 | CHAPTER VII. A volume from the life of Herbert Barclay |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
Herbert returned to his uncle's to dinner.
Mrs. Barclay was out of doors and met him
near the house. He eagerly unbosomed himself
to his aunt. She questioned him freely,
and as freely imparted to him her impressions.
They did not join Alfred and Mr. Barclay
until after a full disclosure on the part of
Herbert of the state of his feelings, and a candid
setting forth by his aunt of the risk he
would encounter by a precipitate surrender to
them. She neither encouraged nor discouraged
him; but by affectionate interest and
frank discussion, she becalmed his mind.—
Without jarring it, she altered its tone. The
deep vibrations of unpractised feeling, she accompanied
with the clear firm notes of her own
well-tempered mind, with so much skill and
soon yielded to their influence.
The fact that Langley was a rival of Herbert,
which the latter did not seem yet distinctly
to realize, was to her, satisfactory intelligence.
Herbert's happy state of mind
made no appeal to her immediate sympathy,
so that her whole concern for him was concentrated
upon his ultimate welfare; and with
her misgivings respecting the fitness of Miss
Walsall to promote this, the inference she
made from Herbert's relation as to the designs
of Langley, was an agreeable accompaniment
to the report he gave of himself; as, in addition
to ordinary chances, it presented a particular
opening through which Miss Walsall's
destiny might be separated from his.
The conversation with his aunt was a present
relief to Herbert's full bosom, and nothing
was said to either his uncle or Alfred Grey.
Herbert, though from the cause already
stated he was somewhat weaned from daily
intercourse with Alfred, enjoyed the latter's
always listened with pleasure to their conversation,
and took part in it without restraint.
“Herbert,” said Mr. Barclay after dinner,
“Alfred and I have been talking this morning
of you and some of your acquaintances—”
“If Mr. Grey,” said Herbert, “talks to you
of them, uncle, as he does to me, you will
think that I am keeping bad company.”
“I have provoked you, Herbert,” said Alfred,
“by laughing at most of them; but I
challenge you to name one of whom I have
said any serious harm.”
“Well—silly company,” said Herbert.
“Right,” said Alfred. “And that has vexed
you. If I had condemned instead of ridiculing
them, you would have minded less
what I said.”
“You would, I dare say, have been as correct
in the one case as in the other,” said Herbert.
“I do'nt find that these people deserve
your satire.”
“It is well that you do not, Herbert,” returned
should know them on so short and superficial
an acquaintance; so that, your concurring with
me, would betoken a proneness to fault-finding
by no means commendable. I must, however,
defend myself against your interpretations.
Your self-love, piqued by my low estimate of
what to you seemed attractive, has attributed
to my ridicule a bitterness which was not in
it.”
“Nothing, Herbert,” said Mr. Barclay,
“is more essential to success and happiness in
life than a clear insight into the nature of
those with whom we associate; and you will
find, that to estimate justly the characters of
men, you must at first be chary of good opinion.
If you over-rate them at the outset, the
discovery of the error is apt to produce a
greater, hurrying you as much below the
truth as you were before above it; and when
the discovery is made through personal disappointment,
as it often is, the re-action is the
stronger.”
“And into error of this kind,” said Alfred,
“you are the more likely to be seduced, from
the nature of your present association with
people. You see them only at times when
they are robed for public exhibition,—when
they have put on smiles,—when they are
playing a part,—when their behavior is a
masquerade. The clean, shaven citizen gaily
recreating himself on a Sunday, you would
not recognize in the sweating laborer at his
toil.”
“How can it be otherwise?” said Herbert.
“I have been but a few weeks in society. It
is impossible, as you say, for me to become
acquainted in so short a time. Every thing is
new to me,—the people, the places where I
meet them, the manner of meeting them.
But by degrees I shall learn to known them
better.”
“Very true,” said Alfred. “But you will
not attain to this knowledge neither so certainly
nor so quickly if you begin with admitting
impressions wide of the truth. And do
to know at present the real characters of
your new acquaintances, bear in your mind
decided opinions concerning them? You are
not merely ignorant—you are deceived.”
“It is difficult,” said Herbert, “not to form
an opinion of a person you meet often, however
you may want the means of judging
rightly.”
“Not,” answered Alfred, “if you carry with
you the conviction that you do want these
means. Thus guarded, you will not be betrayed
into a hasty judgment.”
