“I have a key in my bosom1, called Promise, that will, I am persuaded open any lock in Doubting Castle.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
“What has occurred? what could your uncle mean by speaking of deliberate falsehood?” said Mr. Ewart, as soon as the three were alone in his room, and the door closed behind them.
Ernest was too much agitated2 to speak. Charles told in a few words all that had happened, omitting nothing but his brother’s greater share in the fault. Mr. Ewart listened with a look of distress3 on his countenance4, which cut both the boys to the soul.
“We meant well,” said Charles in conclusion, “but everything has turned out ill.”
“You should rather say,” observed the clergyman, in a mild but sad tone, “that you meant well, but that you acted ill.”
“And you must suffer for our fault,” exclaimed Ernest, in bitter grief.
[231]
“What I suffer from most is the thought of your fault.”
“But that it should be laid at your door, you who have never taught us anything but what is right—oh! it is such cruelty, such injustice—”
“Hush,” said the tutor, laying his hand upon Ernest’s, “not a word must you utter against your guardian5; and remember that he had grounds for his indignation.”
Ernest leant both his arms upon the table, and bending down his forehead upon them, wept in silence.
“If you leave us on account of this,” cried Charles, with emotion, “we shall never be happy again.”
“Not so,” said Mr. Ewart, soothingly6; “though the Christian7 is commanded to repent8, he is forbidden to despair. Experience is precious, though it may cost us dear: it will be worth even the sorrow which you are feeling now, if this lesson is deeply imprinted9 on your soul, Never do evil that good may come.”
“In no case?” inquired Charles.
“In no case,” replied the clergyman.—“We show want of faith in the power of the Almighty10, if we imagine that He needs one sin to work His own good purposes. We can never expect a blessing11 on disobedience.”
“What I cannot endure,” exclaimed Ernest, raising his head, “is to think what the world will say. I
[232]
know the colouring that my uncle will put upon the affair—how my aunt will talk to her fashionable friends. She will speak of the danger of evil influence, of her anxiety for her dear nephews, and the shock which it had been to her to find what principles had been instilled12 into their minds. Oh, Mr. Ewart, best, dearest friend, we have injured you indeed—we have brought disgrace upon your spotless character!”
“God knows my innocence13 in regard to you,” replied the clergyman; “to Him I commit my cause. To be the object of unjust accusation14 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 erred16 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 entreat17; and he pleaded, he entreated18, with the fervent19 eloquence20 of one who thinks his whole happiness at stake. Mr. Hope
[233]
listened with a rigid21, 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 passionate22 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 CONFESSION23 AND ENTREATY24.
Fontonore and Charles left the room in despair.
[234]
Bitterly reproaching themselves for having wandered from the right path, they retired25 to the chamber26 of the former, where they both remained for the remainder of the night, for companionship in sorrow was their only consolation27 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.”
Poor Charles endeavoured to give comfort, which he much needed himself; yet his grief was not so deep as his brother’s. Ernest felt more strongly, what every Christian should feel, that he who has confessed religion openly before men should, above all others, be watchful29 over his own conduct. The world is ready, is eager to
[235]
find faults in such; to excuse its own errors by those of God’s children; to accuse of inconsistency, and even of hypocrisy30, those who profess28 to live by a higher standard. Alas31, the sins and failings of sincere Christians32 have done more injury to the cause of the religion which they love than all the open attacks of its enemies!
Ernest was also, perhaps, the most warmly attached to his tutor. Mr. Ewart had been his friend at a time when he had no other: it was through him that he had discovered his right to an earthly title; it was through him that he had learned to hope for a heavenly one; and to have been the means of inflicting33 deep injury on his benefactor34 wrung35 the spirit of the boy with anguish36, even greater than the pang37 of parting with his friend.
Long after Charles, weary and sad, had dropped asleep, Ernest lay awake, revolving38 bitter thoughts in his mind, almost too miserable39 even to pray. Never in the course of his whole life of trial had he passed so wretched a night. The envied Lord of Fontonore, in his magnificent castle, surrounded by all that could minister to his ease, was more wretched than Mark Dowley had been in his cottage, hungry, despised, and persecuted40. Such are the pangs41 of a wounded conscience—such the misery42 of a backsliding professor!
