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. I.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1858.
_The Right of Translation is reserved._
INTRODUCTION.
Two persons stood on the brow of a hill overlooking an extensive and
fertile valley. In this valley lay the properties of two gentlemen, side
by side. The houses which were on the outskirts of each domain stood
within a mile and a half of each other; but the lands surrounding each
habitation spread for miles into the distance on the opposite sides.
The houses were very different in form and feature. One was, or had
been, an old feudal castle. Modern additions had at various times been
made to the building, but it preserved untouched two massy ivy-crowned
towers, which rose up dark and gloomy against the sky. The other house
was such a dwelling place as pocket-books exhibit in their portraitures
of “country seats.” It was a country seat on a very large scale; nothing
more.
Of the two persons mentioned above, the one was a stranger, the other an
inhabitant of the district; the latter had been showing off with pride
and pleasure the extensive and luxuriant vale in which he lived.
“I could invent a tale about those houses,” the stranger observed, after
intently contemplating them. “Nay, I have already invented it. My tale
is done.”
“What is your tale?” asked his companion, smiling.
“After all I believe it is such an obvious one that I need not have
boasted of my _invention_. One has but to look at those two buildings,
and the tale is composed. In that one I see a proud, high-minded, but
somewhat forbidding family. In this one exactly the reverse--charm
without character. Hate of course springs up between them. Then after
hate comes love. A proud, high-minded son falls in love with a charming
modern maiden. Then come strifes, and disinheritings, and broken hearts,
and then ... either tragedy or comedy. I cannot quite decide on the
conclusion of my tale.”
“There is a tale, and not of a very old date, belonging to those houses.
It has some features of yours, and yet is not like it. A very simple
domestic tale, but one not devoid of interest; that is to say, it will
have interest for those who take pleasure in seeing how human beings act
under peculiar circumstances; not, perhaps, otherwise, since it is
devoid of ‘moving accidents by flood and field,’ hair-breadth escapes,
or indeed exciting events of any kind. If you care to hear them, these
are the few facts of the story.”
He entered into a short detail of certain events that had taken place in
the two families.
His companion listened with interest, then observed, “I like your story
better than mine.” He looked again intently at the older building, and
after a short silence made some inquiries. “You must enlarge a little
upon the facts you told me. For instance, how was it that being as you
say so proud a family, so jealous of its honour, so steady and
irreproachable in character, the possessions of the Vavasours were so
loaded with debt? If all were good, who was the culprit?”
“There was none, properly speaking. Loyalty (perhaps misdirected) was
the cause. The old traditions of the family speak of a time of almost
princely splendour till the days of the great rebellion. From that time
the fortunes have fallen. For Charles I., his son, grandson, and great
grandson, heavy mortgages were placed upon the land, and there never was
breathing time enough for the property to right itself. Yet no Vavasour
ever sold a rood of land, and no son ever complained of the debts his
father left him. There was a family fire of enthusiasm and romance in
the which supported it in all troubles.”
“And Mr. Vavasour, the father of your story,” inquired the stranger, “he
was a regular old Vavasour you say?”
“Yes, a fine character, but quite idolizing in the love and pride he
bore to, and had in, his place and family. When he succeeded to _his_
father, he found the property so swallowed up with debt as barely to
leave an income necessary for the common expenses of life. He was only
just of age, and it was a melancholy prospect. He was advised to sell.
The property was not entailed, never had been so; he could do as he
pleased; but no Vavasour ever had sold, and he would not. He determined
by care and energy to clear off a part at least of the debt, and to
raise his house again. For thirty years he lived in that old castle
alone, bent on this object. Yet while saving and sparing, he was
preserved by that same jealous honour, and lofty character, and strong
sense, I suppose, of the responsibilities of his position, from the
least taint of parsimony. It was a miraculous escape, but he did escape
untouched.”
“And after thirty years. What?”
