Helen Bury; or the errors of my early life

Chapter I

" I love the present, but the past Hath such a spell around it east, That oft, from all I hear or see, I turn, dead Time ! to gaze on thee ; And o'er the grave of buried hours Bid Memory strew her pallid flowers." Robert Montgomery. MANY years have passed away since the events occurred which I am about to record. Once, I mingled with the gay and busy world, and manifold temporal duties lay around my path ; now, I abide alone in the world of nature. My cottage home stands beneath the peaceful shelter of stern hiodi hills. In the distance rolls the far off sea, blue and peaceful as the skies above ; i widow, residing at Oxford, and when the first shock of bereavement had passed away, and the first burst of agony had subsided, my poor mother wrote to this lady, simply stating her circumstances, and throwing herself upon her kindness.

Mrs. Selwyn did not answer this letter, but, invalid as she was, came to my mother immediately, remained with her till every matter was arranged, and only returned when her mourning sister-in-law was ready to accompany her. In Oxford, and under my Aunt Selwyn's roof, I first beheld the light of day. As to my surviving parent, she never entirely recovered the shock of her husband's death. She lived for a few years a patient sufferer, and then departed this mortal life in the full assurance of a blessed inheritance, purchased by the merits of that only Saviour, into whose hands she was enabled to commit herself and her fatherless child. I have still a vivid recollection of her gentle face, and her exquisite beauty. I well remember her dark blue eyes, and her marble -like brow, as she bent over me at my hour of evenino- MT FIRST GRIEF. prayer, or when laid in my little bed I waited for the last kiss and the final good night.

Her decline was gradual ; but, at the last, death came suddenly. I have a perfect recollection of leaving her, early one bright summer evening, little deeming that I had kissed her hollow rose-flushed cheek for the last time ; and of returning at sunset, and finding the household in tears, and my mother arrayed in all the calm cold stillness of death. Of course my grief and agony were ex treme, but childish sorrow quickly evapo rates ; though mine certainly endured longer than any one about me supposed. I frequently paid visits, tearful visits, to my mother's room, when every one imagined me to be amusing myself in my own especial apartment ; and, to this day, I love and cherish white roses, because they were her favourite flowers, and because, on that last sad evening, I had plucked a whole handful for her, little thinking that on the following morning those roses would be strewed upon the snowy covering laid over her lifeless remains.

I was not quite five years old, when I thus became entirely an orphan, and thenceforth my kind aunt looked upon me as her own child. Two more years elapsed, during which I wandered unrestrainedly over the house and garden, sometimes learning a lesson in geography, committing to memory a short piece of poetry, or reading a page or two of history ; but my progress in study was slow, and at length it almost ceased to be progress ; the most that could be said for it was, that it was not retrogression. At the age of seven, my aunt engaged a governess to give me daily instruction, but the plan did not succeed. Miss Morris said that I was a very idle child, and not remark ably gifted with ability. She was dismissed, and another, and another lady undertook the charge of Miss Helen Bury, with such indif ferent success, that at length my aunt could not but see that the fault lay not in the in capacity or negligence of the instructors, but in the idleness and inattention of her own darling niece.

It was a severe struggle, as she herself afterwards confessed to me, but real disinterested affection and duty SCHOOL-DAYS. prevailed, and I was sent to a distant school. Never shall I forget my feelings of shame, when I found myself placed in the lowest class, with three other girls not ten years of age, while I was a tall womanly specimen of fourteen. I must say a few words about Brindsley Court and its inhabitants, though it is not my intention to dwell on that uneventful portion of my life. Yet, why do I say un eventful ? for there I met Emily Leicester, the friend who afterwards as a sister clung to me through long days of care and poverty ; who watched with me by the dying couch of all that I held dearest on earth ; who gazed with me on the idolised departed dead ; and who cheered and upheld me in the hour of earth's bitterest anguish, by the blessed certainty of a heavenly Father's love, and the glorious hope of final admission into a world where sorrow can never enter.

