“I never meant that,” cried Charles, colouring; “but I fancy that you have been so tried and subdued, by suffering so much, that you will never be so foolish and flighty as I; you will not be so easily puffed up.”
“I am sure that I could not answer for myself,” replied Ernest, simply.
“No; and certainly you are very ignorant of the ways of Vanity Fair; that’s the part of your pilgrimage that you are coming to now.”
“Surely not till I go to London. I shall see nothing of it while we stay quietly studying at the castle.”
“Little you know!” exclaimed Charles, laughing. “My good Aunt Matilda, my pretty little cousin, and perhaps my business-like uncle himself, may introduce you—” Charles stopped, for he caught his tutor’s eye, and its grave expression silenced him at once.
“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” said the clergyman, impressively. “There is nothing so little becoming a young pilgrim as passing unkind judgment on his elders.”
“I’m afraid that it’s my besetting sin,” said Charles, “and one that it is very difficult to get rid of.”
“Like many others, I believe that it springs from pride,” observed his tutor. “When we are deeply sensible of our own imperfections, we have more mercy to show, or less attention to give to those of our neighbours and companions.”
The journey to Yorkshire took two days, travelling by post being so much slower than by railway. To Ernest they were days of almost unmixed delight: change of scene, unaccustomed comforts, the society of those whom he loved, all the hopes which naturally gild the prospect of youth—all the brighter for being so new—filled his cup of enjoyment very full. Though his manner was not so lively as that of his brother, it was easy to see that his happiness was not less.