“Looking forward, he saw Faithful before him upon his journey.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
A few hours afterwards, as Charles was sitting in his own room, amusing himself with his pencil, he was joined by his tutor, who looked weary and pale, as if suffering from exertion and excitement.
“I hope that you have found out who beat the poor boy so cruelly, and have given him up to justice,” exclaimed Charles.
“The man whom I suspect is in custody,” replied the clergyman, sinking wearily down on a chair. “I find that Mark is asleep; ’tis the best thing for him.”
“Yes, poor fellow, he has been sleeping for the last hour. The surgeon is to call again in the evening. But you look exceedingly tired, dear sir; let me bring you a glass of wine.”
“No, Charles, thank you; it is not wine that I require. I am full of anxious thought, my dear boy.” And he passed his hand across his pale forehead.
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“Anxious thought for Mark?” inquired Charles.
“No; rather anxious thought concerning you.”
“Well, that’s odd,” said the boy, looking at him with a surprised smile; “you seemed pretty easy about me in the morning, and I assure you that I have been most harmlessly employed since you were away, first looking after Mark, and then drawing a plan of a church.”
“Let me see it,” said the clergyman, holding out his hand.
“Oh, it is not finished, so you must make allowance,” replied Charles, looking at his own performance, however, with no dissatisfied air. “I shall very probably make plenty of alterations and improvements, as it will be more than nine years before I can carry out my plans; but I’ve such a glorious design in my head—something that I will do when I come of age and have my own money!”
Charles was too much engrossed with his project to notice the grave, almost sad, expression on the features of his tutor; so he ran on in his animated manner,—
“You know what a long way my village is from the church, and how seldom the clergyman can visit my poor people. Well, I am determined to build a church of my own, a large, handsome church, with the sittings all free; and you shall be the clergyman, my own dear Mr. Ewart, and live in the Castle with me all my life! Do you not approve of my plan?” added the boy, looking into his face with a bright smile.
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“Man proposes, God disposes,” said Mr. Ewart, laying his hand affectionately upon the shoulder of his pupil.
Charles felt disappointed. “I thought that you would have been so much pleased,” cried he; “I am sure that you wish me to try to serve the Lord.”
“Most assuredly,” replied the clergyman; “but the Lord himself will choose out the way in which we are to serve him. Do you remember the young man who came to our Saviour, and asked him what he should do to inherit eternal life?”
“Ah! the one who went away sorrowing, because he had great possessions.”
“I have little doubt,” said Mr. Ewart, “that had he been commanded to build a place of worship, or to give liberal alms, he would at once have willingly complied.”
“But he was told to give up all! Do you know, sir, that it has often struck me that that was a command very hard to obey. I am glad that in these days there is no need for such commands.”
“There is the same need now, Charles, that there was then for a spirit of willing obedience. We may not now be called upon to give up all, but every Christian must be ready to do so. If there is anything on earth on which we fix our hearts, so as to say, I can yield to God anything but this, that thing from that moment is an idol and a snare, and we are breaking the second commandment.”
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Charles was silent for a few moments, thinking over his tutor’s words, till Mr. Ewart began conversation on a different subject.
“You must sometimes have heard speak of an infant brother of your own.”
“Oh yes, little Ernest, who was drowned three days before I was born, whose marble monument I so constantly see in church—a lovely baby, sleeping amongst water-lilies.”
“His monument is there, but not his body.”
“No, poor little one, it never was found. I have heard all about his death many a time: how his careless nurse set him down to crawl on the grass, and was either called away or fell asleep, I forget which, and the poor baby rolled into the river and was lost, nothing of him being recovered but his little hat and plume, which was found floating on the top of the water.”
“That was the story which was told at the time by one who shrank not from adding falsehood to cruelty.”
“And the nurse was half wild with grief, and dared not wait till the return of her master, who had gone to London with my poor mother on account of her health; but she soon ran away, no one knew whither, and never could be traced any more.”
“She fled the place,” said Mr. Ewart, “with a man who became her husband—one who, for his bad conduct, had been dismissed by your father from the office
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 of gamekeeper, with a threat to send him into jail. This wicked man never forgot or forgave the threat, and tempted the wretched woman whom he made his wife to a crime, in order to gratify his revenge. The babe was not drowned, but stolen. After much ill-treatment and cruelty from the unprincipled pair, who brought him up as their own son, his true birth was at length providentially discovered by the clergyman who had baptized him more than twelve years before, from a most singular mark on his shoulder.”
“You cannot mean Mark!” exclaimed Charles, in extreme surprise.
“I do mean Mark; the confession of Ann has confirmed my suspicions. I have not the shadow of a doubt that the boy is your brother.”
It was strange to watch the various emotions fast succeeding one another on the handsome countenance of Charles—astonishment, interest, doubt, pity, succeeded by a grave, inquiring look, as he said, “Then, if Mark be my brother, who is Lord Fontonore?”
“He is, as the eldest son of your late father.”
The face of Charles fell. “Then what am I?” said he.
“Charles Hope; the same as your uncle.”
“And the estate, and the castle, with its fine old hall, and all the pictures, everything that I have so prized and looked on as my own—are they all his?”
“Everything is entailed on the el............