CHAPTER XXVIII.
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On the last evening that Harry was to spend at home,
Mrs. Lennox took an occasion to seek him, when he was
alone in his room, arranging his things preparatory to his
embarcation. The tender and thoughtful mother had resolved
to address him upon two points with the frankness
which is the privilege of maternal affection. She hoped to
find the heart of her son, whose keen susceptibilities and
noble qualities she well knew, so softened by the idea of
separation, as to give to the confidential communion she
desired a sacred character of truth and love.
Instead of being busied with his preparations, she found
him, evidently not anticipating such an interruption, sitting
motionless, his head leaning on his hand, and lost in thought.
On the table, and the object, apparently, of his reveries, for
his eyes rested full upon it, lay a lock of hair, which, from
its rich auburn hue, might easily be recognised as Miss
Elton's. He started as she entered, and, snatching up the
silent, but, doubtless, eloquent souvenir, thrust it into his
waistcoat pocket.
“Harry,” said she, seating herself by his side, and fixing
her gentle eyes full upon him, “that is Miss Elton's hair.”
He coloured, but she continued.
“It offers me an appropriate opening for a question I
have to ask you before you leave us for so many long years—
perhaps forever.”
“What question?” asked Harry, recovering, not without
an effort, from his confusion.
“You know, my son, I would ask none from idle curiosity,
and I am equally sure you will not withhold your confidence
from me, now that we are going to part.”
“There is not a question on earth, my dearest mother,
that you can ask, which I will not answer you as truly as
if I were on my dying bed.”
“Thank you! I knew, I was sure you would.”
“Now, what is your question?”
“Fanny Elton, Harry, is, of all beings out of my family,
the one I most admire, for whom I have the sincerest affection.
Her happiness is as dear to me, almost, as yours.
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I have sometimes thought you, too, were as much interested
in it as I. The lock of hair you have endeavoured to
conceal confirms my opinion. The first question I have to
ask you is, do you love Fanny Elton?”
“No, mother,” said Harry, firmly, almost sternly.
“But have you ever loved her?”
“Years ago, I had a boyish passion for her, and procured
from her, without much persuasion, this ringlet.”
He took it out and handed it to her.
“You can see by the brighter colour that she was younger
when she gave it than she is now.”
“Tell me all, my son!”
“That is all, mother. As we both grew older, we both
grew wiser—ha! ha! ha! I have not seen this before for
a year, I do assure you. I was going to say I had almost
forgotten I had it, when it turned up accidentally among my
old things. I was thinking of my folly when you came in.
Take it: you may hand it to her, with my compliments, if
you like. It'll do for somebody else perhaps.”
“What do you mean? Have you changed, or is it the
change in her? Is it a lover's quarrel, or pique, or jealousy,
or what?”
“Upon my soul, I am on the best of terms with her.
But the change is in both of us. I do not admire her character,
upon a close study of it, quite as much as I expected,
and the fact is, she—she—”
“She what?”
He was going to disclose what he had learned from Emmerson,
but that gentleman had exacted from him a distinct
promise of secrecy, so he stopped and said nothing.
Mrs. Lennox also ceased her inquiries. She had no authority,
of course, from Miss Elton to make any. She was
not disposed to reveal her own suspicions of Miss Elton's
attachment for him without the certainty of effecting a
union; and though she perceived a bitterness in his manner
which did not argue perfect indifference, yet his denial of
any affection for her was so positive that she feared pressing
her mediation any farther, lest the cause of Miss Elton
might suffer. She knew, if there were any real affection,
absence would rather strengthen than weaken it. She, therefore,
concluded to pursue the subject no farther.
“Well, then, leave her. If it is so, you will have one
tie the less to call you back to your native land.”
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“But there are ties enough without her, my dear mother,”
said Harry.
“I have now another and much more serious remark to
make,” resumed Mrs. Lennox. “You are going off beyond
my care, out of my sight, for years, to be exposed to all the
dangers as well as the temptations and errors of life. You
have everything to make you happy but one thing, and,
that one thing wanting, all the rest, sooner or later, must
prove vain. Like your father, Mary, and Frank, you are
without religion. Answer me frankly and like a man, are
you not?”
“I am; since you ask me so seriously, I must tell you
the truth. I am without the least approach to religious belief;
nor do I find I am more likely to sin without it than
with it. Be assured, I shall love virtue and walk in the
path of honour as long as I live.”
“I thank you for your frankness, Harry. I myself once
doubted, and I know how plausible doubt can be. I see,
also, in others, like your father for instance, that a man may
possess every noble quality of mind and heart, and yet be
an infidel. I don't start from you; I ain't afraid of you.
You are my son. I admire, sympathize with, and love you
still.”
