Yet fall
What will, or can, Love makes amends for all.
C. HERVEY.
It was after Mr. Gresham’s departure, and the last day of the year, that
the young groom once before-mentioned among the servants at Audley Court
stood up in his place at dinner, and announced to his fellow servants
this piece of intelligence: “that the time was come for him to inform
them that he had made up his mind to call Mr. Everard his master, and
to give him his due.”
The announcement was received with “Hear, hear,” from Harrison the
butler, and a thump on the table and “well done,” from old Roger. And
the two audible expressions of satisfaction, only conveyed the
sentiments of the rest. Everard had already won from his servants an
honour almost equal to that given to his father; but so long as the
young groom stood out in dignified obstinence, a dread of being looked
on as time-servers had withheld them from any strong expressions of
regard.
When the first buzz of satisfaction died away, Harrison, somewhat
formally, begged to know the reasons on which Thomas grounded his change
of opinion.
“I said to myself, I’d see,” was the reply, “and I have see’d. I said I
would be in no hurry, and I hav’nt been in no hurry. I said, I would do
it if it was just, and now I say it is just; and I’ll tell you the
reason why. I said to myself, if Mr. Everard goes and marries that young
lady over there, and makes a great lord of himself, with ever so many
millions of gold, and tries to cut out poor Mr. Robert every way, then
I’ll have nothing to say to him, nor call him Mr. Vavasour, not if I’m
put in the stocks for it; and I wouldn’t. But now I see what I see, and
I know what I know, and I see no love of money in him, and so I say it’s
just to give him his due, and I’ll do it if all the world goes against
me.”
“Hear, hear,” said Harrison again.
“That’s true, Thomas,” replied Betsey, “but I do wish Mr. Everard was
married, poor dear! that I do. He wants comforting. Miss Linton is fond
of him now, and does as much good as she can, poor dear, but neither
she nor my poor missus have eyes for him, where Mr. Robert’s in the way;
and I think he feels it. That’s what I think.”
“All in good time, Betsey,” said Harrison solemnly; “the poet says, the
funeral bake-meats are no fit ornaments to furnish out the marriage
table.”
“No sure,” she replied sadly.
“Miss Gresham’s uncommon fond of Mr. Everard, our Mr. Vavasour,”
observed Roger with great simplicity.
This speech was received with a shout of laughter from most of the
servants, and with “oh, fie Roger!” from Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Vavasour’s
maid.
“Why, there’s no harm,” he said, looking round bewildered. “Bless her
pretty face, I see it as plain as I see my wig in this pewter plate
here.”
“Poor dear!” exclaimed Betsey with a sigh.
“Be that as it may,” said the young groom, “it’s no business of ours.
Mr. Everard, or Mr. Vavasour, as I mean to call him from henceforth,
won’t have anything to say to her, beyond what a neighbourly gentleman
should. And that’s what shows he has an honourable mind; and that he
don’t mean to cut poor Mr. Robert out. I know his thoughts as well as I
know my own; and that’s what I should do in his place, and so I’ll give
him his due from henceforward, let who will go against it. And so here’s
his health and a happy new year to him.”
The toast was drunk with enthusiasm, and could the echoes of the country
voices have been carried to Everard’s ears, they might have cheered a
heart which stood in need of cheering; for Christmas had brought Robert
back, and with his return, had returned all the most painful feelings
attending Everard’s new position.
Robert came for a visit of three weeks.
He was well in health, and though, perhaps, in a degree more thoughtful
than he had ever seemed in his life before, he still was the same
Robert, with his wonderful charm and animation, casting gladness about
him, none knew how, without effort, as without consciousness. To his
mother he was loving as ever, and to cheer her seemed the one object on
which he was bent. By his endeavours Mrs. Vavasour was won to smile
occasionally, and to take some interest in what was passing around her.
That which Hope and Everard had utterly failed to do, Robert did in one
week.
