CHAPTER XI.

THE CONVERSATION.

If there is in England a spot where hill, wood, and water, without being too expanded, can be just sufficiently extensive to be enchanting, it is the view from Freston Tower over the waves of the Orwell. No poet can fail to imbibe the purity of nature's thoughts when seated in or near that spot. The very sight of the drawing of the Tower called forth the feeling of some descriptive stranger, whose words are thus recorded in the history of Ipswich:

'Who can o'er thy summer tide, Winding Orwell, ever glide, Nor with raptured eye confess Many scenes of loveliness, Spreading fair thy banks along, Subjects meet for poet's song? But the scene I love the best, Here is faithfully express'd By the artist's skilful hand, Mightier than wizard's wand: Yes, old Freston, stern and gray, Looking o'er the watery way, Hath for me more charms than all Wooded park or lordly hall!'

The tower only is now standing, but how long it may continue to grace the Orwell no one can tell. In these utilitarian days, almost every mark of ancient elegance seems to be giving way before the desire of making money.

Ellen De Freston was seated with her father in the fifth room of Freston Tower, in the bay-window, looking over the waves. She had seen her parent's anxious eyes diverted from his wonted study, and restlessly wandering over the banks of the river, evidently not surveying the scene with any interest, but ruminating in his mind over some thoughts which engaged his soul.

'Father, I perceive you are in deep thought, but not upon the work you are reading.'

'Nay, my child, it is the work I am reading which makes me thoughtful--deeply thoughtful; for it astonishes me to see how near to the language of inspiration a heathen writer conceives to be the value of the soul.'

'Ah! my father, what are the sentiments which have moved you so forcibly to meditation? I see you are reading the ancient treatise of Longinus, "On the Sublime."'

'I am, my daughter, and will read to you part of the 44th section. It is so extraordinary a description of the prevailing sin of man's nature, especially where Mammon reigns supreme, that had Longinus composed it for the very worst and most abandoned days of the world, he could not have placed our corruptions in a stronger light!'

'Is not this grand and sublime, my daughter, and fit for any Christian pastor's discourse?' said Lord De Freston. 'How wonderful is it, that man, uninstructed by the Gospel, should have so perfect an insight into the value of our immortal souls!'

'It is, indeed, sublime: and I thank you for reading it; but can you be surprised, dear father, estimating, as you do, the sublime qualities of the soul, that I should not marry for money?'

'I did never urge you so to do!'

'No, dear father; but I have seen some anxiety about you lately; intimating that I should not send every suitor away from the castle; that I might as well live like an anchorite in this tower.'

'I have been anxious for your happiness.'

'I know it well, dear father; and if ever I find a mind like your own, you will have no cause for regret that I am married. You have made me dainty in this respect. I cannot wed lord or squire, unless I find myself capable of acknowledging him to be my head; one who will regard me, not for my personal estate or appearance, but for my mind: that as we steer our course through life, we may mutually respect each other, that I may reverence him for his good qualities, and he may cherish me as his companion in the ways of wisdom and virtue. For if my lord, whoever he may chance to be, can never bend his ear to hear my words, and I cannot aspire to read his soul, how can I feel the true control of love? The hand, if bestowed without the heart, and without a sufficient respect for the superior qualities of the soul, can never secure happiness, at least to an educated mind.'

'It is not for me to say, my dearest child, that your visions are fanciful; that you are building castles in the air, and looking for too great a degree of perfection in a sinful man. I own the truth of what you have said respecting the power of the mind. But may not contentions arise in the dispositions of intellectual people, and produce much discord? You will never find the soul so free from the trammels of earthly things as you desire it to be. You raise up an imaginary being, and make him possess impossible qualities. Good nature, grace, a manly port, and open countenance, with noble deeds, and a good name, are surely not to be despised.'

'Nor do I despise them, dear father! They may win many a maiden, and are undoubtedly great and noble qualities: but years of culture have so much refined my mind, that I cannot be content with ordinary natures. Cavendish is a nobleman, and more learned than Lord Willoughby; I own that Lord Helmingham is brave, and so is Kedington. Drury, of Arwarton, is a wise man in his way, and I greatly honor Sir Richard Broke. Mowbray is incomparably grand, but where would be the delight of being his Sultana? No, father, your love is infinitely to be preferred. I would not change it, for all the honors of a duchess, if my tongue were never to be permitted that kind of interchange of expression upon the best things of life, which I now enjoy in your society. I am contented; I never murmur; I am as happy as I wish to be; only let me remain so.'

