What shall I do? Make vows and break them still?
’Twill be but labour lost;
My good cannot prevail against mine ill:
The business will be crost.
Oh! say not so; thou canst not tell what strength
Thy God will give thee at the length:
Renew thy vows and if thou keep the last
Thy God will pardon all that’s past.
CHRISTOPHER HERVEY.
“Has Everard spoken to you of his troubles, Joan?” Mr. Vavasour enquired
of his wife on the evening of the day following the return of his sons.
Mrs. Vavasour looked up with surprise.
“He came to me,” he continued, “this morning, with a confession; to ask
my advice, and I believe to take it.”
“If you smile there can be no great cause of trouble,” Mrs. Vavasour
said with an inward sigh, as she thought of the frowns over Robert’s
troubles.
“If I smile, it is not because I think lightly of it. Everard is in
love, and love with Everard will be serious.”
“Everard in love. Impossible!”
“And why so, Joan?” Mr. Vavasour asked with a look of enquiry.
“Everard,” Mrs. Vavasour replied, after a moment’s thought, “is grave
and cold, and reserved. Of a strong attachment, I can suppose him
capable, but of a sudden fancy I should never have suspected him.”
Mr. Vavasour shook his head, but merely said, “Nevertheless, it has come
to pass.” After a moment he continued, “He came to me for advice and I
gave it; but in justice to Everard, I must say, that his judgment was
even more decisive than mine. He leaves us to-morrow.”
“You must tell me the tale,” said Mrs. Vavasour, smiling. “It is a new
thought to think of Everard as a lover.”
Mr. Vavasour mentioned the few particulars that Everard had told him;
among which, was the notification he had had of Mr. Gresham’s
dissatisfaction with his manners. “Everard’s tale,” he continued, “was
somewhat incoherently told. I gathered the particulars rather than
received them. He fully confessed the fact of his love, but owing to
Miss Gresham’s position, seemed to dread my condemnation, and to be
ashamed to confess it. My feeling was different. I was neither surprised
at the confession nor unprepared for it; but my opinion was decisive and
I gave it. In consequence, he leaves us to-morrow.”
“Forgive me if I ask it,” said Mrs. Vavasour, “but is this departure
either needful or reasonable?”
“Yes, Joan, both. Everard confesses that at this moment he cannot answer
for his self-control. He has, therefore, no choice. I am not one to
recommend a flight from temptation. If possible, I would always say,
meet it whatever it be, and overcome it; but if a man in cold blood
foresees that he shall fail, I see no course but flight.”
“But why,” said Mrs. Vavasour--“forgive me again for differing with
you--why should not Everard love Angela Gresham, win her, and marry
her?”
“Because his soul and mine also,” said Mr. Vavasour, proudly, “revolts
from it. It is not for Everard, at twenty, to court the favour of the
heiress of thousands. An honourable soul avoids the appearance of
baseness.”
“Angela would be a good wife for Everard,” said his wife, after some
consideration, “and I think Everard would be a good and wise husband for
her. Is the fear of a mere appearance of evil to be placed in
competition with a true attachment, and one from which the blessing of
domestic happiness would spring.”
“If this thing be good and desirable,” was her husband’s reply, “it may
at some future time be brought about by other means. Everard must not
seek it.”
“If Everard loves at all his love will be strong,” said his mother. “It
will grieve me if his love is wasted.”
“The test of love is time. What is it now but a fancy, and what right
has Everard at twenty to think his first fancy shall be satisfied?”
Mrs. Vavasour was silent. At last she said, “And Everard agreed at once
to your decision?”
“Yes, and with all his heart.”
“You are pleased with Everard’s conduct,” she said again, and this time
timidly.
“I am, Joan, and chiefly for this reason--that although the feelings of
youth are strong, his desire to do that which _we_ call right is
unshaken. He honours his father and mother, and that honour guides him
right, when possibly other principles have not attained sufficient
growth to restrain him.”
“Many have that,” she said, with some passion in her voice, “but God has
not given them the strength of purpose to do all things well.”
Her husband saw where her thoughts had flown, and looked at her
compassionately and tenderly; but his words were grave. “He might, Joan,
if they sought it; we must trust He will.”