In one respect, however, Robert’s efforts failed like the others; and
that was in his attempt to win her from her seclusion. On his first
arrival he had implored her to come amongst them for his sake, in terms
so fond and endearing, that it seemed strange his adoring mother should
withstand him; but she did withstand. She wept bitterly in refusing his
request, but no consent was won.
It gave him pain at first, on her account it gave him more pain
afterwards, for before the three weeks had expired he saw plainly why it
was she hid herself from their eyes. Her intercourse with Everard was
constant and kindly, but it was cold. To her _he_ devoted time and
thought, and care and affection, but he could make no progress in
healing the wound his advancement had caused. His excellence of nature
she had always owned, she owned it now and trusted to it; but that very
excellence had injured her darling, and she could not love it. She was a
poor unhappy woman, who found that that passion she had cherished with
too much idolatry, had become her tormentor.
To his position in the house Robert accommodated himself apparently
without pain, certainly without effort; but he perceived that that
which he could, his mother could not do. She could not see Everard
master and Robert nothing. He saw this plainly, and he saw that Everard
understood it also; and he could well imagine that a part of that
gravity which unceasingly sate upon his brow, was caused by his mother’s
conduct.
He attempted no change until the conclusion of his visit, but the day
before his departure he made it a last request to Mrs. Vavasour that she
would leave her rooms, and give her children the happiness of living
with them once more. “I ask it, Mother,” he concluded, “for Everard’s
sake.”
“I cannot,” she said, quickly. “Do not ask it yet, dear Robert. I will
do it when I can.”
“If not for Everard’s sake, Mother, I ask it for mine. I don’t know how
_you_ bear it, but it is to _me_ a perpetual grief to see his face. You
surely see he looks unhappy.”
“Yes, perhaps,” she allowed, “but there are many reasons for that. You
know there are reasons for that....” She stopt with tears raining from
her eyes.
“Yes, Mother,” Robert said, tenderly, “I know; I know there are many
causes, but still there is a something beyond these, and I think you
cause it. Dear Mother, how you used to scold me, if I hurt a worm, or a
poor little tortured bird, and does it now give you no pain to torture
your own son.”
“Oh! Robert,” she exclaimed, “what would you have me do?”
“I would have you love and honour him, Mother, by every means in your
power, and be proud of having such a son; for if ever a man has
sacrificed happiness to his duty, I think Everard has. Do you suppose
it was not torture to him to take my place as he did; but could he do
otherwise? I ask you, Mother, could he have done otherwise? And dear
Mother,” he continued, winding his arms round her, “I want you to own
more than this. I want you to own that my father was right, for has he
not set over his people a son like himself, and has he not, so far as
man can yet see, saved me from destruction. If I had been rich and idle,
I am very sure, even with my best resolutions, there was no hope for me.
Dear Mother, if Everard has saved me, will you not give him your
blessing for that?”
She did consent. She could not but have consented; but Robert’s words
told both ways; for the more his generous nature shone out the more she
felt the injury he had received; and though with her body she did
endeavour to do Everard honour, she could not force the feelings of her
heart. _They_ held out against her husband’s will, strong and
rebellious, and while they rebelled she could not but be miserable.
When Robert spoke of himself as saved from destruction, it was not that
he seemed in any way confident of his persistence in well doing. There
had been one occasion on which disappointment had been bitterly felt.
When on Christmas-day Everard and his mother and Hope knelt at the
altar, Robert was absent. He had left the Church with a flushed cheek
and reluctant step; but though reluctant still had left it.
Not reproaching, not urging, Mr. Addison simply asked him the reason
why.
“Because I am not sure I am in a fit state,” he replied, gravely.
“I think you are, dear Robert, as far as man can judge. Are you not
leading a new life, and sincerely purposing to continue to lead it?”
“I am not sure,” he said, in the same tone. “I am not at all sure of my
sincerity, or else I would do what I know I ought.”
On an inquiry from Mr. Addison as to his meaning, he said, “he must have
more time. What he had hitherto done had been from remorse, and now that
that was beginning to lose its power, he was not at all sure of
himself.”
