Her younger sister, that Speranza hight,
Was clad in blue, that her beseemed well;
Not all so cheerful seemed she of sight
As was her sister; whether dread did dwell
Or anguish in her heart, is hard to tell.
Upon her arm a silver anchor lay,
Whereon she leaned ever, as befell,
And ever up to Heaven as she did pray,
Her steadfast eyes were bent, nor swerved other way.
SPENSER’S _Faery Queen_.
Nearly four years more have come and gone. Robert Vavasour is
twenty-one. The tale of these four years is an oft-told tale.
During the first year of college life he had been tolerably steady. The
lingering influences of his home, the companionship of his brother, and
the sincere wish to do well, kept him, for the most part, in the right
track. In the second year he began to be less anxious. Evil began to be
familiar to him. He fell into a gay and thoughtless set, and found its
charms seductive. His high spirits, his ready wit, his unfailing
good-humour, and lavish generosity, made him a desirable companion, and
he was courted with an assiduity that might have turned a stronger head.
For a time, days of remorse succeeded his weeks of thoughtless
dissipation; but remorse was distasteful, and he endeavoured to escape
from it. He began to shun Everard, on whose example he could not look
without remorse. Temptations assailed him on all sides, and he ceased to
desire not to be led into temptation. He was hurrying along his
dangerous way, when, early in the third year, Mr. Vavasour received a
kind recommendation from an old friend at Oxford, that he should be
withdrawn at once. There was no hope for him, he said, where he was, and
he might thus be saved from public disgrace. It was done. His numerous
debts were paid, and he returned home.
It was a painful return. Robert was smarting under a sense of unjust
usage, and was more rebellious than penitent. He had done no more than
others, so at least he felt, and why was he to be disgraced. His state
of mind required judicious treatment, and in this Mr. Vavasour failed.
To deal judiciously with the erring, _justice_ is almost more necessary
than kindness. One degree too much of condemnation and the good
influence is lost. To be perfectly just, it is necessary to look on the
fault, not through the calm eyes of a mere observer, but with the eyes
of the erring and tempted themselves. Nothing, indeed, can to a sane and
right mind disguise the blackness of moral ill; yet perfect justice
considers the circumstances of the offender, and allows a question of
more or less in guilt.
It was in this perfection of justice that Mr. Vavasour failed. The word
_disgrace_ was rankling in his heart; the idol passion blinded his eyes.
He was not unkind to his son. He loved him too deeply, his desire for
his welfare was far too intense for unkindness; but he was severe. He
did not, like the father in the prodigal, go forth to meet him; but,
while receiving him with forgiveness, suffered him to feel the weight of
his displeasure. While pardoning the offender, he looked with something
of bitter contempt on the offence, and Robert’s quick mind felt it, and
it stung him.
The return home was painful, so painful, that a long sojourn was not to
be thought of. In his father’s presence, Robert’s haughty and rebellious
spirit was, even against his will, awed; and the restraint was irksome.
With his mother and Hope he was full of remorse, but what is so
unendurable as the remorse that leads to no repentance. He longed to
make his escape! While much perplexed in mind regarding the destination
of his son, Mr. Vavasour was applied to by Robert for permission to
travel. He had received an invitation from a young man of his
acquaintance a year or two younger than himself, to accompany him and
his tutor on a tour of some length. Mr. Vavasour knew nothing of the
young man’s family, but the invitation was opportune, the tutor sounded
well, and in the few enquiries he had time to make, he heard nothing to
lead him to refuse a permission earnestly sought. It was given, and with
it advice so touching in its anxiety, and means so ample to secure his
improvement and enjoyment in the life before him, that Robert again left
home, his heart swelling with sorrow, love, and penitence. But man’s
nature is not formed to bear a repetition of the same excitements.
Exhaustion is the necessary end of violent and shortlived emotions.
