a shame if you were to spoil all Mr. De 
 Grey's pleasure by dining out on this one 
 single day. But I am sorry, very sorry, that 
 I am right." And she smiled so prettily, so 
 kindly, so engagingly, that Ernest turned 
 away, and stood looking out of the window 
 during the remainder of the visit. 
 
 The conversation continued for a few mi- 
 nutes between Mrs. De Grey and Camilla — 
 the mood of the past hour forgotten, Ca- 
 milla as gay again as a child. Then Lady 
 Vere rose from her seat, and a repetition of 
 her civil speeches recommenced. 
 
 " I am so glad to have seen yoiu* pretty 
 house," Camilla said to Ernest, while the 
 ceremonial was proceeding ; " for now I 
 shall be relieved from pitying you. I have 
 pitied you very much and very often for 
 living here alone ; but now I am sure I 
 need not pity you any more."
 
 284 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " Don't pity me for living alone,*' he said, 
 with a little irritation in his manner, ''for I 
 like it." 
 
 " Do you really like living alone?" she in 
 quired, with some surprise. 
 
 " Yes, I really do." And, having put her 
 and Lady Vere into the carriage, he pro- 
 ceeded to prove the truth of his words by 
 leaving his mother's society, and going for a 
 sohtary walk. 
 
 There are some good actions, which do 
 not receive as they merit the reward of an 
 approving conscience, and Ernest's self-con- 
 trol was of that nature. He felt angry \^ath 
 himself, and angxy with his mother, because 
 he saw her views of his duty agreed with 
 his. Never had Camilla been so gentle, so 
 engaging, so lovable ; never had he been 
 so indifferent in manner, so repulsive. And 
 why was it to be, he asked, and why was 
 he to thwart his own wishes, and perhaps 
 hers also? Or if not now, if too childish 
 and thoughtless now to dream of love, why 
 might he not teach her to love him, — win 
 her to love him ? What in the world could
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 285 
 
 make her happier than a love like his ? So 
 he walked by liimself, and talked with him- 
 self, till conflicting views and conflicting 
 feelings, and indulged dreams, had reduced 
 his mind to a state of uncontrollable irrita- 
 tion and excitement. 
 
 He returned to the house only when he 
 dared, for his mother's sake, remain no 
 longer absent. She was seated in the quiet 
 room, the lamp before her, engaged in 
 writing to her husband. On Ernest's en- 
 trance she looked up, and laid down her 
 pen ; but, after a short observation of his 
 countenance, she resumed it again, and 
 merely greeting him with a smile, stooped 
 her head over her letter, and appeared to 
 be lost in thought. Ernest stood for a mo- 
 ment by the fire ; then listlessly walking to 
 the book-shelves, he took down a large 
 book, and placing it on the opposite side of 
 the lamp, sat down before it. He put his 
 elbows on the book, crossed his hands, 
 rested his forehead upon them, and began 
 to read. 
 
 His mother watched him at intervals.
 
 286 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 His eyes were steadily fixed on the page, 
 but the page was never turned. She made, 
 however, no remark, quietly finished her 
 letter, sealed it, and laid it aside, unper- 
 ceived by him sought for her work, and sat 
 down again. Then at last, suddenly and 
 quietly, she broke the silence. 
 
 " You asked me last night, Ernest, to re- 
 commend you a text : I have thought of 
 one on which I should much like you to 
 preach, and which would be appropriate to 
 the end of the old and the beginning of the 
 new year." 
 
 She drew a Bible towards her, and open- 
 ing it, placed it before him with her finger 
 on the following words : — 
 
 " If'o man having jput his hand to the 
 plough and looking back, is Jit for the king- 
 dom of God" 
 
 Ernest looked at it — looked at his mother, 
 and coloured deeply ; then suddenly closing 
 the book and speaking in a very resolute 
 tone he said, " No, mother ; whatever I may 
 be, I will not be dishonest — I will not 
 preach what I do not practise."
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 287 
 
 " But, Ernest," she said, seriously, " what 
 do you mean by not practising? Should 
 you not preach and practise too ? " 
 
 " I should, mother, but I do not. I con- 
 fess it," he continued, passionately and ex- 
 citedly, " I do look back — I would not be 
 what I am — I would be what I am not 
 — I would be anything which could give me 
 a better hope of winning, a better right to 
 try to win her heart." 
 