Judging from analogy the likeness of Everard to his father ought to have
won from Mrs. Vavasour, the same worshipping tenderness she gave her
husband. But analogy in the seemingly capricious fancies of the human
heart is no safe guide. That very strength of purpose and self-restraint
which Mrs. Vavasour saw in her husband with idolatry, was painful to her
in her son. She would have loved him better, if he had at this moment
been less unflinching. She owned, indeed, that since Mr. Gresham had
spoken, he had little choice; but some demonstrations of weakness, some
appeals to pity, would have pleased her well. As it was, she saw him
simple and self-possessed; the cold, reserved Everard of her
imagination; and being so, she let him go without a word of sympathy, or
allusions, either serious or playful, to the cause of his departure.
But so once again she misjudged him. Everard left home with a wounded
heart; wounded not by his feelings for Angela, but by his mother’s
carelessness to his concerns. He hoped for her interest, but failing to
find it did not dare to approach her with his confession. Never before
had the longing, the almost womanish longing to be loved so assailed
him, and to this cause was it more especially owing that his thoughts
pertinaciously recurred to the image that had been forbidden--that one
being who seemed to consider him worthy of her interest and regard.
The day after Everard’s departure was Sunday, and Robert walked, as he
and Everard had generally done, part of the way homewards with Angela
and her father.
He talked of the pretty singing of the village children; praised and
criticised Mr. Addison’s sermon; and drew a smile of pure amusement from
Mr. Gresham’s lips, as he related some school-boy tales of extraordinary
misadventures during the church service; but he made no mention of
Everard’s departure. His non-appearance was a great disappointment to
Angela. She had counted much on these few minutes walk homewards; she
determined, however, that she would not ask where he was; _that_ she
supposed would be acting with the propriety Mr. Merivale recommended.
The natural woman was, however, too strong for the restrained one, and
notwithstanding the determination, before they parted with Robert the
question _was_ asked--
“Where is your brother to-day?”
“I cannot exactly say,” Robert said, wilfully misunderstanding her. “At
St. Dunstan’s, or St. Clement’s, or St. Martin’s, or St. Paul’s, or....”
“What _do_ you mean, Mr. Vavasour?”
“I mean that I don’t know Everard’s movements, nor the churches he
frequents. I am only sure it is something very staunch and orthodox. No
_ism_ of any sort where Everard goes.”
“Has Mr. Everard Vavasour left you?” Mr. Gresham enquired with interest
and politeness.
“Yes, he went yesterday.”
“And when does he come back?” Angela asked quickly.
“That I don’t know. He has gone back to his business. My father gave him
something to do which made him go sooner than he had intended. At
least,” he added with a mischievous smile, “so he said.”
Hurt, angry, injured, and indignant, Angela with difficulty restrained
her feelings; and having parted from Robert, she walked on without a
word.
Mr. Gresham saw her heightened colour, and felt how wise had been his
precautions, and how happy he was in having to do with so estimable and
amenable a young man as Everard. This danger at an end, all he assured
himself would go smoothly, and he already boasted like those who are
putting off their harness, their labour done.
Many conflicting feelings agitated Angela. Sometimes one class of
emotions predominated, sometimes another. A sense of injury at his
coldness; alarm lest she had lost his good opinion; a conviction that he
loved, but owing to her worldly circumstances dared not approach her;
and a longing to tell him with what joy she would give up all into his
hands. Under her ceaseless conjecturings her feelings made strides, and
more than her fancy began to fasten itself upon him.
Robert followed Everard in a week. Before his reconciliation with his
father he had made an engagement with a friend to accompany him in his
yacht to the east. On his arrival at home in the first warmth of his
feelings he had offered to give up the excursion if displeasing to his
father. But Mr. Vavasour had declined to accept the offer. It was indeed
his hope that Robert might learn to take and find more of his pleasures
at home, but his concentrated thoughts and affections had not made him
unwise or narrow-minded. He had sympathy with the natural curiosity of
youth, and he was besides well aware that reluctant obedience is to the
restless a dangerous trial. He knew no harm of the proposed companion,
and was willing, therefore, to hope the best.
Robert’s conduct during this last visit had completely disarmed Mr.
Vavasour’s resentment. On a former occasion _he_ had been smarting from
the sense of disgrace, and had seemed cold; and coldly Robert had met
his forgiveness. On this occasion the feelings and conduct on both sides
had been different. Robert had been really repentant, and Mr. Vavasour
really forgiving. A new bond had been knit between them, and Mr.
Vavasour, whose strong and limited attachments made him prone to
idolatry, was unconsciously hoping for his son with more than reasonable
hope, and building in his sleeping and waking dreams proud and stable
castles for the future.
All but Mr. Addison and one other shared in Mr. Vavasour’s hopes. There
was one other who felt with sad conviction that the time for confidence
was not yet come. Hope watched Robert with eyes of vigilant affection,
with eyes not blind through love, but from the very depth of her love
clear and searching; and to her it was plain that in his good feelings
there was no root, and that there was no settled principle in his mind.
