when
'Joy has no balm, and affliction no sting?'
"It is very true that you think now, because Selina's pursuits have hitherto been similar to yours, that her character must likewise be in sympathy with yours. But, though I grant that it appears so now, I deny that it is in any way so formed as to be safely depended on. She is very young and very docile; and, believe me, her disposition, chameleon-like, will, most probably, take the shade of whomsoever she associates with:—'Dimmi con chi vai, e vi diso quel che fai[6].' You say, if you were her husband you would be her guide; and that similitude of character, now faintly traced, would be confirmed for ever. But without dwelling on the argument, that your own is yet scarcely formed, let me remind you, that Selina is even still more ignorant of the world than yourself. Let me ask you, even in this moment of unrestrained passion, would you consent to accept that dear innocent girl's hand, without a certainty that with it you received her heart? And how could you be certain of her affection, till time and experience, by maturing her judgment, had confirmed her feelings? How, Augustus, would you support the conviction, nay the bare suspicion, that when, as your wife, you first introduced her to that world from which she has hitherto lived so totally secluded, she should meet with another, whom she even thought she could have preferred to you; and, while you continued to gaze on her with the eye of tenderest love, you found your heart's warm offering received with the cold petrifying glance of indifference? You shudder at the very thought. Think, then, how the arrow that wounded you would be doubly sharpened, if the slanderous tooth of envy galled your fair fame, by accusing you of having secured to yourself Sir Henry Seymour's property by marrying his heiress, before the poor girl was old enough to judge for herself. What, then, my dear boy," said Mr. Temple, grasping his hand with a fervour almost paternal, whilst his eyes swam in tears, "What, then, Augustus, is the result of these observations, more painful to me to make than to you to hear? You acknowledge you would not even wish to marry Selina under these existing circumstances. What then is your misery? Look at it boldly in the face; and, trust me, few are the anticipated evils of life, which, by being steadily gazed at, do not dwindle into insignificance. Lord Eltondale has proposed his son to be Miss Seymour's husband; and the match is sufficiently desirable, in a worldly point of view, to obtain Sir Henry Seymour's consent. But Selina, you say, knows nothing of it yet, and has never seen Mr. Elton. What then does it all come to? Why, when she does see him, if she does not like him, do you think her father would force her to marry him? and if she should like him, would you accept her hand, even if it were offered to you?"
Mr. Temple had not so long continued his discourse without frequent interruptions from Augustus, who could not at first easily be persuaded to assent to assertions, which tended to destroy the fairy dream of bliss that floated in his imagination. By degrees, however, as his judgment cooled, he acceded to the plain but severe truths which Mr. Temple uttered; while the deference and regard, which his pupil had always felt for the excellent old man, served still more effectually to obtain the conviction he aimed at, than even the logical strength of his reasoning.
By degrees, Mordaunt not only confessed the truth of his remarks, but submitted to the wise plan of conduct, which Mr. Temple laid down for him.
He proposed that Augustus should immediately leave the hall, and return to the prosecution of his studies at Oxford, leaving to time not only the development of Selina's character, but also the proof of to what extent he was actually attached to her.
Their conversation was prolonged to a late hour; and when Mordaunt returned home, the family had all retired to rest, and the door was opened by a servant, who, at the same time, shaded with his hand the glimmering candle, which but partially illuminated the darkly wain-scotted hall. Augustus felt a chill creep through his veins as he quickly traversed it; and walking mechanically into the empty drawing-room, stopped a few minutes in melancholy silence. The music Selina had been playing was carelessly strewed over the harpsichord; the sermon book, in which Mrs. Galton had been reading, was laid open on the table; and Sir Henry's knotted cane had fallen down beside the chair, in which he usually took his evening nap. A sort of involuntary reflection passed through the mind of Augustus, that he might never again meet those three beloved individuals in that room, which had hitherto been to him the scene of his happiest hours; and shrinking from the melancholy train of ideas which this reflection gave birth to, he hastily retired to his room, though not to rest. Many a time, during that wakeful night, did the same reflection cross his mind; and many a time, in his future life, did it recur to his recollection with a poignant force. So often does it happen that melancholy fancies, occasioned in the mind by the temporary pressure of sorrow, are recalled to the memory by subsequent events, and, dignified by the accidental confirmation of casual circumstances, receive the name of prophetic warnings.
CHAPTER IX.
Sneer.—True; but I think you manage ill: for there certainly appears no reason why Mr. Walter should be so communicative.
Puff.—For, egad now, that is one of the most ungrateful observations I ever heard;—for the less inducement he has to tell all this, the more I think you ought to be obliged to him; for I am sure you'd know nothing of the matter without it.
Dangle.—That's very true, upon my word.
The Critic.