“He married. He was then fifty. His love story shows the same
characteristics as all the rest of the Vavasour history--Romance and
strength. At eight and thirty he emerged in some degree from his
seclusion, and in society he met a young lady of this county, then
seventeen, and in the bloom of a beauty that made her name famous. She
was as amiable as she was lovely. He saw her and loved her with the
strong tenacious love of the Vavasours, but he gave no sign of what he
felt. Fifty was the age, the earliest age he could appoint for a
relaxation of his severe life, and he thought he had no right to impose
a long delay upon her. He saw her for twelve years beset with suitors,
and vehement ones; for while from natural manner she was gracious to
all, it seemed as if her heart had still to be won; but he bore it in
silence. At fifty he spoke, and found that through those long years she
had waited, though almost without hope, for him. He was then grey and
careworn, yet no one, I believe, ever thought the marriage unsuitable,
and no young marriage was ever such a love marriage as that.”
“I hope she had money.”
“No; that is, nothing beyond a young lady’s portion. It was a part of
the Vavasour pride that no member of the family had ever married an
heiress.”
“You speak,” said the stranger smilingly, “of the Vavasour pride, and
the Vavasour character, as if it was a man--whereas, you mean, I
suppose, some generations of men. Were all the Vavasours always alike?”
“A family character is, I believe, no uncommon thing. We see moral, and
sometimes immoral qualities running through a whole race. Historians
speak of the strong will of the Tudors, and the insincerity and
despotic tendencies of the Stuarts. So it seems to have been with the
Vavasours. In many lighter qualities no doubt they differed; but with
that single exception I mentioned to you, I never heard of one who
deviated from the family character. That character I have always thought
might be best described by the few words in which Milton describes
himself--‘a certain niceness of nature, an honest haughtiness which let
envy call pride.’”
“You admire the family character I see, and even the family pride.”
“I do in a great degree. Of all kinds of pride, none seems to me more
nearly blameless than that which makes its foundation on the noble
qualities, not on the rank and wealth of its ancestors. I only say,
however, more nearly blameless, for I believe all pride to be wrong. It
is idolatry, and it will inevitably, at some time or other, be found to
have a root of bitterness.
“‘That which man makes his god, shall inevitably, at some time, be his
tormentor.’ So says Bishop Hall.”
“Yes, and with truth.”
N.B.--The incident which suggested this tale may be found mentioned
in “Burnet’s Life of Sir Matthew Hale.”
THE TWO BROTHERS.
CHAPTER I.
For foresight is a melancholy gift
Which bares the bald, and speeds the all too swift.
HENRY TAYLOR.
The description of a youthful scene shall introduce the principal
persons of the following tale.
Imagine a long, old library--gloomy, but interesting in its gloom. The
rays of a brilliant sunset streaming in from the western window, enliven
and yet shadow it. Here and there the rays of light fall on heavy oak
carvings; here and there on rows of morose-looking books; but the masses
of light serve chiefly to reveal, with the force of contrast, the deep
recesses of the room. It is easy to see that the abode is the home of an
ancient family, and that the possessor of the abode cherishes, with
fondness and pride, every mark of age.
The occupants of this library are not unsuited to their abode, yet there
is little of the solemnity of the room in their air. They are three in
number: two boys of thirteen and fourteen, and a little girl about four
years younger.
The boys are seated at a long library-table, a little too high for
comfort; and around and about them are the usual accompaniments of
schoolboys’ tasks; coverless books, torn leaves, split pens, and shreds
of blotting paper that can blot no more. The boys are _boys_ in the full
sense of the word: active, vigorous, and full of life; _both_ are so;
but with the likeness in this respect the likeness between them ends;
for brothers, they are singularly unlike.
The elder boy is very handsome; and to the charm of beauty, of features,
and figure, adds all the charm of expression. It is such a face as a
mother can hardly fail to worship even too much. Open and animated, full
of sweetness, and spirit, and intelligence. One thing only is lacking;
and this want is best expressed by the word _principle_. Acute
physiognomists, and even common observers can discover the traces of an
unsteady and over facile disposition. It is difficult to watch him, and
not to suffer a sigh to escape, as the eyes look onward into life and
its temptations.
