diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 13 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 79389-0.txt | 4687 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 79389-h/79389-h.htm | 4923 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 79389-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 1182329 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 1 |
6 files changed, 9635 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/79389-0.txt b/79389-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d4cce9d --- /dev/null +++ b/79389-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4687 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79389 *** + + + + + THE TWO BROTHERS. + + + BY + + THE AUTHOR OF + + + “THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,” “CLARE ABBEY,” + “THE YOUNG LORD,” + &c., &c. + + + “Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.”--DRYDEN. + + + IN THREE VOLUMES. + + VOL. II. + + + LONDON: + HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, + SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, + 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. + 1858. + + _The Right of Translation is reserved._ + + + + + THE TWO BROTHERS. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + My affections + Are then most humble; I have no ambition + To see a goodlier man. + + THE TEMPEST. + + +It was with some shame that Everard confessed to his father the +following morning what he had done. His own heart was not dissatisfied; +he knew his excuse--but this could not be told. “The temptation was too +great for me,” were his words, “and I gave way.” + +“And what is your purpose now?” was the cold question, not without +bitterness in it. Mr. Vavasour had expected more self-controul; he +remembered _his_ twelve years of concealment, and with shame and +disappointment thought of his son’s weakness. + +“I have disappointed you father, I know,” Everard said, colouring. + +“You have, Everard. But you will disappoint me no more,” added his +father kindly. “My trust is in you, and you must not fail.” + +Everard sighed. “I will not,” he replied, but the tones were less +resolute than was common. His heart was stirred with strange and soft +emotions, and his stoic self was not a pleasing object in his eyes. + +“And what is your purpose now, Everard?” This time the question was more +gently and pityingly asked. Mr. Vavasour could well imagine what his son +felt. It was by no means stoicism that he admired or desired. It was but +conquest. + +“I can do but one thing, can I father? I must go and confess what I said +to Mr. Gresham, and then ... I think ...” he added, a tumult of blood +rushing to his brow, “ask for hope.” + +Mr. Vavasour seemed lost in thought. + +“Father,” Everard said, approaching him, the look of thought and care on +his father’s face giving him sorrow, sharp and keen, “you may trust me. +I will do nothing your son should not do, nothing an honourable nature +should not. Father,” he continued with a warmth strangely different to +the gravity of his usual manner, “do you not know that happiness would +be nothing, that even to win _her_ would be nothing if I disappointed +you.” + +“Thank you, my boy--I believe it,” Mr. Vavasour replied, shading his +eyes with his hand; as if the expression of warm affection, even while +it warmed and animated him, brought pain to his reserved nature. “It was +not doubt of you that kept me silent, Everard. It was this. Are you +strong enough to endure hope? Consider well.” + +It seemed a strange question to Everard, who felt that to be _allowed_ +to hope, would he in itself life and joy. He made no answer. Mr. +Vavasour continued. + +“You do not understand me, Everard. Hear what such hope is from one who +has had experience. If any be allowed by Mr. Gresham it is probable it +will be a distant only and secret one. Such hope is not what poets +paint. It is a care eating into the soul. It is a hope doomed to live +without food; fretted by jealousy, consumed with fear, and in the end, +after long nourishing, after being cherished until it is a part of life, +it may be crushed in a moment of time. I say again consider well before +you undertake to bear it. It requires more strength than you can guess.” + +“_You_ bore it, father?” + +“Yes, Everard, I did. It was crowned with success, and its reward has +been happiness. Had it been crushed it would have been death.” + +He looked in Everard’s face, and saw how ineffectual were his words. No +man, however true he may afterwards find it, will receive such advice +from another’s experience. + +“I see that I speak to the winds,” he said with a faint smile, “and so I +believe it would have been with me. Well, my boy, go, and God bless +you.” + +When he left his father’s room, Everard bent his steps without further +thought to Underwood. He was in a strange, unwonted state of mind. Very +vague, yet very bright, intangible, yet very sweet, were the visions and +the feelings that stirred and animated him. It was as if a veil had +suddenly been lifted from the face of the earth, and without watching +its growth, a full harvest of beauty had been revealed. To many, to +most, this state of feeling comes gradually; many hopes and fears, many +foreshadowings before the reality; but to Everard, to feel himself loved +and chosen, to allow himself to think of, and grasp the thought, was so +new, that it was like plunging into another world, and waking up +another man. All the fretting sorrows of childhood, boyhood, manhood; +all the convictions that none loved, or ever would love and care for him +as they did for Robert, vanished like the cold snow of winter. The +thought gave elasticity to his steps, dignity to his movements, light, +warmth, and beauty to his face. + +He walked fast; stayed not to consider, even when he reached Underwood; +the hope that animated him, made him equal to all encounters; and it was +not till he stood in Mr. Gresham’s presence, and the solemn calm of his +eyes fell upon him, that he awoke from his dreamings, and found himself +in the atmosphere of common life. + +His mood of madness fell from him like a cloak; what romance could +survive beneath that glassy stare. + +Everard sighed; felt and owned his folly, and then, with his usual +straightforward manner, proceeded to unfold his business. + +“I am come to make a confession and a request, Mr. Gresham. I will not +detain you long.” + +With bland politeness Mr. Gresham assured him his time was at his +disposal, and, having so said, he awaited a further communication. + +“In a conversation we once had, I gave you my promise to do my best.... +I promised to avoid as far as possible any expression of my feeling for +Miss Gresham. I know you have trusted to my promise; I felt the trust, +and thank you for it, though at the same time, it made the trial to my +self-control severe. I wish I could tell you that your trust had been +merited. It was so till yesterday, but yesterday I failed. If I tell you +that the temptation was strong, it is what all men say, and all men feel +when they fail. It excuses me in my own eyes, but it may not do so in +yours. All I can do is to confess to you what has passed, and to say +that I am sorry if what I have done gives you pain. + +“You have then, I understand, made a proposal to my daughter for her +hand.” + +“No, indeed, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said colouring; “I have not done so. +I have told her only, that while your wishes remain as they are, I dare +not meet her; dare not, because I cannot depend upon myself. I have +_asked_ nothing; but what I said was certainly a failure in the trust +you reposed in me, and therefore I come to confess it.” + +Mr. Gresham looked up to the ceiling and reflected. When he spoke it was +graciously, and his countenance had resumed its complacency. + +“Upon the whole, Mr. Vavasour, I am satisfied with you, and thank you +for the honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself. I am not +altogether displeased at what has taken place. It is perhaps as well +that matters should be brought to an issue. I shall now speak to my +daughter on this subject, express to her my decided opinion, lay before +her those reasonable objections which cannot fail to convince her, and +the affair is at rest for ever. Allow me once more to thank you, Mr. +Vavasour; and permit me to offer you some refreshment.” + +“No, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, feeling how vain had been his hope, how +improbable hope should be allowed, yet resolved to ask it. “You must let +me say one thing more. My feelings are not changed since the day I spoke +to you; I still think that some worth should win this world’s goods. I +do not care for the goods, and with all my heart I wish they did not +exist; but since they do, and she whom I love and must love is possessed +of them, I allow that something more than I yet possess, is necessary to +win them, I am not going to make any proposal to Miss Gresham; I am not +going to ask any promise on your part or on hers, I would not wish to +bind her or you; but I do ask you to give me a hope that if, at some +future time, by my character or my intellect, or in other ways, I have +proved myself more worthy of her love, you will not altogether condemn +me as you do now.” + +The solemn, reasonable answer came in forcible contrast to Everard’s +words--“My dear Mr. Vavasour, I am distressed beyond measure that you +should have permitted yourself to look upon my daughter in such a light; +you must allow me to remind you, however, that the fault is your own. I +had conceived that I had made my wishes and intentions sufficiently +explicit. I can hardly imagine that a repetition of our former +conversation is necessary. If you will take the trouble to recall what I +then said, I believe you will save me the pain of giving a more decided +negative to your unexpected and undesirable request. I am sorry, Mr. +Vavasour, if I give you pain, but on such subjects, indeed in all +matters, the old proverb holds good--‘Honesty is the best policy.’ And +now let this subject be at rest for ever; this painful conversation +need not be prolonged. Permit me to offer you some refreshment. I should +wish you to present my best respects to your father; of his acquiescence +in my views, I have no doubt.” + +Everard stood irresolute; and when, as a means of marking the +termination of the interview, Mr. Gresham made a third offer of +refreshment, he could scarcely refrain from an angry reply. But, +notwithstanding the utter extinguishment of hope, which the manner of +the latter produced, it was not of himself that Everard was thinking. +His irresolution was caused by his sense of what was due to Angela. To +assure and encourage him, she had made a movement forward; she had done +for him what he could never repay; it would be baseness on his part to +allow himself to be dismissed thus. After thus thinking for a second, he +spoke: + +“Of course, Mr. Gresham, I have nothing to do but to acquiesce in your +decision, and submit to it as I can. Before this matter is ended, +however, I must entreat you to let me see Miss Gresham. It is due to my +honour to allow it, and I think it is due to her. You will find it can +do no harm; trust me, I will say nothing you can disapprove.” + +Mr. Gresham stroked his chin three times, then gave a courteous reply: +“In all possible things, Mr. Vavasour, I am more than willing to gratify +one who bears your name. I do perfectly trust you, and will fetch my +daughter.” He left the room as he ceased. + +Everard’s heart beat with an excitement which was like joy. Restraint, +be it self-imposed or otherwise, is a heavy burthen, and even for one +moment to cast off his chains in Angela’s presence, was a thought of +rapture to him. + +This rapture was of short duration. Mr. Gresham returned with Angela, +and to the consternation of both, closed the door, and resumed his place +at the fire. + +There was no triumph in his look, nothing of curiosity, nothing of ill +will; he remained because it did not occur to him to leave them to +themselves. It was possible an opportunity might arise of expressing to +both together his sentiments, and thus of bringing the untoward +attachment to a more satisfactory conclusion. This could not be lost. In +public, many years before, the business of his own proposal had been +transacted; in public, therefore, his daughter could surely reject a +suitor. + +Angela entered boldly enough. She was resolved, once for all, to let +Everard know the esteem she felt for his character; and though there was +nothing unmaidenly in her air, it was self-possessed and dignified. He +might not be appreciated or accepted by her father, but he should know +that he was appreciated by her. But this loftiness gave way to the +disconcerting circumstances in which she found herself. Beneath her +father’s stare, and Everard’s earnest gaze, her colour rose and her +eyelids drooped, and no bashful young girl of sixteen could have stood +more timidly and shrinkingly before her lover. + +Indignant at having brought her into so awkward a situation, Everard +frowned, and advancing hurriedly towards her, determined to put an end +to the interview at once. “Forgive me for having brought you here,” he +said quickly, “it was not _thus_ I had hoped to speak; but it matters +little. What I have to say needs no concealment. It is but this. If I +had been allowed to love you, I would have loved you with my whole +heart. If I had been allowed to hope, no length of time should have +wearied or daunted me. I would have _made_ myself worthy of you. Since +this cannot be, I am bound to submit, and I will not give you the pain +of listening to regrets for what is inevitable. God bless you, and may +he who is so happy as to win you, love you as I would have done.” + +He grasped her hand, and then simply bowing to Mr. Gresham, walked +rapidly to the door. But there Mr. Gresham arrested him. “One moment, +if you please, Mr. Vavasour.” + +Everard returned with hope springing up in his heart. Angela remained +with her eyes bent to the ground, her colour coming and going, her hands +pressed together. There were words within, only by force kept down; +words of passion; passionate in their feelings for Everard; passionate +in resistance to her father. One thing alone restrained them, the dread +of Everard; of losing his esteem; of offending him who was so strong in +his sense of duty; of seeming unmaidenly in his eyes. Her attitude was +not submissive, yet it looked like it; to her father certainly; perhaps, +also to Everard. + +Thus they stood to hear the address of Mr. Gresham. It was elaborate, +and his two breathless hearers could not from the beginning discern what +the end would be. It opened like an essay. He spoke of the bountiful +gifts of Providence, and man’s responsibility; of the bountiful gifts +profusely showered upon _him_, and _his_ responsibility for them. The +words were true, and, because he felt what he said, even though +elaborate, impressive. He then touched upon moral duties, the +responsibility of fathers, the importance of marriage in the life of a +young female, the dangers of a bad choice, and then the especial +importance of a right choice in his case and his daughter’s. Having laid +his principles on a good and strong foundation he then proceeded to +apply them. “I believe, Mr. Vavasour, I have more than once expressed to +you my esteem for many parts of your character. You will not, therefore, +I hope, accuse me of prejudice or unkindliness if I state further that I +do not consider you fitted to fill that position which I wish, which I +think it proper and becoming for my son to fill. There are outward +talents and accomplishments, graces of mind, and manner, and body, more +precious in the eyes of the world, because more distinguishing, than the +commoner possessions of estimable moral qualities. I should consider +myself deficient in my duty to my daughter, and to my own position, if I +made no account of these graces, and I think it best to tell you frankly +that in these I consider you deficient.” His eye for a moment swept over +Everard’s outward man, and he then proceeded. “When to these +deficiencies we add the want of any honourable position in the world, I +think, in common fairness, you must allow that I do but my simple duty +in opposing your wishes. Forgive me for being explicit. I am very far +from desiring to inflict pain.” + +He had certainly been explicit, and beneath that explicitness Everard +quailed. The sensitive cannot help being sensitive. They may conceal the +pain that words inflict, but the words strike deep. They are born +vulnerable and vulnerable they remain. Robert would have heard Mr. +Gresham’s discourse with pure amusement: any one, strong in +self-respect, would have heard it unmoved. But Everard had no +confidence in his powers to please, and his sensitive spirit was stung. +One glance of hasty and mortified scrutiny he cast upon his own self, +and beneath that glance his muscular frame became clownish in his eyes, +and his large features monstrous. He felt as if indeed his presumption +had been intolerable; his hope of having inspired affection idle; and in +that instant yielding to the promptings of temper, of pride, of vanity, +all which qualities lie more or less hid in sensitiveness, even in the +sensitiveness of the humble; he took his resolution, and spoke with +proud bitterness his farewell. “You have, indeed, Mr. Gresham, made your +meaning clear, and whatever pain it gives, I thank you for it. You may +depend upon it, you will never need to trouble yourself with such +explanations again. You have heard the last of this, and I can only say +I beg your pardon for having taken up so much of your time. Good +morning.” And with a loftiness whose grace Mr. Gresham might have +admired, he bowed to him and Angela, and left the room. + +His speech, his movements had been so rapid, that Angela had not time to +interfere. In very shame of her father’s speech she had still lower +drooped her head and averted her burning cheek; and while she stood +breathless for his answer, determined to speak, yet struggling to +restrain any indecorous burst of feeling, the whole scene was at an end. +The curtain had fallen on the drama, and the door of repentance was +closed. + +Express herself, however, she did. “It is I who am not worthy of him,” +she cried, in a voice tremulous with passion. “If he could feel my +unworthiness as I do, he would have no regret in giving me up.” + +Mr. Gresham was in a slight degree agitated. He saw he had given pain in +the performance of his duty, and was truly sorry for it. He unbuttoned a +button of his waistcoat, to allow his feelings to escape before he +spoke, and when he spoke it was mildly and with kindness. “Young women, +my love, are bad judges in such matters. The world at seventeen presents +a different appearance to that which it presents to experienced eyes. It +becomes those who have experience to watch for those who have not. The +day will come, no distant day, when you will thank me for what I have +done.” + +“_Never_,” cried Angela, with vehemence. “Mr. Everard Vavasour has won +my esteem as much as my love, and that never disappoints. He may not +have outward shows, though I see nothing wanting; but he has a high and +noble nature, and nothing we could give him would bear comparison with +what he would have given me.” + +“So, my love, you think at this moment,” resumed her father with placid +wisdom. “It is the common sentiment of young ladies. The first caprice +in their eyes involves the happiness of life. But I who have been +endowed with some wisdom and experience in worldly matters, am happily +aware of the evanescent nature of youthful romance. I am sincerely +sorry, my love, to have been forced to give you even so much annoyance; +but I repeat it, at a future day you will thank me for having preserved +you from the effects of a hasty and ill-judged attachment.” + +Angela vouchsafed no further answer. Mr. Gresham’s calm common places +had always exercised a singular influence over her; binding her down +with far greater force than violence could have done. To argue with him, +to vent her passion with him, was like fighting with smooth marble. When +he approached her and kissed her brow, partly in real kindness, partly +as a proper termination to the interview, she submitted, and received in +silence his wise admonition to banish the painful subject from her +remembrance. A very lofty step and dignified air as she quitted the +room, was all of opposition she could show to his will, and that was +entirely lost upon him. + +It was well for Angela that her attachment _was_ founded on esteem. It +was well that the fear of lowering herself in the eyes of him who loved +her, acted as a check upon her impulses. The present state of her mind +was not one in which she could well say “Lead me not into temptation,” +for she would indeed have desired to be tempted by Everard to forsake +all those shows of things which stood between her and him, for his sake. +Such undisciplined tempers, such impatient affections, are and must ever +be wrong, and in saner moments even in the eyes of the tempted +themselves, revolting; yet, in Angela’s case, and perhaps in many cases, +there is in them a generosity, a scorn of worldliness, which misleads +the eyes, and blinds the judgment; and evil is done in a seeming excess +of a noble quality. + +Upon the whole, however, Angela was happy. She was assured of that which +she had desired; she had ground for suffering her thoughts to fix, where +without her will they choose to roam; she had not wasted her regard in +a dream of ashes, and the perplexities that accompanied her early +attachment were not very insurmountable to the romantic fancy of +seventeen. + +This romantic fancy had abundant play in dreaming out the next few +months in novel like manner. She in London, and Everard in London. It +seemed next to impossible they should not meet. That he should give her +up, that he should not sometimes be lingering about her door, was not to +be imagined, and in fancy she sometimes drew such vivid pictures of +sudden meeting, that her heart would beat with all the strength of +reality. These dreamings occupied her mind, and when hope is young and +bright, are enough to occupy it. + + “Qui a l’espoir du bien, a déjà le bien de l’espoir.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + Joys, amongst other things + Have wings + And watch their opportunities of flight, + Converting in a moment day to night. + C. HERVEY. + + +The spring lagged wearily on its way to all the characters of this tale. + +To Angela it was unspeakably trying and tedious. Her mind was one whose +ever vivid hopes must inevitably know disappointment, and though a vivid +fancy gives elasticity of disposition, the elasticity wears out with +repeated shocks, and a consequent depression succeeds. She came to +London excited and expectant, but as the spring advanced a vexed and +bitter spirit ensued. Those pictured meetings, that romance of life; +where were they or it to be found? London is a large place, and though +strange and unexpected meetings do certainly occur; as certainly +expected meetings fail to take place. Week after week went by, and +Angela watched from her drawing-room and from her carriage window the +countless passengers that took their way through the thoroughfares of +London; but the one single form on which her eyes longed to rest, was +nowhere to be seen. The mornings began in hope and the evenings closed +in disappointment, and thus as time passed on hope grew faint, and +tedium and disappointment became the prevailing mood of her day. + +“I don’t know how you feel, Aunt Jane,” she one day observed to her aunt +in a permitted visit to Hampstead, “but life seems to me to become more +and more insufferable every day.” Nearly the same words had been said +before, but the spirit was then different. + +“I am sorry you find it so, my love,” replied her placid aunt. “It does +not seem so to me.” + +“Life I also think is very curious,” she continued; “you must not think +that I mean anything wrong, but I must own I think the affairs of men’s +lives are arranged in a very mysterious way. I can understand about the +bad being punished, and the thoughtless tried to make them thoughtful; +and even I can understand that the good may be tried to make them +better; but there are some things that seem to me beyond all +understanding. Don’t interrupt me. I want to state a case to you. A +person who wishes very much, who wishes above all things to be good, and +who meets with a person, so good, so steady, that he could make her so, +and he likes her, and would undertake the work, and she likes him, and +would do all in her power to please him; and yet they are not allowed +to be anything to each other; and meanwhile the person who would be good +if she could, having no one to guide her goes on from bad to worse. Now +don’t you think that that is a curious and mysterious state of things?” + +“I suppose, my love, you mean yourself.” + +“Yes,” said her niece, with a half smile. “You have discovered that, +have you, dear Aunt Jane?” + +“My love, it does seem mysterious; but that word mysterious reminds me +of a hymn I once learned. Stay a moment, and I shall remember it. + + ‘God moves in a mysterious way,’ + +that’s the first line, but I forget that verse. But stay a moment, now +it is coming.... Here are two verses. I think you will like them. + + “‘Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, + The clouds you so much dread + Are big with mercy, and will break + In blessings on your head. + + ‘His purposes will ripen fast, + Unfolding every hour; + The bud may have a bitter taste, + But sweet will be the flower.’” + +Miss Price repeated her poem with unwonted energy, elated to have found +a lost treasure in her memory. + +“The bud has a very bitter taste indeed,” was Angela’s remark, after a +few moments of thought. “Do you really think it will come to be a flower +at last? If I were sure of that I should not mind waiting.” + +“In _some_ way a flower, no doubt, my love.” + +“But I want it only in one way. Oh! Aunt Jane,” she exclaimed, and tears +were in her eyes, “do you think I shall be disappointed all my life?” + +“I trust not, my love. I am sure I trust not. You are very young to +think of disappointment. Try to put it out of your head for the present, +dearest. Try to be content and patient for the present, and enjoy your +many blessings.” + +“My many blessings!” and Angela closed up her lips and tossed her head. + +“Yes, love, surely many.” + +“To be as strong as a horse and as rich as a Jew--do you call those such +great blessings. I don’t; that is, at least, not as I have them. I can +make no use of riches, and as to my strength, it only makes me more able +to be bored. I was made to be a good, honest, hard-working dairy maid, +and it is very hard to be a young lady, cooped up in a close carriage, +with grand clothes and nothing to do.” + +“It seems hard, my love, but no doubt it is for good. Perhaps, dearest, +it is to teach you to be patient.” + +“And that, alas! it does not do. It makes me _im_patient, and cross, and +angry with everybody. I don’t believe even you, Aunt Jane, can guess +what my life is. I have _nobody_ to care for, nobody even to like with +the commonest kind of liking; it is as if papa advertised for false +artificial people, they come to our house so thick and fast. There is +Mrs. Vansittart ... she dines there most weeks. Papa is always holding +her up as a pattern, and _really_ seems to like to talk to her. She is +rouged, and all over jewels, and thinks of nothing but being rich, and +how much she gives for her gowns. What _can_ I care what she gives for +her gowns?... and then there is her son--oh! such a mean-spirited +wretch--thinking he likes me, that is, thinking I think he does, and +supposing that I don’t see every crevice of his shallow heart, and know +it to be full of nothing but pomps and vanities. The only pleasure I +have in life is in teazing him, and making him explain his compliments, +till they look so flat and insipid even he blushes over them. I really +am sometimes positively ashamed when I think of the company we keep.” + +“It is a pity, my love, to speak so. Don’t be angry, dearest, but I +think it a bad habit to be scorning so much. They are God’s creatures as +well as you.” + +“Yes,” said Angela, gravely, “but that is what troubles me most of all. +How come there to be such people? But....” + +She was arrested in her conversation by a quick short knock at the house +door. She paused, and with a startled blush and enquiring eyes looked at +her aunt. + +“That is Mr. Vavasour’s knock,” observed Miss Price, in a more hurried +tone than usual, and with a slight glow of disturbance even on her +impassive face. + +Angela sprang up, and then stood agitated and uncertain, her colour +rapidly changing from red to white. + +“Compose yourself, my love,” said her aunt, “he will say nothing your +father would disapprove. Sit still and receive him like a common +acquaintance. There is nothing to fear.” + +“As if that were possible, or as if I had thought of Papa,” was +Angela’s soliloquy, while her heart beat tumultuously with she knew not +what expectation. + +The house door closed abruptly, and expecting Everard’s immediate +entrance, Angela hurried to the window to still her agitation and arm +herself with dignity. She reached it just in time to see a gentleman +rapidly walk away, the very form for which her eyes had sought so long +in vain. + +She stood looking out without an exclamation, silent and sick at heart, +tears of pride, resentment, and mortification stealing down her cheeks. + +The drawing-room door opened, and the little maid brought to her +expecting mistress, a card on a tray. “The Gentleman hoped you were +quite well, ma’am, and he would not come up to-day.” + +“I hope you said I was in tolerable health,” she replied tranquilly, +though both relieved and disappointed at this termination to her +anxiety. + +“No, ma’am, I only said ‘Yes, Sir.’ He asked first if you was at home, +and I said you was and Miss was here.” + +“Very well, Kitty. That was right. That will do,” and the little maid +disappeared. + +“I feel a little sorry, my love,” observed Miss Price, after waiting +some minutes, in the hope that Angela would speak, “but after all, it is +best as it is, and I am sure he has tried to do what is right,” and she +resumed the work she had laid aside, and began to pick out a false +stitch with care and attention. + +Her niece made no answer to this observation; and when she resumed her +seat near her, it was with a countenance entirely different to any Miss +Price had ever seen before. Her air was haughty, her head drawn up, and +a kind of proud composure seemed to have driven all the glow of youth +from her face. + +“What is the matter, my love?” asked Miss Price, almost as much +astonished at this change in her appearance, as she had been on the +memorable day of her disguise. “You are not offended?” + +“Offended!” she said, coldly, “Oh, no, there is no cause for offence. +Let us speak of something else. Let me look at your work, Aunt Jane.” +And no efforts of her timid aunt could induce her to renew the subject +of Everard’s call. + +She did not think she had deserved such treatment at his hands, and a +feeling of bitter resentment, interspersed in a degree, and at moments, +with admiration of what she called his austere views of duty, took +possession of her mind, and for the time at least swept softer feelings +away. + +Strangely different meanwhile to the austerity she imagined were +Everard’s feelings. The visit to Miss Price had been the impulse of a +moment. At the close of a weary afternoon he had felt a longing to hear +of Angela that could not be resisted, and he had started on his visit +of enquiry without taking time for thought. A like yielding to impulse +had been the retreat. Uncertainty regarding Angela’s reception, distrust +of himself, a cloudiness in his vision regarding what his parting words +had been, how strong, how binding; doubts in short as to what he might, +should, would, could, or ought to do, had made him instinctively draw +back; and yet he had scarcely closed the door of hope before he +regretted with passionate regret the step he had taken, and felt that he +had thrown away the one opportunity of soothing and re-assuring his +mind, which had been offered him. + +This disordered state of feeling was not like the old Everard. His +mother had said that love with him would be a serious thing, and it was +so. His mind had his father’s tenacious and concentrated grasp of +things, but his character was by no means equal to his father’s in +inflexibility. And yet it was not so much his attachment, as its +unsatisfactory termination which had disordered him. However sweet it +be at the moment to yield to the promptings of temper, be it to express +anger, revenge, the bitterness of a wounded spirit, or the mortification +that sinks the soul; the sweetness is confined to the moment of +expression; a sting is left behind which poisons many an hour which +would otherwise have been peaceful. This sting it was which was +destroying Everard’s peace. He knew he had cut himself off from hearing +Angela’s sentiments; he thought he had lowered himself in her eyes; he +knew he had spoken in passion a renunciation of all claims, and how far +those passionate words bound him he was unable to decide. Restless +uncertainty tormented him day and night. + +And there was another torment. He had gone back with redoubled vigour to +his work, but the one single aim which had made his brain calm, and his +spirit strong, was gone. His father’s image was choked and smothered +under a host of bewildering dreams, which set his head on fire. The +sting of Mr. Gresham’s words was smarting yet, and often and often, when +he suffered his eyes to be following his dull page, his fancy was +vaguely pursuing distant ambitious visions, as idle as the vain fancies +of a child. He would awake with a start of scorn and repentance, but the +idle dreams recurred again. + +The trials of Angela and Everard were not trivial; nothing can be +trivial which affects either the daily happiness or the future +well-being of any human creature; but as compared with the deadly +anxiety and sorrow that reigned at Audley Court they were trivial; for +that anxiety involved not a temporal only, but an eternal destiny, and +that sorrow was for one, round whom the intense affections of many years +were twined. The Bible speaks of the mourning for a first-born son, as +of one incomparable in its bitterness; such a sorrow and mourning was in +Robert’s home, consuming the life within. + +Towards the end of January he had written a few lines, expressing his +regret for having failed to perform his promise at Christmas. The letter +was without date, but the post mark was Paris. There was no want of +affection in the letter, nor of regret for having failed, yet there was +constraint in its tone, and the words were hurried and few. Of the +future no mention was made; there was no expression of hope, no promise, +no looking forward to a return; neither was there mention of the +present, of where he was, or what were his occupations or his pleasures. +It was a letter so vague as to cause anxiety, so strange as to cause +fear. The terrors that for a month had been growing up, received a seal +and sanction, and deepened in intensity. There was no more hearkening +for the sound of wheels, or watching for the sight of his face; a cold, +dark, vague dread sat upon each heart, a dread cold and silent as death. + +For none spoke their fears. Life went on more silently perhaps, but the +same as usual. There was less patience on Mr. Vavasour’s brow, but no +words of impatience on his tongue; less cheerfulness in Mrs. Vavasour’s +tone, but no acknowledgment that she had need to be sad; and Hope, more +full of pity, more full of love, more full of ceaseless prayers, went +about her daily tasks and said nothing. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + As on the finger of a throned queen, + The basest jewel will be well esteemed; + So are those errors that in thee are seen, + To truths translated, and for true things deemed. + SHAKESPEARE. + + +Mr. Gresham and his daughter were passing their evening alone. There was +a bright fire in the stately drawing-room, for it was the end of March, +and the March air was sharp and cold; and on each side of it, though at +a considerable distance from each other, the inmates were sitting. Mr. +Gresham was nobly erect, with a lamp at his side, and a newspaper +before him; Angela was on a sofa idly and wearily perusing a novel of +the most trifling kind. Novels at this moment were her chief employment +and solace, and having none to direct her taste, and being dependent on +the caprice or fancy of her bookseller, it was not remarkable that her +hours were spent, in discovering that the books she read were quite +unworthy of the attention of any rational being. + +This night the novel was unusually worthless, and having passed a day +enlivened only by the attendance of her masters, a call from the +daughters of her enemy, Mrs. Vansittart, (young ladies in no degree +favoured with her good graces), and a stately drive in her chariot, +Angela was in a mood to be pleased with anything that arose in the form +of a change or a novelty. + +There was a knock at the door, an arrival, an announcement, and the +entrance of a most unexpected guest. + +“Mr. Vavasour!” exclaimed Angela, with almost a scream of joy. + +“Mr. Vavasour!” said Mr. Gresham, with measured but delighted surprise. + +Robert had in the first moment paused hesitatingly at the door; but at +these warm expressions of pleasure he came forward. How very welcome he +was the most diffident must have perceived, and the shade of doubt and +embarrassment which had at first tinged his countenance, and slackened +his steps, passed away. + +“You must be very much surprised to see me, Mr. Gresham, at such an +hour,” he began. “I know it is a singular time for a call in England; +but I have been living abroad, and there it is fashionable and +customary, and so I hope you will excuse my practising my foreign +manners upon you.” + +“At any time, Mr. Vavasour, at any hour,” Mr. Gresham replied, his words +almost too big for expression, “always welcome; at this moment +especially welcome because so totally unexpected. I have only to regret +that I and my daughter are alone. I have a circle of friends who would +most gratefully receive the pleasure of your acquaintance.” + +“But I came to see _you_, Mr. Gresham, and not your friends. To tell you +the truth, my particular wish is to avoid your friends. I came to your +door last night, but there were lights and carriages, and it all looked +a great deal too grand for me. I was half afraid I should find the same +thing to-night, but fortunately I was mistaken. So here I am.” + +“And most welcome, let me again assure you. Angela, my love, offer Mr. +Vavasour some tea, or some other refreshment, as may be agreeable to +him.” + +“Will you have some tea?” she asked in reply; “it will be here +directly.” + +“Yes, but don’t hurry it. I am in no hurry. I will stay if I may.” And +as Angela now reseated herself in her former place he followed, and +drew a chair close to her side. + +“Well, Miss Gresham,” he began, “how goes the world with you?” + +“Very tediously,” she replied, laughing. “I always hated London, and now +I hate it worse than ever.” + +“That’s right, nothing like a downright opinion. But hate London as you +may, it is good for you to come up. Change is good for man and beast. +There is a moral lesson which you will do well to remember.” + +“Except that I don’t agree to it,” cried Angela, eagerly. “I don’t wish +for change. I wish to be _always_ doing what I like best.” + +“Ah! that’s quite another thing,” said Robert, with a shake of his head, +“and here is an opportunity for a real moral lesson, if I were competent +to give it; but moral lessons are beyond me.” + +“My daughter is extremely attached to Underwood, Mr. Vavasour,” broke +in Mr. Gresham; “and, indeed, to all your neighbourhood. London, with +all its pleasures, has no charms compared with it.” + +Robert’s brow contracted for an instant, and a dark shade passed over +his face, but it was driven away by something darker as he made a light +and playful answer. + +No experienced observer of Robert’s countenance could have failed to +perceive that a change had passed over it during the last few months. He +looked older and more careworn, but at the same time more reckless and +daring. His handsome features nothing could alter, but even they looked +less refined in their beauty. It was as plain as the words of a printed +page, that the dawn which had seemed at hand was overcast, and clouded +by a deeper night. Mr. Gresham, however, was not acute enough to +observe, and Angela was too happy to see him to criticise. + +“Why is your life so tedious?” Robert asked of Angela, lowering his +voice not exactly to a whisper, but to a confidential tone. He did it +not for the question’s sake, but to give a hint to Mr. Gresham. + +The hint was broad, and being sedulous to please his guest, immediately +understood and taken. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Vavasour, being a man +of business, I will make the most of my spare time, and leave you to my +daughter, while I master the news of the day. You will excuse me.” + +“Oh! pray don’t treat me like a stranger, Mr. Gresham,” was very civilly +said; and Mr. Gresham sat down, and devoted himself to his newspaper, or +rather to the contemplation of the pleasant sight that was before his +eyes. + +Without waiting for an answer to his former question, Robert now +addressed another to Angela, in the same tone. “Have you seen any of my +family of late, Miss Gresham? Have you seen Everard?” + +“No,” she said, blushing deeply, “not since January.” + +He saw the blush, and again a slight contraction of brow and darkness of +countenance were visible; but he paid no other heed to what she said. +“Have you heard anything? Have you heard from ... anybody?” + +“I sometimes write to Hope, and then she answers. But I have nothing to +say except to abuse the world, and that you know she does not like to +hear. I always mean to write, and I shall write in a few days, I am +pretty sure.” + +“I shall be very much obliged to you, Miss Gresham, when you do write, +not to say you have seen me.” He lowered his voice still more as he +spoke. + +“Oh, Mr. Vavasour, how very strange! Why do you ask such a thing?” + +“Promise me,” he said, without heeding her. “I really must have you +promise.” + +“And I really can’t,” she replied quickly. “It is a sort of thing I +should not like to do.” + +“Very well, then, you drive me away. I am staying in London alone, and I +thought, perhaps, I might occasionally look in of an evening, and make a +sort of a home of your house; but if you will not do as I ask, you drive +me away.” + +“I am sure,” she cried, warmly, “I should be grieved to do that; but I +must tell you plainly that it sounds to me a bad kind of a thing, and +unless you tell me the reason why you ask it, I will not promise.” + +“I will tell you then; but remember, Miss Gresham, if I confide in you I +will not have what I say repeated. The reason is that I am in debt, and +I do not wish my father to know. It will soon be over, at least I hope +and expect it will, and so I do not wish to give him or myself the pain +of his knowing anything about it. There is my reason; the exact truth. +Now will you do what I ask?” + +“I suppose I must,” she said, reluctantly. “Now you have told me this, +how _can_ I tell? I would not for the whole world.” + +“Thank you.” After a pause, he added, “You are very good not to lecture +me. Most women would make a fine parley over it.” + +“I am not good enough to be a lecturer,” she said, gravely, “but I don’t +like it any the better for that.” + +“You think me a great brute?” he said, earnestly. “Say it out! You can’t +think me a greater than I think myself.” + +“No, no, not that. But, Mr. Vavasour, one thing; will you not write +yourself? You need not say anything about debt you know.” + +“No, I can’t. I don’t wish it to be known that I am in London. I hardly +ever go out, except in the evening.” + +“But only consider how anxious they are. Hope does not say so, but I had +a letter from Mr. Addison one day, and he did.” + +Robert fell into a fit of musing, painful enough, by the look of his +countenance. At last he roused himself, and said, “No, Miss Gresham, I +can’t. If I wrote I must deceive, and I will not be a hypocrite. However +bad I may be I will _never_ be a hypocrite. They must bear anxiety a +short time longer. I hope it will be but a short time, and then....” + +“And then; what ...?” + +“And then an end,” he said, with a faint smile, “and I hope we shall all +be good and happy.” + +Angela looked very thoughtful. + +“Do you hate me?” he inquired, earnestly, looking keenly into her face. + +“No,” she replied, startled; and then, laughing, “Perhaps I ought, but I +cannot say I do.” + +“Then don’t. I may deserve it, but don’t. Don’t judge harshly of things +which you cannot understand.” + +“Well, I won’t.” + +“And may I sometimes look in of an evening?” + +“Certainly, yes, so far as I am concerned. You cannot think how +thankful I was for your appearance to-night. My life sometimes reaches +that point of weariness that I think I shall go mad.” + +“And why? Why is your life so tedious?” + +“The people. If you could but see the people I live with.” + +“I can guess,” he said, laughing, driving away the graver mood that had +been upon him. “Young ladies full of airs, and graces, and love, and +partners; young gentlemen full of airs and graces, jewels, and +themselves; elderly gentlemen without graces, fond of riches and food; +and elderly ladies, mothers and wives to all the rest.” + +“Exactly,” cried Angela laughing also, “those are my friends. Do you +call them pleasant companions?” + +“Certainly not; you should try and get better ones.” + +“But that is what I can’t do. Till I made acquaintance with your family, +I never, or hardly ever, saw any one I liked; and now you have all +spoiled me for _anything_ else. I cannot like common people now.” + +“You are most kind and flattering, Miss Gresham,” said Robert smiling. +“I wish I for one was more worthy of such good compliments. I must make +myself so.” + +The weariness of Angela’s life, and the tediousness of her friends was a +very fertile subject with her. She was never tired of dilating upon it, +and for some time longer she made her confidences to Robert, and +received his full sympathy. The conversation was gay and lively, though +so conducted as not to reach her father’s ears, and when he rose up and +said he must go, Angela felt lighter and happier than she had done for +many a day; she longed only that she might disburden her mind more fully +of the accumulated weight of annoyances, which had been collecting +during many past months. + +Her countenance brightened while she heard her father’s warm invitation +to his guest, begging him to look in upon them again; and listened to +Robert’s ready promise to do so whenever he had an opportunity, and +found them alone; and yet her conscience smote her all the while. + +Mr. Gresham followed Robert to the door, and opened it for him, and +Robert engaged him in conversation, until he had drawn him outside. He +then made a sign to him to follow him a few steps further, and then in a +low and rapid voice addressed him. + +“I don’t want to come to your house, Mr. Gresham, under false pretences, +so I may as well tell you at once the circumstances in which I stand. I +am in debt, and I do not wish my father to know of it, or even to guess +that I am in London. I have just been requesting Miss Gresham not to +mention my visits, or my name, and I must beg of you the same favour. I +hope circumstances may arise to clear me before long, but till that time +comes I am under a cloud I would not come to your house and take +advantage of your kindness in allowing me to associate with your +daughter, without telling you plainly how matters stand with me, and it +is now your province to forbid my return if you choose. I put myself +entirely in your hands, but if you give me leave to come, you must take +the consequences.” + +So much does manner do, that others, besides Mr. Gresham, might have +been taken by the frankness of Robert’s declaration, and the open way in +which he made known his situation, and suggested his designs. Mr. +Gresham was more than taken, he was even overpowered by the honour +Robert did him, in making him the repository of his private +circumstances. + +“I thank you, Mr. Vavasour,” he replied, warmly grasping his hand, “for +the very honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself towards +me on this occasion. I cannot find words to express my sense of it. Let +me assure you that your presence, even under the circumstances you +mention, is welcome, most welcome. I would not be understood to say +that, in general terms, I approve of habits of irregular extravagance; I +am very far from so doing; but I am aware that among young men of +distinction, at certain periods of their lives, such habits are not +uncommon, and ... and ... I believe I know how to make allowances;” and +here, what between his moral principles, and his wish to encourage +Robert, he came to a stand still, and finished his argument by a very +friendly shake of the hand, which was intended to say that he wiped out +the past, and trusted him for the future. + +“Thank you, Mr. Gresham, you are very kind. Then you allow me to come +notwithstanding my present position.” + +“After the very honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself +towards me, my dear Mr. Vavasour, I should not feel myself justified in +refusing my permission to your request. But allow me to add ...” he +stopped and cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon for the suggestion, +but allow me to say that if in any way I can serve you, my means are +such...”--he placed his hands under his coat tails for a moment--“that +to be of service would be at once a convenience and a pleasure. You +understand me, Mr. Vavasour. My doors are open to you. Make such use of +me as you please.” + +A flush passed over Robert’s face--if of gratification and relief, yet +not purely so. “I am very grateful to you for your kind expressions,” he +said, gravely, “though at the same time they make me ashamed of myself. +I will say no more at present. Perhaps a time may come when I shall +remind you of them.” + +“I shall need no reminding,” was the warm and gracious reply, +accompanied by another shake of the hand; and the strange companions +parted. + +Mr. Gresham walked up the stairs elevating his head, as if endeavouring +to catch a distant view of the old towers of Audley Court; and his +chest expanded, and his lips broke into a smile as he passed along. + +Robert put on a great coat, pulled his hat over his brows, and paced +onward with rapid steps as if to escape from the reflections of his own +mind; but the rapid steps were not so available as to drown the sound of +a mingled sigh and groan, which burst from his lips as he left his +destiny behind him. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + Ah! Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind, + I see thy glory like a shooting star + Fall to the base earth from the firmament. + Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west, + Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest. + _Richard the Second._ + + +It was about three weeks after this time that Mr. Addison went one day +to visit a housemaid at Underwood, the same who had been ill the +previous summer, and who was now declining in health. + +The housekeeper at Underwood was a conversible person, who, though well +able to solace herself with the society of her equals, was much +attached to that of her superiors; and having been for some time cut off +from the latter enjoyment, determined to make the most of the +opportunity thrown in her way. She watched Mr. Addison as he left the +housemaid’s room, and then accompanied him down the stairs, along the +passages, and into the garden, giving him some instructions on the best +mode of visiting of the sick as they went along. Mr. Addison, always a +kind and patient listener, suffered her to proceed without interruption; +perhaps, however, only half his intellect followed her words, until +having assured him that she esteemed his visit a privilege, she +surprised him into interest by thus concluding. “And if, sir, a certain +event that is probable should make you as much at home at Underwood as +you now are at Audley Court, your society will be duly appreciated.” + +“Of what event do you speak?” he enquired, his attention caught less by +her words, than by a knowing and confidential look in her face. + +“Why, Sir, it is commonly reported, and I believe with truth, that Mr. +Vavasour is extremely assiduous in his attentions to Miss Gresham, and, +indeed, I am given to understand that matters will soon come to an +arrangement between them. It is hinted, indeed, that Mr. Vavasour is +conducting his courtship with secresy and mystery; but I refuse to +believe such calumnious assertions; for though it is natural to young +gentlemen to conceal their proceedings from the observation of the +vulgar, it is not to be supposed that he would take a step of such +importance, without the sanction of his father and other natural +advisers.” Nevertheless, as she looked in Mr. Addison’s face, she did +begin to believe it possible, and to glory in her prior information. + +Supposing her to speak of Everard, and feeling confident that secresy +and mystery in this matter was as far from Everard as from himself, Mr. +Addison gravely said, “You say truly, Mrs. Stevenson; and considering +how much annoyance you may cause your young mistress by spreading an +idle report, I must advise you to dismiss the subject from your mind, +until better authority confirms it.” + +But Mrs. Stevenson had no intention of dismissing the subject. She told +him, indeed, that she should always esteem it a privilege to be advised +by him; but, she added, that on this occasion, she believed she was +justified in keeping the subject in mind, seeing that in a few days, the +marriage, she had reason to imagine, would be announced, “And as I am +speaking to one of the family,” she continued, “or I should say a friend +of the family, I hope I may be allowed to express my hearty approbation +of the alliance. I should have made no objection to Mr. Everard +Vavasour; when observation told me that that alliance was possible, I +expressed my concurrence to Mr. Cocks in such words as these; ‘wealth is +well matched with family, even when family stands without wealth; for +family is that thing which wealth can never buy;’ but if such was my +feeling with respect to Mr. Everard, what must it be towards Mr. +Vavasour, who has been distinguished by Providence with every +distinction His bounty can bestow? If I were a young lady, nay if I were +a young princess, and every king in Europe was presented to my choice, I +would take Mr. Vavasour by the hand before them all.” + +She paused, more from want of breath than words or matter, and Mr. +Addison seizing the opportunity, after one more grave caution against +the spreading of false reports, wished her good morning, and left her. + +But though he gave his caution as a point of natural duty, conviction of +the truth of what she said had entered his soul. In vain he repeated +that the gossip of a large establishment was to be unheeded; with +strange tenacity the news he had heard laid hold of his imagination, and +as he slowly walked along, his mind was agitated with such feelings of +sorrow and dismay as he had scarcely ever experienced before. + +All his hopes for the earthly happiness, and the immortal souls of the +four young beings, in whom his interests were so deeply rooted, brought +to this untimely end; and whether most to mourn for the injured or the +injurers, he could not at the moment determine. As to Robert, the +revelation of character which this news imparted, was like the rude +rending of a veil, and the exhibition of deformity beneath. Amid all his +faults and excesses, Mr. Addison had hitherto traced, or fancied he +traced, a noble, generous, affectionate nature, strong and noble enough +to struggle at last through all temptations; but what more ignoble, or +ungenerous than the nature exhibited here. He walked home perplexed and +bewildered, and all the night long tossed about haunted by the forms of +coming misery. Robert and Angela! married without love; with boundless +means to feed his vices, and no attachment at home, no loving influence +or strong respect to restrain him; a downward course, an end of misery. +Strong as his love for Robert were the torturing fears that assailed +him. + +Before morning his resolve was taken. He would hasten to London and see +with his own eyes, and decide by his own judgment, if anything could yet +be done to prevent a great evil. He wrote a note to Mr. Vavasour to +apprise him of his departure, simply saying that business called him +away; and was making a few needful arrangements, when another messenger, +sent by Mrs. Vavasour, summoned him to Audley Court, where his presence +was much needed. The blow had fallen by other means. + +With an aching heart Mr. Addison prepared to obey the summons. He was +one of those who seem to live but to help and comfort others, but he had +not the calmness of soul such ministers of comfort usually possess. The +sight of sorrow, the sight of the grief of those he loved, no +reflection, no philosophy, no time, no religion had taught him to +endure. It was the business and the happiness of his life to be able to +comfort, and yet there were times, and this day was one, when his very +soul longed for the hour when there would be no more tears to wipe away. +For one of his disposition a time of trial was at hand. + +On arriving at Audley Court he was shown into Mr. Vavasour’s study, and +there he found the father and mother alone. The very first glance made +him quail and tremble. Mr. Vavasour was sitting, pale, calm, and stern, +his head leaning back on his chair. It was an awful truth that that +single glance revealed. His heart was broken. The time might be longer, +might be shorter, but the fiat had gone forth, the blow was struck; +there was death in his face. + +Mr. Addison quailed as he received the impression, and then hastily +glanced at Mrs. Vavasour, dreading to read a like conviction in her +eyes; but he was in some degree re-assured by her apparent +unconsciousness. Her lids were swollen with tears, but sorrow for her +son and pleading for her son seemed to absorb her. + +“Thank you for coming,” she said, stretching out her hand to him. “We +have great need of you.” + +“You have heard of Robert?” he said in reply. + +“There, take these,” she cried, gathering together some letters that lay +by her husband’s side, “and then give us what hope and comfort you can.” + +“There is neither hope nor comfort to be given,” broke out the stern +voice of Mr. Vavasour. “They have passed from my heart for ever. Yes, +take those,” he continued passionately, “and learn what a son we have +cherished in our bosoms.” + +One letter was from the same old friend, Mr. Perceval, who, on a former +occasion, had written about Robert’s concerns. It enclosed one from Mr. +Low, Mr. Vavasour’s solicitor. + +In this letter Mr. Low informed Mr. Perceval of several particulars +regarding Robert’s conduct, which had come to his knowledge, and asked +his advice about communicating them to Mr. Vavasour. He stated that he +had heard of his arrival in London, and that he was living in obscurity, +moving his lodgings from place to place, and concealing his return from +his acquaintance; that on inquiry, he understood this conduct to be +caused by his having lost large sums of money, and being much harassed +by his debts. The letter went on to say, “The interest I have always +taken in Mr. Robert Vavasour, and my conviction of the truth of what I +have heard, has led me to trouble you on this occasion, though possibly +I might have hesitated to interfere, when not especially called upon to +do so, had it not been that from other circumstances, I believe no time +should be lost in extricating him from his embarrassments.” Mr. Low then +proceeded to inform Mr. Perceval that he had likewise heard, and he +feared with too great truth, that Robert had of late acquired habits of +intemperance, brought on he was convinced by distress of mind, and he +urged upon him, not in the dry style of a solicitor, but as one whose +heart like many others had been warmed and won by Robert’s charms, that +the unfortunate young man should be snatched before it was too late, +from the perilous course on which he had entered. + +As Mr. Addison finished this letter he slowly raised his eyes, and +almost started as he met the keen piercing gaze that was bent upon him +by Mr. Vavasour. He understood it well. He felt what word it was whose +shame and disgrace had struck, like a dagger’s point, into his very +heart. Intemperance! That a Vavasour should thus degrade himself to the +level of the beasts that perish. + +Without a remark, Mr. Addison turned to the second letter. Mr. Low’s was +dated a week backward. Mr. Perceval’s only two days before. He explained +his delay in forwarding the enclosure by the desire he had felt to make +more particular inquiries before such tidings were sent. Finding that +substantially they were correct, he thought it best to let Mr. Vavasour +know the worst without delay. He added, however, that he understood an +improvement in his habits had of late taken place, owing to a pursuit in +which Robert was at present engaged; a pursuit which, if crowned with +success, would, he hoped, not only place him above his difficulties, but +if all that was said of the lady in question was true, would probably +ensure his domestic happiness, and recover him from the error of his +ways. This fact had, he said, been communicated to him in confidence by +his nephew, and he was not, therefore, at liberty to speak more clearly, +but he trusted that the mere mention of these better hopes would, in a +degree, soothe the pain he was forced to cause. + +One word only alleviated the unspeakable sadness Mr. Addison felt in +these tidings; and strange to say it was the very word that seemed to +crush Mr. Vavasour to the earth. Intemperance. What but the mind’s agony +could have driven Robert to a course he abhorred? and if the mind was +capable of suffering so acutely there was the better nature living +still; there was the heart too much opposed to evil, the conscience too +tortured by the sense, of the pain he inflicted, to leave any ground for +despair. As he thus reflected, he remembered Robert’s parting prayer, +and replacing the letters by Mr. Vavasour’s side, he gravely said, + +“Robert must not be condemned on hearsay; his own lips must speak. I +will go to him.” + +“Bless you for that,” cried Mrs. Vavasour, “and,” she continued, taking +up Mr. Perceval’s letter, and pointing to the paragraph respecting +Robert’s marriage, “prove this false or he will break our hearts.” + +“They _are_ broken,” said Mr. Vavasour, sternly. “It is too late.” + +“Not so,” was Mr. Addison’s soothing reply. “God accepts repentance, and +man should never say it is too late.” + +“There are things God’s mercy pardons that man cannot.” + +“Shall man, then, be more just than God?” Mr. Addison asked, solemnly. + +Mr. Vavasour clasped his hands in some mute emotion, but whether it was +a vow or prayer could not be guessed. + +In speaking with Mrs. Vavasour, Mr. Addison found that with instinctive +dread her thoughts had flown to Angela; and since the tidings might at +any moment, either through direct announcement or common gossip, fall on +her ears, he thought it best, before his departure, to mention what he +had heard at Underwood. Mrs. Vavasour wept bitterly, tears she vainly +struggled to repress, but it was for the poor guilty Robert, not for +Everard, that she wept; and who should say her tears were misplaced. Mr. +Vavasour said not one word, but if a cheek that was already pale as +death could be paler, his became so; and if the rigid sternness of his +brow could admit of increase, his became