 He turned rapidly over some pages ; then 
 again placing his elbows on the book, and 
 shading his face, began to read. 
 
 Advice, it is said, is only powerful when 
 it puts into language the secret oracle of our 
 souls. There is a time to speak and a time 
 to keep silence ; and the time for speech is 
 not at that moment when, through passion 
 or excitement, the voice of the secret oracle 
 is unheard. Most unwise are they who 
 force the responsibility of even sweet and 
 wholesome counsel on an unprepared spirit. 
 
 Mrs. De Grey was well aware of this, as 
 of most of the secrets of the human mind ; 
 and she suffered her son's passionate and
 
 288 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 wayward speech to pass uncorrected and 
 unreproved. 
 
 Her forbearance touched hhn and re- 
 stored him to himself, sooner than a thou- 
 sand arguments would have done, and he 
 was the first to recur to the subject. 
 
 As they sat together in the evening, he 
 suddenly rose from his seat, and withdraw- 
 ing himself from the bright Hght of the 
 lamp, said, with an effort, " Mother, you 
 must have thought me very weak, very 
 wicked, when I spoke this afternoon." 
 
 '^ No, my dear Ernest," she answered, ten- 
 derly, " those were not my thoughts. It is 
 easy to speak of the weakness of those who 
 are deeply tried — easy to condemn — but 
 none but those who suffer know what their 
 trial is. You can tell hoAv, and how far 
 you have failed — / only grieved for you." 
 
 He sighed and said nothing. 
 
 His mother paused for a moment, then 
 continued steadily, "Grieved for you, Ernest, 
 but I did not, I do not despair. You have 
 induked in feelino^s that must not be in- 
 dulged ; but you will not utterly fail. You
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 289 
 
 will arouse yourself, and you will conquer 
 yet." 
 
 " Conquer^ mother ! You think then it 
 must be so. I must conquer ; there is no 
 other hope." 
 
 " I do, Ernest," she said, gently. " Con- 
 sider Miss St. Maur's youth, and her father's 
 probable will, and then remember that you 
 are her guardian, as well as that of the 
 poorest among the people. I cannot think 
 it is for you to attempt to gain her heart. 
 And besides this, Ernest," she continued 
 steadily, for it was not for her to shrink 
 from speaking the truth, however painful, 
 ^' she does not love you.'* 
 
 He knew it as well as she did. When 
 the question unexcitedly was asked, he 
 knew that if she did love him, her words 
 and actions would be far other than what 
 they were ; but the calm conviction of his 
 mother's words fell like lead upon his soul. 
 
 He sat by the fire, playing with the 
 ashes, drawing with the poker mysterious 
 signs and figures. He could not reply to 
 her. 
 
 VOL. I. Xf
 
 290 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 " What might be at a future day," she 
 began agam, after a pause, " I do not know. 
 That it would be impossible for you to win 
 her heart, I am far from thinking. How 
 could I think it, dear Ernest, when I know 
 you, and what the treasure of your love 
 would be? But I do not think she loves 
 you now, or wishes to love you ; and I do 
 not think it would be for her happiness or 
 yours — for her good or for yours, even if 
 there were not other considerations — that it 
 should be so. I feel her charms, dear 
 Ernest, almost as you can do; I see her 
 beauty, and I feel that her mind is as full 
 of natural beauty as her most lovely face ; 
 but she is still almost a child, a wild, un- 
 taught child — and I do not think the quiet, 
 sober, holi/ life which your wife should lead, 
 could be anything to her but a tempt- 
 ation." She paused again; she wished to 
 hear him speak, and he spoke at last, and 
 with excitement in his tone. 
 