The other boy is not handsome--he is, perhaps, ugly--his limbs, though
well formed, are stragling and ungainly; his features are so strongly
marked as to be hard and stern: but though he lacks beauty, and lacks,
also, what is commonly understood by the word charm, there is much to
interest in his appearance. He has, in a remarkable degree, the one
thing wanting in the other. Truth and steadfastness shine in his face,
producing a kind of day-light over it. There are, besides, in his
countenance, marked and strongly-opposing characteristics. Inflexible
determination, bordering on obstinacy, and endurance, stoical and stern;
yet, in contrast to these qualities, signs betokening strong passions
and a fiery temper; and about the mouth, nervous and tremulous lines
bespeaking something of feminine softness.
Over these brothers the little girl sits watching, like a spirit. Her
place is in the western window; and the streaming sun-beams fall on her
white neck and gold threads of hair, but her face is towards the
occupants of the room; on one of these she rests her soft, brown eyes
with a gaze at once serious, and tender, and full of pity.
The stillness of the tableau is suddenly broken. The little girl glides
from her seat, approaches the elder brother’s chair, and lays her tiny
hand upon the page his eyes devour. It is a page different in kind and
type to the pages of closely-printed Greek that lie beside him.
He starts, looks up, and colours: then laughs, and says,
“Why, you little fairy, I did not see you; what do you want here?”
“Dear Robert,” she says, in a voice of singular softness, “you will
never have done; do let me take it away.”
He yields at once to the imploring tone; delivers to her hands the small
volume of fiction; smiles with one of his enchanting smiles at his
little monitress; then with a groan, and a glance at his industrious
brother, exclaims, “Now to my weary work again,” and betakes himself to
his task.
The little girl retreats with a soft smile on her countenance, and
resumes her place and her watching. The other boy pauses for a moment in
his labours--looks at his two companions, for a moment contracts his
brow, then with a sigh resumes his work.
The circumstances of the task were these:--there had been a boat-race in
the neighbourhood of Audley Court, the old family place of the
Vavasours. The two boys, sons of Mr. Vavasour, fond of all active sports
and pastimes, had asked leave to attend it: voluntarily offering to
accomplish their usual morning’s studies when they returned in the
afternoon. Such requests were not unseldom made; and though all work and
no play is good for no man, Mr. Vavasour was equally convinced of the
truth of the opposite statement. He accepted the voluntary offer, yet
considering the exciting nature of the day’s amusement, only partially
accepted it; for the usual more lengthy studies substituting a careful
translation of a few lines of a Greek ode. The boys were grateful, and a
promise was readily given that the appointed task should be done.
The morning and afternoon were both alike consumed in amusement. The
boys returned late, flushed with excitement, heated with exercise, in no
mood for study. They joined their father and mother, and in glowing
terms recounted the adventures of the day. Both parents listened with
willing interest; no reproach regarding the many hours of absence was
made; only when the full flow of narrative came to a pause, the father
simply said, “And now I depend on your promise, my boys.”
The promise had been forgotten, and a shade overspread both faces. If
observed, however, no comment was made. Mr. Vavasour returned to the
occupation his sons’ entrance had disturbed, and glancing at the clock,
merely added, “Go into the library. I shall come to you in an hour.” It
was then half-past five.
The boys retreated. No word of their father’s was ever controverted, and
they fully understood that he depended upon their adherence to their
word.
The task had difficulties; but none which attention could not master.
Mr. Vavasour was firm and strict with his sons; but never unjust or
severe. He required self-conquest; but never asked for conquests beyond
their power to perform. On entering the library, the boys found all
prepared, and went at once to their work.
Everard, the younger boy, prepared to do it with all his might. One
passion at this time ruled and governed his life--love for his father; a
love made up of fear and reverence, and strong natural affection. To
please him, made his happiness--the dread of disappointing him haunted
him like a spectre. A gay scene was dancing before his eyes; a pleasant
noise of dashing oars and shouts of triumph were ringing in his ears:
but his father’s voice, “I depend on your promise,” rose above these and
drowned them. He leant his head on his hands, and with a vigorous
effort, conquering the lassitude and dissipation of his mind, set to
work.