In this he persisted; he was evidently really distrustful, and his
distrust left some anxiety in Mr. Addison’s mind.
After his departure, Everard inquired one day of Mr. Addison, if he was
not perfectly happy about him.
“Happy, yes, Everard,” was the reply, “very happy at what has been done.
But we must have patience.”
Everard looked annoyed. Very young people do not much like that word
patience. To them it implies more of care than hope.
“You are angry because I do not speak with perfect confidence,” Mr.
Addison said with a slight smile, “but, Everard, there is no wisdom in
over-confidence. I only fear as Robert fears himself, because time has
not sufficiently proved his strength.”
“I can conceive of no reason but one,” Everard said, with some
vehemence, “for having a single fear; and in that _I_ think Robert was
right. I do not like people to be over rash in such solemn things. In
every way he seems to me perfect.”
“You make more of the word fear, Everard, than I intend,” Mr. Addison
said kindly; “all I feel is, that poor Robert’s nature is very weak, and
his temptations unusually strong ones. One day’s temptation, while his
principles and habits are new, might mislead him again. For him and for
ourselves it is always wisest to face the truth. It has not been
uncommon for one in his position to be disheartened by the very
confidence and over expectations of his friends.”
Everard said no more, but after a short pause proceeded to speak on a
subject which occupied much of his thoughts, and which, perhaps, was the
cause of his annoyance, in the qualified opinion of Mr. Addison. This
subject was the relations of Robert and Hope.
To Hope alone his return had brought no increase of _personal_
happiness, but rather the reverse. During his last stay, with whatever
difficulty it was accomplished, he had managed to keep up the old
intimacy; but on this occasion the tie was altogether broken; and though
forced to be constantly in her society, reserve and constraint had
grown up between them. No more confidence from Robert, no more help, no
more advice from Hope.
Everard watched them both intently, and he could see what Hope evidently
could not see, that Robert’s thoughts were seldom absent from her; and
he put his own interpretation on his brother’s constraint.
It was on this subject that he now spoke to Mr. Addison, and asked his
advice as to whether or no he might write to Robert and say what he
felt.
“No, Everard, wait,” was Mr. Addison’s earnest reply. “Do not be over
hasty. Reformation is of slow growth, not in the outward, perhaps, but
in the inward man. Robert has been during the past months under the
influence of excited feelings. Excitement dies; wait and see whether
reformation grows when excitement is past. I see I give you pain. You
are in too much haste to make others happy; but wait. It is a hard
lesson, perhaps, but a wise man must learn it.”
Everard smiled, and said, “I will take your advice to-day; reluctantly,
I confess, but I will take it.”
And he did wait.
But when Easter brought Robert a second time, not only unchanged, but
with all the best and highest parts of his nature shining in his face
and flowing forth in his life and conversation, Everard felt that he
read him most truly who trusted him most entirely; and that it was more
for his welfare to help him on to happiness, than to leave him longer to
struggle alone.
One morning in May he said to Hope as she was leaving the
breakfast-room, “I want to speak to you, Hope. I have some letters I
want you to read. Shall I find you in the library about twelve?” There
was seriousness more than usual in his manner.
“Oh! Everard,” she cried turning back, “not about Robert?”
“Are you distrustful, Hope?” he said reproachfully, “I did not expect
that from you.”
A flush of regret flitted over her cheek, but she did not justify
herself.
“It _is_ about Robert,” he continued quickly. “I want your.... your
assistance and advice. Nothing I hope that will distress you.” And he
left the room without saying more.
When he returned he had a number of letters in his hand. He found her
awaiting him with evident anxiety, but as evidently without any
suspicion of what he had to say. He came and stood by the fire with the
letters in his hand, and said, “Last year, Hope, I believe you were of
my opinion, when there was a question about my mother’s going to live
with Robert. I think you agreed with me that it was best at that time,
that he should try his strength alone.”
“Yes I certainly did,” she said, “and I think, Everard, that time has
proved you were right.”
