I kneel
There--meekly as you taught me--when you raised
For the first time my little hands to God;
A child, obedient and infirm as then,
I do implore you tell your wretched son
What he must suffer.
GLENCOE.--_A Tragedy._
The words of Hope, his mother’s mute relenting, the generous feeling
shown by Robert, and Mr. Addison’s approbation of his decision, assisted
to compose and calm Everard’s mind; and yet even while he thankfully
felt how it smoothed his way before him, it in some respects added to
the difficulty of his task. The sight and feeling of the excellence of
Robert’s nature, made his own mind rebel more strongly against his
decision, and he was well aware would make the injustice which had been
done him more loudly called in question.
At Everard’s desire Mr. Addison made known on the following morning to
the household and the principal tenantry, the change that had taken
place. Before nightfall, it was known and discussed far and wide.
_Consternation_ was the effect of the disclosure. Consternation, in the
house, and out of the house; among the rich and the poor.
Robert’s faults and errors were many of them well known, for everything
is known, but they had never come _home_ to his home. Mr. Vavasour, in
the silence of his study, might muse upon the recklessness of principle
he showed, and look forward to the issue of the course on which he had
entered. But consequences are rarely thought of by the uneducated, and
the future is but a shadow, when the charm of the present is felt. When
Robert came to his home it was as the gay, generous, open-hearted, and
open-handed young man; a character which even with personal charms far
less than his, has an attraction none can withstand. Had it been
possible to set forth the certain truth, that if Robert went on as he
had begun, the hardly saved and much beloved inheritance of his
forefathers must before many years be in the hands of strangers, that
consideration might possibly have had weight, might in some degree have
alleviated the blow; but such words had never been _said_ by Mr.
Vavasour, and none said them now. The blow fell, and in his peoples’
eyes it was without excuse. With such a loyalty as the Lee family in the
novel of Woodstock contemplated the misfortunes of Charles the Second,
so rose up the hearts of his servants and his tenantry to sympathise
with Robert.
Everard had observation enough, and he saw tears in the eyes of the
elder men and women, stern looks on the brows of the young. He had not
expected, he certainly had not wished it should be otherwise, and yet
the language of his heart might be expressed in that of St. Paul, “What
mean ye to weep and to break mine heart?” Was it not worse for him than
for them? Had he followed the impulse of a nature only too quick to feel
slights and distrust, he would have withdrawn himself in very cowardice
till the first storm of astonishment and dismay was overpast; but the
same sense of duty which prompted him to act at all, prompted him also
to act bravely; and very conscious that supervision was necessary, and
some guiding head wanting, he determined at once to rouse himself to
the performance of all the duties that must now be his.
On the night after the disclosure there was sad and serious conversation
in the servants’ hall. The butler who had been many years in the house,
came to talk it over with the old coachman, and many others gathered
round to hear.
“I never thought I should have had to blame my poor master,” the butler
said. “I never felt before, but that his word was like the law and the
gospel. If he said a thing was to be, I had no more a mind to say a word
against it, than to the King on his throne. And it’s a hard thing to
have to give him up; but mortal men are prone to err, and my poor master
was like the rest of us.”
“It’s the _hinjustice_,” said the old coachman. “Ever since I was born,
man and boy, there was never a time when I didn’t think _hinjustice_
was _hinjustice_; and if my poor master that’s in his grave was standing
before me, I would tell him so to his face.”
“Very true, Roger. Mr. Everard is a quiet young gentleman, dutiful and
good to his father, and kind to all. I have not a word to say against
Mr. Everard: but he never was born to this; and he’s no more equal to
Mr. Robert than I am; and to thrust himself into another’s place, is, as
you say Roger, _injustice_. Servants must do their duty, but they can
reason as well as other men.”
“Servants must do their duty of course,” observed a young groom who was
devotedly attached to Robert, “but more than my duty I won’t do for Mr.
Everard or anybody. I’ll do my work, but I won’t call him my master, not
if he puts me in the stocks for it. It’s injustice, and I’ll show him I
think so as sure as I live.”
“Now Thomas,” said the elderly housemaid, who had seen Everard’s grief,
and had been deeply touched by his sufferings, “I won’t have you speak
so. Mr. Everard, poor dear, feels it all as sadly as the rest of us.
