CHAPTER VIII.
THE CONTRAST.
On the evening of Sir William Temple's dinner-party, the invitation to which Lord Albert had declined, he retired at an early hour to his study; and having closed his door, he sat some minutes with his head reclining on his hands, endeavouring to shut out the frivolous insignificances of many late past evenings, and to recal those of a very different description and tendency.
A sweet and silvery tone of feeling analogous to a fine Wilson that hung opposite to his writing-table, shed a serene, self-satisfying sensation over his mind; it might be a false complacency, yet complacency for the time being it was—and he opened his writing-box, in the lid of which was a portrait. This portrait represented a very youthful girl intently busied in copying a bust, the likeness of himself. A flush passed over his countenance, his eyes sparkled, and a genuine sensation of rapture thrilled through his heart, as he said,
"Oh! how superior to all I now see around me—young, innocent, intelligent, the dignity of human nature is here! Gazing at this image, I can never err; it would recal me to the path of rectitude were I ever so inclined to swerve from it." At that moment a letter caught his attention; it was still unanswered—again he coloured, for it had remained so since the preceding morning; and such a letter! Now with an eagerness that would have redeemed the slight, he actually kissed the opened page; and previous to replying to it, re-perused the following contents of
LADY ADELINE SEYMOUR'S LETTER.
"I think it a long time, dearest Albert, since I have heard from you. But then you are so busy, and have so many things to do; whereas I have nothing to do, but to count up minutes, days, and hours; yet this is so wrong, that I blame myself even for thinking, much more for writing the thought; and would blot out the dissatisfied words, but that I promised you should know truly, and without disguise, what really passed in my mind.
"After what I heard good Mr. Adams preach last Sunday, how dare I wish to hurry on time, when I make so poor a use of it? Indeed, dear Albert, when I think seriously, I do not wish it; but when I feel that we are parted, and yield to that feeling, why then I am a wayward creature. Does not this prove, my dear Albert, how cautiously we ought to look into our hearts, since out of them are the issues of life? I will do so; I will try to do so, if God will help me; for it is only by this watching that I shall render myself at all worthy of you. Mamma said to me the other day:
"'My dear love, remember that marriage is a state necessarily imposing many duties, and accumulating many cares; this in its happiest instances must ever be the case; it is wisely ordered that it should be so. But it is a state honoured by God and man, and opens upon a wide field for self-improvement. If entered upon in this view, it brings with its pains many delights and consolations, both for this world and the next; but if it is engaged in rashly, merely for the purpose of running a more unchecked career, or for the unworthy purposes of aggrandizement in rank and fortune apart from nobler views, it never fails to produce disappointment, and it may be, disgust of life and endless misery.'
"What a terrible picture, my Albert! But I cannot conceive it possible that any body should marry from any motive but attachment, and therefore I can hardly persuade myself that any of these awful consequences are likely to attend on marriage; only my Bible shews me the insufficiency of all mere mortal trusts; and Mamma, I know, never says what she does not think is true; therefore I must try and prepare myself for becoming such a wife to you as will secure our mutual felicity. The little book we exchanged on the day you left us, I read morning and evening, and as soon as it is finished I begin it again; so when you are reading yours, you may be certain we are pronouncing the same words, thinking the same thoughts, lifting up our hearts together to the God who made us.
"How thankful we ought to be for good books; are they not messengers from heaven? And yet how we slight them. Often, when engaged in my morning's duty of reading, my wandering mind turns so frequently to drawing, to music, or any other exercise, that at length I have punished myself by determining not to have recourse to these recreations till I can moderate my ardour for them, and enjoy them only as recreations; they ought not to be more—all beyond is idolatry. I have of late, too, engaged myself in active duties among the poor around our neighbourhood; and my rides to their different habitations give me such additional health and spirits, that I am always ready to laugh at all Mr. Foley's silly jokes. My heart is so light, and I feel so happy—I see no end to all the diverting things I have in view, and some day or another when, please God, I am really your wife, all the schemes I form for the benefit of those within the circle of my influence will be fully realized.
"What an extended sphere of usefulness will then be mine, and oh! my Albert! what an awful responsibility too will then attach to my situation! I pray daily that I may be enabled to meet it as I ought. What I grudge most is, the time which I am now frequently forced to lose, in being civil to our dull neighbours here; and I do confess that to sit amused by Miss Grimsdale's side, while she talks over the last county ball, or to listen to old Lady Henniker's history of her ménage with becoming patience, is a trial for which no self-complacency in the idea, that I am making a sacrifice to oblige others, does in any degree compensate. But Mamma smiles when she hears me answering tout a rebours, and sees my fingers entangling the silks, and tells me afterwards that we are not to live to ourselves, and that in fact to please others, when not neglecting, any positive duty, is a minor virtue. I am sure she is right—but, dear Albert, I feel on such occasions how difficult it is to be good! Mr. Foley, to whom I expressed myself thus the other day, told me, 'I talked a great deal of nonsense, though I was a very charming person altogether,' and ended by asking me seriously—'What wrong I thought it possible I could do, living as I did?' How ignorant he must be of the state of the human heart, not to know that our best efforts are faulty, our purest actions imperfect! I stared at him, and then attempted to explain to him that all our thoughts, words, and actions, are marked with inherent error. He stared at me in return, and, looking at me incredulously, asked 'do you really mean what you say?'