“I hope there is no doubt about that, dear Hope. But _now_ things are
different. It seems to me now a very great question whether Robert would
not be better with a home. It is on that subject I want your advice.” He
paused and looked at her. “What do you think, Hope?”
“Perhaps you are right again,” she said after a little thought. “I had
been so happy to see him as he is, that I had not begun to consider
about a change. But I did hear him say the other day that he was
sometimes dreary of an evening, an yet did not feel to care for Mr.
Perceval’s company.”
“So did I, Hope; that made me think a great deal about it.”
“Has Aunt Joan decided? Have you talked to her, Everard?”
“Yes, but I do not think she will go.” He paused again, then looking at
her with a furtive smile,” he said, “Will you go to him, Hope?”
“Me,” she cried turning deadly pale and clasping her hands together.
“Oh! Everard.”
“My dearest Hope,” he said, stooping towards her tenderly, “have I
startled you? I did not mean to do it; but there it is; will you be
Robert’s wife? He dares not ask you himself, and so I must do it. And
Hope,” he continued seriously, laying his hand on hers, “remember that I
have been made your guardian, and trust me that I would ask nothing but
what your own father and my father, could they have been here to act for
you, would have approved. There,” he added quickly, for he saw her
agitation was very great, “read these, and I will come back again
presently,” and he hastily left the room and left her to herself.
The correspondence was arranged according to their dates. The first
letter was from Everard to Robert, asking his opinion as to the
desireableness of his having a home in London. He told him plainly the
reasons which had made him oppose it the year before, dwelling
especially on that reason which regarded Hope. He said he had fancied
that Robert was not at his ease in her presence, and that he had thought
it most right to save Hope from the pain of altered circumstances as far
as was possible. But now he concluded, he no longer felt the same, and
he would be glad to know Robert’s wishes.
The style of the correspondence was according to the usual manner of the
two brothers very simple and concise, not a word more than was
necessary.
Robert in his answer thanked Everard, but said he preferred that no
change should be made. Not he said that there were not times when he
longed to have a home, but the reasons against it were stronger than his
wishes. “These reasons are chiefly two,” he concluded. “First, I am
quite as sure as ever that my mother would be miserable cooped up in
London; and secondly, I really cannot undertake to live constantly with
Hope, as I used to do. I know that I must not think of marriage for some
years to come, and therefore, I had better not be tempted to think of
it. You perhaps may think me very weak, but some people cannot help
saying what is in their minds, and I find it hard work as it is.”
Everard’s answer to this was to say, that he supposed he understood that
Robert alluded to money matters, when he said he could not marry, and he
was anxious to show him, that provided he could be content to begin
moderately, he thought that question might he satisfactorily arranged.
He then reminded him, that Hope had been left to his guardianship, and
asked him if he could doubt, that in the event of her marriage with any
other person, his father would not have provided for her like his own
daughter. He therefore proposed, he said, to give her £10,000, which,
with what Robert had, would enable them to begin with £1000 a year, or
rather more. Would Robert be content with this? he asked.
A very serious reply was returned, thanking Everard for his care and
interest, but reminding him of his father’s constantly expressed desire
that the property should never be weakened by over charges.
“I know that I, who have done so much to charge it, have no right to
speak on this point, but I must remind you of it, lest your desire for
my happiness should tempt you to forget.” This was the conclusion of the
letter.
There was yet another answer from Everard, laying before Robert a full
statement of the present condition of the property. This statement
showed the care and judgment which Everard had exhibited in the
management, for it proved, that, notwithstanding the new charges, the
condition was hopeful and flourishing. He directed his attention
especially to one fact, which he said, enabled him with a clear
conscience to make new charges. This was the paying off an old mortgage
at a very high rate of interest by a sum borrowed at a lesser rate. As
the mortgage was large, this had made a considerable difference in the
yearly receipts.