Ernest fell asleep at last, worn out by the conflict in his own mind, and awoke in the morning with a weight on his heart which painfully oppressed, even before he
[236]
was sufficiently43 roused to remember what it was that had caused it.
Mr. Ewart did not appear at breakfast, and neither of the boys could taste the meal. The sound in the court-yard of the wheels of the carriage which was to take their tutor away, and the sight of the neat black trunk, labelled and corded, placed ready by the door in the hall, made their hearts feel almost ready to burst.
The family of Mr. Hope avoided being present, but a number of the servants assembled to witness the departure of one who was respected by all. Even Jack44 and Ben were seen loitering on the drawbridge; and Lord Fontonore could not help remarking that the former surveyed him with a look of even greater insolence45 than was his wont46; but poor Ernest was too much humbled47, too much depressed48, to be roused to any feeling of anger.
Mr. Ewart came forth49, looking pale and thoughtful, but he smiled as soon as he saw his late pupils, and held out a hand to each. He bade a kind farewell to the numerous attendants, with a word of advice or encouragement to some. There were aprons50 lifted to tearful eyes, saddened looks, and murmured blessings51, as the clergyman passed through the assembled throng52 to where the carriage was waiting. The boys grasped his hands, and kept them within their own, reluctant to unloose that last, firm clasp. He gave them his earnest, solemn
[237]
blessing, and bade them put their trust in Him who would never leave or forsake53 them.
“Shall we ever meet again?” faltered54 Ernest.
“I hope so—I believe so,” replied Mr. Ewart, cheerfully. “This very morning I received a kind invitation from Mr. Searle. If I see no other opening before me, I may possibly visit Silvermere early in the spring; and if so—”
“Oh, if you were at the other end of the world, we should find some means of meeting,” exclaimed Charles.
“There is one comfort which we may always make our own, when parting from those whom we love,” said the clergyman, struggling to keep down his emotions; “all pilgrims travelling the same road come to the same rest at last; though circumstances and distance may divide them here, they may look forward in sure hope to a meeting in heaven.”
And he was really gone!—the friend whom Ernest had loved, the guide whom he had followed, the stay upon which he had leaned—all was like a painful, bewildering dream. Again the young peer hastened to his chamber, threw himself on his bed, and vainly sought for the relief of tears. He was roused by feeling an arm thrown round his neck, and looking up, saw Charles, whose flushed face and reddened eyes bore evident traces of weeping.
“Leave me, Charley,” he cried; “the sight of your sorrow only makes mine harder to bear. We can never,
[238]
never bring back the past. We can never recall the friend whom we have lost. I feel almost in despair.”
Charles uttered no reply. Perhaps he could hardly have trusted his voice to make one; but he laid his open Bible on the pillow before Ernest, and silently pointed15 to the words in Jeremiah: “Return, ye backsliding children, and I will heal your backslidings. Behold55, we come unto Thee, for Thou art the Lord our God.”
“Oh, Charley!” said Ernest, with emotion, “this is the second time that you have opened the door of hope to your brother!”
“When did I ever do so before?”
“When a poor desolate56 boy stood beneath a yew-tree, and watched crowds going into the church which he was almost afraid to enter. You came to him then, and said a few simple words, which roused and encouraged at that time; and often since, when I have felt low and fearful, I have repeated those words to myself, ‘You must not stay outside.’ I have thought of these words as applying to the gate of mercy open to all. Oh, Charley! what a good, what a generous brother you have been to me! Many in your place would have hated and despised me, taunted57 me with my ignorance and with my early life; but you, even at a time when I have done you great wrong, when I have deprived you of your friend, even led you into sin, you come to comfort and to cheer me;—ever faithful, ever hopeful, ever dear!”