 " I know you are right, mother — I feel 
 you are right — I have felt the same again 
 and again. Do not fear, I will not speak ;
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 291 
 
 if I cannot conquer, I will at least be 
 silent. I have vowed it before, and I say- 
 it again before you, my lips shall never tell 
 her what I feel. Whatever may come, I 
 will not reproach myself with having at- 
 tempted to win her love. But, mother," 
 he continued after a moment, in an altered 
 voice, " how is life to go on ? — I often ask 
 myself. This perpetual struggle, it makes 
 it burdensome, it makes it even hateful to 
 me." 
 
 " Do you remember,'' she said, with a 
 smile, " how you longed in your early days 
 to be a hero ? " He shook his head ; his 
 heroism had not been of an enduring, suffer- 
 ing kind. " I remember it ; and I remem- 
 ber too," she added fondly, " that you have 
 fulfilled your early wish. If to sacrifice 
 for others our dearest hopes can make one 
 so, you have been a hero. Why are you to 
 dread your power now? " 
 
 " Because I am not, mother, what I once 
 was ; I do not even feel as I used to feel : 
 I am become mean, low, selfish, and a 
 coward." He spoke with vehemence.
 
 292 CLAEE ABBEY. 
 
 " These are hard words, Ernest," and his 
 mother smiled faintly ; " but I will not con- 
 tradict you. It is cowardly in you, in me, 
 in all, to shrink from any plam duty that 
 lies before us. But, Ernest," she continued 
 more seriously, " will you submit to be a 
 coward? You have liigher and holier 
 motives than you had in your youth, and you 
 know better where to find the strength that 
 will arm you to overcome." She stopped 
 again, then again began with something 
 of hesitation, " There is one motive which 
 I am almost afraid to point out to you, lest 
 it should influence you more than the one 
 high motive which ought to be your's. But 
 earthly motives may and should influence 
 us in their degree, and this is far from being 
 a merely earthly one. I ^vish you to tliink 
 of her whom you so fondly love, for whose 
 welfare and happiness, not in this world 
 only, you- are bound to provide. If she sees 
 you the guardian and teacher set over her 
 by God himself, — if she sees 2/ou tied and 
 bound with earthly care and earthly passion, 
 — how will she ever learn to rise ? Surely,
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 293 
 
 dear Ernest, you have motives to awake and 
 be strong." 
 
 He made no answer ; he was sitting in 
 profound thought, his head leaning against 
 the chimney-piece. Unwilling to disturb 
 him, or to banish his meditations ; conscious, 
 too, that one word in season is better than 
 many words, Mrs. De Grey said no more, 
 but la}dng down her work, left the room. 
 
 On her return, a short time afterwards, 
 she found Ernest busily engaged in writmg. 
 He looked up with a smile that seemed to 
 invite her approach, — a smile, if not a bright 
 one, yet one that fell like returning sun- 
 shme on her heart. She looked over his shoul- 
 der and read his text, and stroked, as in his 
 childhood, his dark glossy hair, but no 
 remark was made on either side, and the 
 subject was recmTcd to no more. 
 
 Something of languor had crept of late 
 over Ernest's sermons. It could not have 
 been otherwise ; for it needs a singular gift 
 of eloquence, or a turn of mmd bordering 
 at least on h}^ocrisy, to speak forcibly and 
 persuasively on truths that are unfelt. No
 
 294 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 such fault could however be found with his 
 present discourse. It was in one strain of 
 passionate exhortation from beginning to 
 end ; it was an address to himself as well 
 as to his hearers, calhng upon all to awake 
 from the sleep of sloth, and to arise from 
 the death of sin, and breaking forth from 
 the bonds of their infirmities, to redeem in 
 the opening year the hours of their wasted 
 hfe. 
 
 It was eloquence, — not the eloquence of 
 new thoughts clothed in choice words, and 
 varied phrase, but the eloquence of simple 
 truth, poured forth from roused feelings and 
 a fervent heart.
 
 CLAEE ABBEY. 295 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Like some fair plant set by a heavenly hand, 
 He grew, he flourish' d, and he blest the land ; 
 In all the youth his father's image shined. 
 Bright in his person, brighter in his mind. 
 
 Pope's Odyssey. 
 