'I never wish to urge you, my child, into any precipitate marriage. You have been so affectionate a daughter, and so dear a companion, that without you I should have been miserable. Yet I am not so unreasonable as to desire that you should remain single on my account. I know you will lever marry any one who is unworthy of De Freston's daughter.'

'Father, I will only say, I hope not. This I promise, that even if I should see the object like yourself in mind, and he should be a suitor for my hand, I will never wed him, though he were as rich as Crœsus, or as poor as Lazarus, without your full consent.'

'Say no more upon the subject, my child. I know your heart; it burns pure and spotless in your life. I do not wish to chain your will, or to choose for you; nor even to recommend, much less to urge a suit which you could not approve. I will still hope, that before my sun of life has gone down, I may see you settled with the object of such affection as you can bestow; a joy to yourself, an honor to your husband, and a comfort to your father.'

'Without such hope I will never marry.--How lovely is the day,' she added, as if to change the subject: 'and how beautiful, in the full flood of this summer sky, appears the silvery light upon the waves of the Orwell. Dear father, I imagine no moments of this life can be more pleasant, more truly grateful, than when I contemplate the features of nature, and find a tranquillity within, that cheers me with the hope of one day enjoying far brighter scenes.'

'You are young, my dear child, and though learned in many works, and constantly employed in the cheerful studies of nature and religion, you know but little of the struggles of life, which thousands have to make. You may see something of them among the poor, but you are not aware of many thousand trials to which men of the highest grades of society are exposed. Scarcely one of those books which so delight us, and expand our intellects, but was produced in poverty and sorrow. And even now, at this very time that I am speaking, I fear that the passions and prejudices of men will not suffer the truth to prevail without a struggle severe, even unto death.'

'Truth will prevail at last, however. As it is so powerful, it will shine more gloriously through the very clouds which would obscure it.'

'You are right, my child; but as yet you know but few hardships. Your days smile, your nights are bright like the stars, and you view everything with the eyes of innocence.'

'You seemed inclined to reprove me for my too great sensibility in the matter of the dead dolphins; but that very weakness proves that I saw not with the eyes of indifference the cruelties of mankind.'

'That is rather an extreme case, my child. In the world you will find persons still more cruel in the persecution of their own species; and could you bear such scenes?'

'I know not if I may ever see such; I will not anticipate them, but will trust that, should they come, I may be prepared with strength of mind to endure them.'

'Spoken as I would have you speak, my daughter, and like yourself. I wish for nothing more than such fortification for myself or you.'

At that moment an announcement was given, that a messenger from Goldwell Hall (or, as it is now known, Coldwell or Cauldwell Hall) had arrived at the castle.

'I suppose,' said Ellen, 'that Bishop Goldwell has arrived at his palace of Wykes; and yet the messenger, I hear, is from Goldwell Hall, the seat of his deceased brother. We shall have to fulfil our engagement, father, and visit him in Suffolk. Alice--the proud and stately Alice--is to accompany him, and she was very kind to me when I was but a child. We have not seen them for a long while. She will scarcely know me. I wonder, my father, we have not heard from our cousin, Thomas Wolsey, lately.'

'I hear that William Latimer is on his journey hitherward, and will, beyond all doubt, be the bearer of letters to us from the far-famed Boy Bachelor, as I hear he is called. Thomas has plenty of ambition in his character, and will one day prove himself a remarkable man.'

'He might, I think, have been courteous enough to keep up his correspondence.'

'In this, perhaps, he was ungracious; but I can imagine a youth like Wolsey rising by his own brilliant talents, and concluding that even our attentions to him were solely on their account. Let us not judge him unfairly. We shall hear of him from our cousin Latimer, and I have no doubt it will be good news. He cannot forget us, any more than we can him.'

'But we must prepare to visit the Bishop. He may, for Alice De Clinton's sake, visit the old hall of his brother but our invitation is to the palace, and we shall there find that open house and hospitality for which Goldwell, the able Secretary of State and Bishop of Norwich, is so celebrated. We have much to do, for we must go in state, else Alice, should she be with her uncle, would scarcely condescend to own us. Let us, then, leave the Tower; one farewell look at the lovely scene, and then for Wyke's Bishop's Palace!'