Ernest was too much agitated2 to speak. Charles told in a few words all that had happened, omitting nothing but his brother’s greater share in the fault. Mr. Ewart listened with a look of distress3 on his countenance4, which cut both the boys to the soul.
“We meant well,” said Charles in conclusion, “but everything has turned out ill.”
“You should rather say,” observed the clergyman, in a mild but sad tone, “that you meant well, but that you acted ill.”
“And you must suffer for our fault,” exclaimed Ernest, in bitter grief.
[231]
“What I suffer from most is the thought of your fault.”
“But that it should be laid at your door, you who have never taught us anything but what is right—oh! it is such cruelty, such injustice—”
“Hush,” said the tutor, laying his hand upon Ernest’s, “not a word must you utter against your guardian5; and remember that he had grounds for his indignation.”
Ernest leant both his arms upon the table, and bending down his forehead upon them, wept in silence.
“If you leave us on account of this,” cried Charles, with emotion, “we shall never be happy again.”
“Not so,” said Mr. Ewart, soothingly6; “though the Christian7 is commanded to repent8, he is forbidden to despair. Experience is precious, though it may cost us dear: it will be worth even the sorrow which you are feeling now, if this lesson is deeply imprinted9 on your soul, Never do evil that good may come.”
“In no case?” inquired Charles.
“In no case,” replied the clergyman.—“We show want of faith in the power of the Almighty10, if we imagine that He needs one sin to work His own good purposes. We can never expect a blessing11 on disobedience.”
“What I cannot endure,” exclaimed Ernest, raising his head, “is to think what the world will say. I
[232]
know the colouring that my uncle will put upon the affair—how my aunt will talk to her fashionable friends. She will speak of the danger of evil influence, of her anxiety for her dear nephews, and the shock which it had been to her to find what principles had been instilled12 into their minds. Oh, Mr. Ewart, best, dearest friend, we have injured you indeed—we have brought disgrace upon your spotless character!”
“God knows my innocence13 in regard to you,” replied the clergyman; “to Him I commit my cause. To be the object of unjust accusation14 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 erred16 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 entreat17; and he pleaded, he entreated18, with the fervent19 eloquence20 of one who thinks his whole happiness at stake. Mr. Hope
[233]
listened with a rigid21, 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 passionate22 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 CONFESSION23 AND ENTREATY24.
Fontonore and Charles left the room in despair.
[234]
Bitterly reproaching themselves for having wandered from the right path, they retired25 to the chamber26 of the former, where they both remained for the remainder of the night, for companionship in sorrow was their only consolation27 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.”
Poor Charles endeavoured to give comfort, which he much needed himself; yet his grief was not so deep as his brother’s. Ernest felt more strongly, what every Christian should feel, that he who has confessed religion openly before men should, above all others, be watchful29 over his own conduct. The world is ready, is eager to
[235]
find faults in such; to excuse its own errors by those of God’s children; to accuse of inconsistency, and even of hypocrisy30, those who profess28 to live by a higher standard. Alas31, the sins and failings of sincere Christians32 have done more injury to the cause of the religion which they love than all the open attacks of its enemies!
Ernest was also, perhaps, the most warmly attached to his tutor. Mr. Ewart had been his friend at a time when he had no other: it was through him that he had discovered his right to an earthly title; it was through him that he had learned to hope for a heavenly one; and to have been the means of inflicting33 deep injury on his benefactor34 wrung35 the spirit of the boy with anguish36, even greater than the pang37 of parting with his friend.
Long after Charles, weary and sad, had dropped asleep, Ernest lay awake, revolving38 bitter thoughts in his mind, almost too miserable39 even to pray. Never in the course of his whole life of trial had he passed so wretched a night. The envied Lord of Fontonore, in his magnificent castle, surrounded by all that could minister to his ease, was more wretched than Mark Dowley had been in his cottage, hungry, despised, and persecuted40. Such are the pangs41 of a wounded conscience—such the misery42 of a backsliding professor!