That evening after the will had been read, I went in to take a kettle to
his room, and he was standing there. Poor dear! I never shall forget his
face. I thought there must be something bad, and I asked him if I could
bring him something to do him good, and he said ‘no Betsey, nothing,’ so
bitterly, as if nothing could ever do him good again. Poor dear! I
thought it was about his papa, for he was always uncommon fond of his
papa; but no doubt it was the will that troubled him. Depend upon it he
feels it as bad as we do.”
“Then why not throw it up, Betsy,” said the coachman. “No man is bound
to _hinjustice_ as I believe, and I think I know the law.”
“Well, but then he promised,” she said with a look of awe. “When my poor
master was a dying, and the young gentlemen arrived, Mrs. Allen was
standing outside, lest she might be called to my poor mistress in her
grief--and she _heard_. She didn’t know then what it meant, but she
heard my master ask Mr. Everard if he would obey him when he was dead
and gone; and she heard Mr. Everard, poor dear, make a kind of a vow for
ever and ever, and she said she thought it meant to be a good young
gentleman, but no doubt this was in his mind. Mrs. Allen told me so
to-day, and she says she thinks Mr. Everard can’t help himself no more
than a marriage vow.”
Betsy’s communication produced a great effect so far as Everard was
concerned. The butler and the old coachman both declared that a vow was
a vow, and must be kept; and resolved to do their duties to Everard as
if he were their true master. The young groom alone held out, and said
that whatever others did he didn’t care--“he would never call Everard
Mr. Vavasour, not if he lived for twenty years in his service,”--and
there was so much dignity in his look and speech as he made the
announcement, that his fellow servants could not help regarding him as
belonging more or less to the army of martyrs and themselves as poor
creatures in comparison.
A trifling circumstance softened towards Everard the hearts of his
servants, and gave them a better understanding of his feelings. On the
morning on which he determined to assume his new position in the house,
he marked it by the recommencement of family prayers, which, with only
occasional intermissions, had been read by his father for nearly fifty
years. He was too much agitated as yet for this to be otherwise than an
effort, but his frame of mind was also that which almost finds pleasure
in trying itself. He miscalculated, however, his powers of self-command.
Against the many sad thoughts natural to the occasion, he had steeled
himself, but one sight overset him. It was Robert who had discovered his
intention, and was seated with the rest, and awaiting him; as if prompt,
only too prompt in Everard’s eyes, to show obedience to his wishes.
Thus overset, he could not recover himself, and when he sat down and
opened the Bible at the second lesson for the day, no voice came at his
call. The maids, soft-hearted and excitable, and already with their
handkerchiefs to their eyes, gave way to their feelings in stifled sobs,
and a most painful scene might have ensued, had not Hope, putting aside
all selfish feelings of nervousness and timidity, risen from her seat,
and drawing a chair to Everard’s side, begged him aloud to let her read
for him.
He acquiesced with a look of gratitude which was not lost upon the
watchful audience, and as the servants returned to their work, “poor Mr.
Everard” was said, with a heartfelt tone which showed a real relenting.
It even affected the resolution of the young groom, for in the course of
the day, after giving the matter due consideration, he confidentially
told the coachman that if “Mr. Everard seemed to make a point of it, he
should see what he could do after a bit, about calling him Mr.
Vavasour.”
Hope’s conduct, her utter forgetfulness of self, touched Robert deeply,
and as they walked together to the breakfast room, he laid his hand on
her arm and in an unsteady voice said, “I have no right to say such
things now, Hope, but if ever there was an angel on earth, I believe you
are one.”
He did not look at her, nor seek to hear her speak, nor did he touch
upon the subject further, but this slight allusion to old feelings, the
only one he ever made, brought a beating to her heart, and a flush to
her cheek, which told to herself at least too plainly how little had as
yet been done in separating her life from his.
When breakfast was over and Hope had left the room, her cousins still
lingering at the table, Robert suddenly and hurriedly took a letter from
his pocket, and put it into Everard’s hands, observing, “I wish you to
see it before it goes.”
It was addressed to Mr. Gresham. The communication was short, for Robert
had nothing of the complete letter-writer about him. He said only what
he had to say, suppressing at all times feeling and reflections, and big
words of all kinds.