Of Everard’s college life there is little to be said. Whatever the inner
life might be, the outer life, sober and industrious, furnished no
materials to tell a tale. _Not to disappoint his father._ This had been
the influencing principle of his early days; this was the principle that
carried him safely through the snares of his opening youth. He left
college with a moral character on which there rested no spot, and with a
reputation, if not for genius, yet for sound intellect and unconquerable
energy. “You may be proud of your son,” were the words of healing balm,
which soothed Mr. Vavasour’s wounded spirit. On leaving college, Everard
went to London to study for the bar, and read in the chambers of an
eminent solicitor.
* * * * *
“No, Joan,” said Mr. Vavasour, resolutely though sadly, “when my mind is
made up as to a duty, not even your wish can alter my determination.”
It was a few days before Robert’s birthday of twenty-one.
Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour were seated in the study formerly mentioned. Mrs.
Vavasour was sitting near her husband, her hands on a small table
placed between them, and a look of imploring earnestness on her
countenance. She was but little changed in the three years that had
passed; there are some hearts so hopeful that in them anxiety takes the
form of hope; but her husband was much changed. His complexion was
paler, his features sharper, his head more bowed. It was easy to see
that secret suffering was undermining his strength, and slowly, but
surely bringing his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.
“Then do not make it up too hastily,” was Mrs. Vavasour’s reply, in a
tone of strong agitation; “_consider_.”
“I have considered. Ah! Joan, have I not had time to do it. If I saw in
Robert one grain of true repentance, I would be the first to hail it,
and honour him with the best honour I could shew; but I know, and you
know, that there is no repentance in him.”
There was no reply. After a short silence Mr. Vavasour said more gently,
“What have you to urge that I have not already considered.”
“Much,” she said eagerly and tremulously. “Let that honour be shown to
Robert in the sight of your people, which he has not done himself. From
his earliest years you have spoken of this day--your people have looked
to it as one of rejoicing--if you pass it now in silence, you shame him
whom you wish them to honour. If Robert felt more fully that their eyes
were upon him, that after you they look to him as their protector and
friend; the weight of responsibility would press upon him, and the shame
of coming short from the example of his father, would make him strong.”
She paused--the tremulous movements of her husband’s lips encouraging
her to hope; but though agitated, there was no relenting; his voice,
when it came, was low and stern.
“No Joan, it is not the vain honour of false outward show that will
bring a shameless and degenerate son to reason.”
“You speak too harshly of him,” his mother cried with earnest passion.
“Do I speak too harshly?” he said, and the anguish of a wounded spirit
was in his tone, “then listen Joan to these,” and he drew some letters
from his pocket. “I would have spared you the pain of hearing them.”
“Hope, my child,” said Mrs. Vavasour softly, putting out her hand to
arrest her husband, “it will be best for you to leave us.”
Hope rose from her seat in one of the deep recesses of the windows, but
not to obey her aunt. She came forward and laid her hands on Mr.
Vavasour’s chair, “Are they about Robert?” she asked; “then let me
stay.”
Mrs. Vavasour hesitated and looked reluctant.
“Better to know all,” she pleaded, earnestly, “than to dread too much.”
“Let her stay, Joan,” Mr. Vavasour said decidedly, and she stood
leaning on his chair while he read.
The first letter was from the family solicitor, enclosing bills from
some of Robert’s alarmed creditors, and requesting in a formal style to
know Mr. Vavasour’s pleasure on the subject. There was a second letter
from the same person. This was written as a friend’s, it informed him of
some facts which he had ascertained regarding Robert’s money
transactions, and offered his advice on the best manner of dealing with
them. A third letter was from a Mr. Percival, an old friend of Mr.
Vavasour’s, resident in London. It was written in the supposition that
Mr. Vavasour was ignorant of Robert’s mode of life. He could not, he
said, neglect to give him the information he thought necessary, however
painful it might be.
