... Mercy which had seem’d
A gift reserved to God, was mine to grant.
So love flowed on me from a thousand springs
And pour’d itself around me like a flood.
_The Eve of the Conquest._
In the July of the following year a son was born to Hope and Robert.
The event took place in obedience to Everard’s earnest request at Audley
Court. Supposing this request to be made out of care and thought for
Hope’s bodily comfort, and unwilling to refuse one to whom he owed so
much, Robert acquiesced, but he wondered the request had ever been
made, and he owned to Hope that he had never more reluctantly agreed to
any petition. Since his marriage, his feelings in regard to the past,
had acquired, perhaps naturally, a keenness they had not exhibited
before. To Everard, however, no reluctance was shown; to Audley Court,
Robert brought his wife, and there their child was born.
On the evening of the day of his birth, Robert and Everard sat alone in
the drawing-room, for Mrs. Vavasour, tearful, trembling, and excited,
could not be torn from the cradle of the new-born child, and seemed
about to lavish on Robert’s son, all that adoring love with which she
had cherished him.
Both brothers were thoughtful, and both, as once before they had done,
armed themselves with books for the better indulgence of their
thoughts.
From his seat at a distance, Everard stealthily watched Robert. Robert’s
excitable feelings had been much touched during the day, and the ardent
and devoted affection he felt for his wife had been fully manifested.
When his son was born, he had seemed for a time transported with joy,
but now a shade of thought had gathered over his face, and more than
once he pushed his hair from his brow, as if there was a weight he
desired to remove. This thoughtful expression was no longer a rare one,
and if to his uncommon beauty an added charm had been wanted, it was now
given. The play of countenance was more varied, the softness more
intense, the animation more sparkling.
At last, Everard laid down his book on his knee, and said gravely, “I
should think Robert it was a very responsible thing to feel _a
father_.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Robert spoke hastily, almost sharply; as if to
have done with it.
Everard took up his book and said no more. He was very sensitive,--for a
man too sensitive--to a rebuff, yet it was not altogether wounded
feelings which called a shadow to his brow.
Robert looked at him two or three times uneasily, and then tossed down
his own book and said, “Now for it, Everard. I did not feel quite up to
a lecture just then, but I am ready now. Go on, you are quite right
about fathers, and I shall be glad to hear what you have to say.”
“But I am sure I am not prepared to speak,” Everard said laughing. “I
have never turned my thoughts at all in the direction of a father’s
duties.”
“Then what did you mean to say?”
“A thought that struck me, nothing more. I thought it must be a strange
feeling to feel a father, to have a creature all one’s own, to guide and
influence; that was all.”
“Not quite all, Everard! you wished me to say _I_ felt it also!”
Everard coloured, but then replied with a smile, “Yes, Robert, I believe
that is the truth, since you will have it. I am sure I did not say it
lecturingly, for what on earth have I to do with lecturing on a father’s
feelings, but I think I hoped you would say ‘yes.’”
“I can say thus much,” Robert replied, with feeling. “If with a wife
like mine, and now a child dependent on me, I do not keep in the right
way, I shall be the greatest villain on this earth. I hope, I trust, too
great a villain for me to be, or indeed to have ever been. Are you
satisfied?”
Everard nodded his head and then asked carelessly, “Have you thought of
the name, yet?”
“No,” Robert replied, and so the conversation dropped.
Hope’s recovery though satisfactory was slow. It was a good thing, the
doctor observed to Robert, that she was brought into the country; and
Robert repeated the observation to Everard, and thanked him for having
insisted on it.
“Come and look at the little creature to-day,” he added, as he stood
with his brother on the stairs. “I hate babies, and I dare say you do,
but this is rather different from babies in general; it has got on a
smart cap to-day, and altogether, I must say, it is rather a pretty
thing.”
Robert’s pride in his little son was very great; though remembering his
old antipathy to babies, he was half ashamed to shew it. He now
conducted his brother into the room where it was lying. It had been laid
down outside its bassinet and a young girl was watching it while the
nurse was absent. Robert despatched the girl on a message, and said he
would stay till she came back.