The tears rolled down her cheek as she spoke, and she
took his hand and pressed it fervently to her lips.
“But I have to request from you,” she continued, “the
same toleration—the same respect I extend. Do not despise
or shrink from me because I believe; for I am older
than you, and have thought of the subject more. I will
not now offer you any argument. We will suppose Christianity
false, the most absurd, impossible series of fables that
folly ever heaped together or credulity ever received. But,
true or not true, I have to request that, during your absence,
and at as early a moment as possible, you will acquaint yourself
with the subject thoroughly. Do not reject it without
understanding it. That is not the part of a well-informed,
sensible man. As Christianity is the religion of modern
civilization, you should comprehend it, if not as religion, as
a remarkable system of philosophy. If the history of its
divine origin be not true, you can scarcely mingle on equal
terms with gentlemen and scholars without, at least, knowing
its history as an earthly influence; yet you do not know
anything of it. Can you tell me on what grounds other
sensible men believe it?”
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“No! I confess that it is to me the most unfathomable of
mysteries.”
“Are you exactly aware what are the prophecies?”
“No, I am not.”
“Have you ever read the Bible through?”
“No, not continuously.”
“Have you ever read any commentator on it?”
“No. You cross-examine, mother, like a lawyer,” he replied,
laughing, but at the same time blushing.
“Now, then, I am going to make you a parting request.
First, you will not come back till you are well informed
upon the scheme, and the internal and external evidence of
Christianity. I do not ask you to study it for the sake of
believing in it, but that you may seek only to explain what
it is that falls like a spell upon the intellects of so many other
people, and makes them cling to it, notwithstanding its absurdities,
through life and through death. That you should
believe I do not ask; but I ask you to ascertain what it is
that makes other men believe. Will you do this?”
“At least, I will try; indeed, I have always been intending
to study the theory, the philosophy of Christianity, and
to investigate the mystery of its influence on mankind. I
will come back well acquainted with the Bible; I will examine
it as I would a law question—coldly, firmly, without
passion, without respect. But I give you notice,” he added,
laughing, “I shall tell you, without concealment, the result
of my inquiry. I shall spend some time in Germany, where
these questions are dissected with merciless precision.
But if, after three years, I still find (as of course I shall)
that the myths of antiquity, and the ignorance of an age
without a press, had combined to palm upon the credulity
of mankind a religion now in its wane, I fear you will be
yourself shaken in your faith, and that I shall be the instrument
of depriving you of what you value as the greatest
consolation.”
“My son,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I know you are candid,
generous, and pure. Sealed as your eyes now are, when a
beam of light reaches them you will acknowledge it. When
the physician heals you, you will believe on him. No man,
with your sincerity of nature, your clearness of understanding,
and your moral courage and devotion of soul, can ascertain
what makes others believe without believing himself.
I know you will keep your promise, and, keeping it, I know
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you will come back to me a Christian. You will learn what
I mean by telling you `seek ye out of the Book of the Lord
and read,' and you will find the `fear of the Lord is the beginning
of wisdom.”'
He shook his head and smiled.
“Well, I am satisfied,” said she, “that you will neither
break your faith with me, nor continue blind to your relation
with Him who died to save you.”
The term “died to save you” grated on Harry's ear as
the cant of a class. The idea of a God “dying” to save the
creatures of his own creation, held out but little prospect of
a realization of his mother's pious wishes. He answered,
however, only,
“I have promised to study the subject conscientiously,
and I will.”
“I have brought you several works,” continued she,
“which you must also promise to read, and which will grow
more interesting to you as your mind becomes sufficiently
enlightened and enlarged to comprehend them. They are
all small editions, to take up as little room as possible. The
`Bible,' a `Prayer Book,' `Butler's Analogy,' and `Paley's
Evidences.' You will read them?”
“Why, if you wish it, yes.”
“I do wish it, and receive your promise seriously and
solemnly. If you have no desire for the labour, do it in
memory of me.”
“I will, you have my word of honour.”
“Now, then, good-night! your obedience deserves a reward,
and will receive one, I am sure.”
She embraced him affectionately, and saying,
“This is the last time I shall bid you good-night, Harry,
for many a year,” left him with her eyes full of tears.
“My poor, dear, kind mother,” thought he, when he found
himself alone, and looking upon the, to him, somewhat formidable
pile of books which he had promised to read. “Who
can oppose such amiable and tender weakness? who can
refuse to gratify such affectionate whims? A nice, studious
time she intends I shall have of it; but no matter, I will keep
my word.”
And for the last time for a long period, he sought the repose
of sleep beneath his father's roof and in his native land.
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Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1843], A romance of New York volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf099v1].