Robert now changed his ground, and wrote a somewhat passionate and
excited letter on the subject of his unworthiness of Hope. “That she
loves me,” he said, “I will not even pretend to doubt. I know that angel
cannot change, but that she would marry me, I do very much doubt, and
still more do I doubt my right to ask it. I do not speak of how I have
treated her, for I do believe she would forgive that as she forgives
everything; but think of my past life and hers, and ask yourself if it
is fit that two such contrasts should be joined together. I dare not
think of it, and am inclined to wonder, that you, her guardian, should
propose it, especially, as whatever I may _intend_, promise and vow I
dare not.”
There was more, and forcibly put, and by the dates of the letters it
was evident that Everard had not replied to it in haste. There was
nearly a week between them. This was the reply, when it came.
“My dear Robert,
“For many days I have been thinking of your letter. You put my duty
towards Hope, in a stronger light than I had yet considered it, and
I would not answer till I had thought it over in every point of
view. I am sure I do not wonder at your feelings, and though it is
hardly for me to say so to you, I can assure you, it is not because
I think lightly of your objections, that I still hold to my wishes.
But there are other points of view in which the case may be
considered. The past is your own consideration, the future is what
I have to do with, and for that I do trust you. One who has behaved
as you have done to me, shows a nature too noble and generous not
to be safely trusted with the care and happiness, even of one like
Hope. So far, therefore, as my consent is needed, you have it.
“Not for worlds, however, would I press you further, and if you
feel you cannot undertake the trust, this shall be the last I will
say on the subject. I shall be disappointed, but that is not a
matter of importance. Shall you think of coming down and talking to
her?
“Always, dear Robert,
“Yours affectionately,
“EVERARD VAVASOUR.”
There was a pause of four days more, and then this answer.
“My dear Everard,
“If you can trust me, that is more to the purpose than my own
feelings. You would not unless you saw good reason, and that gives
me confidence. I put myself in your hands. Speak for me to Hope.
Tell her I dare not ask it--tell her what I feel when I think of
her as my wife. Yet tell her that with her love and prayers I do
trust I may yet be more worthy of her. You must tell me how she
looks. If she can bear to think of it, I will come and speak for
myself.
“Yours affectionately,
“ROBERT VAVASOUR.”
So ended the correspondence.
* * * * *
Hope was still sitting with the letters in her hand when Everard
returned, and as she did not seem to observe him, he took a book and sat
down at a distance in silence.
It was some time longer before a slight movement roused her to a sense
of her abstraction. When he saw she observed him, he got up and went
towards her.
“Have you considered, dear Hope?” he enquired, not with a smile, for he
saw that grave thoughts had occupied her, and were now painted on her
pale cheek.
She looked up in his face with an expression of confidence that touched
him to the heart.
“Like Robert, dear Everard,” she said, “I put myself in your hands. I
trust you when I could not dare to trust myself,” and she put both her
hands in his as she said the words.
“I think you may trust me,” he said, stooping and kissing her brow, with
a something fatherly in his manner, that sat upon him with singular
grace. “We all may be mistaken, but I do believe that Robert is now
worthy of your love. If I did not, no thought for his happiness could
have led me to wish for this marriage. Your happiness was too sacred a
trust. Dear Hope, are you happy now?”
“Yes, too happy,” she said, and tears shone in her eyes.
“Then all is well, and God bless you, for you have made _me_ happy!” and
his face did look for the moment as if the weight of care that oppressed
it, was lifted and gone.
* * * * *
As the course of this love now ran smoothly it needs but a few more
words. The marriage took place in the following month of June. Before
that time Everard went with Robert to London to make some arrangements,
and to find a house. A small, but pretty one was chosen near the Green
Park. Its cost was beyond what was justified by Robert’s circumstances,
but Everard insisted on supplying the _unjustified_ part of the sum,
and, as was now felt by all, when Everard insisted he had his way. His
argument was that Hope was unaccustomed to London and must have fresh
air; and to this Robert submitted.
“I submit,” he said, laughing, “because I can’t help it, and because I
think it gives you pleasure, and because....” He paused and looked into
his brother’s face to see if he might venture. He certainly saw no
invitation to venture, yet he proceeded, “because I hope you will soon
have so much money, you will not know what to do with it.”