But to return to my school-days. Brinds ley Court stood about half a mile from the sea, on the coast of North Devonshire. It was a dilapidated mansion, and had once belonged to a noble Norman family ; but during the civil wars in the time of the Com monwealth, fell into the hands of a Scottish gentleman,who lived there soberly and gravely enough, his puritanical habits forming a strange contrast with the wild and riotous scenes which had been enacted during the residence of former proprietors. At length, Brindsley Court was sold ; and after passing through many hands, it was taken by Mrs. Talbot and her two sisters, the Misses Effingham, for the purpose of esta blishing within its walls a school for young ladies. Of these Christian gentlewomen it may be sufficient to say that, while they con scientiously exerted themselves to instruct their pupils in useful knowledge and elegant acquirements, they laboured diligently to train them up as heirs of eternal life.

Before I had been a fortnight in the house, Emily Leicester became my especial friend. She was two years younger than myself ; a pale, pensive-looking girl, with calm dark eyes, and nearly black hair ; gifted with extraordinary talents, and possessed of acquirements which would have done honour LEAVING SCHOOL. to a person many years older. Nevertheless, the giddy, deficient, idle Helen Bury became the chosen friend and companion of the in dustrious and intellectual Emily Leicester. However, I will pass over my school-days, and proceed at once to the last evening which I spent at Brindsley. I was nineteen years of age, and the morrow was to restore me to my aunt, and also to the outer world, from which the dwellers in our secluded mansion on that quiet Devonshire coast were almost excluded.

I had learned but little during my five years of school-life. I could draw a little, and speak volubly enough a little barbarous French ; in music only was I an adept. My voice was naturally pure and sweet, as well as powerful ; I had spared no pains in its cultivation ; and, consequently, in singing I excelled ; and my fond aunt, and my old Oxford friends, in their delight, almost deemed me a second Billington. The summer vacation being about to com mence, the book-shelves in the schoolroom were empty ; harps and pianofortes silent ; and numerous trunks, ready corded and directed, were standing in the hall. The house was deserted, for it was a glorious evening in June ; and each member of our little society was in the garden. I felt very sad, for I really loved many of my young companions ; and now we were about to part, perhaps for ever.

I stood at the hall-door waiting for Emily Leicester. Like myself, Emily was an orphan, but she had no kind friends in Eng land, and she generally spent the vacation at Brindsley Court, excepting, indeed, when she accompanied me to Oxford. We left the garden, and wandered into a small wood which occupied a part of what had once formed Brindsley Park. Emily, too, was sad. She had to remain at school for some time longer ; and then her relations in Cal cutta would, she feared, require her return to India. For some time we sat watching the sun, as it lighted up the dark waters of the sea before it sank beneath the waves. We did not speak ; and yet we both felt that we had much to say ere the parting hour should arrive. At last, I broke the mournful silence. I saw that the eyes of my dear companion SCHOOL-GIRL FRIENDSHIP. were full of tears ; and I wiped them away, saying, as cheerfully as I could — " Emily, dear Emily, we shall often meet again ; when you leave school, we may even live together ; and even if your friends should recall you to Calcutta, you can return to Europe as soon as you are of age."

"It is foolish and wrong in me to be so sad," replied Emily ; " but I know that I am a very singular person ; my aunt in India always called me a strange child ; and, during my long sojourn here, though my teachers and associates have all been very kind, yet no one except yourself loves me dearly. I do not doubt but that the fault lies entirely with myself; still, I do feel very desolate when I look forward to at least three more years at school, without any friend whom I tenderly love, or who will love me." I replied in the true style of schoolgirl friendship ; said I should never marry, and talked of a delicious Welsh cottage, where, in the enjoyment of our mutual affection, and of every elegance of life, we might spend our lives in imitation of the celebrated ladies of Llangollen. Emily smiled faintly, and said — " You think so now ; but time will change your ideas of happiness.