more hard. + +He did not speak during the remainder of the conversation between Mr. +Addison and his wife, neither forbidding nor yet sanctioning the plans +they formed; but when, before he left the room, the question arose +whether Hope should be informed of all that was known and all that was +dreaded, and when Mrs. Vavasour said with tears, “Let us spare her yet; +God may yet shield her innocence from this trial,” he again broke +harshly forth, + +“She shall know all. Not for one hour longer shall she waste her heart +upon a....” + +Some word of fury was on his lips, but with clasped hands he restrained +himself; and bowing his head, he gently and reverently added, “God have +pity upon us all.” + +Even had he deemed it himself advisable, Mr. Addison would not have +attempted to argue with Mr. Vavasour in his present mood. He saw a fixed +determination in his eye, and danger of exciting him if it were +combated; but in truth he saw little to be gained by delay. The bond +between Robert and Hope was already broken, and even should the event +fail to take place, it was not with one of her character that +concealment could be just. He offered himself, therefore, to perform the +task. + +He offered himself to spare Mrs. Vavasour the pain of the recital, and +to spare Hope the agony of Mr. Vavasour’s harsher words. But it was a +task of peculiar difficulty. He had needed no confession to tell him +that a change had come over the affection which subsisted between Hope +and Robert. He had seen Robert more than once struggling with his +feelings, and he had seen in Hope’s eyes the dawn of something, which, +if of earth, had no stain of earthliness about it. He had not needed +what yet he had received, Mrs. Vavasour’s thankful assurance that such +was the case. But though he knew, he had felt instinctively that the tie +between them was too fragile to bear a touch; and though adviser, guide, +and comforter, this touch which was to break, was the first that had +ever ventured near the sacredness of her affection. + +Hope was at work in her sitting room. She looked up as he entered, and +fixing an earnest gaze on his face, saw, or thought she saw, what +brought him; she perceived that the long expected hour was come, when +she must walk with Robert through a dark valley; and with one sinking +and trembling of her heart, she was prepared to meet it. For what else +he had to tell little indeed was she prepared. + +He came to her side and forced her to be seated, and then stooping +tenderly over her, he put the letters into her hand, saying only as he +did so, “There is much to grieve us all; but there are some things which +more especially concern _you_. Dear Miss Linton be prepared,” and he +gave her hand one of those agitated grasps, which tell so much of +sympathy. + +But even then, Hope was not prepared, nor even when she had perused the +letter, did the truth it contained flash on her mind. It was a glance at +Mr. Addison, and a second perusal that brought conviction, and then she +slowly laid it down, and her head bent lower, and a flush of crimson +stole over her cheek, and neck, and brow. + +To a character like Hope’s, the sensations of such a moment had an added +and unspeakable bitterness; for they brought not sorrow only, but +self-knowledge. She had lived from childhood upwards, a life most like +an angel’s, her heart in Heaven, while her business was on earth; +nothing had yet taught her that she too was a child of Adam, compassed +about with earthly passions, and earthly hopes and fears. It was the +iron of the chain entering into her soul, that brought her to feel the +links that bound her. + +Mr. Addison waited long, and then gently laying his hand on her bended +head, said, “God bless you and help you. I know you have need of help.” + +She gave him her hand without looking up or speaking, and he held it +while he told her as briefly as was possible, what more was needful, and +what more she might wish to know. When he had done, perceiving plainly +that at that moment no earthly comforter could speak peace to her +troubled spirit, he again murmured his soft “God bless you,” and left +her to solitude. + +Her first act was a singular one; but it was one which showed how to +her thoughtful nature outward forms were imbued with life. She loosened +from her neck a chain and locket, which Robert had given her the evening +before he left home for college; a token of affection and remembrance +which since then had hung there night and day, loved and cherished; she +held it for a moment and looked at it with an intense gaze, then slowly +crossed the room, folded it in paper, and put it carefully by. When this +was done, she threw herself on her knees, and buried her face in her +hands; not for prayer, not for thought, not for confession, but to throw +under the protection of God, thoughts and emotions, whose startling +violence she knew not how to put into words, and thus mutely to express +her resignation of herself to whatever might befall her. + + And innocence is strong + And an entire simplicity of mind + A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven. + +Gradually the selfishness of her grief passed by, and reproaching +herself, for so long forgetting a parent’s sorrow, she was springing up +to go in search of her aunt, when she was prevented by Mrs. Vavasour’s +entrance. + +She was much agitated, and throwing her arms round Hope’s neck, she wept +bitterly. Those tears she had so desired to conceal from her husband +flowed here without restraint; and the reproaches against Robert, which +she would have died before she had uttered in his presence, fell fast +from her lips in the presence of her he had injured. Mrs. Vavasour was +very human, and even years of self-restraint had failed to overcome the +impetuosity of her feelings. + +It was Hope who recalled her to herself. “Dear Aunt Joan,” she said, +sadly, “who will speak for Robert, if you give him up?” + +“Ah! who indeed,” she replied, composing herself with a pang of +self-reproach. “But it is for your sake, Hope. When I think of you, even +I can hardly forgive.” + +Hope stood by her side with downcast eyes, and a colour coming and +going as rapidly as Angela’s might have done. In many respects human +beings strangely differ one from the other, but some things all feel +alike. However bravely, or however holily borne, the strongest or the +most saintlike know what it is to be forsaken or forgotten. At last she +raised her eyes and said with grave composure. “I think it is very +possible that I may have thought more of Robert’s words than I ought to +have done, or if not that,” for the vividness of those words, and that +scene, flashed before her to check the supposition “that he himself was +too much excited to know all he said, or to remember it as I have +remembered. But be this as it may, dear Aunt Joan, it is not for _us_ to +forsake him. He is sorely tempted, but he will not be lost. He has a +good soul, and that cannot be lost.” She clasped her hands with +passionate fervour, as she spoke her intense conviction regarding him. + +“Will you, indeed, never forsake him or cease to pray for him, Hope?” +her aunt asked, laying her hand on her arm, and looking anxiously in her +face. + +Hope turned away her eyes, for that question brought the conviction +hitherto unrealized, that he would be her charge no longer; that another +might stand nearer to him than she had ever yet done or ever +henceforward could do. It was a conviction of such piercing anguish that +it kept her for a moment silent; but when she answered, it was in the +same grave but tranquil manner in which for his sake she had spoken +before. “I think Robert should never know that there has been a change. +A few months need not wipe out whole years of life. What I have been, +all but a few thoughts, I think I may still be. And now, dear Aunt Joan, +think of me no more, let us think, and hope, and pray for him.” + +Mrs. Vavasour fondly kissed her, and her request was obeyed. Except +from their inner hearts, that portion of their grief seemed to be swept +away. + +Mr. Vavasour did not even mention Robert’s name again. Mr. Low came down +from London at his summons, and with him he entered fully into the +subject, hearing from him all that could be told, and entering with him +into arrangements for the future. But to his wife and Hope he was +absolutely dumb. + +Mrs. Vavasour made no attempt to break his silence. His harsh speeches +wrung her heart, and, for the first time, she had no excuses to bring +forward. Her passionate love for her son was in no degree shaken, but +she recoiled from the past, and trembled for the future, and dared not +palliate, and dared not hope. + +For three days Hope was also silent. She too shrank from his harsh +words, and feared lest the thoughts connected with _her_, should provoke +them anew. But after three days she could bear this silence no longer. +There was a fixed look in his face which made her tremble as she watched +it, a look almost as if he were cursing Robert in his heart. + +On the third day she went to him and put her arms round his neck, and +said, “Uncle Richard, you have not forgiven Robert. I see in your face +that you do not forgive. You must. Oh! Uncle Richard, it is a fearful +thing not to forgive.” + +He looked at her intently, and remained for a time,--it seemed to her +like many minutes,--in profound silence and reflection. Hope +waited--watching and hoping to see a softening in his countenance; but +in vain. There was no change there. + +At last he spoke gravely and solemnly. “I was examining myself, my +child. I would not lightly say that I did forgive. But I can say it now. +I do forgive him.” He paused, then suddenly seizing both her hands, +continued with violent agitation, “And Hope, my child, if it should be +so ordained that I see Robert no more, let him know this; let him never +doubt it; _I forgive him_. He has the full forgiveness of the father +whose heart he has broken, as I hope God will forgive me.” He dropped +her hands, and covered his face for an instant with his own; but after +that instant was calm and rigid as before. + +Hope kissed his brow, and softly thanked him. + +As she was moving away he caught her hand once more and said, “Not till +I am _dead_, Hope, not till I am dead.” + +“Are you ill, dear Uncle Richard--do you feel ill?” she cried, hanging +tearfully over him. + +“My heart is broken,” he said; “God’s will be done.” And he waved his +hand as if desirous to be left to himself. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + Have mercy upon those who err, + They need it more than all; + Lead home each hapless wanderer + And raise up those that fall. + + +When in the middle of the day following his departure from Audley Court, +Mr. Addison arrived in London, he proceeded at once to Everard’s +chambers. Whether or no, Everard could give him the information he +required regarding Robert’s present abode was doubtful. It seemed +impossible, considering that others had heard, and that he was well +acquainted with Robert’s usual associates, that rumours should not have +reached him of his return; and yet--knowing the anxiety felt at Audley +Court, an anxiety corroding the peace and eating into the very springs +of life,--that he should have been aware of it, and yet have concealed +it, seemed more incredible. + +Mr. Addison knocked at his door, and was shewn at once into the room +where he sat alone. Books were around and about him; the very look of +the room betokened study and industry; and yet as Everard raised his +eyes from the page before him, there was an air of lassitude and +weariness in his countenance, which even at a glance arrested Mr. +Addison’s attention. + +On seeing who his visitor was, he sprang up with an exclamation of +pleasure, but it changed almost immediately to one of alarm, and “My +father?” fell fearfully from his lips. + +“Your father is well,” Mr. Addison said quickly, as he shook his hand. +“It is not his health that brings me up.” He stopped, then added +gravely, “He is well, that is, as far as I can tell, in body, but far +from well in mind.” + +Everard fastened his eyes intently upon him, but made no comment on his +speech. + +“Are _you_ well, Everard?” was the next question gravely asked, and with +a searching gaze. + +A flush passed over his face, but he only replied, “Yes, thank you, +quite well, I always am.” + +“Well in mind, as well as in body?” + +“What matters my health,” he said quickly. “Now tell me, Mr. Addison, +why are you come up?” + +“Have you no guess?” + +“I may or may not guess,” he replied, in an impatient manner, “but it +will be useless to imagine my guesses. Tell me why you are come?” + +“Bad news about Robert brings me up. We have heard strange, sad tales. +Did you know of his return, Everard?” + +“Few things are unknown,” Everard said bitterly. “It does not need birds +of the air to bring intelligence.” + +“Have you then known it long?” + +“I said before, Mr. Addison, few things are unknown, and bad news above +all things is not long in making its way.” He spoke in an excited, +restless manner, as if fretted at the questions, and unable to restrain +the bitterness of his mood. + +“Why then have you been silent? Was your father’s anxiety, were your +brother’s body and soul nothing to you?” + +“Who ever made me my brother’s keeper?” was his passionate reply. “What +have I to do with Robert or his doings?” + +“I think I partly understand you, Everard,” Mr. Addison said, in a voice +whose grave gentleness contrasted forcibly with the passionate +bitterness of his companion. “But you have been strangely and sadly +mistaken; God grant our present tidings may not be too late.” + +“You say you understand, Mr. Addison, but you do _not_ understand. You +seem to have no feeling for me. It is but little love I have as it is, +and was it for me to come with my unwelcome words, like a bird of bad +omen, and condemn my brother. I say again, what have I to do with +Robert’s doings? He does not consult me, he does not make them known to +me; it is not for me to go about prying into his concerns. If men had +not such delight in reporting what gives pain, I should have known no +more than you. And I say it now, and let it be remembered,” he continued +with vehemence, “I will _not_ be a spy; let Robert do what he pleases, I +will _not_ be answerable for his doings. We have not had much in common +for many years, and henceforward the tie may be altogether broken for +what I care.” + +His voice was harsh, and his face crimson with passion as he spoke. + +“You say I do not pity you, Everard,” was the kind and soothing answer +of his companion, as he laid his hand upon his arm. “I do pity you from +my heart, because I believe _your_ heart is sorely tried. Do not be +afraid or ashamed to confess it to me. You do feel your burden almost +greater than you can bear.” + +Tears were in Everard’s eyes, and a choking feeling in his throat; the +bitter passion of the moment had melted before the kind words of his old +friend, and the next instant he was seated with his face buried in his +hands, vainly struggling with feelings that overmastered him. + +Mr. Addison turned away without an attempt to restrain him. He had +traced the signs of perhaps long pent up jealousy in his words, and he +was well pleased that, through the indulgence of even womanly tears, +Everard should be restored to himself. + +He did not hope in vain. He was still gazing sadly out into the dull +street, when Everard came to him and asked his forgiveness. “Not for +_that_,” he said, meaning by that inexpressible thing, the tears of +which men are so strangely ashamed, “but for my wicked words, and, if +you knew them, still more wicked thoughts. How you must hate me.” + +“Far from it, dear Everard,” he replied, with a kind smile. “I know what +you feel too well. You are suffering a great trial, undergoing a great +temptation; but remember, Everard, temptations are to be conquered. If +all be true that is said to be true, strong temptation is before you. +Dear Everard prepare yourself for it. I will say no more on this point +now, for it may be averted. But, be it as it may, rest assured your +trial is not undervalued or forgotten. God bless and strengthen you.” He +paused a moment, and then went on. “I must see Robert; can you tell me +where I shall find him?” + +“Not to-day,” Everard replied, “he left his lodgings two days ago, and I +have not yet heard where he has placed himself. But you shall hear from +me to-night; and the delay will not matter. Your best time will be +before he is up. Poor Robert!” he added, an expression of thought and +affection softening his countenance. + +“If you can say that, Everard,” said Mr. Addison with pleasure, “all is +right with you.” + +Everard coloured, and made no answer, and a moment after began hurriedly +to speak of Audley Court, asking briefly how the present news had been +received and borne by his parents, omitting all mention of Hope, and +then going backward to such small events as had occurred since he left +it; dwelling on these minutely and thankfully, as if, like his father, +he found repose in banishing his feelings into the recesses of his +heart. + +Late in the evening he went to the hotel where Mr. Addison was staying, +with Robert’s present direction. It was in Poland-street. When asked by +what means he had obtained it, he said there was now no difficulty. +Robert, of late, had grown careless, “or else,” he added, colouring, +“there is no longer the same necessity for secrecy.” + +Soon after ten the following morning Mr. Addison went to Robert’s +lodgings. On enquiring for Mr. Vavasour he was told shortly that he was +not yet up. He desired that his name might be taken to him, and wrote on +a card a request to see him for a few minutes, adding that he was in no +hurry, and would wait until Mr. Vavasour was ready. There was some demur +about carrying the message, but finally it was taken, and after nearly +ten minutes of expectation he was desired to walk up. Thankful in any +way to have procured admission, he went on with a lighter heart than he +had brought with him. + +Robert’s rooms were on the third floor. The sitting-room into which Mr. +Addison was shown was not such as he could have imagined Robert’s +fastidious tastes and habits would have found it possible to endure. +There was the closeness, the shabbiness, the darkness, the indescribable +offensiveness of a third or fourth rate lodging in London. On reaching +it, Mr. Addison sat down, and having said he was in no hurry, was +prepared for a long waiting. But he was mistaken. + +In three or four minutes a small door opened, and Robert appeared in his +dressing gown. He came in boldly, and said with an off-hand manner, “You +in London, Mr. Addison, that is quite an unexpected pleasure.” + +“Yes, Robert,” he replied, simply and gravely, “I came up to see you.” + +In spite of his seeming determination to carry off his embarrassment +under a show of ease and frankness, Robert coloured. He walked to the +window and flung it open, observing that the “odour of the room was not +of the pleasantest,” and then, throwing himself into a chair near enough +to breathe the fresh air, he said, “Well, Mr. Addison, I am sure I am +very much obliged to you. What can I do for you? What do you want with +me?” + +During his restless movements Mr. Addison had been studying his air and +countenance, endeavouring to discover how much of the better nature +survived amid the complication of evil that was closing about him. His +survey was painful, and yet was not such as to extinguish hope. He +fancied that even if the fact had not been mentioned he should have +detected the effect of dissipated and intemperate habits on his +countenance, a something not to be mistaken obscuring the clearness and +beauty of his features and expression; but painful as was the change, +still, in countenance, in manner, in the very tone of his voice, it was +evident that he was not at ease. Conscience was far, very far, from +being laid to sleep. This conviction gave him hope, it made him bold. + +“I am come,” he said, gently, “in answer to a petition of yours. Do you +remember, Robert, your last departure from home. You then desired me to +stand your friend, not to judge you harshly, or lightly give you up. I +have not forgotten, and, therefore, Robert, I am here.” + +“Thanks then for that,” Robert said, in an unsteady voice; very +evidently touched, though at the same time as evidently determined not +to be so. “It is not often in this world that men remember their +promises. But Mr. Addison, since you are come, we had better proceed to +business. What have you got to say against me? What awful tales has that +scoundrel rumour been telling? Out with it at once, pray, and do not +keep me in suspense longer than is needful.” + +“Rumour has said much, Robert,” said Mr. Addison, sadly; “so much, that +I confess it is with an effort that I do _not_ judge you harshly. But no +man should be condemned on rumour. Read these, and God grant you may be +able to disprove what is said.” + +He put into his hand the letters Mr. Vavasour had received, and turning +away while he read them, stood silently leaning against the window. + +He was left but a few minutes to meditation; the letters were thrown +upon the floor, and rising and stamping with his foot, Robert said, +“_True_, Mr. Addison, every word _true_.” + +Mr. Addison turned pale and sat down; he had not known how much of +disbelief had yet clung to his imagination. + +Robert also sat down, and, after the momentary excitement, crossed his +arms with a resolved air. He waited apparently for his companion to +speak. Since nothing was said, he at last observed, “Well, Mr. Addison, +now is your time. Condemn me as harshly as you please. I am at your +mercy.” + +“Condemnation was not what brought me here,” he said, sadly. “Your own +conscience must do that. But if you wish to be condemned, if your +conscience does not yet speak loud enough, think of the picture your +home must have presented when those letters were received. Picture it, I +repeat. Fancy cannot go beyond the truth of the sorrow, the agony I +saw.” + +“You say true, Mr. Addison,” Robert said, and sighed. “My conscience is +not hard enough yet to think of that.” He paused a moment, and then +asked suddenly, “What did Hope say?” + +“She said little. I may say she said nothing. She read the letters, and +said not a word.” + +“Poor angel!” Robert said softly, putting his hand over his eyes, and +for a moment his countenance was touched by an expression of +indescribable tenderness. + +Mr. Addison remained silent, fearing to weaken by one syllable the +natural workings of his feelings. + +The silence lasted for a minute or so; Robert then said, “I suppose +they all know then that I am going to be married.” + +“So much we gathered from that letter; the rest I heard at Underwood. Is +it true, Robert? Are you indeed engaged to Miss Gresham?” + +“What have you to say against it?” Robert asked, sharply. + +“Two things,” was the grave reply; “you do not love her, and your +brother does.” + +Robert coloured violently. “As for that matter,” he cried, “I cannot see +that it is any affair of mine. I suppose every lady is at liberty to be +married when she pleases, and other men’s fancies are not to forbid the +banns?” + +“True; but every man, every generous man at least, restrains his wishes +where a brother is concerned.” + +“I know nothing of Everard, or his fancies,” Robert said, hastily. “He +has never consulted or confided in me. If there were no objection but +_that_, my conscience would sleep very peaceably.” + +“There are others then? Oh! Robert, I guessed as much.” + +“Not very hard to guess,” he said, scornfully. “I have loved another all +my life, and I have told her so. There, I confess it, there is the +sting; but some things _must_ be done, and this must. Poor Hope,” he +said again, again putting his hand over his eyes. “What must she think +of me!” + +“Dear Robert,” Mr. Addison said, approaching him, and laying his hand +upon him, “be yourself; cast off the madness that misleads you, and +return and be forgiven.” + +“I cannot,” he cried, with strong agitation. “Mr. Addison, I dare not. I +cannot meet my father again. Not for worlds would I ask him again to +forgive me. You know I love my mother; you know I love Hope; I tell you +I think no more of the pain I give them, compared to my father’s anger, +than I care for that stone. He is a severe and inexorable judge, and +before his judgment seat I never again will stand. Do not urge me, it +will be utterly in vain.” + +“Are you mad, Robert? What has your father done that you should think so +hardly of him? Is it for this that you rush into temptation and misery? +Be warned, Robert; retract, repent, it is not too late.” + +“You speak like a child, Mr. Addison. Repentance again--_my_ repentance. +I tell you I studied my father’s face. I read in it that I was forgiven +once more, and but once. He has no longer the power to forgive; he +scorns me, and I will not be scorned. I will be free. And he is right,” +he continued with vehemence, “he is right to scorn, and right to forgive +no more. If I were a father, and if I had such a son, _I_ would not +forgive. Repentance! what is repentance worth--_my_ repentance. I should +but mock my father to go again with my repentance to him. Henceforward I +will be free.” + +A silence followed Robert’s excited speech; it was broken by Mr. +Addison’s saying solemnly, + +“And when he came to himself he said, ‘How many hired servants of my +father have bread enough, and to spare, while I perish with hunger. I +will arise and go to my father.’ So Robert, in your freedom you may +feel, and it may be too late. There is no repentance for the grave where +_he_ is hastening.” + +“Is my father ill?” Robert asked with sudden terror. “Tell me true, Mr. +Addison, is my father ill?” + +“It may be fancy, Robert--it may be only my fancy,--I will not say that +it is more,--but as I last looked in your father’s face I felt that the +days of mourning for him were at hand.” + +“You must write to him, Mr. Addison,” Robert said, agitatedly, “write to +him this very day and tell him that I grieve to offend him, tell him +that I have had the torments of hell in my heart, and that I love him +still. Will you write what I tell you?” he asked excitedly. + +“I will, dear Robert, I will. May I say more?” + +“No, Mr. Addison,” he replied mournfully. “I do repent. God knows I do +repent. But I have gone too far to turn back. What my future life will +be who can tell--I care not.” + +“Are you engaged to Miss Gresham, Robert? Is the deed done?” + +“To her father, I am; to her, I shall be, perhaps to-night, perhaps +to-morrow. I had it all out with him yesterday. He is a generous old +fool, and he will make me as happy as I can be. I have done it with my +eyes open, and I must take the consequences.” + +“And she--does she love you, Robert? and do you intend to make her +happy?” + +“Happy, oh, yes! extremely happy. As to her feelings, I suppose they +are much like mine. We do not talk much of feelings. I must have one +bout of it I suppose, and I will tell her what I feel. I like her well +enough, and she likes me. We have more love between us than many +marriages can shew. Let us have done, Mr. Addison. I thank you for +coming, more than perhaps I seem to do. You would have saved me from +misery, and though you have failed, I can say God bless you for it. Now, +good bye. Remember my words to my father, and tell my mother and Hope +that I love them still.” He held out his hand. + +“Would that I also could say God bless you, Robert,” said Mr. Addison, +as he took it, “but how can His blessing rest upon your wilful way. If I +have not spoken to you of your grievous offences in the sight of God, it +is not that I do not tremble for you; but he that fears not the father +whom he has seen, how will he fear the Father whom he has not seen. +Farewell! may His mercy avert from you the miseries I dread.” He +grasped his hand with an earnest and affectionate pressure, and, +unrecalled by Robert, departed. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + And as a bird each fond endearment tries + To tempt his new fledged offspring to the skies. + He tried each art, reproved each dull delay; + Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. + GOLDSMITH. + + +To fits of despondence the best of men are subject. Of all failures, and +the very word failure has a sinking of the heart in it, the failure of +an attempt to recover the erring is, and from all that depends on it, +must be, the most bitter. Who can ever be satisfied that their efforts +have been strong enough, their arguments forcible enough, their words, +words in season. Failure is often an appointed trial, a trial sent from +Heaven; but man cannot know when such is the case, and the best and +humblest are the least able to take to themselves that thought for +consolation. + +Perplexed, desponding, and troubled in spirit, Mr. Addison slowly paced +along the streets. He had failed, entirely failed, and from the future +that lay before those he loved so much, his very soul shrank backward. +Death, and misery, and separations, and strange unnatural troubles, +cutting at the root of all domestic peace. + +It was not till he had walked a considerable way, unconscious where he +went, that he thought of Angela. Of what her feelings might be, of the +present trials that might be assailing _her_. The thought came like a +flash of light. It was a something yet to be done, and action is +cheering. + +He turned his steps towards Portland Place, walking slowly, and +meditating as he went. He was not one lightly to interfere in a +family’s concerns. In his eyes his appointed office was, to be ever +ready to advise and help, but not so forward, as to stand before or +between the natural and holy links which the ties of nature bind. He did +not, therefore, feel at liberty to enter uninvited with Angela, on the +question of her marriage with Robert, nor to excite, if it did not +already exist, opposition on the subject between the father and +daughter. + +But it appeared to him as more than possible, that she might be in need +of help, in need of a guide in thinking rightly, of support in acting +justly. As he considered her character the probability of this view of +the subject increased in strength. He remembered how, in spite of all +her independence and strength of opinion, circumstances ever appeared to +sway her to their will; how incapable she seemed of bettering her +condition, or of improving the tone of the society in which she lived; +how weak she was in action when her actions were compared with her +words. No one who studied Angela’s character could have failed to +perceive this inconsistency and peculiarity; and as Mr. Addison now +recalled a thousand trifles in which her slavery to circumstances and +her impulsive yielding to excitement had been revealed; he began to +blame his dilatoriness in considering her share in these transactions; +and to be visited with strange terror, lest she should be driven by the +mere pressure of a moment, into a marriage with one brother, while her +heart was all another’s. + +The terror of this thought, when once fully realised, quickened his +steps, and led him agitated and eager to Mr. Gresham’s door. + +His first enquiry was for Mr. Gresham; he had sufficient confidence in +the truthfulness of Mr. Gresham’s disposition, to entertain a hope of +making an impression, even on him; but Mr. Gresham was out. Miss +Gresham was at home, and he was admitted at once. + +He was shewn into one of the large drawing-rooms, and there sat down to +wait. His mind was too much pre-occupied to notice, far less to admire +the splendour that was about him, and Mr. Gresham would have been as +much astonished as displeased, had he seen him seat himself without a +glance around. + +It was not long before Angela joined him, but there was nothing of her +usual haste and eagerness in her air. She entered slowly, and her +greeting was not without formality. He looked in her face, and saw it +changed. The varied play and animation of her countenance, was for the +moment at least gone, and was replaced by a gravity too little suited to +her features to sit naturally or pleasantly upon them. It was plain she +was acting a part, but wherefore he could not imagine. + +“I did not know you were in London, Mr. Addison,” she began, as she +seated herself. “When did you come?” + +“Only yesterday; and I go back, a part of the way, at least to-day. I +would not go without an attempt to see you. I am glad to find you at +home.” + +“Thank you for coming. I am very seldom out, for I have no where I care +to go to. How are they all at Audley Court? I have not heard from Hope +for ages; nor written to her, to say the truth. How is she?” + +Hope’s name was spoken without embarrassment. It was evident, that to +her, at least, Hope appeared in no other light, than as Robert’s devoted +sister. + +“I left her well,” he replied, gravely, yet relieved by her +unconsciousness on that point. + +“I suppose she is as good, and doing as much good as ever. Oh! how good +she is!” and Angela suddenly lost her formal manner and sighed like her +own self. + +“She is indeed,” he replied, anxious to follow her lead, and to win her +to converse without restraint. “She has a very peculiar character. She +always reminds me of the words of the old writer, Fuller, about Lady +Jane Grey. ‘She had the innocency of childhood, the beauty of youth, the +solidity of middle, the gravity of old age, and all at eighteen.’” + +“Yes, that is exactly like her,” Angela said smiling. She then relapsed +into thought, and after a little reflection, added, “It is something so +far beyond the goodness of common people, that I feel it is no use for a +common person to try to be like her.” + +“I am sorry you say so, her character may be unlike ours, but her +goodness, though we may not attain to it, is only what we all should +_try_ to attain.” + +“_We!_” Angela said, with something of scorn, “you may be as good as +you please, Mr. Addison, I cannot.” + +“Why?” he asked with interest. + +“Because I cannot,” she replied, with momentary passion, and then drew +herself up, and was silent. + +“I think you mistake,” he said gravely, “no temptation ever assails us +but there is a way of escape.” + +She gave him a quick glance, but only shook her head, and said no more. + +“Have you read any of the books I gave you?” he asked, after a short +silence, and asked it in a quiet friendly way, anxious only to make her +feel he _was_ a friend. + +“Yes I have, indeed,” she replied readily, “I have never forgotten what +you advised me. I read a little bit every day, and I like it. That one +right thing I do.” + +“That is good,” he said, with a slight kind smile; then, after a +moment’s consideration, added, “And do you try to follow the advice +given you! To read is good, but it will not be good unless we try to +practise what we know.” + +“And that I do not,” she replied sadly. + +“But why, Miss Gresham? I only say _try_. Dear Miss Gresham, surely you +try?” + +“No, I do not. I have given up trying. Things may go just as they +please. I shall try to be good no more.” + +“That is a fearful thing to say,” he said, with a seriousness that +startled her. + +Tears came into her eyes, and she added quickly, “Perhaps I do not quite +mean that. I only mean that I am very bad now, and that I see no hope of +ever being better.” + +“You seem unhappy,” he asked kindly. + +“Not very happy, certainly, but it does not matter. I never was happy, +and I see I never shall be--but it does not matter. Nothing matters in +this world, I think.” + +“I differ from you there, Miss Gresham. I am an old man, and you are +young, and I can tell you from experience that a long life of sorrow is +a trying thing. No habit makes it bearable, and nothing but the grace of +God can lead a man safely through its temptations and its pains.” He +spoke solemnly, alarmed at the mood in which he found her. + +“I suppose you are right,” she replied, the tears that had sprung into +her eyes falling on her cheeks, “but one grows reckless.” + +“Reckless--from what?” He had intended not to question, but the +circumstances forced the enquiry from him. + +“No matter. I cannot tell you.” + +After this answer, she again drew herself up, and remained silent. So +did Mr. Addison. When next he spoke it was to get up, and wish her +good-bye. “I must leave you now,” he said, with his grave kindness, “for +I have not much time to spare for visits to-day. Only, dear Miss +Gresham, before I go, let me remind you that if ever you are in want of +help or advice you will find a willing friend and adviser in me; and +remember also that man is responsible for all his actions, and for none +more so than for going into temptation with his eyes open. Now +good-bye,” and he held out his hand to her. + +She did not take it. “Did you come up to London to see me?” she asked +with sudden agitation. + +“No. My _business_ was with another.” + +“With whom?” + +“With Robert Vavasour,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation. + +“You know then that he is in London? You have seen him?” + +“Yes,” he said, sadly, “we all know now of his return.” + +Angela paused a moment, then averting her eyes, while a torrent of blood +crimsoned her cheeks, and even the very tips of her fingers, asked, +“Have you heard anything about me?” + +“Certainly, rumours have reached me that concern you.” + +“And what--what do you think of me?” + +“Nay, Miss Gresham,” he replied, “it is not for me to judge of this +matter. Your own heart only can decide whether such a step is justified +or not.” + +“I don’t know what justified means,” she said, agitatedly. “There is no +help. Did I not truly say that it was in vain for me to hope to be +better than I am. Things must take their chance. I have no power to +fight against them.” + +“You speak as if you were the sport of the winds. Forgive me for saying +so, but it is a childish form of speech. We are all free. You are free +in this matter, as in every other, if you will.” + +“I am not free,” she said, passionately, “and when you know all you will +say so. Let me tell you how it stands. Mr. Vavasour came here some weeks +ago _in secret_. He told me it was in secret, and I agreed to let it be +so. There was my first folly; but my life is so weary, so dull, so cold, +so joyless, and at that time I was so miserable, so without hope, that I +could not give up the pleasure of having him come, for it was a pleasure +in its way. And then he came and came again, and again, and it made me +happier, and I never thought why he came; and then at last I did see why +he came, and _then_ I know I ought to have drawn back, and shown him +that I did not wish for _that_; but I did not do what I ought, I never +do. I don’t know what came over me, I don’t know how I could behave as I +did; but though I saw, and though I did not, and never could, care for +him, I went on in the same way, and told him all my griefs, and let him +amuse me as before. And so it went on; and now he has spoken to papa, +and papa has spoken to me, and it is all settled between them. I told +papa what I felt. I told him it must not, should not, ought not to be; +but he answers me I should have thought of that before; and I should; +he is right there. And so it is over now. Yesterday I was mad, but +to-day I have given up speaking, and given up caring. Let them do with +me as they please. When one is miserable it matters very little what +happens, and I submit.” She paused in her hurried narrative, and looked +up in his face. It was the intent grave gaze that was fastened on her +that drew her to gaze in return. As she met his looks she sat down and +buried her face in her hands. “I know what you mean,” she said, in a +broken voice, “but that is all past. Papa says with his consent it +never, never shall be, and I know,” and there was a moment’s proud +bitterness in her speech, “that without his consent it will not even be +desired; and so life is altogether miserable, and I hardly care what +becomes of me.” + +“But after all you have said,” Mr. Addison at length replied in a voice +so calm and grave, that it awed her into stillness, “a right and a +wrong way remains. You may have been wrong in the past, you may be +miserable in the present, but such considerations are not serious enough +to affect the solemnity of your present decision. If there is nothing in +your heart or conscience to forbid this union, do not think I would urge +you to oppose your father’s wishes; but if there is, let nothing, not +even obedience to him, tempt you to consent to it.” + +“There is,” she murmured. + +“If it be so, then, dear Miss Gresham, pause and consider. Marriage is a +solemn thing, dare not to trifle with it. Think of the moment when you +will stand to take your vows in the presence of God; vows which may lead +you, and not you only, into temptations, unguessed, unknown, above your +strength to bear.” + +“Oh! Mr. Addison, what must you think of me?” Angela exclaimed, bending +her head over the table and bursting into tears. + +“Not very harshly,” he said, gently touching her bright hair with his +hand, “only as one weak and tempted, and too much blinded by +disappointment and excitement, to remember that for all these things God +will bring you into judgment. But you are awake now,” he added. + +“Yes; yes; I see it all too terribly clear. I have, indeed, been mad. +Oh! Mr. Addison, will you save me? Will you say to my father what you +have said to me? Will you?--can you?” + +“I could, and I would,” he replied, kindly, “if I thought it right. If +you were as some are, too weak to save yourself, I would try to save +you. But you know you have strength if you choose to exert it; and +considering all things, considering how you have up to this moment +acted, it seems most just, most fitting, most dutiful to your father +that you should now act for yourself. Take courage. Speak to him, not +with childish impetuosity, but with the thought and the principle a +woman and a responsible being should have. I think he will hear you. If +not, if you have difficulties, then write to me. I must hasten back +to-day to Audley Court, for I left them all in much trouble, but a word +from you will bring me up again; and remember that it is not my wish +only, but my bounden duty to help you.” + +“I will try,” she said, humbly. “I don’t know what comes over me. I am +mad sometimes, I believe. I ought to have a guide always.” + +“It might, perhaps, be good for you, for you are young, and too much +carried about with blasts of passion. But you have a guide, and not a +silent one I know, in your own good conscience. Try to still other +voices, and to hearken to it. And now farewell, and God bless you. Act +rightly this time, dear Miss Gresham, and it will bring a blessing on +all your days. I do not mean an earthly blessing,” he added gravely, as +he saw a flash of light sweep over her face, “That must be as it pleases +God to grant, but the better blessing of a truer and purer heart, and +judgment for the future.” + +“I will try,” she again repeated, and he left her. + +She remained where he parted from her in deep thought; and so sat, her +head in her hands, for the chief part of the afternoon. Her thoughts +were deeper, sadder, humbler than they had ever been in her life before. +She was, as many are, in the habit of laying the burden of her +aberrations from the right way, on her _circumstances_. It is a pleasant +way of relieving the conscience, and so satisfactory a solution of men’s +frailties, that when once the flattering unction is applied, the eyes +willingly and obediently close to the fact that the seat of error is not +outward but within. But this reasoning does not do where the conscience +is really touched; and as in shame and terror Angela contemplated the +step she had been about to take, she was, for the time at least, most +truly humbled in her own eyes. + +When Mr. Gresham entered the room she rose up and went to meet him, and +with all the quietness and seriousness Mr. Addison could have desired, +said, “I have made up my mind, papa, and I will not marry Mr. Vavasour.” + +Mr. Gresham was startled, certainly startled at the abruptness of this +declaration; but he had long noted down in his mind as a fact to be +remembered, that the caprices of the female character were unfathomable; +and he was, therefore, after a moment prepared to deal with them +patiently. + +“You must excuse me, my love,” he replied mildly, “if I decline to enter +into a fresh discussion of the subject. It was discussed yesterday; and +I am too well aware of the changeableness of the disposition of young +women to be willing to waste the time that might be better employed, in +a prolonged examination of a question that is settled. Believe me, my +love, all has been arranged for the best, for _your_ welfare, and _my_ +happiness.” He slightly waved his hand as a conclusion to the speech, +and was about to turn away, when Angela spoke again. + +“I have not changed, papa; I told you yesterday, that I could not do it +with a good conscience; I told you that I did not and could never love +Mr. Vavasour. You cannot say I have changed. I only submitted when I +could argue no more. But now, after deep thought, I find I cannot +submit. I should be miserable and guilty if I did. I do not love him, +and I will not marry him.” + +“Pardon me, my love, you are mistaken in this matter; I have watched +you, as your natural guardian should, and I have seen with pleasure, +with singular pleasure, the interest you take in Mr. Vavasour’s society. +Trust me, I am better able to act in this business than a young +inexperienced woman like yourself. I am fully satisfied that I have +ensured your happiness, and I shall act accordingly.” + +“If you will not hear me or believe me, Papa,” Angela exclaimed more +excitedly, “it must be to Mr. Vavasour that I must explain myself. He +will, he _shall_ understand.” + +“Be it so, my love,” said Mr. Gresham blandly, feeling convinced of the +irresistable power of Robert’s persuasions. “Allow me to remark, +however, that you appear to me to forget the delicacy of the female +character in your tone and manners on this occasion. I mentioned to you +what was likely to occur, that you might be prepared to express yourself +in the proper manner; but it is not usual, I believe, for a young woman +to give her mind to such subjects before the decisive moment has +arrived. Banish, therefore, my love, such idle fancies from your mind, +and occupy yourself with the natural and elegant occupations becoming to +young ladies of your age and position.” + +Angela’s heart swelled with anger and disdain, but she made no further +remark. Her look was intended to convey her inflexible resolution; but +Mr. Gresham’s eyes were impervious to looks. He walked to the door, then +turned back to observe. + +“Mr. Addison called and asked for me to-day, I understand. I regret that +I was out. I am anxious to shew every civility in my power to the +friends of the Vavasour family. Did you see him, my love?” + +“Yes,” she said colouring, “he paid me a long visit.” + +“What was his object in London?” + +“He told me he came to see Mr. Vavasour.” + +“Indeed!” with a strong expression of surprise. “He is aware ... +ahem!... I hope he left the elder Mr. Vavasour in good health.” + +“He said he left them all in much trouble. He did not say why--but I +guess it was from what they had heard about Mr. Robert Vavasour.” + +“Indeed!” Mr. Gresham repeated, and an uncomfortable sensation for the +first time agitated his breast. Wrapt in his own objects, and in the +thought and pride of the generous designs he entertained towards the +Vavasour family, he had really and truly forgotten all that Robert’s +parents might be supposed to feel on the occasion. + +He swallowed down a something he did not quite understand, a touch of +perturbation and self reproach that was neither common nor comfortable, +with effort, and was obliged to dive deep into his mind before he found +a moral aphorism suited to offer consolation in the emergency. At length +two truisms presented themselves, and were accepted. First, +“Circumstances command all men,” and Secondly, “No great object is ever +attained without a sacrifice.” These truths were effectual in driving +away the annoyance of the moment. He thought of the sacrifice he was +making, in thus submitting to circumstances, the last he would have +chosen in which to accomplish his designs, and the pang of self reproach +was followed by a feeling of a totally opposite nature. + +“I regret to hear it,” he therefore replied with much politeness, and, +smoothing his brow, left the room. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + What is this passing scene? + A peevish April day-- + A little sun, a little rain, + And then night sweeps along the plain + And all things fade away. + KIRKE WHITE. + + +Robert Vavasour’s conscience was far from being stupefied. It was the +agony of conscience, acting falsely, awakening to remorse that is, and +not to repentance, that had impelled him into the various evils in which +he was ensnared. He loved his father--he always had loved him; not with +Everard’s passionate and exclusive devotion, not with a genial and +hearty affection, but with a love whose strong grasp, even against his +will, fascinated and bound him. Few could live with Mr. Vavasour and +fail to feel that life hung on his approving smile. Robert felt this as +others did, and from his mingled awe and love sprang the terror under +which he now was suffering--a dread of his father’s anger, which drove +him rather to risk all things, to sacrifice his peace, to wound those +who trusted in him; than to endure again that glance of agony and +contempt, whose memory, even after three years, still pursued and stung +him. It seemed a strange thing that this remembrance, which, in his +hours of remorse, had power to heat his fancy almost to the verge of +madness, should, in the hours of temptation, have been powerless; but +such is man, and such is man’s life, and it is the bewildering +fascination of temptation which alone, in most cases, makes it strong. + +Robert’s short history was this. The higher tone of feeling engendered +during his visit at Audley Court gradually relaxed--as, indeed, is but +natural, unless effort preserves its vigour--in the careless and +thoughtless, though by no means vicious society into which he entered. +This prepared the way for a downfall. On his leisurely journey back to +England, by land, he fell into dissipated company. One set of evils +followed another; gambling came in its turn. For a few weeks, a fever--a +frenzy--for it was like nothing else--possessed him, and he awakened +only when the pressure of his losses startled him into consciousness. +But the awakening was to horror--such horror and remorse as quick and +excitable feelings find it hard to struggle against. Its consequences +were the beginning of that evil and degrading course which has been +mentioned, that process of maddening, lulling and stupefying the brain +and conscience, of which it may almost be said, + + “Lasciate ogni speranza voi che entrate.” + +On this miserable life a gleam of light fell in the shape of a new +temptation--the remembrance of Mr. Gresham’s fancy for him, and the +thought of Angela’s wealth. The rest of the history is known. + +Robert’s many efforts to dull his feelings, were, to a certain degree, +successful. He had persuaded himself that to be free from home thraldom +would bring happiness; and while engaged in the pursuit of that which +would make him free, he had days and hours of excitement which, if not +happiness, was so far like it, that it absorbed his mind, and kept him +from thought; but the intervals of relief were broken again and again, +by pangs which, to Mr. Addison, he had called “the torments of hell in +his heart.” When first he approached Angela he had inwardly vowed that +he would forswear that miserable comforter which he had taken to himself +as the solace of his misery, but vain were his inward vows; like the +troubled sea, he could not rest; and when that unendurable misery +visited him, he assuaged it as he could, hating himself, protesting, +resolving for the future, but falling. + +He was not yet, however, a slave. Mr. Addison had not been fortunate +enough to wake him to repentance, but he did awaken him to one of the +fiercest and acutest fits of remorse he had yet experienced. His +father’s face, ghastly pale, haunted him like a spectre, and though +resolved to pursue his way, and to be independent, the resolve was in +itself agony. Not on this occasion did he betake himself, however, to +the tempting, oblivious antidote, so often applied to his disturbance; +his better nature was all alive, and he would have felt it an insult to +the kind old friend who had endeavoured to save him, had he parted from +him only to rush into fresh sin. + +Unable, however, to bear in inaction the torment of his thoughts, he +called a hackney coach, (the _convenient_ conveyance of the day in which +he lived,) and ordered the driver to take him several miles out of +town. He there left the coach, and wandering through strange ways, +returned on foot. It was night, and a dense fog when he re-entered +London; the air was sharp and cold; he went chilly to bed, and awoke the +following morning with a seizure in his throat, an ailment--the only +one--to which he was subject. + +Knowing that to remain for the day in bed was his best cure, he wrote to +Mr. Gresham to inform him of his illness, and to ask permission to +postpone his visit to Angela till the following day. + +Mr. Gresham replied to him with cordial politeness; begged him to care +for his health above all things, and assured him that he should find his +daughter prepared to receive him, whenever it was most agreeable to him +to make his proposed visit. So for that day the matter rested. + +At five o’clock on the morning of the following day, Robert was awakened +from the deep, yet restless slumber, proceeding from the remedies for +his cold, by a loud ringing and knocking at the door of his lodgings. +Half asleep and half awake, the noise blended with his dreams, and no +preparation of wondering surmise and rising fears broke the shock of the +announcement that came upon him. A dirty housemaid in a singular attire, +composed of a mixture of night and morning garments--those of night +predominating about the head and ancles--entered his room, and with a +haste too great to allow of a demand for admission, roughly pulled open +his shutters and the dingy curtains of his bed. + +Robert started up. + +“You must get up, sir,” she said. “Here’s a letter come for you, and +it’s bad news I’m afraid.” + +Pale as ashes, with a trembling hand Robert took the letter and glanced +over it. It contained only these words:-- + + “Dear Robert,--There is no time to break it to you more tenderly. + Your father is dying, and not a moment is to be lost if you would + be blessed and forgiven. Dear Robert, God support you; I know what + you will feel. + + “R. ADDISON,--seven o’clock.” + +The letter dropped from his fingers, and he fell back in bed. With rude +sympathy the housemaid rushed to him, but the hands convulsively +working, and the purple flush in his cheeks terrified her. She flew down +the stairs with a scream, and dragged up the groom who had brought the +letter, and who was awaiting Robert’s orders below. + +The man soon perceived that no orders could be had from him, and +desiring her to call up the household to assist her in composing and +restoring him, hurried off to Everard. + +The same note, with but a needful variation in its terms, had been +written to him, and the characters of both letters were unsteady and +illegible, as if, in truth, the haste was too great to allow time for +thought. The same agonizing waking awaited Everard. But not as with +Robert to overpower him; much rather it seemed to quicken his faculties. +One intense, one all-prevailing desire, to see his father, to close his +eyes, to hear his last words of affection, or warning, superseded every +feeling of grief or fear, possessed his intellect, and gave wings to his +body. In a time scarcely possible except to the superhuman activity such +moments inspire in mortal frames, all that he required to have done was +done, and having sent on to implore Robert to be ready, he was in a +chaise and four at his door. + +The prompt assistance and kindly attentions of the inmates of the house, +had roused Robert from his first agony; and though that first agony in +the body was a merciful one, compared to the devouring fire of remorse +which every moment of consciousness caused to flame higher in his mind, +yet the mind’s agony left him power to prepare himself, and he was +ready. + +His clothes flung upon him, his cheek like death, his eyes red and wild, +his limbs so weak through real bodily illness and mental torment, that +he could scarcely support them as he crept through the door and along +the pavement--thus the two brothers met again, and this was the form on +which Everard’s eyes fell, in the place of the brilliant Robert from +whom he had parted six months before, and upon whom in all his charms +his jealous fancy had of late been ceaselessly dwelling. + +If Everard at that moment harboured resentment; if one thought of +Robert’s rivalry had presented itself that morning to his imagination, +this sight must have disarmed him, and changed his rage to pity. But, in +truth, no such thought was or had been present. One agony reigned alone; +one word, _haste_, was on his lips, beating in his pulses, thrilling +through his veins, and as he held out his hand to drag rather than to +help Robert into the carriage, the cold, clammy touch of the grasp that +met his, first brought to his mind what feelings besides affection must +be at once burning in, and chilling his brother’s heart. + +“Robert, how ill you look! Can I do anything for you?” he asked +pitifully, while the door was closing, and the post-boys were gathering +up their reins for speed. + +Even at that instant Robert had place in his mind to feel shame at the +kindness of the voice. Tears of shame and sorrow fell fast from his +eyes, while pride felt another shame in the weakness that could not +fight against them. Instead of answering, he turned his head away, and +threw himself into the corner, where he sat; and in another moment they +were off. + +Partly understanding, partly misunderstanding the action, Everard looked +at him for a moment, and then, in a tremulous unsteady voice, added, +“Robert, surely there should be no ill-will between us now,” and he +held out his hand, in mute token of what he desired. + +Robert grasped it with agitation, but without a reply; and from that +moment through the long day no other word passed between them. Everard +pulled down the blinds as a protection against the glaring light, and +throwing himself into the other corner, closed his eyes; and thus +concealed and protected from each other, the two brothers pursued their +silent reflections, uncomforted and alone. + +Fatigue and exhaustion of body in part dulled the agonizing meditations +of poor Robert. More than once the lingering effects of the soporific he +had taken the night before, surprised him into sleep, and though such +minutes of rest were followed by wakenings of acuter anguish, they did +in fact beguile the way and make it bearable. + +No such repose assisted Everard; he was awake in every pulse and every +nerve; and yet in the very insanity of haste that possessed him there +was a beguiling and support. This one desire to be in time pressed too +vividly on his brain to allow the power of reflection. Life being +bounded to the attainment of one moment’s hope, the dark beyond was +neither realised nor seen. + +Audley Court was ninety miles from London; but the journey was performed +in less than eight hours. Early in the afternoon, the well known signs +informed the travellers, that the time for suspense to give place to +knowledge was at hand. The terror that laid its hand upon them was too +strong for words. As they paused a single moment to be admitted at the +lodge, both rose and glanced out, as if the same thought of enquiry was +in their minds; and both again threw themselves backward, as if the +effort and the dread were too great. In silence they went on to their +home. + +On reaching the arch which led into the quadrangle, Everard touched +Robert and said, “Let us get out.” Whether it were life or death, he +felt that he dared not break the stillness that reigned around with the +noise of their approach. He threw open the door, made a sign to the +post-boys, and the brothers passed on to the house. + +At the house door Hope was standing, and she came down the steps to meet +them. Their arrival was earlier than could have been expected, but she +had been already an hour on the watch. + +Her step was slow, but they saw at once she was not the herald of death. +They were in time. + +“He is still alive,” she softly murmured, while they were yet at a +distance, but in the dead stillness the murmur was distinctly heard. + +No word was spoken by either brother. No “Thank God” burst from them of +inexpressible relief. The fear and awe, and thankfulness were all alike +beyond words or thoughts. In silence both clasped Hope in their arms, +and silently they followed her as she led the way. + +Outside their father’s room she paused, and they obediently paused also. +“Wait one moment,” she said, in a tone which, except in such a +stillness, could have reached no mortal ear. “I will say you are come. +The end is very near, and we must be calm.” + +She passed on, gliding to the bedside. + +The attack had been from the heart, and for some hours Mr. Vavasour had +suffered an agony so acute that it had done the work of days in wasting +away the lingering powers of his declining life. But all bodily pain had +now passed away for ever. He was alive, but the numbness of death was +already stealing over him. + +He was seated in bed, supported by many pillows; all the curtains were +drawn back, all the windows were open; air and light and sunshine were +in the room, and yet Death. On one side of him, leaning her head against +the pillows sat Mrs. Vavasour, looking more dead than alive; on the +other Mr. Addison knelt. In one of the windows two physicians stood, +intently watching their patient. + +Mr. Vavasour’s face was calm, but not yet quite at peace. Expectation +still trembled on his lips, and gave life and fire to his eyes. + +Hope glided in, and kissing her aunt, whispered, “They are come, Aunt +Joan.” + +“Let them come in,” said the dying man, his ears quick to hear the +sound; “there is no time for delay.” + +The sons heard the voice and entered. Robert first; and as his eyes fell +on his father’s face, he sprang forward with a piercing cry, and fell on +his knees by the bedside. “Father, forgive!” + +A strong emotion for a moment almost convulsed Mr. Vavasour’s features, +but he mastered it, and it was followed by a smile, the sweet calm smile +of the dying. “I do forgive you, Robert,” he said, in firm tones, “as +fully, as freely as I trust God, my Saviour, has forgiven me.” He +paused, stretching out his hand to grasp that of his son, and +continued: “Let nothing tempt you to doubt my love or my forgiveness. I +may have seemed, I may seem to you, harsh and unjust; but all I have +done has been in love and not in anger, and my last words to you, my +boy, are blessing. Remember it.” + +He let his hand rest for a moment in the grasp of his son; and as he +withdrew it smiled another of those smiles, which seemed to be made up +of love and blessing only. + +He then turned his eyes and said, “Everard!” + +When Robert sprang forward with his wild cry, Mr. Addison had risen from +his knees, and laid aside the book from which he had been reading. He +made a sign to Everard to take his place, but Everard, whose +thoughtfulness for others not even such a moment could overcome, drew +himself apart, leaving Robert to make his peace alone. + +But at the first turn of his father’s eyes, he too sprang forward, and +fell on his knees by Robert’s side. + +Mr. Vavasour’s eyes rested upon him for a few instants without speaking, +and Everard gazed into them, drinking into his soul the affection they +betrayed. “You have been a good son to me, Everard,” at last, he simply +said. “God bless you for it.” + +They were quiet words; quiet, but blessed ones. Everard’s heart bounded +beneath their blessedness. He did not speak, but still gazed on, as +those gaze who are looking their last, on what has been their life’s +passion. + +Partly that he read his son’s love in his eyes; partly, perhaps, with +some other future thoughts in his mind, Mr. Vavasour again addressed +him. “Everard,” he said, solemnly, “you have hitherto suffered me to be +the guide of your life; when I am dead, my boy, will you let my wishes +guide you still?” + +“Ever and ever, father, all my life long, so help me God,” was his son’s +passionate reply. + +“Amen,” said Mr. Vavasour, as if he were setting his seal upon a vow. + +He then rose up in bed and laid a hand on each son’s bending head. “Live +in peace, my boys,” he said, with ineffable tenderness, “and God be with +you, and bring you to rest in joy at last, through Jesus Christ our +Lord. Amen.” + +Even in that moment of parting pain, Mrs. Vavasour saw, and saw with +agony, that the right hand was on Everard’s, and the left on Robert’s +head. From the position of each it could scarcely have been otherwise; +but the heart knows no rules in its fears or its loves. + +When these words were said, Mr. Vavasour sank gently back. + +The physicians hastily approached as they saw the eye suddenly fixed; +but one glance was enough to assure them that all was over, and they +withdrew. + +The deep stillness that followed was at length broken by Mr. Addison. He +gently touched Robert’s shoulder and murmured--“Robert, your mother!” + +Robert rose mechanically, and went round to where she sat; but the sight +of her face resting by the side of his father’s, broke the spell of awe +which for the time had laid its hand upon him, and, throwing himself +into her arms, he wept convulsively. + +Her son’s agony roused Mrs. Vavasour from her speechless and tearless +trance. She attempted to disengage herself from him, and to lead him +away; but Robert’s feelings were violent and excitable, and the long +self-restraint of the day having once given way, he was powerless to +control them. When the attempt was made to withdraw him from the bed of +death, he threw himself upon it with another cry, piercing as his first, +and there remained immoveable. + +Mrs. Vavasour made a sign to Mr. Addison, and again whispering in +Robert’s ear, “Your mother,” he at length succeeded in prevailing on him +to rise, and to suffer himself to be drawn away. Mrs. Vavasour put her +arm round Hope, and followed. + +Everard rose from his knees as he saw them go, and gazed wistfully after +them; one glance, one look to say he was not forgotten. His eye followed +them to the door, but all passed through, and it was closed. He was left +alone--alone with the only one to whom in all the world he felt he had +ever been dear; and with a cry, not piercing like Robert’s, but +smothered from its very despair, he, too, threw himself upon the bed +where his father lay. + +One of the physicians--a stranger to him--having thus found him on his +return, lifted him tenderly up, and the other, opening the door through +which the family had passed, signed for him to follow; but, rushing by, +towards the door through which the physicians had re-entered, Everard +fled to his own room. