CHAPTER I.

Amor che a null’ amato, amar perdona Mi prese del costui piacer si forte, Che, come vedi, ancor non m’abandona.

DANTE.

Of late years education has become a subject of general care and attention. But there may be excess even in so amiable a feeling as the devotion of a parent to a child; that very devotion may be productive of mischief to its object. No pains are spared in cultivating talents, in giving grace, accomplishments, useful information, deep learning; but it may be a question whether the wholesome training of the feelings is as judiciously attended to as that of the understanding. May not the very importance attached to all concerning the young, lead them to think too much of themselves? Unless they are early taught to consider the feelings of others, is not one strong motive for controlling their own (that most difficult and most necessary of all lessons) utterly neglected? May not the excessive care taken to preserve the purity of the weaker sex sometimes lead to consequences the most opposite?

When the follies, the frailties, the weaknesses, of their nature are so carefully concealed from them, how can they acquire the habit of regulating feelings, the very existence of which they have never learned, and against the errors of which, therefore, they can never have been cautioned?

“’Tis an old tale, and often told;” yet, perhaps, the frequent occurrence of such events as are related in the following story may induce one to look back to the possible causes of their frequency.

Colonel Fitz-Eustace was a person peculiarly calculated to inspire an enthusiastic passion to a warm-hearted and devoted girl. He was a soldier, and had but lately returned from the seat of war. The fame of his exploits had preceded his arrival, and in the social circle to which the young Eleanor Morton was admitted, as she emerged from girlhood to womanhood, he was received as one of the brave defenders of his native land, to whom England owed her eminent position in the scale of nations.

Although military glory is in itself almost a passport to the female heart, its effect is certainly enhanced when the outward appearance is correspondingly heroic—and Colonel Fitz-Eustace looked like a hero. The commanding step, the lofty brow, the dark flashing eye, which might almost gaze on the sun without being dazzled; the deep, clear, sonorous voice, the rapid yet distinct utterance, which seemed as if it could make its commands heard and obeyed, through the roar of cannon and the din of battle, combined to form the _beau ideal_ of a warrior. And if that flashing eye should invariably beam with every softer expression, when it dwelt on one favoured object,—if that clear deep voice should suddenly become modulated to the low thrilling tone of tenderness when it addressed one person, what marvel if the bewildered girl yielded up her whole soul to the new and engrossing feeling which stole upon her, under the mask of admiration and gratitude!

If ever love, fervent, pure, intense, found its shrine in the heart of woman, it did in that of Eleanor Moreton. But Colonel Fitz-Eustace was poor, and it was not till after many years of constancy on both sides that her parents consented to their union. She had passed long months of absence, long days of sickening hope, long nights of watching when, by the death of a distant relation, Colonel Fitz-Eustace became heir presumptive to the earldom of Sotheron, and in the mean time the possession of a competency which enabled their marriage to take place.

Alas! it was not for Eleanor to know unmixed happiness. Climate and severe service had undermined her husband’s constitution; and although they both fancied that the life of untroubled serenity they had before them would restore him to health, she had the mortification to see him daily become weaker, paler, thinner. She could not blind herself to his illness; but she fancied in the autumn that the clear fresh air of winter would brace his feeble frame; in the winter, that the mildness of spring would give him renewed vigour; in the spring, that more settled weather would confirm his health; in summer, that autumn would bring the desired change.

When, however, that autumn came, she had really to sit by his sick bed, to smooth his pillow, to watch his waning strength, and at length to hear him, in distinct audible words, speak of their approaching separation. She had never, even in her imagination, admitted such an idea, far less ever embodied it in actual language. When first he spoke she tried to smile,—a faint incredulous smile. But no! She looked on his haggard cheek, and the appalling truth was there too visibly written. She sat motionless, speechless. Nor did tears come to her relief till he alluded to the prospect of her becoming a mother—then the floodgates were opened—she sobbed convulsively, she covered his emaciated hand with kisses—she hid her head.

From that moment she never left his room; she scarcely ever took her eyes off him. She would not allow any of her family to be summoned; for she seemed to dread the participation of another in her attendance; she would have been jealous of his receiving attention or service from any hand but her own. She wished to catch every sound of his voice, to hoard up each word, each look, in her memory, as a treasure for after years. The moment came,—he died, and she survived.

Three months afterwards she became the widowed mother of a boy. That moment of rapture, when a mother’s eyes are blessed with a sight of her first-born, was to her a moment of agony. Then her loss seemed to burst upon her with redoubled force. She thought of the happiness she had anticipated, of the tenderness with which her husband would have hailed the intelligence of her safety, of the pride with which he would have looked upon his boy; and she almost turned away in anguish.

This was but a passing feeling. The next instant she clasped the infant to her bosom; she felt as if the beloved of her soul was not wholly torn from her: she had something still to live for, something to which her existence was necessary; and the whole affections of that loving and blighted heart were poured forth upon the unconscious infant. She recovered slowly, but she did recover.