And now, Helen, love, I want to talk with you about other and more important things. I should be grieved, indeed, if you were to forget me, but still more deeply grieved were you to forget the blessed lessons of truth and piety which both of us have received here." " No, no, dearest Emily," I replied, " I never can forget them ; I will not mingle in the gay world ; do not fear for me, I will not disgrace my Christian profession. I know that strong temptations will beset me, but, in the strength of the Lord, I shall be able to overcome them." " May God indeed give strength to both of us ! " answered Emily, very seriously. I cannot here recount all that my beloved friend said on the solemn subject which she had introduced, but she spoke very earnestly ; I listened, and believed that in the main I acquiesced in her views ; yet I thought her somewhat enthusiastic, and could not help comparing my own cold HEAVENLY TEACHING. feelings with regard to religion, with her fervent and glowing sentiments.

Many of the pupils at Brindsley Court were de cidedly Christian characters, but in none did the influence of Divine grace shine forth so fully and so brightly as in my beloved Emily Leicester. Her friends had sent her at an early age to England, to be educated ; and it was during her long voyage from India, that, unregarded and neglected, she had first learned to love her Bible. The book had belonged to the mother whom she had never known, but to whose memory her young heart clung with an instinctive ten derness. It was by no mortal teaching that this child, young as she was, understood what she read. Hour after hour she spent in gazing on the broad, blue waters of the ocean ; musing the while on the love of the Saviour in coming to die for helpless and sinful men. None had ever spoken to her of the truths of the Gospel ; she had seen much of crime during her short life, and consequently much of sorrow ; but, in her beloved Bible, she read that sin should not always triumph ; and she knew that a rest was prepared for the children of God.

Her first prayer was, that she might be num bered in that blessed family ; and surely her childish lispings were answered. Year after year passed away ; and though subject (as are all the sons and daughters of Adam) to sin and temptation, yet did she, for the most part, walk on her way rejoicing in Him to whom she had committed her soul, and dis playing a lovely consistency of character. The last months of her mortal life were, beyond description, calm and happy. But this is anticipating ; I speak at present of her early life, and of my own. As the evening shadows gathered round us, our conversation became more earnest. Emily spoke of the peace of those who love the law of their God ; she talked, too, of the Christian's trials and conflicts on his road to Zion, and then of the termination of his journey, when, his home reached, he shall rest for ever in the eternal joy of his Lord.

For many years those sweet words dwelt in my memory, though they seemed to me but as a very lovely song. RELIGIOUS DIFFICULTIES. 15 The supper-bell broke up our tete-a-tSte. Slowly and sadly we returned to the house, and that night I lay long awake, pondering my future plans. That I was a converted character, I never for one moment doubted ; for had I not determined to dress plainly, to teach poor children, and to work for them, and above all, to abstain from all worldly amusements, and scenes of fashionable gaiety ? I knew that my aunt held opinions on religion different from my own and Emily's, and I quite expected to meet with opposition ; for, now that my school-dayrs were ended, she evidently wished me to mix very much with society ; but this idea rather gave me pleasure than otherwise, for I felt some degree of pride in the idea that, despite of entreaty, and, perhaps, a little harshness, I should go boldly on in my Christian course.

Alas ! I trusted in myself, and never dreamed of religious difficulties, save those which 1 have mentioned. I never thought of other and far more subtle dangers. Of the nature of Popery I had, of course, been taught something ; but of spiritual peril to myself or others arising from that quarter, I had, as may be readily believed, no idea. Of Tractarianism I had heard nothing ; in deed, its existence was as yet scarcely known, even at Oxford. I had written to my aunt, petitioning for leave to bring my friend Emily home with me ; but to my infinite sorrow and disappointment, my request was refused. The truth was this, my Aunt Selwyn really loved and admired Emily Leicester, but she thought her rather too precise and sombre, and certainly not a little, as she termed it, methodistical ; and she feared her influence at a time when she wished to introduce me to new scenes.