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + Hear the very latest counsel + That ever I shall breathe. + _King Henry the Fourth._ + + +A considerable time elapsed before the violence of Robert’s grief could +be mastered. It took the form of an hysterical passion evidently beyond +his powers to subdue, springing no doubt in a great measure from the +unnerved condition in which his late habits had left him. + +It gave place at last to exhaustion; he seemed as weak as a child, and +he submitted like a child to go to bed. When this was accomplished, the +room was darkened, and Mrs. Vavasour sat down by his side to watch over +him. Robert opened his eyes and saw her there; and, as if forgetting all +that had passed, held out his hand to her with a faint sweet smile; and +having so done he dropped asleep with hers clasped in his. It was like +the days of infancy once more, and Mr. Addison, who was standing by, +turned away at the sight with tears he could no longer restrain. Who +could wonder at the love the mother bore to her poor prodigal son? + +When he left the room he found Hope watching outside. He desired her to +go and lie down, and husband her powers for the time when they might be +wanted. She had been up and standing the whole of the night before, and +she looked, though she did not seem, worn out. + +She went in obedience to his advice, and he then turned his steps in +search of Everard; but on his way to Everard’s room so many questions +and inquiries assailed him, so many necessary delays occurred, that it +was above an hour and a half since Mr. Vavasour’s death before he +reached him. + +On approaching the door he met a housemaid, an elderly woman who had +been long in the family, coming from it. + +“How is Mr. Everard?” he inquired, stopping her as she was passing with +her apron to her eyes. + +“He’s come to a bit, poor dear,” she replied, “but he’s been terribly +bad. Mr. Everard always was so uncommonly fond of his papa.” + +“Has Mr. Everard been ill?” Mr. Addison asked, with a pang of +self-reproach, although mortal powers of comforting are limited as other +things. + +“He passed me by when he came to his room with such a white face, sir, +that I made bold to go after him, and I found him on the floor, poor +dear, with his heart going like a mill-wheel. But he told me to give no +trouble and say nothing about it, and he’s come to now a bit. I made him +lie down, and I took him some tea just now, and he seems more composed +and like himself, poor dear,” and with a curtsey she hastened on her +way. + +With an added fear lest Everard should have thought himself neglected, +Mr. Addison went on. In a small degree his watchful eyes had discovered +that this was sometimes the case; but even he had no conception of the +keenness with which the lack of warm affection was felt. It was in fact +a grief which none but the one who suffered from it could understand. +The outward forms of affection, the care and thought, were, though calm, +so kind and constant that it was only the heart itself which pined for a +quicker pulse of love in answer to its own, which could be aware of the +one thing wanting. + +He knocked at the door, but entered without waiting for an answer, and +approached the bed. The room was already darkened, in token of death in +the house, but the bright April evening shone through the openings and +gave light enough for observation. + +Mr. Addison was struck by the look of abandonment to sorrow in the +usually composed countenance, and the lassitude in the usually vigorous +frame. Everard did raise himself on his approach, and say he would get +up, but when he gently touched him and said, “No, lie down again,” he +obeyed without a word of remonstrance. + +“I could not get to you before,” he began in a tone of tender affection. +“How are you, my poor Everard?” + +“How are they all?” he asked in reply, looking wistfully into his face. + +“All quiet now, and Hope and Robert are lying down. Poor Robert has been +terribly overcome. We cannot wonder. He has his own keen pangs of +sorrow, which nothing else can equal. Happy, dear Everard, those who are +spared them.” + +“And my mother?” Everard said, without heeding those words of +consolation. + +“She is sitting by Robert,” Mr. Addison replied, after a momentary +hesitation. “He greatly needs her care, and at this moment, Everard, I +feel almost thankful it should be so. The sun of her life is gone out, +and were it not for this anxiety, she might scarcely have strength to +live on.” + +Everard turned away his eyes; but if the thought of what Robert was to +his mother gave him pain, it was a longing not an envious pain. + +“Everard,” Mr. Addison said, stooping over him, “I have come last to +you, because you are the strongest; but do not think I am not well aware +that in some respects, this loss is more to you than to all the world +beside.” + +“Do not restrain yourself too much,” he continued, perceiving that +Everard clenched his hands to control his emotion. “Grief should and +must have its way. I will not speak if it grieves you too much, but if +you can bear it, there are some things I would say.” + +“You said that I felt already too much,” Everard replied passionately. +“Oh! Mr. Addison, I know I am selfish to think it, but I feel that I +have lost all; in all the world there was but one who cared for me, and +he is gone. What is life now? What have I to live for? I know I am +selfish--I hate myself for what I say, and yet I feel it still. I am +desolate.” + +“It may be selfish, dear Everard, but do not blame yourself too +severely; in some respects grief makes us selfish, and is intended to do +so, for it teaches us to search and look into our hearts. I wish to use +it for that purpose now. Let us see what this sorrow says to you. I +think it has a message for you. Can you bear to hear me?” + +Everard looked gratefully up into the face of his old friend, already +soothed by the soft touch of his kind words. + +“It seems hardly a fitting time to preach a sermon,” he said, with a +faint smile on his lips, “but what I have to say, Everard, may, I think, +bring a word in season to your weary heart. You ask, ‘what have you to +live for now?’ Dear Everard, I do but repeat some words already spoken +this day, when I say ‘You have been a good son.’ You have made your +father’s will the guide of your life. Do not think that I have a fault +to find in that. I so loved your devotion, that even though I saw a +want, I feared to disturb it by a single word of advice; but now, +Everard, when that guide has been taken from you, I would partly in +comfort, partly in warning, point your thoughts upward to your father in +Heaven; a Guide and Friend that cannot fail or pass away. Everard,” he +continued, after a moment, with emphasis and solemnity, looking fixedly +at him, “Your future life may be very different to your past; strong +temptations may be before you, heavy cares oppress you; if you would +walk safely under them, safely, and as your father would have you walk, +you must make the will of God your guide, and His grace the support of +your life. I will add no more; but, dear Everard, in these days of +seclusion and sorrow, think upon what I say.” + +“I know you are right,” Everard sadly said; “very right. I am not in +that way which I should be. I will try to remember; and yet,” he added, +after some consideration, “I feel now that if I _had_ made my father my +only guide, I should be less wretched now--but you do not know;--all +these past months, oh! Mr. Addison, you do not know what a place my mind +has been. Not my father, my dear father there, but vain, mean, worthless +thoughts and motives, and other loves and cares, and few thoughts of him +have filled it. Oh! Mr. Addison, if all were known, I have _not_ been a +good son.” + +“You are unjust, and needlessly torment yourself,” Mr. Addison said +soothingly; “there may have been, it was but natural there should have +been, a noise of many voices in your heart; but I know, and you know it +too, one word from your father, had he spoken, would have silenced them +all. No word was ever truer, Everard, than that you heard to-day: ‘_You +have been a good son._’ Take the comfort God gives you home to your +heart, and be thankful for it. To have been a good son is no light +blessing--a father’s blessing follows such a one all his days, and come +what may, dear Everard, will follow you.” + +He bent over him, and laid his cool hand on his burning brow, putting +back the masses of his disordered hair with a soft touch, like a +mother’s; and the act of gentle and womanly tenderness went to the heart +of the desolate son, and he left him comforted. + +For the three days that followed Mr. Vavasour’s death, Robert was +confined to bed. He was seriously ill. The cold which had attacked his +throat returned more violently, and excitement of mind produced fever of +body. + +During those days Mrs. Vavasour never left him. She watched beside him +by day, she slept on a sofa in his room at night. When he once observed +to her that he was sure there were some Psalms and prayers which were +fit for such a one as he was to use, she commanded her trembling voice, +and read to him. For the time being, he seemed to fill all her mind. But +when after the third day he recovered, she fell back into that trance of +speechless sorrow, from which her care for him alone had had power to +rouse her. + +The tables were then reversed. Robert devoted himself to her--happy if +only he could force a tear from her tearless eyes; consoled if he could +draw one word from her lips. + +During Robert’s illness, Everard and Hope had been left to themselves. +They did, indeed, go in and out of the darkened room, but both alike +felt that there was a sacredness of union there, their presence jarred +upon. Robert asked for neither. His mother was all in all. + +They were three miserable days. Hope saw that the link that had united +her and Robert was indeed severed; and in the severing discovered how +dear, too dear, that link had been; how dark was earth--yes, and heaven, +too, now _that_ union was not. Her days were days of one long +prayer--such prayer as gains the thing it fain would have. + +With Everard they were passed by the side of the inanimate form he had +loved so well, and with whom all that made life bearable seemed +vanished. Darkness was on his weary heart in the present and in the +future, and though in the very sight of death, his thoughts did in a +degree lose their earthliness, and he did in a degree follow the +counsel of his old friend, and strive to seek a guide and support in +Heaven; yet it is not at once that such thoughts become natural inmates +of the mind, much less comforters. Animated with religious principles, +Everard had always been; but from the formation of his mind and +character--a character strong, stubborn, and earthly, he had been less +susceptible than even Robert of religious feeling Mr. Addison had long +seen the want; yet, as he had said, had scarcely dared to point it out, +lest he should disturb that other principle which guided him so safely +on his way. + +The last days of the week brought a comfort to Hope they could not give +to Everard. In their cares of Mrs. Vavasour, Robert and Hope were again +united. They were rarely alone together, and if it chanced to happen +that they were alone, no word regarding that which had made a change +between them was ever spoken; but, as if blotting out the days of that +last return home, during the whole of which, however unconsciously, +Robert had been perpetually seeking to awaken her to love him, they +returned to the tranquil, confiding intercourse of earlier days. A +change there was, and Hope felt it, and yet was content. + +To some it might have been hardly possible to bear the change; to some +it might have been impossible so to put self and consciousness aside, as +to turn back her steps to a former from a nearer and closer union; but +with Hope it was possible--she knew how to win a victory over self, and +she won it. + +Everard would have shared their cares if he could. He, too, approached +his mother and kissed her, and longed, till his heart seemed bursting, +to put his arms round her to implore her to love him, and to let his +love comfort her as they did; but he dared not. His tongue was tied by +the dread of a cold response, and he was silent. + +The day of the funeral came and passed. + +When Everard left his room the following morning the sun was shining +brilliantly through the now opened windows; there were sounds of voices +no longer hushed, and footsteps no longer stealthy, in the gardens and +about the house; all things seemed to be resuming their usual course, +and life and light to have returned to the dwelling from which the inner +light and life had just departed. + +Sorrow is not always soft; nor a true mourning always faultless. Sorrow +has its infirmities as well as, nay, much more than, joy. As Everard +paced along the corridors, outwardly so bright, so dreary to him, his +feelings were much like Jonah’s over the withering of his gourd; he was +angry, and thought he did well to be angry. He had a strange jealous +feeling that others were forgetting, that none were mourning like him, +and in bitterness of spirit he said he would escape from his unbearable +misery, and return to his toilsome life in London. + +In this mood he entered the breakfast room; and on such a mood a very +trifling circumstance jars with acute pain. Robert and Hope were there +before him. From the lingering effects of his illness, Robert had +hitherto breakfasted late and in his room; but he was there this +morning; the room looked bright and fresh; the windows were open, +letting in the sweet breeze of a May morning, and Robert was in his +father’s chair and place. + +There was nothing to surprise in this; for there were but three places +at the table, and Robert’s mind was not of the kind which thoughtfully +dwells on minute things; but to those whose minds were of another class +it did speak. It did forcibly say--a change is come, yet life flows on +unchanged; one generation gone, another era begun; a father dead, a son +already in his place; a father, in his venerable and virtuous old age, +and _Robert_ in his place. + +A torrent of impetuous, rebellious blood crimsoned Everard’s cheek, and +he sat down, scarcely knowing what he said or did. Perhaps Robert +observed his countenance, perhaps guessed in part what feelings agitated +him, for he immediately leant towards him, and put a letter into his +hand, observing in a low voice, “That is this afternoon. I will go down +and tell Mr. Addison that he is to be here.” + +The letter was from Mr. Low, the solicitor. It informed Robert that Mr. +Vavasour’s will was in his hands, and that he had received a special +charge to read it in the presence of the assembled family, (not +excepting Mrs. Vavasour, if she could be prevailed on to comply with her +husband’s request), and of Mr. Addison. He added that Mr. Vavasour had +specified the day following his funeral for the reading of the will, +and, therefore, without waiting to hear from Robert, he should be at +Audley Court at four o’clock. + +This information and Robert’s manner put Everard’s _most_ miserable +thoughts to flight. There was something yet to be heard from, or done +for his father. The day was to be full of him; and the jealous dread +that he was forgotten, for the time was gone. + +He thought no more of his purpose of escape, and for the mere benefit of +finding something to do, walked down with Robert to desire Mr. Addison +to be at Audley Court at the appointed hour. + +Mr. Addison gave a grave consent, looking fixedly at each brother; but +they too were grave, and expected nothing but gravity, and his looks +excited no remark. + +On their return, as they approached the house, the butler came to meet +Robert, and asked him if he chose to have the bells rung as usual for +dinner and other things. + +“Yes--no,” Robert replied, colouring crimson, and averting his eyes from +Everard. “I don’t care, just as you think best.” + +“I think it would be best. It secures punctuality,” observed the butler, +with some importance in offering advice to his young master. + +“Just as you please,” Robert said, hastily, and then as the man +departed, he turned to Everard and exclaimed--“Oh! Everard, how I hate +it all.” + +“You must,” said his brother, passionately. “I feel how you must.” + +“Don’t _you_ hate me, that is all.” + +“No, indeed,” Everard said warmly, and those few words of Robert’s blew +away into airy nothing, the strange sad feeling that had made his heart +ache that day, when he thought of Robert in his father’s place; blew it +away, and brought love, trust, and even reverence in its place. + + * * * * * + +Mr. Low arrived punctually. Mrs. Vavasour unwilling to refuse compliance +with the smallest wish expressed by her husband, forced herself to +obedience; and the room was darkened, and a chair placed for her in the +darkest corner; and to her chair she was led by Robert when the hour +came, with Hope by her side. + +“Now call him!” Robert said hurriedly to Everard, “and let there be no +delay.” + +Everard left the room. + +As he came up the stairs with the solicitors, Mr. Low looked at him and +said, “Have you any idea, Mr. Everard, as to the contents of your +father’s will?” + +“No, none!” he said with a kind of sad indifference. + +“I think it may surprise you.” + +Everard shook his head. He thought it possible Mr. Low intended to +suggest that a better provision had been made for him than he had reason +to expect; and _once_ such a suggestion would have been no matter of +indifference; but in the cloud that had now darkened his future, utter +indifference as to his prospects had grown up. + +He forgot Mr. Low’s remark as soon as it was made, and recurred to what +was upper-most in his mind; the hope that he would make the affair as +little painful to his mother as was possible. + +“I will do my best,” said Mr. Low, “but some things unfortunately are +not in my power to....” + +“Of course,” Everard said hastily, “I know, only let it be as short as +you can.” + +Mr. Low bowed as he entered the room, but kindly and discreetly +refrained from any further notice of Mrs. Vavasour. + +He then sat down, giving his companion a paper to hold, and desired +Robert and Everard to sit on each side of him. + +They obeyed, and pale and grave Mr. Addison placed himself in the +window. + +Mr. Low then proceeded to read a will made ten years before this time. +It contained a few bequests, left a sum of ten thousand pounds to +Everard, and the whole of the rest of the property to Robert. + +When he had finished reading, Mr. Low turned to Robert and said, “This +will remained unaltered in my hands till about ten days ago; I regret +to be compelled to add that since then an alteration has taken place. On +the 22nd of April I was summoned from London, and in my presence, and in +the presence of this gentleman, a new will was made and signed. I am +compelled, Mr. Vavasour, though with great reluctance, to read it to +you.” + +In the second will there was simply a change in the bequests to his two +sons. Where Robert stood now was Everard, and Robert in Everard’s place. +But the conclusion was couched in most solemn words. The cause of the +change was distinctly stated to arise from the unworthiness of his elder +son, and though there was no concealment of the pain which his +resolution cost, there was no faltering in the terms in which that +resolution was expressed. Then followed a few words to “his dear son +Robert,” assuring him of his unaltered affection, his full pardon, and +his dying blessing. + +To Everard also there was a special address, and at greater length. +Into his hand Mr. Vavasour said he delivered all the cares which had +occupied him through life. Some things were specified by name. He +appointed him guardian to Hope Linton, and very solemnly committed to +“his integrity, judgment, and affection,” the care of the welfare and +happiness of the three beloved beings he left behind him. Lastly, he +alluded to Everard’s new position, and no words could be imagined more +forcible and pathetic than those in which he implored him to accept, and +not to cast away, this his last will and testament. + +Mr. Low’s thin, sharp voice deepened into pathos as he concluded, and +agitated in an unusual degree, he drew his handkerchief from his pocket, +and blew his nose. This was the only sound that broke the silence either +during the reading or after its conclusion. Both sons remained with +their eyes downcast; Robert’s cheek was crimson, Everard’s ashy pale. + +Mr. Low looked at them alternately, then at Mrs. Vavasour’s motionless +form. He seemed perplexed how to act. + +“I believe my task is done,” at last he observed, slowly rising from his +seat, and bowing where he stood, while he rustled the papers in his +hand. + +Robert sprang up and shook hands with him; Everard remained immoveable. + +“I must wish you good evening,” Mr. Low observed again, and having +repeated his bow to Everard, in which his companion joined, but of which +no notice was taken, they left the room together. + +“Take me back,” Mrs. Vavasour faintly said to Hope, and, putting her +arms round her, as if to support herself, she also rose, and attempted +to depart; but her limbs trembled so much that Hope’s support seemed +scarcely sufficient, and Robert hastening after her, caught her arm, +forced her to lean on him, and so guided her away. + +When the door closed, Mr. Addison made a few steps towards Everard, who +still sat immoveable; but at the very first sound, Everard started up +with a cheek like death, and eyes flashing like fire, and flew out of +the room by the door which had just closed on Mr. Low. + +Mr. Addison returned to the window, opened the shutters that had +darkened it, and leaned out and sighed. He stood there in profound +meditation, the fresh air cooling and calming his mind, until he was +roused by the re-entrance of Robert. + +“I say, Mr. Addison, you must go to my mother,” he said quickly, as he +approached him; “she is in a sad way, and nothing I can say or do will +comfort her. Go in at once; that will be the best; if you ask to go in +she will not see you.” + +There was a tone in Robert’s voice, and a look on his countenance which +seemed to imply a desire of braving it out with a show of indifference. +It made Mr. Addison uneasy; but, at the same time, it told him that this +would not be the proper moment to make observations or offer sympathy +or counsel. Without commenting, therefore, on what had passed, he merely +thanked Robert for summoning him, and acquiesced in his request. + +He left the room by one door; Robert left it by the other, coolly +fetched his hat, and went out for a walk. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + Oh! but they say the tongues of dying men + Enforce attention, like deep harmony; + When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain + For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain. + _King Richard the Second._ + + +Mr. Addison found Mrs. Vavasour in a state of mind the most painful +which can be conceived. Her whole soul too evidently in revolt and +rebellion against him, to whom she had been united in thought and +feeling, and unto whom her will had been (unless on this same subject), +in perfect submission for years; and this too in the mourning days of +her irreparable loss. Never yet had he found himself so incapable of +ministering consolation. She would not speak to him, because she dared +not. Thoughts were within, terrible enough to feel, but which she would +have died sooner than have spoken; and these thoughts he read on her +contracted brow and in her tortured lips. He felt for her with intensity +of sympathy, and yet he perceived that she dreaded to hear or to receive +his sympathy, lest he or she should seem to cast in words, that blame on +the departed, which her rebellious soul, without her will to restrain +it, was already casting. + +On two subjects only he touched. He first observed, that since Robert’s +forgiveness had been so fully spoken, so fully and freely given both in +word and deed, she must not look on her husband’s decision in the light +of a curse. It was the act of a clear and sane judgment evidently +intended for Robert’s good, and being without a trace of bitterness of +spirit, should in a like spirit be received. His second suggestion was +in the form of a hope earnestly expressed, that it would prove for +Robert’s welfare in the end. + +The first suggestion was accepted. Mrs. Vavasour said nothing, but he +saw that it did reach her heart, and might in time give comfort. But at +the second, her soul rose up in revolt again. In the contracted brow, as +plain as words could speak, he read this answer--“Injustice cannot bring +forth good.” + +Mr. Addison had very strong opinions regarding the _times_ to speak. +Many might have thought that he neglected his duty, when on constantly +recurring occasions he was silent, instead of setting forth plain +truths, or delivering necessary admonitions. But long observation had +taught him, that to speak words for which the heart is not prepared, is +to waste them in more senses than one; not only making them fall +profitless, but detracting from their value for a future occasion. + +He said nothing therefore at this time to Mrs. Vavasour in the way of +warning, or even of counsel; but after speaking such few words as he +could of comfort and sympathy, he offered to read to her and Hope the +Evening Service; trusting to the effects of familiar words and prayers +to soothe her, and to such chance exhortations as might be scattered in +the teaching of the day, to warn or encourage her. + +When this was done and he wished her good night, he observed in a +meaning voice that he was going to look for “poor Everard.” + +She winced at the very name as he had expected would be the case, and +having endeavoured by one pitiful epithet to turn the current of her +thoughts, he thought it best to attempt no more. + +He left her therefore to herself, and departed on his search. + +When he reached Everard’s room he found the door locked, and to the two +knockings by which he requested leave to enter, no answer was +vouchsafed. Before he reached the door he had plainly heard his +footsteps pacing up and down, but after the first announcement of his +presence a perfect stillness succeeded. + +“You must let me in, Everard,” he said at last, with something of +authority in his voice. “I am come to speak to you.” + +There was another minute’s demur, but it ended by the door being flung +open with violence, and Mr. Addison entered. + +Everard was looking nearly wild. His hair disordered and his eyes +bloodshot, as if tears of passion and fierce rage had scorched them. He +said nothing, and Mr. Addison closed the door and took his seat in +silence. + +At last he looked seriously in his face and said, “When last I came to +you in this room, Everard, do you remember a warning I gave you. The +time is already come, temptations and cares are oppressing you. Have +you sought the strength you will so greatly need?” + +“Then you knew of this,” Everard cried, fiercely. “I guessed as much. +Mr. Addison, how did you dare....” + +“Everard!” he said, warningly. + +“I will be answered,” he continued passionately. “_Did you know of +this?_ I have a right to ask, and I will not be silent till I have a +reply.” + +“You shall know what you please when you are fit to be spoken to,” was +the grave answer. “Recover yourself, Everard. Is it for a man in the +full possession of his reason to act like a child or a madman. Compose +yourself. For your father’s sake, to whom such madness was abhorrent, +control your passions.” + +Words so stern were uncommon with Mr. Addison; the assumption of an +authoritative manner very new; but more than once of late, he had +observed that Everard had loosened the reins of his self-controul; and +he knew that when loosened after years of restraint, there is great +danger of a man’s starting aside like a broken bow. + +A torrent of blood flew to Everard’s temples; but in the same moment +tears sprang into his eyes, and he was conquered. + +“You are very severe, Mr. Addison,” he said, coming and leaning against +the window in which he was sitting; “but, perhaps, you are just. Now say +what you will, I can bear it.” + +“Dear Everard, I did not come with the intention of being severe. I came +in the hope of bringing you the help you might need. If I was severe, it +is because I feel you need all your reason and all your powers to guide +you in this time of difficulty and trial, and it grieved me to see you +act unworthily of yourself.” + +“Do you not feel for me?” Everard asked, in tones of intense misery. + +“I do feel for you. But it becomes a man to act like a man, and no +reasonable man allows his passion to lord it over him. Now I have done. +Tell me, Everard, what do you wish to know?” + +“Was this done with your knowledge? If it was, oh! Mr. Addison, forgive +me, but it was most unworthy of you. In _him_, I can ... I can _pity_ it +... but in _you_....” + +“Now hear me, Everard. I fully understand all you would say, but hear me +before you condemn. I did know it, under these circumstances. When, a +few hours before his death, your dear father made a confession to me, +embracing all the events of his life, he said he would not withhold from +me the knowledge of one circumstance which possibly I might blame. When +he told me what he had done, I owned that my opinion was against his +decision. I said that though in one sense just, yet that there was a +seeming injustice which rarely was capable of bringing forth good. He +answered me that I must forgive him if my words could not induce him to +change his resolution. He told me that it was not a decision formed in +one mad moment; but that in the event of certain circumstances occurring +which did occur, it had been a course resolved upon months before, with +prayer, with reflection, and as in the sight of God. + +“I then examined into his state of mind. I desired him most seriously to +look into his own heart, and to see if there was one rankling feeling of +bitterness towards Robert. I spoke, Everard, as they should speak who +speak for eternity; and I am bound to tell you that I found no ill will, +no vengeance there. He spoke of Robert with intense affection; and +expressed his hopes, fond and fervent, and his conviction also, that the +day would arrive when he would come to himself, and redeem all that was +passed. + +“He then spoke of his motives, and began by saying, that he could not, +in his conscience, leave the inheritance of his fathers, to be delivered +up, as he well knew would be the case, into the hands of profligates. +‘By years of self-denial,’ he said, ‘I have made it doubly my own, and +it is my will that it should be transmitted as a solemn trust to the son +who has proved himself worthy of his name.’ + +“I interrupted him here and said that I had sometimes feared the love of +his name, and jealousy of its honour, held a place too nearly idolatrous +in his heart. He looked at me fixedly, and remained for some minutes in +profound thought. At last he replied that he acknowledged such had been +the case, and he begged of me, during the remaining hours of his life, +to pray for him that that stain might be washed away; but, he added, +that though he would not say his motives were perfectly pure from that +blemish, yet, that as far as he could read his heart, that was not the +motive that influenced him. He then entered minutely into Robert’s +character--pointed out his good qualities and his great weaknesses, and +ended by declaring his conviction, that, humanly speaking, there was no +salvation for him but in the course he had taken. + +“I might have said more, Everard, but I did not; there is sometimes an +intuition in the dying more pure and clear than the living have. I +searched his mind and heart; I saw it (so far as man can tell) so +cleansed from earthly stain as to need but the passage hence, to make it +fit for Heaven; and I could not--I did not dare to withstand farther, +what might be an inspiration from the Spirit of God. Such was my part in +this matter, Everard. Can you forgive me for it?” + +Everard only answered by a sigh that seemed to spring from the depths of +his heart. + +There was a long silence. Mr. Addison broke it at length with the simple +enquiry, “Shall you accept your father’s will, Everard?” + +Everard covered his face with his hands. + +“It was a hard thing to lay on a man,” he cried, with returning passion. +“Mr. Addison, leave me to myself; I have not thought--I cannot think. +Oh! my father, my father, could you but have known the agony you would +cause me!” + +“He did know, Everard, I doubt not. He understood you too well not to +know it; but he knew also that you were his son, able to endure and +conquer agony if duty calls. I am not saying where your duty lies; I do +but speak of what he felt regarding you. As to your duty, in such a case +as this, every man must decide for himself. Think and pray, and then +decide, and, whatever it be, act bravely, and without passion.” + +“Leave me to myself, Mr. Addison,” Everard repeated, as if he scarcely +heard what he said. “Thank you for coming, thank you for your stern +words; pray that I may do right, but leave me to myself. I will try to +do my duty if I could but tell what it is. Oh! mother, mother, how shall +I ever look in your face again!” + +In obedience to his repeated and agitated request to be left alone, Mr. +Addison departed. He saw plainly that the decision must be worked out in +Everard’s own mind, and that he did not even desire to know what +opinions were held by others on the subject. + +But solitude brought no clearness to Everard’s intellect, no light over +the chaos of his thoughts. If for a moment one conclusion was formed, if +the glaring injustice to Robert assumed colours so vivid, that no +obedience, no feeling, no promise, could stand before it, the very next +he saw his father’s dying face, the peace of his reliance upon him; he +heard his last and solemn enquiry, “Would his son be guided by his +will,” and all was overthrown. And then the case was reversed. Obedience +prevailed; and then this resolution, in turn, was shaken to its depths +by vivid images of Robert and his rights, and his mother’s sufferings, +and the already gnawing sting of hate that must be _his_ portion. + +He drew back shuddering, and, in darkness and bewilderment, the +wearying process began once more. + +In the tumult of such opposing reflections, time became as nothing, and +he was still pacing his room--now languidly, now impetuously, when he +was startled by the sound of the dinner-bell. + +The familiar notice brought strangely to his remembrance the thoughts of +the morning--his own bitter spirit, his dread of seeing Robert in his +father’s place, and with those thoughts rushed in a whole host of other +thoughts--of jealousies connected with Robert, of imaginings of Robert’s +future, of fears, hopes, terrors, till, in very exhaustion, unable to +face the mass of fancies that assailed him, or to see one guiding light +in the feverish darkness around, he threw himself on his bed, and +determined to remain undisturbed for the night. + +Something, as he lay down, recalled to his memory the tenderness of Mr. +Addison’s face, when he bent over him on the day of his father’s death; +and with the thought of Mr. Addison came the recollection of his grave +words on the indulgence of passion. With a child’s docility, he rose up +again, and though with an aching head and weary spirit, he resolved to +go down. + +It was too late to dress, but he washed his face, and smoothed his hair, +and endeavoured to still his throbbing pulses; and while yet as far from +decision as ever, left his room to join his brother and Hope. + +On the stairs Robert overtook him, and they went down together. Nothing +was said at first, but, as they crossed the lower corridor, Robert +observed, in his usual tone, “We will go to my mother’s dressing-room. I +told her this morning that if she would consent to dine with us, we +would dine in the ante-room, and have no one in but Harrison. I gave +orders accordingly, and I suppose nobody has thought of making a +change.” + +Robert’s request had been mistaken. It was too early an attempt to +rouse Mrs. Vavasour from her trance of grief; but it had been so fondly +and lovingly urged, that, unable to resist him, she had permitted him to +arrange what he desired. Since then he had not thought of it, and she, +for his sake, had been unwilling to make a change. + +If weighed down beneath a load of crime, Everard could scarcely have +felt a heavier oppression of shame and guilt than he did on entering his +mother’s room. She never raised her eyes; and, during the few moments of +waiting that followed, while Robert sat beside her and kissed her, he +stood stiff, stern, and immoveable, like a culprit before her. + +Hope gave a slight push to a chair, as if to desire him to sit down--a +simple movement, and yet, in the feeling towards him which it exhibited, +coming like a drop of cold water in the desert. It was the only comfort +that came to him that miserable night. + +When dinner was ready, Robert gave his arm to his mother, and tenderly +led her into the room where it was prepared. He was about to sit down at +the head of the table, when a recollection suddenly came over him, and, +colouring crimson, he drew back after seating his mother, and +hesitatingly made a step towards Everard; but the look of inexpressible +anguish that met his glance, drove him back; and though with a still +higher colour he sat down. + +The wish for Mrs. Vavasour’s presence had been, as was said, mistaken +tenderness; so Robert acknowledged during the wretched half-hour that +followed. He and Hope once or twice attempted to speak; but their words, +few and faint, were the only ones. Mrs. Vavasour never raised her eyes, +never glanced towards Everard; while from her, in the longing for one +look of pity, _his_ eyes never wandered. + +When the time of endurance came to an end, Mrs. Vavasour rose, and +faintly saying she would go to bed, wished them good-night. + +Robert fondly kissed her, and thanked her for coming amongst them; and +then Everard approached with an effort, and hoarsely said, “Good-night, +mother.” + +She paused as she was turning away, leaning on Hope--paused for him to +kiss her; but, except the pause, there was nothing inviting in her +manner, and he dared not speak. The calm, cold kiss was given, and she +went on. + +Hope came for a short time to make tea for her cousins, and when she +left them they remained alone and undisturbed; but no word on either +side was said. Robert took up a book, and Everard followed his +example--the former not even attempting to read, the latter attempting +it that the torment of thought which rolled round and round within him, +as in the mind of a maniac, might, for a moment, be stayed--but, in +vain; and so another hour passed. + +Everard then threw down his book, and left the room. On his departure, +Robert threw down his, and leaning his head against the chimney-piece, +remained there in abstraction, or meditation, far into the night. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + The sun shines in his fall brightness but the very + moment before he passes under a cloud. + SOUTH. + + +There was a large dinner party at Mr. Gresham’s on the third night after +Mr. Vavasour’s funeral. He had been extremely shocked at Mr. Vavasour’s +sudden death. Not that, according to his calculations, his life was a +good one; not that he desired any more than he expected any great delay, +before the old towers of Audley Court came into Robert’s possession, but +he would certainly have preferred, could he have had a voice in the +matter, that the death of Mr. Vavasour should have occurred at another +time, and been arranged in another manner. + +He would have preferred a short illness, some preparation for the +inevitable event; more than all, he would have preferred that a thorough +reconciliation with Robert should have taken place. His conscience was +not perfectly easy as to his late behaviour, and, therefore, he felt +aggrieved. He would have desired in one conversation to set forth his +reasons to Mr. Vavasour, and to make known to him his generous designs +regarding Robert and his family. The unexpected stroke of death before +such explanations could be made, injured him in the tenderest point, and +he felt equally wronged and distressed. He was also sorry for Robert. So +much of heart and fancy as he had, Robert had touched, and he was +certainly grieved for the blow he must have received. + +Altogether, therefore, he was shocked; and as a mark both of his shock +and of his respect, he closed his house to visitors, and retrained from +going into society. But he found the week’s seclusion tedious; and on +the day of the funeral, observing to Angela that he had done more than +was customary in the eyes of the world, since the world was not aware of +his connection with Mr. Vavasour, he desired her to write invitations to +a number of persons, whose names he put into her hand. + +Angela’s shock had been more deep and lasting than her father’s. At +first her thoughts were for others. She thought with sorrow of the +breaking up of that home whose happiness she had so often envied; she +grieved with intense pity for him whose life she well knew was bound up +with his father’s; and she was awed and solemnised by the sudden blow, +with the overwhelming awe of the young and impressible. These +impressions were followed by acuter sensations; selfish hopes and fears. +Hopes that Robert would withdraw from his pursuit; fears lest his new +position should subject her to a stronger pressure; a dread above all +lest the length of time that had elapsed since her father’s acceptance +of his proposal, should involve her in toils from which there would be +no escape. Her determination did not waver, but the future was no place +of peace or certainty to her distracted and excited thoughts. + +“What is the matter with you, Angela?” enquired Miss Vansittart, one of +the guests at the dinner party, when the ladies returned to the +drawing-room. “Come, do talk to me. Mamma and Mrs. Broadhurst have +plenty to say to each other, and I wish to make some serious enquiries.” + +“What is the matter?” Angela replied coldly; for though Miss Vansittart +was on most intimate terms in the house, she had never permitted her to +be on intimate terms with her. + +“Why the matter is that you look shockingly ill; and as you are not +subject to vapours, I suppose there is good reason for it. You have +looked moderately ill for two or three weeks, but supposing there to be +some good cause shortly to be made known, I held my tongue. To-night, +however, you look ill without any moderation, and as I cannot conceive +in your circumstances what can make you ill, I wish to be enlightened. +Don’t tell me, a headache. You never have headaches, or if you do, you +don’t cry about them. Come now, what is the matter?” + +“I am worried, I own,” replied Angela. + +“But what about? young ladies have only two sources of worry--poverty, +and love. As the first is quite out of the question it must be the +second. So now tell me. Is some lover inconstant? No, in your position +that can’t be. Is some lover forbidden? Come now, Angela, what is it?” + +“A cause you would never guess. You may as well leave it alone Adelaide, +for I am not going to tell.” + +“How provoking you are! I wonder who is in your confidence. I +wonder.... Oh! my goodness, Angela, what lovely lace!” she suddenly +exclaimed. “Where did you get it? I am sure it is new.” + +“Papa gave it to me last week on my birthday.” + +“You lucky creature! Why, Angela, it is priceless. What would I not give +for one yard of it!” + +“I wish you had it all; I don’t care one straw about it.” + +“I am sure I wish I had. Really, Angela, it provokes me to think how the +good gifts of this world are wasted upon you. If I were in your position +what would I not be and do. Beauty, riches, lovers--all that heart can +wish; I have sleepless nights of envy when I think of it, and you, in +the meanwhile, make no use of them at all. If I could but be in your +position for one month--for one week--for one hour.” + +“I give it all up to you, Adelaide. My position, as you call it, gives +me no pleasure.” + +“Would you then, truly and honestly, change with me if you could?” + +“With you? No,” Angela said for the first time with warmth in her tone, +“not for the whole world.” + +“Ah! then you are not so indifferent as you pretend. Now I will tell you +what I should do if I were in your place. First of all, I should _not_ +marry. I dare say you are surprised, because I talk sometimes of lovers; +but that has nothing to do with the question. I, in my place, should +marry directly if I could, and mean to marry as soon as a proper person +appears; but, in your position, I should not marry for years to come. +Lovers of course I should have--that would be one of the pleasures; even +my brother Alfred, though he is but _un petit poisson_, I should allow +to swell my train; but marriage I should reserve till I had exhausted +the pleasures of my first youth. Oh, Angela! my heart is ready to break +with rage and envy when I think what I could be in your position--how +gloriously dressed, how glittering with jewels, how envied, how +admired--and you, you stupid creature, you make no use of it at all.” + +Angela made no answer to this rhapsody. She was, in truth, so perfectly +aware of what Miss Vansittart would say when the subject of her +“position” came under discussion, and was so accustomed to these bursts +of envy that she was in the habit of letting her mind wander as it +pleased; and being at this moment much occupied with other thoughts, she +had wandered so far as to be unable to give the proper signs of +attention at the end. + +Miss Vansittart was about to begin a new attack on perceiving her +abstraction, when the entrance of the gentlemen diverted her attention. + +Mr. Gresham walked in, swelling with pride and happiness. His dinner +party had entirely restored his conscience to complacency, and in the +near approach of the fulfilment of his wishes, he felt a satisfaction, +an elation so all-pervading and rapturous, that it was impossible +entirely to suppress its signs in the outward man. With something of a +princely tread he crossed the room, making his bland and gracious +addresses to all. + +“I suppose you and your papa have had a difference of opinion, Angela,” +whispered Miss Vansittart, “for while you have made yourself, if it were +possible, ugly, he looks handsomer than ever.” + +Mr. Gresham did not hear this complimentary speech, but he saw Miss +Vansittart’s glance observing him, and came to pay his devoirs to her. +She was a young lady after his own heart, such a one as he wished Angela +to be, well dressed, well mannered, and accomplished; and though not +handsome, making herself handsome by the energy of her mind and the fine +taste of her dress. She lived to some purpose, as he often remarked to +his daughter. He came up to her with a fade compliment on her attire; +and she, well aware how to please and accommodate herself to men’s +various minds, after smiling over the compliment, alluded to Angela’s +lace, a topic she easily guessed would be acceptable, and said, “In me +it is some merit to dress well, but in Angela it is none. Who would not +look well in this?” + +Mr. Gresham was highly gratified. He said he entirely agreed in her +remarks, and was delighted to receive her approval of his choice. He had +purchased the lace himself. It was not to be supposed that he had much +taste in such matters, but he confessed that the pattern and the texture +had appeared to him singularly beautiful, and although the price.... + +“Oh! Mr. Gresham, what is price to you?” interrupted Miss Vansittart +laughingly; and once again she enlarged upon the beauty of the lace and +the happiness of its possessor, until Mr. Gresham, in the expansive +benevolence of the moment, requested her to allow him to make her happy +by a gift of the very same nature. + +Such a conclusion had not been entirely unexpected, certainly not +undesired by his auditor, and after a few becoming hesitations and much +flattering gratitude, the gift was accepted. + +Elevated to a yet higher pinnacle of satisfaction by the influence of +this new act of generosity, Mr. Gresham then betook himself to his +favourite associate, Mrs. Vansittart, to make a report of what he had +done, and to receive the fulsome flatteries in which he delighted. + +After dwelling on the good fortune and gratitude of Adelaide, and on Mr. +Gresham’s good fortune in being able to throw his royal gifts around +him, Mrs. Vansittart then touched on the subject which had excited her +curiosity as well as her daughter’s. + +“Now Mr. Gresham, do tell us what is going on. Angela looks just as +young ladies look when a certain important event is on the eve of +fulfilment; and judging from _your_ looks I am sure it may be gathered +that the event, whatever it is, will draw forth all our congratulations. +I hope I am not indiscreet in making such remarks, for you know that +your interest is as dear to me as my own.” + +“By no means indiscreet,” he replied graciously, “and he assured that +when time and circumstances permit me to speak, you will be the first, +the very first to whom I shall hasten, for the congratulations you have +in store.” + +“Now indeed my curiosity is excited,” she continued smilingly, after +this avowal, “you have actually confessed that some great event is +impending. I will not be indiscreet, but you must excuse some excitement +on such a subject. For what shall we prepare? Is it a duke, or a +marquis, or an earl? nothing lower than an earl I am certain--or is it a +prince? We know you may take what you please, you have but to stretch +out your hand and coronets are scattered at your feet.” + +Mr. Gresham bowed with some gravity. The thought of his moderation was +not without annoyance. He was half ashamed of the wisdom with which he +had controlled his desires, and restrained his power of choice. But +after one moment’s consideration, the advantages of the choice he had +made resumed their sway--the personal charms of Robert, the ancient +family, the enormous territories which the union of the two proprietors +would unite.... No, he did not repent, he was proud of his moderate and +modest desires. Feeling it incumbent upon him, however, to explain his +motives beforehand, he began to lay the principles on which he acted in +a general way before his companion. His thoughts took their usual +didactic form; he pointed out that it did not appear to be the design of +Providence, that man should be possessed of every object of his desire, +and spoke with feeling of the sacrifices it was needful for all, even +for such as he to make,--thinking as he did so of the pressure he had +been forced to apply to his conscience. + +His harangue was lengthy and tedious, but the total impossibility of +discovering its drift, bore Mrs. Vavasour to the end. To the very last +word she expected light to dawn. When it concluded, however, as +driftless as it began, she turned away her head to swallow two yawns +which curiosity alone had hitherto held in check; when this relief was +obtained she turned to him again, and with a countenance of renewed +interest observed that his sentiments were very just, his philosophy +much to be commended, with other expressions of a like flattering +nature. + +Such commendation encouraged him to lay before her some further views on +the general government of the world, and he was opening his discourse by +a remark on the necessity of considering all matters, however small, in +a broad and enlarged, and in fact a philosophical view, when _he_ was +interrupted, and Mrs. Vansittart relieved, by the approach of the groom +of the chambers, who informed Mr. Gresham that Mr. Robinson, his +solicitor, was waiting below, and wished to have five minutes +conversation with him in private. + +A message from Robert he immediately suggested to himself, or, perhaps, +a summons to Audley Court; and his chest heaved with joyful +anticipations. + +Desiring that Mr. Robinson should be shown into his study, he turned to +Mrs. Vansittart to make his apologies for the interruption, and but for +his own eagerness to be gone, would have opened a new discourse on the +duties and the responsibilities of fathers, proprietors, and possibly, +man in general. Being in haste, however, his words though polite and +urbane, were short and to the purpose. + +“No apologies, Mr. Gresham, I beg,” said his smiling companion, always +ready with her appropriate flattery. “We all know that ‘uneasy lies the +head that wears a crown.’ Pray go and transact your necessary business, +and we your subjects must reconcile ourselves to your absence as we +can.” + +He bowed, smiled, elevated his nose under the consciousness of the +important matters that did devolve upon his head, and regally left the +room, a slight bow embracing and apologizing to the whole circle of his +company. + +His return after the space of about twenty minutes was of another +nature. In vain “Richard strove to be himself.” In vain he endeavoured +to cast his bland and condescending glances around him. His nature was +in truth too true and simple to be able to act a part. He showed his +elation of heart in his own greatness and prosperity, and now in signs +as little to be mistaken, disappointment sat upon his brow. + +Of what had passed, however, he said nothing. He entered into +conversation on the state of the atmosphere with a quiet old gentleman, +and from the safe position by his side cast side-long glances at the +clock. Sidelong, yet evident; bidding all discerning observers take +notice that he wished them to begone. + +Mrs. Vansittart was complying enough to act upon the hint, and by the +bustle of her departure to force the same conviction upon the less +discerning of the guests. Devoured with internal curiosity, but +outwardly as placid as if they neither saw nor felt anything of the +kind, she and Adelaide took leave, and in ten minutes the father and +daughter were alone. + +Angela had seen, in common with the rest of the company, the change in +her father’s manner; and nothing but that strange self-restraint which +society teaches, could have home her through the minutes that followed +his re-entrance. Even as it was, her heart beat so violently, and her +colour varied so rapidly, that it drew upon her not only the attention +of Miss Vansittart, but also of the young gentleman who was entertaining +her with some platitudes; into whose bosom her agitated reception of his +words, introduced for the first time the idea of making a venture for +the beautiful heiress. + +When the company was gone, she seated herself on the sofa, in breathless +anxiety, but in silence, and so awaited a communication from her father. +Nor did he keep her waiting long. + +“I have been summoned, Angela,” he began, standing before the fireplace, +and fixing his stare upon her, “to a private audience with Mr. Robinson. +He came on a matter of importance. He has been dining, it appears, with +Mr. Low, the late Mr. Vavasour’s adviser and solicitor, and from him he +has received a private and confidential communication of a most +extraordinary and unforeseen event; an event I may say which no human +care and foresight could possibly have foreseen. He naturally and +dutifully, supposing it to be a matter of interest to me, hastened +hither with the intelligence. I cannot blame myself, for as I before +stated, human foresight is bounded, and man can but use such powers as +have been committed to him. I acted for the best, I acted with all the +consideration, the forethought, the discretion, that man can bring to +bear upon any scheme, or plan, or desire he may form, I acted under a +full sense of my responsibility, and yet----” here he waved his hands, +as much as to say if he had failed, he washed his hands of it. “I +believe, my love,” he resumed, “I have not yet informed you of the +nature of this most _unforeseen_ circumstance, unforeseen and +unfortunate indeed, as when I tell you what has occurred, I believe you +will agree with me in denominating it. It is my painful duty to declare +that the late Mr. Vavasour has thought proper to disinherit his eldest +son, and to leave all his possessions to the younger,--to Mr. Everard +Vavasour in short.” + +Notwithstanding the beatings of her heart Angela never moved, neither +did her eyes once wander from her father’s face during his long +discourse, but as he concluded she started up with a smothered +exclamation of dismay, and a look of misery so intense, that even Mr. +Gresham’s unperceiving eyes perceived it. He made a step towards her, +and it was well he did so, for the movement brought him just in time to +catch her as she fell senseless, and to save her head from a blow +against an ornamental table near which she fell. + +To recover a fainting girl was a new office for Mr. Gresham; and having +placed her upright on the sofa, and held under her nose a bottle, +snatched from the table, of costly but strong perfume, strong and +overpowering enough to have made a giant faint, he began to perceive +that his efforts were not successful, and rang the bell for her maid. + +“Miss Gresham is overtired to-night,” he said when she appeared, “the +party was large and the rooms close. She had better remain here until +she has recovered herself,” and supposing he had deceived the +undeceivable lady who waited on Angela, he kissed his daughter, and +betook himself to uncomfortable reflections in his own room. + +Three sources of comfort at length dawned upon him, and made him, after +all his troubles, sleep almost as peaceably as usual. + +The first sprung from the possibility of Everard’s refusing to profit by +his father’s will. The second from the certainty that should he accept +it, and could Mr. Gresham free himself from his engagement to Robert, +there was Everard waiting to receive his daughter as a bride. The third +topic of consolation arose from his own attachment to Robert in his +personal capacity. If the worst came to the worst, still Robert was +Robert, with all those charms and graces which rivet the eyes of the +world. To receive comfort from this source required a strong effort, and +nothing but Robert’s fascination could have inspired it. Still, if all +else failed, there _was_ consolation here, and having thus in the +multitude of his consolers found hope, he retired with composure and +dignity to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + Mortal, that standest on a point of time, + With an eternity on either hand, + Thou hast one duty above all sublime, + Where thou art placed serenely there to stand. + + To stand undaunted by the threatening death, + Or harder circumstance of living doom, + Nor less untempted by the odorous breath + Of Hope, that rises even from the tomb. + R. M. MILNES. + + +It is stated by some who have written on insanity, and who, from study +and observation, are competent to form an opinion, that a well-regulated +and well-principled mind has (though of course not in every case) a +power to controul and withstand madness, which the unprincipled do not +possess. Much more has a well-regulated mind the power to controul that +temporary insanity which strong excitement brings. Not that a regulated +mind feels less; not that the stirring up of the passions and affections +produces in such a mind one whit less of disturbance; it is simply that +the constant exercise of self-restraint gives to it a power over its own +self, enabling it to raise a voice above the storm, and to say “Peace, +be still.” + +When Everard flew back to his own room on that sad evening, it was +because the tumult of his thoughts was becoming unbearable; he needed +the relief of solitude that he might by bodily movements check the stir +and bewilderment within. He closed his door and resumed his impetuous +pacings up and down; and passion--bringing along with it that +aberration of intellect it is so apt to bring--was on the point of +resuming its sway, when once again the recollection of Mr. Addison’s +grave words presented itself to him: “It becomes a man to act like a +man.” + +It was true, as Mr. Addison had observed, that Everard of late had +loosened the reins with which he had so long controlled himself. He had +suffered absolute torture of mind in the thoughts of Angela as his +brother’s wife, and it had upset him. But though such an upsetting is +dangerous, though the loosening of the bent bow is apt to be violent in +its recoil, yet in truth the habits of many years are not really +destroyed in a short time; that which has once been familiar is not +easily swept away, and if invited back is in waiting to return as a +ready guest. + +He paused as the words flashed upon him in his weary walk, and asked +himself whether these passionate movements and unbridled thoughts, were +such as could well decide upon a question of such momentous import. With +the question his truer self resumed its place, and putting away the +child and madman he became a man. + +His first resolve was to think no more that night; a resolve easily +made, hardly performed. And yet he did perform it, so far at least as +his will was concerned, for there is an under current of thought which +even the will itself cannot always subdue. He betook himself to his +common nightly devotions--since his father’s death, more seriously +performed than latterly had been the case--and the attempt to be still +stilled him. And once stilled, those devotions, while they increased the +sense of the responsibility of his decision, cleared, calmed, and +elevated the tone of his mind, bade feeling and passion stand aside, +while reason and conscience debated and gave judgment. He then lay down +to rest, a strong hand still bridling the flood of thought, and +exhausted even by the force of his self-restraint, sleep came at last +and steeped him in the repose he needed. + +He woke early, for the keen sense of a task to be done influences the +mind even in sleep, and calls it to its duties; but he woke calm and +refreshed, and with renewed energies to set himself to think. + +In the course of the few early hours that followed, his decision was +made, and once made, he was prepared to act upon it. He decided to +accept his father’s will. This decision was not brought about by any +consideration of the question generally; in a thousand cases his weight +might have been thrown into the opposite scale. He was prepared to be +blamed; prepared to be misinterpreted; prepared for evil report, and the +imputation of selfish motives. Every possibility lay clear before his +eyes, and yet his resolve was taken. It was he himself who could not do +otherwise; it was he, Everard Vavasour, who could not oppose the last +request of the father he had loved so well, and whom in life he had +trusted with so entire and perfect a trust. + +No decision was ever made more solemnly, and never in his life had such +a prayer passed from Everard’s lips, as that morning’s prayer, that he +might do his duty, whatever the cost might be, in the new circumstances +on which he was entering. + +Thus resolved, he went down to breakfast, the composure of decision, and +something of the dignity of a brave and holy purpose already marking his +air and features. A brave and holy purpose--some may think a mistaken +one--but brave and holy in him, because a sincere and costly one. + +He found Hope alone in the breakfast-room. She was standing at the +window while she waited for her cousins. Her bearing up through her +many sad offices and many trials had been wonderful; but as she stood +now in the light, her fair skin contrasting with her mourning dress, +Everard saw how trial had touched her. The soft, childlike roundness of +her features was gone, and though her countenance was tranquil, it had +not the unearthly quietness and serenity of other days. + +He went to her, and put his arm round her with a warmth natural to him, +yet rarely indulged in, and asked, “Are you as miserable, dear Hope, as +all the rest in this miserable house?” + +She looked up in his face. + +“I know you must be unhappy, Everard, but it must not be _yesterday_ +that makes you so.” + +His lips trembled, and tears came into his eyes. + +Before he could steady his voice to answer, she went on--“Oh! Everard, +we think too much of these things. If it should be for the saving of +Robert’s soul, you will not regret what it cost you. I knew how it would +be; I dreaded it long ago; I felt it certain in those last days; and +though it was grief and pain at first, I see in it now the dawn of that +day for which we have waited so long. Oh! Everard, be stedfast, and do +not fear, and what seems a grief will be a blessing.” + +He looked into her eyes, kindling with no earthly light, and felt their +fire animating his soul. “God bless you, dearest Hope,” he said, +stooping and kissing her, “you have given me comfort and courage. You +must pray,” he added with solemn earnestness, “for me as you do for +Robert, for him and for me, that we may not faint or fail.” + +Robert entered as he spoke, and Hope turned from the window to meet him, +and to take her seat at the table. Everard leant out to compose himself +and to gather courage, and while he did so, Robert sat down. + +When he turned, Robert was seated by Hope, and the place at the table +which had been his father’s, that place in which with so keen a pang he +had seen Robert the day before, was left for him. + +Such things are but trifles, but some trifles speak with a thundering +voice. Everard’s heart swelled, and for a moment with a return of +passion he was about even with fierceness and irritation, to remove his +chair to the vacant place opposite Robert, when a glance from Hope +calmed him. His blood rose to his temples, but he sat down, feeling that +in so doing he announced to Robert that his decision was made. That +Robert so accepted it was plain from the deepening colour on his cheek, +and his eyes stedfastly bent downward. And thus the new life began at +Audley Court. + +Hope left the room before her cousins had done breakfast, and they +lingered at the table, both longing yet unable to speak. It was not till +both had risen, and Robert, after wandering once or twice absently about +the room, had actually his hand on the door to leave it, that Everard +took courage and arrested him. + +“Robert!” + +Robert turned back at once, and the brothers stood flushed and agitated +facing each other. + +Everard composed himself with an effort and then said gravely, “Robert, +I have determined to accept my father’s will.” + +“Of course,” said Robert hurriedly. “Did you think I expected or even +wished it should be otherwise?” + +“I cannot tell. I have thought till I have been nearly mad. Oh! Robert, +what should you do, if you stood in my place?” + +“What _I_ should do is not to the purpose,” he said sadly. “I never did +obey my father’s wishes as you have done, but if I were _you_ Everard, I +should do as you do. You never have, and you cannot now disobey him.” + +“I cannot,” Everard said passionately. + +“And besides, you have _promised_. Do you think I forget _that_ time, +and _those_ words, and _your_ answer. No never, if I live a hundred +years.” + +Everard held out his hand, with a vain effort at composure, and, as he +grasped that of his brother, agitatedly said, “Then forgive me now and +for ever, and promise that no distrust or ill-will shall ever grow up +between us.” + +“I promise,” Robert said gravely, and Everard withdrew his hand and +hurried out of the room. + +An hour or two later he came down and looked into the library. Robert +was sitting at the writing table with a pen in his hand, and a harassed +look on his brow. + +Everard asked him to walk with him. Robert acquiesced, and throwing down +his pen with an air of relief, and a toss of impatience and disgust, +followed him from the room. + +“There are some things, Robert,” Everard began, in the voice of grave +composure in which he evidently tried to speak, “the discussion of which +cannot be delayed. What you would have done for me you must let me do +for you, and you must believe that it is not to remind you of what has +passed; not to remind you of what I now must be, that I bring them +forward. What is done cannot be undone--let us make it bearable by +openness and truth with each other.” + +“I am very sure, Everard, whatever you do is done from kindness,” Robert +replied; some anxiety in his tone, and yet a kind of relief also in his +brother’s plain dealing. “I perfectly trust you.” + +“Perhaps you guess what I am going to say. If this change gets wind, it +may cause you some trouble. There may be unpleasant applications. Dear +Robert, will you remember that all is to be as if it were yours. It +seems so strange to have to say it, I hardly know how, but I do it as I +would be done by. Will you write to Mr. Low and make what arrangements +you please, and promise me that no past thing shall distress you more. +For the future--that needs more thought than we can give it now.” + +More than once Robert’s colour rose. He did feel, and feel acutely the +pain and humiliation in thus being subject to his brother, but his +better nature struggled and conquered. + +“Thanks, Everard, a thousand times. I will not be such a pitiful fool as +to refuse your kindness, or conceal from you that it is a relief. I was +tormenting myself with those cursed, yes cursed debts when you came in. +I will write to Mr. Low as you tell me, and we will see what can be +done. As to the future I have already thought of that, but I cannot +speak of it to-day. To-morrow I will talk to you again. In the meanwhile +you had better think for me. Something I must do.” + +“_Must_ you?” Everard asked with a collected manner, but a glow of +crimson on his cheek. + +Robert looked at him, but merely said, “I suppose so.” And as after this +allusion constraint again stole over them, the walk was not much +prolonged. + +One other and most painful duty remained for Everard on that day. It was +to announce to his mother his decision. He had seen her in the morning, +but the same calm kiss and silent greeting and averted eyes had received +him. Duty received and endured him; he saw that; but feeling rebelled. +He shrank from what had to be done. + +To prepare her in some degree for his announcement, he desired Hope to +ask if he might speak to her. It was late in the afternoon, and having +at Robert’s earnest request (to whom she could less than ever refuse +anything) taken a tottering walk round the garden, she was lying in her +room, weeping in darkness and alone. Her sense of duty to her husband +compelled her to acquiesce in his petition, and Everard entered; but +nothing invited him to her side. He approached and she allowed him to +take his seat by her; but still no look helped or cheered him. + +“Mother,” he began at once in his deep voice, touching from its +tremulous earnestness, “will you not give me your blessing on the task I +have undertaken?” + +They were bold words, so bold that she was startled from her coldness, +and looked at him. + +The movement helped and encouraged him. “It is a task hard enough at the +best,” he continued, “but without your love and blessing more than I +have power to bear. Mother,” he went on in strong agitation, seizing +both her hands and gazing into her face, “I know what you must feel +towards me, but will you not consider _who_ it was that laid it on me, +and to _his_ will submit as I do.” + +She was overcome. For the moment melted, even though rebellious still. +She drew him towards her, and twice kissed his brow. No words followed; +no words, indeed, could have been spoken; for that relenting of the +heart was not such as language could express: it was no blessing, no +sanction, it was but the softened spirit shewing sympathy with her son’s +pain. Such as it was, however, Everard was satisfied and relieved; and +unwilling at that time to distress her further, kissed her, and left her +alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + I kneel + There--meekly as you taught me--when you raised + For the first time my little hands to God; + A child, obedient and infirm as then, + I do implore you tell your wretched son + What he must suffer. + GLENCOE.--_A Tragedy._ + + +The words of Hope, his mother’s mute relenting, the generous feeling +shown by Robert, and Mr. Addison’s approbation of his decision, assisted +to compose and calm Everard’s mind; and yet even while he thankfully +felt how it smoothed his way before him, it in some respects added to +the difficulty of his task. The sight and feeling of the excellence of +Robert’s nature, made his own mind rebel more strongly against his +decision, and he was well aware would make the injustice which had been +done him more loudly called in question. + +At Everard’s desire Mr. Addison made known on the following morning to +the household and the principal tenantry, the change that had taken +place. Before nightfall, it was known and discussed far and wide. +_Consternation_ was the effect of the disclosure. Consternation, in the +house, and out of the house; among the rich and the poor. + +Robert’s faults and errors were many of them well known, for everything +is known, but they had never come _home_ to his home. Mr. Vavasour, in +the silence of his study, might muse upon the recklessness of principle +he showed, and look forward to the issue of the course on which he had +entered. But consequences are rarely thought of by the uneducated, and +the future is but a shadow, when the charm of the present is felt. When +Robert came to his home it was as the gay, generous, open-hearted, and +open-handed young man; a character which even with personal charms far +less than his, has an attraction none can withstand. Had it been +possible to set forth the certain truth, that if Robert went on as he +had begun, the hardly saved and much beloved inheritance of his +forefathers must before many years be in the hands of strangers, that +consideration might possibly have had weight, might in some degree have +alleviated the blow; but such words had never been _said_ by Mr. +Vavasour, and none said them now. The blow fell, and in his peoples’ +eyes it was without excuse. With such a loyalty as the Lee family in the +novel of Woodstock contemplated the misfortunes of Charles the Second, +so rose up the hearts of his servants and his tenantry to sympathise +with Robert. + +Everard had observation enough, and he saw tears in the eyes of the +elder men and women, stern looks on the brows of the young. He had not +expected, he certainly had not wished it should be otherwise, and yet +the language of his heart might be expressed in that of St. Paul, “What +mean ye to weep and to break mine heart?” Was it not worse for him than +for them? Had he followed the impulse of a nature only too quick to feel +slights and distrust, he would have withdrawn himself in very cowardice +till the first storm of astonishment and dismay was overpast; but the +same sense of duty which prompted him to act at all, prompted him also +to act bravely; and very conscious that supervision was necessary, and +some guiding head wanting, he determined at once to rouse himself to +the performance of all the duties that must now be his. + +On the night after the disclosure there was sad and serious conversation +in the servants’ hall. The butler who had been many years in the house, +came to talk it over with the old coachman, and many others gathered +round to hear. + +“I never thought I should have had to blame my poor master,” the butler +said. “I never felt before, but that his word was like the law and the +gospel. If he said a thing was to be, I had no more a mind to say a word +against it, than to the King on his throne. And it’s a hard thing to +have to give him up; but mortal men are prone to err, and my poor master +was like the rest of us.” + +“It’s the _hinjustice_,” said the old coachman. “Ever since I was born, +man and boy, there was never a time when I didn’t think _hinjustice_ +was _hinjustice_; and if my poor master that’s in his grave was standing +before me, I would tell him so to his face.” + +“Very true, Roger. Mr. Everard is a quiet young gentleman, dutiful and +good to his father, and kind to all. I have not a word to say against +Mr. Everard: but he never was born to this; and he’s no more equal to +Mr. Robert than I am; and to thrust himself into another’s place, is, as +you say Roger, _injustice_. Servants must do their duty, but they can +reason as well as other men.” + +“Servants must do their duty of course,” observed a young groom who was +devotedly attached to Robert, “but more than my duty I won’t do for Mr. +Everard or anybody. I’ll do my work, but I won’t call him my master, not +if he puts me in the stocks for it. It’s injustice, and I’ll show him I +think so as sure as I live.” + +“Now Thomas,” said the elderly housemaid, who had seen Everard’s grief, +and had been deeply touched by his sufferings, “I won’t have you speak +so. Mr. Everard, poor dear, feels it all as sadly as the rest of us. +That evening after the will had been read, I went in to take a kettle to +his room, and he was standing there. Poor dear! I never shall forget his +face. I thought there must be something bad, and I asked him if I could +bring him something to do him good, and he said ‘no Betsey, nothing,’ so +bitterly, as if nothing could ever do him good again. Poor dear! I +thought it was about his papa, for he was always uncommon fond of his +papa; but no doubt it was the will that troubled him. Depend upon it he +feels it as bad as we do.” + +“Then why not throw it up, Betsy,” said the coachman. “No man is bound +to _hinjustice_ as I believe, and I think I know the law.” + +“Well, but then he promised,” she said with a look of awe. “When my poor +master was a dying, and the young gentlemen arrived, Mrs. Allen was +standing outside, lest she might be called to my poor mistress in her +grief--and she _heard_. She didn’t know then what it meant, but she +heard my master ask Mr. Everard if he would obey him when he was dead +and gone; and she heard Mr. Everard, poor dear, make a kind of a vow for +ever and ever, and she said she thought it meant to be a good young +gentleman, but no doubt this was in his mind. Mrs. Allen told me so +to-day, and she says she thinks Mr. Everard can’t help himself no more +than a marriage vow.” + +Betsy’s communication produced a great effect so far as Everard was +concerned. The butler and the old coachman both declared that a vow was +a vow, and must be kept; and resolved to do their duties to Everard as +if he were their true master. The young groom alone held out, and said +that whatever others did he didn’t care--“he would never call Everard +Mr. Vavasour, not if he lived for twenty years in his service,”--and +there was so much dignity in his look and speech as he made the +announcement, that his fellow servants could not help regarding him as +belonging more or less to the army of martyrs and themselves as poor +creatures in comparison. + +A trifling circumstance softened towards Everard the hearts of his +servants, and gave them a better understanding of his feelings. On the +morning on which he determined to assume his new position in the house, +he marked it by the recommencement of family prayers, which, with only +occasional intermissions, had been read by his father for nearly fifty +years. He was too much agitated as yet for this to be otherwise than an +effort, but his frame of mind was also that which almost finds pleasure +in trying itself. He miscalculated, however, his powers of self-command. +Against the many sad thoughts natural to the occasion, he had steeled +himself, but one sight overset him. It was Robert who had discovered his +intention, and was seated with the rest, and awaiting him; as if prompt, +only too prompt in Everard’s eyes, to show obedience to his wishes. + +Thus overset, he could not recover himself, and when he sat down and +opened the Bible at the second lesson for the day, no voice came at his +call. The maids, soft-hearted and excitable, and already with their +handkerchiefs to their eyes, gave way to their feelings in stifled sobs, +and a most painful scene might have ensued, had not Hope, putting aside +all selfish feelings of nervousness and timidity, risen from her seat, +and drawing a chair to Everard’s side, begged him aloud to let her read +for him. + +He acquiesced with a look of gratitude which was not lost upon the +watchful audience, and as the servants returned to their work, “poor Mr. +Everard” was said, with a heartfelt tone which showed a real relenting. +It even affected the resolution of the young groom, for in the course of +the day, after giving the matter due consideration, he confidentially +told the coachman that if “Mr. Everard seemed to make a point of it, he +should see what he could do after a bit, about calling him Mr. +Vavasour.” + +Hope’s conduct, her utter forgetfulness of self, touched Robert deeply, +and as they walked together to the breakfast room, he laid his hand on +her arm and in an unsteady voice said, “I have no right to say such +things now, Hope, but if ever there was an angel on earth, I believe you +are one.” + +He did not look at her, nor seek to hear her speak, nor did he touch +upon the subject further, but this slight allusion to old feelings, the +only one he ever made, brought a beating to her heart, and a flush to +her cheek, which told to herself at least too plainly how little had as +yet been done in separating her life from his. + +When breakfast was over and Hope had left the room, her cousins still +lingering at the table, Robert suddenly and hurriedly took a letter from +his pocket, and put it into Everard’s hands, observing, “I wish you to +see it before it goes.” + +It was addressed to Mr. Gresham. The communication was short, for Robert +had nothing of the complete letter-writer about him. He said only what +he had to say, suppressing at all times feeling and reflections, and big +words of all kinds. + + +“Dear Mr. Gresham,--You will have heard before this of the change in my +circumstances. As our engagement was entered into in the supposition of +my being in the place of an elder son, that change dissolves it, or if +anything more is required, I hasten to set you free from what can no +longer be agreeable to you. I sincerely thank you for the kind +intentions you expressed towards me, and for your confidence in the +promises I fear I very rashly made. + +“As my engagement was with _you_, I suppose my duty is to communicate +only with you; but if I did not very well know that Miss Gresham’s +consent, (if she consented,) would only have been a matter of obedience, +I should not have been contented to break it without some reference to +her. + + “I remain yours, very truly, + “ROBERT VAVASOUR. + +“Audley Court, April 23.” + + +Everard read the letter with a burning cheek, such as the slightest +allusion to that subject always produced; but he returned it without a +look or word. + +“I must of course be guided by what he says,” Robert continued in the +hurried tone in which he had before spoken, “but I know what that will +be.” + +“Perhaps not,” Everard said gravely. + +“Yes I do. I know him better than you.” And then as if glad to shift the +subject, Robert continued more easily, “And now, Everard, as to the +future; I must do something. Have you thought for me? What shall it be?” + +“Under _any_ circumstances,” Everard asked, the changing colour again +showing to what he alluded. + +“Yes, I must and will do something; whatever I can; that is not much I +fear.” + +“Then I _have_ thought,” Everard said with some hesitation, “and I have +written this letter--I brought it to show you in case you liked my +opinion. What do you think of it?” and he tossed a letter across the +table. + +Everard was more accustomed to write than Robert, and his letter was a +better one, but like his it was concise and straightforward, with an +entire suppression of all reflections on what he said; and all +explanations regarding his own personal situation and conduct. It was +addressed to Mr. Perceval. It simply stated Robert’s circumstances, and +his wish for employment; mentioned _his_, Everard’s opinion, that it +should be employment in some public office; and asked his advice and +assistance in and upon the matter. Mr. Perceval’s assistance was very +valuable, as his interest with public men chanced to be considerable. + +“That will do famously,” Robert said, as he tossed it back to his +brother; “the very thing I should like best. Do you know,” he added, +“there have been times in these last months when I have longed even to +be a ploughman working for my bread.” + +“The _thing_ is different from the wish,” was Everard’s reply, as if he +understood the difference well. “To have to work is hard work +sometimes.” + +“The harder the better. If you had my thoughts, Everard,” he continued +in a tone of passion, “you would feel as I do, that employment must be +had. Get it settled for me as fast as you can, and let me be gone.” + +The way in which Robert put himself into Everard’s hands, in two days +looking to him and treating him as his natural guardian, was touching +and singular. If it proved on the one hand the worth and strength of +Everard’s nature, shewing it to be one on which man naturally leans, it +shewed on the other a beauty of disposition in the elder brother, which +even vice had been unable as yet to spoil. It showed that it was no +qualities on the surface, which won the love of the good and wise and +holy; but the qualities of the heart, that good soul on which Hope built +so much. + +It was four days before Mr. Gresham’s answer was received, for the post +was not so rapid a thing as now, in the days of this tale. When it +arrived, it was in its style very unlike Robert’s communication to him, +for it was lengthy, and wordy, and full of reflections, personal and +otherwise. + +There was an essay on engagements, how binding and when; there was the +usual essay on the responsibilities of fathers, proprietors, &c.; there +was an essay also on the duty of resistance to mere feeling. After this +came the sum total, that he allowed the engagement _was_ dissolved. The +letter was very kind, however, and bore the traces of much struggle of +mind, and real feeling towards Robert. To give him up was evidently a +bitter pill. Of Angela he said nothing. For a young female to send a +message on such an occasion he was not prepared. + +A message, however, Robert did receive. + +He was sitting in the library an hour or two after breakfast, when Mr. +Addison put his head in at the door. + +“Can I speak with you for a moment, Robert?” he enquired, and being +eagerly desired to come in, he approached with a letter in his hand. + +“I suppose I am justified,” he said, “in shewing you this. Indeed it +requires to be read to be understood; for I could not trust myself to +repeat properly the substance of what it contains.” + +The letter was from Angela, written, as the style plainly showed, in +great agitation of mind. + + “Dear Mr. Addison, + + “I have nobody to apply to but you; to you, therefore, I must write + to say what I feel. My father tells me that Mr. Vavasour offers to + give up the engagement with him on account of his changed + circumstances, and that he accepts. He may accept, but I will not. + I would not for all the world do so dishonourable and ungenerous a + thing. _You_ know what I felt before, so you will not misunderstand + me now. It may break my heart, but I would rather die than act in + any other way. You have often said that if right is done, peace + will come at last, and so I hope peace will come at last to me, for + I am sure that I am right in what I intend. I have been too + obedient, but I will not be obedient now. I must leave it to you to + make known to Mr. Vavasour what I say; you must do it in the way + that it should be done. You will know best what is right, and, as I + said, I leave it to you. You must tell him that I will try to be a + good wife to him, and that if we went away from England it would be + easier to me. If he persists, I do not think my father will be hard + to persuade. Forgive me, and pity me, dear Mr. Addison, and do not + think I am doing a strange thing, for, indeed, it must be done. + + “Yours, affectionately, + “ANGELA GRESHAM.” + +Mr. Addison watched Robert intently as he read. That he was touched was +very plain. + +“Poor little thing,” he said tenderly, “I will write to her myself.” + +“Shall you accept, Robert?” + +“Accept! Mr. Addison,” he cried, “what do you take me for? I have given +her pain enough; I will set her mind at ease at once. Leave me the +letter, and I will write.” + +“Is it no temptation?” asked his old friend, looking fixedly at him. + +“Not the least, Mr. Addison. Don’t think better of me than I deserve. If +I could be a galley-slave just now, that might be a temptation. This is +none. I don’t speak of the future, for I know my resolutions are no +better than Delilah’s packthread when temptation comes, but if work can +keep me from temptation, I will work against any man.” He paused and +crossed his arms, and an expression of intense and painful feeling +gathered on his face. “When I remember what I have _done_, Mr. Addison,” +he continued, “that _death_ is on my shoulders, I only wonder I have the +power to live on as I do. But God is merciful I suppose, and does not +let remorse be harder than one can bear.” + +“No, Robert, for He gives a future, where all may yet be redeemed.” + +“Not _all_,” was the reply, with an accent of suffering, which haunted +Mr. Addison for many days. + +But he was thankful for the words that Robert had said, for so elastic +was his natural temperament, and so foreign was it to his nature to make +a show of any emotion he could suppress, that Mr. Addison had been +doubtful in what degree a real impression had been made. + +When left to himself Robert took Angela’s letter and answered it. + + “My dear Miss Gresham, + + “Not for worlds would I take advantage of the kind words you have + written about me. All is, and all should be, at an end between us; + for you know as well as I know that on neither side were there + feelings which could have won a blessing. I am going to make + myself very vile in your eyes and to tell you all the truth. It was + your position and my sad and sinful circumstances that led me to + think of you. My love, if I am not too unworthy to talk of love, + has long been altogether with another. It is a truth painful for me + to tell, and not flattering to you to hear, but you deserve + truth,--and my respect and gratitude, and, I will say, my affection + too, will not let me hide it from you. Now then you are free, and + God grant you may soon be happy also. + + “As you speak of my change of circumstances, I will tell you this, + it was not at first welcome but now it is. I am better pleased to + see Everard in my father’s place than I could ever have been to + stand there myself, for he is such a son as my father should have + had, and I, as we all know too well, am not. + + “Forgive me for all the anxiety and trouble I have caused you, and + forgive me also now if my words are too plain. I wish I could + better thank you for that kindness which I am sure I feel. + + “God bless you, + “ROBERT VAVASOUR.” + +When the letter was done Robert took it and Angela’s also, and went in +search of Everard. He found him with the steward, devoting himself, with +a sad and careworn face, to the understanding of all the intricacies of +the management of a property, large and laden with debt. Everard had a +clear head, but he was totally unaccustomed to business of this kind, +and his look as he hung over the books was so bewildered that it almost +drew from Robert a smile. + +“If you can spare one moment, Everard,” he said, as he paused at the +door, “I want you.” + +Everard coloured when he perceived that Robert saw his business, and +sprang up and followed him. + +“Just read these,” Robert said, “before they go;” and he put the two +letters into his hand. He turned away, but from a distance glanced at +his brother with an expression of archness about his eyes and lips. + +A burning blush as he read Angela’s letter, and a lip trembling with +suppressed emotion when he came to Robert’s words about himself--these +two signs of feeling he showed as he perused them, but this was all. +When he turned to Robert to replace them in his hand, it was not only +without agitation, but it was with an air of such indifference, as if +his opinion had been simply asked respecting some matter of business. + +“Will it do, Everard?” Robert enquired, as he took them back. + +“I suppose so; yes, I have no doubt very well,” he replied, but his tone +was constrained and cold. + +“Oh, then that is all, don’t let me detain you,” Robert said, quickly, +and he turned away, puzzled and disappointed by his brother’s manner. + +Everard looked after him with a sad and wistful look, but he did not +recall him; and after standing thus for a few seconds, he returned with +a brow no less harassed and careworn to his business. + +Three or four days longer passed before an answer was received from Mr. +Perceval. When it arrived at last, he apologised in it for his delay, by +announcing the success of his applications in Robert’s behalf. Interest +worked more powerfully in those days than it does now, and as before was +said Mr. Perceval’s interest chanced to be considerable. He had stated +his own claims and Robert’s peculiar circumstances, not concealing his +former erring life, but expressing a strong hope and confidence that the +future would efface the past. At the moment of his application, a +clerkship in one of the highest offices was vacant, and after some +consideration and demur, it was given to him. + +These were the facts on which he dwelt; and in making the announcement +to Everard, he merely and simply said that he trusted to Robert not to +bring down censure upon his head. + +A postscript to the letter made a proposition, for Robert to accept or +decline as he thought proper. It was an offer of apartments in his +house. That he would be as perfectly independent there as in a lodging, +Mr. Perceval said he could not of course promise, but he would insure to +him all reasonable independence, and as he was a bachelor, and often +absent from home, he did not think the society of his house need weigh +upon any man as a burden. He made the offer, he said, under the +supposition and the hope, that Robert was sincerely desirous to improve +himself, and it had occurred to him that the slight tie of such a home +as his, might be an assistance without being a bondage. + +Unwilling to have any communications regarding his brother but such as +were perfectly open, Everard laid the whole letter before Robert. + +The first part he read, and having read expressed his extreme +gratification and obligation. The postcript was on another page, and he +returned the letter without perceiving it. Everard directed his +attention to its contents, and to the fact that a speedy answer was +requested. + +Robert coloured deeply as he read it, and looked at Everard. “For +myself,” he said, hesitatingly, “there is nothing I should like better, +but don’t you know, Everard ... has not my mother mentioned it to +you--she wishes to have a house with me in London.” + +Everard became very pale. Though the idea was but a natural one, the +possibility of his decision driving his mother from the home in which +her affections had taken absolute root, had never presented itself to +him. + +“I think it a very bad plan,” Robert said quickly, seeing and feeling +for his brother’s distress, “and I have said all I can against it. +Though she is too unhappy now to care, I know very well what she has +always felt, and will again feel in a short time, about London. There is +no one so dependent on the freedom of country life. I wish you would +speak to her. I have said all I can without seeming absolutely unkind; +I wish you would try what you can do.” + +“But why should I?” he asked with great sadness. “You all wish to be +together. It is very natural though I had not thought of it.” + +“_I_ do not wish it. Besides that I think it a bad plan for my mother, I +do not wish it for myself. For _many_ reasons,” he added, colouring +again, “I dislike it. As I said before, _I_ can say no more without +seeming not to be anxious to have her, but if you can do anything, I +shall be very truly glad.” + +Everard observed him intently as he spoke, but made no further +observation at that moment. + +He went out for a long and solitary walk, that he might reflect in +peace. He had reasons for thinking the plan a bad one in more respects +than one, and yet again, had he yielded to the promptings of his +sensitive spirit, he would have disclaimed all wish to interfere, and +would have permitted those who desired to leave him, to leave him +without remonstrance. But responsibility was bringing to Everard that +change which it must bring to all thoughtful tempers. + +Those who are placed in any sense over others, may no longer act for +themselves. If they do, they show themselves unworthy of the burden +imposed upon them. His father’s words in which he committed to _him_ the +guardianship of those he left behind him, were unceasingly sounding in +Everard’s ears. No distrust of his own powers, no dread of seeming to +put himself forward, could overcome the sense of responsibility they +brought. His determination when he decided to accept his father’s will +had also been to act as far as his inexperienced years would allow, in +his father’s stead; and in that spirit he was prepared and resolved to +act now, It was an occasion involving the highest interests of all +committed to him, his mother, Robert, and Hope, and he bent all his +powers to weigh and consider the course he should pursue. + +The result of his reflections led him on his return to his mother’s +room. + +He found her sitting at her window gazing out with intent though +abstracted eyes. During the last few days her bodily health had +improved. She was no longer prostrate with grief, but the mental sorrows +had gathered acuteness from the body’s restoration. The softness of her +features was naturally calculated to express the more touching elements +of grief, but such was not their expression now. There was not even the +calm of one absorbing sorrow. Restless, tormenting, uncontrollable +emotions agitated and disturbed them. + +She was gazing out on the fair scenes that so long had been her home, +now flushing into the freshness of early spring. Woods upon woods till +they crowned a distant hill rising behind each other in all the tranquil +beauty of an English landscape, and in the midst of them the tall spire +of the village church, now her husband’s resting place, giving +character, and life, and feeling to the scene. The gaze was so intent +that Everard felt she must be taking a farewell, and there was a sadness +in its intensity that gave him hope, she might be won to relent. + +He came to her side, and sat down and said softly and sorrowfully, +“Mother, it is I who am driving you far away from here.” + +She was startled by his abrupt beginning,--although in truth it exactly +harmonized with her thoughts,--and touched by the sadness of his voice, +she looked up in his face and said hurriedly--“I go with Robert, it is +right I should. Oh! Everard, you do not consider Robert.” + +“Not consider him, Mother?” + +“I mean,” she continued, agitated by the tone in which he spoke, “that +you do not, that you cannot understand....” she broke off then began +again. “It is a great change to Robert--he should not be left alone to +bear it. It is right I should give myself to him.” + +“Mother,” he began seriously after a short silence, “if it were only the +pain your resolution gives to me, I would not say one word. I know +Robert should be considered first, and I know it is no grief to you to +give up all for him. But is it for his good. Mother?” he continued, +stooping forward agitatedly and grasping her hands; “there were some +words, do you remember them, of guardianship for _all_.... I cannot +forget them; they are a charge upon me--I must do what I can to fulfil +them; will you hear me?” + +“Say what you wish, Everard,” she replied gently, while tears fell down +her cheeks. “I am listening.” + +“Would it be for Robert’s good, Mother? What you wish for him is it not +that he should be strong. Would it not be best for him, that now when +his resolutions are fresh and firm, he should learn to resist +temptation, to stand alone, to _be_ strong. It is not his will that goes +astray, Mother, we all know that, but his weakness. It seems as if now +was the moment that never may come again, when he may learn to resist. +It is strange of me, his brother, to speak of him as I do, but, dear +Mother, I am compelled to do it.” + +Mrs. Vavasour made no reply. Her conscience quick to feel, acknowledged +that what he said was true. It was not in the atmosphere of such love +as she gave him, misjudging, idolizing love, that he would learn +strength. What Everard did not say she felt, and yet was silent. + +“And Hope, Mother,” he continued after a moment. “Should you not think +of her? If you go, she cannot stay with me, and yet, after all that has +passed, would it not be best, would it not be most right both for her, +and for Robert, that for a time they should he apart? Dear Mother, I may +seem to take too much upon myself, but I speak only because I feel I +_must_.” + +His look, his tone, were so like his father’s, his care and forethought +were so like to his, that Mrs. Vavasour could hardly resist him. + +She was about to promise further thought on the subject; but before the +words were spoken, Robert passed under the window at a little distance; +walking, as he often did of late, with crossed arms and eyes bent upon +the ground. The old feelings, the jealous pangs, returned anew at the +sight, and the relenting words were withheld. + +Yet, unwilling to wound him by an obstinate refusal, she considered for +a moment, and then turning to him gravely said, “Everard, trust me, it +is best as it is. What must come soon had better come at once. You will +marry and then....” + +“Marry, Mother!” he exclaimed quickly, and passionately, “no, Mother, I +am not likely to marry.” + +“But why, Everard?” she asked, looking up in some surprise in his +flushed face, “Robert says....” + +“There is nothing to be said. I am _not_ going to marry. When I do,” he +added after a moment, suddenly recovering himself and speaking calmly, +“you shall hear of it in time. In time to leave me, Mother, in time to +find another home, since you think my home....” Tears of wounded +feeling sprang into his eyes and his voice faltered. + +Mrs. Vavasour was touched and grieved. She felt she had excused herself +unworthily. In the impulse of the moment she said, “I will stay with +you, Everard,” and she stretched out her hand to him. But it was hardly +given before it was withdrawn, and as if the effort had been too great, +she dropped her head in her hands and burst into passionate tears. + +Everard sprang up as if beside himself. “Oh! Mother, am I indeed so +hateful to you?” + +“No, Everard, no; dear Everard, no;” she replied endeavouring to compose +herself, “it is not that; _but_ I cannot ... forgive me, but I cannot +submit to _his_ will.” + +“Oh! Mother,” he cried in passionate sorrow, “only tell me what I shall +do. _Can_ I do otherwise, Mother? I put it in your hands; only tell me. +_Can_ I disobey? Do you command me, and to you I submit.” He knelt +beside her, and forcibly drew her hands from her face. + +She became calm when she saw her son’s excessive agitation, but she had +no words with which to compose him. Her husband’s will had broken her +heart and made her soul rebel, but _he_ was loved as passionately as +ever, and not for worlds would she have commanded or even desired a +resistance to it. She parted Everard’s hair, and kindly, almost +tenderly, kissed his brow, but in answer to his appeal only shook her +head. + +“I make you wretched, mother,” he said mournfully, “but not so wretched +as I make myself. You feel for Robert, you should also feel for me.” + +“I do,” she replied faintly, and for the first time there was a dim +consciousness of what it cost him to act as he did. + +Mrs. Vavasour’s change of intention was received both by Hope and Robert +with satisfaction. Hope’s views regarding the advantages of independence +for Robert,--at this moment when, if ever, his roused feeling would give +him strength, and teach him to resist,--coincided exactly with those of +Everard. She had long begun to be aware that there was a something +enervating in Mrs. Vavasour’s love for her son, that in spite of her own +pure and high motives and character, a something warped in her judgment +when she considered Robert’s failings; and she was of opinion that it +was best at this time at least that he should once again face life +alone. That it was a relief to Robert was also evident, and the reason +of that relief, was very plain. + +Everard had perceived already that since the first excitement of sorrow +had passed, Robert had never been perfectly easy in Hope’s presence; and +that although careful not to wound her, he by many indirect ways +endeavoured to avoid being alone with her. So far therefore he was +strengthened in his opinion, and comforted in having enforced it. Yet as +the time of Robert’s departure drew near, when he saw his mother’s +grief, and thought of Robert going alone into his new and strange life, +his mental suffering was more than he could bear. Nor was the day of +departure in any way calculated to soothe his troubled spirit. + +It was a day of unspeakable bitterness to all; but it could be to none +what it was to him. Not only the sorrow _in_ the house, not only the +sight of his mother’s wild grief, and Robert’s passionate +farewell--there was more to bear. The whole tenantry assembled to see +him go; the whole household of weeping servants surrounded his chaise; +all pressed round him, as if with him their very life departed; and +Everard stood in silence, and felt as if it were written with a dagger’s +point on his heart, “And I the cause.” + +Robert came from his mother’s room in an excitement of grief he could +not restrain. He walked by Hope’s side, and in the hall stopped to +embrace her. “Hope,” he said passionately, “I am unworthy to ask it, but +pray for me night and day that I may redeem the past.” + +“I will, Robert,” was all she said; while a deep glow overspread her +face, and she drew back. + +He went on and came in sight of the thronged court yard; Everard was +standing, at the door calm, but pale as death. + +“This is bitter,” he muttered, and grasping Everard’s hand for an +instant, he sprang rapidly down the steps, and threw himself into the +chaise. + +There was no definite noise, but a subdued sound of sobs and murmurs +rose on every side--and so the chaise drove off. + +Everard re-entered the hall. A deadly sorrow was upon him that chilled +his very soul. Hope was still standing, gazing from a window, but at the +sight of him, her thoughts changed from the one that was gone, to the +one that was left. + +She came up to him. “Everard you look wretched,” she said kindly and +pitifully. + +“It is bitter,” he murmured, as if the echo of Robert’s words was +ringing in his heart. + +“Bitter now, but not hereafter. Oh! Everard, it will be your happy part +to save him.” + +He looked at her as if endeavouring to take her comfort into his soul; +but though it passed faintly over the surface the dead cold chill +remained beneath. + +He turned from her and fetching his hat, went and sat for hours by his +father’s grave. If comfort was at that moment to be gathered it was +there alone. + + + END OF VOL. II. + + + London, Godfrey & Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79389 *** diff --git a/79389-h/79389-h.htm b/79389-h/79389-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b502180 --- /dev/null +++ b/79389-h/79389-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4923 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + <head> +<link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + +<meta charset="utf-8"> +<title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The two brothers; vol. 1 [of 3], +by Emily Charlotte Mary Ponsonby. +</title> +<style> + +a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} + + link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} + +a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} + +a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} + +body{margin-left:4%;margin-right:6%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} + +.blockquot {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;} + +.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} + +.fint {text-align:center;text-indent:0%; +margin-top:2em;} + +.figcenter {margin:3% auto 3% auto;clear:both; +text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} + + h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both; +font-weight:normal;} + + h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; + font-size:100%;font-weight:normal;} + + hr {width:90%;margin:2em auto 2em auto;clear:both;color:black;} + + hr.full {width: 60%;margin:2% auto 2% auto;border-top:1px solid black; +padding:.1em;border-bottom:1px solid black;border-left:none;border-right:none;} + +hr.tb {width:15%;margin:1em auto 1em auto;clear:both;color:black;} + + img {border:none;} + +.lftspc {margin-left:.25em;} + +.nind {text-indent:0%;} + + p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} + +.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; +left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; +background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal; +font-style:normal;font-weight:normal; +text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} + +.r {text-align:right;margin-right: 5%;} + +small {font-size: 70%;} + +.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} + +table {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;} + +div.poetry {text-align:center;} +div.poem {font-size:90%;margin:auto auto;text-indent:0%; +display: inline-block; text-align: left;} +.poem .stanza {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;} +.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} +.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} +.poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} +.poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} +.poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 3.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + +.toc {margin:1em auto;max-width:25em; +border:2px solid black;text-indent:0%;text-align:center;} + +</style> + </head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79389 ***</div> + +<hr class="full"> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="339" height="550" alt=""> +</div> + +<p class="toc"> + +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a> +</p> + +<h1> +THE TWO BROTHERS.</h1> + +<p class="c">BY<br><br> +THE AUTHOR OF<br> +<small>“THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,” “CLARE ABBEY,”<br> +“THE YOUNG LORD,”<br> +&c., &c.</small><br><br><br><small> +“Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.”—<span class="smcap">Dryden.</span></small> +<br><br><br> +IN THREE VOLUMES.<br> +VOL. II.<br><br><br> +LONDON:<br> +HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,<br> +SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,<br> +13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.<br> +1858.<br> +<i>The Right of Translation is reserved.</i> +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1">{1}</a></span></p> + +<h1><a id="THE_TWO_BROTHERS">THE TWO BROTHERS.</a></h1> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">My affections<br></span> +<span class="i0">Are then most humble; I have no ambition<br></span> +<span class="i0">To see a goodlier man.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Tempest.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was with some shame that Everard confessed to his father the +following morning what he had done. His own heart was not dissatisfied; +he knew his excuse—but this could not be told. “The temptation was too +great for me,” were his words, “and I gave way.”</p> + +<p>“And what is your purpose now?” was the cold question, not without +bitterness in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2">{2}</a></span> it. Mr. Vavasour had expected more self-controul; he +remembered <i>his</i> twelve years of concealment, and with shame and +disappointment thought of his son’s weakness.</p> + +<p>“I have disappointed you father, I know,” Everard said, colouring.</p> + +<p>“You have, Everard. But you will disappoint me no more,” added his +father kindly. “My trust is in you, and you must not fail.”</p> + +<p>Everard sighed. “I will not,” he replied, but the tones were less +resolute than was common. His heart was stirred with strange and soft +emotions, and his stoic self was not a pleasing object in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“And what is your purpose now, Everard?” This time the question was more +gently and pityingly asked. Mr. Vavasour could well imagine what his son +felt. It was by no means stoicism that he admired or desired. It was but +conquest.</p> + +<p>“I can do but one thing, can I father? I must go and confess what I said +<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3">{3}</a></span>to Mr. Gresham, and then ... I think ...” he added, a tumult of blood +rushing to his brow, “ask for hope.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour seemed lost in thought.</p> + +<p>“Father,” Everard said, approaching him, the look of thought and care on +his father’s face giving him sorrow, sharp and keen, “you may trust me. +I will do nothing your son should not do, nothing an honourable nature +should not. Father,” he continued with a warmth strangely different to +the gravity of his usual manner, “do you not know that happiness would +be nothing, that even to win <i>her</i> would be nothing if I disappointed +you.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, my boy—I believe it,” Mr. Vavasour replied, shading his +eyes with his hand; as if the expression of warm affection, even while +it warmed and animated him, brought pain to his reserved nature. “It was +not doubt of you that kept me silent, Everard. It was this. Are you +strong enough to endure hope? Consider well.”</p> + +<p>It seemed a strange question to Everard,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4">{4}</a></span> who felt that to be <i>allowed</i> +to hope, would he in itself life and joy. He made no answer. Mr. +Vavasour continued.</p> + +<p>“You do not understand me, Everard. Hear what such hope is from one who +has had experience. If any be allowed by Mr. Gresham it is probable it +will be a distant only and secret one. Such hope is not what poets +paint. It is a care eating into the soul. It is a hope doomed to live +without food; fretted by jealousy, consumed with fear, and in the end, +after long nourishing, after being cherished until it is a part of life, +it may be crushed in a moment of time. I say again consider well before +you undertake to bear it. It requires more strength than you can guess.”</p> + +<p>“<i>You</i> bore it, father?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Everard, I did. It was crowned with success, and its reward has +been happiness. Had it been crushed it would have been death.”</p> + +<p>He looked in Everard’s face, and saw how<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5">{5}</a></span> ineffectual were his words. No +man, however true he may afterwards find it, will receive such advice +from another’s experience.</p> + +<p>“I see that I speak to the winds,” he said with a faint smile, “and so I +believe it would have been with me. Well, my boy, go, and God bless +you.”</p> + +<p>When he left his father’s room, Everard bent his steps without further +thought to Underwood. He was in a strange, unwonted state of mind. Very +vague, yet very bright, intangible, yet very sweet, were the visions and +the feelings that stirred and animated him. It was as if a veil had +suddenly been lifted from the face of the earth, and without watching +its growth, a full harvest of beauty had been revealed. To many, to +most, this state of feeling comes gradually; many hopes and fears, many +foreshadowings before the reality; but to Everard, to feel himself loved +and chosen, to allow himself to think of, and grasp the thought, was so +new, that it was like plunging into another world,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6">{6}</a></span> and waking up +another man. All the fretting sorrows of childhood, boyhood, manhood; +all the convictions that none loved, or ever would love and care for him +as they did for Robert, vanished like the cold snow of winter. The +thought gave elasticity to his steps, dignity to his movements, light, +warmth, and beauty to his face.</p> + +<p>He walked fast; stayed not to consider, even when he reached Underwood; +the hope that animated him, made him equal to all encounters; and it was +not till he stood in Mr. Gresham’s presence, and the solemn calm of his +eyes fell upon him, that he awoke from his dreamings, and found himself +in the atmosphere of common life.</p> + +<p>His mood of madness fell from him like a cloak; what romance could +survive beneath that glassy stare.</p> + +<p>Everard sighed; felt and owned his folly, and then, with his usual +straightforward manner, proceeded to unfold his business.</p> + +<p>“I am come to make a confession and a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7">{7}</a></span> request, Mr. Gresham. I will not +detain you long.”</p> + +<p>With bland politeness Mr. Gresham assured him his time was at his +disposal, and, having so said, he awaited a further communication.</p> + +<p>“In a conversation we once had, I gave you my promise to do my best.... +I promised to avoid as far as possible any expression of my feeling for +Miss Gresham. I know you have trusted to my promise; I felt the trust, +and thank you for it, though at the same time, it made the trial to my +self-control severe. I wish I could tell you that your trust had been +merited. It was so till yesterday, but yesterday I failed. If I tell you +that the temptation was strong, it is what all men say, and all men feel +when they fail. It excuses me in my own eyes, but it may not do so in +yours. All I can do is to confess to you what has passed, and to say +that I am sorry if what I have done gives you pain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8">{8}</a></span></p> + +<p>“You have then, I understand, made a proposal to my daughter for her +hand.”</p> + +<p>“No, indeed, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said colouring; “I have not done so. +I have told her only, that while your wishes remain as they are, I dare +not meet her; dare not, because I cannot depend upon myself. I have +<i>asked</i> nothing; but what I said was certainly a failure in the trust +you reposed in me, and therefore I come to confess it.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham looked up to the ceiling and reflected. When he spoke it was +graciously, and his countenance had resumed its complacency.</p> + +<p>“Upon the whole, Mr. Vavasour, I am satisfied with you, and thank you +for the honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself. I am not +altogether displeased at what has taken place. It is perhaps as well +that matters should be brought to an issue. I shall now speak to my +daughter on this subject, express to her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9">{9}</a></span> my decided opinion, lay before +her those reasonable objections which cannot fail to convince her, and +the affair is at rest for ever. Allow me once more to thank you, Mr. +Vavasour; and permit me to offer you some refreshment.”</p> + +<p>“No, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, feeling how vain had been his hope, how +improbable hope should be allowed, yet resolved to ask it. “You must let +me say one thing more. My feelings are not changed since the day I spoke +to you; I still think that some worth should win this world’s goods. I +do not care for the goods, and with all my heart I wish they did not +exist; but since they do, and she whom I love and must love is possessed +of them, I allow that something more than I yet possess, is necessary to +win them, I am not going to make any proposal to Miss Gresham; I am not +going to ask any promise on your part or on hers, I would not wish to +bind her or you; but I do ask you to give me a hope that if, at some +future time,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10">{10}</a></span> by my character or my intellect, or in other ways, I have +proved myself more worthy of her love, you will not altogether condemn +me as you do now.”</p> + +<p>The solemn, reasonable answer came in forcible contrast to Everard’s +words—“My dear Mr. Vavasour, I am distressed beyond measure that you +should have permitted yourself to look upon my daughter in such a light; +you must allow me to remind you, however, that the fault is your own. I +had conceived that I had made my wishes and intentions sufficiently +explicit. I can hardly imagine that a repetition of our former +conversation is necessary. If you will take the trouble to recall what I +then said, I believe you will save me the pain of giving a more decided +negative to your unexpected and undesirable request. I am sorry, Mr. +Vavasour, if I give you pain, but on such subjects, indeed in all +matters, the old proverb holds good—‘Honesty is the best policy.’ And +now let this subject be at rest for ever; this<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11">{11}</a></span> painful conversation +need not be prolonged. Permit me to offer you some refreshment. I should +wish you to present my best respects to your father; of his acquiescence +in my views, I have no doubt.”</p> + +<p>Everard stood irresolute; and when, as a means of marking the +termination of the interview, Mr. Gresham made a third offer of +refreshment, he could scarcely refrain from an angry reply. But, +notwithstanding the utter extinguishment of hope, which the manner of +the latter produced, it was not of himself that Everard was thinking. +His irresolution was caused by his sense of what was due to Angela. To +assure and encourage him, she had made a movement forward; she had done +for him what he could never repay; it would be baseness on his part to +allow himself to be dismissed thus. After thus thinking for a second, he +spoke:</p> + +<p>“Of course, Mr. Gresham, I have nothing to do but to acquiesce in your +decision, and submit to it as I can. Before this matter is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12">{12}</a></span> ended, +however, I must entreat you to let me see Miss Gresham. It is due to my +honour to allow it, and I think it is due to her. You will find it can +do no harm; trust me, I will say nothing you can disapprove.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham stroked his chin three times, then gave a courteous reply: +“In all possible things, Mr. Vavasour, I am more than willing to gratify +one who bears your name. I do perfectly trust you, and will fetch my +daughter.” He left the room as he ceased.</p> + +<p>Everard’s heart beat with an excitement which was like joy. Restraint, +be it self-imposed or otherwise, is a heavy burthen, and even for one +moment to cast off his chains in Angela’s presence, was a thought of +rapture to him.</p> + +<p>This rapture was of short duration. Mr. Gresham returned with Angela, +and to the consternation of both, closed the door, and resumed his place +at the fire.</p> + +<p>There was no triumph in his look, nothing of curiosity, nothing of ill +will; he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13">{13}</a></span> remained because it did not occur to him to leave them to +themselves. It was possible an opportunity might arise of expressing to +both together his sentiments, and thus of bringing the untoward +attachment to a more satisfactory conclusion. This could not be lost. In +public, many years before, the business of his own proposal had been +transacted; in public, therefore, his daughter could surely reject a +suitor.</p> + +<p>Angela entered boldly enough. She was resolved, once for all, to let +Everard know the esteem she felt for his character; and though there was +nothing unmaidenly in her air, it was self-possessed and dignified. He +might not be appreciated or accepted by her father, but he should know +that he was appreciated by her. But this loftiness gave way to the +disconcerting circumstances in which she found herself. Beneath her +father’s stare, and Everard’s earnest gaze, her colour rose and her +eyelids drooped, and no bashful young girl of sixteen could have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14">{14}</a></span> stood +more timidly and shrinkingly before her lover.</p> + +<p>Indignant at having brought her into so awkward a situation, Everard +frowned, and advancing hurriedly towards her, determined to put an end +to the interview at once. “Forgive me for having brought you here,” he +said quickly, “it was not <i>thus</i> I had hoped to speak; but it matters +little. What I have to say needs no concealment. It is but this. If I +had been allowed to love you, I would have loved you with my whole +heart. If I had been allowed to hope, no length of time should have +wearied or daunted me. I would have <i>made</i> myself worthy of you. Since +this cannot be, I am bound to submit, and I will not give you the pain +of listening to regrets for what is inevitable. God bless you, and may +he who is so happy as to win you, love you as I would have done.”