Robert also set to work, but less resolutely. The same sounds were in
his ears, and wanting the determined will, he could not banish them. He
tried, but it was a feeble trial. He too loved his father, and feared to
displease him; but his was not the love that conquers all things. His
gaze wandered over his book, but his mind received no idea. He wrote a
few words, then scratched them out; then scribbled some figures of boats
and boatmen on the blotting paper; then spoiled some pens, then mended
them; then, with an expression of weariness, he pulled his
pocket-handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. In returning
it whence it came, his hands encountered the small volume of fiction
mentioned above, and drawing it out he glanced over the pages. It was
the _Mysteries of Udolpho_; he had been engaged in its study the day
before. The pages were refreshing after the hard lines of distasteful
Greek, and he reposed himself as he read.
Deprived of this temptation by the watchful care of his little guardian,
he returned to his task, but the resolute will was still wanting. In
vain he endeavoured to master the sense of what he read. When one line
was clear, the next appeared to contradict it; when the sense was found
and the ideas formed, no words in the English language appeared to be
capable of expressing them. His head became dizzy and perplexed; and
suddenly starting up he approached the western window.
“What a shame to be shut up here!” he exclaimed, his eye wandering
longingly over the sunny woods and fields. “I would give twenty pounds
at this moment to be that cow. Better be a cow at liberty, than a man a
slave.”
“It is a pity,” responded the sympathizing voice of the little girl,
“but, dear Robert, you know you promised.”
“I promised to try, and I have tried, and I can’t do it. I tell you
what, Hope, I hate Greek, and I hate translating, and I hate being shut
up here. Now, really,” and his voice became quite pathetic, “would not
_any_ one say it was a shame to be boxed up in a dingy old prison, on
such a night as this. I am sure it grieves my soul.”
“But all this grieves only you, dear Robert,” the child argued, looking
up at him with a pleading look, “but if you don’t do it, it grieves your
father.”
Robert was affected by her words. He smiled, and put his hand
caressingly on her head. “You have not expressed yourself very clearly,
little logician, but I see what you mean, and you are right; so come, my
good angel, and take me back to my work.” He held out his hand, and with
a sweet, proud smile of joy, she led him to his place. He began again to
work, and she stood by his side patient and immoveable; her eyes fixed
upon him, and him alone.
The other boy looked up. He had watched her passing; and now with a
contraction of his brow, he contemplated her absorbed devotion to his
brother. “You give _me_ no help nor encouragement, little Hope,” at last
he said; and there was pain in the tone in which he spoke.
“You don’t want it,” she replied, gently and simply; and not even then
did a glance of her eye wander towards him.
Everard threw down his pen, and lay back in his chair. Sadness,
hurt-feeling, and something of impatience clouded his countenance. He
seemed to be disgusted with his own industry.
The movement attracted Robert’s attention. He turned his head and
glanced at his brother’s well-filled page. “Why, Everard, you have
almost done!” he exclaimed; “what a shame!”
“Yes, it is a shame!” Everard cried, with flashing eyes, “that you, who
are as far beyond me in cleverness as I am to little Hope, should allow
me to outstrip you so.”
“Well, it is a shame,” Robert replied; a glow, half of shame, and half
of gratified vanity, overspreading his handsome face.
“It is not too late, dear Robert,” prompted the sweet voice of his
little guardian, “if only you will work and make haste.”
Robert looked at his watch, shook his head, and sighed. “Twenty minutes
after six, Hope; it’s no use now; but at any rate,” he added, after a
moment, “I’ll have a try for it;” and he set to work with an earnestness
which half an hour before would have successfully completed his task.
Everard remained thoughtful. He leant back in his chair, and his eye
wandered gloomily and uneasily from his own unfinished task to his
brother. Emulation with an equal, with one we have a right to surpass,
and who to-morrow may outstrip us, is a painless and animating feeling.