“Dear Mr. Gresham,--You will have heard before this of the change in my
circumstances. As our engagement was entered into in the supposition of
my being in the place of an elder son, that change dissolves it, or if
anything more is required, I hasten to set you free from what can no
longer be agreeable to you. I sincerely thank you for the kind
intentions you expressed towards me, and for your confidence in the
promises I fear I very rashly made.
“As my engagement was with _you_, I suppose my duty is to communicate
only with you; but if I did not very well know that Miss Gresham’s
consent, (if she consented,) would only have been a matter of obedience,
I should not have been contented to break it without some reference to
her.
“I remain yours, very truly,
“ROBERT VAVASOUR.
“Audley Court, April 23.”
Everard read the letter with a burning cheek, such as the slightest
allusion to that subject always produced; but he returned it without a
look or word.
“I must of course be guided by what he says,” Robert continued in the
hurried tone in which he had before spoken, “but I know what that will
be.”
“Perhaps not,” Everard said gravely.
“Yes I do. I know him better than you.” And then as if glad to shift the
subject, Robert continued more easily, “And now, Everard, as to the
future; I must do something. Have you thought for me? What shall it be?”
“Under _any_ circumstances,” Everard asked, the changing colour again
showing to what he alluded.
“Yes, I must and will do something; whatever I can; that is not much I
fear.”
“Then I _have_ thought,” Everard said with some hesitation, “and I have
written this letter--I brought it to show you in case you liked my
opinion. What do you think of it?” and he tossed a letter across the
table.
Everard was more accustomed to write than Robert, and his letter was a
better one, but like his it was concise and straightforward, with an
entire suppression of all reflections on what he said; and all
explanations regarding his own personal situation and conduct. It was
addressed to Mr. Perceval. It simply stated Robert’s circumstances, and
his wish for employment; mentioned _his_, Everard’s opinion, that it
should be employment in some public office; and asked his advice and
assistance in and upon the matter. Mr. Perceval’s assistance was very
valuable, as his interest with public men chanced to be considerable.
“That will do famously,” Robert said, as he tossed it back to his
brother; “the very thing I should like best. Do you know,” he added,
“there have been times in these last months when I have longed even to
be a ploughman working for my bread.”
“The _thing_ is different from the wish,” was Everard’s reply, as if he
understood the difference well. “To have to work is hard work
sometimes.”
“The harder the better. If you had my thoughts, Everard,” he continued
in a tone of passion, “you would feel as I do, that employment must be
had. Get it settled for me as fast as you can, and let me be gone.”
The way in which Robert put himself into Everard’s hands, in two days
looking to him and treating him as his natural guardian, was touching
and singular. If it proved on the one hand the worth and strength of
Everard’s nature, shewing it to be one on which man naturally leans, it
shewed on the other a beauty of disposition in the elder brother, which
even vice had been unable as yet to spoil. It showed that it was no
qualities on the surface, which won the love of the good and wise and
holy; but the qualities of the heart, that good soul on which Hope built
so much.
It was four days before Mr. Gresham’s answer was received, for the post
was not so rapid a thing as now, in the days of this tale. When it
arrived, it was in its style very unlike Robert’s communication to him,
for it was lengthy, and wordy, and full of reflections, personal and
otherwise.
There was an essay on engagements, how binding and when; there was the
usual essay on the responsibilities of fathers, proprietors, &c.; there
was an essay also on the duty of resistance to mere feeling. After this
came the sum total, that he allowed the engagement _was_ dissolved. The
letter was very kind, however, and bore the traces of much struggle of
mind, and real feeling towards Robert. To give him up was evidently a
bitter pill. Of Angela he said nothing. For a young female to send a
message on such an occasion he was not prepared.
A message, however, Robert did receive.
He was sitting in the library an hour or two after breakfast, when Mr.
Addison put his head in at the door.
“Can I speak with you for a moment, Robert?” he enquired, and being
eagerly desired to come in, he approached with a letter in his hand.
“I suppose I am justified,” he said, “in shewing you this. Indeed it
requires to be read to be understood; for I could not trust myself to
repeat properly the substance of what it contains.”
The letter was from Angela, written, as the style plainly showed, in
great agitation of mind.
“Dear Mr. Addison,
“I have nobody to apply to but you; to you, therefore, I must write
to say what I feel. My father tells me that Mr. Vavasour offers to
give up the engagement with him on account of his changed
circumstances, and that he accepts. He may accept, but I will not.
