# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 42

CHAPTER VII.
AN ALLUSION TO THE PAST.
Ah! there are memories that will not vanish; Thoughts of the past we have no power to banish; To show the heart how powerless mere will, For we may suffer, and yet struggle still. It is not at our choice that we forget, That is a power no science teaches yet; The heart may be a dark and closed up tomb; But memory stands a ghost amid the gloom!
"I am sorry," said Lord Norbourne, "that your protégé, Walter Maynard, should be, what I suppose he would call, so patriotic. Young men think it such an easy thing to set the world to rights. Why do you not talk him into more rational notions?"
"Truly, my dear uncle," replied Courtenaye, "it is no such easy matter reasoning with one at once firm and enthusiastic in his opinions."
​ "Well, well!" replied his uncle, drawing his arm-chair closer to the hearth, and stirring the fire into a cheerful blaze. "Time does work wonderful changes, and in nothing so much as in opinion. In youth we encore the sentiment,
'Oh, bless my country, Heaven! he said, and died:'
but, as we advance in life, we think,
'How weak it is to pity Cato's case,
Who might have lived, and had a handsome place!'
"Your views of human nature are any thing but encouraging," exclaimed Norbourne.
"I have heard much," returned his companion, "of the beauty of truth; but it is a beauty no one likes to look upon. To find it out, is only to find that you have been duped in every possible manner; and to hear it, is only to have a friend give way to his temper, and say something disagreeable to you."
"But what," asked Courtenaye, "is to become of us, when the freshness of pleasure is gone with the freshness of youth, and one illusion has faded after another?"
​ "Why," replied Lord Norbourne, "there remain avarice and business. I exceedingly regret that I do not, cannot force myself to love money. It is the most secure source of enjoyment of which our nature is capable. It is tangible and present; it is subject to no imaginary miseries; it goes on increasing; it is a joy for ever. It exercises both bodily and mental faculties in its acquisition; it is satisfaction to the past, and encouragement to the future."
"For mercy's sake, stop!" cried Norbourne; "if you go on much further with this eulogium, you will send me away a confirmed miser."
"No such good luck," replied Lord Norbourne, smiling; "the miser, like the poet, must be born. It is not to be acquired without an original vocation. In the meantime, I advise you to amuse yourself as much as you can; and, talking of amusement, do you go to Lady Marchmont's to-night?"
Courtenaye started at the name; and was too much absorbed in all it called up, to notice that his uncle's quick, dark eye was fixed on ​his face, with a glance that seemed desirous of reading his inmost thoughts.
"No," said he, "Constance did not seem well enough to go out; and, as I am not wanted, I mean to keep my promise with Walter Maynard, and accompany him to witness the fate of his new play, which comes out to-night."
"Constance has not been well," observed her father, " since the fête at Marble Hill: we must not let her go into scenes of such fatigue."
"And yet," said Norbourne, "it is a dull life she often leads. Why, my dear uncle, when I come home late I always find her up in the library, copying your letters—an example, I am sure, to your other secretaries."
"Constance is a creature only fitted to live in the quiet sphere of the affections. She is happier at home than in the midst of gaiety, which is too much for her: but her recent indisposition seems to me rather in the mind."
The open and anxious manner in which Norbourne looked up, was sufficient answer; ​but having made the allusion, his uncle felt he was bound to proceed.
"I know I may speak to you, my dear child, with perfect confidence; but I see clearly that Constance is suffering from an undefined jealousy of Lady Marchmont."
"Lady Marchmont!" exclaimed his nephew, with the most unfeigned surprise.
"Why, coupling your previous acquaintance with your obvious embarrassment at meeting, can you wonder that Constance should fear the renewed influence of one so beautiful, and so fascinating? All I know of Lady Marchmont is charming; but she likes admiration—who does not? and pique is an absolute passion with a woman. She may like to charm a truant lover, were it but to shew him what he has lost."
"My dear uncle," replied Norbourne, after a pause of mingled embarrassment and emotion, "you are completely mistaken. I will tell you the whole truth, and then let the subject be dropped for ever. I was making a summer tour through our country last year, and called ​on a Mrs. Churchill, an old friend, and distant connexion of our family. I was received with great hospitality; and, liking the neighbourhood, accepted her invitation for a more lengthened visit. I soon lingered there from another motive. I became attached to her grandaughter; and Lady Marchmont, just then married, was the intimate friend of Miss Churchill, and was aware of my affection even before its object. I left, bound by no engagement, as I wished to consult my mother. Lady Marchmont considers my conduct most unjust, what, alas! it was to Ethel—Miss Churchill, I mean,—and resents it for her friend's sake. I have made no inquiries—I never shall. The very sorrow I may have inflicted on one woman, will make me doubly anxious to guard it from another. The happiness of Constance is to me the most sacred thing in the world. What, in this case, would you advise me to do?"
Lord Norbourne was silent, for he was touched to the heart: at last his voice became sufficiently steady to reply. "To do nothing: leave it to Constance's own good sense to ​discover how groundless are her apprehensions. No good ever comes of speaking on such a subject. A woman always exaggerates to herself as she talks. Silence is the first step to forgetfulness. One word about Mrs. Churchill: I know that her name is down, in Sir Robert's list of confirmed Jacobites. There is a suspicion of a correspondence carried on by her means with the Court of St. Germains. Whatever happens, she shall find a friend in me. Let me give you the satisfaction of contributing to her security."
Norbourne pressed his uncle's hand, and they parted in silence. The latter remained for a few minutes lost in thought.
"I did it for the best," exclaimed he, half aloud; "and, after all, what is love? I only hope that making an attachment an unhappy one, will not turn out the only receipt for securing its continuance."
He then drew towards the table, and was soon completely absorbed in the perusal of a memorial.
After all, there is nothing like business for ​enabling us to get through our weary existence. The intellect cannot sustain its sunshine flight long; the flagging wing drops to the earth. Pleasure palls, and idleness is
"Many gathered miseries in one name;"
but business gets over the hours without counting them. It may be very tired at the end, still it has brought the day to a close sooner than any thing else.