New scenes unquestionably ; but very different to those I had antici pated. The moment of departure at length ar rived ; I bade farewell to Mrs. Talbot and to my companions, with tearful eyes ; but when I pressed Emily to my heart. I felt as though that heart were breaking. She, toe, wept abundantly, but she was more com posed than I, and, after a promise of frequent correspondence, she withdrew herself from my arms, and I entered the carriage which A FIRST EVENING AT HOME. waited for me. I continued to gaze on Emily as she stood between the Misses Effingham, on the lawn before the house, till the windings of the road hid her from my view, and then I gave way to a fresh burst of tears. The day wore on, and the bright green earth was lovely in her summer array. By degrees my bitter sorrow subsided, and I gazed with delight on the rich country through which I passed.

Evening came at length, and I rested for the night at Chip penham, where my aunt's confidential servant awaited me. I was too tired to reflect on my new position, as a young lady of finished education ; and the next day I resumed my homeward journey. It was after noon when the gray towers of Oxford once more broke upon my view : I passed rapidly through the weli-known streets, and in a few minutes my aunt received me, as she ever had done, with the affection of a mother. The apartment which had always been ap propriated to my use was newly furnished for my reception, and I was please'd to be hold on my dressing-table a richly bound •_■ Bible, and a prayer-book splendidly illumi nated after the fashion of the ancient missals. The dark purple velvet which decked this latter book was ornamented by a gold border, with a cross in the centre, and clasps of the same precious metal.

These costly volumes were presents from my aunt, and my eyes sparkled with delight as I hastened to open them, and read my name, as I expected, inscribed on the blank-leaf of each. During the hours which followed, I found, as may readily be believed, many circumstances to communicate to my affectionate relative ; and in the relation of school events, inquiries after home friends, and many allusions to Emily Leicester, the summer evening passed.

Chapter II

" Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Utter' d or unexpress'd ; The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. " Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear ; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near. " O Thou by whom we come to God, The Life, the Truth, the Way, The path of prayer Thyself hast trod, Lord ! teach us how to pray." James Montgomery. THE crimson sunset had faded into dim twilight when Mrs. Selwyn, starting on hearing the clock of an adjacent college strike the hour of ten, desired me, somewhat abruptly, to ring the bell. I rang accord ingly; and James, my aunt's old and digni fied footman, answered the summons. He brought lights ; and, to my infinite surprise and delight, placed on the table a large family Bible and a Book of Common Prayer.

His mistress took her seat at the head of the table, and James, having withdrawn, quickly re-appeared, accompanied by the other domestics. The servants seated them selves at the lower end of the room, aud Mrs. Selwyn read the evening Psalms, as appointed in the Church Liturgy, and then some of the prayers which compose the Evening Service. Yet this domestic service seemed a very heartless form, though the servants made the responses with a considerable degree of solemnity. It would have been difficult to trace the exact cause of the evident coldness and formality which characterised these evening devotions. It was something rather to be felt than expressed ; and, for myself, wearied as I was by my journey, I gave, at the time, very little thought to the matter. That night I slept long and soundly, and only descended on the following day in time to join the family, assembled in the break fast-room for morning prayers, which were st. john's day. 21 similar to those of the preceding night, ex cepting, of course, that the morning ritual was substituted for that of the evening.

My aunt appearedthoughtful, and, I fancied, a little embarrassed. Immediately after breakfast she said — " Now, Helen, we must dress for church." I did not reply ; but, remembering her character and habits as I had last contem plated them, I stood gazing at her, and feel ing almost uncertain whether I had heard her aright. "Yes, my love," she repeated, " for church. To-day is the twenty-fourth of June ; it is dedicated to St. John the Baptist, and com manded by the Church to be kept holy. Make haste, for we have no time to lose." I went to my room, lost in astonishment. I had left my Aunt Selwyn but six months before, immersed in all the gaieties of the aristocratic society of Oxford. She had promised me, moreover, to spend the next winter in town, in order to introduce me to scenes of worldly dissipation, which our own ecclesiastical city could not afford.