There was no answer to this, it had only the effect of restoring the
grave look which was beginning to be shaken off.
The marriage was celebrated with great privacy. This was partly in order
to induce Mrs. Vavasour to attend, and partly according to a well known
opinion of Robert’s. “I don’t like to see a woman stared at,” he had
often said, “on her wedding day more than any other day, and my wife
never shall,” and he kept his word. Nevertheless, he requested Hope to
dress herself with as much care as if there were to be a thousand
spectators, and she in whose eyes everything was sanctified that could
give pleasure to him, woke up her slumbering taste and did her utmost to
gratify him.
When she came down in her bridal dress before they set off for the
church, he seemed to feel what she was, almost beyond what he had ever
felt before, and stood gazing at her in a kind of transport, as serious
as it was full of love and admiration. “My dear Hope,” he said at last,
with sadness in his voice, “how you make me ashamed. What have I ever
done that I should have an angel to bear me company?”
Everard and his mother stood at the door to see them take their
departure, when--after the ceremony was over, and they had returned to
Audley Court for Hope to change her dress,--they set out on their way.
Hope’s last word was to Everard. She came to him and put her hand in
his, looking with grateful affection into his face. “It is to you we owe
it all, dear Everard,” she said in her sweet tremulous voice. “You have
saved him, and made me happy. God bless you for it.”
And Robert’s voice murmured something of the same import as he shook his
hand, and followed her.
Everard’s heart swelled and tears were in his eyes. He stood watching
them in deep thought.
When the last sound of the wheels was heard, he was roused by a hand
laid gently on his arm. He turned round. His mother was there looking up
at him, with such a look of love as had often been Robert’s portion but
never his, till this moment. She smiled almost playfully and said, “Can
you be content, Everard, with an old mother for your company.”
More than a thousand repentant protestations were contained in those
simple words; Everard was loved at last, and he felt it. He kissed her
with an emotion which, in its warmth and freedom, reacted upon her, and
the chains of many years’ binding, fell off and left them free.
Robert’s marriage had had the effect of rousing Mrs. Vavasour from the
cloud in which her grief had wrapt her. The thought of the new home of
her darling had won her to look into that future over which so dark a
mist had been brooding, and she found there hope and comfort. Once
aroused she saw her duties more clearly, the shadow fell away, and she
found strength for what yet was left in life for her to do. And when the
shadow departed she saw Everard as he was. She saw what Hope and Robert
felt towards him, the trust they reposed in him, the reverence with
which they regarded him; no longer unwilling she allowed them to speak,
and they told her of all his ways, and all his acts of generous
kindness; of the affection he was winning from his people, of the regard
and estimation of all--she heard and pondered it in her heart, and thus
a change came.
It seemed a strange thing to Everard, that that action, which had cost
him such agony of spirit, which in its beginning had seemed to produce
only hate, should in the end win for him the thing his soul longed for
with feverish longing. He who had been nothing was now all. _The_ one on
whom all seemed to hang for affection, help, and guidance, the one on
whom warm words of grateful love were for ever falling, making his heart
beat and his eyes dim with tears. It was very strange to him, and being
more inclined to humility than to pride, he felt humbled in the
possession of the blessing, which, when absent, he had almost thought he
deserved.
But though a strange thing in Everard’s eyes, it is no uncommon thing in
the ways of the world. The rough path of a hard duty, or that which
looks like a duty to sincere eyes, sometimes becomes strangely smooth,
when the steps are steadfastly set to walk along it; and many a low
valley long despised in men’s eyes, becoming fertile through the dews of
Heaven, draws to itself the gaze which it seemed unwilling to meet, and
in due time is exalted.
As Everard and his mother re-entered her sitting-room after Robert’s
departure, she again laid her hand on his arm, and said,
“Dear Everard, do you never mean to be as happy as Robert is?”
And, again, a shadow fell over his face, and he said, “The future is a
dark place, Mother, who can tell what is hid in it.”
“Do not some make it darker than it need be?” she asked again.
He silently shook his head, and the subject dropped.