</p> + +<p>He grasped her hand, and then simply bowing to Mr. Gresham, walked +rapidly to the door. But there Mr. Gresham arrested<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15">{15}</a></span> him. “One moment, +if you please, Mr. Vavasour.”</p> + +<p>Everard returned with hope springing up in his heart. Angela remained +with her eyes bent to the ground, her colour coming and going, her hands +pressed together. There were words within, only by force kept down; +words of passion; passionate in their feelings for Everard; passionate +in resistance to her father. One thing alone restrained them, the dread +of Everard; of losing his esteem; of offending him who was so strong in +his sense of duty; of seeming unmaidenly in his eyes. Her attitude was +not submissive, yet it looked like it; to her father certainly; perhaps, +also to Everard.</p> + +<p>Thus they stood to hear the address of Mr. Gresham. It was elaborate, +and his two breathless hearers could not from the beginning discern what +the end would be. It opened like an essay. He spoke of the bountiful +gifts of Providence, and man’s responsibility; of the bountiful gifts +profusely showered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16">{16}</a></span> upon <i>him</i>, and <i>his</i> responsibility for them. The +words were true, and, because he felt what he said, even though +elaborate, impressive. He then touched upon moral duties, the +responsibility of fathers, the importance of marriage in the life of a +young female, the dangers of a bad choice, and then the especial +importance of a right choice in his case and his daughter’s. Having laid +his principles on a good and strong foundation he then proceeded to +apply them. “I believe, Mr. Vavasour, I have more than once expressed to +you my esteem for many parts of your character. You will not, therefore, +I hope, accuse me of prejudice or unkindliness if I state further that I +do not consider you fitted to fill that position which I wish, which I +think it proper and becoming for my son to fill. There are outward +talents and accomplishments, graces of mind, and manner, and body, more +precious in the eyes of the world, because more distinguishing, than the +commoner possessions of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17">{17}</a></span> estimable moral qualities. I should consider +myself deficient in my duty to my daughter, and to my own position, if I +made no account of these graces, and I think it best to tell you frankly +that in these I consider you deficient.” His eye for a moment swept over +Everard’s outward man, and he then proceeded. “When to these +deficiencies we add the want of any honourable position in the world, I +think, in common fairness, you must allow that I do but my simple duty +in opposing your wishes. Forgive me for being explicit. I am very far +from desiring to inflict pain.”</p> + +<p>He had certainly been explicit, and beneath that explicitness Everard +quailed. The sensitive cannot help being sensitive. They may conceal the +pain that words inflict, but the words strike deep. They are born +vulnerable and vulnerable they remain. Robert would have heard Mr. +Gresham’s discourse with pure amusement: any one, strong in +self-respect, would have heard it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18">{18}</a></span> unmoved. But Everard had no +confidence in his powers to please, and his sensitive spirit was stung. +One glance of hasty and mortified scrutiny he cast upon his own self, +and beneath that glance his muscular frame became clownish in his eyes, +and his large features monstrous. He felt as if indeed his presumption +had been intolerable; his hope of having inspired affection idle; and in +that instant yielding to the promptings of temper, of pride, of vanity, +all which qualities lie more or less hid in sensitiveness, even in the +sensitiveness of the humble; he took his resolution, and spoke with +proud bitterness his farewell. “You have, indeed, Mr. Gresham, made your +meaning clear, and whatever pain it gives, I thank you for it. You may +depend upon it, you will never need to trouble yourself with such +explanations again. You have heard the last of this, and I can only say +I beg your pardon for having taken up so much of your time. Good +morning.” And with a loftiness whose grace Mr. Gresham might<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19">{19}</a></span> have +admired, he bowed to him and Angela, and left the room.</p> + +<p>His speech, his movements had been so rapid, that Angela had not time to +interfere. In very shame of her father’s speech she had still lower +drooped her head and averted her burning cheek; and while she stood +breathless for his answer, determined to speak, yet struggling to +restrain any indecorous burst of feeling, the whole scene was at an end. +The curtain had fallen on the drama, and the door of repentance was +closed.</p> + +<p>Express herself, however, she did. “It is I who am not worthy of him,” +she cried, in a voice tremulous with passion. “If he could feel my +unworthiness as I do, he would have no regret in giving me up.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham was in a slight degree agitated. He saw he had given pain in +the performance of his duty, and was truly sorry for it. He unbuttoned a +button of his waistcoat, to allow his feelings to escape before he +spoke, and when he spoke it was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20">{20}</a></span> mildly and with kindness. “Young women, +my love, are bad judges in such matters. The world at seventeen presents +a different appearance to that which it presents to experienced eyes. It +becomes those who have experience to watch for those who have not. The +day will come, no distant day, when you will thank me for what I have +done.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Never</i>,” cried Angela, with vehemence. “Mr. Everard Vavasour has won +my esteem as much as my love, and that never disappoints. He may not +have outward shows, though I see nothing wanting; but he has a high and +noble nature, and nothing we could give him would bear comparison with +what he would have given me.”</p> + +<p>“So, my love, you think at this moment,” resumed her father with placid +wisdom. “It is the common sentiment of young ladies. The first caprice +in their eyes involves the happiness of life. But I who have been +endowed with some wisdom and experience in worldly matters, am happily +aware of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21">{21}</a></span> evanescent nature of youthful romance. I am sincerely +sorry, my love, to have been forced to give you even so much annoyance; +but I repeat it, at a future day you will thank me for having preserved +you from the effects of a hasty and ill-judged attachment.”</p> + +<p>Angela vouchsafed no further answer. Mr. Gresham’s calm common places +had always exercised a singular influence over her; binding her down +with far greater force than violence could have done. To argue with him, +to vent her passion with him, was like fighting with smooth marble. When +he approached her and kissed her brow, partly in real kindness, partly +as a proper termination to the interview, she submitted, and received in +silence his wise admonition to banish the painful subject from her +remembrance. A very lofty step and dignified air as she quitted the +room, was all of opposition she could show to his will, and that was +entirely lost upon him.</p> + +<p>It was well for Angela that her attach<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22">{22}</a></span>ment <i>was</i> founded on esteem. It +was well that the fear of lowering herself in the eyes of him who loved +her, acted as a check upon her impulses. The present state of her mind +was not one in which she could well say “Lead me not into temptation,” +for she would indeed have desired to be tempted by Everard to forsake +all those shows of things which stood between her and him, for his sake. +Such undisciplined tempers, such impatient affections, are and must ever +be wrong, and in saner moments even in the eyes of the tempted +themselves, revolting; yet, in Angela’s case, and perhaps in many cases, +there is in them a generosity, a scorn of worldliness, which misleads +the eyes, and blinds the judgment; and evil is done in a seeming excess +of a noble quality.</p> + +<p>Upon the whole, however, Angela was happy. She was assured of that which +she had desired; she had ground for suffering her thoughts to fix, where +without her will they choose to roam; she had not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23">{23}</a></span> wasted her regard in +a dream of ashes, and the perplexities that accompanied her early +attachment were not very insurmountable to the romantic fancy of +seventeen.</p> + +<p>This romantic fancy had abundant play in dreaming out the next few +months in novel like manner. She in London, and Everard in London. It +seemed next to impossible they should not meet. That he should give her +up, that he should not sometimes be lingering about her door, was not to +be imagined, and in fancy she sometimes drew such vivid pictures of +sudden meeting, that her heart would beat with all the strength of +reality. These dreamings occupied her mind, and when hope is young and +bright, are enough to occupy it.</p> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Qui a l’espoir du bien, a déjà le bien de l’espoir.”<br></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24">{24}</a></span></div></div> +</div> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Joys, amongst other things<br></span> +<span class="i4">Have wings<br></span> +<span class="i0">And watch their opportunities of flight,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Converting in a moment day to night.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">C. Hervey.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> spring lagged wearily on its way to all the characters of this tale.</p> + +<p>To Angela it was unspeakably trying and tedious. Her mind was one whose +ever vivid hopes must inevitably know disappointment, and though a vivid +fancy gives elasticity of disposition, the elasticity wears out with +repeated shocks, and a consequent depression succeeds.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25">{25}</a></span> She came to +London excited and expectant, but as the spring advanced a vexed and +bitter spirit ensued. Those pictured meetings, that romance of life; +where were they or it to be found? London is a large place, and though +strange and unexpected meetings do certainly occur; as certainly +expected meetings fail to take place. Week after week went by, and +Angela watched from her drawing-room and from her carriage window the +countless passengers that took their way through the thoroughfares of +London; but the one single form on which her eyes longed to rest, was +nowhere to be seen. The mornings began in hope and the evenings closed +in disappointment, and thus as time passed on hope grew faint, and +tedium and disappointment became the prevailing mood of her day.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know how you feel, Aunt Jane,” she one day observed to her aunt +in a permitted visit to Hampstead, “but life seems to me to become more +and more insufferable every<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26">{26}</a></span> day.” Nearly the same words had been said +before, but the spirit was then different.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry you find it so, my love,” replied her placid aunt. “It does +not seem so to me.”</p> + +<p>“Life I also think is very curious,” she continued; “you must not think +that I mean anything wrong, but I must own I think the affairs of men’s +lives are arranged in a very mysterious way. I can understand about the +bad being punished, and the thoughtless tried to make them thoughtful; +and even I can understand that the good may be tried to make them +better; but there are some things that seem to me beyond all +understanding. Don’t interrupt me. I want to state a case to you. A +person who wishes very much, who wishes above all things to be good, and +who meets with a person, so good, so steady, that he could make her so, +and he likes her, and would undertake the work, and she likes him, and +would do all in her power to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27">{27}</a></span> please him; and yet they are not allowed +to be anything to each other; and meanwhile the person who would be good +if she could, having no one to guide her goes on from bad to worse. Now +don’t you think that that is a curious and mysterious state of things?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose, my love, you mean yourself.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said her niece, with a half smile. “You have discovered that, +have you, dear Aunt Jane?”</p> + +<p>“My love, it does seem mysterious; but that word mysterious reminds me +of a hymn I once learned. Stay a moment, and I shall remember it.</p> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘God moves in a mysterious way,’<br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind">that’s the first line, but I forget that verse. But stay a moment, now +it is coming.... Here are two verses. I think you will like them.</p> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,<br></span> +<span class="i2">The clouds you so much dread<br></span> +<span class="i0">Are big with mercy, and will break<br></span> +<span class="i2">In blessings on your head.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28">{28}</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘His purposes will ripen fast,<br></span> +<span class="i2">Unfolding every hour;<br></span> +<span class="i0">The bud may have a bitter taste,<br></span> +<span class="i2">But sweet will be the flower.’<span class="lftspc">”</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>Miss Price repeated her poem with unwonted energy, elated to have found +a lost treasure in her memory.</p> + +<p>“The bud has a very bitter taste indeed,” was Angela’s remark, after a +few moments of thought. “Do you really think it will come to be a flower +at last? If I were sure of that I should not mind waiting.”</p> + +<p>“In <i>some</i> way a flower, no doubt, my love.”</p> + +<p>“But I want it only in one way. Oh! Aunt Jane,” she exclaimed, and tears +were in her eyes, “do you think I shall be disappointed all my life?”</p> + +<p>“I trust not, my love. I am sure I trust not. You are very young to +think of disappointment. Try to put it out of your head for the present, +dearest. Try to be content and patient for the present, and enjoy your +many blessings.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29">{29}</a></span></p> + +<p>“My many blessings!” and Angela closed up her lips and tossed her head.</p> + +<p>“Yes, love, surely many.”</p> + +<p>“To be as strong as a horse and as rich as a Jew—do you call those such +great blessings. I don’t; that is, at least, not as I have them. I can +make no use of riches, and as to my strength, it only makes me more able +to be bored. I was made to be a good, honest, hard-working dairy maid, +and it is very hard to be a young lady, cooped up in a close carriage, +with grand clothes and nothing to do.”</p> + +<p>“It seems hard, my love, but no doubt it is for good. Perhaps, dearest, +it is to teach you to be patient.”</p> + +<p>“And that, alas! it does not do. It makes me <i>im</i>patient, and cross, and +angry with everybody. I don’t believe even you, Aunt Jane, can guess +what my life is. I have <i>nobody</i> to care for, nobody even to like with +the commonest kind of liking; it is as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30">{30}</a></span> if papa advertised for false +artificial people, they come to our house so thick and fast. There is +Mrs. Vansittart ... she dines there most weeks. Papa is always holding +her up as a pattern, and <i>really</i> seems to like to talk to her. She is +rouged, and all over jewels, and thinks of nothing but being rich, and +how much she gives for her gowns. What <i>can</i> I care what she gives for +her gowns?... and then there is her son—oh! such a mean-spirited +wretch—thinking he likes me, that is, thinking I think he does, and +supposing that I don’t see every crevice of his shallow heart, and know +it to be full of nothing but pomps and vanities. The only pleasure I +have in life is in teazing him, and making him explain his compliments, +till they look so flat and insipid even he blushes over them. I really +am sometimes positively ashamed when I think of the company we keep.”</p> + +<p>“It is a pity, my love, to speak so.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31">{31}</a></span> Don’t be angry, dearest, but I +think it a bad habit to be scorning so much. They are God’s creatures as +well as you.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Angela, gravely, “but that is what troubles me most of all. +How come there to be such people? But....”</p> + +<p>She was arrested in her conversation by a quick short knock at the house +door. She paused, and with a startled blush and enquiring eyes looked at +her aunt.</p> + +<p>“That is Mr. Vavasour’s knock,” observed Miss Price, in a more hurried +tone than usual, and with a slight glow of disturbance even on her +impassive face.</p> + +<p>Angela sprang up, and then stood agitated and uncertain, her colour +rapidly changing from red to white.</p> + +<p>“Compose yourself, my love,” said her aunt, “he will say nothing your +father would disapprove. Sit still and receive him like a common +acquaintance. There is nothing to fear.”</p> + +<p>“As if that were possible, or as if I had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32">{32}</a></span> thought of Papa,” was +Angela’s soliloquy, while her heart beat tumultuously with she knew not +what expectation.</p> + +<p>The house door closed abruptly, and expecting Everard’s immediate +entrance, Angela hurried to the window to still her agitation and arm +herself with dignity. She reached it just in time to see a gentleman +rapidly walk away, the very form for which her eyes had sought so long +in vain.</p> + +<p>She stood looking out without an exclamation, silent and sick at heart, +tears of pride, resentment, and mortification stealing down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>The drawing-room door opened, and the little maid brought to her +expecting mistress, a card on a tray. “The Gentleman hoped you were +quite well, ma’am, and he would not come up to-day.”</p> + +<p>“I hope you said I was in tolerable health,” she replied tranquilly, +though both relieved and disappointed at this termination to her +anxiety.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33">{33}</a></span></p> + +<p>“No, ma’am, I only said ‘Yes, Sir.’ He asked first if you was at home, +and I said you was and Miss was here.”</p> + +<p>“Very well, Kitty. That was right. That will do,” and the little maid +disappeared.</p> + +<p>“I feel a little sorry, my love,” observed Miss Price, after waiting +some minutes, in the hope that Angela would speak, “but after all, it is +best as it is, and I am sure he has tried to do what is right,” and she +resumed the work she had laid aside, and began to pick out a false +stitch with care and attention.</p> + +<p>Her niece made no answer to this observation; and when she resumed her +seat near her, it was with a countenance entirely different to any Miss +Price had ever seen before. Her air was haughty, her head drawn up, and +a kind of proud composure seemed to have driven all the glow of youth +from her face.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter, my love?” asked<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34">{34}</a></span> Miss Price, almost as much +astonished at this change in her appearance, as she had been on the +memorable day of her disguise. “You are not offended?”</p> + +<p>“Offended!” she said, coldly, “Oh, no, there is no cause for offence. +Let us speak of something else. Let me look at your work, Aunt Jane.” +And no efforts of her timid aunt could induce her to renew the subject +of Everard’s call.</p> + +<p>She did not think she had deserved such treatment at his hands, and a +feeling of bitter resentment, interspersed in a degree, and at moments, +with admiration of what she called his austere views of duty, took +possession of her mind, and for the time at least swept softer feelings +away.</p> + +<p>Strangely different meanwhile to the austerity she imagined were +Everard’s feelings. The visit to Miss Price had been the impulse of a +moment. At the close of a weary afternoon he had felt a longing to hear +of Angela that could not be resisted, and he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35">{35}</a></span> had started on his visit +of enquiry without taking time for thought. A like yielding to impulse +had been the retreat. Uncertainty regarding Angela’s reception, distrust +of himself, a cloudiness in his vision regarding what his parting words +had been, how strong, how binding; doubts in short as to what he might, +should, would, could, or ought to do, had made him instinctively draw +back; and yet he had scarcely closed the door of hope before he +regretted with passionate regret the step he had taken, and felt that he +had thrown away the one opportunity of soothing and re-assuring his +mind, which had been offered him.</p> + +<p>This disordered state of feeling was not like the old Everard. His +mother had said that love with him would be a serious thing, and it was +so. His mind had his father’s tenacious and concentrated grasp of +things, but his character was by no means equal to his father’s in +inflexibility. And yet it was not so much his attachment, as its +unsatisfactory<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36">{36}</a></span> termination which had disordered him. However sweet it +be at the moment to yield to the promptings of temper, be it to express +anger, revenge, the bitterness of a wounded spirit, or the mortification +that sinks the soul; the sweetness is confined to the moment of +expression; a sting is left behind which poisons many an hour which +would otherwise have been peaceful. This sting it was which was +destroying Everard’s peace. He knew he had cut himself off from hearing +Angela’s sentiments; he thought he had lowered himself in her eyes; he +knew he had spoken in passion a renunciation of all claims, and how far +those passionate words bound him he was unable to decide. Restless +uncertainty tormented him day and night.</p> + +<p>And there was another torment. He had gone back with redoubled vigour to +his work, but the one single aim which had made his brain calm, and his +spirit strong, was gone. His father’s image was choked and smothered +under a host of bewildering<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37">{37}</a></span> dreams, which set his head on fire. The +sting of Mr. Gresham’s words was smarting yet, and often and often, when +he suffered his eyes to be following his dull page, his fancy was +vaguely pursuing distant ambitious visions, as idle as the vain fancies +of a child. He would awake with a start of scorn and repentance, but the +idle dreams recurred again.</p> + +<p>The trials of Angela and Everard were not trivial; nothing can be +trivial which affects either the daily happiness or the future +well-being of any human creature; but as compared with the deadly +anxiety and sorrow that reigned at Audley Court they were trivial; for +that anxiety involved not a temporal only, but an eternal destiny, and +that sorrow was for one, round whom the intense affections of many years +were twined. The Bible speaks of the mourning for a first-born son, as +of one incomparable in its bitterness; such a sorrow and mourning was in +Robert’s home, consuming the life within.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38">{38}</a></span></p> + +<p>Towards the end of January he had written a few lines, expressing his +regret for having failed to perform his promise at Christmas. The letter +was without date, but the post mark was Paris. There was no want of +affection in the letter, nor of regret for having failed, yet there was +constraint in its tone, and the words were hurried and few. Of the +future no mention was made; there was no expression of hope, no promise, +no looking forward to a return; neither was there mention of the +present, of where he was, or what were his occupations or his pleasures. +It was a letter so vague as to cause anxiety, so strange as to cause +fear. The terrors that for a month had been growing up, received a seal +and sanction, and deepened in intensity. There was no more hearkening +for the sound of wheels, or watching for the sight of his face; a cold, +dark, vague dread sat upon each heart, a dread cold and silent as death.</p> + +<p>For none spoke their fears. Life went on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39">{39}</a></span> more silently perhaps, but the +same as usual. There was less patience on Mr. Vavasour’s brow, but no +words of impatience on his tongue; less cheerfulness in Mrs. Vavasour’s +tone, but no acknowledgment that she had need to be sad; and Hope, more +full of pity, more full of love, more full of ceaseless prayers, went +about her daily tasks and said nothing.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40">{40}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As on the finger of a throned queen,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The basest jewel will be well esteemed;<br></span> +<span class="i0">So are those errors that in thee are seen,<br></span> +<span class="i0">To truths translated, and for true things deemed.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Gresham</span> and his daughter were passing their evening alone. There was +a bright fire in the stately drawing-room, for it was the end of March, +and the March air was sharp and cold; and on each side of it, though at +a considerable distance from each other, the inmates were sitting. Mr. +Gresham was nobly erect, with a lamp at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41">{41}</a></span> his side, and a newspaper +before him; Angela was on a sofa idly and wearily perusing a novel of +the most trifling kind. Novels at this moment were her chief employment +and solace, and having none to direct her taste, and being dependent on +the caprice or fancy of her bookseller, it was not remarkable that her +hours were spent, in discovering that the books she read were quite +unworthy of the attention of any rational being.</p> + +<p>This night the novel was unusually worthless, and having passed a day +enlivened only by the attendance of her masters, a call from the +daughters of her enemy, Mrs. Vansittart, (young ladies in no degree +favoured with her good graces), and a stately drive in her chariot, +Angela was in a mood to be pleased with anything that arose in the form +of a change or a novelty.</p> + +<p>There was a knock at the door, an arrival, an announcement, and the +entrance of a most unexpected guest.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42">{42}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Mr. Vavasour!” exclaimed Angela, with almost a scream of joy.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Vavasour!” said Mr. Gresham, with measured but delighted surprise.</p> + +<p>Robert had in the first moment paused hesitatingly at the door; but at +these warm expressions of pleasure he came forward. How very welcome he +was the most diffident must have perceived, and the shade of doubt and +embarrassment which had at first tinged his countenance, and slackened +his steps, passed away.</p> + +<p>“You must be very much surprised to see me, Mr. Gresham, at such an +hour,” he began. “I know it is a singular time for a call in England; +but I have been living abroad, and there it is fashionable and +customary, and so I hope you will excuse my practising my foreign +manners upon you.”</p> + +<p>“At any time, Mr. Vavasour, at any hour,” Mr. Gresham replied, his words +almost too big for expression, “always<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43">{43}</a></span> welcome; at this moment +especially welcome because so totally unexpected. I have only to regret +that I and my daughter are alone. I have a circle of friends who would +most gratefully receive the pleasure of your acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>“But I came to see <i>you</i>, Mr. Gresham, and not your friends. To tell you +the truth, my particular wish is to avoid your friends. I came to your +door last night, but there were lights and carriages, and it all looked +a great deal too grand for me. I was half afraid I should find the same +thing to-night, but fortunately I was mistaken. So here I am.”</p> + +<p>“And most welcome, let me again assure you. Angela, my love, offer Mr. +Vavasour some tea, or some other refreshment, as may be agreeable to +him.”</p> + +<p>“Will you have some tea?” she asked in reply; “it will be here +directly.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but don’t hurry it. I am in no hurry. I will stay if I may.” And +as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44">{44}</a></span> Angela now reseated herself in her former place he followed, and +drew a chair close to her side.</p> + +<p>“Well, Miss Gresham,” he began, “how goes the world with you?”</p> + +<p>“Very tediously,” she replied, laughing. “I always hated London, and now +I hate it worse than ever.”</p> + +<p>“That’s right, nothing like a downright opinion. But hate London as you +may, it is good for you to come up. Change is good for man and beast. +There is a moral lesson which you will do well to remember.”</p> + +<p>“Except that I don’t agree to it,” cried Angela, eagerly. “I don’t wish +for change. I wish to be <i>always</i> doing what I like best.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! that’s quite another thing,” said Robert, with a shake of his head, +“and here is an opportunity for a real moral lesson, if I were competent +to give it; but moral lessons are beyond me.”</p> + +<p>“My daughter is extremely attached to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45">{45}</a></span> Underwood, Mr. Vavasour,” broke +in Mr. Gresham; “and, indeed, to all your neighbourhood. London, with +all its pleasures, has no charms compared with it.”</p> + +<p>Robert’s brow contracted for an instant, and a dark shade passed over +his face, but it was driven away by something darker as he made a light +and playful answer.</p> + +<p>No experienced observer of Robert’s countenance could have failed to +perceive that a change had passed over it during the last few months. He +looked older and more careworn, but at the same time more reckless and +daring. His handsome features nothing could alter, but even they looked +less refined in their beauty. It was as plain as the words of a printed +page, that the dawn which had seemed at hand was overcast, and clouded +by a deeper night. Mr. Gresham, however, was not acute enough to +observe, and Angela was too happy to see him to criticise.</p> + +<p>“Why is your life so tedious?” Robert<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46">{46}</a></span> asked of Angela, lowering his +voice not exactly to a whisper, but to a confidential tone. He did it +not for the question’s sake, but to give a hint to Mr. Gresham.</p> + +<p>The hint was broad, and being sedulous to please his guest, immediately +understood and taken. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Vavasour, being a man +of business, I will make the most of my spare time, and leave you to my +daughter, while I master the news of the day. You will excuse me.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! pray don’t treat me like a stranger, Mr. Gresham,” was very civilly +said; and Mr. Gresham sat down, and devoted himself to his newspaper, or +rather to the contemplation of the pleasant sight that was before his +eyes.</p> + +<p>Without waiting for an answer to his former question, Robert now +addressed another to Angela, in the same tone. “Have you seen any of my +family of late, Miss Gresham? Have you seen Everard?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47">{47}</a></span></p> + +<p>“No,” she said, blushing deeply, “not since January.”</p> + +<p>He saw the blush, and again a slight contraction of brow and darkness of +countenance were visible; but he paid no other heed to what she said. +“Have you heard anything? Have you heard from ... anybody?”</p> + +<p>“I sometimes write to Hope, and then she answers. But I have nothing to +say except to abuse the world, and that you know she does not like to +hear. I always mean to write, and I shall write in a few days, I am +pretty sure.”</p> + +<p>“I shall be very much obliged to you, Miss Gresham, when you do write, +not to say you have seen me.” He lowered his voice still more as he +spoke.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Vavasour, how very strange! Why do you ask such a thing?”</p> + +<p>“Promise me,” he said, without heeding her. “I really must have you +promise.”</p> + +<p>“And I really can’t,” she replied quickly. “It is a sort of thing I +should not like to do.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48">{48}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Very well, then, you drive me away. I am staying in London alone, and I +thought, perhaps, I might occasionally look in of an evening, and make a +sort of a home of your house; but if you will not do as I ask, you drive +me away.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure,” she cried, warmly, “I should be grieved to do that; but I +must tell you plainly that it sounds to me a bad kind of a thing, and +unless you tell me the reason why you ask it, I will not promise.”</p> + +<p>“I will tell you then; but remember, Miss Gresham, if I confide in you I +will not have what I say repeated. The reason is that I am in debt, and +I do not wish my father to know. It will soon be over, at least I hope +and expect it will, and so I do not wish to give him or myself the pain +of his knowing anything about it. There is my reason; the exact truth. +Now will you do what I ask?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose I must,” she said, reluctantly. “Now you have told me this, +how <i>can</i> I tell? I would not for the whole world.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49">{49}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Thank you.” After a pause, he added, “You are very good not to lecture +me. Most women would make a fine parley over it.”</p> + +<p>“I am not good enough to be a lecturer,” she said, gravely, “but I don’t +like it any the better for that.”</p> + +<p>“You think me a great brute?” he said, earnestly. “Say it out! You can’t +think me a greater than I think myself.”</p> + +<p>“No, no, not that. But, Mr. Vavasour, one thing; will you not write +yourself? You need not say anything about debt you know.”</p> + +<p>“No, I can’t. I don’t wish it to be known that I am in London. I hardly +ever go out, except in the evening.”</p> + +<p>“But only consider how anxious they are. Hope does not say so, but I had +a letter from Mr. Addison one day, and he did.”</p> + +<p>Robert fell into a fit of musing, painful enough, by the look of his +countenance. At last he roused himself, and said, “No,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50">{50}</a></span> Miss Gresham, I +can’t. If I wrote I must deceive, and I will not be a hypocrite. However +bad I may be I will <i>never</i> be a hypocrite. They must bear anxiety a +short time longer. I hope it will be but a short time, and then....”</p> + +<p>“And then; what ...?”</p> + +<p>“And then an end,” he said, with a faint smile, “and I hope we shall all +be good and happy.”</p> + +<p>Angela looked very thoughtful.</p> + +<p>“Do you hate me?” he inquired, earnestly, looking keenly into her face.</p> + +<p>“No,” she replied, startled; and then, laughing, “Perhaps I ought, but I +cannot say I do.”</p> + +<p>“Then don’t. I may deserve it, but don’t. Don’t judge harshly of things +which you cannot understand.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I won’t.”</p> + +<p>“And may I sometimes look in of an evening?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, yes, so far as I am concerned.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51">{51}</a></span> You cannot think how +thankful I was for your appearance to-night. My life sometimes reaches +that point of weariness that I think I shall go mad.”</p> + +<p>“And why? Why is your life so tedious?”</p> + +<p>“The people. If you could but see the people I live with.”</p> + +<p>“I can guess,” he said, laughing, driving away the graver mood that had +been upon him. “Young ladies full of airs, and graces, and love, and +partners; young gentlemen full of airs and graces, jewels, and +themselves; elderly gentlemen without graces, fond of riches and food; +and elderly ladies, mothers and wives to all the rest.”</p> + +<p>“Exactly,” cried Angela laughing also, “those are my friends. Do you +call them pleasant companions?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not; you should try and get better ones.”</p> + +<p>“But that is what I can’t do. Till I made acquaintance with your family, +I never, or hardly ever, saw any one I liked;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52">{52}</a></span> and now you have all +spoiled me for <i>anything</i> else. I cannot like common people now.”</p> + +<p>“You are most kind and flattering, Miss Gresham,” said Robert smiling. +“I wish I for one was more worthy of such good compliments. I must make +myself so.”</p> + +<p>The weariness of Angela’s life, and the tediousness of her friends was a +very fertile subject with her. She was never tired of dilating upon it, +and for some time longer she made her confidences to Robert, and +received his full sympathy. The conversation was gay and lively, though +so conducted as not to reach her father’s ears, and when he rose up and +said he must go, Angela felt lighter and happier than she had done for +many a day; she longed only that she might disburden her mind more fully +of the accumulated weight of annoyances, which had been collecting +during many past months.</p> + +<p>Her countenance brightened while she heard her father’s warm invitation +to his guest,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53">{53}</a></span> begging him to look in upon them again; and listened to +Robert’s ready promise to do so whenever he had an opportunity, and +found them alone; and yet her conscience smote her all the while.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham followed Robert to the door, and opened it for him, and +Robert engaged him in conversation, until he had drawn him outside. He +then made a sign to him to follow him a few steps further, and then in a +low and rapid voice addressed him.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to come to your house, Mr. Gresham, under false pretences, +so I may as well tell you at once the circumstances in which I stand. I +am in debt, and I do not wish my father to know of it, or even to guess +that I am in London. I have just been requesting Miss Gresham not to +mention my visits, or my name, and I must beg of you the same favour. I +hope circumstances may arise to clear me before long, but till that time +comes I am under a cloud<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54">{54}</a></span> I would not come to your house and take +advantage of your kindness in allowing me to associate with your +daughter, without telling you plainly how matters stand with me, and it +is now your province to forbid my return if you choose. I put myself +entirely in your hands, but if you give me leave to come, you must take +the consequences.”</p> + +<p>So much does manner do, that others, besides Mr. Gresham, might have +been taken by the frankness of Robert’s declaration, and the open way in +which he made known his situation, and suggested his designs. Mr. +Gresham was more than taken, he was even overpowered by the honour +Robert did him, in making him the repository of his private +circumstances.</p> + +<p>“I thank you, Mr. Vavasour,” he replied, warmly grasping his hand, “for +the very honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself towards +me on this occasion. I cannot find words to express my sense of it. Let +me assure you that your presence,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55">{55}</a></span> even under the circumstances you +mention, is welcome, most welcome. I would not be understood to say +that, in general terms, I approve of habits of irregular extravagance; I +am very far from so doing; but I am aware that among young men of +distinction, at certain periods of their lives, such habits are not +uncommon, and ... and ... I believe I know how to make allowances;” and +here, what between his moral principles, and his wish to encourage +Robert, he came to a stand still, and finished his argument by a very +friendly shake of the hand, which was intended to say that he wiped out +the past, and trusted him for the future.</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Mr. Gresham, you are very kind. Then you allow me to come +notwithstanding my present position.”</p> + +<p>“After the very honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself +towards me, my dear Mr. Vavasour, I should not feel myself justified in +<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56">{56}</a></span>refusing my permission to your request. But allow me to add ...” he +stopped and cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon for the suggestion, +but allow me to say that if in any way I can serve you, my means are +such...”—he placed his hands under his coat tails for a moment—“that +to be of service would be at once a convenience and a pleasure. You +understand me, Mr. Vavasour. My doors are open to you. Make such use of +me as you please.”</p> + +<p>A flush passed over Robert’s face—if of gratification and relief, yet +not purely so. “I am very grateful to you for your kind expressions,” he +said, gravely, “though at the same time they make me ashamed of myself. +I will say no more at present. Perhaps a time may come when I shall +remind you of them.”</p> + +<p>“I shall need no reminding,” was the warm and gracious reply, +accompanied by another shake of the hand; and the strange companions +parted.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham walked up the stairs elevating his head, as if endeavouring +to catch<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57">{57}</a></span> a distant view of the old towers of Audley Court; and his +chest expanded, and his lips broke into a smile as he passed along.</p> + +<p>Robert put on a great coat, pulled his hat over his brows, and paced +onward with rapid steps as if to escape from the reflections of his own +mind; but the rapid steps were not so available as to drown the sound of +a mingled sigh and groan, which burst from his lips as he left his +destiny behind him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58">{58}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah! Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I see thy glory like a shooting star<br></span> +<span class="i0">Fall to the base earth from the firmament.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><i>Richard the Second.</i><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was about three weeks after this time that Mr. Addison went one day +to visit a housemaid at Underwood, the same who had been ill the +previous summer, and who was now declining in health.</p> + +<p>The housekeeper at Underwood was a conversible person, who, though well +able to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59">{59}</a></span> solace herself with the society of her equals, was much +attached to that of her superiors; and having been for some time cut off +from the latter enjoyment, determined to make the most of the +opportunity thrown in her way. She watched Mr. Addison as he left the +housemaid’s room, and then accompanied him down the stairs, along the +passages, and into the garden, giving him some instructions on the best +mode of visiting of the sick as they went along. Mr. Addison, always a +kind and patient listener, suffered her to proceed without interruption; +perhaps, however, only half his intellect followed her words, until +having assured him that she esteemed his visit a privilege, she +surprised him into interest by thus concluding. “And if, sir, a certain +event that is probable should make you as much at home at Underwood as +you now are at Audley Court, your society will be duly appreciated.”</p> + +<p>“Of what event do you speak?” he enquired, his attention caught less by +her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60">{60}</a></span> words, than by a knowing and confidential look in her face.</p> + +<p>“Why, Sir, it is commonly reported, and I believe with truth, that Mr. +Vavasour is extremely assiduous in his attentions to Miss Gresham, and, +indeed, I am given to understand that matters will soon come to an +arrangement between them. It is hinted, indeed, that Mr. Vavasour is +conducting his courtship with secresy and mystery; but I refuse to +believe such calumnious assertions; for though it is natural to young +gentlemen to conceal their proceedings from the observation of the +vulgar, it is not to be supposed that he would take a step of such +importance, without the sanction of his father and other natural +advisers.” Nevertheless, as she looked in Mr. Addison’s face, she did +begin to believe it possible, and to glory in her prior information.</p> + +<p>Supposing her to speak of Everard, and feeling confident that secresy +and mystery<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61">{61}</a></span> in this matter was as far from Everard as from himself, Mr. +Addison gravely said, “You say truly, Mrs. Stevenson; and considering +how much annoyance you may cause your young mistress by spreading an +idle report, I must advise you to dismiss the subject from your mind, +until better authority confirms it.”</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Stevenson had no intention of dismissing the subject. She told +him, indeed, that she should always esteem it a privilege to be advised +by him; but, she added, that on this occasion, she believed she was +justified in keeping the subject in mind, seeing that in a few days, the +marriage, she had reason to imagine, would be announced, “And as I am +speaking to one of the family,” she continued, “or I should say a friend +of the family, I hope I may be allowed to express my hearty approbation +of the alliance. I should have made no objection to Mr. Everard +Vavasour; when observation told me that that alliance<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62">{62}</a></span> was possible, I +expressed my concurrence to Mr. Cocks in such words as these; ‘wealth is +well matched with family, even when family stands without wealth; for +family is that thing which wealth can never buy;’ but if such was my +feeling with respect to Mr. Everard, what must it be towards Mr. +Vavasour, who has been distinguished by Providence with every +distinction His bounty can bestow? If I were a young lady, nay if I were +a young princess, and every king in Europe was presented to my choice, I +would take Mr. Vavasour by the hand before them all.”</p> + +<p>She paused, more from want of breath than words or matter, and Mr. +Addison seizing the opportunity, after one more grave caution against +the spreading of false reports, wished her good morning, and left her.</p> + +<p>But though he gave his caution as a point of natural duty, conviction of +the truth of what she said had entered his soul. In vain<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63">{63}</a></span> he repeated +that the gossip of a large establishment was to be unheeded; with +strange tenacity the news he had heard laid hold of his imagination, and +as he slowly walked along, his mind was agitated with such feelings of +sorrow and dismay as he had scarcely ever experienced before.</p> + +<p>All his hopes for the earthly happiness, and the immortal souls of the +four young beings, in whom his interests were so deeply rooted, brought +to this untimely end; and whether most to mourn for the injured or the +injurers, he could not at the moment determine. As to Robert, the +revelation of character which this news imparted, was like the rude +rending of a veil, and the exhibition of deformity beneath. Amid all his +faults and excesses, Mr. Addison had hitherto traced, or fancied he +traced, a noble, generous, affectionate nature, strong and noble enough +to struggle at last through all temptations; but what more ignoble, or +ungenerous than the nature exhibited here.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64">{64}</a></span> He walked home perplexed and +bewildered, and all the night long tossed about haunted by the forms of +coming misery. Robert and Angela! married without love; with boundless +means to feed his vices, and no attachment at home, no loving influence +or strong respect to restrain him; a downward course, an end of misery. +Strong as his love for Robert were the torturing fears that assailed +him.</p> + +<p>Before morning his resolve was taken. He would hasten to London and see +with his own eyes, and decide by his own judgment, if anything could yet +be done to prevent a great evil. He wrote a note to Mr. Vavasour to +apprise him of his departure, simply saying that business called him +away; and was making a few needful arrangements, when another messenger, +sent by Mrs. Vavasour, summoned him to Audley Court, where his presence +was much needed. The blow had fallen by other means.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65">{65}</a></span></p> + +<p>With an aching heart Mr. Addison prepared to obey the summons. He was +one of those who seem to live but to help and comfort others, but he had +not the calmness of soul such ministers of comfort usually possess. The +sight of sorrow, the sight of the grief of those he loved, no +reflection, no philosophy, no time, no religion had taught him to +endure. It was the business and the happiness of his life to be able to +comfort, and yet there were times, and this day was one, when his very +soul longed for the hour when there would be no more tears to wipe away. +For one of his disposition a time of trial was at hand.</p> + +<p>On arriving at Audley Court he was shown into Mr. Vavasour’s study, and +there he found the father and mother alone. The very first glance made +him quail and tremble. Mr. Vavasour was sitting, pale, calm, and stern, +his head leaning back on his chair. It was an awful truth that that +single glance revealed. His heart was broken. The time<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66">{66}</a></span> might be longer, +might be shorter, but the fiat had gone forth, the blow was struck; +there was death in his face.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison quailed as he received the impression, and then hastily +glanced at Mrs. Vavasour, dreading to read a like conviction in her +eyes; but he was in some degree re-assured by her apparent +unconsciousness. Her lids were swollen with tears, but sorrow for her +son and pleading for her son seemed to absorb her.</p> + +<p>“Thank you for coming,” she said, stretching out her hand to him. “We +have great need of you.”</p> + +<p>“You have heard of Robert?” he said in reply.</p> + +<p>“There, take these,” she cried, gathering together some letters that lay +by her husband’s side, “and then give us what hope and comfort you can.”</p> + +<p>“There is neither hope nor comfort to be given,” broke out the stern +voice of Mr. Vavasour. “They have passed from my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67">{67}</a></span> heart for ever. Yes, +take those,” he continued passionately, “and learn what a son we have +cherished in our bosoms.”</p> + +<p>One letter was from the same old friend, Mr. Perceval, who, on a former +occasion, had written about Robert’s concerns. It enclosed one from Mr. +Low, Mr. Vavasour’s solicitor.</p> + +<p>In this letter Mr. Low informed Mr. Perceval of several particulars +regarding Robert’s conduct, which had come to his knowledge, and asked +his advice about communicating them to Mr. Vavasour. He stated that he +had heard of his arrival in London, and that he was living in obscurity, +moving his lodgings from place to place, and concealing his return from +his acquaintance; that on inquiry, he understood this conduct to be +caused by his having lost large sums of money, and being much harassed +by his debts. The letter went on to say, “The interest I have always +taken in Mr. Robert Vavasour, and my conviction of the truth of what I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68">{68}</a></span> +have heard, has led me to trouble you on this occasion, though possibly +I might have hesitated to interfere, when not especially called upon to +do so, had it not been that from other circumstances, I believe no time +should be lost in extricating him from his embarrassments.” Mr. Low then +proceeded to inform Mr. Perceval that he had likewise heard, and he +feared with too great truth, that Robert had of late acquired habits of +intemperance, brought on he was convinced by distress of mind, and he +urged upon him, not in the dry style of a solicitor, but as one whose +heart like many others had been warmed and won by Robert’s charms, that +the unfortunate young man should be snatched before it was too late, +from the perilous course on which he had entered.</p> + +<p>As Mr. Addison finished this letter he slowly raised his eyes, and +almost started as he met the keen piercing gaze that was bent upon him +by Mr. Vavasour. He understood it well. He felt what word it was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69">{69}</a></span> whose +shame and disgrace had struck, like a dagger’s point, into his very +heart. Intemperance! That a Vavasour should thus degrade himself to the +level of the beasts that perish.</p> + +<p>Without a remark, Mr. Addison turned to the second letter. Mr. Low’s was +dated a week backward. Mr. Perceval’s only two days before. He explained +his delay in forwarding the enclosure by the desire he had felt to make +more particular inquiries before such tidings were sent. Finding that +substantially they were correct, he thought it best to let Mr. Vavasour +know the worst without delay. He added, however, that he understood an +improvement in his habits had of late taken place, owing to a pursuit in +which Robert was at present engaged; a pursuit which, if crowned with +success, would, he hoped, not only place him above his difficulties, but +if all that was said of the lady in question was true, would probably +ensure his domestic happiness, and recover<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70">{70}</a></span> him from the error of his +ways. This fact had, he said, been communicated to him in confidence by +his nephew, and he was not, therefore, at liberty to speak more clearly, +but he trusted that the mere mention of these better hopes would, in a +degree, soothe the pain he was forced to cause.</p> + +<p>One word only alleviated the unspeakable sadness Mr. Addison felt in +these tidings; and strange to say it was the very word that seemed to +crush Mr. Vavasour to the earth. Intemperance. What but the mind’s agony +could have driven Robert to a course he abhorred? and if the mind was +capable of suffering so acutely there was the better nature living +still; there was the heart too much opposed to evil, the conscience too +tortured by the sense, of the pain he inflicted, to leave any ground for +despair. As he thus reflected, he remembered Robert’s parting prayer, +and replacing the letters by Mr. Vavasour’s side, he gravely said,</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71">{71}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Robert must not be condemned on hearsay; his own lips must speak. I +will go to him.”</p> + +<p>“Bless you for that,” cried Mrs. Vavasour, “and,” she continued, taking +up Mr. Perceval’s letter, and pointing to the paragraph respecting +Robert’s marriage, “prove this false or he will break our hearts.”</p> + +<p>“They <i>are</i> broken,” said Mr. Vavasour, sternly. “It is too late.”</p> + +<p>“Not so,” was Mr. Addison’s soothing reply. “God accepts repentance, and +man should never say it is too late.”</p> + +<p>“There are things God’s mercy pardons that man cannot.”</p> + +<p>“Shall man, then, be more just than God?” Mr. Addison asked, solemnly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour clasped his hands in some mute emotion, but whether it was +a vow or prayer could not be guessed.</p> + +<p>In speaking with Mrs. Vavasour, Mr. Addison found that with instinctive +dread her thoughts had flown to Angela; and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72">{72}</a></span> since the tidings might at +any moment, either through direct announcement or common gossip, fall on +her ears, he thought it best, before his departure, to mention what he +had heard at Underwood. Mrs. Vavasour wept bitterly, tears she vainly +struggled to repress, but it was for the poor guilty Robert, not for +Everard, that she wept; and who should say her tears were misplaced. Mr. +Vavasour said not one word, but if a cheek that was already pale as +death could be paler, his became so; and if the rigid sternness of his +brow could admit of increase, his became more hard.</p> + +<p>He did not speak during the remainder of the conversation between Mr. +Addison and his wife, neither forbidding nor yet sanctioning the plans +they formed; but when, before he left the room, the question arose +whether Hope should be informed of all that was known and all that was +dreaded, and when Mrs. Vavasour said with tears, “Let us spare her yet; +God may yet shield<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73">{73}</a></span> her innocence from this trial,” he again broke +harshly forth,</p> + +<p>“She shall know all. Not for one hour longer shall she waste her heart +upon a....”</p> + +<p>Some word of fury was on his lips, but with clasped hands he restrained +himself; and bowing his head, he gently and reverently added, “God have +pity upon us all.”</p> + +<p>Even had he deemed it himself advisable, Mr. Addison would not have +attempted to argue with Mr. Vavasour in his present mood. He saw a fixed +determination in his eye, and danger of exciting him if it were +combated; but in truth he saw little to be gained by delay. The bond +between Robert and Hope was already broken, and even should the event +fail to take place, it was not with one of her character that +concealment could be just. He offered himself, therefore, to perform the +task.</p> + +<p>He offered himself to spare Mrs. Vavasour the pain of the recital, and +to spare Hope the agony of Mr. Vavasour’s harsher words.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74">{74}</a></span> But it was a +task of peculiar difficulty. He had needed no confession to tell him +that a change had come over the affection which subsisted between Hope +and Robert. He had seen Robert more than once struggling with his +feelings, and he had seen in Hope’s eyes the dawn of something, which, +if of earth, had no stain of earthliness about it. He had not needed +what yet he had received, Mrs. Vavasour’s thankful assurance that such +was the case. But though he knew, he had felt instinctively that the tie +between them was too fragile to bear a touch; and though adviser, guide, +and comforter, this touch which was to break, was the first that had +ever ventured near the sacredness of her affection.</p> + +<p>Hope was at work in her sitting room. She looked up as he entered, and +fixing an earnest gaze on his face, saw, or thought she saw, what +brought him; she perceived that the long expected hour was come, when +she must walk with Robert through a dark<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75">{75}</a></span> valley; and with one sinking +and trembling of her heart, she was prepared to meet it. For what else +he had to tell little indeed was she prepared.</p> + +<p>He came to her side and forced her to be seated, and then stooping +tenderly over her, he put the letters into her hand, saying only as he +did so, “There is much to grieve us all; but there are some things which +more especially concern <i>you</i>. Dear Miss Linton be prepared,” and he +gave her hand one of those agitated grasps, which tell so much of +sympathy.</p> + +<p>But even then, Hope was not prepared, nor even when she had perused the +letter, did the truth it contained flash on her mind. It was a glance at +Mr. Addison, and a second perusal that brought conviction, and then she +slowly laid it down, and her head bent lower, and a flush of crimson +stole over her cheek, and neck, and brow.</p> + +<p>To a character like Hope’s, the sensations of such a moment had an added +and unspeakable bitterness; for they brought not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76">{76}</a></span> sorrow only, but +self-knowledge. She had lived from childhood upwards, a life most like +an angel’s, her heart in Heaven, while her business was on earth; +nothing had yet taught her that she too was a child of Adam, compassed +about with earthly passions, and earthly hopes and fears. It was the +iron of the chain entering into her soul, that brought her to feel the +links that bound her.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison waited long, and then gently laying his hand on her bended +head, said, “God bless you and help you. I know you have need of help.”</p> + +<p>She gave him her hand without looking up or speaking, and he held it +while he told her as briefly as was possible, what more was needful, and +what more she might wish to know. When he had done, perceiving plainly +that at that moment no earthly comforter could speak peace to her +troubled spirit, he again murmured his soft “God bless you,” and left +her to solitude.</p> + +<p>Her first act was a singular one; but it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77">{77}</a></span> was one which showed how to +her thoughtful nature outward forms were imbued with life. She loosened +from her neck a chain and locket, which Robert had given her the evening +before he left home for college; a token of affection and remembrance +which since then had hung there night and day, loved and cherished; she +held it for a moment and looked at it with an intense gaze, then slowly +crossed the room, folded it in paper, and put it carefully by. When this +was done, she threw herself on her knees, and buried her face in her +hands; not for prayer, not for thought, not for confession, but to throw +under the protection of God, thoughts and emotions, whose startling +violence she knew not how to put into words, and thus mutely to express +her resignation of herself to whatever might befall her.</p> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">And innocence is strong<br></span> +<span class="i0">And an entire simplicity of mind<br></span> +<span class="i0">A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven.<br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>Gradually the selfishness of her grief<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78">{78}</a></span> passed by, and reproaching +herself, for so long forgetting a parent’s sorrow, she was springing up +to go in search of her aunt, when she was prevented by Mrs. Vavasour’s +entrance.</p> + +<p>She was much agitated, and throwing her arms round Hope’s neck, she wept +bitterly. Those tears she had so desired to conceal from her husband +flowed here without restraint; and the reproaches against Robert, which +she would have died before she had uttered in his presence, fell fast +from her lips in the presence of her he had injured. Mrs. Vavasour was +very human, and even years of self-restraint had failed to overcome the +impetuosity of her feelings.