 The remembrance of youth is a sigh. 
 
 Arabian Proverb. 
 
 " What a sermon we had this morning ! 
 Edward," remarked Mrs. Hervey to her 
 son, on the following Sunday evening ; " it 
 went right through my old bones. If I were 
 young and strong, and a man, I don't know 
 what would not be the end of it." 
 
 "True, mother, it was a sermon calculated 
 to make much impression. I wonder what 
 young St. Maur thought of it." 
 
 By " young St. Maur " Ernest's exhorta- 
 tions were more profitably and personally
 
 29,6 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 applied than by old Mrs. Hervey and her 
 son. 
 
 Reginald had returned from Oxford much 
 changed and improved. There are certain 
 times and occasions in life when, from no 
 apparent reason, the mind makes strides, 
 accomplishing in a few weeks that which 
 the laggard footsteps of years have failed 
 to fulfil. A change of scene, a new ac- 
 quaintance, a new book, or causes even 
 less apparent than these, have been the 
 trumpet-call which has awakened whole 
 armies of feelings, whole hosts of thought 
 and power, in a youthful mind. Such an 
 effect had this intercourse with Ernest De 
 Grey produced on Reginald St. Maur. 
 
 He was changed and improved, because 
 he was become practical. In dreaminess 
 of mind, however high and exalted the 
 dreams may be, there is childishness. It 
 is action that marks the man, and Reginald 
 had suddenly passed the boundary that 
 separates the strong vigour of manhood 
 from the imaginations of the child. Few 
 understand their own powers of influence,
 
 CLAKE ABBEY. 297 
 
 and poor Ernest, earthly and earth-bound, 
 had little idea how his simple quiet words 
 affected the loftier character of his friend. 
 He would have felt himself unworthy to 
 influence him, and perhaps he was so ; but, 
 as a bridle to a noble restive horse, so 
 Ernest's clear views and practical judgments 
 tamed and subdued the soaring, but unde- 
 fined, visions of the ambitious young man. 
 
 It was a mark of the true genius of 
 Reginald's mind, — the true virtue of his 
 character, — that he was so easily affected, 
 so ready to receive instruction. Many kinds 
 of talent, — many who are called clever, are 
 narrow-minded and arrogant : they will not 
 learn ; but the eye of true and pure genius 
 is like a mirror, on which whatever is light 
 is necessarily reflected : so it was with him. 
 Day by day as he increased in age and 
 statiu-e, and outward beauty, he increased 
 in wisdom and knowledge also, till the eye 
 almost ached to follow him, so bright and 
 full of promise was the dawning of his day. 
 
 With a glowing cheek and a sparkling 
 eye, and a mind more glowing and kindling
 
 298 CLAKE ABBEY. 
 
 within, Reginald listened to the sermon of 
 Ernest De Grey. It is the character of 
 strong and vigorous truth, that, like the 
 cameleon, it changes its colours and adapts 
 itself to the eye of every beholder. An 
 ignorant village girl remarked to one of her 
 companions, '* That mother must have been 
 telling tales of her^ or Mr. De Grey could 
 never have preached as he did ;" and the 
 very same idea passed through the thoughts 
 of the highly-educated young man. Ernest, 
 he thought, must have seen his dangers, have 
 studied his temptations, have wished to 
 arouse him to exertion with the dawning of 
 that first year of freedom and of life ; and, 
 responsive to the call, he determined to 
 arise, and indulge fancy's dreams no more. 
 
 In the first freshness of feeling — in his 
 first anxiety to prove himself and his power 
 — his thoughts recurred to Ernest's strongly- 
 expressed desire for the restoration of the 
 Church. It had not been forgotten, but it 
 had been superseded in liis mind by dreams 
 of a more expansive kind. To Ernest, it 
 might be much to have dreamed in his
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 299 
 
 youth of restoring a church to its original 
 beauty — of making way for the excluded 
 forms of poor and lowly worshippers ; but 
 to Reginald, whose desires for improvement 
 spread " far as the breeze can waft the 
 billow's foam," it was a descent and humili- 
 ation. 
 