On the occasion of my former visit, she had taken me, on the first morning after my arrival, to the milliner's ; and, as to going to church, she certainly then considered one attendance on the Sabbath, with perhaps a little extra devotion in Passion Week, as quite sufficient for any Christian gentlewoman. No wonder that I felt most thoroughly perplexed. " And what," I asked myself, " has worked this mighty change ? Can it be of God ? Has He indeed removed the mist from before the eyes of this dear friend, and shewn her the vanity of all worldly things ? " I was willing to believe that this might be the case ; but yet I could not be quite satisfied that it really was so, for I could not but observe that it was only during the time actually occupied by family devotions that my aunt had ceased to talk on frivolous subjects ; and that, in its general tone, her conversation was as worldly as ever.

In a state, therefore, of decided perplexity, I went downstairs into the hall, where Mrs. Selwyn awaited me, and James stood respectfully in the back ground ready to attend us, and carry our splendid prayer-books. The church which we attended stood a PUSEYISM. little way out of Oxford. I knew that the clergyman, who had read and preached within its hoary walls for thirty years, in a most dronish fashion, had recently departed this life, and that a young minister, highly intel lectual, and, as it was reported, very hand some, had taken his place ; and I was beginning to hope that this gentleman, Mr. St. John Villiers, might indeed be a pastor able and zealous in his Master's work. When we entered the church, I was amazed at the many alterations which had taken place in it during my late absence.

Mr. Villiers had indeed wrought wonders in the exterior and visible parts of the church ; for, since the preceding January, the whole surface of things seemed changed, though many trans formations were still in progress. If the spiritual state of the congregation was in like degree altered (supposing the alteration to be for the better), I felt that the young rector must have made the very best use of his time. The pews had, in many cases, been moved from their former position ; the pulpit had been taken from the top of the centre aisle, and placed on one side of the building ; HELEN BDRY. while a splendid faldstool occupied the place of the old reading-desk. Within the chancel, which was very deep, were placed some antique oaken benches, with curiously carved backs ; and, last of all, the communion-table had disappeared, and a stone altar had been substituted in its stead, bearing upon it two massive and gorgeously gilded candlesticks, furnished with huge unlighted tapers.

Now, in my retirement at Brindsley, I had heard, as I have already observed, nothing of the innovations of Puseyism ; therefore, I only gazed, and wondered, and admired ; for all this was very imposing. Soon the service commenced, and it was chanted and intoned as in cathedrals and the college chapels. There was the same fault in the public celebration of the Church service on this occasion as there had been in my aunt's prayers at home. There was a species of modish ceremony ; an inexpressible frigidity, which 1 in vain endeavoured to believe lay in my own listlessness of spirit. The service over, we quitted the church, but not till my aunt had led me into the south aisle to HERBERT TRAVERS. admire some old monuments which Mr. St. John Villiers had caused to be rescued from obscurity and placed there.

Then we pro ceeded homewards through the meadows ; and I was just going to inquire about the new rector, and his marvellous transforma tions, when we were overtaken by one of the graduates of Christ Church, wTho accosted Mrs. Selwyn as a familiar and valued friend. An introduction, of course, took place ; and my aunt made known to me Mr. Herbert Travers, and explained that I was her niece, Helen Bury. We walked together, con versing on many topics, till we reached home, when Mr. Travers left us, after having accepted from Mrs. Selwyn an invitation to dinner. When he was gone, and my aunt and I were once more alone, I began to inquire respecting the Rev. St. John Villiers. " Mr. Villiers is a most excellent man," replied Mrs. Selwyn ; "he is the leader of the younger portion of the powerful party at Oxford, who are doing their utmost to restore the glory and purity of the Angli can Church.