</p> + +<p>It was Hope who recalled her to herself. “Dear Aunt Joan,” she said, +sadly, “who will speak for Robert, if you give him up?”</p> + +<p>“Ah! who indeed,” she replied, composing herself with a pang of +self-reproach. “But it is for your sake, Hope. When I think of you, even +I can hardly forgive.”</p> + +<p>Hope stood by her side with downcast<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79">{79}</a></span> eyes, and a colour coming and +going as rapidly as Angela’s might have done. In many respects human +beings strangely differ one from the other, but some things all feel +alike. However bravely, or however holily borne, the strongest or the +most saintlike know what it is to be forsaken or forgotten. At last she +raised her eyes and said with grave composure. “I think it is very +possible that I may have thought more of Robert’s words than I ought to +have done, or if not that,” for the vividness of those words, and that +scene, flashed before her to check the supposition “that he himself was +too much excited to know all he said, or to remember it as I have +remembered. But be this as it may, dear Aunt Joan, it is not for <i>us</i> to +forsake him. He is sorely tempted, but he will not be lost. He has a +good soul, and that cannot be lost.” She clasped her hands with +passionate fervour, as she spoke her intense conviction regarding him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80">{80}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Will you, indeed, never forsake him or cease to pray for him, Hope?” +her aunt asked, laying her hand on her arm, and looking anxiously in her +face.</p> + +<p>Hope turned away her eyes, for that question brought the conviction +hitherto unrealized, that he would be her charge no longer; that another +might stand nearer to him than she had ever yet done or ever +henceforward could do. It was a conviction of such piercing anguish that +it kept her for a moment silent; but when she answered, it was in the +same grave but tranquil manner in which for his sake she had spoken +before. “I think Robert should never know that there has been a change. +A few months need not wipe out whole years of life. What I have been, +all but a few thoughts, I think I may still be. And now, dear Aunt Joan, +think of me no more, let us think, and hope, and pray for him.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour fondly kissed her, and her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81">{81}</a></span> request was obeyed. Except +from their inner hearts, that portion of their grief seemed to be swept +away.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour did not even mention Robert’s name again. Mr. Low came down +from London at his summons, and with him he entered fully into the +subject, hearing from him all that could be told, and entering with him +into arrangements for the future. But to his wife and Hope he was +absolutely dumb.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour made no attempt to break his silence. His harsh speeches +wrung her heart, and, for the first time, she had no excuses to bring +forward. Her passionate love for her son was in no degree shaken, but +she recoiled from the past, and trembled for the future, and dared not +palliate, and dared not hope.</p> + +<p>For three days Hope was also silent. She too shrank from his harsh +words, and feared lest the thoughts connected with <i>her</i>, should provoke +them anew. But after three<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82">{82}</a></span> days she could bear this silence no longer. +There was a fixed look in his face which made her tremble as she watched +it, a look almost as if he were cursing Robert in his heart.</p> + +<p>On the third day she went to him and put her arms round his neck, and +said, “Uncle Richard, you have not forgiven Robert. I see in your face +that you do not forgive. You must. Oh! Uncle Richard, it is a fearful +thing not to forgive.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her intently, and remained for a time,—it seemed to her +like many minutes,—in profound silence and reflection. Hope +waited—watching and hoping to see a softening in his countenance; but +in vain. There was no change there.</p> + +<p>At last he spoke gravely and solemnly. “I was examining myself, my +child. I would not lightly say that I did forgive. But I can say it now. +I do forgive him.” He paused, then suddenly seizing both her hands, +continued with violent agitation,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83">{83}</a></span> “And Hope, my child, if it should be +so ordained that I see Robert no more, let him know this; let him never +doubt it; <i>I forgive him</i>. He has the full forgiveness of the father +whose heart he has broken, as I hope God will forgive me.” He dropped +her hands, and covered his face for an instant with his own; but after +that instant was calm and rigid as before.</p> + +<p>Hope kissed his brow, and softly thanked him.</p> + +<p>As she was moving away he caught her hand once more and said, “Not till +I am <i>dead</i>, Hope, not till I am dead.”</p> + +<p>“Are you ill, dear Uncle Richard—do you feel ill?” she cried, hanging +tearfully over him.</p> + +<p>“My heart is broken,” he said; “God’s will be done.” And he waved his +hand as if desirous to be left to himself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84">{84}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Have mercy upon those who err,<br></span> +<span class="i2">They need it more than all;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Lead home each hapless wanderer<br></span> +<span class="i2">And raise up those that fall.<br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> in the middle of the day following his departure from Audley Court, +Mr. Addison arrived in London, he proceeded at once to Everard’s +chambers. Whether or no, Everard could give him the information he +required regarding Robert’s present abode was doubtful. It seemed +impossible, considering that others had heard, and that he was well +acquainted with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85">{85}</a></span> Robert’s usual associates, that rumours should not have +reached him of his return; and yet—knowing the anxiety felt at Audley +Court, an anxiety corroding the peace and eating into the very springs +of life,—that he should have been aware of it, and yet have concealed +it, seemed more incredible.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison knocked at his door, and was shewn at once into the room +where he sat alone. Books were around and about him; the very look of +the room betokened study and industry; and yet as Everard raised his +eyes from the page before him, there was an air of lassitude and +weariness in his countenance, which even at a glance arrested Mr. +Addison’s attention.</p> + +<p>On seeing who his visitor was, he sprang up with an exclamation of +pleasure, but it changed almost immediately to one of alarm, and “My +father?” fell fearfully from his lips.</p> + +<p>“Your father is well,” Mr. Addison said quickly, as he shook his hand. +“It is not his health that brings me up.” He stopped,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86">{86}</a></span> then added +gravely, “He is well, that is, as far as I can tell, in body, but far +from well in mind.”</p> + +<p>Everard fastened his eyes intently upon him, but made no comment on his +speech.</p> + +<p>“Are <i>you</i> well, Everard?” was the next question gravely asked, and with +a searching gaze.</p> + +<p>A flush passed over his face, but he only replied, “Yes, thank you, +quite well, I always am.”</p> + +<p>“Well in mind, as well as in body?”</p> + +<p>“What matters my health,” he said quickly. “Now tell me, Mr. Addison, +why are you come up?”</p> + +<p>“Have you no guess?”</p> + +<p>“I may or may not guess,” he replied, in an impatient manner, “but it +will be useless to imagine my guesses. Tell me why you are come?”</p> + +<p>“Bad news about Robert brings me up. We have heard strange, sad tales. +Did you know of his return, Everard?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87">{87}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Few things are unknown,” Everard said bitterly. “It does not need birds +of the air to bring intelligence.”</p> + +<p>“Have you then known it long?”</p> + +<p>“I said before, Mr. Addison, few things are unknown, and bad news above +all things is not long in making its way.” He spoke in an excited, +restless manner, as if fretted at the questions, and unable to restrain +the bitterness of his mood.</p> + +<p>“Why then have you been silent? Was your father’s anxiety, were your +brother’s body and soul nothing to you?”</p> + +<p>“Who ever made me my brother’s keeper?” was his passionate reply. “What +have I to do with Robert or his doings?”</p> + +<p>“I think I partly understand you, Everard,” Mr. Addison said, in a voice +whose grave gentleness contrasted forcibly with the passionate +bitterness of his companion. “But you have been strangely and sadly +mistaken; God grant our present tidings may not be too late.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88">{88}</a></span></p> + +<p>“You say you understand, Mr. Addison, but you do <i>not</i> understand. You +seem to have no feeling for me. It is but little love I have as it is, +and was it for me to come with my unwelcome words, like a bird of bad +omen, and condemn my brother. I say again, what have I to do with +Robert’s doings? He does not consult me, he does not make them known to +me; it is not for me to go about prying into his concerns. If men had +not such delight in reporting what gives pain, I should have known no +more than you. And I say it now, and let it be remembered,” he continued +with vehemence, “I will <i>not</i> be a spy; let Robert do what he pleases, I +will <i>not</i> be answerable for his doings. We have not had much in common +for many years, and henceforward the tie may be altogether broken for +what I care.”</p> + +<p>His voice was harsh, and his face crimson with passion as he spoke.</p> + +<p>“You say I do not pity you, Everard,” was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89">{89}</a></span> the kind and soothing answer +of his companion, as he laid his hand upon his arm. “I do pity you from +my heart, because I believe <i>your</i> heart is sorely tried. Do not be +afraid or ashamed to confess it to me. You do feel your burden almost +greater than you can bear.”</p> + +<p>Tears were in Everard’s eyes, and a choking feeling in his throat; the +bitter passion of the moment had melted before the kind words of his old +friend, and the next instant he was seated with his face buried in his +hands, vainly struggling with feelings that overmastered him.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison turned away without an attempt to restrain him. He had +traced the signs of perhaps long pent up jealousy in his words, and he +was well pleased that, through the indulgence of even womanly tears, +Everard should be restored to himself.</p> + +<p>He did not hope in vain. He was still gazing sadly out into the dull +street, when Everard came to him and asked his forgive<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90">{90}</a></span>ness. “Not for +<i>that</i>,” he said, meaning by that inexpressible thing, the tears of +which men are so strangely ashamed, “but for my wicked words, and, if +you knew them, still more wicked thoughts. How you must hate me.”</p> + +<p>“Far from it, dear Everard,” he replied, with a kind smile. “I know what +you feel too well. You are suffering a great trial, undergoing a great +temptation; but remember, Everard, temptations are to be conquered. If +all be true that is said to be true, strong temptation is before you. +Dear Everard prepare yourself for it. I will say no more on this point +now, for it may be averted. But, be it as it may, rest assured your +trial is not undervalued or forgotten. God bless and strengthen you.” He +paused a moment, and then went on. “I must see Robert; can you tell me +where I shall find him?”</p> + +<p>“Not to-day,” Everard replied, “he left his lodgings two days ago, and I +have not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91">{91}</a></span> yet heard where he has placed himself. But you shall hear from +me to-night; and the delay will not matter. Your best time will be +before he is up. Poor Robert!” he added, an expression of thought and +affection softening his countenance.</p> + +<p>“If you can say that, Everard,” said Mr. Addison with pleasure, “all is +right with you.”</p> + +<p>Everard coloured, and made no answer, and a moment after began hurriedly +to speak of Audley Court, asking briefly how the present news had been +received and borne by his parents, omitting all mention of Hope, and +then going backward to such small events as had occurred since he left +it; dwelling on these minutely and thankfully, as if, like his father, +he found repose in banishing his feelings into the recesses of his +heart.</p> + +<p>Late in the evening he went to the hotel where Mr. Addison was staying, +with Robert’s present direction. It was in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92">{92}</a></span> Poland-street. When asked by +what means he had obtained it, he said there was now no difficulty. +Robert, of late, had grown careless, “or else,” he added, colouring, +“there is no longer the same necessity for secrecy.”</p> + +<p>Soon after ten the following morning Mr. Addison went to Robert’s +lodgings. On enquiring for Mr. Vavasour he was told shortly that he was +not yet up. He desired that his name might be taken to him, and wrote on +a card a request to see him for a few minutes, adding that he was in no +hurry, and would wait until Mr. Vavasour was ready. There was some demur +about carrying the message, but finally it was taken, and after nearly +ten minutes of expectation he was desired to walk up. Thankful in any +way to have procured admission, he went on with a lighter heart than he +had brought with him.</p> + +<p>Robert’s rooms were on the third floor. The sitting-room into which Mr. +Addison was shown was not such as he could have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93">{93}</a></span> imagined Robert’s +fastidious tastes and habits would have found it possible to endure. +There was the closeness, the shabbiness, the darkness, the indescribable +offensiveness of a third or fourth rate lodging in London. On reaching +it, Mr. Addison sat down, and having said he was in no hurry, was +prepared for a long waiting. But he was mistaken.</p> + +<p>In three or four minutes a small door opened, and Robert appeared in his +dressing gown. He came in boldly, and said with an off-hand manner, “You +in London, Mr. Addison, that is quite an unexpected pleasure.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Robert,” he replied, simply and gravely, “I came up to see you.”</p> + +<p>In spite of his seeming determination to carry off his embarrassment +under a show of ease and frankness, Robert coloured. He walked to the +window and flung it open, observing that the “odour of the room was not +of the pleasantest,” and then, throwing himself into a chair near enough +to breathe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94">{94}</a></span> the fresh air, he said, “Well, Mr. Addison, I am sure I am +very much obliged to you. What can I do for you? What do you want with +me?”</p> + +<p>During his restless movements Mr. Addison had been studying his air and +countenance, endeavouring to discover how much of the better nature +survived amid the complication of evil that was closing about him. His +survey was painful, and yet was not such as to extinguish hope. He +fancied that even if the fact had not been mentioned he should have +detected the effect of dissipated and intemperate habits on his +countenance, a something not to be mistaken obscuring the clearness and +beauty of his features and expression; but painful as was the change, +still, in countenance, in manner, in the very tone of his voice, it was +evident that he was not at ease. Conscience was far, very far, from +being laid to sleep. This conviction gave him hope, it made him bold.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95">{95}</a></span></p> + +<p>“I am come,” he said, gently, “in answer to a petition of yours. Do you +remember, Robert, your last departure from home. You then desired me to +stand your friend, not to judge you harshly, or lightly give you up. I +have not forgotten, and, therefore, Robert, I am here.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks then for that,” Robert said, in an unsteady voice; very +evidently touched, though at the same time as evidently determined not +to be so. “It is not often in this world that men remember their +promises. But Mr. Addison, since you are come, we had better proceed to +business. What have you got to say against me? What awful tales has that +scoundrel rumour been telling? Out with it at once, pray, and do not +keep me in suspense longer than is needful.”</p> + +<p>“Rumour has said much, Robert,” said Mr. Addison, sadly; “so much, that +I confess it is with an effort that I do <i>not</i> judge you harshly. But no +man should be condemned on rumour. Read these, and God grant you may be +able to disprove what is said.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96">{96}</a></span></p> + +<p>He put into his hand the letters Mr. Vavasour had received, and turning +away while he read them, stood silently leaning against the window.</p> + +<p>He was left but a few minutes to meditation; the letters were thrown +upon the floor, and rising and stamping with his foot, Robert said, +“<i>True</i>, Mr. Addison, every word <i>true</i>.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison turned pale and sat down; he had not known how much of +disbelief had yet clung to his imagination.</p> + +<p>Robert also sat down, and, after the momentary excitement, crossed his +arms with a resolved air. He waited apparently for his companion to +speak. Since nothing was said, he at last observed, “Well, Mr. Addison, +now is your time. Condemn me as harshly as you please. I am at your +mercy.”</p> + +<p>“Condemnation was not what brought me here,” he said, sadly. “Your own +conscience must do that. But if you wish<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97">{97}</a></span> to be condemned, if your +conscience does not yet speak loud enough, think of the picture your +home must have presented when those letters were received. Picture it, I +repeat. Fancy cannot go beyond the truth of the sorrow, the agony I +saw.”</p> + +<p>“You say true, Mr. Addison,” Robert said, and sighed. “My conscience is +not hard enough yet to think of that.” He paused a moment, and then +asked suddenly, “What did Hope say?”</p> + +<p>“She said little. I may say she said nothing. She read the letters, and +said not a word.”</p> + +<p>“Poor angel!” Robert said softly, putting his hand over his eyes, and +for a moment his countenance was touched by an expression of +indescribable tenderness.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison remained silent, fearing to weaken by one syllable the +natural workings of his feelings.</p> + +<p>The silence lasted for a minute or so;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98">{98}</a></span> Robert then said, “I suppose +they all know then that I am going to be married.”</p> + +<p>“So much we gathered from that letter; the rest I heard at Underwood. Is +it true, Robert? Are you indeed engaged to Miss Gresham?”</p> + +<p>“What have you to say against it?” Robert asked, sharply.</p> + +<p>“Two things,” was the grave reply; “you do not love her, and your +brother does.”</p> + +<p>Robert coloured violently. “As for that matter,” he cried, “I cannot see +that it is any affair of mine. I suppose every lady is at liberty to be +married when she pleases, and other men’s fancies are not to forbid the +banns?”</p> + +<p>“True; but every man, every generous man at least, restrains his wishes +where a brother is concerned.”</p> + +<p>“I know nothing of Everard, or his fancies,” Robert said, hastily. “He +has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99">{99}</a></span> never consulted or confided in me. If there were no objection but +<i>that</i>, my conscience would sleep very peaceably.”</p> + +<p>“There are others then? Oh! Robert, I guessed as much.”</p> + +<p>“Not very hard to guess,” he said, scornfully. “I have loved another all +my life, and I have told her so. There, I confess it, there is the +sting; but some things <i>must</i> be done, and this must. Poor Hope,” he +said again, again putting his hand over his eyes. “What must she think +of me!”</p> + +<p>“Dear Robert,” Mr. Addison said, approaching him, and laying his hand +upon him, “be yourself; cast off the madness that misleads you, and +return and be forgiven.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot,” he cried, with strong agitation. “Mr. Addison, I dare not. I +cannot meet my father again. Not for worlds would I ask him again to +forgive me. You know I love my mother; you know I love Hope; I tell you +I think no more of the pain I give them, compared to my fathe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100">{100}</a></span>r’s anger, +than I care for that stone. He is a severe and inexorable judge, and +before his judgment seat I never again will stand. Do not urge me, it +will be utterly in vain.”</p> + +<p>“Are you mad, Robert? What has your father done that you should think so +hardly of him? Is it for this that you rush into temptation and misery? +Be warned, Robert; retract, repent, it is not too late.”</p> + +<p>“You speak like a child, Mr. Addison. Repentance again—<i>my</i> repentance. +I tell you I studied my father’s face. I read in it that I was forgiven +once more, and but once. He has no longer the power to forgive; he +scorns me, and I will not be scorned. I will be free. And he is right,” +he continued with vehemence, “he is right to scorn, and right to forgive +no more. If I were a father, and if I had such a son, <i>I</i> would not +forgive. Repentance! what is repentance worth—<i>my</i> repentance. I should +but mock my father to go again with my repentance to him. Henceforward I +will be free.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101">{101}</a></span></p> + +<p>A silence followed Robert’s excited speech; it was broken by Mr. +Addison’s saying solemnly,</p> + +<p>“And when he came to himself he said, ‘How many hired servants of my +father have bread enough, and to spare, while I perish with hunger. I +will arise and go to my father.’ So Robert, in your freedom you may +feel, and it may be too late. There is no repentance for the grave where +<i>he</i> is hastening.”</p> + +<p>“Is my father ill?” Robert asked with sudden terror. “Tell me true, Mr. +Addison, is my father ill?”</p> + +<p>“It may be fancy, Robert—it may be only my fancy,—I will not say that +it is more,—but as I last looked in your father’s face I felt that the +days of mourning for him were at hand.”</p> + +<p>“You must write to him, Mr. Addison,” Robert said, agitatedly, “write to +him this very day and tell him that I grieve to offend him, tell him +that I have had the torments of hell in my heart, and that I love<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102">{102}</a></span> him +still. Will you write what I tell you?” he asked excitedly.</p> + +<p>“I will, dear Robert, I will. May I say more?”</p> + +<p>“No, Mr. Addison,” he replied mournfully. “I do repent. God knows I do +repent. But I have gone too far to turn back. What my future life will +be who can tell—I care not.”</p> + +<p>“Are you engaged to Miss Gresham, Robert? Is the deed done?”</p> + +<p>“To her father, I am; to her, I shall be, perhaps to-night, perhaps +to-morrow. I had it all out with him yesterday. He is a generous old +fool, and he will make me as happy as I can be. I have done it with my +eyes open, and I must take the consequences.”</p> + +<p>“And she—does she love you, Robert? and do you intend to make her +happy?”</p> + +<p>“Happy, oh, yes! extremely happy. As<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103">{103}</a></span> to her feelings, I suppose they +are much like mine. We do not talk much of feelings. I must have one +bout of it I suppose, and I will tell her what I feel. I like her well +enough, and she likes me. We have more love between us than many +marriages can shew. Let us have done, Mr. Addison. I thank you for +coming, more than perhaps I seem to do. You would have saved me from +misery, and though you have failed, I can say God bless you for it. Now, +good bye. Remember my words to my father, and tell my mother and Hope +that I love them still.” He held out his hand.</p> + +<p>“Would that I also could say God bless you, Robert,” said Mr. Addison, +as he took it, “but how can His blessing rest upon your wilful way. If I +have not spoken to you of your grievous offences in the sight of God, it +is not that I do not tremble for you; but he that fears not the father +whom he has seen, how will he fear the Father whom he has not seen. +Farewell! may His mercy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104">{104}</a></span> avert from you the miseries I dread.” He +grasped his hand with an earnest and affectionate pressure, and, +unrecalled by Robert, departed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105">{105}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as a bird each fond endearment tries<br></span> +<span class="i0">To tempt his new fledged offspring to the skies.<br></span> +<span class="i0">He tried each art, reproved each dull delay;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Goldsmith.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">To</span> fits of despondence the best of men are subject. Of all failures, and +the very word failure has a sinking of the heart in it, the failure of +an attempt to recover the erring is, and from all that depends on it, +must be, the most bitter. Who can ever be satisfied that their efforts +have been strong enough, their arguments forcible enough,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106">{106}</a></span> their words, +words in season. Failure is often an appointed trial, a trial sent from +Heaven; but man cannot know when such is the case, and the best and +humblest are the least able to take to themselves that thought for +consolation.</p> + +<p>Perplexed, desponding, and troubled in spirit, Mr. Addison slowly paced +along the streets. He had failed, entirely failed, and from the future +that lay before those he loved so much, his very soul shrank backward. +Death, and misery, and separations, and strange unnatural troubles, +cutting at the root of all domestic peace.</p> + +<p>It was not till he had walked a considerable way, unconscious where he +went, that he thought of Angela. Of what her feelings might be, of the +present trials that might be assailing <i>her</i>. The thought came like a +flash of light. It was a something yet to be done, and action is +cheering.</p> + +<p>He turned his steps towards Portland Place, walking slowly, and +meditating as he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107">{107}</a></span> went. He was not one lightly to interfere in a +family’s concerns. In his eyes his appointed office was, to be ever +ready to advise and help, but not so forward, as to stand before or +between the natural and holy links which the ties of nature bind. He did +not, therefore, feel at liberty to enter uninvited with Angela, on the +question of her marriage with Robert, nor to excite, if it did not +already exist, opposition on the subject between the father and +daughter.</p> + +<p>But it appeared to him as more than possible, that she might be in need +of help, in need of a guide in thinking rightly, of support in acting +justly. As he considered her character the probability of this view of +the subject increased in strength. He remembered how, in spite of all +her independence and strength of opinion, circumstances ever appeared to +sway her to their will; how incapable she seemed of bettering her +condition, or of improving the tone of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108">{108}</a></span> society in which she lived; +how weak she was in action when her actions were compared with her +words. No one who studied Angela’s character could have failed to +perceive this inconsistency and peculiarity; and as Mr. Addison now +recalled a thousand trifles in which her slavery to circumstances and +her impulsive yielding to excitement had been revealed; he began to +blame his dilatoriness in considering her share in these transactions; +and to be visited with strange terror, lest she should be driven by the +mere pressure of a moment, into a marriage with one brother, while her +heart was all another’s.</p> + +<p>The terror of this thought, when once fully realised, quickened his +steps, and led him agitated and eager to Mr. Gresham’s door.</p> + +<p>His first enquiry was for Mr. Gresham; he had sufficient confidence in +the truthfulness of Mr. Gresham’s disposition, to entertain a hope of +making an impression, even<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109">{109}</a></span> on him; but Mr. Gresham was out. Miss +Gresham was at home, and he was admitted at once.</p> + +<p>He was shewn into one of the large drawing-rooms, and there sat down to +wait. His mind was too much pre-occupied to notice, far less to admire +the splendour that was about him, and Mr. Gresham would have been as +much astonished as displeased, had he seen him seat himself without a +glance around.</p> + +<p>It was not long before Angela joined him, but there was nothing of her +usual haste and eagerness in her air. She entered slowly, and her +greeting was not without formality. He looked in her face, and saw it +changed. The varied play and animation of her countenance, was for the +moment at least gone, and was replaced by a gravity too little suited to +her features to sit naturally or pleasantly upon them. It was plain she +was acting a part, but wherefore he could not imagine.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110">{110}</a></span></p> + +<p>“I did not know you were in London, Mr. Addison,” she began, as she +seated herself. “When did you come?”</p> + +<p>“Only yesterday; and I go back, a part of the way, at least to-day. I +would not go without an attempt to see you. I am glad to find you at +home.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you for coming. I am very seldom out, for I have no where I care +to go to. How are they all at Audley Court? I have not heard from Hope +for ages; nor written to her, to say the truth. How is she?”</p> + +<p>Hope’s name was spoken without embarrassment. It was evident, that to +her, at least, Hope appeared in no other light, than as Robert’s devoted +sister.</p> + +<p>“I left her well,” he replied, gravely, yet relieved by her +unconsciousness on that point.</p> + +<p>“I suppose she is as good, and doing as much good as ever. Oh! how good +she is!” and Angela suddenly lost her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111">{111}</a></span> formal manner and sighed like her +own self.</p> + +<p>“She is indeed,” he replied, anxious to follow her lead, and to win her +to converse without restraint. “She has a very peculiar character. She +always reminds me of the words of the old writer, Fuller, about Lady +Jane Grey. ‘She had the innocency of childhood, the beauty of youth, the +solidity of middle, the gravity of old age, and all at eighteen.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, that is exactly like her,” Angela said smiling. She then relapsed +into thought, and after a little reflection, added, “It is something so +far beyond the goodness of common people, that I feel it is no use for a +common person to try to be like her.”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry you say so, her character may be unlike ours, but her +goodness, though we may not attain to it, is only what we all should +<i>try</i> to attain.”</p> + +<p>“<i>We!</i>” Angela said, with something of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112">{112}</a></span> scorn, “you may be as good as +you please, Mr. Addison, I cannot.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” he asked with interest.</p> + +<p>“Because I cannot,” she replied, with momentary passion, and then drew +herself up, and was silent.</p> + +<p>“I think you mistake,” he said gravely, “no temptation ever assails us +but there is a way of escape.”</p> + +<p>She gave him a quick glance, but only shook her head, and said no more.</p> + +<p>“Have you read any of the books I gave you?” he asked, after a short +silence, and asked it in a quiet friendly way, anxious only to make her +feel he <i>was</i> a friend.</p> + +<p>“Yes I have, indeed,” she replied readily, “I have never forgotten what +you advised me. I read a little bit every day, and I like it. That one +right thing I do.”</p> + +<p>“That is good,” he said, with a slight kind smile; then, after a +moment’s consideration, added, “And do you try to follow the advice +given you! To read is good,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113">{113}</a></span> but it will not be good unless we try to +practise what we know.”</p> + +<p>“And that I do not,” she replied sadly.</p> + +<p>“But why, Miss Gresham? I only say <i>try</i>. Dear Miss Gresham, surely you +try?”</p> + +<p>“No, I do not. I have given up trying. Things may go just as they +please. I shall try to be good no more.”</p> + +<p>“That is a fearful thing to say,” he said, with a seriousness that +startled her.</p> + +<p>Tears came into her eyes, and she added quickly, “Perhaps I do not quite +mean that. I only mean that I am very bad now, and that I see no hope of +ever being better.”</p> + +<p>“You seem unhappy,” he asked kindly.</p> + +<p>“Not very happy, certainly, but it does not matter. I never was happy, +and I see I never shall be—but it does not matter. Nothing matters in +this world, I think.”</p> + +<p>“I differ from you there, Miss Gresham. I am an old man, and you are +young, and I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114">{114}</a></span> can tell you from experience that a long life of sorrow is +a trying thing. No habit makes it bearable, and nothing but the grace of +God can lead a man safely through its temptations and its pains.” He +spoke solemnly, alarmed at the mood in which he found her.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you are right,” she replied, the tears that had sprung into +her eyes falling on her cheeks, “but one grows reckless.”</p> + +<p>“Reckless—from what?” He had intended not to question, but the +circumstances forced the enquiry from him.</p> + +<p>“No matter. I cannot tell you.”</p> + +<p>After this answer, she again drew herself up, and remained silent. So +did Mr. Addison. When next he spoke it was to get up, and wish her +good-bye. “I must leave you now,” he said, with his grave kindness, “for +I have not much time to spare for visits to-day. Only, dear Miss +Gresham, before I go, let me remind you that if ever you are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115">{115}</a></span> in want of +help or advice you will find a willing friend and adviser in me; and +remember also that man is responsible for all his actions, and for none +more so than for going into temptation with his eyes open. Now +good-bye,” and he held out his hand to her.</p> + +<p>She did not take it. “Did you come up to London to see me?” she asked +with sudden agitation.</p> + +<p>“No. My <i>business</i> was with another.”</p> + +<p>“With whom?”</p> + +<p>“With Robert Vavasour,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation.</p> + +<p>“You know then that he is in London? You have seen him?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, sadly, “we all know now of his return.”</p> + +<p>Angela paused a moment, then averting her eyes, while a torrent of blood +crimsoned her cheeks, and even the very tips of her fingers, asked, +“Have you heard anything about me?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116">{116}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Certainly, rumours have reached me that concern you.”</p> + +<p>“And what—what do you think of me?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, Miss Gresham,” he replied, “it is not for me to judge of this +matter. Your own heart only can decide whether such a step is justified +or not.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what justified means,” she said, agitatedly. “There is no +help. Did I not truly say that it was in vain for me to hope to be +better than I am. Things must take their chance. I have no power to +fight against them.”</p> + +<p>“You speak as if you were the sport of the winds. Forgive me for saying +so, but it is a childish form of speech. We are all free. You are free +in this matter, as in every other, if you will.”</p> + +<p>“I am not free,” she said, passionately, “and when you know all you will +say so. Let me tell you how it stands. Mr. Vavasour came here some weeks +ago <i>in secret</i>. He told me it was in secret, and I agreed to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117">{117}</a></span> let it be +so. There was my first folly; but my life is so weary, so dull, so cold, +so joyless, and at that time I was so miserable, so without hope, that I +could not give up the pleasure of having him come, for it was a pleasure +in its way. And then he came and came again, and again, and it made me +happier, and I never thought why he came; and then at last I did see why +he came, and <i>then</i> I know I ought to have drawn back, and shown him +that I did not wish for <i>that</i>; but I did not do what I ought, I never +do. I don’t know what came over me, I don’t know how I could behave as I +did; but though I saw, and though I did not, and never could, care for +him, I went on in the same way, and told him all my griefs, and let him +amuse me as before. And so it went on; and now he has spoken to papa, +and papa has spoken to me, and it is all settled between them. I told +papa what I felt. I told him it must not, should not, ought not to be; +but he answers me I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118">{118}</a></span> should have thought of that before; and I should; +he is right there. And so it is over now. Yesterday I was mad, but +to-day I have given up speaking, and given up caring. Let them do with +me as they please. When one is miserable it matters very little what +happens, and I submit.” She paused in her hurried narrative, and looked +up in his face. It was the intent grave gaze that was fastened on her +that drew her to gaze in return. As she met his looks she sat down and +buried her face in her hands. “I know what you mean,” she said, in a +broken voice, “but that is all past. Papa says with his consent it +never, never shall be, and I know,” and there was a moment’s proud +bitterness in her speech, “that without his consent it will not even be +desired; and so life is altogether miserable, and I hardly care what +becomes of me.”</p> + +<p>“But after all you have said,” Mr. Addison at length replied in a voice +so calm and grave, that it awed her into stillness, “a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119">{119}</a></span> right and a +wrong way remains. You may have been wrong in the past, you may be +miserable in the present, but such considerations are not serious enough +to affect the solemnity of your present decision. If there is nothing in +your heart or conscience to forbid this union, do not think I would urge +you to oppose your father’s wishes; but if there is, let nothing, not +even obedience to him, tempt you to consent to it.”</p> + +<p>“There is,” she murmured.</p> + +<p>“If it be so, then, dear Miss Gresham, pause and consider. Marriage is a +solemn thing, dare not to trifle with it. Think of the moment when you +will stand to take your vows in the presence of God; vows which may lead +you, and not you only, into temptations, unguessed, unknown, above your +strength to bear.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Mr. Addison, what must you think of me?” Angela exclaimed, bending +her head over the table and bursting into tears.</p> + +<p>“Not very harshly,” he said, gently<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120">{120}</a></span> touching her bright hair with his +hand, “only as one weak and tempted, and too much blinded by +disappointment and excitement, to remember that for all these things God +will bring you into judgment. But you are awake now,” he added.</p> + +<p>“Yes; yes; I see it all too terribly clear. I have, indeed, been mad. +Oh! Mr. Addison, will you save me? Will you say to my father what you +have said to me? Will you?—can you?”</p> + +<p>“I could, and I would,” he replied, kindly, “if I thought it right. If +you were as some are, too weak to save yourself, I would try to save +you. But you know you have strength if you choose to exert it; and +considering all things, considering how you have up to this moment +acted, it seems most just, most fitting, most dutiful to your father +that you should now act for yourself. Take courage. Speak to him, not +with childish impetuosity, but with the thought and the principle a +woman and a responsible being should have.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121">{121}</a></span> I think he will hear you. If +not, if you have difficulties, then write to me. I must hasten back +to-day to Audley Court, for I left them all in much trouble, but a word +from you will bring me up again; and remember that it is not my wish +only, but my bounden duty to help you.”</p> + +<p>“I will try,” she said, humbly. “I don’t know what comes over me. I am +mad sometimes, I believe. I ought to have a guide always.”</p> + +<p>“It might, perhaps, be good for you, for you are young, and too much +carried about with blasts of passion. But you have a guide, and not a +silent one I know, in your own good conscience. Try to still other +voices, and to hearken to it. And now farewell, and God bless you. Act +rightly this time, dear Miss Gresham, and it will bring a blessing on +all your days. I do not mean an earthly blessing,” he added gravely, as +he saw a flash of light sweep over her face, “That must be as it pleases +God to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122">{122}</a></span> grant, but the better blessing of a truer and purer heart, and +judgment for the future.”</p> + +<p>“I will try,” she again repeated, and he left her.</p> + +<p>She remained where he parted from her in deep thought; and so sat, her +head in her hands, for the chief part of the afternoon. Her thoughts +were deeper, sadder, humbler than they had ever been in her life before. +She was, as many are, in the habit of laying the burden of her +aberrations from the right way, on her <i>circumstances</i>. It is a pleasant +way of relieving the conscience, and so satisfactory a solution of men’s +frailties, that when once the flattering unction is applied, the eyes +willingly and obediently close to the fact that the seat of error is not +outward but within. But this reasoning does not do where the conscience +is really touched; and as in shame and terror Angela contemplated the +step she had been about to take, she was, for the time at least, most +truly humbled in her own eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123">{123}</a></span></p> + +<p>When Mr. Gresham entered the room she rose up and went to meet him, and +with all the quietness and seriousness Mr. Addison could have desired, +said, “I have made up my mind, papa, and I will not marry Mr. Vavasour.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham was startled, certainly startled at the abruptness of this +declaration; but he had long noted down in his mind as a fact to be +remembered, that the caprices of the female character were unfathomable; +and he was, therefore, after a moment prepared to deal with them +patiently.</p> + +<p>“You must excuse me, my love,” he replied mildly, “if I decline to enter +into a fresh discussion of the subject. It was discussed yesterday; and +I am too well aware of the changeableness of the disposition of young +women to be willing to waste the time that might be better employed, in +a prolonged examination of a question that is settled. Believe me, my +love, all has been arranged for the best, for <i>your</i> welfare, and <i>my</i> +happi<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124">{124}</a></span>ness.” He slightly waved his hand as a conclusion to the speech, +and was about to turn away, when Angela spoke again.</p> + +<p>“I have not changed, papa; I told you yesterday, that I could not do it +with a good conscience; I told you that I did not and could never love +Mr. Vavasour. You cannot say I have changed. I only submitted when I +could argue no more. But now, after deep thought, I find I cannot +submit. I should be miserable and guilty if I did. I do not love him, +and I will not marry him.”</p> + +<p>“Pardon me, my love, you are mistaken in this matter; I have watched +you, as your natural guardian should, and I have seen with pleasure, +with singular pleasure, the interest you take in Mr. Vavasour’s society. +Trust me, I am better able to act in this business than a young +inexperienced woman like yourself. I am fully satisfied that I have +ensured your happiness, and I shall act accordingly.”</p> + +<p>“If you will not hear me or believe me,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125">{125}</a></span> Papa,” Angela exclaimed more +excitedly, “it must be to Mr. Vavasour that I must explain myself. He +will, he <i>shall</i> understand.”</p> + +<p>“Be it so, my love,” said Mr. Gresham blandly, feeling convinced of the +irresistable power of Robert’s persuasions. “Allow me to remark, +however, that you appear to me to forget the delicacy of the female +character in your tone and manners on this occasion. I mentioned to you +what was likely to occur, that you might be prepared to express yourself +in the proper manner; but it is not usual, I believe, for a young woman +to give her mind to such subjects before the decisive moment has +arrived. Banish, therefore, my love, such idle fancies from your mind, +and occupy yourself with the natural and elegant occupations becoming to +young ladies of your age and position.”</p> + +<p>Angela’s heart swelled with anger and disdain, but she made no further +remark. Her look was intended to convey her in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126">{126}</a></span>flexible resolution; but +Mr. Gresham’s eyes were impervious to looks. He walked to the door, then +turned back to observe.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Addison called and asked for me to-day, I understand. I regret that +I was out. I am anxious to shew every civility in my power to the +friends of the Vavasour family. Did you see him, my love?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said colouring, “he paid me a long visit.”</p> + +<p>“What was his object in London?”</p> + +<p>“He told me he came to see Mr. Vavasour.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” with a strong expression of surprise. “He is aware ... +ahem!... I hope he left the elder Mr. Vavasour in good health.”</p> + +<p>“He said he left them all in much trouble. He did not say why—but I +guess it was from what they had heard about Mr. Robert Vavasour.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” Mr. Gresham repeated, and an uncomfortable sensation for the +first<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127">{127}</a></span> time agitated his breast. Wrapt in his own objects, and in the +thought and pride of the generous designs he entertained towards the +Vavasour family, he had really and truly forgotten all that Robert’s +parents might be supposed to feel on the occasion.</p> + +<p>He swallowed down a something he did not quite understand, a touch of +perturbation and self reproach that was neither common nor comfortable, +with effort, and was obliged to dive deep into his mind before he found +a moral aphorism suited to offer consolation in the emergency. At length +two truisms presented themselves, and were accepted. First, +“Circumstances command all men,” and Secondly, “No great object is ever +attained without a sacrifice.” These truths were effectual in driving +away the annoyance of the moment. He thought of the sacrifice he was +making, in thus submitting to circumstances, the last he would have +chosen in which to accomplish his designs, and the pang of self reproach +was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128">{128}</a></span> followed by a feeling of a totally opposite nature.</p> + +<p>“I regret to hear it,” he therefore replied with much politeness, and, +smoothing his brow, left the room.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129">{129}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What is this passing scene?<br></span> +<span class="i2">A peevish April day—<br></span> +<span class="i0">A little sun, a little rain,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And then night sweeps along the plain<br></span> +<span class="i2">And all things fade away.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Kirke White.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Robert Vavasour’s</span> conscience was far from being stupefied. It was the +agony of conscience, acting falsely, awakening to remorse that is, and +not to repentance, that had impelled him into the various evils in which +he was ensnared. He loved his father—he always had loved him; not with +Everard’s passionate and exclusive devotion, not with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130">{130}</a></span> a genial and +hearty affection, but with a love whose strong grasp, even against his +will, fascinated and bound him. Few could live with Mr. Vavasour and +fail to feel that life hung on his approving smile. Robert felt this as +others did, and from his mingled awe and love sprang the terror under +which he now was suffering—a dread of his father’s anger, which drove +him rather to risk all things, to sacrifice his peace, to wound those +who trusted in him; than to endure again that glance of agony and +contempt, whose memory, even after three years, still pursued and stung +him. It seemed a strange thing that this remembrance, which, in his +hours of remorse, had power to heat his fancy almost to the verge of +madness, should, in the hours of temptation, have been powerless; but +such is man, and such is man’s life, and it is the bewildering +fascination of temptation which alone, in most cases, makes it strong.</p> + +<p>Robert’s short history was this. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131">{131}</a></span> higher tone of feeling engendered +during his visit at Audley Court gradually relaxed—as, indeed, is but +natural, unless effort preserves its vigour—in the careless and +thoughtless, though by no means vicious society into which he entered. +This prepared the way for a downfall. On his leisurely journey back to +England, by land, he fell into dissipated company. One set of evils +followed another; gambling came in its turn. For a few weeks, a fever—a +frenzy—for it was like nothing else—possessed him, and he awakened +only when the pressure of his losses startled him into consciousness. +But the awakening was to horror—such horror and remorse as quick and +excitable feelings find it hard to struggle against. Its consequences +were the beginning of that evil and degrading course which has been +mentioned, that process of maddening, lulling and stupefying the brain +and conscience, of which it may almost be said,</p> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Lasciate ogni speranza voi che entrate.”<br></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132">{132}</a></span></div></div> +</div> + +<p>On this miserable life a gleam of light fell in the shape of a new +temptation—the remembrance of Mr. Gresham’s fancy for him, and the +thought of Angela’s wealth. The rest of the history is known.</p> + +<p>Robert’s many efforts to dull his feelings, were, to a certain degree, +successful. He had persuaded himself that to be free from home thraldom +would bring happiness; and while engaged in the pursuit of that which +would make him free, he had days and hours of excitement which, if not +happiness, was so far like it, that it absorbed his mind, and kept him +from thought; but the intervals of relief were broken again and again, +by pangs which, to Mr. Addison, he had called “the torments of hell in +his heart.” When first he approached Angela he had inwardly vowed that +he would forswear that miserable comforter which he had taken to himself +as the solace of his misery, but vain were his inward vows; like the +troubled sea, he could not rest; and when that unendurable misery<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133">{133}</a></span> +visited him, he assuaged it as he could, hating himself, protesting, +resolving for the future, but falling.</p> + +<p>He was not yet, however, a slave. Mr. Addison had not been fortunate +enough to wake him to repentance, but he did awaken him to one of the +fiercest and acutest fits of remorse he had yet experienced. His +father’s face, ghastly pale, haunted him like a spectre, and though +resolved to pursue his way, and to be independent, the resolve was in +itself agony. Not on this occasion did he betake himself, however, to +the tempting, oblivious antidote, so often applied to his disturbance; +his better nature was all alive, and he would have felt it an insult to +the kind old friend who had endeavoured to save him, had he parted from +him only to rush into fresh sin.</p> + +<p>Unable, however, to bear in inaction the torment of his thoughts, he +called a hackney coach, (the <i>convenient</i> conveyance of the day in which +he lived,) and ordered the driver to take him several miles out of +town.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134">{134}</a></span> He there left the coach, and wandering through strange ways, +returned on foot. It was night, and a dense fog when he re-entered +London; the air was sharp and cold; he went chilly to bed, and awoke the +following morning with a seizure in his throat, an ailment—the only +one—to which he was subject.</p> + +<p>Knowing that to remain for the day in bed was his best cure, he wrote to +Mr. Gresham to inform him of his illness, and to ask permission to +postpone his visit to Angela till the following day.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham replied to him with cordial politeness; begged him to care +for his health above all things, and assured him that he should find his +daughter prepared to receive him, whenever it was most agreeable to him +to make his proposed visit. So for that day the matter rested.</p> + +<p>At five o’clock on the morning of the following day, Robert was awakened +from the deep, yet restless slumber, proceeding<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135">{135}</a></span> from the remedies for +his cold, by a loud ringing and knocking at the door of his lodgings. +Half asleep and half awake, the noise blended with his dreams, and no +preparation of wondering surmise and rising fears broke the shock of the +announcement that came upon him. A dirty housemaid in a singular attire, +composed of a mixture of night and morning garments—those of night +predominating about the head and ancles—entered his room, and with a +haste too great to allow of a demand for admission, roughly pulled open +his shutters and the dingy curtains of his bed.</p> + +<p>Robert started up.</p> + +<p>“You must get up, sir,” she said. “Here’s a letter come for you, and +it’s bad news I’m afraid.”</p> + +<p>Pale as ashes, with a trembling hand Robert took the letter and glanced +over it. It contained only these words:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Dear Robert,—There is no time to break it to you more tenderly. +Your father<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136">{136}</a></span> is dying, and not a moment is to be lost if you would +be blessed and forgiven. Dear Robert, God support you; I know what +you will feel.</p> + +<p class="c"> +“<span class="smcap">R. Addison</span>,—seven o’clock.”<br> +</p></div> + +<p>The letter dropped from his fingers, and he fell back in bed. With rude +sympathy the housemaid rushed to him, but the hands convulsively +working, and the purple flush in his cheeks terrified her. She flew down +the stairs with a scream, and dragged up the groom who had brought the +letter, and who was awaiting Robert’s orders below.</p> + +<p>The man soon perceived that no orders could be had from him, and +desiring her to call up the household to assist her in composing and +restoring him, hurried off to Everard.</p> + +<p>The same note, with but a needful variation in its terms, had been +written to him, and the characters of both letters were unsteady and +illegible, as if, in truth, the haste was too great to allow time for +thought.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137">{137}</a></span> The same agonizing waking awaited Everard. But not as with +Robert to overpower him; much rather it seemed to quicken his faculties. +One intense, one all-prevailing desire, to see his father, to close his +eyes, to hear his last words of affection, or warning, superseded every +feeling of grief or fear, possessed his intellect, and gave wings to his +body. In a time scarcely possible except to the superhuman activity such +moments inspire in mortal frames, all that he required to have done was +done, and having sent on to implore Robert to be ready, he was in a +chaise and four at his door.</p> + +<p>The prompt assistance and kindly attentions of the inmates of the house, +had roused Robert from his first agony; and though that first agony in +the body was a merciful one, compared to the devouring fire of remorse +which every moment of consciousness caused to flame higher in his mind, +yet the mind’s agony left him power to prepare himself, and he was +ready.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138">{138}</a></span></p> + +<p>His clothes flung upon him, his cheek like death, his eyes red and wild, +his limbs so weak through real bodily illness and mental torment, that +he could scarcely support them as he crept through the door and along +the pavement—thus the two brothers met again, and this was the form on +which Everard’s eyes fell, in the place of the brilliant Robert from +whom he had parted six months before, and upon whom in all his charms +his jealous fancy had of late been ceaselessly dwelling.</p> + +<p>If Everard at that moment harboured resentment; if one thought of +Robert’s rivalry had presented itself that morning to his imagination, +this sight must have disarmed him, and changed his rage to pity. But, in +truth, no such thought was or had been present. One agony reigned alone; +one word, <i>haste</i>, was on his lips, beating in his pulses, thrilling +through his veins, and as he held out his hand to drag rather than to +help Robert into the carriage, the cold,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139">{139}</a></span> clammy touch of the grasp that +met his, first brought to his mind what feelings besides affection must +be at once burning in, and chilling his brother’s heart.</p> + +<p>“Robert, how ill you look! Can I do anything for you?” he asked +pitifully, while the door was closing, and the post-boys were gathering +up their reins for speed.</p> + +<p>Even at that instant Robert had place in his mind to feel shame at the +kindness of the voice. Tears of shame and sorrow fell fast from his +eyes, while pride felt another shame in the weakness that could not +fight against them. Instead of answering, he turned his head away, and +threw himself into the corner, where he sat; and in another moment they +were off.</p> + +<p>Partly understanding, partly misunderstanding the action, Everard looked +at him for a moment, and then, in a tremulous unsteady voice, added, +“Robert, surely there should be no ill-will between us now,” and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140">{140}</a></span> he +held out his hand, in mute token of what he desired.</p> + +<p>Robert grasped it with agitation, but without a reply; and from that +moment through the long day no other word passed between them. Everard +pulled down the blinds as a protection against the glaring light, and +throwing himself into the other corner, closed his eyes; and thus +concealed and protected from each other, the two brothers pursued their +silent reflections, uncomforted and alone.</p> + +<p>Fatigue and exhaustion of body in part dulled the agonizing meditations +of poor Robert. More than once the lingering effects of the soporific he +had taken the night before, surprised him into sleep, and though such +minutes of rest were followed by wakenings of acuter anguish, they did +in fact beguile the way and make it bearable.</p> + +<p>No such repose assisted Everard; he was awake in every pulse and every +nerve; and yet in the very insanity of haste that possessed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141">{141}</a></span> him there +was a beguiling and support. This one desire to be in time pressed too +vividly on his brain to allow the power of reflection. Life being +bounded to the attainment of one moment’s hope, the dark beyond was +neither realised nor seen.</p> + +<p>Audley Court was ninety miles from London; but the journey was performed +in less than eight hours. Early in the afternoon, the well known signs +informed the travellers, that the time for suspense to give place to +knowledge was at hand. The terror that laid its hand upon them was too +strong for words. As they paused a single moment to be admitted at the +lodge, both rose and glanced out, as if the same thought of enquiry was +in their minds; and both again threw themselves backward, as if the +effort and the dread were too great. In silence they went on to their +home.</p> + +<p>On reaching the arch which led into the quadrangle, Everard touched +Robert and said, “Let us get out.” Whether it were<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142">{142}</a></span> life or death, he +felt that he dared not break the stillness that reigned around with the +noise of their approach. He threw open the door, made a sign to the +post-boys, and the brothers passed on to the house.</p> + +<p>At the house door Hope was standing, and she came down the steps to meet +them. Their arrival was earlier than could have been expected, but she +had been already an hour on the watch.</p> + +<p>Her step was slow, but they saw at once she was not the herald of death. +They were in time.</p> + +<p>“He is still alive,” she softly murmured, while they were yet at a +distance, but in the dead stillness the murmur was distinctly heard.</p> + +<p>No word was spoken by either brother. No “Thank God” burst from them of +inexpressible relief. The fear and awe, and thankfulness were all alike +beyond words or thoughts. In silence both clasped Hope in their arms, +and silently they followed her as she led the way.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143">{143}</a></span></p> + +<p>Outside their father’s room she paused, and they obediently paused also. +“Wait one moment,” she said, in a tone which, except in such a +stillness, could have reached no mortal ear. “I will say you are come. +The end is very near, and we must be calm.”</p> + +<p>She passed on, gliding to the bedside.</p> + +<p>The attack had been from the heart, and for some hours Mr. Vavasour had +suffered an agony so acute that it had done the work of days in wasting +away the lingering powers of his declining life. But all bodily pain had +now passed away for ever. He was alive, but the numbness of death was +already stealing over him.</p> + +<p>He was seated in bed, supported by many pillows; all the curtains were +drawn back, all the windows were open; air and light and sunshine were +in the room, and yet Death. On one side of him, leaning her head against +the pillows sat Mrs. Vavasour, looking more dead than alive; on the +other Mr. Addison knelt. In one of the windows<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144">{144}</a></span> two physicians stood, +intently watching their patient.