 With pleasure, however, as to a work laid 
 ready to his hand, he recurred to it now, 
 and a few hours' consideration had formed a 
 plan for its] immediate accomplishment : a 
 plan, perhaps, involving a needless sacrifice 
 on his part ; but which, from the very ne- 
 cessity of sacrifice, was acceptable. 
 
 On the Monday morning, he knocked at 
 his father's door, and was admitted. 
 
 Lord Vere sat at a large table, with 
 books before and around him. He was 
 engaged in some of the abstruse, bewildering 
 metaphysical speculations, in which alone he 
 dehghted, and from which he was ever 
 unwilling to be disturbed. As he raised 
 his head on his son's approach, the " Well ?" 
 with which he received him was nothing 
 less than surly.
 
 300 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 Reginald's colour rose, for he was sensi- 
 tive to repulse ; but lie was not abashed by 
 it. " If you are at leisure, father, I wish to 
 speak to you,'' he said. 
 
 There was something in Reginald's man- 
 ner of speaking, which superficial observers 
 would have called formal; a grave and 
 measured tone, apparent even when at his 
 ease, and still more observable in his inter- 
 course with his father ; but closer observers 
 those who watched the countenance chang- 
 ing as he spoke, would have seen that his 
 measured words were but the barriers by 
 which he restrained an eagerness perhaps 
 too great, and an ardour liable to transgress 
 the common bounds of self-control. His man- 
 ner and words on this occasion were pecu- 
 harly grave and restrained, but never had 
 their contrast with his speaking countenance 
 been more strangely seen. 
 
 " Speak on, then," was Lord Vere's unin- 
 viting reply to his son's request. 
 
 " I would not trouble you, father, with my 
 ideas or desires, if I could act upon them
 
 CLARE ABBEY. *• 301 
 
 without your leave. But what I have to ask 
 requires your leave and assistance too." 
 Without explaining himself further, he laid 
 Ernest's drawing of the Cranleigh Chiu-ch 
 upon his father's book. 
 
 " What have we here ?" exclaimed Lord 
 Vere ironically, after inspecting the sketch for 
 some moments. " I am no saint, Reginald, 
 and if, bitten by these new-fangled notions, 
 you wish to persuade me to build and endow 
 churches, or rather chapels^ you may spare 
 your pains ; I have no such intentions." 
 
 " No, father, I have no such wishes ; my 
 request is much more simple. This is a 
 drawing of Cranleigh Church as I suppose it 
 once was, and as it ought to be. It is now 
 some months since Ernest De Grey pointed 
 out to me the improvement that might be 
 made, and the advantage the people would 
 derive from its restoration. I listened 
 coldly at the time, for I am apt to dream 
 dreams of many and great actions, and to 
 neglect even the small ones that lie at my 
 feet ; but now, father, I feel that the years 
 are creeping on, and that the pains you have
 
 302 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 bestowed upon me should begin to bear 
 fruit ; and I should be willing to enter on 
 my life with some such work as this ; to 
 mark its beginning by an offering to God 
 and to man." 
 
 Lord Vere listened to his son with fixed 
 attention. He knew Reginald's character 
 well ; but it was very rarely that, in his pre- 
 sence at least, that character was expressed 
 in words. His answer, however, was given 
 in his usual ironical tone. 
 
 " If I were a philanthropist like you, 
 Reginald, I should dream of some more pro- 
 fitable scheme than that of adorning a 
 church for a parcel of ignorant rustics, who 
 will be none the wiser when the work is 
 done." 
 
 " Not the wiser, but perhaps the better, 
 father. It is good to look on beauty : I 
 have felt it myself." 
 
 And so at the moment the father seemed 
 to feel likewise ; for as his eyes rested on 
 the countenance before him, pure and glow- 
 ing as the face of a young seraph — a some- 
 thing as by magic touched his heart, awak-
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 303 
 
 ing thoughts which had long slept, calling 
 forth a father*s tenderness, of which till now 
 he had been unconscious, kindling a father's 
 pride and a father's ambition — casting him 
 back upon the long past, sending him forth 
 into the far future. 
 