Parts only of this letter were read aloud. Mr. Vavasour hurried to the
conclusion, It was an earnest recommendation that Robert should be
ordered to return home. From some circumstances, the writer said, which,
owing to the intimacy of Robert with a nephew of his own, had come to
his knowledge, he was convinced that he was suffering severely from the
want of money; and he felt certain that this would be the moment to
induce him to make a full confession of his difficulties, and to release
him from the snares in which he was entangled.
The letter was read with an unfaltering voice; but when he paused there
was the sadness of a breaking heart in the question, “Is this, Joan, a
son to honour?”
Mrs. Vavasour remained silent. Tears of bitter sorrow were in her heart;
but not one was permitted to start into her eyes, lest the sight of his
mother’s grief should add a drop to the full cup of Robert’s
condemnation.
“You do not speak, Joan,” her husband said, regarding her steadfastly.
“Hope, my child,” and he passed his arm round her waist, “am I not
right?”
“Perhaps,” she said, softly, “but dear uncle Richard, you must not
despair. Let Robert come home; he will yet be all you wish.”
“I will not despair,” he replied, “if I have strength.--God give me
_hope_!”
The passionate sorrow of this prayer broke from him as if against his
will. He drew himself up sternly after it--whilst his wife, unable any
longer to battle with her tears, withdrew to a distant part of the room.
Hope stooped and kissed his brow; then followed her aunt, to put her
arms round her neck, and whisper, “There is hope, indeed, dear aunt
Joan,” and left the room.
For a time the husband and wife remained in silence, and apart. At
length Mr. Vavasour rose and walked to the window, where the mother
stood shedding, yet concealing most bitter tears.
He looked at her for some moments, then he held out his hand to her and
said, “Joan, forgive me now and henceforward, the pain I may cause you
for Robert’s sake. You think me harsh; believe me, the pain you feel
lies deeper _here_!” and he laid his other hand on his own breast.
With trembling lips and reverencing love Mrs. Vavasour kissed the hand
extended to her. No harshness on his part could for one moment change
her feelings towards him; the bitterness of her grief was in the strife
of two loves equally idolizing, and the endeavour to think with blind
partiality of the actions of each.
* * * * *
Four days after this conversation, on the eve of Robert’s birthday, the
25th of August, a post-chaise stopped at the lodge gate of Audley Court.
The lodge on the London side was a mile from the house. So soon as the
chaise had passed through the gate, a voice, loud and impatient, called
to the post-boy to stop.
“Let us get out and walk,” Robert said, restlessly addressing his
brother. “I have got to prepare myself for awful company, and I can’t do
it, boxed up here.”
The chaise was left; and striking out of the road, the brothers took
their way across the park.
Both were much changed in appearance: and in Everard the change was all
on the right side. He was not handsome, but he was no longer ugly. His
figure, once straggling and ungainly, had attained its due proportions:
and there was a certain grace of strength about him which gave ease and
power to his movements. His features were still too large and too
strongly marked; his countenance, when in repose, still grave and stern;
but his air was frank and simple, his smile sweet, and the light of his
dark-grey eyes so soft, that no harsh or repelling impression was left
on the mind.
As a boy, his appearance had been interesting: in its improved state it
was more interesting. He was young--barely twenty--and his body had all
the activity and elasticity of youth; but the expression of his
countenance was that of mature and advanced manhood. None could have
heard with surprise that he was thirty. This was caused in a degree by
his marked features; but it was far more the shining-out of the mind
within. The freshness of youth his mind had in its tastes and fancies;
but the tone of his feelings was that of comparative age. None heard him
speak, none looked in his face without discovering that life had been to
him no flowery way, the fire of temptation “no moist and whistling
wind;” that in his efforts not to disappoint his father, he had learned
by experience man’s frailty; and that if he had been victorious in the
end the conflicts of the way had left no faint traces on his character.
With Robert it was different; he, too, was outwardly improved. From the
crown of his head to the sole of his foot there was no blemish in him.
