Have mercy upon those who err,
They need it more than all;
Lead home each hapless wanderer
And raise up those that fall.
When in the middle of the day following his departure from Audley Court,
Mr. Addison arrived in London, he proceeded at once to Everard’s
chambers. Whether or no, Everard could give him the information he
required regarding Robert’s present abode was doubtful. It seemed
impossible, considering that others had heard, and that he was well
acquainted with Robert’s usual associates, that rumours should not have
reached him of his return; and yet--knowing the anxiety felt at Audley
Court, an anxiety corroding the peace and eating into the very springs
of life,--that he should have been aware of it, and yet have concealed
it, seemed more incredible.
Mr. Addison knocked at his door, and was shewn at once into the room
where he sat alone. Books were around and about him; the very look of
the room betokened study and industry; and yet as Everard raised his
eyes from the page before him, there was an air of lassitude and
weariness in his countenance, which even at a glance arrested Mr.
Addison’s attention.
On seeing who his visitor was, he sprang up with an exclamation of
pleasure, but it changed almost immediately to one of alarm, and “My
father?” fell fearfully from his lips.
“Your father is well,” Mr. Addison said quickly, as he shook his hand.
“It is not his health that brings me up.” He stopped, then added
gravely, “He is well, that is, as far as I can tell, in body, but far
from well in mind.”
Everard fastened his eyes intently upon him, but made no comment on his
speech.
“Are _you_ well, Everard?” was the next question gravely asked, and with
a searching gaze.
A flush passed over his face, but he only replied, “Yes, thank you,
quite well, I always am.”
“Well in mind, as well as in body?”
“What matters my health,” he said quickly. “Now tell me, Mr. Addison,
why are you come up?”
“Have you no guess?”
“I may or may not guess,” he replied, in an impatient manner, “but it
will be useless to imagine my guesses. Tell me why you are come?”
“Bad news about Robert brings me up. We have heard strange, sad tales.
Did you know of his return, Everard?”
“Few things are unknown,” Everard said bitterly. “It does not need birds
of the air to bring intelligence.”
“Have you then known it long?”
“I said before, Mr. Addison, few things are unknown, and bad news above
all things is not long in making its way.” He spoke in an excited,
restless manner, as if fretted at the questions, and unable to restrain
the bitterness of his mood.
“Why then have you been silent? Was your father’s anxiety, were your
brother’s body and soul nothing to you?”
“Who ever made me my brother’s keeper?” was his passionate reply. “What
have I to do with Robert or his doings?”
“I think I partly understand you, Everard,” Mr. Addison said, in a voice
whose grave gentleness contrasted forcibly with the passionate
bitterness of his companion. “But you have been strangely and sadly
mistaken; God grant our present tidings may not be too late.”
“You say you understand, Mr. Addison, but you do _not_ understand. You
seem to have no feeling for me. It is but little love I have as it is,
and was it for me to come with my unwelcome words, like a bird of bad
omen, and condemn my brother. I say again, what have I to do with
Robert’s doings? He does not consult me, he does not make them known to
me; it is not for me to go about prying into his concerns. If men had
not such delight in reporting what gives pain, I should have known no
more than you. And I say it now, and let it be remembered,” he continued
with vehemence, “I will _not_ be a spy; let Robert do what he pleases, I
will _not_ be answerable for his doings. We have not had much in common
for many years, and henceforward the tie may be altogether broken for
what I care.”
His voice was harsh, and his face crimson with passion as he spoke.
“You say I do not pity you, Everard,” was the kind and soothing answer
of his companion, as he laid his hand upon his arm. “I do pity you from
my heart, because I believe _your_ heart is sorely tried. Do not be
afraid or ashamed to confess it to me. You do feel your burden almost
greater than you can bear.”
Tears were in Everard’s eyes, and a choking feeling in his throat; the
bitter passion of the moment had melted before the kind words of his old
friend, and the next instant he was seated with his face buried in his
hands, vainly struggling with feelings that overmastered him.
Mr. Addison turned away without an attempt to restrain him. He had
traced the signs of perhaps long pent up jealousy in his words, and he
was well pleased that, through the indulgence of even womanly tears,
Everard should be restored to himself.
He did not hope in vain. He was still gazing sadly out into the dull
street, when Everard came to him and asked his forgiveness. “Not for
_that_,” he said, meaning by that inexpressible thing, the tears of
which men are so strangely ashamed, “but for my wicked words, and, if
you knew them, still more wicked thoughts. How you must hate me.”
“Far from it, dear Everard,” he replied, with a kind smile. “I know what
you feel too well. You are suffering a great trial, undergoing a great
temptation; but remember, Everard, temptations are to be conquered. If
all be true that is said to be true, strong temptation is before you.
Dear Everard prepare yourself for it. I will say no more on this point
now, for it may be averted. But, be it as it may, rest assured your
trial is not undervalued or forgotten. God bless and strengthen you.” He
paused a moment, and then went on. “I must see Robert; can you tell me
where I shall find him?”