The child was now nearly a month old, and in its fair innocent face as
it slept, it was not difficult to see a likeness to its mother. It might
have made a pretty picture to see the two tall men bending over the
little cradle.
“It is not so bad, is it, Everard?” Robert said, a touching expression
of fatherly fondness shining in his handsome face.
“I think it is very pretty,” was Everard’s reply; after a moment, he
added gravely, “Robert, I think we must have a celebration of its birth.
The first heir, you know.”
“No, no,” Robert said, and a crimson flush overspread his cheeks. “No,
no,” he added in a low voice. “No mockery, poor little thing.”
The girl returned, and the brothers left the room; Robert walking fast
as if to escape from Everard; but Everard pursued him.
“Robert,” he said, as they entered the library together, “I meant what I
said. Your child is the heir. You must not forbid me to celebrate his
birth.”
“Poor child,” Robert said with a painful smile, “a mockery of an heir.
No,” he added, with some vehemence, “I will not consent to it.”
“And why a mockery of an heir? Can you suppose I should mock your
child?”
Robert looked up in his brother’s grave face. “Everard,” he asked
quickly, and with agitation, “what do you mean? You cannot intend to
live single because of this, and if you have a son....”
“He shall never suffer the torture his father has suffered,” Everard
passionately said.
There was a silence, and then Robert repeated, “I cannot consent to it.”
“You must,” he replied, with that stubborn decision against which it was
idle to rebel.
“Tell me this,” Robert asked, impatiently, “don’t you mean to marry?”
“Whether I marry or not,--which is an act that concerns only myself, and
about which I do not wish to speak,--my decision is unalterably made;
your child shall be the heir.”
“You are determined to humble me,” Robert said, standing before the
empty fire-place, and leaning his head against the marble.
“Never, dear Robert; but only determined to fulfil what I am certain was
my father’s will. Let us say no more, only tell me in one word that you
consent to my wish.”
As no dissent came, Everard left the room, and the subject was not
raised again. Robert repeated nothing of what had passed even to his
wife; and regarding the coming celebration, Everard only said to his
mother that when Hope was well, and the child christened, he should give
a dinner to the tenantry.
“Will Robert like it?” she asked anxiously.
“He consents,” was Everard’s reply, and she said no more. Yet there was
a grave look in both brother’s faces that made her anxious she scarcely
knew why.
It was the middle of August before Everard could perform his
intentions. As soon as he saw that Hope was well enough to hear the
fatigue, he named the day, and then quietly made his preparations,
saying little to any one. It was only two days before the festivities
took place that his mother discovered how much was going to be done, and
on discovering it, shewed some reluctance to be present. But Everard’s
request was too earnest to allow of resistance, and at length she gave
way.
He then said, “I wrote this morning to invite Mr. and Miss Gresham, and
they accept. Dear mother, you will not mind, will you? they are not
strangers.”
“No, Everard,” she replied, looking in his face enquiringly, “and I only
wish they were somewhat less of strangers to us.”
He coloured, but made no reply.
In the middle of August the weather is generally fine, and it was fine
now on the day for which fine weather was much required.
It is not intended here to dwell on the festivities that took place. To
one portion of them alone attention is requested.
On a piece of lawn-like ground close to the house, a long table was
spread, for the principal tenantry and tradespeople of the Vavasour
family to receive their portion of good cheer on this day of rejoicing.
They dined with much pleasure and comfort to themselves, and when dinner
was over Everard requested them to remain seated, as he had a health to
give.
He had before sent to summon Hope and her child, his mother, and Mr. and
Miss Gresham, and they now appeared on the lawn. Robert and Mr. Addison
were already there.
Hope instinctively placed herself by Robert and they stood a little
apart. Mr. Gresham and Miss Price seated themselves, with Angela
standing near them, in another place. Everard took his mother’s arm and
drew her to a chair half hidden in the shade of a large tree. To please
him and Robert, and because once more appearing in the world, she had
this day laid aside her widow’s cap; and though the ravages which grief
had made, were, now that she resumed her former self, very apparent,
there was a touching beauty about her, which years and grief, though
they changed, seemed to have no power to efface. The lines
Nor spring nor summer’s beauty has such grace
As I have seen in an autumnal face,
might have been addressed to her, and so her sons felt as they looked at
her.