His blue eye was darker and brighter; his raven hair more glossy and
curling; while the deeper hue of his complexion, and the vigour and
activity of his limbs preserved him from that appearance of effeminacy
which too perfect beauty in a man is apt to give. But with all these
improvements there was a painful change. It is sad to see the freshness
of youth obscured with worldly cares; it is sad to see its frank
ingenuousness troubled with worldly forethought; but more or less these
things must happen; and the necessity causes sorrow rather than pain. In
Robert the change was a sadder and deeper one. There was a reckless,
restless light in his eye which told a tale of dissipation; of innocence
passing away; of familiarity with vice; while a daring something in his
manner, spoke of conscience hardly dealt with--its efforts resisted--its
pleadings repelled and subdued.
He walked silently by Everard’s side; but there was agitation in his
_deeds_. His foot trampled on every wild flower, and his cane switched
off the head of many a young springing plant.
At last he spoke, in a tone whose lightness endeavoured to conceal a
troubled mind. “I wonder what reception I am likely to meet. The
ceremony will be an unpleasant one, and I, for my part, would eschew it
if I could.”
Everard was silent; but not from indifference. He was troubled with the
same painful feelings he had felt in his youth--almost a disgust at his
own superior steadiness--almost a longing to be as Robert was.
“Why don’t you speak out, Everard?” Robert exclaimed, in an irritated
manner; “and why do you look so solemn? If you know anything of the
matter, say it at once; what am I to expect?”
“I know nothing,” he replied, with warmth, “except that I am sorry you
have any doubts. My father and mother, you must know better than I do,
are longing for your return.”
“Doubts! I have some little reason to have doubts. First, a bad
conscience; secondly, this letter received this morning. Take it, and
now tell me what I am to expect.”
The letter contained a few lines from Mr. Vavasour, apprising his son of
his determination not to celebrate his coming of age. It was written
with kindness and feeling, but there was no attempt at disguising his
view of his conduct. Through every line, in every expression, the broken
heart revealed itself.
Everard’s blood mounted to his cheek as he read; and returning it to
Robert, he said, in strong emotion, “Oh! Robert, how can you bear thus
to grieve my father? I would rather die than do it.”
“So would I at this moment,” Robert said, agitatedly, “I wish I was dead
this moment, and buried in that ditch. And yet,” after an instant, he
lightly added, as if ashamed of the feeling he had shewn, “though it is
as good as I deserve, I would, if I might, bespeak a wholesomer grave.”
“You can give more pleasure than ever you have caused pain,” burst from
Everard’s lips. “Oh! Robert, be yourself! Do you remember the night
before we went to college?”
There was a visible struggle in Robert’s countenance. It was evident
that an effort was made to repress his better feelings; but partly
shame, partly the very dread of his rising penitence, fought with, and
mastered them. “I have a better memory than I wish to have,” he said,
carelessly. “A good memory is a good thing in some cases, but it does
not do for those who have a ghostlike past to bring up at a moment’s
notice. Come, Everard, let us leave this solemn talk; you were a good
hand at vaulting once--let us see if study has paralyzed your limbs.”
He sprang lightly over a high fence, calling to his brother to follow
him. Everard complied with equal success. “That’s a good fellow,”
Robert said, nodding his head approvingly; “I would as soon see a man a
woman, as a bookworm.”
“There is Hope,” Everard observed, after a short silence.
“Where?” cried Robert, excitedly. “Ah! so she is, my good angel. Poor
little Hope!” he added, in a low voice and a tone of deep feeling. “I
shall never weary her out.” But the words were hardly said, before he
resumed his wild spirits; and talking and laughing, he went on to the
spot where she stood.
She had seen them from her window, and had hurried without her bonnet to
a gate which led from the pleasure grounds into the park. There she
paused; the evening breeze blowing about her golden curls, and a faint
colour of expectation on her cheek.