I would not for all the world do so dishonourable and ungenerous a
thing. _You_ know what I felt before, so you will not misunderstand
me now. It may break my heart, but I would rather die than act in
any other way. You have often said that if right is done, peace
will come at last, and so I hope peace will come at last to me, for
I am sure that I am right in what I intend. I have been too
obedient, but I will not be obedient now. I must leave it to you to
make known to Mr. Vavasour what I say; you must do it in the way
that it should be done. You will know best what is right, and, as I
said, I leave it to you. You must tell him that I will try to be a
good wife to him, and that if we went away from England it would be
easier to me. If he persists, I do not think my father will be hard
to persuade. Forgive me, and pity me, dear Mr. Addison, and do not
think I am doing a strange thing, for, indeed, it must be done.
“Yours, affectionately,
“ANGELA GRESHAM.”
Mr. Addison watched Robert intently as he read. That he was touched was
very plain.
“Poor little thing,” he said tenderly, “I will write to her myself.”
“Shall you accept, Robert?”
“Accept! Mr. Addison,” he cried, “what do you take me for? I have given
her pain enough; I will set her mind at ease at once. Leave me the
letter, and I will write.”
“Is it no temptation?” asked his old friend, looking fixedly at him.
“Not the least, Mr. Addison. Don’t think better of me than I deserve. If
I could be a galley-slave just now, that might be a temptation. This is
none. I don’t speak of the future, for I know my resolutions are no
better than Delilah’s packthread when temptation comes, but if work can
keep me from temptation, I will work against any man.” He paused and
crossed his arms, and an expression of intense and painful feeling
gathered on his face. “When I remember what I have _done_, Mr. Addison,”
he continued, “that _death_ is on my shoulders, I only wonder I have the
power to live on as I do. But God is merciful I suppose, and does not
let remorse be harder than one can bear.”
“No, Robert, for He gives a future, where all may yet be redeemed.”
“Not _all_,” was the reply, with an accent of suffering, which haunted
Mr. Addison for many days.
But he was thankful for the words that Robert had said, for so elastic
was his natural temperament, and so foreign was it to his nature to make
a show of any emotion he could suppress, that Mr. Addison had been
doubtful in what degree a real impression had been made.
When left to himself Robert took Angela’s letter and answered it.
“My dear Miss Gresham,
“Not for worlds would I take advantage of the kind words you have
written about me. All is, and all should be, at an end between us;
for you know as well as I know that on neither side were there
feelings which could have won a blessing. I am going to make
myself very vile in your eyes and to tell you all the truth. It was
your position and my sad and sinful circumstances that led me to
think of you. My love, if I am not too unworthy to talk of love,
has long been altogether with another. It is a truth painful for me
to tell, and not flattering to you to hear, but you deserve
truth,--and my respect and gratitude, and, I will say, my affection
too, will not let me hide it from you. Now then you are free, and
God grant you may soon be happy also.
“As you speak of my change of circumstances, I will tell you this,
it was not at first welcome but now it is. I am better pleased to
see Everard in my father’s place than I could ever have been to
stand there myself, for he is such a son as my father should have
had, and I, as we all know too well, am not.
“Forgive me for all the anxiety and trouble I have caused you, and
forgive me also now if my words are too plain. I wish I could
better thank you for that kindness which I am sure I feel.
“God bless you,
“ROBERT VAVASOUR.”
When the letter was done Robert took it and Angela’s also, and went in
search of Everard. He found him with the steward, devoting himself, with
a sad and careworn face, to the understanding of all the intricacies of
the management of a property, large and laden with debt. Everard had a
clear head, but he was totally unaccustomed to business of this kind,
and his look as he hung over the books was so bewildered that it almost
drew from Robert a smile.
“If you can spare one moment, Everard,” he said, as he paused at the
door, “I want you.”
Everard coloured when he perceived that Robert saw his business, and
sprang up and followed him.
“Just read these,” Robert said, “before they go;” and he put the two
letters into his hand. He turned away, but from a distance glanced at
his brother with an expression of archness about his eyes and lips.
A burning blush as he read Angela’s letter, and a lip trembling with
suppressed emotion when he came to Robert’s words about himself--these
two signs of feeling he showed as he perused them, but this was all.
When he turned to Robert to replace them in his hand, it was not only
without agitation, but it was with an air of such indifference, as if
his opinion had been simply asked respecting some matter of business.
