University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

About a fortnight after the dinner at Mrs.
Vernon's, Alfred Grey went out to Mr.
Barclay's. He had just left Herbert, who
had gone into town early. After a few moments,
addressing himself to Mr. Barclay, he
said.

“I have come out to have some conversation
with you about your nephew: I don't
like his associates.”

“Why, is he not more with you and your
sister than with any other persons?” said Mrs.
Barclay.

“No: he sees Miss Walsall every day, I
believe; and Langley has taken a violent affection
for him. I suspect them both: they
are too smooth-faced and smooth-spoken to
be honest.”

“You know you have confessed being too
suspicious, Alfred,” said Mrs. Barclay.

“But we know, Elizabeth,” said Mr. Barclay,
“that if we were to take Alfred's confessions
for his own character, he himself
would not be a safe associate for any one.”

“Suspicion, however,” said Alfred, “is a
good thing. Have you not found it so in
your experience, Mr. Barclay? It is an antidote
that counteracts many threatening ills in
life.”

“I should call it rather, a preventive,” answered
Mr. Barclay; “and the wisest of the
faculty, I believe, regard preventives as seldom
serviceable to the body, urging uniform
temperance as the best security even against
specific dangers.”

“Are you acquainted with Langley,” said
Alfred.”

“Only superficially.”

“Do you know him?” said Mrs. Barclay to
Alfred.

“Personally, not further than Mr. Barclay

does: but I know that he is cunning and a
flatterer—a pretty good foundation to build a
scoundrel upon.”

“And Miss Walsall, Alfred,” said Mr.
Barclay, “what do you know of her; her
father is one of the wise men of the town.”

“Do you mean that for satire on the Doctor
or the town?—Of his daughter I know
little: she is pretty and graceful, and has
what is called good manners—that is, she is
unembarrassed in company and dispenses
smiles on all who approach her.”

“Your sister is intimate with her and likes
her, does she not?” inquired Mrs. Barclay.”

“Oh!—Ellen is intimate with and likes
every body. I tell her, she is the loosest
person in her acquaintances I know.”

“I wish to get some knowledge of the
character of Miss Walsall,” said Mr. Barclay.
“Herbert, who is not disposed to conceal
any thing from us, has spoken frequently
of her as of others, and, I think, with a good
deal of admiration. Of course, from him we

can learn little, for he has seen only the surface
of her mind, which seems to be as
smooth as her face.”

“And he is not likely,” said Alfred, “to
see much farther, after a longer acquaintance.
The city intercourse of young people brings
only their surfaces in contact. They never
meet without preparation: their minds as
well as persons are glossed: they go through
a prescribed routine, in which the individual
characteristics of each can be but partially
displayed: the intellect has some scope,—the
feelings scarcely any; and a little art can
make either appear other than they are, to
more practised observers than Herbert.”

“You come then to the conclusion,” said
Mrs. Barclay, “that our well-being is the
sport of fortune; all of happiness that depends
on marriage being abandoned to the
blind impulses of the affections, misled by
the shows of artifice.”

“In this artificial state,” replied Alfred,
“such is the case generally; but it is not necessarily

so. When a danger is known or
apprehended, it may mostly be avoided. Of
those who are thus exposed, few are aware
of their danger; some, probably, could not be
made sensible of it; to many, indeed, it
does not exist, for their natures are so common
that they risk little, and chance will provide
for them as well as they can provide for
themselves.”

“Self-delusion, the source of so much failure,
is, I believe, here more to be feared
than any other delusion, or than all others
together,” said Mr. Barclay. “When the
inclination to it is strong, it is doubtless encouraged
under the circumstances you describe;
but, on the other hand, the weakening
of it strengthens one against all other deceptions
and temptations.”

“Do you think,” asked Mrs. Barclay, “that
Herbert is particularly liable to this?”