Ernest fell asleep at last, worn out by the conflict in his own mind, and awoke in the morning with a weight on his heart which painfully oppressed, even before he
[236]
was sufficiently43 roused to remember what it was that had caused it.
Mr. Ewart did not appear at breakfast, and neither of the boys could taste the meal. The sound in the court-yard of the wheels of the carriage which was to take their tutor away, and the sight of the neat black trunk, labelled and corded, placed ready by the door in the hall, made their hearts feel almost ready to burst.
The family of Mr. Hope avoided being present, but a number of the servants assembled to witness the departure of one who was respected by all. Even Jack44 and Ben were seen loitering on the drawbridge; and Lord Fontonore could not help remarking that the former surveyed him with a look of even greater insolence45 than was his wont46; but poor Ernest was too much humbled47, too much depressed48, to be roused to any feeling of anger.
Mr. Ewart came forth49, looking pale and thoughtful, but he smiled as soon as he saw his late pupils, and held out a hand to each. He bade a kind farewell to the numerous attendants, with a word of advice or encouragement to some. There were aprons50 lifted to tearful eyes, saddened looks, and murmured blessings51, as the clergyman passed through the assembled throng52 to where the carriage was waiting. The boys grasped his hands, and kept them within their own, reluctant to unloose that last, firm clasp. He gave them his earnest, solemn
[237]
blessing, and bade them put their trust in Him who would never leave or forsake53 them.
“Shall we ever meet again?” faltered54 Ernest.
“I hope so—I believe so,” replied Mr. Ewart, cheerfully. “This very morning I received a kind invitation from Mr. Searle. If I see no other opening before me, I may possibly visit Silvermere early in the spring; and if so—”
“Oh, if you were at the other end of the world, we should find some means of meeting,” exclaimed Charles.
“There is one comfort which we may always make our own, when parting from those whom we love,” said the clergyman, struggling to keep down his emotions; “all pilgrims travelling the same road come to the same rest at last; though circumstances and distance may divide them here, they may look forward in sure hope to a meeting in heaven.”
And he was really gone!—the friend whom Ernest had loved, the guide whom he had followed, the stay upon which he had leaned—all was like a painful, bewildering dream. Again the young peer hastened to his chamber, threw himself on his bed, and vainly sought for the relief of tears. He was roused by feeling an arm thrown round his neck, and looking up, saw Charles, whose flushed face and reddened eyes bore evident traces of weeping.
“Leave me, Charley,” he cried; “the sight of your sorrow only makes mine harder to bear. We can never,
[238]
never bring back the past. We can never recall the friend whom we have lost. I feel almost in despair.”
Charles uttered no reply. Perhaps he could hardly have trusted his voice to make one; but he laid his open Bible on the pillow before Ernest, and silently pointed15 to the words in Jeremiah: “Return, ye backsliding children, and I will heal your backslidings. Behold55, we come unto Thee, for Thou art the Lord our God.”
“Oh, Charley!” said Ernest, with emotion, “this is the second time that you have opened the door of hope to your brother!”
“When did I ever do so before?”
“When a poor desolate56 boy stood beneath a yew-tree, and watched crowds going into the church which he was almost afraid to enter. You came to him then, and said a few simple words, which roused and encouraged at that time; and often since, when I have felt low and fearful, I have repeated those words to myself, ‘You must not stay outside.’ I have thought of these words as applying to the gate of mercy open to all. Oh, Charley! what a good, what a generous brother you have been to me! Many in your place would have hated and despised me, taunted57 me with my ignorance and with my early life; but you, even at a time when I have done you great wrong, when I have deprived you of your friend, even led you into sin, you come to comfort and to cheer me;—ever faithful, ever hopeful, ever dear!”
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1
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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4
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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6
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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7
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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8
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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9
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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10
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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11
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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12
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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14
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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15
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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16
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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20
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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21
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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22
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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23
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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24
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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27
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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29
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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31
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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32
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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33
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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34
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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35
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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36
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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37
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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38
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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41
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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42
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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43
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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44
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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45
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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51
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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54
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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