She saw his repentance, his humility, his dutiful affection, his warmth
of heart, his many good, many generous, many attractive qualities--saw
and loved them; they were the signs of the good soul within; the buds of
promise foretelling a future day of grace. But she saw them as they
were, without the halo of illusion, and saw them unstable as water, and
fading as flowers.
She determined before he went to make an effort to save him.
He was not very willing at any time to speak of himself or the future,
and serious discussions even with her he avoided. It was painful to him
to have his steadiness questioned, or good resolves doubted; perhaps
from the very consciousness of the hollowness of the foundation on which
they were built he did not care to have them sifted and weighed; and to
give him pain was very painful to her. Still she resolved to venture.
Two mornings before his departure she sought him for her purpose.
She found him in the library reading, or at least with a book in his
hand. He was leaning back in an arm chair, close to a blazing fire; for
the September mornings were growing chilly, and Robert loved comfort.
The door by which she entered was behind him, and she stood by his side
before he perceived her.
“I am so glad to have found you alone,” she said, softly.
“So am I, Hope;” and he looked in her face with a fond and serious
smile. “But why? Have you anything to say to me?”
“Yes, Robert. And yet it is nothing new. Oh! Robert,” and she clasped
her hands together with an earnest movement, common to her when excited,
“I want you to promise me to try not to forget.”
“Forget _you_, Hope. Do you mean that? Yes, I will promise and vow, that
I never--never will forget you. There was no need to ask that.”
His tone was eager, and brought a faint unconscious blush to her cheek.
But no other consciousness. “No, Robert,” she replied with simple
frankness, “it was not that. I am not afraid of your forgetting me. It
was your father, his wishes, his forgiveness; dear Robert, will you
promise me to try and remember when you are gone far away.”
“I will do my best, Hope. You may trust me for that; but the path of
life is exceedingly narrow, and some pilgrims are apt to grow weary in
their progress.”
He spoke not without earnestness and sincerity, and yet there was a
careless wording in his speech, which left a doubtful impression on her
mind.
“Don’t look so troubled, Hope,” he continued. “I really and truly mean
that I will do my very best, but one must not be proud and confident.
You know frail and mortal man is born to get into trouble; at least,
some are, and it is not for the weak to boast themselves like the
strong.”
“I would not have you boast, but only.... Oh! what would happen if you
were to forget again.”
“If I were to forget again, I should be a rascal and a villain, Hope,
and should not find, and should not deserve forgiveness. Don’t let us
dream of such horrible possibilities. Let us rather think, dear Hope,
that I shall persevere, and win all your loves, and all your honours.”
He was still seated by the fire, and she still stood by his side. So as
a child had she been accustomed to wait upon him, and old habits had
never been broken. Dr. South beautifully says of those who have kept
unstained their early innocence, that “the Holy Ghost has descended on
them in the form of a dove.” Such words are very expressive of what
Hope was. The guileless purity of her look had always exercised a
singular power over Robert. He sat watching her, as she stood now beside
him, silent and thoughtful, with strong but suppressed emotion in his
face.
“Well, Hope,” at last he said, “have you more to say? I think you have;
you are not satisfied yet.”
“There is one thing I should like to say,” she replied with a slightly
rising colour, “but....”
“Dear Hope, say all you wish,” he said kindly; “don’t be afraid!”
“You say you are weak, Robert, so are we all, if we do not try to be
strong. Oh! Robert, why will you not. You know how it should be, but I
am sometimes afraid you forget. Oh! dear Robert; will you promise me to
remember your prayers.”
“You shall pray for me, Hope; that will be far better. Your prayers are
certain to be heard. I am not so sure about mine.”
“But oh! Robert,” and she clasped her hands, “what can any prayers do if
you will not pray for yourself?”
“I hope they can do much. I depend on yours for me. I think of them,
Hope, like so many good angels guarding me.”
“But yourself, dear Robert, yourself. It is so dreadful to live and say
no prayer. Oh! will you promise me to try?”
He looked very uneasy. He could not bear to refuse her, but hidden
conscious weakness made him hesitate. “To tell you the truth, Hope,” he
replied, after a little thought, “I would rather not promise. I know I
make resolutions, and break them, and that is bad enough; but there is
something more sacred in this. I should not like to promise you this,
and then to go and forget.”
“But why forget, dear Robert, why forget?”
“Ah! Hope, why? That is a very puzzling question, and I can’t answer it.