“Yes: he is hopeful and prone to build up
a future in his mind; and these dispositions,
conjoined with warm feelings, produce a tendency

to magnify the importance of present
wishes and desires. The latter are incorporated
with imaginings; they give a substance
to day-dreams, while these beautify them
with bright ideal colors. A mind of this
constitution is peculiarly disposed to cherish
what has taken hold of it—to give
preference to a present probability over all
possibilities of the same nature. All of us
are subject to this kind of delusion, which is
distinct from the egotistical exaggerations of
self-esteem. Herbert, is, I think, somewhat
more so than most persons. He has, however,
very good elements of prudence.”

“All the elements of the mind are confounded,”
said Alfred, “by the tempest which,
at his age, is apt, self-generated like the
whirlwind, to rise up, enveloping alike the
sources and objects of thought and feeling in
mist,—”

“Which leaves them the clearer and brighter
for its temporary envelopment,” said Mr.
Barclay.

“Yes:—one sees some things the more distinctly
afterwards, from the devastation that
has swept off other and sometimes better
things—which obstructed the view of them.”

“Love is seldom this madness you make
it,” said Mr. Barclay; “not even in morbid
temperaments. Its first fervor is tyrannous
enough, to be sure; compelling the strongest
into subjection; but its effects in disappointment
are for the most part laughable, rather
than melancholy. Let a man risk boldly under
its command—brave fire and water and the
wrath of man,—commit imprudence and folly;—any
extreme, not inconsistent with self-respect,
is pardonable in a man for a woman,
and may be laudable: but if he fail, it becomes
him not to succomb. To gain a woman's
love, he may break his neck; but my
dear Alfred, he should not cut his throat if
he misses it. The extravagances he shall
commit in the pursuit, although they be not
practicable, or even proper, in general, are
admired by the world, and are indeed admirable,

as being demonstrations of a noble
feeling of manhood—devotion to women:
they are the poetry of life, which awakens the
enthusiasm of all, though few have occasion
to realize it. But his misery under disappointment
excites, and should excite, little
sympathy. This is no demonstration of
chivalrous devotion, but of moral weakness.
And, be assured, that with few exceptions,
the prolonging of unhappiness from this
source, is the self-torturing of pride. Strong
as my fellow-feeling for Herbert is, I shall
laugh at his love-troubles. My concern is
exclusively for the consequences of success;
and here my apprehensions are not so strong
as those of most persons perhaps would be:
for although I believe that in marriage, there
is much scope for choice, dependant on individual
peculiarities and relative fitness,—unhappiness,
I think, seldom flows directly
from marriage. He who has the capacity for
happiness will be happy in spite of circumstances,—these
affect, but do not control it;
and marriage is but a circumstance—or rather
a train of circumstances—against which, as
against others, he can if necessary defend
himself; for “the mind in itself can make
a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” Far
am I from being indifferent whether Herbert
be or be not put to this trial: I would rather
that in his chances in life, his trials should
come from any other source. I therefore
wish that he may not marry blindly, but that
in this, as in every other step in life, he
should move with forethought. Should he
not, fortune may still do for him what he shall
not have done for himself; and if he make
a bad choice, he may still be happy.”

“And if he have the same wish,” said
Alfred, “it will be difficult for him to act by
it: he has a good share of impetuosity. How
shall he be put in the way of choosing?”

“By making him sensible,” answered Mr.
Barclay, “that he has the power to choose.
It is as much, ignorance of our ability to resist
a particular inclination, as the force of the

inclination itself, that makes our feelings sway
us against reason and our interest. Young
people believe that love,—not the passion itself,
for that would be a truth, and one too
deep for their minds to seize,—but an individual
access of it directed upon a particular
person, is irresistible, or resistible only painfully
and with a wasting cost of misery.—
This they learn,—partly, from novels, pretending
to picture human nature, which they
do with as much fidelity and completeness as
the drawing of a single limb, distorted by
muscular effort, pictures the proportions of
the human body,—and partly, from the
promptings of their own undisciplined or
mis-developed feelings. Thus, when the passion
first awakens in their bosoms, they have
no thought that its wild throbbings are ever
to cease. They surrender themselves to it
as to a blessed eternity. They have been
told to distrust it; they have read that it is as
dangerous as it is delightful: but they have
never been made to know that it can be mastered;
they have never been even told that
there may be a pleasure in opposing as well
as in yielding to it. Experience alone, I am
aware, can make them fully realize that this,
like other feelings, can be opposed and mastered;
but, while nothing can fully supply
the place of personal trial, a knowledge of
their capacity to do so with which it is possible
to imbue them, may serve much to temper
their impulses and influence their action.”