“Not to-day,” Everard replied, “he left his lodgings two days ago, and I
have not yet heard where he has placed himself. But you shall hear from
me to-night; and the delay will not matter. Your best time will be
before he is up. Poor Robert!” he added, an expression of thought and
affection softening his countenance.
“If you can say that, Everard,” said Mr. Addison with pleasure, “all is
right with you.”
Everard coloured, and made no answer, and a moment after began hurriedly
to speak of Audley Court, asking briefly how the present news had been
received and borne by his parents, omitting all mention of Hope, and
then going backward to such small events as had occurred since he left
it; dwelling on these minutely and thankfully, as if, like his father,
he found repose in banishing his feelings into the recesses of his
heart.
Late in the evening he went to the hotel where Mr. Addison was staying,
with Robert’s present direction. It was in Poland-street. When asked by
what means he had obtained it, he said there was now no difficulty.
Robert, of late, had grown careless, “or else,” he added, colouring,
“there is no longer the same necessity for secrecy.”
Soon after ten the following morning Mr. Addison went to Robert’s
lodgings. On enquiring for Mr. Vavasour he was told shortly that he was
not yet up. He desired that his name might be taken to him, and wrote on
a card a request to see him for a few minutes, adding that he was in no
hurry, and would wait until Mr. Vavasour was ready. There was some demur
about carrying the message, but finally it was taken, and after nearly
ten minutes of expectation he was desired to walk up. Thankful in any
way to have procured admission, he went on with a lighter heart than he
had brought with him.
Robert’s rooms were on the third floor. The sitting-room into which Mr.
Addison was shown was not such as he could have imagined Robert’s
fastidious tastes and habits would have found it possible to endure.
There was the closeness, the shabbiness, the darkness, the indescribable
offensiveness of a third or fourth rate lodging in London. On reaching
it, Mr. Addison sat down, and having said he was in no hurry, was
prepared for a long waiting. But he was mistaken.
In three or four minutes a small door opened, and Robert appeared in his
dressing gown. He came in boldly, and said with an off-hand manner, “You
in London, Mr. Addison, that is quite an unexpected pleasure.”
“Yes, Robert,” he replied, simply and gravely, “I came up to see you.”
In spite of his seeming determination to carry off his embarrassment
under a show of ease and frankness, Robert coloured. He walked to the
window and flung it open, observing that the “odour of the room was not
of the pleasantest,” and then, throwing himself into a chair near enough
to breathe the fresh air, he said, “Well, Mr. Addison, I am sure I am
very much obliged to you. What can I do for you? What do you want with
me?”
During his restless movements Mr. Addison had been studying his air and
countenance, endeavouring to discover how much of the better nature
survived amid the complication of evil that was closing about him. His
survey was painful, and yet was not such as to extinguish hope. He
fancied that even if the fact had not been mentioned he should have
detected the effect of dissipated and intemperate habits on his
countenance, a something not to be mistaken obscuring the clearness and
beauty of his features and expression; but painful as was the change,
still, in countenance, in manner, in the very tone of his voice, it was
evident that he was not at ease. Conscience was far, very far, from
being laid to sleep. This conviction gave him hope, it made him bold.
“I am come,” he said, gently, “in answer to a petition of yours. Do you
remember, Robert, your last departure from home. You then desired me to
stand your friend, not to judge you harshly, or lightly give you up. I
have not forgotten, and, therefore, Robert, I am here.”
“Thanks then for that,” Robert said, in an unsteady voice; very
evidently touched, though at the same time as evidently determined not
to be so. “It is not often in this world that men remember their
promises. But Mr. Addison, since you are come, we had better proceed to
business. What have you got to say against me? What awful tales has that
scoundrel rumour been telling? Out with it at once, pray, and do not
keep me in suspense longer than is needful.”
“Rumour has said much, Robert,” said Mr. Addison, sadly; “so much, that
I confess it is with an effort that I do _not_ judge you harshly. But no
man should be condemned on rumour. Read these, and God grant you may be
able to disprove what is said.”
He put into his hand the letters Mr. Vavasour had received, and turning
away while he read them, stood silently leaning against the window.
He was left but a few minutes to meditation; the letters were thrown
upon the floor, and rising and stamping with his foot, Robert said,
“_True_, Mr. Addison, every word _true_.”
Mr. Addison turned pale and sat down; he had not known how much of
disbelief had yet clung to his imagination.
Robert also sat down, and, after the momentary excitement, crossed his
arms with a resolved air. He waited apparently for his companion to
speak. Since nothing was said, he at last observed, “Well, Mr. Addison,
now is your time. Condemn me as harshly as you please. I am at your
mercy.”
“Condemnation was not what brought me here,” he said, sadly. “Your own
conscience must do that. But if you wish to be condemned, if your
conscience does not yet speak loud enough, think of the picture your
home must have presented when those letters were received. Picture it, I
repeat. Fancy cannot go beyond the truth of the sorrow, the agony I
saw.”
“You say true, Mr. Addison,” Robert said, and sighed. “My conscience is
not hard enough yet to think of that.” He paused a moment, and then
asked suddenly, “What did Hope say?”
“She said little. I may say she said nothing. She read the letters, and
said not a word.”