I tell you I am weak, and I do not like to trust myself with promises
of this kind. I would rather not.” He spoke hurriedly.
“I will urge you no more,” she replied sadly. “I meant it only for your
good.”
Her tone was so soft and sweet, that it went to Robert’s heart. It
seemed to overset some hitherto restrained emotion.
“I know it,” he cried, starting passionately from his seat. “I know it,
Hope, my darling, and if I were not a fool and a coward, I should ask
you, not only to pray for me, but to be my wife; my wife to lead and
guide me all my life long; but I am afraid, Hope, you are too young yet.
I might break your heart. Why do you blush so, my dearest?” he continued
yet more vehemently. “Don’t you know that I worship _you_; don’t you
know that if it were to promise to kneel to _you_, were it night and
day, I would do it, and never forget.”
It was with no thrill of rapture that this passionate declaration of
love was heard and received by Hope. _Her_ love for him had had no
dreams of earth about it; it was love bound up with his soul’s welfare,
and his profane and reckless words startled that affection, terrified
and afflicted it. She withdrew from him a few steps, and stood before
him with clasped hands and downcast eyes, looking so fair, so grave, so
holy, so like some young saint in an ancient picture, that the next
instant, half in jest, but much more in earnest, Robert in very deed
knelt at her feet to ask forgiveness.
“Oh! Robert,” she said, covering her face with her hands, “if you could
know how you grieve me.”
“Do I grieve you?” he cried, springing up; “yes, I know I do, and if you
could but tell how I hate myself for it. But Hope,” he continued, in an
altered tone of almost reverend tenderness, “you must not be too hard
upon me. I cannot be like you all in a minute, though I hope to be some
day. If my love grieves you, you must forget it. I know such a
worthless sinner as I am, should not expect to have a holy saint for his
portion; and yet, Hope,” he paused and took her hand and looked fondly
in her face, “and yet, perhaps, he does expect it.”
She raised her eyes and looked at him, no longer shrinking from his
gaze. She was not given to tears, but now a single tear did sparkle on
her lashes, and dropped upon his hand. What it meant, nor she, perhaps,
nor he could fully tell, but as he saw it his heart swelled with strange
emotion, and silently and gratefully he pressed his lips upon her hand.
Nor then nor during the remainder of his stay did Robert speak of his
own, or in any way seek to draw from Hope a confession of her affection.
His manner was as it had been before, only that possibly something more
of thoughtfulness characterized his intercourse with her.
Some departures take place without emotion; some even when it is but for
a short absence, agitate the surface of the home left behind. Everard
went, and amid the kindly glances that followed him, none were dimmed
with tears; no heart felt to lose its being as he disappeared. Robert
went, and his father’s voice was tremulous; his mother wept and could
not restrain herself, and Hope stood mute and still in speechless
sorrow. There might be other reasons for the difference; and Robert
guessed them; yet still, above and beyond all other motives, he knew and
felt he was the idolized son of the house, and felt it with a pang. It
pierced on his conscious unworthiness like a dagger’s stab.
“Mr. Addison,” he said with emotion, for Mr. Addison stood at the door
of his chaise, “I hope to come back worthy of my father’s trust. If I
fail....” he paused, then added hurriedly, “Mr. Addison, will you stand
my friend? Remember that man is weak. Don’t let them ask too much, or
judge me too hardly.”
Mr. Addison grasped his hand in mute token of assent. “God bless you,
Robert,” he said, “and deliver you from evil.”
Not with a thrill of rapture had Hope heard of Robert’s love. Not with a
thrill of rapture did she recur to it when he was gone. And yet....
At first she trembled at the recurrence of his image to her thoughts--at
first dreaded lest his words had placed a barrier between him and her
devoted affection. But this was but the natural disturbance on the
surface. When this passed by and her heart settled again into calm, she
found that the new link that bound them was holier than before. He had a
double claim to her thoughts and her prayers, and with a more intense
devotion she gave herself up to be his guardian spirit for ever.
After Robert’s departure, Hope felt that she had no right to withhold
from her aunt the knowledge of what had passed. “Aunt Joan, did Robert
tell you what he said to me?” was her confession.
It was no new thought, no new hope, to Mrs. Vavasour, nor was Hope’s
confession an altogether unexpected one. She wound her arms round her
niece, and said, “Cherish his love, dearest; to that love I have ever
looked as the feeling which will win him, and bind him, and make him all
we would have him be in this world and for ever.” And much as she had
ever loved her niece, this new bond knit her soul to hers with a dearer
affection.