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour’s face was calm, but not yet quite at peace. Expectation +still trembled on his lips, and gave life and fire to his eyes.</p> + +<p>Hope glided in, and kissing her aunt, whispered, “They are come, Aunt +Joan.”</p> + +<p>“Let them come in,” said the dying man, his ears quick to hear the +sound; “there is no time for delay.”</p> + +<p>The sons heard the voice and entered. Robert first; and as his eyes fell +on his father’s face, he sprang forward with a piercing cry, and fell on +his knees by the bedside. “Father, forgive!”</p> + +<p>A strong emotion for a moment almost convulsed Mr. Vavasour’s features, +but he mastered it, and it was followed by a smile, the sweet calm smile +of the dying. “I do forgive you, Robert,” he said, in firm tones, “as +fully, as freely as I trust God, my Saviour, has forgiven me.” He +paused, stretching<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145">{145}</a></span> out his hand to grasp that of his son, and +continued: “Let nothing tempt you to doubt my love or my forgiveness. I +may have seemed, I may seem to you, harsh and unjust; but all I have +done has been in love and not in anger, and my last words to you, my +boy, are blessing. Remember it.”</p> + +<p>He let his hand rest for a moment in the grasp of his son; and as he +withdrew it smiled another of those smiles, which seemed to be made up +of love and blessing only.</p> + +<p>He then turned his eyes and said, “Everard!”</p> + +<p>When Robert sprang forward with his wild cry, Mr. Addison had risen from +his knees, and laid aside the book from which he had been reading. He +made a sign to Everard to take his place, but Everard, whose +thoughtfulness for others not even such a moment could overcome, drew +himself apart, leaving Robert to make his peace alone.</p> + +<p>But at the first turn of his father’s eyes,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146">{146}</a></span> he too sprang forward, and +fell on his knees by Robert’s side.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour’s eyes rested upon him for a few instants without speaking, +and Everard gazed into them, drinking into his soul the affection they +betrayed. “You have been a good son to me, Everard,” at last, he simply +said. “God bless you for it.”</p> + +<p>They were quiet words; quiet, but blessed ones. Everard’s heart bounded +beneath their blessedness. He did not speak, but still gazed on, as +those gaze who are looking their last, on what has been their life’s +passion.</p> + +<p>Partly that he read his son’s love in his eyes; partly, perhaps, with +some other future thoughts in his mind, Mr. Vavasour again addressed +him. “Everard,” he said, solemnly, “you have hitherto suffered me to be +the guide of your life; when I am dead, my boy, will you let my wishes +guide you still?”</p> + +<p>“Ever and ever, father, all my life long, so help me God,” was his son’s +passionate reply.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147">{147}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Amen,” said Mr. Vavasour, as if he were setting his seal upon a vow.</p> + +<p>He then rose up in bed and laid a hand on each son’s bending head. “Live +in peace, my boys,” he said, with ineffable tenderness, “and God be with +you, and bring you to rest in joy at last, through Jesus Christ our +Lord. Amen.”</p> + +<p>Even in that moment of parting pain, Mrs. Vavasour saw, and saw with +agony, that the right hand was on Everard’s, and the left on Robert’s +head. From the position of each it could scarcely have been otherwise; +but the heart knows no rules in its fears or its loves.</p> + +<p>When these words were said, Mr. Vavasour sank gently back.</p> + +<p>The physicians hastily approached as they saw the eye suddenly fixed; +but one glance was enough to assure them that all was over, and they +withdrew.</p> + +<p>The deep stillness that followed was at length broken by Mr. Addison. He +gently<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148">{148}</a></span> touched Robert’s shoulder and murmured—“Robert, your mother!”</p> + +<p>Robert rose mechanically, and went round to where she sat; but the sight +of her face resting by the side of his father’s, broke the spell of awe +which for the time had laid its hand upon him, and, throwing himself +into her arms, he wept convulsively.</p> + +<p>Her son’s agony roused Mrs. Vavasour from her speechless and tearless +trance. She attempted to disengage herself from him, and to lead him +away; but Robert’s feelings were violent and excitable, and the long +self-restraint of the day having once given way, he was powerless to +control them. When the attempt was made to withdraw him from the bed of +death, he threw himself upon it with another cry, piercing as his first, +and there remained immoveable.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour made a sign to Mr. Addison, and again whispering in +Robert’s ear, “Your mother,” he at length succeeded in prevailing on him +to rise, and to suffer him<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149">{149}</a></span>self to be drawn away. Mrs. Vavasour put her +arm round Hope, and followed.</p> + +<p>Everard rose from his knees as he saw them go, and gazed wistfully after +them; one glance, one look to say he was not forgotten. His eye followed +them to the door, but all passed through, and it was closed. He was left +alone—alone with the only one to whom in all the world he felt he had +ever been dear; and with a cry, not piercing like Robert’s, but +smothered from its very despair, he, too, threw himself upon the bed +where his father lay.</p> + +<p>One of the physicians—a stranger to him—having thus found him on his +return, lifted him tenderly up, and the other, opening the door through +which the family had passed, signed for him to follow; but, rushing by, +towards the door through which the physicians had re-entered, Everard +fled to his own room.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150">{150}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">Hear the very latest counsel<br></span> +<span class="i0">That ever I shall breathe.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><i>King Henry the Fourth.</i><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">A considerable</span> time elapsed before the violence of Robert’s grief could +be mastered. It took the form of an hysterical passion evidently beyond +his powers to subdue, springing no doubt in a great measure from the +unnerved condition in which his late habits had left him.</p> + +<p>It gave place at last to exhaustion; he seemed as weak as a child, and +he submitted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151">{151}</a></span> like a child to go to bed. When this was accomplished, the +room was darkened, and Mrs. Vavasour sat down by his side to watch over +him. Robert opened his eyes and saw her there; and, as if forgetting all +that had passed, held out his hand to her with a faint sweet smile; and +having so done he dropped asleep with hers clasped in his. It was like +the days of infancy once more, and Mr. Addison, who was standing by, +turned away at the sight with tears he could no longer restrain. Who +could wonder at the love the mother bore to her poor prodigal son?</p> + +<p>When he left the room he found Hope watching outside. He desired her to +go and lie down, and husband her powers for the time when they might be +wanted. She had been up and standing the whole of the night before, and +she looked, though she did not seem, worn out.</p> + +<p>She went in obedience to his advice, and he then turned his steps in +search of Eve<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152">{152}</a></span>rard; but on his way to Everard’s room so many questions +and inquiries assailed him, so many necessary delays occurred, that it +was above an hour and a half since Mr. Vavasour’s death before he +reached him.</p> + +<p>On approaching the door he met a housemaid, an elderly woman who had +been long in the family, coming from it.</p> + +<p>“How is Mr. Everard?” he inquired, stopping her as she was passing with +her apron to her eyes.</p> + +<p>“He’s come to a bit, poor dear,” she replied, “but he’s been terribly +bad. Mr. Everard always was so uncommonly fond of his papa.”</p> + +<p>“Has Mr. Everard been ill?” Mr. Addison asked, with a pang of +self-reproach, although mortal powers of comforting are limited as other +things.</p> + +<p>“He passed me by when he came to his room with such a white face, sir, +that I made bold to go after him, and I found him<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153">{153}</a></span> on the floor, poor +dear, with his heart going like a mill-wheel. But he told me to give no +trouble and say nothing about it, and he’s come to now a bit. I made him +lie down, and I took him some tea just now, and he seems more composed +and like himself, poor dear,” and with a curtsey she hastened on her +way.</p> + +<p>With an added fear lest Everard should have thought himself neglected, +Mr. Addison went on. In a small degree his watchful eyes had discovered +that this was sometimes the case; but even he had no conception of the +keenness with which the lack of warm affection was felt. It was in fact +a grief which none but the one who suffered from it could understand. +The outward forms of affection, the care and thought, were, though calm, +so kind and constant that it was only the heart itself which pined for a +quicker pulse of love in answer to its own, which could be aware of the +one thing wanting.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154">{154}</a></span></p> + +<p>He knocked at the door, but entered without waiting for an answer, and +approached the bed. The room was already darkened, in token of death in +the house, but the bright April evening shone through the openings and +gave light enough for observation.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison was struck by the look of abandonment to sorrow in the +usually composed countenance, and the lassitude in the usually vigorous +frame. Everard did raise himself on his approach, and say he would get +up, but when he gently touched him and said, “No, lie down again,” he +obeyed without a word of remonstrance.</p> + +<p>“I could not get to you before,” he began in a tone of tender affection. +“How are you, my poor Everard?”</p> + +<p>“How are they all?” he asked in reply, looking wistfully into his face.</p> + +<p>“All quiet now, and Hope and Robert are lying down. Poor Robert has been +terribly overcome. We cannot wonder. He<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155">{155}</a></span> has his own keen pangs of +sorrow, which nothing else can equal. Happy, dear Everard, those who are +spared them.”</p> + +<p>“And my mother?” Everard said, without heeding those words of +consolation.</p> + +<p>“She is sitting by Robert,” Mr. Addison replied, after a momentary +hesitation. “He greatly needs her care, and at this moment, Everard, I +feel almost thankful it should be so. The sun of her life is gone out, +and were it not for this anxiety, she might scarcely have strength to +live on.”</p> + +<p>Everard turned away his eyes; but if the thought of what Robert was to +his mother gave him pain, it was a longing not an envious pain.</p> + +<p>“Everard,” Mr. Addison said, stooping over him, “I have come last to +you, because you are the strongest; but do not think I am not well aware +that in some respects, this loss is more to you than to all the world +beside.”</p> + +<p>“Do not restrain yourself too much,” he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156">{156}</a></span> continued, perceiving that +Everard clenched his hands to control his emotion. “Grief should and +must have its way. I will not speak if it grieves you too much, but if +you can bear it, there are some things I would say.”</p> + +<p>“You said that I felt already too much,” Everard replied passionately. +“Oh! Mr. Addison, I know I am selfish to think it, but I feel that I +have lost all; in all the world there was but one who cared for me, and +he is gone. What is life now? What have I to live for? I know I am +selfish—I hate myself for what I say, and yet I feel it still. I am +desolate.”</p> + +<p>“It may be selfish, dear Everard, but do not blame yourself too +severely; in some respects grief makes us selfish, and is intended to do +so, for it teaches us to search and look into our hearts. I wish to use +it for that purpose now. Let us see what this sorrow says to you. I +think it has a message for you. Can you bear to hear me?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157">{157}</a></span></p> + +<p>Everard looked gratefully up into the face of his old friend, already +soothed by the soft touch of his kind words.</p> + +<p>“It seems hardly a fitting time to preach a sermon,” he said, with a +faint smile on his lips, “but what I have to say, Everard, may, I think, +bring a word in season to your weary heart. You ask, ‘what have you to +live for now?’ Dear Everard, I do but repeat some words already spoken +this day, when I say ‘You have been a good son.’ You have made your +father’s will the guide of your life. Do not think that I have a fault +to find in that. I so loved your devotion, that even though I saw a +want, I feared to disturb it by a single word of advice; but now, +Everard, when that guide has been taken from you, I would partly in +comfort, partly in warning, point your thoughts upward to your father in +Heaven; a Guide and Friend that cannot fail or pass away. Everard,” he +continued, after a moment, with emphasis and solemnity, looking fixedly +at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158">{158}</a></span> him, “Your future life may be very different to your past; strong +temptations may be before you, heavy cares oppress you; if you would +walk safely under them, safely, and as your father would have you walk, +you must make the will of God your guide, and His grace the support of +your life. I will add no more; but, dear Everard, in these days of +seclusion and sorrow, think upon what I say.”</p> + +<p>“I know you are right,” Everard sadly said; “very right. I am not in +that way which I should be. I will try to remember; and yet,” he added, +after some consideration, “I feel now that if I <i>had</i> made my father my +only guide, I should be less wretched now—but you do not know;—all +these past months, oh! Mr. Addison, you do not know what a place my mind +has been. Not my father, my dear father there, but vain, mean, worthless +thoughts and motives, and other loves and cares, and few thoughts of him +have filled it. Oh! Mr. Addison, if all were known, I have <i>not</i> been a +good son.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159">{159}</a></span></p> + +<p>“You are unjust, and needlessly torment yourself,” Mr. Addison said +soothingly; “there may have been, it was but natural there should have +been, a noise of many voices in your heart; but I know, and you know it +too, one word from your father, had he spoken, would have silenced them +all. No word was ever truer, Everard, than that you heard to-day: ‘<i>You +have been a good son.</i>’ Take the comfort God gives you home to your +heart, and be thankful for it. To have been a good son is no light +blessing—a father’s blessing follows such a one all his days, and come +what may, dear Everard, will follow you.”</p> + +<p>He bent over him, and laid his cool hand on his burning brow, putting +back the masses of his disordered hair with a soft touch, like a +mother’s; and the act of gentle and womanly tenderness went to the heart +of the desolate son, and he left him comforted.</p> + +<p>For the three days that followed Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160">{160}</a></span> Vavasour’s death, Robert was +confined to bed. He was seriously ill. The cold which had attacked his +throat returned more violently, and excitement of mind produced fever of +body.</p> + +<p>During those days Mrs. Vavasour never left him. She watched beside him +by day, she slept on a sofa in his room at night. When he once observed +to her that he was sure there were some Psalms and prayers which were +fit for such a one as he was to use, she commanded her trembling voice, +and read to him. For the time being, he seemed to fill all her mind. But +when after the third day he recovered, she fell back into that trance of +speechless sorrow, from which her care for him alone had had power to +rouse her.</p> + +<p>The tables were then reversed. Robert devoted himself to her—happy if +only he could force a tear from her tearless eyes; consoled if he could +draw one word from her lips.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161">{161}</a></span></p> + +<p>During Robert’s illness, Everard and Hope had been left to themselves. +They did, indeed, go in and out of the darkened room, but both alike +felt that there was a sacredness of union there, their presence jarred +upon. Robert asked for neither. His mother was all in all.</p> + +<p>They were three miserable days. Hope saw that the link that had united +her and Robert was indeed severed; and in the severing discovered how +dear, too dear, that link had been; how dark was earth—yes, and heaven, +too, now <i>that</i> union was not. Her days were days of one long +prayer—such prayer as gains the thing it fain would have.</p> + +<p>With Everard they were passed by the side of the inanimate form he had +loved so well, and with whom all that made life bearable seemed +vanished. Darkness was on his weary heart in the present and in the +future, and though in the very sight of death, his thoughts did in a +degree lose their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162">{162}</a></span> earthliness, and he did in a degree follow the +counsel of his old friend, and strive to seek a guide and support in +Heaven; yet it is not at once that such thoughts become natural inmates +of the mind, much less comforters. Animated with religious principles, +Everard had always been; but from the formation of his mind and +character—a character strong, stubborn, and earthly, he had been less +susceptible than even Robert of religious feeling Mr. Addison had long +seen the want; yet, as he had said, had scarcely dared to point it out, +lest he should disturb that other principle which guided him so safely +on his way.</p> + +<p>The last days of the week brought a comfort to Hope they could not give +to Everard. In their cares of Mrs. Vavasour, Robert and Hope were again +united. They were rarely alone together, and if it chanced to happen +that they were alone, no word regarding that which had made a change +between them was ever spoken; but, as if<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163">{163}</a></span> blotting out the days of that +last return home, during the whole of which, however unconsciously, +Robert had been perpetually seeking to awaken her to love him, they +returned to the tranquil, confiding intercourse of earlier days. A +change there was, and Hope felt it, and yet was content.</p> + +<p>To some it might have been hardly possible to bear the change; to some +it might have been impossible so to put self and consciousness aside, as +to turn back her steps to a former from a nearer and closer union; but +with Hope it was possible—she knew how to win a victory over self, and +she won it.</p> + +<p>Everard would have shared their cares if he could. He, too, approached +his mother and kissed her, and longed, till his heart seemed bursting, +to put his arms round her to implore her to love him, and to let his +love comfort her as they did; but he dared not. His tongue was tied by +the dread of a cold response, and he was silent.</p> + +<p>The day of the funeral came and passed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164">{164}</a></span></p> + +<p>When Everard left his room the following morning the sun was shining +brilliantly through the now opened windows; there were sounds of voices +no longer hushed, and footsteps no longer stealthy, in the gardens and +about the house; all things seemed to be resuming their usual course, +and life and light to have returned to the dwelling from which the inner +light and life had just departed.</p> + +<p>Sorrow is not always soft; nor a true mourning always faultless. Sorrow +has its infirmities as well as, nay, much more than, joy. As Everard +paced along the corridors, outwardly so bright, so dreary to him, his +feelings were much like Jonah’s over the withering of his gourd; he was +angry, and thought he did well to be angry. He had a strange jealous +feeling that others were forgetting, that none were mourning like him, +and in bitterness of spirit he said he would escape from his unbearable +misery, and return to his toilsome life in London.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165">{165}</a></span></p> + +<p>In this mood he entered the breakfast room; and on such a mood a very +trifling circumstance jars with acute pain. Robert and Hope were there +before him. From the lingering effects of his illness, Robert had +hitherto breakfasted late and in his room; but he was there this +morning; the room looked bright and fresh; the windows were open, +letting in the sweet breeze of a May morning, and Robert was in his +father’s chair and place.</p> + +<p>There was nothing to surprise in this; for there were but three places +at the table, and Robert’s mind was not of the kind which thoughtfully +dwells on minute things; but to those whose minds were of another class +it did speak. It did forcibly say—a change is come, yet life flows on +unchanged; one generation gone, another era begun; a father dead, a son +already in his place; a father, in his venerable and virtuous old age, +and <i>Robert</i> in his place.</p> + +<p>A torrent of impetuous, rebellious blood<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166">{166}</a></span> crimsoned Everard’s cheek, and +he sat down, scarcely knowing what he said or did. Perhaps Robert +observed his countenance, perhaps guessed in part what feelings agitated +him, for he immediately leant towards him, and put a letter into his +hand, observing in a low voice, “That is this afternoon. I will go down +and tell Mr. Addison that he is to be here.”</p> + +<p>The letter was from Mr. Low, the solicitor. It informed Robert that Mr. +Vavasour’s will was in his hands, and that he had received a special +charge to read it in the presence of the assembled family, (not +excepting Mrs. Vavasour, if she could be prevailed on to comply with her +husband’s request), and of Mr. Addison. He added that Mr. Vavasour had +specified the day following his funeral for the reading of the will, +and, therefore, without waiting to hear from Robert, he should be at +Audley Court at four o’clock.</p> + +<p>This information and Robert’s manner put<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167">{167}</a></span> Everard’s <i>most</i> miserable +thoughts to flight. There was something yet to be heard from, or done +for his father. The day was to be full of him; and the jealous dread +that he was forgotten, for the time was gone.</p> + +<p>He thought no more of his purpose of escape, and for the mere benefit of +finding something to do, walked down with Robert to desire Mr. Addison +to be at Audley Court at the appointed hour.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison gave a grave consent, looking fixedly at each brother; but +they too were grave, and expected nothing but gravity, and his looks +excited no remark.</p> + +<p>On their return, as they approached the house, the butler came to meet +Robert, and asked him if he chose to have the bells rung as usual for +dinner and other things.</p> + +<p>“Yes—no,” Robert replied, colouring crimson, and averting his eyes from +Everard. “I don’t care, just as you think best.”</p> + +<p>“I think it would be best. It secures punctuality,” observed the butler, +with some<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168">{168}</a></span> importance in offering advice to his young master.</p> + +<p>“Just as you please,” Robert said, hastily, and then as the man +departed, he turned to Everard and exclaimed—“Oh! Everard, how I hate +it all.”</p> + +<p>“You must,” said his brother, passionately. “I feel how you must.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t <i>you</i> hate me, that is all.”</p> + +<p>“No, indeed,” Everard said warmly, and those few words of Robert’s blew +away into airy nothing, the strange sad feeling that had made his heart +ache that day, when he thought of Robert in his father’s place; blew it +away, and brought love, trust, and even reverence in its place.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Mr. Low arrived punctually. Mrs. Vavasour unwilling to refuse compliance +with the smallest wish expressed by her husband, forced herself to +obedience; and the room was darkened, and a chair placed for her in the +darkest corner; and to her chair she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169">{169}</a></span> was led by Robert when the hour +came, with Hope by her side.</p> + +<p>“Now call him!” Robert said hurriedly to Everard, “and let there be no +delay.”</p> + +<p>Everard left the room.</p> + +<p>As he came up the stairs with the solicitors, Mr. Low looked at him and +said, “Have you any idea, Mr. Everard, as to the contents of your +father’s will?”</p> + +<p>“No, none!” he said with a kind of sad indifference.</p> + +<p>“I think it may surprise you.”</p> + +<p>Everard shook his head. He thought it possible Mr. Low intended to +suggest that a better provision had been made for him than he had reason +to expect; and <i>once</i> such a suggestion would have been no matter of +indifference; but in the cloud that had now darkened his future, utter +indifference as to his prospects had grown up.</p> + +<p>He forgot Mr. Low’s remark as soon as it <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170">{170}</a></span>was made, and recurred to what +was upper-most in his mind; the hope that he would make the affair as +little painful to his mother as was possible.</p> + +<p>“I will do my best,” said Mr. Low, “but some things unfortunately are +not in my power to....”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” Everard said hastily, “I know, only let it be as short as +you can.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Low bowed as he entered the room, but kindly and discreetly +refrained from any further notice of Mrs. Vavasour.</p> + +<p>He then sat down, giving his companion a paper to hold, and desired +Robert and Everard to sit on each side of him.</p> + +<p>They obeyed, and pale and grave Mr. Addison placed himself in the +window.</p> + +<p>Mr. Low then proceeded to read a will made ten years before this time. +It contained a few bequests, left a sum of ten thousand pounds to +Everard, and the whole of the rest of the property to Robert.</p> + +<p>When he had finished reading, Mr. Low turned to Robert and said, “This +will re<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171">{171}</a></span>mained unaltered in my hands till about ten days ago; I regret +to be compelled to add that since then an alteration has taken place. On +the 22nd of April I was summoned from London, and in my presence, and in +the presence of this gentleman, a new will was made and signed. I am +compelled, Mr. Vavasour, though with great reluctance, to read it to +you.”</p> + +<p>In the second will there was simply a change in the bequests to his two +sons. Where Robert stood now was Everard, and Robert in Everard’s place. +But the conclusion was couched in most solemn words. The cause of the +change was distinctly stated to arise from the unworthiness of his elder +son, and though there was no concealment of the pain which his +resolution cost, there was no faltering in the terms in which that +resolution was expressed. Then followed a few words to “his dear son +Robert,” assuring him of his unaltered affection, his full pardon, and +his dying blessing.</p> + +<p>To Everard also there was a special ad<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172">{172}</a></span>dress, and at greater length. +Into his hand Mr. Vavasour said he delivered all the cares which had +occupied him through life. Some things were specified by name. He +appointed him guardian to Hope Linton, and very solemnly committed to +“his integrity, judgment, and affection,” the care of the welfare and +happiness of the three beloved beings he left behind him. Lastly, he +alluded to Everard’s new position, and no words could be imagined more +forcible and pathetic than those in which he implored him to accept, and +not to cast away, this his last will and testament.</p> + +<p>Mr. Low’s thin, sharp voice deepened into pathos as he concluded, and +agitated in an unusual degree, he drew his handkerchief from his pocket, +and blew his nose. This was the only sound that broke the silence either +during the reading or after its conclusion. Both sons remained with +their eyes downcast; Robert’s cheek was crimson, Everard’s ashy pale.</p> + +<p>Mr. Low looked at them alternately, then<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173">{173}</a></span> at Mrs. Vavasour’s motionless +form. He seemed perplexed how to act.</p> + +<p>“I believe my task is done,” at last he observed, slowly rising from his +seat, and bowing where he stood, while he rustled the papers in his +hand.</p> + +<p>Robert sprang up and shook hands with him; Everard remained immoveable.</p> + +<p>“I must wish you good evening,” Mr. Low observed again, and having +repeated his bow to Everard, in which his companion joined, but of which +no notice was taken, they left the room together.</p> + +<p>“Take me back,” Mrs. Vavasour faintly said to Hope, and, putting her +arms round her, as if to support herself, she also rose, and attempted +to depart; but her limbs trembled so much that Hope’s support seemed +scarcely sufficient, and Robert hastening after her, caught her arm, +forced her to lean on him, and so guided her away.</p> + +<p>When the door closed, Mr. Addison made a few steps towards Everard, who +still sat<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174">{174}</a></span> immoveable; but at the very first sound, Everard started up +with a cheek like death, and eyes flashing like fire, and flew out of +the room by the door which had just closed on Mr. Low.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison returned to the window, opened the shutters that had +darkened it, and leaned out and sighed. He stood there in profound +meditation, the fresh air cooling and calming his mind, until he was +roused by the re-entrance of Robert.</p> + +<p>“I say, Mr. Addison, you must go to my mother,” he said quickly, as he +approached him; “she is in a sad way, and nothing I can say or do will +comfort her. Go in at once; that will be the best; if you ask to go in +she will not see you.”</p> + +<p>There was a tone in Robert’s voice, and a look on his countenance which +seemed to imply a desire of braving it out with a show of indifference. +It made Mr. Addison uneasy; but, at the same time, it told him that this +would not be the proper moment to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175">{175}</a></span> make observations or offer sympathy +or counsel. Without commenting, therefore, on what had passed, he merely +thanked Robert for summoning him, and acquiesced in his request.</p> + +<p>He left the room by one door; Robert left it by the other, coolly +fetched his hat, and went out for a walk.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176">{176}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! but they say the tongues of dying men<br></span> +<span class="i0">Enforce attention, like deep harmony;<br></span> +<span class="i0">When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain<br></span> +<span class="i0">For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><i>King Richard the Second.</i><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Addison</span> found Mrs. Vavasour in a state of mind the most painful +which can be conceived. Her whole soul too evidently in revolt and +rebellion against him, to whom she had been united in thought and +feeling, and unto whom her will had been (unless on this same subject), +in perfect submission for years; and this too in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177">{177}</a></span> mourning days of +her irreparable loss. Never yet had he found himself so incapable of +ministering consolation. She would not speak to him, because she dared +not. Thoughts were within, terrible enough to feel, but which she would +have died sooner than have spoken; and these thoughts he read on her +contracted brow and in her tortured lips. He felt for her with intensity +of sympathy, and yet he perceived that she dreaded to hear or to receive +his sympathy, lest he or she should seem to cast in words, that blame on +the departed, which her rebellious soul, without her will to restrain +it, was already casting.</p> + +<p>On two subjects only he touched. He first observed, that since Robert’s +forgiveness had been so fully spoken, so fully and freely given both in +word and deed, she must not look on her husband’s decision in the light +of a curse. It was the act of a clear and sane judgment evidently +intended for Robert’s good, and being without a trace of bitterness<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178">{178}</a></span> of +spirit, should in a like spirit be received. His second suggestion was +in the form of a hope earnestly expressed, that it would prove for +Robert’s welfare in the end.</p> + +<p>The first suggestion was accepted. Mrs. Vavasour said nothing, but he +saw that it did reach her heart, and might in time give comfort. But at +the second, her soul rose up in revolt again. In the contracted brow, as +plain as words could speak, he read this answer—“Injustice cannot bring +forth good.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison had very strong opinions regarding the <i>times</i> to speak. +Many might have thought that he neglected his duty, when on constantly +recurring occasions he was silent, instead of setting forth plain +truths, or delivering necessary admonitions. But long observation had +taught him, that to speak words for which the heart is not prepared, is +to waste them in more senses than one; not only making them fall +profitless, but detracting from their value for a future occasion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179">{179}</a></span></p> + +<p>He said nothing therefore at this time to Mrs. Vavasour in the way of +warning, or even of counsel; but after speaking such few words as he +could of comfort and sympathy, he offered to read to her and Hope the +Evening Service; trusting to the effects of familiar words and prayers +to soothe her, and to such chance exhortations as might be scattered in +the teaching of the day, to warn or encourage her.</p> + +<p>When this was done and he wished her good night, he observed in a +meaning voice that he was going to look for “poor Everard.”</p> + +<p>She winced at the very name as he had expected would be the case, and +having endeavoured by one pitiful epithet to turn the current of her +thoughts, he thought it best to attempt no more.</p> + +<p>He left her therefore to herself, and departed on his search.</p> + +<p>When he reached Everard’s room he found the door locked, and to the two<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180">{180}</a></span> +knockings by which he requested leave to enter, no answer was +vouchsafed. Before he reached the door he had plainly heard his +footsteps pacing up and down, but after the first announcement of his +presence a perfect stillness succeeded.</p> + +<p>“You must let me in, Everard,” he said at last, with something of +authority in his voice. “I am come to speak to you.”</p> + +<p>There was another minute’s demur, but it ended by the door being flung +open with violence, and Mr. Addison entered.</p> + +<p>Everard was looking nearly wild. His hair disordered and his eyes +bloodshot, as if tears of passion and fierce rage had scorched them. He +said nothing, and Mr. Addison closed the door and took his seat in +silence.</p> + +<p>At last he looked seriously in his face and said, “When last I came to +you in this room, Everard, do you remember a warning I gave you. The +time is already come, temptations and cares are oppressing you. Have +you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181">{181}</a></span> sought the strength you will so greatly need?”</p> + +<p>“Then you knew of this,” Everard cried, fiercely. “I guessed as much. +Mr. Addison, how did you dare....”</p> + +<p>“Everard!” he said, warningly.</p> + +<p>“I will be answered,” he continued passionately. “<i>Did you know of +this?</i> I have a right to ask, and I will not be silent till I have a +reply.”</p> + +<p>“You shall know what you please when you are fit to be spoken to,” was +the grave answer. “Recover yourself, Everard. Is it for a man in the +full possession of his reason to act like a child or a madman. Compose +yourself. For your father’s sake, to whom such madness was abhorrent, +control your passions.”</p> + +<p>Words so stern were uncommon with Mr. Addison; the assumption of an +authoritative manner very new; but more than once of late, he had +observed that Everard had loosened the reins of his self-controul; and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182">{182}</a></span> +he knew that when loosened after years of restraint, there is great +danger of a man’s starting aside like a broken bow.</p> + +<p>A torrent of blood flew to Everard’s temples; but in the same moment +tears sprang into his eyes, and he was conquered.</p> + +<p>“You are very severe, Mr. Addison,” he said, coming and leaning against +the window in which he was sitting; “but, perhaps, you are just. Now say +what you will, I can bear it.”</p> + +<p>“Dear Everard, I did not come with the intention of being severe. I came +in the hope of bringing you the help you might need. If I was severe, it +is because I feel you need all your reason and all your powers to guide +you in this time of difficulty and trial, and it grieved me to see you +act unworthily of yourself.”</p> + +<p>“Do you not feel for me?” Everard asked, in tones of intense misery.</p> + +<p>“I do feel for you. But it becomes a man to act like a man, and no +reasonable man<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183">{183}</a></span> allows his passion to lord it over him. Now I have done. +Tell me, Everard, what do you wish to know?”</p> + +<p>“Was this done with your knowledge? If it was, oh! Mr. Addison, forgive +me, but it was most unworthy of you. In <i>him</i>, I can ... I can <i>pity</i> it +... but in <i>you</i>....”</p> + +<p>“Now hear me, Everard. I fully understand all you would say, but hear me +before you condemn. I did know it, under these circumstances. When, a +few hours before his death, your dear father made a confession to me, +embracing all the events of his life, he said he would not withhold from +me the knowledge of one circumstance which possibly I might blame. When +he told me what he had done, I owned that my opinion was against his +decision. I said that though in one sense just, yet that there was a +seeming injustice which rarely was capable of bringing forth good. He +answered me that I must forgive him if my words could not induce him to +change his resolution. He told me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184">{184}</a></span> that it was not a decision formed in +one mad moment; but that in the event of certain circumstances occurring +which did occur, it had been a course resolved upon months before, with +prayer, with reflection, and as in the sight of God.</p> + +<p>“I then examined into his state of mind. I desired him most seriously to +look into his own heart, and to see if there was one rankling feeling of +bitterness towards Robert. I spoke, Everard, as they should speak who +speak for eternity; and I am bound to tell you that I found no ill will, +no vengeance there. He spoke of Robert with intense affection; and +expressed his hopes, fond and fervent, and his conviction also, that the +day would arrive when he would come to himself, and redeem all that was +passed.</p> + +<p>“He then spoke of his motives, and began by saying, that he could not, +in his conscience, leave the inheritance of his fathers, to be delivered +up, as he well knew would be the case, into the hands of profligates.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185">{185}</a></span> +‘By years of self-denial,’ he said, ‘I have made it doubly my own, and +it is my will that it should be transmitted as a solemn trust to the son +who has proved himself worthy of his name.’</p> + +<p>“I interrupted him here and said that I had sometimes feared the love of +his name, and jealousy of its honour, held a place too nearly idolatrous +in his heart. He looked at me fixedly, and remained for some minutes in +profound thought. At last he replied that he acknowledged such had been +the case, and he begged of me, during the remaining hours of his life, +to pray for him that that stain might be washed away; but, he added, +that though he would not say his motives were perfectly pure from that +blemish, yet, that as far as he could read his heart, that was not the +motive that influenced him. He then entered minutely into Robert’s +character—pointed out his good qualities and his great weaknesses, and +ended by declaring his conviction, that,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186">{186}</a></span> humanly speaking, there was no +salvation for him but in the course he had taken.</p> + +<p>“I might have said more, Everard, but I did not; there is sometimes an +intuition in the dying more pure and clear than the living have. I +searched his mind and heart; I saw it (so far as man can tell) so +cleansed from earthly stain as to need but the passage hence, to make it +fit for Heaven; and I could not—I did not dare to withstand farther, +what might be an inspiration from the Spirit of God. Such was my part in +this matter, Everard. Can you forgive me for it?”</p> + +<p>Everard only answered by a sigh that seemed to spring from the depths of +his heart.</p> + +<p>There was a long silence. Mr. Addison broke it at length with the simple +enquiry, “Shall you accept your father’s will, Everard?”</p> + +<p>Everard covered his face with his hands.</p> + +<p>“It was a hard thing to lay on a man,” he cried, with returning passion. +“Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187">{187}</a></span> Addison, leave me to myself; I have not thought—I cannot think. +Oh! my father, my father, could you but have known the agony you would +cause me!”</p> + +<p>“He did know, Everard, I doubt not. He understood you too well not to +know it; but he knew also that you were his son, able to endure and +conquer agony if duty calls. I am not saying where your duty lies; I do +but speak of what he felt regarding you. As to your duty, in such a case +as this, every man must decide for himself. Think and pray, and then +decide, and, whatever it be, act bravely, and without passion.”</p> + +<p>“Leave me to myself, Mr. Addison,” Everard repeated, as if he scarcely +heard what he said. “Thank you for coming, thank you for your stern +words; pray that I may do right, but leave me to myself. I will try to +do my duty if I could but tell what it is. Oh! mother, mother, how shall +I ever look in your face again!”</p> + +<p>In obedience to his repeated and agitated<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188">{188}</a></span> request to be left alone, Mr. +Addison departed. He saw plainly that the decision must be worked out in +Everard’s own mind, and that he did not even desire to know what +opinions were held by others on the subject.</p> + +<p>But solitude brought no clearness to Everard’s intellect, no light over +the chaos of his thoughts. If for a moment one conclusion was formed, if +the glaring injustice to Robert assumed colours so vivid, that no +obedience, no feeling, no promise, could stand before it, the very next +he saw his father’s dying face, the peace of his reliance upon him; he +heard his last and solemn enquiry, “Would his son be guided by his +will,” and all was overthrown. And then the case was reversed. Obedience +prevailed; and then this resolution, in turn, was shaken to its depths +by vivid images of Robert and his rights, and his mother’s sufferings, +and the already gnawing sting of hate that must be <i>his</i> portion.</p> + +<p>He drew back shuddering, and, in dark<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189">{189}</a></span>ness and bewilderment, the +wearying process began once more.</p> + +<p>In the tumult of such opposing reflections, time became as nothing, and +he was still pacing his room—now languidly, now impetuously, when he +was startled by the sound of the dinner-bell.</p> + +<p>The familiar notice brought strangely to his remembrance the thoughts of +the morning—his own bitter spirit, his dread of seeing Robert in his +father’s place, and with those thoughts rushed in a whole host of other +thoughts—of jealousies connected with Robert, of imaginings of Robert’s +future, of fears, hopes, terrors, till, in very exhaustion, unable to +face the mass of fancies that assailed him, or to see one guiding light +in the feverish darkness around, he threw himself on his bed, and +determined to remain undisturbed for the night.</p> + +<p>Something, as he lay down, recalled to his memory the tenderness of Mr. +Addison’s face, when he bent over him on the day of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190">{190}</a></span> his father’s death; +and with the thought of Mr. Addison came the recollection of his grave +words on the indulgence of passion. With a child’s docility, he rose up +again, and though with an aching head and weary spirit, he resolved to +go down.</p> + +<p>It was too late to dress, but he washed his face, and smoothed his hair, +and endeavoured to still his throbbing pulses; and while yet as far from +decision as ever, left his room to join his brother and Hope.</p> + +<p>On the stairs Robert overtook him, and they went down together. Nothing +was said at first, but, as they crossed the lower corridor, Robert +observed, in his usual tone, “We will go to my mother’s dressing-room. I +told her this morning that if she would consent to dine with us, we +would dine in the ante-room, and have no one in but Harrison. I gave +orders accordingly, and I suppose nobody has thought of making a +change.”</p> + +<p>Robert’s request had been mistaken. It<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191">{191}</a></span> was too early an attempt to +rouse Mrs. Vavasour from her trance of grief; but it had been so fondly +and lovingly urged, that, unable to resist him, she had permitted him to +arrange what he desired. Since then he had not thought of it, and she, +for his sake, had been unwilling to make a change.</p> + +<p>If weighed down beneath a load of crime, Everard could scarcely have +felt a heavier oppression of shame and guilt than he did on entering his +mother’s room. She never raised her eyes; and, during the few moments of +waiting that followed, while Robert sat beside her and kissed her, he +stood stiff, stern, and immoveable, like a culprit before her.</p> + +<p>Hope gave a slight push to a chair, as if to desire him to sit down—a +simple movement, and yet, in the feeling towards him which it exhibited, +coming like a drop of cold water in the desert. It was the only comfort +that came to him that miserable night.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192">{192}</a></span></p> + +<p>When dinner was ready, Robert gave his arm to his mother, and tenderly +led her into the room where it was prepared. He was about to sit down at +the head of the table, when a recollection suddenly came over him, and, +colouring crimson, he drew back after seating his mother, and +hesitatingly made a step towards Everard; but the look of inexpressible +anguish that met his glance, drove him back; and though with a still +higher colour he sat down.</p> + +<p>The wish for Mrs. Vavasour’s presence had been, as was said, mistaken +tenderness; so Robert acknowledged during the wretched half-hour that +followed. He and Hope once or twice attempted to speak; but their words, +few and faint, were the only ones. Mrs. Vavasour never raised her eyes, +never glanced towards Everard; while from her, in the longing for one +look of pity, <i>his</i> eyes never wandered.</p> + +<p>When the time of endurance came to an end, Mrs. Vavasour rose, and +faintly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193">{193}</a></span> saying she would go to bed, wished them good-night.</p> + +<p>Robert fondly kissed her, and thanked her for coming amongst them; and +then Everard approached with an effort, and hoarsely said, “Good-night, +mother.”</p> + +<p>She paused as she was turning away, leaning on Hope—paused for him to +kiss her; but, except the pause, there was nothing inviting in her +manner, and he dared not speak. The calm, cold kiss was given, and she +went on.</p> + +<p>Hope came for a short time to make tea for her cousins, and when she +left them they remained alone and undisturbed; but no word on either +side was said. Robert took up a book, and Everard followed his +example—the former not even attempting to read, the latter attempting +it that the torment of thought which rolled round and round within him, +as in the mind of a maniac, might, for a moment, be stayed—but, in +vain; and so another hour passed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194">{194}</a></span></p> + +<p>Everard then threw down his book, and left the room. On his departure, +Robert threw down his, and leaning his head against the chimney-piece, +remained there in abstraction, or meditation, far into the night.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195">{195}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">The sun shines in his fall brightness but the very<br></span> +<span class="i0">moment before he passes under a cloud.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">South.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a large dinner party at Mr. Gresham’s on the third night after +Mr. Vavasour’s funeral. He had been extremely shocked at Mr. Vavasour’s +sudden death. Not that, according to his calculations, his life was a +good one; not that he desired any more than he expected any great delay, +before the old towers of Audley Court came into Robert’s possession, but +he would certainly have preferred, could he have had a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196">{196}</a></span> voice in the +matter, that the death of Mr. Vavasour should have occurred at another +time, and been arranged in another manner.</p> + +<p>He would have preferred a short illness, some preparation for the +inevitable event; more than all, he would have preferred that a thorough +reconciliation with Robert should have taken place. His conscience was +not perfectly easy as to his late behaviour, and, therefore, he felt +aggrieved. He would have desired in one conversation to set forth his +reasons to Mr. Vavasour, and to make known to him his generous designs +regarding Robert and his family. The unexpected stroke of death before +such explanations could be made, injured him in the tenderest point, and +he felt equally wronged and distressed. He was also sorry for Robert. So +much of heart and fancy as he had, Robert had touched, and he was +certainly grieved for the blow he must have received.</p> + +<p>Altogether, therefore, he was shocked; and as a mark both of his shock +and of his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197">{197}</a></span> respect, he closed his house to visitors, and retrained from +going into society. But he found the week’s seclusion tedious; and on +the day of the funeral, observing to Angela that he had done more than +was customary in the eyes of the world, since the world was not aware of +his connection with Mr. Vavasour, he desired her to write invitations to +a number of persons, whose names he put into her hand.</p> + +<p>Angela’s shock had been more deep and lasting than her father’s. At +first her thoughts were for others. She thought with sorrow of the +breaking up of that home whose happiness she had so often envied; she +grieved with intense pity for him whose life she well knew was bound up +with his father’s; and she was awed and solemnised by the sudden blow, +with the overwhelming awe of the young and impressible. These +impressions were followed by acuter sensations; selfish hopes and fears. +Hopes that Robert would withdraw from his pursuit;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198">{198}</a></span> fears lest his new +position should subject her to a stronger pressure; a dread above all +lest the length of time that had elapsed since her father’s acceptance +of his proposal, should involve her in toils from which there would be +no escape. Her determination did not waver, but the future was no place +of peace or certainty to her distracted and excited thoughts.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter with you, Angela?” enquired Miss Vansittart, one of +the guests at the dinner party, when the ladies returned to the +drawing-room. “Come, do talk to me. Mamma and Mrs. Broadhurst have +plenty to say to each other, and I wish to make some serious enquiries.”</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?” Angela replied coldly; for though Miss Vansittart +was on most intimate terms in the house, she had never permitted her to +be on intimate terms with her.</p> + +<p>“Why the matter is that you look shockingly ill; and as you are not +subject to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199">{199}</a></span> vapours, I suppose there is good reason for it. You have +looked moderately ill for two or three weeks, but supposing there to be +some good cause shortly to be made known, I held my tongue. To-night, +however, you look ill without any moderation, and as I cannot conceive +in your circumstances what can make you ill, I wish to be enlightened. +Don’t tell me, a headache. You never have headaches, or if you do, you +don’t cry about them. Come now, what is the matter?”</p> + +<p>“I am worried, I own,” replied Angela.</p> + +<p>“But what about? young ladies have only two sources of worry—poverty, +and love. As the first is quite out of the question it must be the +second. So now tell me. Is some lover inconstant? No, in your position +that can’t be. Is some lover forbidden? Come now, Angela, what is it?”</p> + +<p>“A cause you would never guess. You may as well leave it alone Adelaide, +for I am not going to tell.”</p> + +<p>“How provoking you are! I wonder who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200">{200}</a></span> is in your confidence. I +wonder.... Oh! my goodness, Angela, what lovely lace!” she suddenly +exclaimed. “Where did you get it? I am sure it is new.”</p> + +<p>“Papa gave it to me last week on my birthday.”</p> + +<p>“You lucky creature! Why, Angela, it is priceless. What would I not give +for one yard of it!”</p> + +<p>“I wish you had it all; I don’t care one straw about it.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure I wish I had. Really, Angela, it provokes me to think how the +good gifts of this world are wasted upon you. If I were in your position +what would I not be and do. Beauty, riches, lovers—all that heart can +wish; I have sleepless nights of envy when I think of it, and you, in +the meanwhile, make no use of them at all. If I could but be in your +position for one month—for one week—for one hour.”</p> + +<p>“I give it all up to you, Adelaide. My position, as you call it, gives +me no pleasure.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201">{201}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Would you then, truly and honestly, change with me if you could?”</p> + +<p>“With you? No,” Angela said for the first time with warmth in her tone, +“not for the whole world.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! then you are not so indifferent as you pretend. Now I will tell you +what I should do if I were in your place. First of all, I should <i>not</i> +marry. I dare say you are surprised, because I talk sometimes of lovers; +but that has nothing to do with the question. I, in my place, should +marry directly if I could, and mean to marry as soon as a proper person +appears; but, in your position, I should not marry for years to come. +Lovers of course I should have—that would be one of the pleasures; even +my brother Alfred, though he is but <i>un petit poisson</i>, I should allow +to swell my train; but marriage I should reserve till I had exhausted +the pleasures of my first youth. Oh, Angela! my heart is ready to break +with rage and envy when I think what I could be in your<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202">{202}</a></span> position—how +gloriously dressed, how glittering with jewels, how envied, how +admired—and you, you stupid creature, you make no use of it at all.”</p> + +<p>Angela made no answer to this rhapsody. She was, in truth, so perfectly +aware of what Miss Vansittart would say when the subject of her +“position” came under discussion, and was so accustomed to these bursts +of envy that she was in the habit of letting her mind wander as it +pleased; and being at this moment much occupied with other thoughts, she +had wandered so far as to be unable to give the proper signs of +attention at the end.</p> + +<p>Miss Vansittart was about to begin a new attack on perceiving her +abstraction, when the entrance of the gentlemen diverted her attention.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham walked in, swelling with pride and happiness. His dinner +party had entirely restored his conscience to complacency, and in the +near approach of the ful<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203">{203}</a></span>filment of his wishes, he felt a satisfaction, +an elation so all-pervading and rapturous, that it was impossible +entirely to suppress its signs in the outward man. With something of a +princely tread he crossed the room, making his bland and gracious +addresses to all.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you and your papa have had a difference of opinion, Angela,” +whispered Miss Vansittart, “for while you have made yourself, if it were +possible, ugly, he looks handsomer than ever.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham did not hear this complimentary speech, but he saw Miss +Vansittart’s glance observing him, and came to pay his devoirs to her. +She was a young lady after his own heart, such a one as he wished Angela +to be, well dressed, well mannered, and accomplished; and though not +handsome, making herself handsome by the energy of her mind and the fine +taste of her dress. She lived to some purpose, as he often remarked to +his daughter. He came up to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204">{204}</a></span> her with a fade compliment on her attire; +and she, well aware how to please and accommodate herself to men’s +various minds, after smiling over the compliment, alluded to Angela’s +lace, a topic she easily guessed would be acceptable, and said, “In me +it is some merit to dress well, but in Angela it is none. Who would not +look well in this?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham was highly gratified. He said he entirely agreed in her +remarks, and was delighted to receive her approval of his choice. He had +purchased the lace himself. It was not to be supposed that he had much +taste in such matters, but he confessed that the pattern and the texture +had appeared to him singularly beautiful, and although the price....</p> + +<p>“Oh! Mr. Gresham, what is price to you?” interrupted Miss Vansittart +laughingly; and once again she enlarged upon the beauty of the lace and +the happiness of its possessor, until Mr. Gresham, in the expansive +benevolence of the moment, requested her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205">{205}</a></span> to allow him to make her happy +by a gift of the very same nature.</p> + +<p>Such a conclusion had not been entirely unexpected, certainly not +undesired by his auditor, and after a few becoming hesitations and much +flattering gratitude, the gift was accepted.</p> + +<p>Elevated to a yet higher pinnacle of satisfaction by the influence of +this new act of generosity, Mr. Gresham then betook himself to his +favourite associate, Mrs. Vansittart, to make a report of what he had +done, and to receive the fulsome flatteries in which he delighted.</p> + +<p>After dwelling on the good fortune and gratitude of Adelaide, and on Mr. +Gresham’s good fortune in being able to throw his royal gifts around +him, Mrs. Vansittart then touched on the subject which had excited her +curiosity as well as her daughter’s.</p> + +<p>“Now Mr. Gresham, do tell us what is going on. Angela looks just as +young ladies look when a certain important event is on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206">{206}</a></span> the eve of +fulfilment; and judging from <i>your</i> looks I am sure it may be gathered +that the event, whatever it is, will draw forth all our congratulations. +I hope I am not indiscreet in making such remarks, for you know that +your interest is as dear to me as my own.”</p> + +<p>“By no means indiscreet,” he replied graciously, “and he assured that +when time and circumstances permit me to speak, you will be the first, +the very first to whom I shall hasten, for the congratulations you have +in store.”</p> + +<p>“Now indeed my curiosity is excited,” she continued smilingly, after +this avowal, “you have actually confessed that some great event is +impending. I will not be indiscreet, but you must excuse some excitement +on such a subject. For what shall we prepare? Is it a duke, or a +marquis, or an earl? nothing lower than an earl I am certain—or is it a +prince? We know you may take what you please, you have but to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207">{207}</a></span> stretch +out your hand and coronets are scattered at your feet.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham bowed with some gravity. The thought of his moderation was +not without annoyance. He was half ashamed of the wisdom with which he +had controlled his desires, and restrained his power of choice. But +after one moment’s consideration, the advantages of the choice he had +made resumed their sway—the personal charms of Robert, the ancient +family, the enormous territories which the union of the two proprietors +would unite.... No, he did not repent, he was proud of his moderate and +modest desires. Feeling it incumbent upon him, however, to explain his +motives beforehand, he began to lay the principles on which he acted in +a general way before his companion. His thoughts took their usual +didactic form; he pointed out that it did not appear to be the design of +Providence, that man should be possessed of every object of his desire, +and spoke with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208">{208}</a></span> feeling of the sacrifices it was needful for all, even +for such as he to make,—thinking as he did so of the pressure he had +been forced to apply to his conscience.</p> + +<p>His harangue was lengthy and tedious, but the total impossibility of +discovering its drift, bore Mrs. Vavasour to the end. To the very last +word she expected light to dawn. When it concluded, however, as +driftless as it began, she turned away her head to swallow two yawns +which curiosity alone had hitherto held in check; when this relief was +obtained she turned to him again, and with a countenance of renewed +interest observed that his sentiments were very just, his philosophy +much to be commended, with other expressions of a like flattering +nature.</p> + +<p>Such commendation encouraged him to lay before her some further views on +the general government of the world, and he was opening his discourse by +a remark on the necessity of considering all matters, however small, in +a broad and enlarged, and in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209">{209}</a></span> fact a philosophical view, when <i>he</i> was +interrupted, and Mrs. Vansittart relieved, by the approach of the groom +of the chambers, who informed Mr. Gresham that Mr. Robinson, his +solicitor, was waiting below, and wished to have five minutes +conversation with him in private.