“Will it do, Everard?” Robert enquired, as he took them back.
“I suppose so; yes, I have no doubt very well,” he replied, but his tone
was constrained and cold.
“Oh, then that is all, don’t let me detain you,” Robert said, quickly,
and he turned away, puzzled and disappointed by his brother’s manner.
Everard looked after him with a sad and wistful look, but he did not
recall him; and after standing thus for a few seconds, he returned with
a brow no less harassed and careworn to his business.
Three or four days longer passed before an answer was received from Mr.
Perceval. When it arrived at last, he apologised in it for his delay, by
announcing the success of his applications in Robert’s behalf. Interest
worked more powerfully in those days than it does now, and as before was
said Mr. Perceval’s interest chanced to be considerable. He had stated
his own claims and Robert’s peculiar circumstances, not concealing his
former erring life, but expressing a strong hope and confidence that the
future would efface the past. At the moment of his application, a
clerkship in one of the highest offices was vacant, and after some
consideration and demur, it was given to him.
These were the facts on which he dwelt; and in making the announcement
to Everard, he merely and simply said that he trusted to Robert not to
bring down censure upon his head.
A postscript to the letter made a proposition, for Robert to accept or
decline as he thought proper. It was an offer of apartments in his
house. That he would be as perfectly independent there as in a lodging,
Mr. Perceval said he could not of course promise, but he would insure to
him all reasonable independence, and as he was a bachelor, and often
absent from home, he did not think the society of his house need weigh
upon any man as a burden. He made the offer, he said, under the
supposition and the hope, that Robert was sincerely desirous to improve
himself, and it had occurred to him that the slight tie of such a home
as his, might be an assistance without being a bondage.
Unwilling to have any communications regarding his brother but such as
were perfectly open, Everard laid the whole letter before Robert.
The first part he read, and having read expressed his extreme
gratification and obligation. The postcript was on another page, and he
returned the letter without perceiving it. Everard directed his
attention to its contents, and to the fact that a speedy answer was
requested.
Robert coloured deeply as he read it, and looked at Everard. “For
myself,” he said, hesitatingly, “there is nothing I should like better,
but don’t you know, Everard ... has not my mother mentioned it to
you--she wishes to have a house with me in London.”
Everard became very pale. Though the idea was but a natural one, the
possibility of his decision driving his mother from the home in which
her affections had taken absolute root, had never presented itself to
him.
“I think it a very bad plan,” Robert said quickly, seeing and feeling
for his brother’s distress, “and I have said all I can against it.
Though she is too unhappy now to care, I know very well what she has
always felt, and will again feel in a short time, about London. There is
no one so dependent on the freedom of country life. I wish you would
speak to her. I have said all I can without seeming absolutely unkind;
I wish you would try what you can do.”
“But why should I?” he asked with great sadness. “You all wish to be
together. It is very natural though I had not thought of it.”
“_I_ do not wish it. Besides that I think it a bad plan for my mother, I
do not wish it for myself. For _many_ reasons,” he added, colouring
again, “I dislike it. As I said before, _I_ can say no more without
seeming not to be anxious to have her, but if you can do anything, I
shall be very truly glad.”
Everard observed him intently as he spoke, but made no further
observation at that moment.
He went out for a long and solitary walk, that he might reflect in
peace. He had reasons for thinking the plan a bad one in more respects
than one, and yet again, had he yielded to the promptings of his
sensitive spirit, he would have disclaimed all wish to interfere, and
would have permitted those who desired to leave him, to leave him
without remonstrance. But responsibility was bringing to Everard that
change which it must bring to all thoughtful tempers.
Those who are placed in any sense over others, may no longer act for
themselves. If they do, they show themselves unworthy of the burden
imposed upon them. His father’s words in which he committed to _him_ the
guardianship of those he left behind him, were unceasingly sounding in
Everard’s ears. No distrust of his own powers, no dread of seeming to
put himself forward, could overcome the sense of responsibility they
brought. His determination when he decided to accept his father’s will
had also been to act as far as his inexperienced years would allow, in
his father’s stead; and in that spirit he was prepared and resolved to
act now, It was an occasion involving the highest interests of all
committed to him, his mother, Robert, and Hope, and he bent all his
powers to weigh and consider the course he should pursue.