“Dear Mother,” Everard said, his voice slightly agitated, as he placed
her in a chair. “Forgive me, if I speak of things that must give you
pain to-day. It must be done.”
She looked up at him and her lips quivered.
“I know, dear Mother, you will feel it,” he continued, “but I _must_
have you here and it _must_ be done. So forgive me.”
She put her hand in his, and then leant back in the shade where he had
placed her.
Everard then walked to the head of the table, and in a few brief words,
proposed the health of his nephew, Richard Vavasour.
It was received with enthusiasm. Everard had long overcome the ill will
of his tenantry, was loved, blest, and trusted in by all, but there was
a soft place in every heart where Robert’s image lingered, and their
love for him burst forth, in their reception of his infant son.
“They are very kind, Everard,” Robert said, with a misty light shining
in his eyes, “must I thank them?”
Everard had retreated for a few seconds to where Robert stood, but now
said, “No. I will do that.”
And when the noise subsided he again stood at the table, and took off
his hat.
“I have taken upon myself,” he began with a smile, “to thank you all, in
the name of one who cannot thank you for himself; and I assure you your
welcome to him has given me a pleasure I shall not easily forget. There
are others here who thank you for it also, but in some respects, my
thanks are due to you more than theirs, for you have proved to me that I
shall act rightly in a decision I have made. Will you all give me your
attention for a few minutes while I speak of some events that are
passed, but not I hope forgotten by any of you.”
He paused, and the long line of eager eyes were fixed upon him, while a
silence like the repose of a death chamber followed.
“It is now more than two years,” he began again in a firm but solemn
tone, “since it pleased God to take to Himself my dear father. You all
know what followed that event. You all know for what cause I came to
stand to you, in my brother’s stead. I say I believe you know it; but
lest you should not all perfectly know, let me repeat it now. My father
loved you all, and loved the honour and virtue of his house more than
life or any earthly tie; and when he feared that one of his race, the
one on whom his honours ought to have fallen, had left that path of
strict integrity in which he and his fathers had trodden, he shewed what
most he loved, by cutting off _him_ the dearest of all, from his
natural rights; and placing _me_--in all but one respect, the love of
him and his virtues, far inferior--in my brother’s place. He thought it
his duty and it was done; but the effort broke his heart. You know the
rest. I obeyed his will. I never had disobeyed him. I could not disobey
his last request.” Everard paused again and drew a breath of relief as
if a painful task was done; and then while the same breathless silence
continued, proceeded.
“You may think it is not for a brother to dwell on a brother’s errors;
nor would they have been dwelt upon, were it not that they have since
been so nobly redeemed, that to speak of them is to honour not to
condemn. You, each and all of you, who know as I myself know how weak is
human will, can do honour to him who breaks the bonds of temptation, and
rises never to fall again. For this cause I ask of you all to honour my
brother. The time has passed when my father’s will bound me. I have
obeyed it as you all know; and had it been binding still, I would, cost
what it might, still have obeyed it; but his will points me now to
another course, and I fulfil it. I lay down the burden he laid upon me,
never, _such is my unalterable determination_, to take it again; and I
_know_ that I have his blessing on the act. I thank you all for having
borne with me during these two years--with my ignorance, and with
my--perhaps in your eyes--mistaken, sense of duty,--and I wish you all
happiness under your rightful master. I give the health of Robert
Vavasour.”
Everard withdrew from the table. Trembling and tearful his mother rose
to meet him, and came and laid her hand on his arm. They stood thus
together while cheers springing from the inmost hearts of all present,
rent the air--a noise of joy, emotion, and surprise that seemed as if
it never could cease.
When it did cease, Robert was unable to speak. Feelings, many and
strange; old recollections, present emotions, and future hopes, overcame
him; and he wept like a child. He touched his wife’s arm and murmured,
“Speak for me, Hope.”
She looked intently, first at him, and then at Everard, and then walked
steadily with her child in her arms, to the head of the table. Gentle,
modest, and retiring as she was, she made no opposition to his request;
acceding to it, and complying with it for his sake, as simply as in the
performance of her daily duties.