</p> + +<p>A message from Robert he immediately suggested to himself, or, perhaps, +a summons to Audley Court; and his chest heaved with joyful +anticipations.</p> + +<p>Desiring that Mr. Robinson should be shown into his study, he turned to +Mrs. Vansittart to make his apologies for the interruption, and but for +his own eagerness to be gone, would have opened a new discourse on the +duties and the responsibilities of fathers, proprietors, and possibly, +man in general. Being in haste, however, his words though<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210">{210}</a></span> polite and +urbane, were short and to the purpose.</p> + +<p>“No apologies, Mr. Gresham, I beg,” said his smiling companion, always +ready with her appropriate flattery. “We all know that ‘uneasy lies the +head that wears a crown.’ Pray go and transact your necessary business, +and we your subjects must reconcile ourselves to your absence as we +can.”</p> + +<p>He bowed, smiled, elevated his nose under the consciousness of the +important matters that did devolve upon his head, and regally left the +room, a slight bow embracing and apologizing to the whole circle of his +company.</p> + +<p>His return after the space of about twenty minutes was of another +nature. In vain “Richard strove to be himself.” In vain he endeavoured +to cast his bland and condescending glances around him. His nature was +in truth too true and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211">{211}</a></span> simple to be able to act a part. He showed his +elation of heart in his own greatness and prosperity, and now in signs +as little to be mistaken, disappointment sat upon his brow.</p> + +<p>Of what had passed, however, he said nothing. He entered into +conversation on the state of the atmosphere with a quiet old gentleman, +and from the safe position by his side cast side-long glances at the +clock. Sidelong, yet evident; bidding all discerning observers take +notice that he wished them to begone.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vansittart was complying enough to act upon the hint, and by the +bustle of her departure to force the same conviction upon the less +discerning of the guests. Devoured with internal curiosity, but +outwardly as placid as if they neither saw nor felt anything of the +kind, she and Adelaide took leave, and in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212">{212}</a></span> ten minutes the father and +daughter were alone.</p> + +<p>Angela had seen, in common with the rest of the company, the change in +her father’s manner; and nothing but that strange self-restraint which +society teaches, could have home her through the minutes that followed +his re-entrance. Even as it was, her heart beat so violently, and her +colour varied so rapidly, that it drew upon her not only the attention +of Miss Vansittart, but also of the young gentleman who was entertaining +her with some platitudes; into whose bosom her agitated reception of his +words, introduced for the first time the idea of making a venture for +the beautiful heiress.</p> + +<p>When the company was gone, she seated herself on the sofa, in breathless +anxiety, but in silence, and so awaited a communication from her father. +Nor did he keep her waiting long.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213">{213}</a></span></p> + +<p>“I have been summoned, Angela,” he began, standing before the fireplace, +and fixing his stare upon her, “to a private audience with Mr. Robinson. +He came on a matter of importance. He has been dining, it appears, with +Mr. Low, the late Mr. Vavasour’s adviser and solicitor, and from him he +has received a private and confidential communication of a most +extraordinary and unforeseen event; an event I may say which no human +care and foresight could possibly have foreseen. He naturally and +dutifully, supposing it to be a matter of interest to me, hastened +hither with the intelligence. I cannot blame myself, for as I before +stated, human foresight is bounded, and man can but use such powers as +have been committed to him. I acted for the best, I acted with all the +consideration, the forethought, the discretion, that man can bring to +bear upon any scheme, or plan, or desire he may form,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214">{214}</a></span> I acted under a +full sense of my responsibility, and yet——” here he waved his hands, +as much as to say if he had failed, he washed his hands of it. “I +believe, my love,” he resumed, “I have not yet informed you of the +nature of this most <i>unforeseen</i> circumstance, unforeseen and +unfortunate indeed, as when I tell you what has occurred, I believe you +will agree with me in denominating it. It is my painful duty to declare +that the late Mr. Vavasour has thought proper to disinherit his eldest +son, and to leave all his possessions to the younger,—to Mr. Everard +Vavasour in short.”</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding the beatings of her heart Angela never moved, neither +did her eyes once wander from her father’s face during his long +discourse, but as he concluded she started up with a smothered +exclamation of dismay, and a look of misery so intense, that even Mr. +Gresham’s unperceiving eyes perceived it. He made a step towards her, +and it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215">{215}</a></span> was well he did so, for the movement brought him just in time to +catch her as she fell senseless, and to save her head from a blow +against an ornamental table near which she fell.</p> + +<p>To recover a fainting girl was a new office for Mr. Gresham; and having +placed her upright on the sofa, and held under her nose a bottle, +snatched from the table, of costly but strong perfume, strong and +overpowering enough to have made a giant faint, he began to perceive +that his efforts were not successful, and rang the bell for her maid.</p> + +<p>“Miss Gresham is overtired to-night,” he said when she appeared, “the +party was large and the rooms close. She had better remain here until +she has recovered herself,” and supposing he had deceived the +undeceivable lady who waited on Angela, he kissed his daughter, and +betook himself<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216">{216}</a></span> to uncomfortable reflections in his own room.</p> + +<p>Three sources of comfort at length dawned upon him, and made him, after +all his troubles, sleep almost as peaceably as usual.</p> + +<p>The first sprung from the possibility of Everard’s refusing to profit by +his father’s will. The second from the certainty that should he accept +it, and could Mr. Gresham free himself from his engagement to Robert, +there was Everard waiting to receive his daughter as a bride. The third +topic of consolation arose from his own attachment to Robert in his +personal capacity. If the worst came to the worst, still Robert was +Robert, with all those charms and graces which rivet the eyes of the +world. To receive comfort from this source required a strong effort, and +nothing but Robert’s fascination could have inspired it. Still, if all +else failed, there <i>was</i> conso<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217">{217}</a></span>lation here, and having thus in the +multitude of his consolers found hope, he retired with composure and +dignity to bed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218">{218}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mortal, that standest on a point of time,<br></span> +<span class="i2">With an eternity on either hand,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thou hast one duty above all sublime,<br></span> +<span class="i2">Where thou art placed serenely there to stand.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To stand undaunted by the threatening death,<br></span> +<span class="i2">Or harder circumstance of living doom,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor less untempted by the odorous breath<br></span> +<span class="i2">Of Hope, that rises even from the tomb.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">R. M. Milnes.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is stated by some who have written on insanity, and who, from study +and observation, are competent to form an opinion, that a well-regulated +and well-principled<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219">{219}</a></span> mind has (though of course not in every case) a +power to controul and withstand madness, which the unprincipled do not +possess. Much more has a well-regulated mind the power to controul that +temporary insanity which strong excitement brings. Not that a regulated +mind feels less; not that the stirring up of the passions and affections +produces in such a mind one whit less of disturbance; it is simply that +the constant exercise of self-restraint gives to it a power over its own +self, enabling it to raise a voice above the storm, and to say “Peace, +be still.”</p> + +<p>When Everard flew back to his own room on that sad evening, it was +because the tumult of his thoughts was becoming unbearable; he needed +the relief of solitude that he might by bodily movements check the stir +and bewilderment within. He closed his door and resumed his impetuous +pacings up and down; and passion—bringing along<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220">{220}</a></span> with it that +aberration of intellect it is so apt to bring—was on the point of +resuming its sway, when once again the recollection of Mr. Addison’s +grave words presented itself to him: “It becomes a man to act like a +man.”</p> + +<p>It was true, as Mr. Addison had observed, that Everard of late had +loosened the reins with which he had so long controlled himself. He had +suffered absolute torture of mind in the thoughts of Angela as his +brother’s wife, and it had upset him. But though such an upsetting is +dangerous, though the loosening of the bent bow is apt to be violent in +its recoil, yet in truth the habits of many years are not really +destroyed in a short time; that which has once been familiar is not +easily swept away, and if invited back is in waiting to return as a +ready guest.</p> + +<p>He paused as the words flashed upon him in his weary walk, and asked +himself whether<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221">{221}</a></span> these passionate movements and unbridled thoughts, were +such as could well decide upon a question of such momentous import. With +the question his truer self resumed its place, and putting away the +child and madman he became a man.</p> + +<p>His first resolve was to think no more that night; a resolve easily +made, hardly performed. And yet he did perform it, so far at least as +his will was concerned, for there is an under current of thought which +even the will itself cannot always subdue. He betook himself to his +common nightly devotions—since his father’s death, more seriously +performed than latterly had been the case—and the attempt to be still +stilled him. And once stilled, those devotions, while they increased the +sense of the responsibility of his decision, cleared, calmed, and +elevated the tone of his mind, bade feeling and passion stand aside, +while reason and conscience debated and gave judgment. He then lay<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222">{222}</a></span> down +to rest, a strong hand still bridling the flood of thought, and +exhausted even by the force of his self-restraint, sleep came at last +and steeped him in the repose he needed.</p> + +<p>He woke early, for the keen sense of a task to be done influences the +mind even in sleep, and calls it to its duties; but he woke calm and +refreshed, and with renewed energies to set himself to think.</p> + +<p>In the course of the few early hours that followed, his decision was +made, and once made, he was prepared to act upon it. He decided to +accept his father’s will. This decision was not brought about by any +consideration of the question generally; in a thousand cases his weight +might have been thrown into the opposite scale. He was prepared to be +blamed; prepared to be misinterpreted; prepared for evil report, and the +imputation of selfish motives. Every possibility lay clear before his +eyes, and yet his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223">{223}</a></span> resolve was taken. It was he himself who could not do +otherwise; it was he, Everard Vavasour, who could not oppose the last +request of the father he had loved so well, and whom in life he had +trusted with so entire and perfect a trust.</p> + +<p>No decision was ever made more solemnly, and never in his life had such +a prayer passed from Everard’s lips, as that morning’s prayer, that he +might do his duty, whatever the cost might be, in the new circumstances +on which he was entering.</p> + +<p>Thus resolved, he went down to breakfast, the composure of decision, and +something of the dignity of a brave and holy purpose already marking his +air and features. A brave and holy purpose—some may think a mistaken +one—but brave and holy in him, because a sincere and costly one.</p> + +<p>He found Hope alone in the breakfast-room. She was standing at the +window while she waited for her cousins. Her bear<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224">{224}</a></span>ing up through her +many sad offices and many trials had been wonderful; but as she stood +now in the light, her fair skin contrasting with her mourning dress, +Everard saw how trial had touched her. The soft, childlike roundness of +her features was gone, and though her countenance was tranquil, it had +not the unearthly quietness and serenity of other days.</p> + +<p>He went to her, and put his arm round her with a warmth natural to him, +yet rarely indulged in, and asked, “Are you as miserable, dear Hope, as +all the rest in this miserable house?”</p> + +<p>She looked up in his face.</p> + +<p>“I know you must be unhappy, Everard, but it must not be <i>yesterday</i> +that makes you so.”</p> + +<p>His lips trembled, and tears came into his eyes.</p> + +<p>Before he could steady his voice to answer, she went on—“Oh! Everard, +we think<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225">{225}</a></span> too much of these things. If it should be for the saving of +Robert’s soul, you will not regret what it cost you. I knew how it would +be; I dreaded it long ago; I felt it certain in those last days; and +though it was grief and pain at first, I see in it now the dawn of that +day for which we have waited so long. Oh! Everard, be stedfast, and do +not fear, and what seems a grief will be a blessing.”</p> + +<p>He looked into her eyes, kindling with no earthly light, and felt their +fire animating his soul. “God bless you, dearest Hope,” he said, +stooping and kissing her, “you have given me comfort and courage. You +must pray,” he added with solemn earnestness, “for me as you do for +Robert, for him and for me, that we may not faint or fail.”</p> + +<p>Robert entered as he spoke, and Hope turned from the window to meet him, +and to take her seat at the table. Everard leant<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226">{226}</a></span> out to compose himself +and to gather courage, and while he did so, Robert sat down.</p> + +<p>When he turned, Robert was seated by Hope, and the place at the table +which had been his father’s, that place in which with so keen a pang he +had seen Robert the day before, was left for him.</p> + +<p>Such things are but trifles, but some trifles speak with a thundering +voice. Everard’s heart swelled, and for a moment with a return of +passion he was about even with fierceness and irritation, to remove his +chair to the vacant place opposite Robert, when a glance from Hope +calmed him. His blood rose to his temples, but he sat down, feeling that +in so doing he announced to Robert that his decision was made. That +Robert so accepted it was plain from the deepening colour on his cheek, +and his eyes stedfastly bent down<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227">{227}</a></span>ward. And thus the new life began at +Audley Court.</p> + +<p>Hope left the room before her cousins had done breakfast, and they +lingered at the table, both longing yet unable to speak. It was not till +both had risen, and Robert, after wandering once or twice absently about +the room, had actually his hand on the door to leave it, that Everard +took courage and arrested him.</p> + +<p>“Robert!”</p> + +<p>Robert turned back at once, and the brothers stood flushed and agitated +facing each other.</p> + +<p>Everard composed himself with an effort and then said gravely, “Robert, +I have determined to accept my father’s will.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said Robert hurriedly. “Did you think I expected or even +wished it should be otherwise?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot tell. I have thought till<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228">{228}</a></span> I have been nearly mad. Oh! Robert, +what should you do, if you stood in my place?”</p> + +<p>“What <i>I</i> should do is not to the purpose,” he said sadly. “I never did +obey my father’s wishes as you have done, but if I were <i>you</i> Everard, I +should do as you do. You never have, and you cannot now disobey him.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot,” Everard said passionately.</p> + +<p>“And besides, you have <i>promised</i>. Do you think I forget <i>that</i> time, +and <i>those</i> words, and <i>your</i> answer. No never, if I live a hundred +years.”</p> + +<p>Everard held out his hand, with a vain effort at composure, and, as he +grasped that of his brother, agitatedly said, “Then forgive me now and +for ever, and promise that no distrust or ill-will shall ever grow up +between us.”</p> + +<p>“I promise,” Robert said gravely, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229">{229}</a></span> Everard withdrew his hand and +hurried out of the room.</p> + +<p>An hour or two later he came down and looked into the library. Robert +was sitting at the writing table with a pen in his hand, and a harassed +look on his brow.</p> + +<p>Everard asked him to walk with him. Robert acquiesced, and throwing down +his pen with an air of relief, and a toss of impatience and disgust, +followed him from the room.</p> + +<p>“There are some things, Robert,” Everard began, in the voice of grave +composure in which he evidently tried to speak, “the discussion of which +cannot be delayed. What you would have done for me you must let me do +for you, and you must believe that it is not to remind you of what has +passed; not to remind you of what I now must be, that I bring them +forward. What is done cannot be undone—let us make<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230">{230}</a></span> it bearable by +openness and truth with each other.”</p> + +<p>“I am very sure, Everard, whatever you do is done from kindness,” Robert +replied; some anxiety in his tone, and yet a kind of relief also in his +brother’s plain dealing. “I perfectly trust you.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you guess what I am going to say. If this change gets wind, it +may cause you some trouble. There may be unpleasant applications. Dear +Robert, will you remember that all is to be as if it were yours. It +seems so strange to have to say it, I hardly know how, but I do it as I +would be done by. Will you write to Mr. Low and make what arrangements +you please, and promise me that no past thing shall distress you more. +For the future—that needs more thought than we can give it now.”</p> + +<p>More than once Robert’s colour rose. He did feel, and feel acutely the +pain and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231">{231}</a></span> humiliation in thus being subject to his brother, but his +better nature struggled and conquered.</p> + +<p>“Thanks, Everard, a thousand times. I will not be such a pitiful fool as +to refuse your kindness, or conceal from you that it is a relief. I was +tormenting myself with those cursed, yes cursed debts when you came in. +I will write to Mr. Low as you tell me, and we will see what can be +done. As to the future I have already thought of that, but I cannot +speak of it to-day. To-morrow I will talk to you again. In the meanwhile +you had better think for me. Something I must do.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Must</i> you?” Everard asked with a collected manner, but a glow of +crimson on his cheek.</p> + +<p>Robert looked at him, but merely said, “I suppose so.” And as after this +allusion constraint again stole over them, the walk was not much +prolonged.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232">{232}</a></span></p> + +<p>One other and most painful duty remained for Everard on that day. It was +to announce to his mother his decision. He had seen her in the morning, +but the same calm kiss and silent greeting and averted eyes had received +him. Duty received and endured him; he saw that; but feeling rebelled. +He shrank from what had to be done.</p> + +<p>To prepare her in some degree for his announcement, he desired Hope to +ask if he might speak to her. It was late in the afternoon, and having +at Robert’s earnest request (to whom she could less than ever refuse +anything) taken a tottering walk round the garden, she was lying in her +room, weeping in darkness and alone. Her sense of duty to her husband +compelled her to acquiesce in his petition, and Everard entered; but +nothing invited him to her side. He approached and she allowed him to +take his seat by her; but still no look helped or cheered him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233">{233}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Mother,” he began at once in his deep voice, touching from its +tremulous earnestness, “will you not give me your blessing on the task I +have undertaken?”</p> + +<p>They were bold words, so bold that she was startled from her coldness, +and looked at him.</p> + +<p>The movement helped and encouraged him. “It is a task hard enough at the +best,” he continued, “but without your love and blessing more than I +have power to bear. Mother,” he went on in strong agitation, seizing +both her hands and gazing into her face, “I know what you must feel +towards me, but will you not consider <i>who</i> it was that laid it on me, +and to <i>his</i> will submit as I do.”</p> + +<p>She was overcome. For the moment melted, even though rebellious still. +She drew him towards her, and twice kissed his brow. No words followed; +no words, indeed, could have been spoken; for that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234">{234}</a></span> relenting of the +heart was not such as language could express: it was no blessing, no +sanction, it was but the softened spirit shewing sympathy with her son’s +pain. Such as it was, however, Everard was satisfied and relieved; and +unwilling at that time to distress her further, kissed her, and left her +alone.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235">{235}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">I kneel<br></span> +<span class="i0">There—meekly as you taught me—when you raised<br></span> +<span class="i0">For the first time my little hands to God;<br></span> +<span class="i0">A child, obedient and infirm as then,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I do implore you tell your wretched son<br></span> +<span class="i0">What he must suffer.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Glencoe.</span>—<i>A Tragedy.</i><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> words of Hope, his mother’s mute relenting, the generous feeling +shown by Robert, and Mr. Addison’s approbation of his decision, assisted +to compose and calm Everard’s mind; and yet even while he thankfully +felt how it smoothed his way<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236">{236}</a></span> before him, it in some respects added to +the difficulty of his task. The sight and feeling of the excellence of +Robert’s nature, made his own mind rebel more strongly against his +decision, and he was well aware would make the injustice which had been +done him more loudly called in question.</p> + +<p>At Everard’s desire Mr. Addison made known on the following morning to +the household and the principal tenantry, the change that had taken +place. Before nightfall, it was known and discussed far and wide. +<i>Consternation</i> was the effect of the disclosure. Consternation, in the +house, and out of the house; among the rich and the poor.</p> + +<p>Robert’s faults and errors were many of them well known, for everything +is known, but they had never come <i>home</i> to his home. Mr. Vavasour, in +the silence of his study, might muse upon the recklessness of prin<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237">{237}</a></span>ciple +he showed, and look forward to the issue of the course on which he had +entered. But consequences are rarely thought of by the uneducated, and +the future is but a shadow, when the charm of the present is felt. When +Robert came to his home it was as the gay, generous, open-hearted, and +open-handed young man; a character which even with personal charms far +less than his, has an attraction none can withstand. Had it been +possible to set forth the certain truth, that if Robert went on as he +had begun, the hardly saved and much beloved inheritance of his +forefathers must before many years be in the hands of strangers, that +consideration might possibly have had weight, might in some degree have +alleviated the blow; but such words had never been <i>said</i> by Mr. +Vavasour, and none said them now. The blow fell, and in his peoples’ +eyes it was without excuse. With such a loyalty as the Lee family in the +novel of Woodstock con<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238">{238}</a></span>templated the misfortunes of Charles the Second, +so rose up the hearts of his servants and his tenantry to sympathise +with Robert.</p> + +<p>Everard had observation enough, and he saw tears in the eyes of the +elder men and women, stern looks on the brows of the young. He had not +expected, he certainly had not wished it should be otherwise, and yet +the language of his heart might be expressed in that of St. Paul, “What +mean ye to weep and to break mine heart?” Was it not worse for him than +for them? Had he followed the impulse of a nature only too quick to feel +slights and distrust, he would have withdrawn himself in very cowardice +till the first storm of astonishment and dismay was overpast; but the +same sense of duty which prompted him to act at all, prompted him also +to act bravely; and very conscious that supervision was necessary, and +some guiding head wanting, he deter<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239">{239}</a></span>mined at once to rouse himself to +the performance of all the duties that must now be his.</p> + +<p>On the night after the disclosure there was sad and serious conversation +in the servants’ hall. The butler who had been many years in the house, +came to talk it over with the old coachman, and many others gathered +round to hear.</p> + +<p>“I never thought I should have had to blame my poor master,” the butler +said. “I never felt before, but that his word was like the law and the +gospel. If he said a thing was to be, I had no more a mind to say a word +against it, than to the King on his throne. And it’s a hard thing to +have to give him up; but mortal men are prone to err, and my poor master +was like the rest of us.”</p> + +<p>“It’s the <i>hinjustice</i>,” said the old coachman. “Ever since I was born, +man and boy, there was never a time when I did<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240">{240}</a></span>n’t think <i>hinjustice</i> +was <i>hinjustice</i>; and if my poor master that’s in his grave was standing +before me, I would tell him so to his face.”</p> + +<p>“Very true, Roger. Mr. Everard is a quiet young gentleman, dutiful and +good to his father, and kind to all. I have not a word to say against +Mr. Everard: but he never was born to this; and he’s no more equal to +Mr. Robert than I am; and to thrust himself into another’s place, is, as +you say Roger, <i>injustice</i>. Servants must do their duty, but they can +reason as well as other men.”</p> + +<p>“Servants must do their duty of course,” observed a young groom who was +devotedly attached to Robert, “but more than my duty I won’t do for Mr. +Everard or anybody. I’ll do my work, but I won’t call him my master, not +if he puts me in the stocks for it. It’s injustice, and I’ll show him I +think so as sure as I live.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241">{241}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Now Thomas,” said the elderly housemaid, who had seen Everard’s grief, +and had been deeply touched by his sufferings, “I won’t have you speak +so. Mr. Everard, poor dear, feels it all as sadly as the rest of us. +That evening after the will had been read, I went in to take a kettle to +his room, and he was standing there. Poor dear! I never shall forget his +face. I thought there must be something bad, and I asked him if I could +bring him something to do him good, and he said ‘no Betsey, nothing,’ so +bitterly, as if nothing could ever do him good again. Poor dear! I +thought it was about his papa, for he was always uncommon fond of his +papa; but no doubt it was the will that troubled him. Depend upon it he +feels it as bad as we do.”</p> + +<p>“Then why not throw it up, Betsy,” said the coachman. “No man is bound +to <i>hinjustice</i> as I believe, and I think I know the law.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242">{242}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Well, but then he promised,” she said with a look of awe. “When my poor +master was a dying, and the young gentlemen arrived, Mrs. Allen was +standing outside, lest she might be called to my poor mistress in her +grief—and she <i>heard</i>. She didn’t know then what it meant, but she +heard my master ask Mr. Everard if he would obey him when he was dead +and gone; and she heard Mr. Everard, poor dear, make a kind of a vow for +ever and ever, and she said she thought it meant to be a good young +gentleman, but no doubt this was in his mind. Mrs. Allen told me so +to-day, and she says she thinks Mr. Everard can’t help himself no more +than a marriage vow.”</p> + +<p>Betsy’s communication produced a great effect so far as Everard was +concerned. The butler and the old coachman both declared that a vow was +a vow, and must be kept; and resolved to do their duties to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243">{243}</a></span> Everard as +if he were their true master. The young groom alone held out, and said +that whatever others did he didn’t care—“he would never call Everard +Mr. Vavasour, not if he lived for twenty years in his service,”—and +there was so much dignity in his look and speech as he made the +announcement, that his fellow servants could not help regarding him as +belonging more or less to the army of martyrs and themselves as poor +creatures in comparison.</p> + +<p>A trifling circumstance softened towards Everard the hearts of his +servants, and gave them a better understanding of his feelings. On the +morning on which he determined to assume his new position in the house, +he marked it by the recommencement of family prayers, which, with only +occasional intermissions, had been read by his father for nearly fifty +years. He was too much agitated as yet for this to be otherwise than an +effort,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244">{244}</a></span> but his frame of mind was also that which almost finds pleasure +in trying itself. He miscalculated, however, his powers of self-command. +Against the many sad thoughts natural to the occasion, he had steeled +himself, but one sight overset him. It was Robert who had discovered his +intention, and was seated with the rest, and awaiting him; as if prompt, +only too prompt in Everard’s eyes, to show obedience to his wishes.</p> + +<p>Thus overset, he could not recover himself, and when he sat down and +opened the Bible at the second lesson for the day, no voice came at his +call. The maids, soft-hearted and excitable, and already with their +handkerchiefs to their eyes, gave way to their feelings in stifled sobs, +and a most painful scene might have ensued, had not Hope, putting aside +all selfish feelings of nervousness and timidity, risen from her seat, +and draw<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245">{245}</a></span>ing a chair to Everard’s side, begged him aloud to let her read +for him.</p> + +<p>He acquiesced with a look of gratitude which was not lost upon the +watchful audience, and as the servants returned to their work, “poor Mr. +Everard” was said, with a heartfelt tone which showed a real relenting. +It even affected the resolution of the young groom, for in the course of +the day, after giving the matter due consideration, he confidentially +told the coachman that if “Mr. Everard seemed to make a point of it, he +should see what he could do after a bit, about calling him Mr. +Vavasour.”</p> + +<p>Hope’s conduct, her utter forgetfulness of self, touched Robert deeply, +and as they walked together to the breakfast room, he laid his hand on +her arm and in an unsteady voice said, “I have no right to say such +things now, Hope, but if ever there was an angel on earth, I believe you +are one.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246">{246}</a></span></p> + +<p>He did not look at her, nor seek to hear her speak, nor did he touch +upon the subject further, but this slight allusion to old feelings, the +only one he ever made, brought a beating to her heart, and a flush to +her cheek, which told to herself at least too plainly how little had as +yet been done in separating her life from his.</p> + +<p>When breakfast was over and Hope had left the room, her cousins still +lingering at the table, Robert suddenly and hurriedly took a letter from +his pocket, and put it into Everard’s hands, observing, “I wish you to +see it before it goes.”</p> + +<p>It was addressed to Mr. Gresham. The communication was short, for Robert +had nothing of the complete letter-writer about him. He said only what +he had to say, suppressing at all times feeling and reflections, and big +words of all kinds.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247">{247}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Dear Mr. Gresham,—You will have heard before this of the change in my +circumstances. As our engagement was entered into in the supposition of +my being in the place of an elder son, that change dissolves it, or if +anything more is required, I hasten to set you free from what can no +longer be agreeable to you. I sincerely thank you for the kind +intentions you expressed towards me, and for your confidence in the +promises I fear I very rashly made.</p> + +<p>“As my engagement was with <i>you</i>, I suppose my duty is to communicate +only with you; but if I did not very well know that Miss Gresham’s +consent, (if she consented,) would only have been a matter of obedience, +I should not have been contented to break it without some reference to +her.</p> + +<p class="c"> +“I remain yours, very truly,<br> +“<span class="smcap">Robert Vavasour</span>.<br> +</p> + +<p>“Audley Court, April 23.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248">{248}</a></span></p> + +<p>Everard read the letter with a burning cheek, such as the slightest +allusion to that subject always produced; but he returned it without a +look or word.</p> + +<p>“I must of course be guided by what he says,” Robert continued in the +hurried tone in which he had before spoken, “but I know what that will +be.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not,” Everard said gravely.</p> + +<p>“Yes I do. I know him better than you.” And then as if glad to shift the +subject, Robert continued more easily, “And now, Everard, as to the +future; I must do something. Have you thought for me? What shall it be?”</p> + +<p>“Under <i>any</i> circumstances,” Everard asked, the changing colour again +showing to what he alluded.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I must and will do something; whatever I can; that is not much I +fear.”</p> + +<p>“Then I <i>have</i> thought,” Everard said<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249">{249}</a></span> with some hesitation, “and I have +written this letter—I brought it to show you in case you liked my +opinion. What do you think of it?” and he tossed a letter across the +table.</p> + +<p>Everard was more accustomed to write than Robert, and his letter was a +better one, but like his it was concise and straightforward, with an +entire suppression of all reflections on what he said; and all +explanations regarding his own personal situation and conduct. It was +addressed to Mr. Perceval. It simply stated Robert’s circumstances, and +his wish for employment; mentioned <i>his</i>, Everard’s opinion, that it +should be employment in some public office; and asked his advice and +assistance in and upon the matter. Mr. Perceval’s assistance was very +valuable, as his interest with public men chanced to be considerable.</p> + +<p>“That will do famously,” Robert said, as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250">{250}</a></span> he tossed it back to his +brother; “the very thing I should like best. Do you know,” he added, +“there have been times in these last months when I have longed even to +be a ploughman working for my bread.”</p> + +<p>“The <i>thing</i> is different from the wish,” was Everard’s reply, as if he +understood the difference well. “To have to work is hard work +sometimes.”</p> + +<p>“The harder the better. If you had my thoughts, Everard,” he continued +in a tone of passion, “you would feel as I do, that employment must be +had. Get it settled for me as fast as you can, and let me be gone.”</p> + +<p>The way in which Robert put himself into Everard’s hands, in two days +looking to him and treating him as his natural guardian, was touching +and singular. If it proved on the one hand the worth and strength of +Everard’s nature, shewing it to be one on which man<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251">{251}</a></span> naturally leans, it +shewed on the other a beauty of disposition in the elder brother, which +even vice had been unable as yet to spoil. It showed that it was no +qualities on the surface, which won the love of the good and wise and +holy; but the qualities of the heart, that good soul on which Hope built +so much.</p> + +<p>It was four days before Mr. Gresham’s answer was received, for the post +was not so rapid a thing as now, in the days of this tale. When it +arrived, it was in its style very unlike Robert’s communication to him, +for it was lengthy, and wordy, and full of reflections, personal and +otherwise.</p> + +<p>There was an essay on engagements, how binding and when; there was the +usual essay on the responsibilities of fathers, proprietors, &c.; there +was an essay also on the duty of resistance to mere feeling. After this +came the sum total, that he allowed the engage<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252">{252}</a></span>ment <i>was</i> dissolved. The +letter was very kind, however, and bore the traces of much struggle of +mind, and real feeling towards Robert. To give him up was evidently a +bitter pill. Of Angela he said nothing. For a young female to send a +message on such an occasion he was not prepared.</p> + +<p>A message, however, Robert did receive.</p> + +<p>He was sitting in the library an hour or two after breakfast, when Mr. +Addison put his head in at the door.</p> + +<p>“Can I speak with you for a moment, Robert?” he enquired, and being +eagerly desired to come in, he approached with a letter in his hand.</p> + +<p>“I suppose I am justified,” he said, “in shewing you this. Indeed it +requires to be read to be understood; for I could not trust myself to +repeat properly the substance of what it contains.”</p> + +<p>The letter was from Angela, written, as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253">{253}</a></span> the style plainly showed, in +great agitation of mind.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Dear Mr. Addison,</p> + +<p>“I have nobody to apply to but you; to you, therefore, I must write +to say what I feel. My father tells me that Mr. Vavasour offers to +give up the engagement with him on account of his changed +circumstances, and that he accepts. He may accept, but I will not. +I would not for all the world do so dishonourable and ungenerous a +thing. <i>You</i> know what I felt before, so you will not misunderstand +me now. It may break my heart, but I would rather die than act in +any other way. You have often said that if right is done, peace +will come at last, and so I hope peace will come at last to me, for +I am sure that I am right in what I intend. I have been too +obedient, but I will not be obedient now. I must leave it to you to +make known to Mr. Vavasour what I say;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254">{254}</a></span> you must do it in the way +that it should be done. You will know best what is right, and, as I +said, I leave it to you. You must tell him that I will try to be a +good wife to him, and that if we went away from England it would be +easier to me. If he persists, I do not think my father will be hard +to persuade. Forgive me, and pity me, dear Mr. Addison, and do not +think I am doing a strange thing, for, indeed, it must be done.</p> + +<p class="r"> +“Yours, affectionately,<br> +“<span class="smcap">Angela Gresham</span>.”<br> +</p></div> + +<p>Mr. Addison watched Robert intently as he read. That he was touched was +very plain.</p> + +<p>“Poor little thing,” he said tenderly, “I will write to her myself.”</p> + +<p>“Shall you accept, Robert?”</p> + +<p>“Accept! Mr. Addison,” he cried, “what do you take me for? I have given +her pain<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255">{255}</a></span> enough; I will set her mind at ease at once. Leave me the +letter, and I will write.”</p> + +<p>“Is it no temptation?” asked his old friend, looking fixedly at him.</p> + +<p>“Not the least, Mr. Addison. Don’t think better of me than I deserve. If +I could be a galley-slave just now, that might be a temptation. This is +none. I don’t speak of the future, for I know my resolutions are no +better than Delilah’s packthread when temptation comes, but if work can +keep me from temptation, I will work against any man.” He paused and +crossed his arms, and an expression of intense and painful feeling +gathered on his face. “When I remember what I have <i>done</i>, Mr. Addison,” +he continued, “that <i>death</i> is on my shoulders, I only wonder I have the +power to live on as I do. But God is merciful I suppose, and does not +let remorse be harder than one can bear.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256">{256}</a></span></p> + +<p>“No, Robert, for He gives a future, where all may yet be redeemed.”</p> + +<p>“Not <i>all</i>,” was the reply, with an accent of suffering, which haunted +Mr. Addison for many days.</p> + +<p>But he was thankful for the words that Robert had said, for so elastic +was his natural temperament, and so foreign was it to his nature to make +a show of any emotion he could suppress, that Mr. Addison had been +doubtful in what degree a real impression had been made.</p> + +<p>When left to himself Robert took Angela’s letter and answered it.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“My dear Miss Gresham,</p> + +<p>“Not for worlds would I take advantage of the kind words you have +written about me. All is, and all should be, at an end between us; +for you know as well as I know that on neither side were there +feelings which could have won a blessing. I am<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257">{257}</a></span> going to make +myself very vile in your eyes and to tell you all the truth. It was +your position and my sad and sinful circumstances that led me to +think of you. My love, if I am not too unworthy to talk of love, +has long been altogether with another. It is a truth painful for me +to tell, and not flattering to you to hear, but you deserve +truth,—and my respect and gratitude, and, I will say, my affection +too, will not let me hide it from you. Now then you are free, and +God grant you may soon be happy also.</p> + +<p>“As you speak of my change of circumstances, I will tell you this, +it was not at first welcome but now it is. I am better pleased to +see Everard in my father’s place than I could ever have been to +stand there myself, for he is such a son as my father should have +had, and I, as we all know too well, am not.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258">{258}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Forgive me for all the anxiety and trouble I have caused you, and +forgive me also now if my words are too plain. I wish I could +better thank you for that kindness which I am sure I feel.</p> + +<p class="r"> +“God bless you,<br> +“<span class="smcap">Robert Vavasour</span>.”<br> +</p></div> + +<p>When the letter was done Robert took it and Angela’s also, and went in +search of Everard. He found him with the steward, devoting himself, with +a sad and careworn face, to the understanding of all the intricacies of +the management of a property, large and laden with debt. Everard had a +clear head, but he was totally unaccustomed to business of this kind, +and his look as he hung over the books was so bewildered that it almost +drew from Robert a smile.</p> + +<p>“If you can spare one moment, Everard,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259">{259}</a></span>” he said, as he paused at the +door, “I want you.”</p> + +<p>Everard coloured when he perceived that Robert saw his business, and +sprang up and followed him.</p> + +<p>“Just read these,” Robert said, “before they go;” and he put the two +letters into his hand. He turned away, but from a distance glanced at +his brother with an expression of archness about his eyes and lips.</p> + +<p>A burning blush as he read Angela’s letter, and a lip trembling with +suppressed emotion when he came to Robert’s words about himself—these +two signs of feeling he showed as he perused them, but this was all. +When he turned to Robert to replace them in his hand, it was not only +without agitation, but it was with an air of such indifference, as if +his opinion had been simply asked respecting some matter of business.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260">{260}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Will it do, Everard?” Robert enquired, as he took them back.</p> + +<p>“I suppose so; yes, I have no doubt very well,” he replied, but his tone +was constrained and cold.</p> + +<p>“Oh, then that is all, don’t let me detain you,” Robert said, quickly, +and he turned away, puzzled and disappointed by his brother’s manner.</p> + +<p>Everard looked after him with a sad and wistful look, but he did not +recall him; and after standing thus for a few seconds, he returned with +a brow no less harassed and careworn to his business.</p> + +<p>Three or four days longer passed before an answer was received from Mr. +Perceval. When it arrived at last, he apologised in it for his delay, by +announcing the success of his applications in Robert’s behalf. Interest +worked more powerfully in those days than it does now, and as before was +said Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261">{261}</a></span> Perceval’s interest chanced to be considerable. He had stated +his own claims and Robert’s peculiar circumstances, not concealing his +former erring life, but expressing a strong hope and confidence that the +future would efface the past. At the moment of his application, a +clerkship in one of the highest offices was vacant, and after some +consideration and demur, it was given to him.</p> + +<p>These were the facts on which he dwelt; and in making the announcement +to Everard, he merely and simply said that he trusted to Robert not to +bring down censure upon his head.</p> + +<p>A postscript to the letter made a proposition, for Robert to accept or +decline as he thought proper. It was an offer of apartments in his +house. That he would be as perfectly independent there as in a lodging, +Mr. Perceval said he could not of course promise, but he would insure to +him all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262">{262}</a></span> reasonable independence, and as he was a bachelor, and often +absent from home, he did not think the society of his house need weigh +upon any man as a burden. He made the offer, he said, under the +supposition and the hope, that Robert was sincerely desirous to improve +himself, and it had occurred to him that the slight tie of such a home +as his, might be an assistance without being a bondage.</p> + +<p>Unwilling to have any communications regarding his brother but such as +were perfectly open, Everard laid the whole letter before Robert.</p> + +<p>The first part he read, and having read expressed his extreme +gratification and obligation. The postcript was on another page, and he +returned the letter without perceiving it. Everard directed his +attention to its contents, and to the fact that a speedy answer was +requested.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263">{263}</a></span></p> + +<p>Robert coloured deeply as he read it, and looked at Everard. “For +myself,” he said, hesitatingly, “there is nothing I should like better, +but don’t you know, Everard ... has not my mother mentioned it to +you—she wishes to have a house with me in London.”</p> + +<p>Everard became very pale. Though the idea was but a natural one, the +possibility of his decision driving his mother from the home in which +her affections had taken absolute root, had never presented itself to +him.</p> + +<p>“I think it a very bad plan,” Robert said quickly, seeing and feeling +for his brother’s distress, “and I have said all I can against it. +Though she is too unhappy now to care, I know very well what she has +always felt, and will again feel in a short time, about London. There is +no one so dependent on the freedom of country life. I wish you would +speak to her. I have said<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264">{264}</a></span> all I can without seeming absolutely unkind; +I wish you would try what you can do.”</p> + +<p>“But why should I?” he asked with great sadness. “You all wish to be +together. It is very natural though I had not thought of it.”</p> + +<p>“<i>I</i> do not wish it. Besides that I think it a bad plan for my mother, I +do not wish it for myself. For <i>many</i> reasons,” he added, colouring +again, “I dislike it. As I said before, <i>I</i> can say no more without +seeming not to be anxious to have her, but if you can do anything, I +shall be very truly glad.”</p> + +<p>Everard observed him intently as he spoke, but made no further +observation at that moment.</p> + +<p>He went out for a long and solitary walk, that he might reflect in +peace. He had reasons for thinking the plan a bad one in more respects +than one, and yet<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265">{265}</a></span> again, had he yielded to the promptings of his +sensitive spirit, he would have disclaimed all wish to interfere, and +would have permitted those who desired to leave him, to leave him +without remonstrance. But responsibility was bringing to Everard that +change which it must bring to all thoughtful tempers.</p> + +<p>Those who are placed in any sense over others, may no longer act for +themselves. If they do, they show themselves unworthy of the burden +imposed upon them. His father’s words in which he committed to <i>him</i> the +guardianship of those he left behind him, were unceasingly sounding in +Everard’s ears. No distrust of his own powers, no dread of seeming to +put himself forward, could overcome the sense of responsibility they +brought. His determination when he decided to accept his father’s will +had also been to act as far as his inexperienced years would allow, in +his father’s stead;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266">{266}</a></span> and in that spirit he was prepared and resolved to +act now, It was an occasion involving the highest interests of all +committed to him, his mother, Robert, and Hope, and he bent all his +powers to weigh and consider the course he should pursue.</p> + +<p>The result of his reflections led him on his return to his mother’s +room.</p> + +<p>He found her sitting at her window gazing out with intent though +abstracted eyes. During the last few days her bodily health had +improved. She was no longer prostrate with grief, but the mental sorrows +had gathered acuteness from the body’s restoration. The softness of her +features was naturally calculated to express the more touching elements +of grief, but such was not their expression now. There was not even the +calm of one absorbing sorrow. Restless, tormenting, uncontrollable +emotions agitated and disturbed them.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267">{267}</a></span></p> + +<p>She was gazing out on the fair scenes that so long had been her home, +now flushing into the freshness of early spring. Woods upon woods till +they crowned a distant hill rising behind each other in all the tranquil +beauty of an English landscape, and in the midst of them the tall spire +of the village church, now her husband’s resting place, giving +character, and life, and feeling to the scene. The gaze was so intent +that Everard felt she must be taking a farewell, and there was a sadness +in its intensity that gave him hope, she might be won to relent.</p> + +<p>He came to her side, and sat down and said softly and sorrowfully, +“Mother, it is I who am driving you far away from here.”</p> + +<p>She was startled by his abrupt beginning,—although in truth it exactly +harmonized with her thoughts,—and touched by the sadness of his voice, +she looked<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268">{268}</a></span> up in his face and said hurriedly—“I go with Robert, it is +right I should. Oh! Everard, you do not consider Robert.”</p> + +<p>“Not consider him, Mother?”</p> + +<p>“I mean,” she continued, agitated by the tone in which he spoke, “that +you do not, that you cannot understand....” she broke off then began +again. “It is a great change to Robert—he should not be left alone to +bear it. It is right I should give myself to him.”</p> + +<p>“Mother,” he began seriously after a short silence, “if it were only the +pain your resolution gives to me, I would not say one word. I know +Robert should be considered first, and I know it is no grief to you to +give up all for him. But is it for his good. Mother?” he continued, +stooping forward agitatedly and grasping her hands; “there were some +words, do you remember them, of guardianship for <i>all</i>.... I cannot +forget<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269">{269}</a></span> them; they are a charge upon me—I must do what I can to fulfil +them; will you hear me?”</p> + +<p>“Say what you wish, Everard,” she replied gently, while tears fell down +her cheeks. “I am listening.”</p> + +<p>“Would it be for Robert’s good, Mother? What you wish for him is it not +that he should be strong. Would it not be best for him, that now when +his resolutions are fresh and firm, he should learn to resist +temptation, to stand alone, to <i>be</i> strong. It is not his will that goes +astray, Mother, we all know that, but his weakness. It seems as if now +was the moment that never may come again, when he may learn to resist. +It is strange of me, his brother, to speak of him as I do, but, dear +Mother, I am compelled to do it.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour made no reply. Her conscience quick to feel, acknowledged +that what he said was true. It was not in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270">{270}</a></span> atmosphere of such love +as she gave him, misjudging, idolizing love, that he would learn +strength. What Everard did not say she felt, and yet was silent.</p> + +<p>“And Hope, Mother,” he continued after a moment. “Should you not think +of her? If you go, she cannot stay with me, and yet, after all that has +passed, would it not be best, would it not be most right both for her, +and for Robert, that for a time they should he apart? Dear Mother, I may +seem to take too much upon myself, but I speak only because I feel I +<i>must</i>.”</p> + +<p>His look, his tone, were so like his father’s, his care and forethought +were so like to his, that Mrs. Vavasour could hardly resist him.</p> + +<p>She was about to promise further thought on the subject; but before the +words were spoken, Robert passed under the window at a little distance; +walking, as he often did of late, with crossed arms and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271">{271}</a></span> eyes bent upon +the ground. The old feelings, the jealous pangs, returned anew at the +sight, and the relenting words were withheld.</p> + +<p>Yet, unwilling to wound him by an obstinate refusal, she considered for +a moment, and then turning to him gravely said, “Everard, trust me, it +is best as it is. What must come soon had better come at once. You will +marry and then....”</p> + +<p>“Marry, Mother!” he exclaimed quickly, and passionately, “no, Mother, I +am not likely to marry.”</p> + +<p>“But why, Everard?” she asked, looking up in some surprise in his +flushed face, “Robert says....”</p> + +<p>“There is nothing to be said. I am <i>not</i> going to marry. When I do,” he +added after a moment, suddenly recovering himself and speaking calmly, +“you shall hear of it in time. In time to leave me, Mother, in time to +find another home, since you think<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272">{272}</a></span> my home....” Tears of wounded +feeling sprang into his eyes and his voice faltered.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour was touched and grieved. She felt she had excused herself +unworthily. In the impulse of the moment she said, “I will stay with +you, Everard,” and she stretched out her hand to him. But it was hardly +given before it was withdrawn, and as if the effort had been too great, +she dropped her head in her hands and burst into passionate tears.</p> + +<p>Everard sprang up as if beside himself. “Oh! Mother, am I indeed so +hateful to you?”</p> + +<p>“No, Everard, no; dear Everard, no;” she replied endeavouring to compose +herself, “it is not that; <i>but</i> I cannot ... forgive me, but I cannot +submit to <i>his</i> will.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Mother,” he cried in passionate sorrow, “only tell me what I shall +do. <i>Can</i><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273">{273}</a></span> I do otherwise, Mother? I put it in your hands; only tell me. +<i>Can</i> I disobey? Do you command me, and to you I submit.” He knelt +beside her, and forcibly drew her hands from her face.</p> + +<p>She became calm when she saw her son’s excessive agitation, but she had +no words with which to compose him. Her husband’s will had broken her +heart and made her soul rebel, but <i>he</i> was loved as passionately as +ever, and not for worlds would she have commanded or even desired a +resistance to it. She parted Everard’s hair, and kindly, almost +tenderly, kissed his brow, but in answer to his appeal only shook her +head.</p> + +<p>“I make you wretched, mother,” he said mournfully, “but not so wretched +as I make myself. You feel for Robert, you should also feel for me.”</p> + +<p>“I do,” she replied faintly, and for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274">{274}</a></span> the first time there was a dim +consciousness of what it cost him to act as he did.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour’s change of intention was received both by Hope and Robert +with satisfaction. Hope’s views regarding the advantages of independence +for Robert,—at this moment when, if ever, his roused feeling would give +him strength, and teach him to resist,—coincided exactly with those of +Everard. She had long begun to be aware that there was a something +enervating in Mrs. Vavasour’s love for her son, that in spite of her own +pure and high motives and character, a something warped in her judgment +when she considered Robert’s failings; and she was of opinion that it +was best at this time at least that he should once again face life +alone. That it was a relief to Robert was also evident, and the reason +of that relief, was very plain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275">{275}</a></span></p> + +<p>Everard had perceived already that since the first excitement of sorrow +had passed, Robert had never been perfectly easy in Hope’s presence; and +that although careful not to wound her, he by many indirect ways +endeavoured to avoid being alone with her. So far therefore he was +strengthened in his opinion, and comforted in having enforced it. Yet as +the time of Robert’s departure drew near, when he saw his mother’s +grief, and thought of Robert going alone into his new and strange life, +his mental suffering was more than he could bear. Nor was the day of +departure in any way calculated to soothe his troubled spirit.</p> + +<p>It was a day of unspeakable bitterness to all; but it could be to none +what it was to him. Not only the sorrow <i>in</i> the house, not only the +sight of his mother’s wild grief, and Robert’s passionate +farewell—there was more to bear. The whole tenantry assembled to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276">{276}</a></span> see +him go; the whole household of weeping servants surrounded his chaise; +all pressed round him, as if with him their very life departed; and +Everard stood in silence, and felt as if it were written with a dagger’s +point on his heart, “And I the cause.”</p> + +<p>Robert came from his mother’s room in an excitement of grief he could +not restrain. He walked by Hope’s side, and in the hall stopped to +embrace her. “Hope,” he said passionately, “I am unworthy to ask it, but +pray for me night and day that I may redeem the past.”</p> + +<p>“I will, Robert,” was all she said; while a deep glow overspread her +face, and she drew back.</p> + +<p>He went on and came in sight of the thronged court yard; Everard was +standing, at the door calm, but pale as death.</p> + +<p>“This is bitter,” he muttered, and grasping Everard’s hand for an +instant, he sprang<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277">{277}</a></span> rapidly down the steps, and threw himself into the +chaise.</p> + +<p>There was no definite noise, but a subdued sound of sobs and murmurs +rose on every side—and so the chaise drove off.</p> + +<p>Everard re-entered the hall. A deadly sorrow was upon him that chilled +his very soul. Hope was still standing, gazing from a window, but at the +sight of him, her thoughts changed from the one that was gone, to the +one that was left.</p> + +<p>She came up to him. “Everard you look wretched,” she said kindly and +pitifully.</p> + +<p>“It is bitter,” he murmured, as if the echo of Robert’s words was +ringing in his heart.</p> + +<p>“Bitter now, but not hereafter. Oh! Everard, it will be your happy part +to save him.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her as if endeavouring to take her comfort into his soul; +but though<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278">{278}</a></span> it passed faintly over the surface the dead cold chill +remained beneath.</p> + +<p>He turned from her and fetching his hat, went and sat for hours by his +father’s grave. If comfort was at that moment to be gathered it was +there alone.</p> + +<p class="fint">END OF VOL. II.<br><br> +<small>London, Godfrey & Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand.</small></p> + +<hr class="full"> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79389 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/79389-h/images/cover.jpg b/79389-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e515b12 --- /dev/null +++ b/79389-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d1500d4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1 @@ +[Project Gutenberg](https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook [#79389](https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79389) |