Hope was scarcely altered, except in height, since her childhood. For
this reason she was more striking as a woman than she had been as a
child. Few preserve, even in early youth that soft and rounded grace
which is the charm of children’s beauty; fewer still carry on to maturer
years the ethereal, innocent look which so many children possess. In
both these respects Hope was unchanged. She was now, at seventeen,
singularly lovely; but it was a strange loveliness. Clothed, indeed, in
earthly form, but giving the idea of pure spirit.
A peculiarity in the growth of her hair added to her uncommon and
spiritual look. Never since childhood had it increased in length or
thickness, but was still like the hair of a little girl--thin, fair,
soft, and silky. A few wavy curls hung about her face; the rest, without
form or fashion, were gathered up behind. This would rarely be a beauty,
yet it was a beauty in her.
Robert approached; Hope gazed at him intently; but before she spoke, he
put his arms round her and embraced her. He had done so from earliest
years; and it was not this that made her colour rise, and prompted her,
with a scarcely perceptible movement, to shrink from him.
The time was come when she must understand what Robert was--when she
must understand and feel the tainted mind. Till now evil had been to her
but a name; Robert’s misdoings but a multiplication of old youthful
offences; a child herself, and Robert only thoughtless in ill, she had
never yet _felt_ the change. The knowledge came upon her, as she met the
first bright, daring glance of his eye, and instinctively her spirit
shrank before it.
Robert had a quick and keen perception, especially as regarded Hope’s
feelings towards himself. He needed no words to tell him what meant that
gentle movement backwards; but he chose to interpret it otherwise, and
addressed her in a bantering tone, little calculated to allay her fears.
“What, Hope, are you growing shy of me? I don’t mean to stand that, I
can tell you--why, you are lovely;” and he fixed his admiring eye upon
her: “prettier than ever--I have seen nothing so pretty for two long
years. Come, Hope,” and he held out his hand again, “don’t blush so. You
must learn to hear that you are pretty; you will hear it often, if you
look as you do to-day!”
And she did look strangely lovely, as she stood--startled, grieved,
perplexed; her colour rising higher and higher--something, even of
terror, at Robert’s bold, careless tone, in her air.
And Robert read every thought of her heart--loved her for her
shrinking--and yet persisted in grieving her.
Hope’s uneasiness was so visible, that Everard approached to relieve
her. He had paused at a distance till now, contemplating their meeting,
with the intense longings Hope’s love for Robert always excited in his
mind.
“You have not thought of me, Hope,” he said, with a smile.
At his words she withdrew from Robert, and turned to him; and, as she
received his quiet, kind embrace, she raised her eyes to his face. The
clear, steadfast expression of his countenance attracted her attention,
as it had never done before, and she stood regarding him in silence.
“Now, Hope, I am not going to allow this!” Robert cried, as he again
placed himself at her side. “I am jealous; and have good right to be so.
You never used to make up to Everard in this way;--come, don’t turn your
head away,” and he laid his hand upon her arm; “don’t you know that it
is a pleasure to me to look at you?”
“Oh! Robert,” she said, in a tone of inexpressible pain.
“And why, _oh! Robert_; is it wrong to be pretty? and is it right to be
blind? Let me tell you, Hope....”
Some idle words were yet unspoken on his lips, when Mr. and Mrs.
Vavasour appeared, from the glass door of the study. Mr. Vavasour was
leaning on his wife’s arm; and even in the distance his lingering,
unsteady steps were visible. It was nearly two years since Robert had
seen him. The change was, to his eyes, but too apparent.
His cheek grew suddenly as white as ashes; and the hand that lay on
Hope’s arm seized her with a grasp of iron.
“Go to him at once, dear Robert,” she said, softly and pityingly, “it
will be far better.”
But he put his finger on his lips to silence her, and drew her back
behind an evergreen.
Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour passed on. They had not perceived their sons’
approach, and were now taking their way along the broad gravel walk that
led to the avenue, to watch for them.