A faint colour went and came on her pale cheek, and at the first words
her voice was low; but it steadied as she went on, and the sweet tones
were heard, clear and distinct, to the furthest end of the table.
“My husband thanks you all; and so do I for him; and if indeed it must
be as his brother says, be sure you shall not regret the change; for his
prayer to God will be that he may follow in his and in his father’s
steps, while life is given him.”
She was moving from the table, when Mr. Addison, to whom Robert had just
spoken, approached her, and after whispering something led her back.
With a deepening glow, for this was an act not so much in Robert’s
stead, as from herself, she said, “I give Mr. Everard Vavasour’s health.
It is not for me to praise him. You all know what he is. May God bless
him.”
She drew back, and Mrs. Vavasour left Everard to hasten to her side.
Everard stood for a moment alone; and as the noise of the shouting fell
on his ear, that cheer which was for him,--a cheer the loudest and
heartiest perhaps of all, for there is no spirit so dull that cannot
feel sympathy with actions like his--a strange, an unexpected sensation
for a single instant agitated his breast; it was in the remembrance that
from those, for whom he had done so much, and into whose welfare he had
so warmly entered, he had severed himself for ever.
To escape from the unwelcome intruder he turned his head to where Angela
stood, and saw her pale, trembling, breathless, watching him. He forgot
himself, forgot spectators, and self-restraint, and approaching her with
an _abandon_ of manner, utterly unlike his usual self, and with such a
smile as never before perhaps had played on his lips, he said, “Have I
done right, Angela?”
The suddenness, the exciting circumstances of the day, this unexpected
end to her long suspense, most of all that smile, and that look from
his eyes, entirely overcame her. She turned deadly pale, and the next
moment fell flat on the grass.
Mr. Addison laid his hand on Everard’s arm, and seeing him hardly master
of himself, drew him away, reminding him of the necessity of
acknowledging the cordial reception of his health; he obeyed with a
smile of thanks, while Mr. Gresham and Mrs. Vavasour raised Angela, and
led her to the house.
“The heat of the atmosphere,” Mr. Gresham observed, as they walked
along.
But Mrs. Vavasour knew better, and as she endeavoured to restore Angela
to herself, she drew her caressingly towards her with a mother’s
affection.
“Well I never!” at length exclaimed Mrs. Allen, who with several of the
other servants stood at a distance and contemplated the scene.
“It’s the very thing I should have done myself,” said the young groom,
“only I don’t think I should ever have thought of it.”
“No, Thomas,” said Betsey, “that you wouldn’t, nor nobody wouldn’t but
Mr. Everard. To think, poor dear, that he has had this in his mind all
along!”
“So we have got a new master again,” said Harrison, approaching the
cluster of servants with an empty beer jug in his hand, “or I should
rather say our old one back again. You were a little surprised, Mrs.
Allen, I should imagine.”
“Not more than you were, Mr. Harrison,” she replied, for Mrs. Allen
always spoke her mind.
“I’m not so very sure of that,” he said confidentially; “I’m pretty
sharp, and when I heard of this celebration here, I said to myself a
hundred times, that something would come of it. What do you say to the
change, Roger?” turning to the old coachman. “Does it have your
approbation?”
“I say God bless them both,” replied the old man with a tear in his eye,
“and He will bless them. Of that I am certain!”
“Amen,” said Harrison in a hearty tone.
“And Miss Gresham too, I hope, poor dear,” said Betsey softly. “She
looks graver than she used to do, and I should like to see the old smile
again.”
“We’re hardly a match for her now,” observed Harrison, shaking his head
with an air of wisdom. “Wealth likes to go to Wealth.”
“Then it ought to be ashamed of itself,” said Betsey warmly, “and so I
would tell Mr. Gresham to his face.”
“And so would I,” said the young groom. “I would tell him that he may
look the world over, before he’ll find as good as Mr. Everard. I would
though he put me into the stocks for it.”
“Mrs. Allen! you’ve wanted,” said a breathless boy running from the
house to the group. “Missus wants the salverlattlely for Miss Gresham.”
“Poor dear!” sighed Betsey as she accompanied Mrs. Allen on her way. “I
don’t think it’s the salvolatile that will do her good.”