“God knows my innocence in regard to you,” replied the clergyman; “to Him I commit my cause. To be the object of unjust accusation has often been the appointed trial of His servants. He can make even this affliction work for their good. And now, my dear boys, leave me. I have letters to write, little preparations to make, and I need a brief space for reflection.”
“Do you forgive us?” said Charles, pressing his tutor’s hand with a mixture of affection and respect.
“Forgive you! you have erred but through kindness towards me. I have nothing to forgive, dear Charles.”
Ernest rushed from the room without uttering a word. Charles followed him through the long corridor, down the broad oaken staircase, to the drawing-room, in which the family was still assembled.
Ernest came to confess, to plead, to entreat; and he pleaded, he entreated, with the fervent eloquence of one who thinks his whole happiness at stake. Mr. Hope listened with a rigid, unmoved look; his lady, who sat at her desk, observed, with an unpleasant smile, that the reverend gentleman had been evidently working upon the feelings of his pupils. She interrupted Ernest’s most passionate appeal, by telling that she was at that moment engaged in writing to her friend, Lady Fitzwigram, about a very superior tutor, of whom she had spoken to her when in London. “If Mr. Sligo should be still disengaged,” observed the lady, “this affair may prove really a fortunate occurrence.”
THE CONFESSION AND ENTREATY.
Fontonore and Charles left the room in despair. Bitterly reproaching themselves for having wandered from the right path, they retired to the chamber of the former, where they both remained for the remainder of the night, for companionship in sorrow was their only consolation in this time of bitter distress.
“It was I who led you into this trouble,” cried Ernest. “I have been your tempter, your false guide; all that has happened has been owing to me! How could I ever dare to call myself a pilgrim, after all that has happened, after all the lessons which I have received, to fall away thus, and disgrace my profession! Will not Clementina look upon me as a hypocrite. I could speak to her of the joy of the Lord, of the pleasures of devotion, of the glories of heaven! Ah, how different will she think my actions to my words! She may even place my errors to the account of my religion; my sin will be a stumbling-block in her way.”
“Ernest, brother, you must not give way thus. To fall once may not be to fall for ever. God is merciful and ready to forgive; it is foolish, it is wrong to despair.”