 Of these varied thoughts, however, there 
 was little evidence in Lord Vere's outward 
 manner. His reply was in a degree, but 
 only a degree, less cold. 
 
 " Your dreams must bide their time, Re- 
 ginald — bide your time, I should say ; for 
 even if I had a fancy for such airy schemes, 
 my hands are shackled. These are times 
 when even the richest are poor ; and had I 
 the inclination, I have not the power to 
 throw my money away." 
 
 '' You misunderstand me, father : it is I 
 who wish to do it. I have considered and 
 arranged it all, if you will only consent." 
 
 And quietly and methodically, with a 
 definiteness unlike the plans of a dreamer, he 
 detailed his intention. The probable cost 
 of the alterations and improvements was 
 estimated at £2,000, the beauty of the older
 
 304 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 parts of the building making any additions 
 necessarily costly. He purposed that his 
 father should borrow the sum required on 
 the security of the property, and deduct a 
 yearly sum of £100 or £150 from his allow- 
 ance, until the whole was repaid. 
 
 Lord Vere listened, but shook his head. 
 
 " You are a dreamer indeed, Reginald. 
 Wait a while. £500 a year is all I can 
 allow you ; and let me tell you £500 a year 
 is no inexhaustible store. You will not 
 thank me for shackling you with this claim 
 for a mere visionary good, when once you 
 are fairly launched on your world of plea- 
 sure and ambition." 
 
 " I know, father, what you say is true," 
 Reginald said, thoughtfully. " When fresh 
 hopes and new desires arise, I may feel 
 regret that I am already so mucli bound ; 
 but, father, if this work is good now, it 
 will be so then, and I ought not to feel 
 regret." He paused and hesitated; then 
 added, " And if I do feel it, I ought to re- 
 joice. Nothing great or good ^vill ever be 
 done without self-denial, and the feeling of
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 305 
 
 this claim upon me will but animate me to 
 more." 
 
 A thousand hopes of a bright and active 
 hiture sparkled in his radiant eye, and again, 
 as its beauty met his father's gaze, his hard 
 heart melted within him. 
 
 " You shall have your will, Reginald,^' he 
 said, gravely, but with an unwonted tone in 
 his voice. " In a week from this time the 
 money shall be at your disposal. And now 
 leave me." 
 
 " And I was once like this," mused the 
 withered, care-worn man, as the door closed 
 and his head rested upon his hands, " full, like 
 him, of the hopes of a high ambition. For 
 me, too, the world once shone brightly — a 
 theatre where great deeds were to be done. 
 And what am I now ? — and what now to me 
 is the world or its hopes, its welfare or its 
 end?" He paused — then another voice, the 
 voice of conscience, arose. " But was I like 
 him? Did such a light ever shine in my 
 eyes — such a fire ever burn in my heart? 
 No — or here, or thus, I should not now be. 
 What were my hopes, what was my ambi- 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 tion? — self, the pride of self! And what is 
 its end ? " 
 
 He drew his book impatiently before him, 
 and turned to his daily tasks ; for the self- 
 examination was too painful to be pro- 
 longed. 
 
 If any are ever tempted to wonder at the 
 waste of man's short existence in the years 
 of infancy, childhood, and early youth, 
 surely, without other thoughts, the freshen- 
 ing influence of youth upon hardened man- 
 hood and withered age might be in itself a 
 sufficient answer. Where but in youth 
 (speaking of earthly influences) shall the 
 heart battered by the world recruit itself, 
 or taste again the sweet waters of its early 
 virtue and holiness ? It is 'when suddenly 
 recalled by the sight of youthflil innocence 
 and enthusiasm to the remembrance of oiu- 
 own lost glory, that we exclaim, " Dreams 
 of my youth, where are they?" and Echo's 
 mournful answer has been the firstfruits of 
 many a late yet true repentance. 
 