These church reformers are miscalled a new sect ; but that is incorrect — they have long existed, and, as there is little doubt, have long been secretly at work. But of late their number has wonderfully increased ; the most influential men of the various colleges have joined, and are still joining them. Besides this, the purity of their lives has conveyed such an example, that far and wide the work of renovation is spreading ; and, ere long, we may hope that the Church will be restored." " Restored ?" I answered; " how restored ? Does the Church need restoration ? There are careless and lukewarm ministers in her communion, I know, but surely that does not render either the Church or her services faulty ? " " I can scarcely explain the subject," replied Mrs. Selwyn, " but Mr. Travers will be here this evening, and he will give you the information you desire.

He and some of his friends are often here ; they are such devoted, heavenly-minded men, that I am sure you, Helen, who think so much about religion, will feel the inexpressible benefit of their society." A NOBLE MIND. The conversation was now changed ; and it was not till I was dressing for dinner that I again thought of the restoration of the Church. Certainly, the idea was one that pleased me exceedingly ; I had ever loved novelty, and here was something quite new, — new at least to me, although my aunt pro tested against anything like freshness being stamped on this band of renovators. My curi osity, therefore, was excited ; and, moreover, I had felt much interested about Mr. Travers. Little did I think, as I prepared to descend to the drawing-room, that I was about to meet one who was destined by Providence to influence and control the whole course of my future life.

I hastened down, and found the expected visitor with my aunt. Dinner was soon announced, and if I had been pleased with Mr. Travers before, I was now delighted. " Oh, that Emily were here," I said to myself, " how she would enjoy such a companion ! " Mr. Travers was about twenty-three years of age, in personal appearance singularly noble, and in manner perfectly well-bred ; in fact, he was connected by blood with some of the proudest families of the English nobility. He was heir to a large fortune ; possessed a mind of the highest order, and a power of pleasing, which, when he chose to exert himself, fell little short of fascination. Oh, Herbert ! Herbert ! why did such deadly error obscure the glorious intellect with which God Himself had gifted thee ? Well, there was mercy at last, — those things have since passed away, and, save to myself, they are as though they had never been !

When I speak of Herbert and Emily, all but the sad remembrance that they are no more fades from my memory. Let me now revert to Herbert, as Mr. Travers. He had travelled much on the continent, and had much to say which deeply interested and amused us ; not in the usual pompous and high-flown style of young travellers, but in his own gentle, yet eloquent manner of description. His remarks, too, upon certain places and people, struck me as quite original, and more sensible in matter and in adaptation than anything of the kind which I had ever heard before. When my aunt and I left the dinner table, her first ELOQUENT DESCRIPTIONS. words were — " Now, Helen, is not Mr. Travers all that I described him to be ? " " All ! " I repeated in a tone of enthusiasm ; " far more, aunt ; and you say he often comes here, but I fear he will think me a very ignorant creature ;" and, for the first time in my life, I began privately to deplore my negligence in study, and to devise some means whereby I might, in any degree, improve myself.

Mr. Travers very soon joined us, and we again conversed about the Coliseum, the Appii Forum, Tivoli, and much more of equal interest ; or rather, I should say, that Mrs. Selwyn and her guest conversed, while I listened, and hazarded a remark now and then, only when I felt quite sure that I stood on secure ground. At length, on the occurrence of a pause in the conversation, my aunt took the opportunity of inducing her accomplished visitor to explain, for my benefit, the end and pur pose which his party had in view, in restor ing the ancient ceremonies of the Church. A fine glow passed over Mr. Travers's ex pressive countenance, while he replied — ■ " The matter may be explained in some degree by simply stating that the Church of England, from the time of her separation from the Church of Rome, has gradually suffered much of her venerable ritual and her wholesome discipline to fall into disuse.