But generous natures feel pain, and not pleasure, in a victory that by
right should not be won. So far as his own feeling was concerned,
Everard would have preferred to share in his brother’s disgrace. To
fail with him, would bring him more and greater love than success. Not
Hope alone, but his mother, would, he well knew, look with kindlier eyes
on failure with Robert, than success without him. For three or four
minutes of the now precious time, Everard remained agitated and
undecided; and then, again, he saw his father’s face, and heard his
father’s voice, and again the ruling passion conquered. He returned with
energy to his work, and when the old Manor House clock chimed the
half-hour, the last word was written by his pen.
The clock struck, and Mr. Vavasour, the soul of punctuality, rose and
called his wife.
“Come, Joan,” he said, “let us see how these boys have obeyed us.”
They entered the library together; and anxious looks from one parent,
and penetrating ones from the other, fell on the two brothers.
Mr. Vavasour was like Everard; but age had softened and harmonized his
proportions, and he was a handsome old man. A merely superficial
observer was always struck by his benevolent and venerable air: his tall
figure slightly bent, his silver hairs, his firm but lingering tread; he
seemed a picture of graceful old age, from which gentleness and sympathy
might be expected; but a very little study discovered that the
countenance was stern. Age had softened the hard features; but the
mental expression was far more really stern than that of his son. There
were, however, the same marks of opposing qualities that have been
mentioned as apparent in the countenance of Everard. Strong passions,
and deep feeling, and the same soft and tremulous lines about the mouth.
It was a face which some would have feared too much to love; but which
those who did love, loved passionately.
The elder son was a reflection of his mother--though time, experience, a
woman’s nature, and obedience to her husband, had banished from her
countenance the unsteadiness apparent in his. She was many years younger
than her husband, and was still remarkable for a beauty, once the theme
of wonder and praise; but even this beauty was less attractive than the
softness and gentleness of her air and voice. Her character had singular
charms, and much virtue, and if a few faults mingled with her virtues,
it was but the common lot of humanity. Of these faults the most serious
was the idolatry of her eldest son. To love too much is impossible, but
to idolize is selfish. It harms the idol, and tends to injustice
regarding others.
Mr. Vavasour approached, and both his sons arose; but there was no
eagerness in either. _Their_ eyes were cast down, while little Hope
fastened hers on his face with a look that deprecated displeasure.
Mr. Vavasour looked from one to the other, and his brows knit into an
expression of mingled sternness and pain. With him no dereliction of
duty was small or great. Obedience was obedience, and a promise a
promise; and no consideration of more or less could make a duty not a
duty.
“Well, Robert,” he said, “how have you obeyed me?”
Robert made no answer. Though daring enough in his father’s absence, his
_present_ displeasure always unmanned him.
“I see you have failed; I did not expect this.” And without another word
he passed on.
“And you, Everard,” he said, turning to his second son--and anxiety made
his voice harsh.
Everard gave his completed task; but his heart swelled with sorrow, not
with joy, for no glance from his mother’s eye spoke of anxiety for him.
Her eyes and Hope’s were with Robert in his disgrace.
Mr. Vavasour read the translation carefully through, then laid it down.
“There are many faults here, Everard,” he said, looking at his son,
“but they are faults of ignorance, not of negligence. I do not need to
be told that you have tried with all your heart to please me. God bless
you, my boy,” and he laid his hand softly and kindly on Everard’s
shoulder.
For a moment Everard’s heart bounded beneath that approving touch, but
it sunk and died as he saw his mother’s averted face. His praise was
agony to her; he knew it, saw it, felt it.
Mr. Vavasour stayed for no more words, but retraced his steps down the
long library. When he reached the door, he looked back. Everard was
standing alone. Robert’s head was laid on the table; and beside him and
over him bent his mother and Hope.
“Joan,” he called; and leaving the door open returned to the study.
Mrs. Vavasour stayed but to whisper one gentle word; and, still without
a glance to Everard, rejoined her husband. Not that Everard was not
loved. He was only forgotten, because Robert was unhappy.
Mr. Vavasour did not speak till his wife was seated. He then said, not
with sternness--for to her he was never stern--but sadly, “Joan, you
will spoil that boy.”