“In associating with your fellow-men, Herbert,”
said Mr. Barclay, “you should seek to
place yourself on an equality with them. Now,
you are at a great disadvantage, if you trust
without knowledge. In imputing evil blindly,
you do yourself a negative injury—you forfeit
probable advantage; but in expecting good
where it is not, you expose yourself to positive
loss. You are deceived, injured, ruined
perhaps, and no one is benefited. To think
only distinct, but often opposed; for, by misplacing
confidence, you may cripple yourself,
and thus baffle your benevolent purpose.”
“But, uncle,” said Herbert, “I have heard
you say, it is only by experiencing the bad
effects of unwise conduct that we gain wisdom;
that one can only learn to live by
practice, and that in learning, mistakes, disappointment,
suffering, are unavoidable; that
truth can only be reached through error.”
“Nor is what I have just said,” answered
Mr. Barclay, “in contradiction with this.—
Were you far more sagacious and prudent
than you are, and more willing and able to
guide yourself by the instructions of the experienced,
than the best-disposed of your age,
you would still commit blunder on blunder,
and have to atone for them by chargin and
pain. In the best minds judgment is not intuitive,
nor to the most docile can it be transferred.
Gradually, through personal endeavor
only, is it to be acquired; and in this process
the most vigilant and cautious. Every step
involves a double danger: you are ever liable
to err in taking it, and your position is liable to
be assailed. Contention is a condition of life.
The philanthropist—unless he be a mere
dreamer—as well as the rude bandit, must
contend. The worker, whether of good or
evil, must attack and defend. Thus exposed,
whatever may be your career, from without
and within, can you be too wary? Even to
those skilled by repeated encounter, the perils
of life are formidable; what must they be to
you, ignorant of their source and nature? Your
safety lies in taking, at first, short steps: long
ones will carry you into the dark, where you
may meet a blow that will stun you, or, have
a load put on you that will burden your energies,
or, encircle yourself with a wreath from
which the flowers will soon fall leaving the
chain they concealed to cramp your liberty
for life.”
Whenever Mr. Barclay talked, he had in
respecting Miss Walsall had put him in a
mood to urge upon Herbert more pointedly
than he was wont to do, the necessity of circumspection;
and while he, under this influence,
forcibly represented the dangers that
beset the beginner in the world, Herbert
eagerly hearkened to his words, and with
such conviction of their importance, that he
resolved that very evening to derive benefit
from them, and to observe closely Miss Walsall
and Langley. He doubted not that he
could do it.
He set off with Alfred to return to town,
and Mr. Barclay walked some distance with
them. When, after emerging from the wood
that enclosed the lawn, they reached the elevation
already mentioned, which overlooked
the city and surrounding country:—“I seldom,”
said Alfred, “pass this spot that I do
not pause on it. Without being picturesque,
the scene is one to dwell upon. A wide expanse
of teeming field and rich woodland
it, and on one side the landscape stretching
far away without boundary and losing itself
in the vague level of the horizon.”
“Does not its boundlessness tempt you?”
said Mr. Barclay. “I believe, Alfred, you
have never been beyond the little world
which the eye from this point embraces.”
“No: I have not,” answered Alfred.—
“And it is seldom that I feel a wish to go
beyond it. It is, as you have called it, a
little world, and affords full scope to one
whose desires are not for power. Nor
have I, except to behold a few sacred spots,
curiosity to see more of the surface of the
earth or of the people who live on it.”
“I hope that you are mistaken in yourself,”
said Mr. Barclay; “and that there is a latent
disposition in you that will make a traveller
of you yet; for I have built a castle in the
air according to which, you and Herbert are
to make a tour together. What do you say,
Herbert?”
Herbert said nothing, as he had himself
laid the foundation of a fine castle of a very
different character.
“I have nothing against such a plan,” said
Alfred. “Herbert and I will talk it over one
of these days. No doubt you and Keppel
could say enough to start us both. I expect
Keppel this evening, and if he comes I'll
bring him with me to-morrow.”
“Ah! he's a traveller,” said Mr. Barclay.—
“Come out early, Alfred; your friend and I
will have much to say to each other.”
Herbert and Alfred continued their way to
town. Herbert told his friend, as he had
told his aunt, what had passed in the morning.
“Langley is a scoundrel,” warmly exclaimed
Alfred. “Herbert, I'll go with you to Dr.
Walsall's this evening. Does Miss Walsall
know, do you think, what are your feelings
towards her?”
“No: its impossible that she should.”
“That is—you have never designedly told
her of them. Did you or Langley leave her
first this morning?”
“I left Langley with her.”
| CHAPTER VII. A volume from the life of Herbert Barclay | |