"'Most assuredly,' I replied; 'can any one mean otherwise?' Then he looked very grave indeed, sighed heavily, and said, 'it was a sad thing to see one so fair and young imbued with such false ideas—ideas which in the end would make me wretched.' I laughed, as I assured him that it was he that was deceived, and who would be wretched; that as for myself, I was the gayest, happiest creature upon earth; and all I had to dread was, loving the world too well, and seeing it in too fair a light. I had not a corner of my heart, I said, unoccupied, or a minute in the day unemployed; and besides that, my reliance upon God made me feel as if I never could be perfectly unhappy under any circumstances.
"But no sooner were these words uttered, than my heart smote me, for I thought of you, dear Albert, and suddenly a cloud seemed to pass over me, and my deceitful heart sickened at the thought of the possibility of losing you; and then I knew how ill I was prepared to yield that perfect obedience which we are called upon to yield to the will of heaven.—I believe my countenance betrayed somewhat of this self-condemning spirit, for Mr. Foley quickly asked, whilst fixing his searching eyes on mine, 'What, is there nothing which could make you miserable?' and I trembled, and blushed, and felt a tear of shame rise in my eye, as I answered:
"'Perhaps I deceive myself, and think of myself too highly. Perhaps—in short—at all events, I know that I am trying so to feel, and so to think.' He laughed contemptuously, saying:
"'I guessed how it was—poor Lady Adeline! this false system is spreading fearfully indeed!' What could he mean? Mamma told me on my repeating to her this conversation, 'that to many persons Mr. Foley would be a dangerous man; but not to you, my child; and I have a love for that wayward creature, the son of the dearest friend I ever possessed, which makes me incline to overlook his faults, and hope that he will amend them. Who knows but the mode of life we lead may be the means of sowing some good seed in his heart? However, my dear child, encourage not his conversation on such points.' I believe Mamma is right, for notwithstanding my dislike of his irreligious tenets, he is so well-informed, and so very diverting, that I cannot help being entertained by him. And in many respects I assure you, Albert, he is a good man, and general report bespeaks him such. He is very charitable; is kind to people in distress; and goes regularly to church, when he is with us—is not all this very unaccountable with his strange way of talking to me? I do not understand it, and indeed it is not worth thinking much about, one way or the other. Write to me, dear Albert, and tell me what your opinion is upon this subject. I wish in all things to conform to your wishes, and to model my opinion on yours: for I well know your excellent principles and unerring judgment. To-morrow, I allow myself to return to the delight of copying your dear bust, 'O che festa!'—Sometimes (I am almost ashamed of telling you) I divert myself with putting my caps and hats on it, and please myself with the idea that it is very like me—do not laugh and call me 'foolish child!' Now I dislike that you should call me child; remember the day you receive this I shall be seventeen, so put on all your gravity and consider me with due respect.
"The menagerie is thriving; I visit our pets every day, and you will find them in fine condition when you return,—when will that be? I wish the time were come, don't you? Good night, good night, for there is no end to this writing. I must end. Again good night. Dearest Albert, I am, heart and soul, your own
"Adeline Seymour."
"Sweet, pure Adeline!" cried Lord Albert, "how shall I answer this letter." He seized a pen, and in the first glow of fondness and admiration, which such a letter and such a portrait before him inspired, he filled two pages, not less tender or sincere than those which had been addressed to himself: when he was suddenly disturbed by hearing a bustle and violent clattering of horses in the street, and at the same time the voices of some of his own servants. This increasing, he rang the bell to inquire the cause, and no one answering, he at length opened the door of an apartment and called to the porter, asking what was the matter? He was answered, that a carriage had been overturned opposite his door, and it was wished to bring the lady who had suffered from the accident into his Lordship's house.
"By all means, immediately," Lord Albert exclaimed; "afford every assistance possible;" and in a few instants a lady was borne in by two domestics. She was immediately placed, apparently insensible, on a couch in an adjoining apartment. The female attendants were summoned to her aid, and Lord Albert himself supported her head on his breast: "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "it is Lady Hamlet Vernon! Send off directly for Doctor Meynell." A stream of blood flowed over her face, and in order to ascertain where she was wounded it was necessary to let down her hair, which fell in glossy masses over her neck and shoulders. The glass of the carriage window, against which Lady Hamlet Vernon had fallen, was the cause of the catastrophe; and though the injury was not found to be dangerous, the wound had been sufficiently severe to occasion a suffusion of blood. The physician soon arrived, and having examined the extent of the evil, applied remedies and administered restoratives to the terrified Lady Hamlet Vernon, who was shortly after restored to her senses, and enabled to explain the cause of her having met with so dangerous an accident.