“That this is possible,” said Alfred, “and
that the result would be as you state, I do
not doubt; but not suddenly. Had your nephew,
naturally well endowed as he is, been
educated by yourself, he would, I am sure,
illustrate the truth of your opinion.”

“I do not look for this,” said Mr. Barclay,
“nor should I rely upon it, even if Herbert
had undergone, from childhood to the present
time, a much better course of mental
discipline than he has, so incalculable are, in
an individual case, the effects of combinations
of feelings and of outward influences. My remark

was general. On the other hand, instances
of self-control are numerous, where
moral culture has been as defective as in
him,—most of them, it is true, the offspring
of necessity, but not on that account the less
indicative of the happy flexibility of the human
mind.”

“The point at present of most moment,”
said Mrs. Barclay, “is, not to determine
whether Herbert can or cannot act with discretion
in marrying; but to discover whether
Miss Walsall is worthy to be his wife. For,
what is the use of his being able to control
his inclinations unless he can ascertain whether
in a particular case it will be wise to
control them; and, surely, if we cannot find
out what Miss Walsall's real character is, it
is not to be expected that he can, even if he
should not be a lover.”

“Elizabeth's remark, Alfred, reminds us,”
said Mr. Barclay, “of the difference between
speculation and practice, and carries us back
to the point whence we started—viz: your
suspicions.”

“Which suspicions,” replied Alfred, “have
no particular foundation. Only, there is a
worldly character about the family. The
father is ostentatious and formal and empty-headed:
his son, you know, deserted a pretty
young girl to marry a plain rich widow: the
daughter looks and speaks like both father
and brother, and I hope is honester and
warmer than either; but until I have strong
evidence, I shall not believe that she is.”

“It is reasonable,” said Mrs. Barclay, “that
you should not think well of her without proof
of her merit: neither ought you, without
proof, to condemn her. She is as likely to
be deserving as any other young girl Herbert
knows.” This was rather what Mrs. Barclay
wished than what she thought. She shared
the suspicions of Alfred more largely than
she would admit to herself.

“Well, Alfred,” said Mr. Barclay, “it may
be desirable that we should exercise some influence
in this case; and it may be possible to
find out whether it is desirable; and it may

then be possible to exercise it. This is as far
as we can get just now. In the mean while,
instead of lamenting our inability, let us trust
to the future. It is a wise saying that `fortune
has a thousand eyes; fools only call her
blind.' ”

The reflections which this conversation occasioned
in Alfred, were not confined to Herbert.
A short time before, he had received a
shock which at the moment prostrated him,
and threatened to embitter his whole being.
With the vehemence of a susceptible and uncalculating
nature, he had permitted his feelings
to become deeply pledged before he
knew whether there was or could be any reciprocation;
and had been for a time made to
believe that there was, only to lift him the
higher before his fall. Mr. Barclay felt
strongly for his friend; but did not spare
him. He sometimes administered consolation
to Alfred in the manner in which the surgeon
gives relief to the body. At times he would
revile him, half in jest, for downright boyishness

for such headlong self-abandonment:
then he would chide him for ingratitude;—
“you ought to pity her husband, poor man!—
I'm sure I feel for him a great deal more than
I do for you,” he would say. Such an opportunity
as this conversation relating to Herbert
he would not let escape; and, accordingly,
a portion of what he said was aimed
at Alfred, who readily appropriated it as it
was intended; and being now in a state to examine
his own feelings, and beginning to be
ashamed of their extravagance, Mr. Barclay's
observations wrought favourably on himself as
well as on his concern for Herbert.