Robert waited till they were out of sight. He then drew a deep breath,
and in an altered manner said, “No, Hope, not yet; I am not fit to meet
my father yet. Vile wretch!” he muttered, with a contracted brow; then
added, aloud, “Wait for me here--and when I am fit to bear it, you shall
take me to him.” With rapid steps he hurried away in an opposite
direction.
Hope stood looking after him--unutterable thoughts clouding her brow.
Everard approached her compassionately. “Dear Hope,” he said, “do not
look so sad, it makes me miserable. Robert is not himself to-day. Do not
think he feels little--he feels too much; only he will not let us see
it.”
“Oh! Everard,” she asked, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up in
his face, “is all they say of Robert _true_?”
“Not all, but some,” he replied, with serious truth. “Robert has bad
companions and is easily led away. But there is no cause for despair; as
surely as we stand here, Robert will be won back again.”
“He speaks ... he never used to speak as he does. What is it Everard;
what does he mean?”
“You must not be too severe, Hope,” Everard said, with a smile. “Beauty
is a good thing, and it pleases Robert to see you have it. Do not be
angry with him for that.”
“Not angry,” she said, sadly.
“Nor grieved,” he added with tenderness. “Robert loves you, and looks to
you as his guardian angel. He must not see you afraid.”
She looked in his face for a moment, as if to receive some new idea from
his words. In that moment the impulsive desire of early years changed to
a living principle. She _would_ be his guardian angel--undaunted,
undismayed. She stood by Everard’s side in silence till Robert returned.
As soon as his steps were heard, she went forward to meet him.
Everard left them together, and went towards the house. He shortly saw
his father and mother returning, and went back to give notice. One
glance shewed Robert changed; it was as if something had fallen from
him--so utterly had the bold and daring air vanished. The old Robert was
there, with all his excellent nature shining in his face.
“Go on, Everard, there’s a good fellow, and lead the way. Hope and I
will come after you.” He spoke without agitation. A softened humility
had taken the place of fear.
Everard obeyed, and hastened onwards. His father met him as he was ever
wont to do. A greeting, cordial though quiet; a smile, faint but
expressive; an eye of full trust, gratitude, and hope; and the greeting
ever repaid Everard for every effort and every struggle. With his mother
it was otherwise; even while her arm was round his neck, and her lips
touched his cheek, he could see and feel the eye straining onwards in
search of another; it was but natural, for Robert’s had been a long
absence; but with a throb of jealous pain he almost longed again to
have returned as a penitent.
They walked on a few steps: till, suddenly, from a narrow path, Robert
appeared.
He paused, to await his father’s will. That will was to receive him with
more than kindness. The violence he had done to his own and to his
wife’s feelings, in his resolution respecting Robert’s birthday, had
changed and softened Mr. Vavasour, producing an earnest desire to atone
for his determination: but even if unprepared for kindness, no heart
could have resisted the charm of Robert’s penitence. No pride or false
shame stood in the way; no reserve or affectation marred the truth of
his humility.
Mr. Vavasour hesitated not a moment; but with a smile, sweet in its
invitingness, stretched out his hand.
Robert’s agitation became violent, but he struggled to speak. “Father,”
he said, tremulously, “you have forgiven me many times, but I am come
for forgiveness again.”
“And you have it fully and freely,” his father said, in his feeling
voice. “God bless you my boy, and make you strong. Here, Joan,” he
added, turning to his wife, and placing Robert’s hand in hers, “I will
not keep him from you; though he knows already,” and he faintly smiled,
“that he has _your_ blessing.”
He then put his hand in Everard’s arm, and walked on. He felt that pain
in excited feeling which strong natures often do. He passed his hand
over his eyes, as if to still himself. When he withdrew it he perceived
Hope also at his side.
“You were right to hope, my child,” he said, gently touching her
shoulder, “Robert may do us honour yet.”
She smiled as she looked in his face. The smile was such as we may fancy
on an angel’s countenance, when there is joy in Heaven over the lost and
found.