The result of his reflections led him on his return to his mother’s
room.
He found her sitting at her window gazing out with intent though
abstracted eyes. During the last few days her bodily health had
improved. She was no longer prostrate with grief, but the mental sorrows
had gathered acuteness from the body’s restoration. The softness of her
features was naturally calculated to express the more touching elements
of grief, but such was not their expression now. There was not even the
calm of one absorbing sorrow. Restless, tormenting, uncontrollable
emotions agitated and disturbed them.
She was gazing out on the fair scenes that so long had been her home,
now flushing into the freshness of early spring. Woods upon woods till
they crowned a distant hill rising behind each other in all the tranquil
beauty of an English landscape, and in the midst of them the tall spire
of the village church, now her husband’s resting place, giving
character, and life, and feeling to the scene. The gaze was so intent
that Everard felt she must be taking a farewell, and there was a sadness
in its intensity that gave him hope, she might be won to relent.
He came to her side, and sat down and said softly and sorrowfully,
“Mother, it is I who am driving you far away from here.”
She was startled by his abrupt beginning,--although in truth it exactly
harmonized with her thoughts,--and touched by the sadness of his voice,
she looked up in his face and said hurriedly--“I go with Robert, it is
right I should. Oh! Everard, you do not consider Robert.”
“Not consider him, Mother?”
“I mean,” she continued, agitated by the tone in which he spoke, “that
you do not, that you cannot understand....” she broke off then began
again. “It is a great change to Robert--he should not be left alone to
bear it. It is right I should give myself to him.”
“Mother,” he began seriously after a short silence, “if it were only the
pain your resolution gives to me, I would not say one word. I know
Robert should be considered first, and I know it is no grief to you to
give up all for him. But is it for his good. Mother?” he continued,
stooping forward agitatedly and grasping her hands; “there were some
words, do you remember them, of guardianship for _all_.... I cannot
forget them; they are a charge upon me--I must do what I can to fulfil
them; will you hear me?”
“Say what you wish, Everard,” she replied gently, while tears fell down
her cheeks. “I am listening.”
“Would it be for Robert’s good, Mother? What you wish for him is it not
that he should be strong. Would it not be best for him, that now when
his resolutions are fresh and firm, he should learn to resist
temptation, to stand alone, to _be_ strong. It is not his will that goes
astray, Mother, we all know that, but his weakness. It seems as if now
was the moment that never may come again, when he may learn to resist.
It is strange of me, his brother, to speak of him as I do, but, dear
Mother, I am compelled to do it.”
Mrs. Vavasour made no reply. Her conscience quick to feel, acknowledged
that what he said was true. It was not in the atmosphere of such love
as she gave him, misjudging, idolizing love, that he would learn
strength. What Everard did not say she felt, and yet was silent.
“And Hope, Mother,” he continued after a moment. “Should you not think
of her? If you go, she cannot stay with me, and yet, after all that has
passed, would it not be best, would it not be most right both for her,
and for Robert, that for a time they should he apart? Dear Mother, I may
seem to take too much upon myself, but I speak only because I feel I
_must_.”
His look, his tone, were so like his father’s, his care and forethought
were so like to his, that Mrs. Vavasour could hardly resist him.
She was about to promise further thought on the subject; but before the
words were spoken, Robert passed under the window at a little distance;
walking, as he often did of late, with crossed arms and eyes bent upon
the ground. The old feelings, the jealous pangs, returned anew at the
sight, and the relenting words were withheld.
Yet, unwilling to wound him by an obstinate refusal, she considered for
a moment, and then turning to him gravely said, “Everard, trust me, it
is best as it is. What must come soon had better come at once. You will
marry and then....”
“Marry, Mother!” he exclaimed quickly, and passionately, “no, Mother, I
am not likely to marry.”
“But why, Everard?” she asked, looking up in some surprise in his
flushed face, “Robert says....”
“There is nothing to be said. I am _not_ going to marry. When I do,” he
added after a moment, suddenly recovering himself and speaking calmly,
“you shall hear of it in time. In time to leave me, Mother, in time to
find another home, since you think my home....” Tears of wounded
feeling sprang into his eyes and his voice faltered.