 A light, unconsciously to himself, had 
 risen in the void of Lord Vere's life, and
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 307 
 
 with time it might bear fruit : the fountain 
 was unsealed from whence, dry as it now 
 was, the springs of a healthful stream might 
 one day burst, and pour its waters on his 
 heart. "What a single word can do!" — 
 single words and single glances also ; for in 
 that day, strangely and suddenly, and to 
 both at the time unconsciously, the hearts of 
 the father and son were knit together. 
 
 " Do you remember our conversation 
 about the church, Ernest?" Reginald asked, 
 a few days after he had obtained his father's 
 consent to his wishes. He and Ernest De 
 Grey were walking together, and passed 
 before the old church as he spoke. 
 
 " Yes, very well," Ernest replied, with a 
 smile. " On that day, and that day only, 
 you disappointed me." 
 
 " I know I did : I felt it, and grieved for 
 it afterwards." 
 
 " It was the only definite plan I ever 
 formed in my youth," Ernest continued, 
 " which had not some kind of selfish grati- 
 fication for its object ; and for that reason, 
 I suppose, 1 have always cherished it, and
 
 308" CLARE ABBEY. 
 
 recurred to it with satisfaction when my life 
 and feelings condemned me too strongly. 
 Your cold reception humbled me ; for I 
 thought how little to you was that which 
 once had been my best ambition. I think, 
 however," he added again, " that on this 
 single occasion I was right, and you were 
 wrong. It is not perhaps, as I once thought, 
 a great thing to do ; but when I compare 
 the state of this church with the beauty and 
 order of Clare Abbey, I often think of the 
 words of the prophet : 'Ye dwell in your 
 ceiled houses, and this house lieth waste.'" 
 
 " You are right, Ernest, very right," Regi- 
 nald said warmly, " and it shall be done. 
 Your wish shall be realized. You must 
 help me with your thoughts and your advice, 
 and we will try," he added smiling, " to 
 make our second temple overpass the first." 
 
 " Is it to be done ? — Have you undertaken 
 it?" Ernest said, eagerly and yet sadly. He 
 was pleased, he wished it to be done, and 
 yet at the moment he felt a pang at the 
 idea that it should be done by any but him- 
 self.
 
 CLARE ABBEY. 309 
 
 " I have undertaken it ; yes, for I have the 
 means," Reginald replied, his quick percep- 
 tion, his natural courteousness at once read- 
 ing the thought that flushed Ernest's cheek; 
 " but what are the means compared to the 
 intention ? — the intention and the offering 
 are yours." 
 
 Ernest shook his head mournfully ; con- 
 science was suggesting that he might have 
 been long in Reginald's place, and the dream, 
 still but a dream ; pleasing his fancy, but by 
 no self-denial fulfilled. " So it will ever be," 
 he said, answering his own thoughts, not 
 Reoinald's words; "I can think — but vou 
 act and do." 
 
 '' And if I do, Ernest, who is it prompts 
 me to act?" He paused ; then, with a slight 
 smile, repeated the concluding words of 
 Ernest's last discourse. 
 
 Ernest coloured deeply ; for already the 
 glow of feeling which had prompted his 
 animated exhortations was fadino: from his 
 own heart — the resolutions beginning to 
 faulter — the thirst for earthly happiness to 
 o^ush forth a<^ain. 
 
 VOL. I. • X 2
 
 310 CLxVRE ABBEY. 
 
 " Dear Ernest," Reginald said, laying his 
 hand on his shoulder with a peculiar grave 
 tenderness which occasionally marked his 
 composed manner, "no single word that falls 
 from your lips returns to you void, so far a? 
 1 am concerned; and if," he continued, his eye 
 kindling, '' the day should ever come, when, 
 as I trust, I shall do some service to God 
 and his Church, to my country and man- 
 kind ; vou, Ernest, will have been the f>:uide 
 that led, and the teacher that warned me. I 
 must say this, for you are Immble, and not 
 proud, like me." 
 
 " I am humble," Ernest said, with some- 
 thing of bitterness against himself; "hum- 
 bled to the dust, to hear you say such 
 words ; say them no more, for I cannot bear 
 them :" and he changed the conversation. 
 Sou they says, there is no humiliation like 
 the consciousness of unmerited praise; and 
 it is true. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
 
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