“Love cannot spoil,” she replied, with some agitation, “though harshness
sometimes may.”
“Do you call _me_ harsh?” asked her husband; and round his lips quivered
that tremulous movement which in him, as in Everard, betokened strong or
wounded feelings.
“To none but Robert,” she eagerly rejoined; “sometimes to him.”
“No, Joan,” he said, regarding her fixedly, “not harsh; but wise in
time. You look at Robert’s single faults--you see now a little
indolence, now carelessness, now self-indulgence, and you think that,
with his youth and high spirits, these may be excused; but I look on:
and as, day after day, I see the signs of unsteadiness, and cowardice,
and want of truth, I ask myself, what will be the end when these faults
have strengthened themselves and bear fruit? If Robert is to be saved
from becoming a dishonour to our house, it must be through the
discipline of awe and fear, as well as love. Let him see that his faults
grieve and pain us--as they do in my heart!” he broke out passionately;
then resumed again; “and that he may see it, let us not lightly own, nor
lightly forgive them.”
“I believe you are right,” she replied, humbly, “and yet when Robert is
miserable.... You do not know how he loves you--how ardent his feelings
are--how he suffers under your displeasure!”
“Yes, Joan, but I do know, and it is these very ardent feelings that
make me tremble. If now, in their freshness, while yet in his father’s
house, they fail in every moment of temptation, how will they stand in
the fiery trial of the world? Believe me, unless a great change takes
place, the good seed in Robert’s heart will too soon be choked with
thorns.”
The twilight was deepening; the clock chimed the quarter after seven;
there came a low tap at the study door.
It opened; and Robert entered, holding in one hand his completed task,
while the other yielded to the guidance of Hope. There was no shame on
his fine countenance, but an expression of open and truthful humility.
“I am very sorry to have displeased you, father,” he said, simply, “and
I have done the best I can to atone for it. Hope persuaded me, and
Everard gave me help, and here is my task. I know it is too late to give
you pleasure; but I hope not too late to show that ... that I am very
sorry father!”
Mr. Vavasour received it from his hands, with a faint glow on his
countenance; and the “God bless you, my boy,” which was his usual simple
and forcible expression of extreme approval, made more than one heart
supremely happy.
This childish scene has been thus minutely detailed, in order more
rapidly and vividly to pourtray the actors in the following tale, than
description can easily do.
A few more words are required to set in its proper light the position of
one of these.
Hope Linton was the orphan child of a sister of Mrs. Vavasour. In her
aunt’s house, and adopted by her husband, the worst evils of an orphan’s
lot were unknown. They treated her as their child--the boys as their
sister--and few ever thought of her in any other light.
She was a child of peculiar character, appearing to be made of two
qualities only--love and pity. Her love, not the love that clings, but
more angel-like, desires to spread its wings and shield; her pity, an
intense compassion, which made her appear, in spite of the guileless
goodness of her own nature, sent into the world on a special mission to
the erring. She was not clever, yet had her own silent, serious
thoughts; and though neither energetic, nor active-spirited, seemed, by
the intensity of her feeling, to accomplish what she had to do.
The somewhat unnatural seriousness of her nature was partly the effect
of circumstances. Her father had been a thoughtless, unprincipled man;
her mother had borne, not the ills alone that extravagance brings in its
train, but the deeper pain of her husband’s neglect. After a desolate
life of many years, a child was born to her. It came like light into a
dark place; and partly in thankful acknowledgment of the blessing given,
and partly as a warning to her own failing spirits against despair, she
called it “Hope.” Four years after its birth her husband died. The hope
for which she had waited all her life-long was then fulfilled. The hours
of sickness and death brought his repentance and returning love. She saw
him die: and as if her task was then accomplished, quickly followed
him--leaving her child to her sister’s protection. The house in which
the little orphan was born, was a house of sorrow. Early clouds hung
over her infancy; and a sobering hue was left for ever on her soft cheek
and thoughtful disposition. There was, however, something of her name in
her nature. She was serious, but rarely sad.