“Poor angel!” Robert said softly, putting his hand over his eyes, and
for a moment his countenance was touched by an expression of
indescribable tenderness.
Mr. Addison remained silent, fearing to weaken by one syllable the
natural workings of his feelings.
The silence lasted for a minute or so; Robert then said, “I suppose
they all know then that I am going to be married.”
“So much we gathered from that letter; the rest I heard at Underwood. Is
it true, Robert? Are you indeed engaged to Miss Gresham?”
“What have you to say against it?” Robert asked, sharply.
“Two things,” was the grave reply; “you do not love her, and your
brother does.”
Robert coloured violently. “As for that matter,” he cried, “I cannot see
that it is any affair of mine. I suppose every lady is at liberty to be
married when she pleases, and other men’s fancies are not to forbid the
banns?”
“True; but every man, every generous man at least, restrains his wishes
where a brother is concerned.”
“I know nothing of Everard, or his fancies,” Robert said, hastily. “He
has never consulted or confided in me. If there were no objection but
_that_, my conscience would sleep very peaceably.”
“There are others then? Oh! Robert, I guessed as much.”
“Not very hard to guess,” he said, scornfully. “I have loved another all
my life, and I have told her so. There, I confess it, there is the
sting; but some things _must_ be done, and this must. Poor Hope,” he
said again, again putting his hand over his eyes. “What must she think
of me!”
“Dear Robert,” Mr. Addison said, approaching him, and laying his hand
upon him, “be yourself; cast off the madness that misleads you, and
return and be forgiven.”
“I cannot,” he cried, with strong agitation. “Mr. Addison, I dare not. I
cannot meet my father again. Not for worlds would I ask him again to
forgive me. You know I love my mother; you know I love Hope; I tell you
I think no more of the pain I give them, compared to my father’s anger,
than I care for that stone. He is a severe and inexorable judge, and
before his judgment seat I never again will stand. Do not urge me, it
will be utterly in vain.”
“Are you mad, Robert? What has your father done that you should think so
hardly of him? Is it for this that you rush into temptation and misery?
Be warned, Robert; retract, repent, it is not too late.”
“You speak like a child, Mr. Addison. Repentance again--_my_ repentance.
I tell you I studied my father’s face. I read in it that I was forgiven
once more, and but once. He has no longer the power to forgive; he
scorns me, and I will not be scorned. I will be free. And he is right,”
he continued with vehemence, “he is right to scorn, and right to forgive
no more. If I were a father, and if I had such a son, _I_ would not
forgive. Repentance! what is repentance worth--_my_ repentance. I should
but mock my father to go again with my repentance to him. Henceforward I
will be free.”
A silence followed Robert’s excited speech; it was broken by Mr.
Addison’s saying solemnly,
“And when he came to himself he said, ‘How many hired servants of my
father have bread enough, and to spare, while I perish with hunger. I
will arise and go to my father.’ So Robert, in your freedom you may
feel, and it may be too late. There is no repentance for the grave where
_he_ is hastening.”
“Is my father ill?” Robert asked with sudden terror. “Tell me true, Mr.
Addison, is my father ill?”
“It may be fancy, Robert--it may be only my fancy,--I will not say that
it is more,--but as I last looked in your father’s face I felt that the
days of mourning for him were at hand.”
“You must write to him, Mr. Addison,” Robert said, agitatedly, “write to
him this very day and tell him that I grieve to offend him, tell him
that I have had the torments of hell in my heart, and that I love him
still. Will you write what I tell you?” he asked excitedly.
“I will, dear Robert, I will. May I say more?”
“No, Mr. Addison,” he replied mournfully. “I do repent. God knows I do
repent. But I have gone too far to turn back. What my future life will
be who can tell--I care not.”
“Are you engaged to Miss Gresham, Robert? Is the deed done?”
“To her father, I am; to her, I shall be, perhaps to-night, perhaps
to-morrow. I had it all out with him yesterday. He is a generous old
fool, and he will make me as happy as I can be. I have done it with my
eyes open, and I must take the consequences.”
“And she--does she love you, Robert? and do you intend to make her
happy?”
“Happy, oh, yes! extremely happy. As to her feelings, I suppose they
are much like mine. We do not talk much of feelings. I must have one
bout of it I suppose, and I will tell her what I feel. I like her well
enough, and she likes me. We have more love between us than many
marriages can shew. Let us have done, Mr. Addison. I thank you for
coming, more than perhaps I seem to do. You would have saved me from
misery, and though you have failed, I can say God bless you for it. Now,
good bye. Remember my words to my father, and tell my mother and Hope
that I love them still.” He held out his hand.
“Would that I also could say God bless you, Robert,” said Mr. Addison,
as he took it, “but how can His blessing rest upon your wilful way. If I
have not spoken to you of your grievous offences in the sight of God, it
is not that I do not tremble for you; but he that fears not the father
whom he has seen, how will he fear the Father whom he has not seen.
Farewell! may His mercy avert from you the miseries I dread.” He
grasped his hand with an earnest and affectionate pressure, and,
unrecalled by Robert, departed.