Time wore away. She was still young, and might have hoped for happiness in a second marriage—but her’s was no common love. It had taken root in early life,—it had been nurtured in sorrow, almost in hopelessness,—it had for many long years been her thought by day, her dream by night,—it was so interwoven with her existence, that it could not be destroyed but with herself. Devotion to her child, to _his_ child, alone afforded relief to her sorrow and her love. She remembered all the treasured words of him who was gone; she thought over all the plans they had together formed for her little Walter’s education, and she considered no sacrifice too great that might by possibility be conducive to his health or to his advantage. Alas! by so doing, perhaps, she only fostered feelings which, in after life, led to most unfortunate results.

In the common acceptation of the word, she did not spoil her boy. She never gave him the plaything he cried for; she never yielded to his entreaties in allowing him what she imagined could be hurtful either to his body or his mind; but every action of her own, and of every one belonging to her, had reference to him alone.

The best room in the house was his sleeping-apartment, as being the most airy and wholesome; the largest sitting-room was appointed for his playing nursery; if he looked pale, an air of consternation pervaded the whole household; if he was naughty, the wretchedness of his mother was reflected in the serious faces of his attendants; if he was good, every one appeared revived; and rewards and pleasures were provided, however inconvenient it might be to gratify his fancy of the moment.

Those who were interested for his mother, and wished to gratify her feelings, knew that she was only accessible to pleasurable emotions through her boy, and they vied with each other in attentions and kindness to him.

Nothing could be more natural, more amiable, than the widowed mother’s devotion to her only child; and she fancied that she was training his mind to all that was right and virtuous; for these indulgences were rewards for good behaviour. Alas! in her anxious tenderness one great lesson was neglected. She forgot to impress upon his mind that he was only one of many creatures, all equal in the sight of their Creator. Walter necessarily felt that the universe was formed for him alone, and that every thing ought to be subservient to his welfare.

He was a beautiful and an intelligent boy, with all his mother’s depth and tenderness of feeling; with all his father’s energy in accomplishing his purpose; but being accustomed to find those vehement feelings, those energies, the ruling principle of the little world around him, he early learned to rule over that little world with the most despotic sway. He loved his mother; but he loved her as tyrants love that which ministers to their pleasure. She did not dive so deeply into his little heart, satisfied with feeling herself necessary to his happiness. Her gentle and habitually melancholy countenance could be lighted up with joy at any proof of affection on his part; and she looked round with proud exultation when he cried, and wept aloud, at the prospect of her leaving him to pass a few days with a friend. She did not leave him. She yielded to this passionate expression of his ungoverned feelings, and by so doing confirmed him in the habitual indulgence of them.

The period came when it was deemed proper that he should go to school. This was a severe trial; but here her duty was plain before her. She knew that it would be sacrificing her boy’s welfare to her own gratification if she persisted in keeping him at home.

At ten years old he went to Eton; and here his natural talents, and his animated disposition, soon made him a favourite with his master and with his companions. Now, for almost the first time, Eleanor tasted unalloyed happiness. She was proud of her son; she heard him praised by his superiors; she knew he was loved by his comrades; and when he returned for the holidays, she looked on him with a thrill of rapture, such as she had never expected to feel again. Of course no indulgence could be too great for her good, her clever boy. Every wish was gratified, every request forestalled. For some years she was comparatively a happy woman.

Walter increased in health and strength, and beauty and talents. He was impetuous, but that was natural in youth; he could not bear to be thwarted, but then his wishes were generally the offspring of some amiable feeling. If he saw distress, his was the open hand to relieve it. Though he might perhaps give a guinea to a ragged impostor, and have not a sixpence left to bestow on a starving and industrious family, this was only the excess of a generous impulse. How could he be blamed for yielding to it?

He left Eton with the character of an excellent scholar, and of a fine fellow. He passed through his career at Oxford with more than common credit, and his friends augured that he might one day make a figure in public life. His future prospects were brilliant, and he was in possession of a fortune which rendered him independent of any profession, but which was not sufficient to stand in lieu of a profession. A large landed property, well attended to, and well administered, is occupation in itself, and affords scope for great utility; but there is a certain medium which prevents exertion, and enables a person to pass a life of most complete idleness.

Such was Walter Fitz-Eustace’s situation, when at twenty-one he plunged into the vortex of London dissipation, with an ardent imagination, impetuous temper, amiable, but ill-regulated feelings, and a strong determined will, which had never been controlled, and would never brook control. These were faults which might lead to much mischief, but which could not make him less beloved by a doting mother. This was a disposition to make him fearfully the slave of love, should it once gain dominion over him. However, he returned to his adoring mother in the summer with heart as light, and eyes as gay and careless, as when he left her. She was overjoyed to have him once more by her side; once more to lean on his arm when she took her evening stroll, and to look up in his beaming face, and trace in those noble features, the forms, the expression of his father’s; to listen to his animated accounts of debates in Parliament; to see his cheek glow, and his eye flash fire as he talked of liberty, of justice; and to anticipate the moment when the talents, of which there seemed to be so rich a promise, might excite admiration in the senate.