Mrs. Vavasour was touched and grieved. She felt she had excused herself
unworthily. In the impulse of the moment she said, “I will stay with
you, Everard,” and she stretched out her hand to him. But it was hardly
given before it was withdrawn, and as if the effort had been too great,
she dropped her head in her hands and burst into passionate tears.
Everard sprang up as if beside himself. “Oh! Mother, am I indeed so
hateful to you?”
“No, Everard, no; dear Everard, no;” she replied endeavouring to compose
herself, “it is not that; _but_ I cannot ... forgive me, but I cannot
submit to _his_ will.”
“Oh! Mother,” he cried in passionate sorrow, “only tell me what I shall
do. _Can_ I do otherwise, Mother? I put it in your hands; only tell me.
_Can_ I disobey? Do you command me, and to you I submit.” He knelt
beside her, and forcibly drew her hands from her face.
She became calm when she saw her son’s excessive agitation, but she had
no words with which to compose him. Her husband’s will had broken her
heart and made her soul rebel, but _he_ was loved as passionately as
ever, and not for worlds would she have commanded or even desired a
resistance to it. She parted Everard’s hair, and kindly, almost
tenderly, kissed his brow, but in answer to his appeal only shook her
head.
“I make you wretched, mother,” he said mournfully, “but not so wretched
as I make myself. You feel for Robert, you should also feel for me.”
“I do,” she replied faintly, and for the first time there was a dim
consciousness of what it cost him to act as he did.
Mrs. Vavasour’s change of intention was received both by Hope and Robert
with satisfaction. Hope’s views regarding the advantages of independence
for Robert,--at this moment when, if ever, his roused feeling would give
him strength, and teach him to resist,--coincided exactly with those of
Everard. She had long begun to be aware that there was a something
enervating in Mrs. Vavasour’s love for her son, that in spite of her own
pure and high motives and character, a something warped in her judgment
when she considered Robert’s failings; and she was of opinion that it
was best at this time at least that he should once again face life
alone. That it was a relief to Robert was also evident, and the reason
of that relief, was very plain.
Everard had perceived already that since the first excitement of sorrow
had passed, Robert had never been perfectly easy in Hope’s presence; and
that although careful not to wound her, he by many indirect ways
endeavoured to avoid being alone with her. So far therefore he was
strengthened in his opinion, and comforted in having enforced it. Yet as
the time of Robert’s departure drew near, when he saw his mother’s
grief, and thought of Robert going alone into his new and strange life,
his mental suffering was more than he could bear. Nor was the day of
departure in any way calculated to soothe his troubled spirit.
It was a day of unspeakable bitterness to all; but it could be to none
what it was to him. Not only the sorrow _in_ the house, not only the
sight of his mother’s wild grief, and Robert’s passionate
farewell--there was more to bear. The whole tenantry assembled to see
him go; the whole household of weeping servants surrounded his chaise;
all pressed round him, as if with him their very life departed; and
Everard stood in silence, and felt as if it were written with a dagger’s
point on his heart, “And I the cause.”
Robert came from his mother’s room in an excitement of grief he could
not restrain. He walked by Hope’s side, and in the hall stopped to
embrace her. “Hope,” he said passionately, “I am unworthy to ask it, but
pray for me night and day that I may redeem the past.”
“I will, Robert,” was all she said; while a deep glow overspread her
face, and she drew back.
He went on and came in sight of the thronged court yard; Everard was
standing, at the door calm, but pale as death.
“This is bitter,” he muttered, and grasping Everard’s hand for an
instant, he sprang rapidly down the steps, and threw himself into the
chaise.
There was no definite noise, but a subdued sound of sobs and murmurs
rose on every side--and so the chaise drove off.
Everard re-entered the hall. A deadly sorrow was upon him that chilled
his very soul. Hope was still standing, gazing from a window, but at the
sight of him, her thoughts changed from the one that was gone, to the
one that was left.
She came up to him. “Everard you look wretched,” she said kindly and
pitifully.
“It is bitter,” he murmured, as if the echo of Robert’s words was
ringing in his heart.
“Bitter now, but not hereafter. Oh! Everard, it will be your happy part
to save him.”
He looked at her as if endeavouring to take her comfort into his soul;
but though it passed faintly over the surface the dead cold chill
remained beneath.
He turned from her and fetching his hat, went and sat for hours by his
father’s grave. If comfort was at that moment to be gathered it was
there alone.
END OF VOL. II.
London, Godfrey & Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand.