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Title: The two brothers; vol. 2 [of 3]

Author: Lady Emily Ponsonby

Release date: August 17, 2026 [eBook #79389]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hurst and Blackett, 1858

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79389

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWO BROTHERS; VOL. 2 [OF 3] ***

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II., CHAPTER III., CHAPTER IV., CHAPTER V., CHAPTER VI., CHAPTER VII., CHAPTER VIII., CHAPTER IX., CHAPTER X., CHAPTER XI., CHAPTER XII.

THE TWO BROTHERS.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF

“THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,” “CLARE ABBEY,”

“THE YOUNG LORD,”

&c., &c.

“Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.”—DRYDEN.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,

SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,

13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1858.

The Right of Translation is reserved.

THE TWO BROTHERS.

CHAPTER I.

My affections

Are then most humble; I have no ambition

To see a goodlier man.

THE TEMPEST.

IT was with some shame that Everard confessed to his father the following morning what he had done. His own heart was not dissatisfied; he knew his excuse—but this could not be told. “The temptation was too great for me,” were his words, “and I gave way.”

“And what is your purpose now?” was the cold question, not without bitterness in it. Mr. Vavasour had expected more self-controul; he remembered his twelve years of concealment, and with shame and disappointment thought of his son’s weakness.

“I have disappointed you father, I know,” Everard said, colouring.

“You have, Everard. But you will disappoint me no more,” added his father kindly. “My trust is in you, and you must not fail.”

Everard sighed. “I will not,” he replied, but the tones were less resolute than was common. His heart was stirred with strange and soft emotions, and his stoic self was not a pleasing object in his eyes.

“And what is your purpose now, Everard?” This time the question was more gently and pityingly asked. Mr. Vavasour could well imagine what his son felt. It was by no means stoicism that he admired or desired. It was but conquest.

“I can do but one thing, can I father? I must go and confess what I said to Mr. Gresham, and then ... I think ...” he added, a tumult of blood rushing to his brow, “ask for hope.”

Mr. Vavasour seemed lost in thought.

“Father,” Everard said, approaching him, the look of thought and care on his father’s face giving him sorrow, sharp and keen, “you may trust me. I will do nothing your son should not do, nothing an honourable nature should not. Father,” he continued with a warmth strangely different to the gravity of his usual manner, “do you not know that happiness would be nothing, that even to win her would be nothing if I disappointed you.”

“Thank you, my boy—I believe it,” Mr. Vavasour replied, shading his eyes with his hand; as if the expression of warm affection, even while it warmed and animated him, brought pain to his reserved nature. “It was not doubt of you that kept me silent, Everard. It was this. Are you strong enough to endure hope? Consider well.”

It seemed a strange question to Everard, who felt that to be allowed to hope, would he in itself life and joy. He made no answer. Mr. Vavasour continued.

“You do not understand me, Everard. Hear what such hope is from one who has had experience. If any be allowed by Mr. Gresham it is probable it will be a distant only and secret one. Such hope is not what poets paint. It is a care eating into the soul. It is a hope doomed to live without food; fretted by jealousy, consumed with fear, and in the end, after long nourishing, after being cherished until it is a part of life, it may be crushed in a moment of time. I say again consider well before you undertake to bear it. It requires more strength than you can guess.”

“You bore it, father?”

“Yes, Everard, I did. It was crowned with success, and its reward has been happiness. Had it been crushed it would have been death.”

He looked in Everard’s face, and saw how ineffectual were his words. No man, however true he may afterwards find it, will receive such advice from another’s experience.

“I see that I speak to the winds,” he said with a faint smile, “and so I believe it would have been with me. Well, my boy, go, and God bless you.”

When he left his father’s room, Everard bent his steps without further thought to Underwood. He was in a strange, unwonted state of mind. Very vague, yet very bright, intangible, yet very sweet, were the visions and the feelings that stirred and animated him. It was as if a veil had suddenly been lifted from the face of the earth, and without watching its growth, a full harvest of beauty had been revealed. To many, to most, this state of feeling comes gradually; many hopes and fears, many foreshadowings before the reality; but to Everard, to feel himself loved and chosen, to allow himself to think of, and grasp the thought, was so new, that it was like plunging into another world, and waking up another man. All the fretting sorrows of childhood, boyhood, manhood; all the convictions that none loved, or ever would love and care for him as they did for Robert, vanished like the cold snow of winter. The thought gave elasticity to his steps, dignity to his movements, light, warmth, and beauty to his face.

He walked fast; stayed not to consider, even when he reached Underwood; the hope that animated him, made him equal to all encounters; and it was not till he stood in Mr. Gresham’s presence, and the solemn calm of his eyes fell upon him, that he awoke from his dreamings, and found himself in the atmosphere of common life.

His mood of madness fell from him like a cloak; what romance could survive beneath that glassy stare.

Everard sighed; felt and owned his folly, and then, with his usual straightforward manner, proceeded to unfold his business.

“I am come to make a confession and a request, Mr. Gresham. I will not detain you long.”

With bland politeness Mr. Gresham assured him his time was at his disposal, and, having so said, he awaited a further communication.

“In a conversation we once had, I gave you my promise to do my best.... I promised to avoid as far as possible any expression of my feeling for Miss Gresham. I know you have trusted to my promise; I felt the trust, and thank you for it, though at the same time, it made the trial to my self-control severe. I wish I could tell you that your trust had been merited. It was so till yesterday, but yesterday I failed. If I tell you that the temptation was strong, it is what all men say, and all men feel when they fail. It excuses me in my own eyes, but it may not do so in yours. All I can do is to confess to you what has passed, and to say that I am sorry if what I have done gives you pain.

“You have then, I understand, made a proposal to my daughter for her hand.”

“No, indeed, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said colouring; “I have not done so. I have told her only, that while your wishes remain as they are, I dare not meet her; dare not, because I cannot depend upon myself. I have asked nothing; but what I said was certainly a failure in the trust you reposed in me, and therefore I come to confess it.”

Mr. Gresham looked up to the ceiling and reflected. When he spoke it was graciously, and his countenance had resumed its complacency.

“Upon the whole, Mr. Vavasour, I am satisfied with you, and thank you for the honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself. I am not altogether displeased at what has taken place. It is perhaps as well that matters should be brought to an issue. I shall now speak to my daughter on this subject, express to her my decided opinion, lay before her those reasonable objections which cannot fail to convince her, and the affair is at rest for ever. Allow me once more to thank you, Mr. Vavasour; and permit me to offer you some refreshment.”

“No, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, feeling how vain had been his hope, how improbable hope should be allowed, yet resolved to ask it. “You must let me say one thing more. My feelings are not changed since the day I spoke to you; I still think that some worth should win this world’s goods. I do not care for the goods, and with all my heart I wish they did not exist; but since they do, and she whom I love and must love is possessed of them, I allow that something more than I yet possess, is necessary to win them, I am not going to make any proposal to Miss Gresham; I am not going to ask any promise on your part or on hers, I would not wish to bind her or you; but I do ask you to give me a hope that if, at some future time, by my character or my intellect, or in other ways, I have proved myself more worthy of her love, you will not altogether condemn me as you do now.”

The solemn, reasonable answer came in forcible contrast to Everard’s words—“My dear Mr. Vavasour, I am distressed beyond measure that you should have permitted yourself to look upon my daughter in such a light; you must allow me to remind you, however, that the fault is your own. I had conceived that I had made my wishes and intentions sufficiently explicit. I can hardly imagine that a repetition of our former conversation is necessary. If you will take the trouble to recall what I then said, I believe you will save me the pain of giving a more decided negative to your unexpected and undesirable request. I am sorry, Mr. Vavasour, if I give you pain, but on such subjects, indeed in all matters, the old proverb holds good—‘Honesty is the best policy.’ And now let this subject be at rest for ever; this painful conversation need not be prolonged. Permit me to offer you some refreshment. I should wish you to present my best respects to your father; of his acquiescence in my views, I have no doubt.”

Everard stood irresolute; and when, as a means of marking the termination of the interview, Mr. Gresham made a third offer of refreshment, he could scarcely refrain from an angry reply. But, notwithstanding the utter extinguishment of hope, which the manner of the latter produced, it was not of himself that Everard was thinking. His irresolution was caused by his sense of what was due to Angela. To assure and encourage him, she had made a movement forward; she had done for him what he could never repay; it would be baseness on his part to allow himself to be dismissed thus. After thus thinking for a second, he spoke:

“Of course, Mr. Gresham, I have nothing to do but to acquiesce in your decision, and submit to it as I can. Before this matter is ended, however, I must entreat you to let me see Miss Gresham. It is due to my honour to allow it, and I think it is due to her. You will find it can do no harm; trust me, I will say nothing you can disapprove.”

Mr. Gresham stroked his chin three times, then gave a courteous reply: “In all possible things, Mr. Vavasour, I am more than willing to gratify one who bears your name. I do perfectly trust you, and will fetch my daughter.” He left the room as he ceased.

Everard’s heart beat with an excitement which was like joy. Restraint, be it self-imposed or otherwise, is a heavy burthen, and even for one moment to cast off his chains in Angela’s presence, was a thought of rapture to him.

This rapture was of short duration. Mr. Gresham returned with Angela, and to the consternation of both, closed the door, and resumed his place at the fire.

There was no triumph in his look, nothing of curiosity, nothing of ill will; he remained because it did not occur to him to leave them to themselves. It was possible an opportunity might arise of expressing to both together his sentiments, and thus of bringing the untoward attachment to a more satisfactory conclusion. This could not be lost. In public, many years before, the business of his own proposal had been transacted; in public, therefore, his daughter could surely reject a suitor.

Angela entered boldly enough. She was resolved, once for all, to let Everard know the esteem she felt for his character; and though there was nothing unmaidenly in her air, it was self-possessed and dignified. He might not be appreciated or accepted by her father, but he should know that he was appreciated by her. But this loftiness gave way to the disconcerting circumstances in which she found herself. Beneath her father’s stare, and Everard’s earnest gaze, her colour rose and her eyelids drooped, and no bashful young girl of sixteen could have stood more timidly and shrinkingly before her lover.

Indignant at having brought her into so awkward a situation, Everard frowned, and advancing hurriedly towards her, determined to put an end to the interview at once. “Forgive me for having brought you here,” he said quickly, “it was not thus I had hoped to speak; but it matters little. What I have to say needs no concealment. It is but this. If I had been allowed to love you, I would have loved you with my whole heart. If I had been allowed to hope, no length of time should have wearied or daunted me. I would have made myself worthy of you. Since this cannot be, I am bound to submit, and I will not give you the pain of listening to regrets for what is inevitable. God bless you, and may he who is so happy as to win you, love you as I would have done.”

He grasped her hand, and then simply bowing to Mr. Gresham, walked rapidly to the door. But there Mr. Gresham arrested him. “One moment, if you please, Mr. Vavasour.”

Everard returned with hope springing up in his heart. Angela remained with her eyes bent to the ground, her colour coming and going, her hands pressed together. There were words within, only by force kept down; words of passion; passionate in their feelings for Everard; passionate in resistance to her father. One thing alone restrained them, the dread of Everard; of losing his esteem; of offending him who was so strong in his sense of duty; of seeming unmaidenly in his eyes. Her attitude was not submissive, yet it looked like it; to her father certainly; perhaps, also to Everard.

Thus they stood to hear the address of Mr. Gresham. It was elaborate, and his two breathless hearers could not from the beginning discern what the end would be. It opened like an essay. He spoke of the bountiful gifts of Providence, and man’s responsibility; of the bountiful gifts profusely showered upon him, and his responsibility for them. The words were true, and, because he felt what he said, even though elaborate, impressive. He then touched upon moral duties, the responsibility of fathers, the importance of marriage in the life of a young female, the dangers of a bad choice, and then the especial importance of a right choice in his case and his daughter’s. Having laid his principles on a good and strong foundation he then proceeded to apply them. “I believe, Mr. Vavasour, I have more than once expressed to you my esteem for many parts of your character. You will not, therefore, I hope, accuse me of prejudice or unkindliness if I state further that I do not consider you fitted to fill that position which I wish, which I think it proper and becoming for my son to fill. There are outward talents and accomplishments, graces of mind, and manner, and body, more precious in the eyes of the world, because more distinguishing, than the commoner possessions of estimable moral qualities. I should consider myself deficient in my duty to my daughter, and to my own position, if I made no account of these graces, and I think it best to tell you frankly that in these I consider you deficient.” His eye for a moment swept over Everard’s outward man, and he then proceeded. “When to these deficiencies we add the want of any honourable position in the world, I think, in common fairness, you must allow that I do but my simple duty in opposing your wishes. Forgive me for being explicit. I am very far from desiring to inflict pain.”

He had certainly been explicit, and beneath that explicitness Everard quailed. The sensitive cannot help being sensitive. They may conceal the pain that words inflict, but the words strike deep. They are born vulnerable and vulnerable they remain. Robert would have heard Mr. Gresham’s discourse with pure amusement: any one, strong in self-respect, would have heard it unmoved. But Everard had no confidence in his powers to please, and his sensitive spirit was stung. One glance of hasty and mortified scrutiny he cast upon his own self, and beneath that glance his muscular frame became clownish in his eyes, and his large features monstrous. He felt as if indeed his presumption had been intolerable; his hope of having inspired affection idle; and in that instant yielding to the promptings of temper, of pride, of vanity, all which qualities lie more or less hid in sensitiveness, even in the sensitiveness of the humble; he took his resolution, and spoke with proud bitterness his farewell. “You have, indeed, Mr. Gresham, made your meaning clear, and whatever pain it gives, I thank you for it. You may depend upon it, you will never need to trouble yourself with such explanations again. You have heard the last of this, and I can only say I beg your pardon for having taken up so much of your time. Good morning.” And with a loftiness whose grace Mr. Gresham might have admired, he bowed to him and Angela, and left the room.

His speech, his movements had been so rapid, that Angela had not time to interfere. In very shame of her father’s speech she had still lower drooped her head and averted her burning cheek; and while she stood breathless for his answer, determined to speak, yet struggling to restrain any indecorous burst of feeling, the whole scene was at an end. The curtain had fallen on the drama, and the door of repentance was closed.

Express herself, however, she did. “It is I who am not worthy of him,” she cried, in a voice tremulous with passion. “If he could feel my unworthiness as I do, he would have no regret in giving me up.”

Mr. Gresham was in a slight degree agitated. He saw he had given pain in the performance of his duty, and was truly sorry for it. He unbuttoned a button of his waistcoat, to allow his feelings to escape before he spoke, and when he spoke it was mildly and with kindness. “Young women, my love, are bad judges in such matters. The world at seventeen presents a different appearance to that which it presents to experienced eyes. It becomes those who have experience to watch for those who have not. The day will come, no distant day, when you will thank me for what I have done.”

“Never,” cried Angela, with vehemence. “Mr. Everard Vavasour has won my esteem as much as my love, and that never disappoints. He may not have outward shows, though I see nothing wanting; but he has a high and noble nature, and nothing we could give him would bear comparison with what he would have given me.”

“So, my love, you think at this moment,” resumed her father with placid wisdom. “It is the common sentiment of young ladies. The first caprice in their eyes involves the happiness of life. But I who have been endowed with some wisdom and experience in worldly matters, am happily aware of the evanescent nature of youthful romance. I am sincerely sorry, my love, to have been forced to give you even so much annoyance; but I repeat it, at a future day you will thank me for having preserved you from the effects of a hasty and ill-judged attachment.”

Angela vouchsafed no further answer. Mr. Gresham’s calm common places had always exercised a singular influence over her; binding her down with far greater force than violence could have done. To argue with him, to vent her passion with him, was like fighting with smooth marble. When he approached her and kissed her brow, partly in real kindness, partly as a proper termination to the interview, she submitted, and received in silence his wise admonition to banish the painful subject from her remembrance. A very lofty step and dignified air as she quitted the room, was all of opposition she could show to his will, and that was entirely lost upon him.

It was well for Angela that her attachment was founded on esteem. It was well that the fear of lowering herself in the eyes of him who loved her, acted as a check upon her impulses. The present state of her mind was not one in which she could well say “Lead me not into temptation,” for she would indeed have desired to be tempted by Everard to forsake all those shows of things which stood between her and him, for his sake. Such undisciplined tempers, such impatient affections, are and must ever be wrong, and in saner moments even in the eyes of the tempted themselves, revolting; yet, in Angela’s case, and perhaps in many cases, there is in them a generosity, a scorn of worldliness, which misleads the eyes, and blinds the judgment; and evil is done in a seeming excess of a noble quality.

Upon the whole, however, Angela was happy. She was assured of that which she had desired; she had ground for suffering her thoughts to fix, where without her will they choose to roam; she had not wasted her regard in a dream of ashes, and the perplexities that accompanied her early attachment were not very insurmountable to the romantic fancy of seventeen.

This romantic fancy had abundant play in dreaming out the next few months in novel like manner. She in London, and Everard in London. It seemed next to impossible they should not meet. That he should give her up, that he should not sometimes be lingering about her door, was not to be imagined, and in fancy she sometimes drew such vivid pictures of sudden meeting, that her heart would beat with all the strength of reality. These dreamings occupied her mind, and when hope is young and bright, are enough to occupy it.

“Qui a l’espoir du bien, a déjà le bien de l’espoir.”

CHAPTER II.

Joys, amongst other things

Have wings

And watch their opportunities of flight,

Converting in a moment day to night.

C. HERVEY.

THE spring lagged wearily on its way to all the characters of this tale.

To Angela it was unspeakably trying and tedious. Her mind was one whose ever vivid hopes must inevitably know disappointment, and though a vivid fancy gives elasticity of disposition, the elasticity wears out with repeated shocks, and a consequent depression succeeds. She came to London excited and expectant, but as the spring advanced a vexed and bitter spirit ensued. Those pictured meetings, that romance of life; where were they or it to be found? London is a large place, and though strange and unexpected meetings do certainly occur; as certainly expected meetings fail to take place. Week after week went by, and Angela watched from her drawing-room and from her carriage window the countless passengers that took their way through the thoroughfares of London; but the one single form on which her eyes longed to rest, was nowhere to be seen. The mornings began in hope and the evenings closed in disappointment, and thus as time passed on hope grew faint, and tedium and disappointment became the prevailing mood of her day.

“I don’t know how you feel, Aunt Jane,” she one day observed to her aunt in a permitted visit to Hampstead, “but life seems to me to become more and more insufferable every day.” Nearly the same words had been said before, but the spirit was then different.

“I am sorry you find it so, my love,” replied her placid aunt. “It does not seem so to me.”

“Life I also think is very curious,” she continued; “you must not think that I mean anything wrong, but I must own I think the affairs of men’s lives are arranged in a very mysterious way. I can understand about the bad being punished, and the thoughtless tried to make them thoughtful; and even I can understand that the good may be tried to make them better; but there are some things that seem to me beyond all understanding. Don’t interrupt me. I want to state a case to you. A person who wishes very much, who wishes above all things to be good, and who meets with a person, so good, so steady, that he could make her so, and he likes her, and would undertake the work, and she likes him, and would do all in her power to please him; and yet they are not allowed to be anything to each other; and meanwhile the person who would be good if she could, having no one to guide her goes on from bad to worse. Now don’t you think that that is a curious and mysterious state of things?”

“I suppose, my love, you mean yourself.”

“Yes,” said her niece, with a half smile. “You have discovered that, have you, dear Aunt Jane?”

“My love, it does seem mysterious; but that word mysterious reminds me of a hymn I once learned. Stay a moment, and I shall remember it.

‘God moves in a mysterious way,’

that’s the first line, but I forget that verse. But stay a moment, now it is coming.... Here are two verses. I think you will like them.

“ ‘Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

The clouds you so much dread

Are big with mercy, and will break

In blessings on your head.

‘His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.’ ”

Miss Price repeated her poem with unwonted energy, elated to have found a lost treasure in her memory.

“The bud has a very bitter taste indeed,” was Angela’s remark, after a few moments of thought. “Do you really think it will come to be a flower at last? If I were sure of that I should not mind waiting.”

“In some way a flower, no doubt, my love.”

“But I want it only in one way. Oh! Aunt Jane,” she exclaimed, and tears were in her eyes, “do you think I shall be disappointed all my life?”

“I trust not, my love. I am sure I trust not. You are very young to think of disappointment. Try to put it out of your head for the present, dearest. Try to be content and patient for the present, and enjoy your many blessings.”

“My many blessings!” and Angela closed up her lips and tossed her head.

“Yes, love, surely many.”

“To be as strong as a horse and as rich as a Jew—do you call those such great blessings. I don’t; that is, at least, not as I have them. I can make no use of riches, and as to my strength, it only makes me more able to be bored. I was made to be a good, honest, hard-working dairy maid, and it is very hard to be a young lady, cooped up in a close carriage, with grand clothes and nothing to do.”

“It seems hard, my love, but no doubt it is for good. Perhaps, dearest, it is to teach you to be patient.”

“And that, alas! it does not do. It makes me impatient, and cross, and angry with everybody. I don’t believe even you, Aunt Jane, can guess what my life is. I have nobody to care for, nobody even to like with the commonest kind of liking; it is as if papa advertised for false artificial people, they come to our house so thick and fast. There is Mrs. Vansittart ... she dines there most weeks. Papa is always holding her up as a pattern, and really seems to like to talk to her. She is rouged, and all over jewels, and thinks of nothing but being rich, and how much she gives for her gowns. What can I care what she gives for her gowns?... and then there is her son—oh! such a mean-spirited wretch—thinking he likes me, that is, thinking I think he does, and supposing that I don’t see every crevice of his shallow heart, and know it to be full of nothing but pomps and vanities. The only pleasure I have in life is in teazing him, and making him explain his compliments, till they look so flat and insipid even he blushes over them. I really am sometimes positively ashamed when I think of the company we keep.”

“It is a pity, my love, to speak so. Don’t be angry, dearest, but I think it a bad habit to be scorning so much. They are God’s creatures as well as you.”

“Yes,” said Angela, gravely, “but that is what troubles me most of all. How come there to be such people? But....”

She was arrested in her conversation by a quick short knock at the house door. She paused, and with a startled blush and enquiring eyes looked at her aunt.

“That is Mr. Vavasour’s knock,” observed Miss Price, in a more hurried tone than usual, and with a slight glow of disturbance even on her impassive face.

Angela sprang up, and then stood agitated and uncertain, her colour rapidly changing from red to white.

“Compose yourself, my love,” said her aunt, “he will say nothing your father would disapprove. Sit still and receive him like a common acquaintance. There is nothing to fear.”

“As if that were possible, or as if I had thought of Papa,” was Angela’s soliloquy, while her heart beat tumultuously with she knew not what expectation.

The house door closed abruptly, and expecting Everard’s immediate entrance, Angela hurried to the window to still her agitation and arm herself with dignity. She reached it just in time to see a gentleman rapidly walk away, the very form for which her eyes had sought so long in vain.

She stood looking out without an exclamation, silent and sick at heart, tears of pride, resentment, and mortification stealing down her cheeks.

The drawing-room door opened, and the little maid brought to her expecting mistress, a card on a tray. “The Gentleman hoped you were quite well, ma’am, and he would not come up to-day.”

“I hope you said I was in tolerable health,” she replied tranquilly, though both relieved and disappointed at this termination to her anxiety.

“No, ma’am, I only said ‘Yes, Sir.’ He asked first if you was at home, and I said you was and Miss was here.”

“Very well, Kitty. That was right. That will do,” and the little maid disappeared.

“I feel a little sorry, my love,” observed Miss Price, after waiting some minutes, in the hope that Angela would speak, “but after all, it is best as it is, and I am sure he has tried to do what is right,” and she resumed the work she had laid aside, and began to pick out a false stitch with care and attention.

Her niece made no answer to this observation; and when she resumed her seat near her, it was with a countenance entirely different to any Miss Price had ever seen before. Her air was haughty, her head drawn up, and a kind of proud composure seemed to have driven all the glow of youth from her face.

“What is the matter, my love?” asked Miss Price, almost as much astonished at this change in her appearance, as she had been on the memorable day of her disguise. “You are not offended?”

“Offended!” she said, coldly, “Oh, no, there is no cause for offence. Let us speak of something else. Let me look at your work, Aunt Jane.” And no efforts of her timid aunt could induce her to renew the subject of Everard’s call.

She did not think she had deserved such treatment at his hands, and a feeling of bitter resentment, interspersed in a degree, and at moments, with admiration of what she called his austere views of duty, took possession of her mind, and for the time at least swept softer feelings away.

Strangely different meanwhile to the austerity she imagined were Everard’s feelings. The visit to Miss Price had been the impulse of a moment. At the close of a weary afternoon he had felt a longing to hear of Angela that could not be resisted, and he had started on his visit of enquiry without taking time for thought. A like yielding to impulse had been the retreat. Uncertainty regarding Angela’s reception, distrust of himself, a cloudiness in his vision regarding what his parting words had been, how strong, how binding; doubts in short as to what he might, should, would, could, or ought to do, had made him instinctively draw back; and yet he had scarcely closed the door of hope before he regretted with passionate regret the step he had taken, and felt that he had thrown away the one opportunity of soothing and re-assuring his mind, which had been offered him.

This disordered state of feeling was not like the old Everard. His mother had said that love with him would be a serious thing, and it was so. His mind had his father’s tenacious and concentrated grasp of things, but his character was by no means equal to his father’s in inflexibility. And yet it was not so much his attachment, as its unsatisfactory termination which had disordered him. However sweet it be at the moment to yield to the promptings of temper, be it to express anger, revenge, the bitterness of a wounded spirit, or the mortification that sinks the soul; the sweetness is confined to the moment of expression; a sting is left behind which poisons many an hour which would otherwise have been peaceful. This sting it was which was destroying Everard’s peace. He knew he had cut himself off from hearing Angela’s sentiments; he thought he had lowered himself in her eyes; he knew he had spoken in passion a renunciation of all claims, and how far those passionate words bound him he was unable to decide. Restless uncertainty tormented him day and night.

And there was another torment. He had gone back with redoubled vigour to his work, but the one single aim which had made his brain calm, and his spirit strong, was gone. His father’s image was choked and smothered under a host of bewildering dreams, which set his head on fire. The sting of Mr. Gresham’s words was smarting yet, and often and often, when he suffered his eyes to be following his dull page, his fancy was vaguely pursuing distant ambitious visions, as idle as the vain fancies of a child. He would awake with a start of scorn and repentance, but the idle dreams recurred again.

The trials of Angela and Everard were not trivial; nothing can be trivial which affects either the daily happiness or the future well-being of any human creature; but as compared with the deadly anxiety and sorrow that reigned at Audley Court they were trivial; for that anxiety involved not a temporal only, but an eternal destiny, and that sorrow was for one, round whom the intense affections of many years were twined. The Bible speaks of the mourning for a first-born son, as of one incomparable in its bitterness; such a sorrow and mourning was in Robert’s home, consuming the life within.

Towards the end of January he had written a few lines, expressing his regret for having failed to perform his promise at Christmas. The letter was without date, but the post mark was Paris. There was no want of affection in the letter, nor of regret for having failed, yet there was constraint in its tone, and the words were hurried and few. Of the future no mention was made; there was no expression of hope, no promise, no looking forward to a return; neither was there mention of the present, of where he was, or what were his occupations or his pleasures. It was a letter so vague as to cause anxiety, so strange as to cause fear. The terrors that for a month had been growing up, received a seal and sanction, and deepened in intensity. There was no more hearkening for the sound of wheels, or watching for the sight of his face; a cold, dark, vague dread sat upon each heart, a dread cold and silent as death.

For none spoke their fears. Life went on more silently perhaps, but the same as usual. There was less patience on Mr. Vavasour’s brow, but no words of impatience on his tongue; less cheerfulness in Mrs. Vavasour’s tone, but no acknowledgment that she had need to be sad; and Hope, more full of pity, more full of love, more full of ceaseless prayers, went about her daily tasks and said nothing.

CHAPTER III.

As on the finger of a throned queen,

The basest jewel will be well esteemed;

So are those errors that in thee are seen,

To truths translated, and for true things deemed.

SHAKESPEARE.

MR. GRESHAM and his daughter were passing their evening alone. There was a bright fire in the stately drawing-room, for it was the end of March, and the March air was sharp and cold; and on each side of it, though at a considerable distance from each other, the inmates were sitting. Mr. Gresham was nobly erect, with a lamp at his side, and a newspaper before him; Angela was on a sofa idly and wearily perusing a novel of the most trifling kind. Novels at this moment were her chief employment and solace, and having none to direct her taste, and being dependent on the caprice or fancy of her bookseller, it was not remarkable that her hours were spent, in discovering that the books she read were quite unworthy of the attention of any rational being.

This night the novel was unusually worthless, and having passed a day enlivened only by the attendance of her masters, a call from the daughters of her enemy, Mrs. Vansittart, (young ladies in no degree favoured with her good graces), and a stately drive in her chariot, Angela was in a mood to be pleased with anything that arose in the form of a change or a novelty.

There was a knock at the door, an arrival, an announcement, and the entrance of a most unexpected guest.

“Mr. Vavasour!” exclaimed Angela, with almost a scream of joy.

“Mr. Vavasour!” said Mr. Gresham, with measured but delighted surprise.

Robert had in the first moment paused hesitatingly at the door; but at these warm expressions of pleasure he came forward. How very welcome he was the most diffident must have perceived, and the shade of doubt and embarrassment which had at first tinged his countenance, and slackened his steps, passed away.

“You must be very much surprised to see me, Mr. Gresham, at such an hour,” he began. “I know it is a singular time for a call in England; but I have been living abroad, and there it is fashionable and customary, and so I hope you will excuse my practising my foreign manners upon you.”

“At any time, Mr. Vavasour, at any hour,” Mr. Gresham replied, his words almost too big for expression, “always welcome; at this moment especially welcome because so totally unexpected. I have only to regret that I and my daughter are alone. I have a circle of friends who would most gratefully receive the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“But I came to see you, Mr. Gresham, and not your friends. To tell you the truth, my particular wish is to avoid your friends. I came to your door last night, but there were lights and carriages, and it all looked a great deal too grand for me. I was half afraid I should find the same thing to-night, but fortunately I was mistaken. So here I am.”

“And most welcome, let me again assure you. Angela, my love, offer Mr. Vavasour some tea, or some other refreshment, as may be agreeable to him.”

“Will you have some tea?” she asked in reply; “it will be here directly.”

“Yes, but don’t hurry it. I am in no hurry. I will stay if I may.” And as Angela now reseated herself in her former place he followed, and drew a chair close to her side.

“Well, Miss Gresham,” he began, “how goes the world with you?”

“Very tediously,” she replied, laughing. “I always hated London, and now I hate it worse than ever.”

“That’s right, nothing like a downright opinion. But hate London as you may, it is good for you to come up. Change is good for man and beast. There is a moral lesson which you will do well to remember.”

“Except that I don’t agree to it,” cried Angela, eagerly. “I don’t wish for change. I wish to be always doing what I like best.”

“Ah! that’s quite another thing,” said Robert, with a shake of his head, “and here is an opportunity for a real moral lesson, if I were competent to give it; but moral lessons are beyond me.”

“My daughter is extremely attached to Underwood, Mr. Vavasour,” broke in Mr. Gresham; “and, indeed, to all your neighbourhood. London, with all its pleasures, has no charms compared with it.”

Robert’s brow contracted for an instant, and a dark shade passed over his face, but it was driven away by something darker as he made a light and playful answer.

No experienced observer of Robert’s countenance could have failed to perceive that a change had passed over it during the last few months. He looked older and more careworn, but at the same time more reckless and daring. His handsome features nothing could alter, but even they looked less refined in their beauty. It was as plain as the words of a printed page, that the dawn which had seemed at hand was overcast, and clouded by a deeper night. Mr. Gresham, however, was not acute enough to observe, and Angela was too happy to see him to criticise.

“Why is your life so tedious?” Robert asked of Angela, lowering his voice not exactly to a whisper, but to a confidential tone. He did it not for the question’s sake, but to give a hint to Mr. Gresham.

The hint was broad, and being sedulous to please his guest, immediately understood and taken. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Vavasour, being a man of business, I will make the most of my spare time, and leave you to my daughter, while I master the news of the day. You will excuse me.”

“Oh! pray don’t treat me like a stranger, Mr. Gresham,” was very civilly said; and Mr. Gresham sat down, and devoted himself to his newspaper, or rather to the contemplation of the pleasant sight that was before his eyes.

Without waiting for an answer to his former question, Robert now addressed another to Angela, in the same tone. “Have you seen any of my family of late, Miss Gresham? Have you seen Everard?”

“No,” she said, blushing deeply, “not since January.”

He saw the blush, and again a slight contraction of brow and darkness of countenance were visible; but he paid no other heed to what she said. “Have you heard anything? Have you heard from ... anybody?”

“I sometimes write to Hope, and then she answers. But I have nothing to say except to abuse the world, and that you know she does not like to hear. I always mean to write, and I shall write in a few days, I am pretty sure.”

“I shall be very much obliged to you, Miss Gresham, when you do write, not to say you have seen me.” He lowered his voice still more as he spoke.

“Oh, Mr. Vavasour, how very strange! Why do you ask such a thing?”

“Promise me,” he said, without heeding her. “I really must have you promise.”

“And I really can’t,” she replied quickly. “It is a sort of thing I should not like to do.”

“Very well, then, you drive me away. I am staying in London alone, and I thought, perhaps, I might occasionally look in of an evening, and make a sort of a home of your house; but if you will not do as I ask, you drive me away.”

“I am sure,” she cried, warmly, “I should be grieved to do that; but I must tell you plainly that it sounds to me a bad kind of a thing, and unless you tell me the reason why you ask it, I will not promise.”

“I will tell you then; but remember, Miss Gresham, if I confide in you I will not have what I say repeated. The reason is that I am in debt, and I do not wish my father to know. It will soon be over, at least I hope and expect it will, and so I do not wish to give him or myself the pain of his knowing anything about it. There is my reason; the exact truth. Now will you do what I ask?”

“I suppose I must,” she said, reluctantly. “Now you have told me this, how can I tell? I would not for the whole world.”

“Thank you.” After a pause, he added, “You are very good not to lecture me. Most women would make a fine parley over it.”

“I am not good enough to be a lecturer,” she said, gravely, “but I don’t like it any the better for that.”

“You think me a great brute?” he said, earnestly. “Say it out! You can’t think me a greater than I think myself.”

“No, no, not that. But, Mr. Vavasour, one thing; will you not write yourself? You need not say anything about debt you know.”

“No, I can’t. I don’t wish it to be known that I am in London. I hardly ever go out, except in the evening.”

“But only consider how anxious they are. Hope does not say so, but I had a letter from Mr. Addison one day, and he did.”

Robert fell into a fit of musing, painful enough, by the look of his countenance. At last he roused himself, and said, “No, Miss Gresham, I can’t. If I wrote I must deceive, and I will not be a hypocrite. However bad I may be I will never be a hypocrite. They must bear anxiety a short time longer. I hope it will be but a short time, and then....”

“And then; what ...?”

“And then an end,” he said, with a faint smile, “and I hope we shall all be good and happy.”

Angela looked very thoughtful.

“Do you hate me?” he inquired, earnestly, looking keenly into her face.

“No,” she replied, startled; and then, laughing, “Perhaps I ought, but I cannot say I do.”

“Then don’t. I may deserve it, but don’t. Don’t judge harshly of things which you cannot understand.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“And may I sometimes look in of an evening?”

“Certainly, yes, so far as I am concerned. You cannot think how thankful I was for your appearance to-night. My life sometimes reaches that point of weariness that I think I shall go mad.”

“And why? Why is your life so tedious?”

“The people. If you could but see the people I live with.”

“I can guess,” he said, laughing, driving away the graver mood that had been upon him. “Young ladies full of airs, and graces, and love, and partners; young gentlemen full of airs and graces, jewels, and themselves; elderly gentlemen without graces, fond of riches and food; and elderly ladies, mothers and wives to all the rest.”

“Exactly,” cried Angela laughing also, “those are my friends. Do you call them pleasant companions?”

“Certainly not; you should try and get better ones.”

“But that is what I can’t do. Till I made acquaintance with your family, I never, or hardly ever, saw any one I liked; and now you have all spoiled me for anything else. I cannot like common people now.”

“You are most kind and flattering, Miss Gresham,” said Robert smiling. “I wish I for one was more worthy of such good compliments. I must make myself so.”

The weariness of Angela’s life, and the tediousness of her friends was a very fertile subject with her. She was never tired of dilating upon it, and for some time longer she made her confidences to Robert, and received his full sympathy. The conversation was gay and lively, though so conducted as not to reach her father’s ears, and when he rose up and said he must go, Angela felt lighter and happier than she had done for many a day; she longed only that she might disburden her mind more fully of the accumulated weight of annoyances, which had been collecting during many past months.

Her countenance brightened while she heard her father’s warm invitation to his guest, begging him to look in upon them again; and listened to Robert’s ready promise to do so whenever he had an opportunity, and found them alone; and yet her conscience smote her all the while.

Mr. Gresham followed Robert to the door, and opened it for him, and Robert engaged him in conversation, until he had drawn him outside. He then made a sign to him to follow him a few steps further, and then in a low and rapid voice addressed him.

“I don’t want to come to your house, Mr. Gresham, under false pretences, so I may as well tell you at once the circumstances in which I stand. I am in debt, and I do not wish my father to know of it, or even to guess that I am in London. I have just been requesting Miss Gresham not to mention my visits, or my name, and I must beg of you the same favour. I hope circumstances may arise to clear me before long, but till that time comes I am under a cloud I would not come to your house and take advantage of your kindness in allowing me to associate with your daughter, without telling you plainly how matters stand with me, and it is now your province to forbid my return if you choose. I put myself entirely in your hands, but if you give me leave to come, you must take the consequences.”

So much does manner do, that others, besides Mr. Gresham, might have been taken by the frankness of Robert’s declaration, and the open way in which he made known his situation, and suggested his designs. Mr. Gresham was more than taken, he was even overpowered by the honour Robert did him, in making him the repository of his private circumstances.

“I thank you, Mr. Vavasour,” he replied, warmly grasping his hand, “for the very honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself towards me on this occasion. I cannot find words to express my sense of it. Let me assure you that your presence, even under the circumstances you mention, is welcome, most welcome. I would not be understood to say that, in general terms, I approve of habits of irregular extravagance; I am very far from so doing; but I am aware that among young men of distinction, at certain periods of their lives, such habits are not uncommon, and ... and ... I believe I know how to make allowances;” and here, what between his moral principles, and his wish to encourage Robert, he came to a stand still, and finished his argument by a very friendly shake of the hand, which was intended to say that he wiped out the past, and trusted him for the future.

“Thank you, Mr. Gresham, you are very kind. Then you allow me to come notwithstanding my present position.”

“After the very honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself towards me, my dear Mr. Vavasour, I should not feel myself justified in refusing my permission to your request. But allow me to add ...” he stopped and cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon for the suggestion, but allow me to say that if in any way I can serve you, my means are such...”—he placed his hands under his coat tails for a moment—“that to be of service would be at once a convenience and a pleasure. You understand me, Mr. Vavasour. My doors are open to you. Make such use of me as you please.”

A flush passed over Robert’s face—if of gratification and relief, yet not purely so. “I am very grateful to you for your kind expressions,” he said, gravely, “though at the same time they make me ashamed of myself. I will say no more at present. Perhaps a time may come when I shall remind you of them.”

“I shall need no reminding,” was the warm and gracious reply, accompanied by another shake of the hand; and the strange companions parted.

Mr. Gresham walked up the stairs elevating his head, as if endeavouring to catch a distant view of the old towers of Audley Court; and his chest expanded, and his lips broke into a smile as he passed along.

Robert put on a great coat, pulled his hat over his brows, and paced onward with rapid steps as if to escape from the reflections of his own mind; but the rapid steps were not so available as to drown the sound of a mingled sigh and groan, which burst from his lips as he left his destiny behind him.

CHAPTER IV.

Ah! Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind,

I see thy glory like a shooting star

Fall to the base earth from the firmament.

Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,

Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest.

Richard the Second.

IT was about three weeks after this time that Mr. Addison went one day to visit a housemaid at Underwood, the same who had been ill the previous summer, and who was now declining in health.

The housekeeper at Underwood was a conversible person, who, though well able to solace herself with the society of her equals, was much attached to that of her superiors; and having been for some time cut off from the latter enjoyment, determined to make the most of the opportunity thrown in her way. She watched Mr. Addison as he left the housemaid’s room, and then accompanied him down the stairs, along the passages, and into the garden, giving him some instructions on the best mode of visiting of the sick as they went along. Mr. Addison, always a kind and patient listener, suffered her to proceed without interruption; perhaps, however, only half his intellect followed her words, until having assured him that she esteemed his visit a privilege, she surprised him into interest by thus concluding. “And if, sir, a certain event that is probable should make you as much at home at Underwood as you now are at Audley Court, your society will be duly appreciated.”

“Of what event do you speak?” he enquired, his attention caught less by her words, than by a knowing and confidential look in her face.

“Why, Sir, it is commonly reported, and I believe with truth, that Mr. Vavasour is extremely assiduous in his attentions to Miss Gresham, and, indeed, I am given to understand that matters will soon come to an arrangement between them. It is hinted, indeed, that Mr. Vavasour is conducting his courtship with secresy and mystery; but I refuse to believe such calumnious assertions; for though it is natural to young gentlemen to conceal their proceedings from the observation of the vulgar, it is not to be supposed that he would take a step of such importance, without the sanction of his father and other natural advisers.” Nevertheless, as she looked in Mr. Addison’s face, she did begin to believe it possible, and to glory in her prior information.

Supposing her to speak of Everard, and feeling confident that secresy and mystery in this matter was as far from Everard as from himself, Mr. Addison gravely said, “You say truly, Mrs. Stevenson; and considering how much annoyance you may cause your young mistress by spreading an idle report, I must advise you to dismiss the subject from your mind, until better authority confirms it.”

But Mrs. Stevenson had no intention of dismissing the subject. She told him, indeed, that she should always esteem it a privilege to be advised by him; but, she added, that on this occasion, she believed she was justified in keeping the subject in mind, seeing that in a few days, the marriage, she had reason to imagine, would be announced, “And as I am speaking to one of the family,” she continued, “or I should say a friend of the family, I hope I may be allowed to express my hearty approbation of the alliance. I should have made no objection to Mr. Everard Vavasour; when observation told me that that alliance was possible, I expressed my concurrence to Mr. Cocks in such words as these; ‘wealth is well matched with family, even when family stands without wealth; for family is that thing which wealth can never buy;’ but if such was my feeling with respect to Mr. Everard, what must it be towards Mr. Vavasour, who has been distinguished by Providence with every distinction His bounty can bestow? If I were a young lady, nay if I were a young princess, and every king in Europe was presented to my choice, I would take Mr. Vavasour by the hand before them all.”

She paused, more from want of breath than words or matter, and Mr. Addison seizing the opportunity, after one more grave caution against the spreading of false reports, wished her good morning, and left her.

But though he gave his caution as a point of natural duty, conviction of the truth of what she said had entered his soul. In vain he repeated that the gossip of a large establishment was to be unheeded; with strange tenacity the news he had heard laid hold of his imagination, and as he slowly walked along, his mind was agitated with such feelings of sorrow and dismay as he had scarcely ever experienced before.

All his hopes for the earthly happiness, and the immortal souls of the four young beings, in whom his interests were so deeply rooted, brought to this untimely end; and whether most to mourn for the injured or the injurers, he could not at the moment determine. As to Robert, the revelation of character which this news imparted, was like the rude rending of a veil, and the exhibition of deformity beneath. Amid all his faults and excesses, Mr. Addison had hitherto traced, or fancied he traced, a noble, generous, affectionate nature, strong and noble enough to struggle at last through all temptations; but what more ignoble, or ungenerous than the nature exhibited here. He walked home perplexed and bewildered, and all the night long tossed about haunted by the forms of coming misery. Robert and Angela! married without love; with boundless means to feed his vices, and no attachment at home, no loving influence or strong respect to restrain him; a downward course, an end of misery. Strong as his love for Robert were the torturing fears that assailed him.

Before morning his resolve was taken. He would hasten to London and see with his own eyes, and decide by his own judgment, if anything could yet be done to prevent a great evil. He wrote a note to Mr. Vavasour to apprise him of his departure, simply saying that business called him away; and was making a few needful arrangements, when another messenger, sent by Mrs. Vavasour, summoned him to Audley Court, where his presence was much needed. The blow had fallen by other means.

With an aching heart Mr. Addison prepared to obey the summons. He was one of those who seem to live but to help and comfort others, but he had not the calmness of soul such ministers of comfort usually possess. The sight of sorrow, the sight of the grief of those he loved, no reflection, no philosophy, no time, no religion had taught him to endure. It was the business and the happiness of his life to be able to comfort, and yet there were times, and this day was one, when his very soul longed for the hour when there would be no more tears to wipe away. For one of his disposition a time of trial was at hand.

On arriving at Audley Court he was shown into Mr. Vavasour’s study, and there he found the father and mother alone. The very first glance made him quail and tremble. Mr. Vavasour was sitting, pale, calm, and stern, his head leaning back on his chair. It was an awful truth that that single glance revealed. His heart was broken. The time might be longer, might be shorter, but the fiat had gone forth, the blow was struck; there was death in his face.

Mr. Addison quailed as he received the impression, and then hastily glanced at Mrs. Vavasour, dreading to read a like conviction in her eyes; but he was in some degree re-assured by her apparent unconsciousness. Her lids were swollen with tears, but sorrow for her son and pleading for her son seemed to absorb her.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, stretching out her hand to him. “We have great need of you.”

“You have heard of Robert?” he said in reply.

“There, take these,” she cried, gathering together some letters that lay by her husband’s side, “and then give us what hope and comfort you can.”

“There is neither hope nor comfort to be given,” broke out the stern voice of Mr. Vavasour. “They have passed from my heart for ever. Yes, take those,” he continued passionately, “and learn what a son we have cherished in our bosoms.”

One letter was from the same old friend, Mr. Perceval, who, on a former occasion, had written about Robert’s concerns. It enclosed one from Mr. Low, Mr. Vavasour’s solicitor.

In this letter Mr. Low informed Mr. Perceval of several particulars regarding Robert’s conduct, which had come to his knowledge, and asked his advice about communicating them to Mr. Vavasour. He stated that he had heard of his arrival in London, and that he was living in obscurity, moving his lodgings from place to place, and concealing his return from his acquaintance; that on inquiry, he understood this conduct to be caused by his having lost large sums of money, and being much harassed by his debts. The letter went on to say, “The interest I have always taken in Mr. Robert Vavasour, and my conviction of the truth of what I have heard, has led me to trouble you on this occasion, though possibly I might have hesitated to interfere, when not especially called upon to do so, had it not been that from other circumstances, I believe no time should be lost in extricating him from his embarrassments.” Mr. Low then proceeded to inform Mr. Perceval that he had likewise heard, and he feared with too great truth, that Robert had of late acquired habits of intemperance, brought on he was convinced by distress of mind, and he urged upon him, not in the dry style of a solicitor, but as one whose heart like many others had been warmed and won by Robert’s charms, that the unfortunate young man should be snatched before it was too late, from the perilous course on which he had entered.

As Mr. Addison finished this letter he slowly raised his eyes, and almost started as he met the keen piercing gaze that was bent upon him by Mr. Vavasour. He understood it well. He felt what word it was whose shame and disgrace had struck, like a dagger’s point, into his very heart. Intemperance! That a Vavasour should thus degrade himself to the level of the beasts that perish.

Without a remark, Mr. Addison turned to the second letter. Mr. Low’s was dated a week backward. Mr. Perceval’s only two days before. He explained his delay in forwarding the enclosure by the desire he had felt to make more particular inquiries before such tidings were sent. Finding that substantially they were correct, he thought it best to let Mr. Vavasour know the worst without delay. He added, however, that he understood an improvement in his habits had of late taken place, owing to a pursuit in which Robert was at present engaged; a pursuit which, if crowned with success, would, he hoped, not only place him above his difficulties, but if all that was said of the lady in question was true, would probably ensure his domestic happiness, and recover him from the error of his ways. This fact had, he said, been communicated to him in confidence by his nephew, and he was not, therefore, at liberty to speak more clearly, but he trusted that the mere mention of these better hopes would, in a degree, soothe the pain he was forced to cause.

One word only alleviated the unspeakable sadness Mr. Addison felt in these tidings; and strange to say it was the very word that seemed to crush Mr. Vavasour to the earth. Intemperance. What but the mind’s agony could have driven Robert to a course he abhorred? and if the mind was capable of suffering so acutely there was the better nature living still; there was the heart too much opposed to evil, the conscience too tortured by the sense, of the pain he inflicted, to leave any ground for despair. As he thus reflected, he remembered Robert’s parting prayer, and replacing the letters by Mr. Vavasour’s side, he gravely said,

“Robert must not be condemned on hearsay; his own lips must speak. I will go to him.”

“Bless you for that,” cried Mrs. Vavasour, “and,” she continued, taking up Mr. Perceval’s letter, and pointing to the paragraph respecting Robert’s marriage, “prove this false or he will break our hearts.”

“They are broken,” said Mr. Vavasour, sternly. “It is too late.”

“Not so,” was Mr. Addison’s soothing reply. “God accepts repentance, and man should never say it is too late.”

“There are things God’s mercy pardons that man cannot.”

“Shall man, then, be more just than God?” Mr. Addison asked, solemnly.

Mr. Vavasour clasped his hands in some mute emotion, but whether it was a vow or prayer could not be guessed.

In speaking with Mrs. Vavasour, Mr. Addison found that with instinctive dread her thoughts had flown to Angela; and since the tidings might at any moment, either through direct announcement or common gossip, fall on her ears, he thought it best, before his departure, to mention what he had heard at Underwood. Mrs. Vavasour wept bitterly, tears she vainly struggled to repress, but it was for the poor guilty Robert, not for Everard, that she wept; and who should say her tears were misplaced. Mr. Vavasour said not one word, but if a cheek that was already pale as death could be paler, his became so; and if the rigid sternness of his brow could admit of increase, his became more hard.

He did not speak during the remainder of the conversation between Mr. Addison and his wife, neither forbidding nor yet sanctioning the plans they formed; but when, before he left the room, the question arose whether Hope should be informed of all that was known and all that was dreaded, and when Mrs. Vavasour said with tears, “Let us spare her yet; God may yet shield her innocence from this trial,” he again broke harshly forth,

“She shall know all. Not for one hour longer shall she waste her heart upon a....”

Some word of fury was on his lips, but with clasped hands he restrained himself; and bowing his head, he gently and reverently added, “God have pity upon us all.”

Even had he deemed it himself advisable, Mr. Addison would not have attempted to argue with Mr. Vavasour in his present mood. He saw a fixed determination in his eye, and danger of exciting him if it were combated; but in truth he saw little to be gained by delay. The bond between Robert and Hope was already broken, and even should the event fail to take place, it was not with one of her character that concealment could be just. He offered himself, therefore, to perform the task.

He offered himself to spare Mrs. Vavasour the pain of the recital, and to spare Hope the agony of Mr. Vavasour’s harsher words. But it was a task of peculiar difficulty. He had needed no confession to tell him that a change had come over the affection which subsisted between Hope and Robert. He had seen Robert more than once struggling with his feelings, and he had seen in Hope’s eyes the dawn of something, which, if of earth, had no stain of earthliness about it. He had not needed what yet he had received, Mrs. Vavasour’s thankful assurance that such was the case. But though he knew, he had felt instinctively that the tie between them was too fragile to bear a touch; and though adviser, guide, and comforter, this touch which was to break, was the first that had ever ventured near the sacredness of her affection.

Hope was at work in her sitting room. She looked up as he entered, and fixing an earnest gaze on his face, saw, or thought she saw, what brought him; she perceived that the long expected hour was come, when she must walk with Robert through a dark valley; and with one sinking and trembling of her heart, she was prepared to meet it. For what else he had to tell little indeed was she prepared.

He came to her side and forced her to be seated, and then stooping tenderly over her, he put the letters into her hand, saying only as he did so, “There is much to grieve us all; but there are some things which more especially concern you. Dear Miss Linton be prepared,” and he gave her hand one of those agitated grasps, which tell so much of sympathy.

But even then, Hope was not prepared, nor even when she had perused the letter, did the truth it contained flash on her mind. It was a glance at Mr. Addison, and a second perusal that brought conviction, and then she slowly laid it down, and her head bent lower, and a flush of crimson stole over her cheek, and neck, and brow.

To a character like Hope’s, the sensations of such a moment had an added and unspeakable bitterness; for they brought not sorrow only, but self-knowledge. She had lived from childhood upwards, a life most like an angel’s, her heart in Heaven, while her business was on earth; nothing had yet taught her that she too was a child of Adam, compassed about with earthly passions, and earthly hopes and fears. It was the iron of the chain entering into her soul, that brought her to feel the links that bound her.

Mr. Addison waited long, and then gently laying his hand on her bended head, said, “God bless you and help you. I know you have need of help.”

She gave him her hand without looking up or speaking, and he held it while he told her as briefly as was possible, what more was needful, and what more she might wish to know. When he had done, perceiving plainly that at that moment no earthly comforter could speak peace to her troubled spirit, he again murmured his soft “God bless you,” and left her to solitude.

Her first act was a singular one; but it was one which showed how to her thoughtful nature outward forms were imbued with life. She loosened from her neck a chain and locket, which Robert had given her the evening before he left home for college; a token of affection and remembrance which since then had hung there night and day, loved and cherished; she held it for a moment and looked at it with an intense gaze, then slowly crossed the room, folded it in paper, and put it carefully by. When this was done, she threw herself on her knees, and buried her face in her hands; not for prayer, not for thought, not for confession, but to throw under the protection of God, thoughts and emotions, whose startling violence she knew not how to put into words, and thus mutely to express her resignation of herself to whatever might befall her.

And innocence is strong

And an entire simplicity of mind

A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven.

Gradually the selfishness of her grief passed by, and reproaching herself, for so long forgetting a parent’s sorrow, she was springing up to go in search of her aunt, when she was prevented by Mrs. Vavasour’s entrance.

She was much agitated, and throwing her arms round Hope’s neck, she wept bitterly. Those tears she had so desired to conceal from her husband flowed here without restraint; and the reproaches against Robert, which she would have died before she had uttered in his presence, fell fast from her lips in the presence of her he had injured. Mrs. Vavasour was very human, and even years of self-restraint had failed to overcome the impetuosity of her feelings.

It was Hope who recalled her to herself. “Dear Aunt Joan,” she said, sadly, “who will speak for Robert, if you give him up?”

“Ah! who indeed,” she replied, composing herself with a pang of self-reproach. “But it is for your sake, Hope. When I think of you, even I can hardly forgive.”

Hope stood by her side with downcast eyes, and a colour coming and going as rapidly as Angela’s might have done. In many respects human beings strangely differ one from the other, but some things all feel alike. However bravely, or however holily borne, the strongest or the most saintlike know what it is to be forsaken or forgotten. At last she raised her eyes and said with grave composure. “I think it is very possible that I may have thought more of Robert’s words than I ought to have done, or if not that,” for the vividness of those words, and that scene, flashed before her to check the supposition “that he himself was too much excited to know all he said, or to remember it as I have remembered. But be this as it may, dear Aunt Joan, it is not for us to forsake him. He is sorely tempted, but he will not be lost. He has a good soul, and that cannot be lost.” She clasped her hands with passionate fervour, as she spoke her intense conviction regarding him.

“Will you, indeed, never forsake him or cease to pray for him, Hope?” her aunt asked, laying her hand on her arm, and looking anxiously in her face.

Hope turned away her eyes, for that question brought the conviction hitherto unrealized, that he would be her charge no longer; that another might stand nearer to him than she had ever yet done or ever henceforward could do. It was a conviction of such piercing anguish that it kept her for a moment silent; but when she answered, it was in the same grave but tranquil manner in which for his sake she had spoken before. “I think Robert should never know that there has been a change. A few months need not wipe out whole years of life. What I have been, all but a few thoughts, I think I may still be. And now, dear Aunt Joan, think of me no more, let us think, and hope, and pray for him.”

Mrs. Vavasour fondly kissed her, and her request was obeyed. Except from their inner hearts, that portion of their grief seemed to be swept away.

Mr. Vavasour did not even mention Robert’s name again. Mr. Low came down from London at his summons, and with him he entered fully into the subject, hearing from him all that could be told, and entering with him into arrangements for the future. But to his wife and Hope he was absolutely dumb.

Mrs. Vavasour made no attempt to break his silence. His harsh speeches wrung her heart, and, for the first time, she had no excuses to bring forward. Her passionate love for her son was in no degree shaken, but she recoiled from the past, and trembled for the future, and dared not palliate, and dared not hope.

For three days Hope was also silent. She too shrank from his harsh words, and feared lest the thoughts connected with her, should provoke them anew. But after three days she could bear this silence no longer. There was a fixed look in his face which made her tremble as she watched it, a look almost as if he were cursing Robert in his heart.

On the third day she went to him and put her arms round his neck, and said, “Uncle Richard, you have not forgiven Robert. I see in your face that you do not forgive. You must. Oh! Uncle Richard, it is a fearful thing not to forgive.”

He looked at her intently, and remained for a time,—it seemed to her like many minutes,—in profound silence and reflection. Hope waited—watching and hoping to see a softening in his countenance; but in vain. There was no change there.

At last he spoke gravely and solemnly. “I was examining myself, my child. I would not lightly say that I did forgive. But I can say it now. I do forgive him.” He paused, then suddenly seizing both her hands, continued with violent agitation, “And Hope, my child, if it should be so ordained that I see Robert no more, let him know this; let him never doubt it; I forgive him. He has the full forgiveness of the father whose heart he has broken, as I hope God will forgive me.” He dropped her hands, and covered his face for an instant with his own; but after that instant was calm and rigid as before.

Hope kissed his brow, and softly thanked him.

As she was moving away he caught her hand once more and said, “Not till I am dead, Hope, not till I am dead.”

“Are you ill, dear Uncle Richard—do you feel ill?” she cried, hanging tearfully over him.

“My heart is broken,” he said; “God’s will be done.” And he waved his hand as if desirous to be left to himself.

CHAPTER V.

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.

CHAPTER VI.

And as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt his new fledged offspring to the skies.

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay;

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

GOLDSMITH.

TO fits of despondence the best of men are subject. Of all failures, and the very word failure has a sinking of the heart in it, the failure of an attempt to recover the erring is, and from all that depends on it, must be, the most bitter. Who can ever be satisfied that their efforts have been strong enough, their arguments forcible enough, their words, words in season. Failure is often an appointed trial, a trial sent from Heaven; but man cannot know when such is the case, and the best and humblest are the least able to take to themselves that thought for consolation.

Perplexed, desponding, and troubled in spirit, Mr. Addison slowly paced along the streets. He had failed, entirely failed, and from the future that lay before those he loved so much, his very soul shrank backward. Death, and misery, and separations, and strange unnatural troubles, cutting at the root of all domestic peace.

It was not till he had walked a considerable way, unconscious where he went, that he thought of Angela. Of what her feelings might be, of the present trials that might be assailing her. The thought came like a flash of light. It was a something yet to be done, and action is cheering.

He turned his steps towards Portland Place, walking slowly, and meditating as he went. He was not one lightly to interfere in a family’s concerns. In his eyes his appointed office was, to be ever ready to advise and help, but not so forward, as to stand before or between the natural and holy links which the ties of nature bind. He did not, therefore, feel at liberty to enter uninvited with Angela, on the question of her marriage with Robert, nor to excite, if it did not already exist, opposition on the subject between the father and daughter.

But it appeared to him as more than possible, that she might be in need of help, in need of a guide in thinking rightly, of support in acting justly. As he considered her character the probability of this view of the subject increased in strength. He remembered how, in spite of all her independence and strength of opinion, circumstances ever appeared to sway her to their will; how incapable she seemed of bettering her condition, or of improving the tone of the society in which she lived; how weak she was in action when her actions were compared with her words. No one who studied Angela’s character could have failed to perceive this inconsistency and peculiarity; and as Mr. Addison now recalled a thousand trifles in which her slavery to circumstances and her impulsive yielding to excitement had been revealed; he began to blame his dilatoriness in considering her share in these transactions; and to be visited with strange terror, lest she should be driven by the mere pressure of a moment, into a marriage with one brother, while her heart was all another’s.

The terror of this thought, when once fully realised, quickened his steps, and led him agitated and eager to Mr. Gresham’s door.

His first enquiry was for Mr. Gresham; he had sufficient confidence in the truthfulness of Mr. Gresham’s disposition, to entertain a hope of making an impression, even on him; but Mr. Gresham was out. Miss Gresham was at home, and he was admitted at once.

He was shewn into one of the large drawing-rooms, and there sat down to wait. His mind was too much pre-occupied to notice, far less to admire the splendour that was about him, and Mr. Gresham would have been as much astonished as displeased, had he seen him seat himself without a glance around.

It was not long before Angela joined him, but there was nothing of her usual haste and eagerness in her air. She entered slowly, and her greeting was not without formality. He looked in her face, and saw it changed. The varied play and animation of her countenance, was for the moment at least gone, and was replaced by a gravity too little suited to her features to sit naturally or pleasantly upon them. It was plain she was acting a part, but wherefore he could not imagine.

“I did not know you were in London, Mr. Addison,” she began, as she seated herself. “When did you come?”

“Only yesterday; and I go back, a part of the way, at least to-day. I would not go without an attempt to see you. I am glad to find you at home.”

“Thank you for coming. I am very seldom out, for I have no where I care to go to. How are they all at Audley Court? I have not heard from Hope for ages; nor written to her, to say the truth. How is she?”

Hope’s name was spoken without embarrassment. It was evident, that to her, at least, Hope appeared in no other light, than as Robert’s devoted sister.

“I left her well,” he replied, gravely, yet relieved by her unconsciousness on that point.

“I suppose she is as good, and doing as much good as ever. Oh! how good she is!” and Angela suddenly lost her formal manner and sighed like her own self.

“She is indeed,” he replied, anxious to follow her lead, and to win her to converse without restraint. “She has a very peculiar character. She always reminds me of the words of the old writer, Fuller, about Lady Jane Grey. ‘She had the innocency of childhood, the beauty of youth, the solidity of middle, the gravity of old age, and all at eighteen.’ ”

“Yes, that is exactly like her,” Angela said smiling. She then relapsed into thought, and after a little reflection, added, “It is something so far beyond the goodness of common people, that I feel it is no use for a common person to try to be like her.”

“I am sorry you say so, her character may be unlike ours, but her goodness, though we may not attain to it, is only what we all should try to attain.”

“We!” Angela said, with something of scorn, “you may be as good as you please, Mr. Addison, I cannot.”

“Why?” he asked with interest.

“Because I cannot,” she replied, with momentary passion, and then drew herself up, and was silent.

“I think you mistake,” he said gravely, “no temptation ever assails us but there is a way of escape.”

She gave him a quick glance, but only shook her head, and said no more.

“Have you read any of the books I gave you?” he asked, after a short silence, and asked it in a quiet friendly way, anxious only to make her feel he was a friend.

“Yes I have, indeed,” she replied readily, “I have never forgotten what you advised me. I read a little bit every day, and I like it. That one right thing I do.”

“That is good,” he said, with a slight kind smile; then, after a moment’s consideration, added, “And do you try to follow the advice given you! To read is good, but it will not be good unless we try to practise what we know.”

“And that I do not,” she replied sadly.

“But why, Miss Gresham? I only say try. Dear Miss Gresham, surely you try?”

“No, I do not. I have given up trying. Things may go just as they please. I shall try to be good no more.”

“That is a fearful thing to say,” he said, with a seriousness that startled her.

Tears came into her eyes, and she added quickly, “Perhaps I do not quite mean that. I only mean that I am very bad now, and that I see no hope of ever being better.”

“You seem unhappy,” he asked kindly.

“Not very happy, certainly, but it does not matter. I never was happy, and I see I never shall be—but it does not matter. Nothing matters in this world, I think.”

“I differ from you there, Miss Gresham. I am an old man, and you are young, and I can tell you from experience that a long life of sorrow is a trying thing. No habit makes it bearable, and nothing but the grace of God can lead a man safely through its temptations and its pains.” He spoke solemnly, alarmed at the mood in which he found her.

“I suppose you are right,” she replied, the tears that had sprung into her eyes falling on her cheeks, “but one grows reckless.”

“Reckless—from what?” He had intended not to question, but the circumstances forced the enquiry from him.

“No matter. I cannot tell you.”

After this answer, she again drew herself up, and remained silent. So did Mr. Addison. When next he spoke it was to get up, and wish her good-bye. “I must leave you now,” he said, with his grave kindness, “for I have not much time to spare for visits to-day. Only, dear Miss Gresham, before I go, let me remind you that if ever you are in want of help or advice you will find a willing friend and adviser in me; and remember also that man is responsible for all his actions, and for none more so than for going into temptation with his eyes open. Now good-bye,” and he held out his hand to her.

She did not take it. “Did you come up to London to see me?” she asked with sudden agitation.

“No. My business was with another.”

“With whom?”

“With Robert Vavasour,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation.

“You know then that he is in London? You have seen him?”

“Yes,” he said, sadly, “we all know now of his return.”

Angela paused a moment, then averting her eyes, while a torrent of blood crimsoned her cheeks, and even the very tips of her fingers, asked, “Have you heard anything about me?”

“Certainly, rumours have reached me that concern you.”

“And what—what do you think of me?”

“Nay, Miss Gresham,” he replied, “it is not for me to judge of this matter. Your own heart only can decide whether such a step is justified or not.”

“I don’t know what justified means,” she said, agitatedly. “There is no help. Did I not truly say that it was in vain for me to hope to be better than I am. Things must take their chance. I have no power to fight against them.”

“You speak as if you were the sport of the winds. Forgive me for saying so, but it is a childish form of speech. We are all free. You are free in this matter, as in every other, if you will.”

“I am not free,” she said, passionately, “and when you know all you will say so. Let me tell you how it stands. Mr. Vavasour came here some weeks ago in secret. He told me it was in secret, and I agreed to let it be so. There was my first folly; but my life is so weary, so dull, so cold, so joyless, and at that time I was so miserable, so without hope, that I could not give up the pleasure of having him come, for it was a pleasure in its way. And then he came and came again, and again, and it made me happier, and I never thought why he came; and then at last I did see why he came, and then I know I ought to have drawn back, and shown him that I did not wish for that; but I did not do what I ought, I never do. I don’t know what came over me, I don’t know how I could behave as I did; but though I saw, and though I did not, and never could, care for him, I went on in the same way, and told him all my griefs, and let him amuse me as before. And so it went on; and now he has spoken to papa, and papa has spoken to me, and it is all settled between them. I told papa what I felt. I told him it must not, should not, ought not to be; but he answers me I should have thought of that before; and I should; he is right there. And so it is over now. Yesterday I was mad, but to-day I have given up speaking, and given up caring. Let them do with me as they please. When one is miserable it matters very little what happens, and I submit.” She paused in her hurried narrative, and looked up in his face. It was the intent grave gaze that was fastened on her that drew her to gaze in return. As she met his looks she sat down and buried her face in her hands. “I know what you mean,” she said, in a broken voice, “but that is all past. Papa says with his consent it never, never shall be, and I know,” and there was a moment’s proud bitterness in her speech, “that without his consent it will not even be desired; and so life is altogether miserable, and I hardly care what becomes of me.”

“But after all you have said,” Mr. Addison at length replied in a voice so calm and grave, that it awed her into stillness, “a right and a wrong way remains. You may have been wrong in the past, you may be miserable in the present, but such considerations are not serious enough to affect the solemnity of your present decision. If there is nothing in your heart or conscience to forbid this union, do not think I would urge you to oppose your father’s wishes; but if there is, let nothing, not even obedience to him, tempt you to consent to it.”

“There is,” she murmured.

“If it be so, then, dear Miss Gresham, pause and consider. Marriage is a solemn thing, dare not to trifle with it. Think of the moment when you will stand to take your vows in the presence of God; vows which may lead you, and not you only, into temptations, unguessed, unknown, above your strength to bear.”

“Oh! Mr. Addison, what must you think of me?” Angela exclaimed, bending her head over the table and bursting into tears.

“Not very harshly,” he said, gently touching her bright hair with his hand, “only as one weak and tempted, and too much blinded by disappointment and excitement, to remember that for all these things God will bring you into judgment. But you are awake now,” he added.

“Yes; yes; I see it all too terribly clear. I have, indeed, been mad. Oh! Mr. Addison, will you save me? Will you say to my father what you have said to me? Will you?—can you?”

“I could, and I would,” he replied, kindly, “if I thought it right. If you were as some are, too weak to save yourself, I would try to save you. But you know you have strength if you choose to exert it; and considering all things, considering how you have up to this moment acted, it seems most just, most fitting, most dutiful to your father that you should now act for yourself. Take courage. Speak to him, not with childish impetuosity, but with the thought and the principle a woman and a responsible being should have. I think he will hear you. If not, if you have difficulties, then write to me. I must hasten back to-day to Audley Court, for I left them all in much trouble, but a word from you will bring me up again; and remember that it is not my wish only, but my bounden duty to help you.”

“I will try,” she said, humbly. “I don’t know what comes over me. I am mad sometimes, I believe. I ought to have a guide always.”

“It might, perhaps, be good for you, for you are young, and too much carried about with blasts of passion. But you have a guide, and not a silent one I know, in your own good conscience. Try to still other voices, and to hearken to it. And now farewell, and God bless you. Act rightly this time, dear Miss Gresham, and it will bring a blessing on all your days. I do not mean an earthly blessing,” he added gravely, as he saw a flash of light sweep over her face, “That must be as it pleases God to grant, but the better blessing of a truer and purer heart, and judgment for the future.”

“I will try,” she again repeated, and he left her.

She remained where he parted from her in deep thought; and so sat, her head in her hands, for the chief part of the afternoon. Her thoughts were deeper, sadder, humbler than they had ever been in her life before. She was, as many are, in the habit of laying the burden of her aberrations from the right way, on her circumstances. It is a pleasant way of relieving the conscience, and so satisfactory a solution of men’s frailties, that when once the flattering unction is applied, the eyes willingly and obediently close to the fact that the seat of error is not outward but within. But this reasoning does not do where the conscience is really touched; and as in shame and terror Angela contemplated the step she had been about to take, she was, for the time at least, most truly humbled in her own eyes.

When Mr. Gresham entered the room she rose up and went to meet him, and with all the quietness and seriousness Mr. Addison could have desired, said, “I have made up my mind, papa, and I will not marry Mr. Vavasour.”

Mr. Gresham was startled, certainly startled at the abruptness of this declaration; but he had long noted down in his mind as a fact to be remembered, that the caprices of the female character were unfathomable; and he was, therefore, after a moment prepared to deal with them patiently.

“You must excuse me, my love,” he replied mildly, “if I decline to enter into a fresh discussion of the subject. It was discussed yesterday; and I am too well aware of the changeableness of the disposition of young women to be willing to waste the time that might be better employed, in a prolonged examination of a question that is settled. Believe me, my love, all has been arranged for the best, for your welfare, and my happiness.” He slightly waved his hand as a conclusion to the speech, and was about to turn away, when Angela spoke again.

“I have not changed, papa; I told you yesterday, that I could not do it with a good conscience; I told you that I did not and could never love Mr. Vavasour. You cannot say I have changed. I only submitted when I could argue no more. But now, after deep thought, I find I cannot submit. I should be miserable and guilty if I did. I do not love him, and I will not marry him.”

“Pardon me, my love, you are mistaken in this matter; I have watched you, as your natural guardian should, and I have seen with pleasure, with singular pleasure, the interest you take in Mr. Vavasour’s society. Trust me, I am better able to act in this business than a young inexperienced woman like yourself. I am fully satisfied that I have ensured your happiness, and I shall act accordingly.”

“If you will not hear me or believe me, Papa,” Angela exclaimed more excitedly, “it must be to Mr. Vavasour that I must explain myself. He will, he shall understand.”

“Be it so, my love,” said Mr. Gresham blandly, feeling convinced of the irresistable power of Robert’s persuasions. “Allow me to remark, however, that you appear to me to forget the delicacy of the female character in your tone and manners on this occasion. I mentioned to you what was likely to occur, that you might be prepared to express yourself in the proper manner; but it is not usual, I believe, for a young woman to give her mind to such subjects before the decisive moment has arrived. Banish, therefore, my love, such idle fancies from your mind, and occupy yourself with the natural and elegant occupations becoming to young ladies of your age and position.”

Angela’s heart swelled with anger and disdain, but she made no further remark. Her look was intended to convey her inflexible resolution; but Mr. Gresham’s eyes were impervious to looks. He walked to the door, then turned back to observe.

“Mr. Addison called and asked for me to-day, I understand. I regret that I was out. I am anxious to shew every civility in my power to the friends of the Vavasour family. Did you see him, my love?”

“Yes,” she said colouring, “he paid me a long visit.”

“What was his object in London?”

“He told me he came to see Mr. Vavasour.”

“Indeed!” with a strong expression of surprise. “He is aware ... ahem!... I hope he left the elder Mr. Vavasour in good health.”

“He said he left them all in much trouble. He did not say why—but I guess it was from what they had heard about Mr. Robert Vavasour.”

“Indeed!” Mr. Gresham repeated, and an uncomfortable sensation for the first time agitated his breast. Wrapt in his own objects, and in the thought and pride of the generous designs he entertained towards the Vavasour family, he had really and truly forgotten all that Robert’s parents might be supposed to feel on the occasion.

He swallowed down a something he did not quite understand, a touch of perturbation and self reproach that was neither common nor comfortable, with effort, and was obliged to dive deep into his mind before he found a moral aphorism suited to offer consolation in the emergency. At length two truisms presented themselves, and were accepted. First, “Circumstances command all men,” and Secondly, “No great object is ever attained without a sacrifice.” These truths were effectual in driving away the annoyance of the moment. He thought of the sacrifice he was making, in thus submitting to circumstances, the last he would have chosen in which to accomplish his designs, and the pang of self reproach was followed by a feeling of a totally opposite nature.

“I regret to hear it,” he therefore replied with much politeness, and, smoothing his brow, left the room.

CHAPTER VII.

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day—

A little sun, a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain

And all things fade away.

KIRKE WHITE.

ROBERT VAVASOUR’S conscience was far from being stupefied. It was the agony of conscience, acting falsely, awakening to remorse that is, and not to repentance, that had impelled him into the various evils in which he was ensnared. He loved his father—he always had loved him; not with Everard’s passionate and exclusive devotion, not with a genial and hearty affection, but with a love whose strong grasp, even against his will, fascinated and bound him. Few could live with Mr. Vavasour and fail to feel that life hung on his approving smile. Robert felt this as others did, and from his mingled awe and love sprang the terror under which he now was suffering—a dread of his father’s anger, which drove him rather to risk all things, to sacrifice his peace, to wound those who trusted in him; than to endure again that glance of agony and contempt, whose memory, even after three years, still pursued and stung him. It seemed a strange thing that this remembrance, which, in his hours of remorse, had power to heat his fancy almost to the verge of madness, should, in the hours of temptation, have been powerless; but such is man, and such is man’s life, and it is the bewildering fascination of temptation which alone, in most cases, makes it strong.

Robert’s short history was this. The higher tone of feeling engendered during his visit at Audley Court gradually relaxed—as, indeed, is but natural, unless effort preserves its vigour—in the careless and thoughtless, though by no means vicious society into which he entered. This prepared the way for a downfall. On his leisurely journey back to England, by land, he fell into dissipated company. One set of evils followed another; gambling came in its turn. For a few weeks, a fever—a frenzy—for it was like nothing else—possessed him, and he awakened only when the pressure of his losses startled him into consciousness. But the awakening was to horror—such horror and remorse as quick and excitable feelings find it hard to struggle against. Its consequences were the beginning of that evil and degrading course which has been mentioned, that process of maddening, lulling and stupefying the brain and conscience, of which it may almost be said,

“Lasciate ogni speranza voi che entrate.”

On this miserable life a gleam of light fell in the shape of a new temptation—the remembrance of Mr. Gresham’s fancy for him, and the thought of Angela’s wealth. The rest of the history is known.

Robert’s many efforts to dull his feelings, were, to a certain degree, successful. He had persuaded himself that to be free from home thraldom would bring happiness; and while engaged in the pursuit of that which would make him free, he had days and hours of excitement which, if not happiness, was so far like it, that it absorbed his mind, and kept him from thought; but the intervals of relief were broken again and again, by pangs which, to Mr. Addison, he had called “the torments of hell in his heart.” When first he approached Angela he had inwardly vowed that he would forswear that miserable comforter which he had taken to himself as the solace of his misery, but vain were his inward vows; like the troubled sea, he could not rest; and when that unendurable misery visited him, he assuaged it as he could, hating himself, protesting, resolving for the future, but falling.

He was not yet, however, a slave. Mr. Addison had not been fortunate enough to wake him to repentance, but he did awaken him to one of the fiercest and acutest fits of remorse he had yet experienced. His father’s face, ghastly pale, haunted him like a spectre, and though resolved to pursue his way, and to be independent, the resolve was in itself agony. Not on this occasion did he betake himself, however, to the tempting, oblivious antidote, so often applied to his disturbance; his better nature was all alive, and he would have felt it an insult to the kind old friend who had endeavoured to save him, had he parted from him only to rush into fresh sin.

Unable, however, to bear in inaction the torment of his thoughts, he called a hackney coach, (the convenient conveyance of the day in which he lived,) and ordered the driver to take him several miles out of town. He there left the coach, and wandering through strange ways, returned on foot. It was night, and a dense fog when he re-entered London; the air was sharp and cold; he went chilly to bed, and awoke the following morning with a seizure in his throat, an ailment—the only one—to which he was subject.

Knowing that to remain for the day in bed was his best cure, he wrote to Mr. Gresham to inform him of his illness, and to ask permission to postpone his visit to Angela till the following day.

Mr. Gresham replied to him with cordial politeness; begged him to care for his health above all things, and assured him that he should find his daughter prepared to receive him, whenever it was most agreeable to him to make his proposed visit. So for that day the matter rested.

At five o’clock on the morning of the following day, Robert was awakened from the deep, yet restless slumber, proceeding from the remedies for his cold, by a loud ringing and knocking at the door of his lodgings. Half asleep and half awake, the noise blended with his dreams, and no preparation of wondering surmise and rising fears broke the shock of the announcement that came upon him. A dirty housemaid in a singular attire, composed of a mixture of night and morning garments—those of night predominating about the head and ancles—entered his room, and with a haste too great to allow of a demand for admission, roughly pulled open his shutters and the dingy curtains of his bed.

Robert started up.

“You must get up, sir,” she said. “Here’s a letter come for you, and it’s bad news I’m afraid.”

Pale as ashes, with a trembling hand Robert took the letter and glanced over it. It contained only these words:—

“Dear Robert,—There is no time to break it to you more tenderly. Your father is dying, and not a moment is to be lost if you would be blessed and forgiven. Dear Robert, God support you; I know what you will feel.

“R. ADDISON,—seven o’clock.”

The letter dropped from his fingers, and he fell back in bed. With rude sympathy the housemaid rushed to him, but the hands convulsively working, and the purple flush in his cheeks terrified her. She flew down the stairs with a scream, and dragged up the groom who had brought the letter, and who was awaiting Robert’s orders below.

The man soon perceived that no orders could be had from him, and desiring her to call up the household to assist her in composing and restoring him, hurried off to Everard.

The same note, with but a needful variation in its terms, had been written to him, and the characters of both letters were unsteady and illegible, as if, in truth, the haste was too great to allow time for thought. The same agonizing waking awaited Everard. But not as with Robert to overpower him; much rather it seemed to quicken his faculties. One intense, one all-prevailing desire, to see his father, to close his eyes, to hear his last words of affection, or warning, superseded every feeling of grief or fear, possessed his intellect, and gave wings to his body. In a time scarcely possible except to the superhuman activity such moments inspire in mortal frames, all that he required to have done was done, and having sent on to implore Robert to be ready, he was in a chaise and four at his door.

The prompt assistance and kindly attentions of the inmates of the house, had roused Robert from his first agony; and though that first agony in the body was a merciful one, compared to the devouring fire of remorse which every moment of consciousness caused to flame higher in his mind, yet the mind’s agony left him power to prepare himself, and he was ready.

His clothes flung upon him, his cheek like death, his eyes red and wild, his limbs so weak through real bodily illness and mental torment, that he could scarcely support them as he crept through the door and along the pavement—thus the two brothers met again, and this was the form on which Everard’s eyes fell, in the place of the brilliant Robert from whom he had parted six months before, and upon whom in all his charms his jealous fancy had of late been ceaselessly dwelling.

If Everard at that moment harboured resentment; if one thought of Robert’s rivalry had presented itself that morning to his imagination, this sight must have disarmed him, and changed his rage to pity. But, in truth, no such thought was or had been present. One agony reigned alone; one word, haste, was on his lips, beating in his pulses, thrilling through his veins, and as he held out his hand to drag rather than to help Robert into the carriage, the cold, clammy touch of the grasp that met his, first brought to his mind what feelings besides affection must be at once burning in, and chilling his brother’s heart.

“Robert, how ill you look! Can I do anything for you?” he asked pitifully, while the door was closing, and the post-boys were gathering up their reins for speed.

Even at that instant Robert had place in his mind to feel shame at the kindness of the voice. Tears of shame and sorrow fell fast from his eyes, while pride felt another shame in the weakness that could not fight against them. Instead of answering, he turned his head away, and threw himself into the corner, where he sat; and in another moment they were off.

Partly understanding, partly misunderstanding the action, Everard looked at him for a moment, and then, in a tremulous unsteady voice, added, “Robert, surely there should be no ill-will between us now,” and he held out his hand, in mute token of what he desired.

Robert grasped it with agitation, but without a reply; and from that moment through the long day no other word passed between them. Everard pulled down the blinds as a protection against the glaring light, and throwing himself into the other corner, closed his eyes; and thus concealed and protected from each other, the two brothers pursued their silent reflections, uncomforted and alone.

Fatigue and exhaustion of body in part dulled the agonizing meditations of poor Robert. More than once the lingering effects of the soporific he had taken the night before, surprised him into sleep, and though such minutes of rest were followed by wakenings of acuter anguish, they did in fact beguile the way and make it bearable.

No such repose assisted Everard; he was awake in every pulse and every nerve; and yet in the very insanity of haste that possessed him there was a beguiling and support. This one desire to be in time pressed too vividly on his brain to allow the power of reflection. Life being bounded to the attainment of one moment’s hope, the dark beyond was neither realised nor seen.

Audley Court was ninety miles from London; but the journey was performed in less than eight hours. Early in the afternoon, the well known signs informed the travellers, that the time for suspense to give place to knowledge was at hand. The terror that laid its hand upon them was too strong for words. As they paused a single moment to be admitted at the lodge, both rose and glanced out, as if the same thought of enquiry was in their minds; and both again threw themselves backward, as if the effort and the dread were too great. In silence they went on to their home.

On reaching the arch which led into the quadrangle, Everard touched Robert and said, “Let us get out.” Whether it were life or death, he felt that he dared not break the stillness that reigned around with the noise of their approach. He threw open the door, made a sign to the post-boys, and the brothers passed on to the house.

At the house door Hope was standing, and she came down the steps to meet them. Their arrival was earlier than could have been expected, but she had been already an hour on the watch.

Her step was slow, but they saw at once she was not the herald of death. They were in time.

“He is still alive,” she softly murmured, while they were yet at a distance, but in the dead stillness the murmur was distinctly heard.

No word was spoken by either brother. No “Thank God” burst from them of inexpressible relief. The fear and awe, and thankfulness were all alike beyond words or thoughts. In silence both clasped Hope in their arms, and silently they followed her as she led the way.

Outside their father’s room she paused, and they obediently paused also. “Wait one moment,” she said, in a tone which, except in such a stillness, could have reached no mortal ear. “I will say you are come. The end is very near, and we must be calm.”

She passed on, gliding to the bedside.

The attack had been from the heart, and for some hours Mr. Vavasour had suffered an agony so acute that it had done the work of days in wasting away the lingering powers of his declining life. But all bodily pain had now passed away for ever. He was alive, but the numbness of death was already stealing over him.

He was seated in bed, supported by many pillows; all the curtains were drawn back, all the windows were open; air and light and sunshine were in the room, and yet Death. On one side of him, leaning her head against the pillows sat Mrs. Vavasour, looking more dead than alive; on the other Mr. Addison knelt. In one of the windows two physicians stood, intently watching their patient.

Mr. Vavasour’s face was calm, but not yet quite at peace. Expectation still trembled on his lips, and gave life and fire to his eyes.

Hope glided in, and kissing her aunt, whispered, “They are come, Aunt Joan.”

“Let them come in,” said the dying man, his ears quick to hear the sound; “there is no time for delay.”

The sons heard the voice and entered. Robert first; and as his eyes fell on his father’s face, he sprang forward with a piercing cry, and fell on his knees by the bedside. “Father, forgive!”

A strong emotion for a moment almost convulsed Mr. Vavasour’s features, but he mastered it, and it was followed by a smile, the sweet calm smile of the dying. “I do forgive you, Robert,” he said, in firm tones, “as fully, as freely as I trust God, my Saviour, has forgiven me.” He paused, stretching out his hand to grasp that of his son, and continued: “Let nothing tempt you to doubt my love or my forgiveness. I may have seemed, I may seem to you, harsh and unjust; but all I have done has been in love and not in anger, and my last words to you, my boy, are blessing. Remember it.”

He let his hand rest for a moment in the grasp of his son; and as he withdrew it smiled another of those smiles, which seemed to be made up of love and blessing only.

He then turned his eyes and said, “Everard!”

When Robert sprang forward with his wild cry, Mr. Addison had risen from his knees, and laid aside the book from which he had been reading. He made a sign to Everard to take his place, but Everard, whose thoughtfulness for others not even such a moment could overcome, drew himself apart, leaving Robert to make his peace alone.

But at the first turn of his father’s eyes, he too sprang forward, and fell on his knees by Robert’s side.

Mr. Vavasour’s eyes rested upon him for a few instants without speaking, and Everard gazed into them, drinking into his soul the affection they betrayed. “You have been a good son to me, Everard,” at last, he simply said. “God bless you for it.”

They were quiet words; quiet, but blessed ones. Everard’s heart bounded beneath their blessedness. He did not speak, but still gazed on, as those gaze who are looking their last, on what has been their life’s passion.

Partly that he read his son’s love in his eyes; partly, perhaps, with some other future thoughts in his mind, Mr. Vavasour again addressed him. “Everard,” he said, solemnly, “you have hitherto suffered me to be the guide of your life; when I am dead, my boy, will you let my wishes guide you still?”

“Ever and ever, father, all my life long, so help me God,” was his son’s passionate reply.

“Amen,” said Mr. Vavasour, as if he were setting his seal upon a vow.

He then rose up in bed and laid a hand on each son’s bending head. “Live in peace, my boys,” he said, with ineffable tenderness, “and God be with you, and bring you to rest in joy at last, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Even in that moment of parting pain, Mrs. Vavasour saw, and saw with agony, that the right hand was on Everard’s, and the left on Robert’s head. From the position of each it could scarcely have been otherwise; but the heart knows no rules in its fears or its loves.

When these words were said, Mr. Vavasour sank gently back.

The physicians hastily approached as they saw the eye suddenly fixed; but one glance was enough to assure them that all was over, and they withdrew.

The deep stillness that followed was at length broken by Mr. Addison. He gently touched Robert’s shoulder and murmured—“Robert, your mother!”

Robert rose mechanically, and went round to where she sat; but the sight of her face resting by the side of his father’s, broke the spell of awe which for the time had laid its hand upon him, and, throwing himself into her arms, he wept convulsively.

Her son’s agony roused Mrs. Vavasour from her speechless and tearless trance. She attempted to disengage herself from him, and to lead him away; but Robert’s feelings were violent and excitable, and the long self-restraint of the day having once given way, he was powerless to control them. When the attempt was made to withdraw him from the bed of death, he threw himself upon it with another cry, piercing as his first, and there remained immoveable.

Mrs. Vavasour made a sign to Mr. Addison, and again whispering in Robert’s ear, “Your mother,” he at length succeeded in prevailing on him to rise, and to suffer himself to be drawn away. Mrs. Vavasour put her arm round Hope, and followed.

Everard rose from his knees as he saw them go, and gazed wistfully after them; one glance, one look to say he was not forgotten. His eye followed them to the door, but all passed through, and it was closed. He was left alone—alone with the only one to whom in all the world he felt he had ever been dear; and with a cry, not piercing like Robert’s, but smothered from its very despair, he, too, threw himself upon the bed where his father lay.

One of the physicians—a stranger to him—having thus found him on his return, lifted him tenderly up, and the other, opening the door through which the family had passed, signed for him to follow; but, rushing by, towards the door through which the physicians had re-entered, Everard fled to his own room.

CHAPTER VIII.

Hear the very latest counsel

That ever I shall breathe.

King Henry the Fourth.

A CONSIDERABLE time elapsed before the violence of Robert’s grief could be mastered. It took the form of an hysterical passion evidently beyond his powers to subdue, springing no doubt in a great measure from the unnerved condition in which his late habits had left him.

It gave place at last to exhaustion; he seemed as weak as a child, and he submitted like a child to go to bed. When this was accomplished, the room was darkened, and Mrs. Vavasour sat down by his side to watch over him. Robert opened his eyes and saw her there; and, as if forgetting all that had passed, held out his hand to her with a faint sweet smile; and having so done he dropped asleep with hers clasped in his. It was like the days of infancy once more, and Mr. Addison, who was standing by, turned away at the sight with tears he could no longer restrain. Who could wonder at the love the mother bore to her poor prodigal son?

When he left the room he found Hope watching outside. He desired her to go and lie down, and husband her powers for the time when they might be wanted. She had been up and standing the whole of the night before, and she looked, though she did not seem, worn out.

She went in obedience to his advice, and he then turned his steps in search of Everard; but on his way to Everard’s room so many questions and inquiries assailed him, so many necessary delays occurred, that it was above an hour and a half since Mr. Vavasour’s death before he reached him.

On approaching the door he met a housemaid, an elderly woman who had been long in the family, coming from it.

“How is Mr. Everard?” he inquired, stopping her as she was passing with her apron to her eyes.

“He’s come to a bit, poor dear,” she replied, “but he’s been terribly bad. Mr. Everard always was so uncommonly fond of his papa.”

“Has Mr. Everard been ill?” Mr. Addison asked, with a pang of self-reproach, although mortal powers of comforting are limited as other things.

“He passed me by when he came to his room with such a white face, sir, that I made bold to go after him, and I found him on the floor, poor dear, with his heart going like a mill-wheel. But he told me to give no trouble and say nothing about it, and he’s come to now a bit. I made him lie down, and I took him some tea just now, and he seems more composed and like himself, poor dear,” and with a curtsey she hastened on her way.

With an added fear lest Everard should have thought himself neglected, Mr. Addison went on. In a small degree his watchful eyes had discovered that this was sometimes the case; but even he had no conception of the keenness with which the lack of warm affection was felt. It was in fact a grief which none but the one who suffered from it could understand. The outward forms of affection, the care and thought, were, though calm, so kind and constant that it was only the heart itself which pined for a quicker pulse of love in answer to its own, which could be aware of the one thing wanting.

He knocked at the door, but entered without waiting for an answer, and approached the bed. The room was already darkened, in token of death in the house, but the bright April evening shone through the openings and gave light enough for observation.

Mr. Addison was struck by the look of abandonment to sorrow in the usually composed countenance, and the lassitude in the usually vigorous frame. Everard did raise himself on his approach, and say he would get up, but when he gently touched him and said, “No, lie down again,” he obeyed without a word of remonstrance.

“I could not get to you before,” he began in a tone of tender affection. “How are you, my poor Everard?”

“How are they all?” he asked in reply, looking wistfully into his face.

“All quiet now, and Hope and Robert are lying down. Poor Robert has been terribly overcome. We cannot wonder. He has his own keen pangs of sorrow, which nothing else can equal. Happy, dear Everard, those who are spared them.”

“And my mother?” Everard said, without heeding those words of consolation.

“She is sitting by Robert,” Mr. Addison replied, after a momentary hesitation. “He greatly needs her care, and at this moment, Everard, I feel almost thankful it should be so. The sun of her life is gone out, and were it not for this anxiety, she might scarcely have strength to live on.”

Everard turned away his eyes; but if the thought of what Robert was to his mother gave him pain, it was a longing not an envious pain.

“Everard,” Mr. Addison said, stooping over him, “I have come last to you, because you are the strongest; but do not think I am not well aware that in some respects, this loss is more to you than to all the world beside.”

“Do not restrain yourself too much,” he continued, perceiving that Everard clenched his hands to control his emotion. “Grief should and must have its way. I will not speak if it grieves you too much, but if you can bear it, there are some things I would say.”

“You said that I felt already too much,” Everard replied passionately. “Oh! Mr. Addison, I know I am selfish to think it, but I feel that I have lost all; in all the world there was but one who cared for me, and he is gone. What is life now? What have I to live for? I know I am selfish—I hate myself for what I say, and yet I feel it still. I am desolate.”

“It may be selfish, dear Everard, but do not blame yourself too severely; in some respects grief makes us selfish, and is intended to do so, for it teaches us to search and look into our hearts. I wish to use it for that purpose now. Let us see what this sorrow says to you. I think it has a message for you. Can you bear to hear me?”

Everard looked gratefully up into the face of his old friend, already soothed by the soft touch of his kind words.

“It seems hardly a fitting time to preach a sermon,” he said, with a faint smile on his lips, “but what I have to say, Everard, may, I think, bring a word in season to your weary heart. You ask, ‘what have you to live for now?’ Dear Everard, I do but repeat some words already spoken this day, when I say ‘You have been a good son.’ You have made your father’s will the guide of your life. Do not think that I have a fault to find in that. I so loved your devotion, that even though I saw a want, I feared to disturb it by a single word of advice; but now, Everard, when that guide has been taken from you, I would partly in comfort, partly in warning, point your thoughts upward to your father in Heaven; a Guide and Friend that cannot fail or pass away. Everard,” he continued, after a moment, with emphasis and solemnity, looking fixedly at him, “Your future life may be very different to your past; strong temptations may be before you, heavy cares oppress you; if you would walk safely under them, safely, and as your father would have you walk, you must make the will of God your guide, and His grace the support of your life. I will add no more; but, dear Everard, in these days of seclusion and sorrow, think upon what I say.”

“I know you are right,” Everard sadly said; “very right. I am not in that way which I should be. I will try to remember; and yet,” he added, after some consideration, “I feel now that if I had made my father my only guide, I should be less wretched now—but you do not know;—all these past months, oh! Mr. Addison, you do not know what a place my mind has been. Not my father, my dear father there, but vain, mean, worthless thoughts and motives, and other loves and cares, and few thoughts of him have filled it. Oh! Mr. Addison, if all were known, I have not been a good son.”

“You are unjust, and needlessly torment yourself,” Mr. Addison said soothingly; “there may have been, it was but natural there should have been, a noise of many voices in your heart; but I know, and you know it too, one word from your father, had he spoken, would have silenced them all. No word was ever truer, Everard, than that you heard to-day: ‘You have been a good son.’ Take the comfort God gives you home to your heart, and be thankful for it. To have been a good son is no light blessing—a father’s blessing follows such a one all his days, and come what may, dear Everard, will follow you.”

He bent over him, and laid his cool hand on his burning brow, putting back the masses of his disordered hair with a soft touch, like a mother’s; and the act of gentle and womanly tenderness went to the heart of the desolate son, and he left him comforted.

For the three days that followed Mr. Vavasour’s death, Robert was confined to bed. He was seriously ill. The cold which had attacked his throat returned more violently, and excitement of mind produced fever of body.

During those days Mrs. Vavasour never left him. She watched beside him by day, she slept on a sofa in his room at night. When he once observed to her that he was sure there were some Psalms and prayers which were fit for such a one as he was to use, she commanded her trembling voice, and read to him. For the time being, he seemed to fill all her mind. But when after the third day he recovered, she fell back into that trance of speechless sorrow, from which her care for him alone had had power to rouse her.

The tables were then reversed. Robert devoted himself to her—happy if only he could force a tear from her tearless eyes; consoled if he could draw one word from her lips.

During Robert’s illness, Everard and Hope had been left to themselves. They did, indeed, go in and out of the darkened room, but both alike felt that there was a sacredness of union there, their presence jarred upon. Robert asked for neither. His mother was all in all.

They were three miserable days. Hope saw that the link that had united her and Robert was indeed severed; and in the severing discovered how dear, too dear, that link had been; how dark was earth—yes, and heaven, too, now that union was not. Her days were days of one long prayer—such prayer as gains the thing it fain would have.

With Everard they were passed by the side of the inanimate form he had loved so well, and with whom all that made life bearable seemed vanished. Darkness was on his weary heart in the present and in the future, and though in the very sight of death, his thoughts did in a degree lose their earthliness, and he did in a degree follow the counsel of his old friend, and strive to seek a guide and support in Heaven; yet it is not at once that such thoughts become natural inmates of the mind, much less comforters. Animated with religious principles, Everard had always been; but from the formation of his mind and character—a character strong, stubborn, and earthly, he had been less susceptible than even Robert of religious feeling Mr. Addison had long seen the want; yet, as he had said, had scarcely dared to point it out, lest he should disturb that other principle which guided him so safely on his way.

The last days of the week brought a comfort to Hope they could not give to Everard. In their cares of Mrs. Vavasour, Robert and Hope were again united. They were rarely alone together, and if it chanced to happen that they were alone, no word regarding that which had made a change between them was ever spoken; but, as if blotting out the days of that last return home, during the whole of which, however unconsciously, Robert had been perpetually seeking to awaken her to love him, they returned to the tranquil, confiding intercourse of earlier days. A change there was, and Hope felt it, and yet was content.

To some it might have been hardly possible to bear the change; to some it might have been impossible so to put self and consciousness aside, as to turn back her steps to a former from a nearer and closer union; but with Hope it was possible—she knew how to win a victory over self, and she won it.

Everard would have shared their cares if he could. He, too, approached his mother and kissed her, and longed, till his heart seemed bursting, to put his arms round her to implore her to love him, and to let his love comfort her as they did; but he dared not. His tongue was tied by the dread of a cold response, and he was silent.

The day of the funeral came and passed.

When Everard left his room the following morning the sun was shining brilliantly through the now opened windows; there were sounds of voices no longer hushed, and footsteps no longer stealthy, in the gardens and about the house; all things seemed to be resuming their usual course, and life and light to have returned to the dwelling from which the inner light and life had just departed.

Sorrow is not always soft; nor a true mourning always faultless. Sorrow has its infirmities as well as, nay, much more than, joy. As Everard paced along the corridors, outwardly so bright, so dreary to him, his feelings were much like Jonah’s over the withering of his gourd; he was angry, and thought he did well to be angry. He had a strange jealous feeling that others were forgetting, that none were mourning like him, and in bitterness of spirit he said he would escape from his unbearable misery, and return to his toilsome life in London.

In this mood he entered the breakfast room; and on such a mood a very trifling circumstance jars with acute pain. Robert and Hope were there before him. From the lingering effects of his illness, Robert had hitherto breakfasted late and in his room; but he was there this morning; the room looked bright and fresh; the windows were open, letting in the sweet breeze of a May morning, and Robert was in his father’s chair and place.

There was nothing to surprise in this; for there were but three places at the table, and Robert’s mind was not of the kind which thoughtfully dwells on minute things; but to those whose minds were of another class it did speak. It did forcibly say—a change is come, yet life flows on unchanged; one generation gone, another era begun; a father dead, a son already in his place; a father, in his venerable and virtuous old age, and Robert in his place.

A torrent of impetuous, rebellious blood crimsoned Everard’s cheek, and he sat down, scarcely knowing what he said or did. Perhaps Robert observed his countenance, perhaps guessed in part what feelings agitated him, for he immediately leant towards him, and put a letter into his hand, observing in a low voice, “That is this afternoon. I will go down and tell Mr. Addison that he is to be here.”

The letter was from Mr. Low, the solicitor. It informed Robert that Mr. Vavasour’s will was in his hands, and that he had received a special charge to read it in the presence of the assembled family, (not excepting Mrs. Vavasour, if she could be prevailed on to comply with her husband’s request), and of Mr. Addison. He added that Mr. Vavasour had specified the day following his funeral for the reading of the will, and, therefore, without waiting to hear from Robert, he should be at Audley Court at four o’clock.

This information and Robert’s manner put Everard’s most miserable thoughts to flight. There was something yet to be heard from, or done for his father. The day was to be full of him; and the jealous dread that he was forgotten, for the time was gone.

He thought no more of his purpose of escape, and for the mere benefit of finding something to do, walked down with Robert to desire Mr. Addison to be at Audley Court at the appointed hour.

Mr. Addison gave a grave consent, looking fixedly at each brother; but they too were grave, and expected nothing but gravity, and his looks excited no remark.

On their return, as they approached the house, the butler came to meet Robert, and asked him if he chose to have the bells rung as usual for dinner and other things.

“Yes—no,” Robert replied, colouring crimson, and averting his eyes from Everard. “I don’t care, just as you think best.”

“I think it would be best. It secures punctuality,” observed the butler, with some importance in offering advice to his young master.

“Just as you please,” Robert said, hastily, and then as the man departed, he turned to Everard and exclaimed—“Oh! Everard, how I hate it all.”

“You must,” said his brother, passionately. “I feel how you must.”

“Don’t you hate me, that is all.”

“No, indeed,” Everard said warmly, and those few words of Robert’s blew away into airy nothing, the strange sad feeling that had made his heart ache that day, when he thought of Robert in his father’s place; blew it away, and brought love, trust, and even reverence in its place.

Mr. Low arrived punctually. Mrs. Vavasour unwilling to refuse compliance with the smallest wish expressed by her husband, forced herself to obedience; and the room was darkened, and a chair placed for her in the darkest corner; and to her chair she was led by Robert when the hour came, with Hope by her side.

“Now call him!” Robert said hurriedly to Everard, “and let there be no delay.”

Everard left the room.

As he came up the stairs with the solicitors, Mr. Low looked at him and said, “Have you any idea, Mr. Everard, as to the contents of your father’s will?”

“No, none!” he said with a kind of sad indifference.

“I think it may surprise you.”

Everard shook his head. He thought it possible Mr. Low intended to suggest that a better provision had been made for him than he had reason to expect; and once such a suggestion would have been no matter of indifference; but in the cloud that had now darkened his future, utter indifference as to his prospects had grown up.

He forgot Mr. Low’s remark as soon as it was made, and recurred to what was upper-most in his mind; the hope that he would make the affair as little painful to his mother as was possible.

“I will do my best,” said Mr. Low, “but some things unfortunately are not in my power to....”

“Of course,” Everard said hastily, “I know, only let it be as short as you can.”

Mr. Low bowed as he entered the room, but kindly and discreetly refrained from any further notice of Mrs. Vavasour.

He then sat down, giving his companion a paper to hold, and desired Robert and Everard to sit on each side of him.

They obeyed, and pale and grave Mr. Addison placed himself in the window.

Mr. Low then proceeded to read a will made ten years before this time. It contained a few bequests, left a sum of ten thousand pounds to Everard, and the whole of the rest of the property to Robert.

When he had finished reading, Mr. Low turned to Robert and said, “This will remained unaltered in my hands till about ten days ago; I regret to be compelled to add that since then an alteration has taken place. On the 22nd of April I was summoned from London, and in my presence, and in the presence of this gentleman, a new will was made and signed. I am compelled, Mr. Vavasour, though with great reluctance, to read it to you.”

In the second will there was simply a change in the bequests to his two sons. Where Robert stood now was Everard, and Robert in Everard’s place. But the conclusion was couched in most solemn words. The cause of the change was distinctly stated to arise from the unworthiness of his elder son, and though there was no concealment of the pain which his resolution cost, there was no faltering in the terms in which that resolution was expressed. Then followed a few words to “his dear son Robert,” assuring him of his unaltered affection, his full pardon, and his dying blessing.

To Everard also there was a special address, and at greater length. Into his hand Mr. Vavasour said he delivered all the cares which had occupied him through life. Some things were specified by name. He appointed him guardian to Hope Linton, and very solemnly committed to “his integrity, judgment, and affection,” the care of the welfare and happiness of the three beloved beings he left behind him. Lastly, he alluded to Everard’s new position, and no words could be imagined more forcible and pathetic than those in which he implored him to accept, and not to cast away, this his last will and testament.

Mr. Low’s thin, sharp voice deepened into pathos as he concluded, and agitated in an unusual degree, he drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose. This was the only sound that broke the silence either during the reading or after its conclusion. Both sons remained with their eyes downcast; Robert’s cheek was crimson, Everard’s ashy pale.

Mr. Low looked at them alternately, then at Mrs. Vavasour’s motionless form. He seemed perplexed how to act.

“I believe my task is done,” at last he observed, slowly rising from his seat, and bowing where he stood, while he rustled the papers in his hand.

Robert sprang up and shook hands with him; Everard remained immoveable.

“I must wish you good evening,” Mr. Low observed again, and having repeated his bow to Everard, in which his companion joined, but of which no notice was taken, they left the room together.

“Take me back,” Mrs. Vavasour faintly said to Hope, and, putting her arms round her, as if to support herself, she also rose, and attempted to depart; but her limbs trembled so much that Hope’s support seemed scarcely sufficient, and Robert hastening after her, caught her arm, forced her to lean on him, and so guided her away.

When the door closed, Mr. Addison made a few steps towards Everard, who still sat immoveable; but at the very first sound, Everard started up with a cheek like death, and eyes flashing like fire, and flew out of the room by the door which had just closed on Mr. Low.

Mr. Addison returned to the window, opened the shutters that had darkened it, and leaned out and sighed. He stood there in profound meditation, the fresh air cooling and calming his mind, until he was roused by the re-entrance of Robert.

“I say, Mr. Addison, you must go to my mother,” he said quickly, as he approached him; “she is in a sad way, and nothing I can say or do will comfort her. Go in at once; that will be the best; if you ask to go in she will not see you.”

There was a tone in Robert’s voice, and a look on his countenance which seemed to imply a desire of braving it out with a show of indifference. It made Mr. Addison uneasy; but, at the same time, it told him that this would not be the proper moment to make observations or offer sympathy or counsel. Without commenting, therefore, on what had passed, he merely thanked Robert for summoning him, and acquiesced in his request.

He left the room by one door; Robert left it by the other, coolly fetched his hat, and went out for a walk.

CHAPTER IX.

Oh! but they say the tongues of dying men

Enforce attention, like deep harmony;

When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain

For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.

King Richard the Second.

MR. ADDISON found Mrs. Vavasour in a state of mind the most painful which can be conceived. Her whole soul too evidently in revolt and rebellion against him, to whom she had been united in thought and feeling, and unto whom her will had been (unless on this same subject), in perfect submission for years; and this too in the mourning days of her irreparable loss. Never yet had he found himself so incapable of ministering consolation. She would not speak to him, because she dared not. Thoughts were within, terrible enough to feel, but which she would have died sooner than have spoken; and these thoughts he read on her contracted brow and in her tortured lips. He felt for her with intensity of sympathy, and yet he perceived that she dreaded to hear or to receive his sympathy, lest he or she should seem to cast in words, that blame on the departed, which her rebellious soul, without her will to restrain it, was already casting.

On two subjects only he touched. He first observed, that since Robert’s forgiveness had been so fully spoken, so fully and freely given both in word and deed, she must not look on her husband’s decision in the light of a curse. It was the act of a clear and sane judgment evidently intended for Robert’s good, and being without a trace of bitterness of spirit, should in a like spirit be received. His second suggestion was in the form of a hope earnestly expressed, that it would prove for Robert’s welfare in the end.

The first suggestion was accepted. Mrs. Vavasour said nothing, but he saw that it did reach her heart, and might in time give comfort. But at the second, her soul rose up in revolt again. In the contracted brow, as plain as words could speak, he read this answer—“Injustice cannot bring forth good.”

Mr. Addison had very strong opinions regarding the times to speak. Many might have thought that he neglected his duty, when on constantly recurring occasions he was silent, instead of setting forth plain truths, or delivering necessary admonitions. But long observation had taught him, that to speak words for which the heart is not prepared, is to waste them in more senses than one; not only making them fall profitless, but detracting from their value for a future occasion.

He said nothing therefore at this time to Mrs. Vavasour in the way of warning, or even of counsel; but after speaking such few words as he could of comfort and sympathy, he offered to read to her and Hope the Evening Service; trusting to the effects of familiar words and prayers to soothe her, and to such chance exhortations as might be scattered in the teaching of the day, to warn or encourage her.

When this was done and he wished her good night, he observed in a meaning voice that he was going to look for “poor Everard.”

She winced at the very name as he had expected would be the case, and having endeavoured by one pitiful epithet to turn the current of her thoughts, he thought it best to attempt no more.

He left her therefore to herself, and departed on his search.

When he reached Everard’s room he found the door locked, and to the two knockings by which he requested leave to enter, no answer was vouchsafed. Before he reached the door he had plainly heard his footsteps pacing up and down, but after the first announcement of his presence a perfect stillness succeeded.

“You must let me in, Everard,” he said at last, with something of authority in his voice. “I am come to speak to you.”

There was another minute’s demur, but it ended by the door being flung open with violence, and Mr. Addison entered.

Everard was looking nearly wild. His hair disordered and his eyes bloodshot, as if tears of passion and fierce rage had scorched them. He said nothing, and Mr. Addison closed the door and took his seat in silence.

At last he looked seriously in his face and said, “When last I came to you in this room, Everard, do you remember a warning I gave you. The time is already come, temptations and cares are oppressing you. Have you sought the strength you will so greatly need?”

“Then you knew of this,” Everard cried, fiercely. “I guessed as much. Mr. Addison, how did you dare....”

“Everard!” he said, warningly.

“I will be answered,” he continued passionately. “Did you know of this? I have a right to ask, and I will not be silent till I have a reply.”

“You shall know what you please when you are fit to be spoken to,” was the grave answer. “Recover yourself, Everard. Is it for a man in the full possession of his reason to act like a child or a madman. Compose yourself. For your father’s sake, to whom such madness was abhorrent, control your passions.”

Words so stern were uncommon with Mr. Addison; the assumption of an authoritative manner very new; but more than once of late, he had observed that Everard had loosened the reins of his self-controul; and he knew that when loosened after years of restraint, there is great danger of a man’s starting aside like a broken bow.

A torrent of blood flew to Everard’s temples; but in the same moment tears sprang into his eyes, and he was conquered.

“You are very severe, Mr. Addison,” he said, coming and leaning against the window in which he was sitting; “but, perhaps, you are just. Now say what you will, I can bear it.”

“Dear Everard, I did not come with the intention of being severe. I came in the hope of bringing you the help you might need. If I was severe, it is because I feel you need all your reason and all your powers to guide you in this time of difficulty and trial, and it grieved me to see you act unworthily of yourself.”

“Do you not feel for me?” Everard asked, in tones of intense misery.

“I do feel for you. But it becomes a man to act like a man, and no reasonable man allows his passion to lord it over him. Now I have done. Tell me, Everard, what do you wish to know?”

“Was this done with your knowledge? If it was, oh! Mr. Addison, forgive me, but it was most unworthy of you. In him, I can ... I can pity it ... but in you....”

“Now hear me, Everard. I fully understand all you would say, but hear me before you condemn. I did know it, under these circumstances. When, a few hours before his death, your dear father made a confession to me, embracing all the events of his life, he said he would not withhold from me the knowledge of one circumstance which possibly I might blame. When he told me what he had done, I owned that my opinion was against his decision. I said that though in one sense just, yet that there was a seeming injustice which rarely was capable of bringing forth good. He answered me that I must forgive him if my words could not induce him to change his resolution. He told me that it was not a decision formed in one mad moment; but that in the event of certain circumstances occurring which did occur, it had been a course resolved upon months before, with prayer, with reflection, and as in the sight of God.

“I then examined into his state of mind. I desired him most seriously to look into his own heart, and to see if there was one rankling feeling of bitterness towards Robert. I spoke, Everard, as they should speak who speak for eternity; and I am bound to tell you that I found no ill will, no vengeance there. He spoke of Robert with intense affection; and expressed his hopes, fond and fervent, and his conviction also, that the day would arrive when he would come to himself, and redeem all that was passed.

“He then spoke of his motives, and began by saying, that he could not, in his conscience, leave the inheritance of his fathers, to be delivered up, as he well knew would be the case, into the hands of profligates. ‘By years of self-denial,’ he said, ‘I have made it doubly my own, and it is my will that it should be transmitted as a solemn trust to the son who has proved himself worthy of his name.’

“I interrupted him here and said that I had sometimes feared the love of his name, and jealousy of its honour, held a place too nearly idolatrous in his heart. He looked at me fixedly, and remained for some minutes in profound thought. At last he replied that he acknowledged such had been the case, and he begged of me, during the remaining hours of his life, to pray for him that that stain might be washed away; but, he added, that though he would not say his motives were perfectly pure from that blemish, yet, that as far as he could read his heart, that was not the motive that influenced him. He then entered minutely into Robert’s character—pointed out his good qualities and his great weaknesses, and ended by declaring his conviction, that, humanly speaking, there was no salvation for him but in the course he had taken.

“I might have said more, Everard, but I did not; there is sometimes an intuition in the dying more pure and clear than the living have. I searched his mind and heart; I saw it (so far as man can tell) so cleansed from earthly stain as to need but the passage hence, to make it fit for Heaven; and I could not—I did not dare to withstand farther, what might be an inspiration from the Spirit of God. Such was my part in this matter, Everard. Can you forgive me for it?”

Everard only answered by a sigh that seemed to spring from the depths of his heart.

There was a long silence. Mr. Addison broke it at length with the simple enquiry, “Shall you accept your father’s will, Everard?”

Everard covered his face with his hands.

“It was a hard thing to lay on a man,” he cried, with returning passion. “Mr. Addison, leave me to myself; I have not thought—I cannot think. Oh! my father, my father, could you but have known the agony you would cause me!”

“He did know, Everard, I doubt not. He understood you too well not to know it; but he knew also that you were his son, able to endure and conquer agony if duty calls. I am not saying where your duty lies; I do but speak of what he felt regarding you. As to your duty, in such a case as this, every man must decide for himself. Think and pray, and then decide, and, whatever it be, act bravely, and without passion.”

“Leave me to myself, Mr. Addison,” Everard repeated, as if he scarcely heard what he said. “Thank you for coming, thank you for your stern words; pray that I may do right, but leave me to myself. I will try to do my duty if I could but tell what it is. Oh! mother, mother, how shall I ever look in your face again!”

In obedience to his repeated and agitated request to be left alone, Mr. Addison departed. He saw plainly that the decision must be worked out in Everard’s own mind, and that he did not even desire to know what opinions were held by others on the subject.

But solitude brought no clearness to Everard’s intellect, no light over the chaos of his thoughts. If for a moment one conclusion was formed, if the glaring injustice to Robert assumed colours so vivid, that no obedience, no feeling, no promise, could stand before it, the very next he saw his father’s dying face, the peace of his reliance upon him; he heard his last and solemn enquiry, “Would his son be guided by his will,” and all was overthrown. And then the case was reversed. Obedience prevailed; and then this resolution, in turn, was shaken to its depths by vivid images of Robert and his rights, and his mother’s sufferings, and the already gnawing sting of hate that must be his portion.

He drew back shuddering, and, in darkness and bewilderment, the wearying process began once more.

In the tumult of such opposing reflections, time became as nothing, and he was still pacing his room—now languidly, now impetuously, when he was startled by the sound of the dinner-bell.

The familiar notice brought strangely to his remembrance the thoughts of the morning—his own bitter spirit, his dread of seeing Robert in his father’s place, and with those thoughts rushed in a whole host of other thoughts—of jealousies connected with Robert, of imaginings of Robert’s future, of fears, hopes, terrors, till, in very exhaustion, unable to face the mass of fancies that assailed him, or to see one guiding light in the feverish darkness around, he threw himself on his bed, and determined to remain undisturbed for the night.

Something, as he lay down, recalled to his memory the tenderness of Mr. Addison’s face, when he bent over him on the day of his father’s death; and with the thought of Mr. Addison came the recollection of his grave words on the indulgence of passion. With a child’s docility, he rose up again, and though with an aching head and weary spirit, he resolved to go down.

It was too late to dress, but he washed his face, and smoothed his hair, and endeavoured to still his throbbing pulses; and while yet as far from decision as ever, left his room to join his brother and Hope.

On the stairs Robert overtook him, and they went down together. Nothing was said at first, but, as they crossed the lower corridor, Robert observed, in his usual tone, “We will go to my mother’s dressing-room. I told her this morning that if she would consent to dine with us, we would dine in the ante-room, and have no one in but Harrison. I gave orders accordingly, and I suppose nobody has thought of making a change.”

Robert’s request had been mistaken. It was too early an attempt to rouse Mrs. Vavasour from her trance of grief; but it had been so fondly and lovingly urged, that, unable to resist him, she had permitted him to arrange what he desired. Since then he had not thought of it, and she, for his sake, had been unwilling to make a change.

If weighed down beneath a load of crime, Everard could scarcely have felt a heavier oppression of shame and guilt than he did on entering his mother’s room. She never raised her eyes; and, during the few moments of waiting that followed, while Robert sat beside her and kissed her, he stood stiff, stern, and immoveable, like a culprit before her.

Hope gave a slight push to a chair, as if to desire him to sit down—a simple movement, and yet, in the feeling towards him which it exhibited, coming like a drop of cold water in the desert. It was the only comfort that came to him that miserable night.

When dinner was ready, Robert gave his arm to his mother, and tenderly led her into the room where it was prepared. He was about to sit down at the head of the table, when a recollection suddenly came over him, and, colouring crimson, he drew back after seating his mother, and hesitatingly made a step towards Everard; but the look of inexpressible anguish that met his glance, drove him back; and though with a still higher colour he sat down.

The wish for Mrs. Vavasour’s presence had been, as was said, mistaken tenderness; so Robert acknowledged during the wretched half-hour that followed. He and Hope once or twice attempted to speak; but their words, few and faint, were the only ones. Mrs. Vavasour never raised her eyes, never glanced towards Everard; while from her, in the longing for one look of pity, his eyes never wandered.

When the time of endurance came to an end, Mrs. Vavasour rose, and faintly saying she would go to bed, wished them good-night.

Robert fondly kissed her, and thanked her for coming amongst them; and then Everard approached with an effort, and hoarsely said, “Good-night, mother.”

She paused as she was turning away, leaning on Hope—paused for him to kiss her; but, except the pause, there was nothing inviting in her manner, and he dared not speak. The calm, cold kiss was given, and she went on.

Hope came for a short time to make tea for her cousins, and when she left them they remained alone and undisturbed; but no word on either side was said. Robert took up a book, and Everard followed his example—the former not even attempting to read, the latter attempting it that the torment of thought which rolled round and round within him, as in the mind of a maniac, might, for a moment, be stayed—but, in vain; and so another hour passed.

Everard then threw down his book, and left the room. On his departure, Robert threw down his, and leaning his head against the chimney-piece, remained there in abstraction, or meditation, far into the night.

CHAPTER X.

The sun shines in his fall brightness but the very

moment before he passes under a cloud.

SOUTH.

THERE was a large dinner party at Mr. Gresham’s on the third night after Mr. Vavasour’s funeral. He had been extremely shocked at Mr. Vavasour’s sudden death. Not that, according to his calculations, his life was a good one; not that he desired any more than he expected any great delay, before the old towers of Audley Court came into Robert’s possession, but he would certainly have preferred, could he have had a voice in the matter, that the death of Mr. Vavasour should have occurred at another time, and been arranged in another manner.

He would have preferred a short illness, some preparation for the inevitable event; more than all, he would have preferred that a thorough reconciliation with Robert should have taken place. His conscience was not perfectly easy as to his late behaviour, and, therefore, he felt aggrieved. He would have desired in one conversation to set forth his reasons to Mr. Vavasour, and to make known to him his generous designs regarding Robert and his family. The unexpected stroke of death before such explanations could be made, injured him in the tenderest point, and he felt equally wronged and distressed. He was also sorry for Robert. So much of heart and fancy as he had, Robert had touched, and he was certainly grieved for the blow he must have received.

Altogether, therefore, he was shocked; and as a mark both of his shock and of his respect, he closed his house to visitors, and retrained from going into society. But he found the week’s seclusion tedious; and on the day of the funeral, observing to Angela that he had done more than was customary in the eyes of the world, since the world was not aware of his connection with Mr. Vavasour, he desired her to write invitations to a number of persons, whose names he put into her hand.

Angela’s shock had been more deep and lasting than her father’s. At first her thoughts were for others. She thought with sorrow of the breaking up of that home whose happiness she had so often envied; she grieved with intense pity for him whose life she well knew was bound up with his father’s; and she was awed and solemnised by the sudden blow, with the overwhelming awe of the young and impressible. These impressions were followed by acuter sensations; selfish hopes and fears. Hopes that Robert would withdraw from his pursuit; fears lest his new position should subject her to a stronger pressure; a dread above all lest the length of time that had elapsed since her father’s acceptance of his proposal, should involve her in toils from which there would be no escape. Her determination did not waver, but the future was no place of peace or certainty to her distracted and excited thoughts.

“What is the matter with you, Angela?” enquired Miss Vansittart, one of the guests at the dinner party, when the ladies returned to the drawing-room. “Come, do talk to me. Mamma and Mrs. Broadhurst have plenty to say to each other, and I wish to make some serious enquiries.”

“What is the matter?” Angela replied coldly; for though Miss Vansittart was on most intimate terms in the house, she had never permitted her to be on intimate terms with her.

“Why the matter is that you look shockingly ill; and as you are not subject to vapours, I suppose there is good reason for it. You have looked moderately ill for two or three weeks, but supposing there to be some good cause shortly to be made known, I held my tongue. To-night, however, you look ill without any moderation, and as I cannot conceive in your circumstances what can make you ill, I wish to be enlightened. Don’t tell me, a headache. You never have headaches, or if you do, you don’t cry about them. Come now, what is the matter?”

“I am worried, I own,” replied Angela.

“But what about? young ladies have only two sources of worry—poverty, and love. As the first is quite out of the question it must be the second. So now tell me. Is some lover inconstant? No, in your position that can’t be. Is some lover forbidden? Come now, Angela, what is it?”

“A cause you would never guess. You may as well leave it alone Adelaide, for I am not going to tell.”

“How provoking you are! I wonder who is in your confidence. I wonder.... Oh! my goodness, Angela, what lovely lace!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Where did you get it? I am sure it is new.”

“Papa gave it to me last week on my birthday.”

“You lucky creature! Why, Angela, it is priceless. What would I not give for one yard of it!”

“I wish you had it all; I don’t care one straw about it.”

“I am sure I wish I had. Really, Angela, it provokes me to think how the good gifts of this world are wasted upon you. If I were in your position what would I not be and do. Beauty, riches, lovers—all that heart can wish; I have sleepless nights of envy when I think of it, and you, in the meanwhile, make no use of them at all. If I could but be in your position for one month—for one week—for one hour.”

“I give it all up to you, Adelaide. My position, as you call it, gives me no pleasure.”

“Would you then, truly and honestly, change with me if you could?”

“With you? No,” Angela said for the first time with warmth in her tone, “not for the whole world.”

“Ah! then you are not so indifferent as you pretend. Now I will tell you what I should do if I were in your place. First of all, I should not marry. I dare say you are surprised, because I talk sometimes of lovers; but that has nothing to do with the question. I, in my place, should marry directly if I could, and mean to marry as soon as a proper person appears; but, in your position, I should not marry for years to come. Lovers of course I should have—that would be one of the pleasures; even my brother Alfred, though he is but un petit poisson, I should allow to swell my train; but marriage I should reserve till I had exhausted the pleasures of my first youth. Oh, Angela! my heart is ready to break with rage and envy when I think what I could be in your position—how gloriously dressed, how glittering with jewels, how envied, how admired—and you, you stupid creature, you make no use of it at all.”

Angela made no answer to this rhapsody. She was, in truth, so perfectly aware of what Miss Vansittart would say when the subject of her “position” came under discussion, and was so accustomed to these bursts of envy that she was in the habit of letting her mind wander as it pleased; and being at this moment much occupied with other thoughts, she had wandered so far as to be unable to give the proper signs of attention at the end.

Miss Vansittart was about to begin a new attack on perceiving her abstraction, when the entrance of the gentlemen diverted her attention.

Mr. Gresham walked in, swelling with pride and happiness. His dinner party had entirely restored his conscience to complacency, and in the near approach of the fulfilment of his wishes, he felt a satisfaction, an elation so all-pervading and rapturous, that it was impossible entirely to suppress its signs in the outward man. With something of a princely tread he crossed the room, making his bland and gracious addresses to all.

“I suppose you and your papa have had a difference of opinion, Angela,” whispered Miss Vansittart, “for while you have made yourself, if it were possible, ugly, he looks handsomer than ever.”

Mr. Gresham did not hear this complimentary speech, but he saw Miss Vansittart’s glance observing him, and came to pay his devoirs to her. She was a young lady after his own heart, such a one as he wished Angela to be, well dressed, well mannered, and accomplished; and though not handsome, making herself handsome by the energy of her mind and the fine taste of her dress. She lived to some purpose, as he often remarked to his daughter. He came up to her with a fade compliment on her attire; and she, well aware how to please and accommodate herself to men’s various minds, after smiling over the compliment, alluded to Angela’s lace, a topic she easily guessed would be acceptable, and said, “In me it is some merit to dress well, but in Angela it is none. Who would not look well in this?”

Mr. Gresham was highly gratified. He said he entirely agreed in her remarks, and was delighted to receive her approval of his choice. He had purchased the lace himself. It was not to be supposed that he had much taste in such matters, but he confessed that the pattern and the texture had appeared to him singularly beautiful, and although the price....

“Oh! Mr. Gresham, what is price to you?” interrupted Miss Vansittart laughingly; and once again she enlarged upon the beauty of the lace and the happiness of its possessor, until Mr. Gresham, in the expansive benevolence of the moment, requested her to allow him to make her happy by a gift of the very same nature.

Such a conclusion had not been entirely unexpected, certainly not undesired by his auditor, and after a few becoming hesitations and much flattering gratitude, the gift was accepted.

Elevated to a yet higher pinnacle of satisfaction by the influence of this new act of generosity, Mr. Gresham then betook himself to his favourite associate, Mrs. Vansittart, to make a report of what he had done, and to receive the fulsome flatteries in which he delighted.

After dwelling on the good fortune and gratitude of Adelaide, and on Mr. Gresham’s good fortune in being able to throw his royal gifts around him, Mrs. Vansittart then touched on the subject which had excited her curiosity as well as her daughter’s.

“Now Mr. Gresham, do tell us what is going on. Angela looks just as young ladies look when a certain important event is on the eve of fulfilment; and judging from your looks I am sure it may be gathered that the event, whatever it is, will draw forth all our congratulations. I hope I am not indiscreet in making such remarks, for you know that your interest is as dear to me as my own.”

“By no means indiscreet,” he replied graciously, “and he assured that when time and circumstances permit me to speak, you will be the first, the very first to whom I shall hasten, for the congratulations you have in store.”

“Now indeed my curiosity is excited,” she continued smilingly, after this avowal, “you have actually confessed that some great event is impending. I will not be indiscreet, but you must excuse some excitement on such a subject. For what shall we prepare? Is it a duke, or a marquis, or an earl? nothing lower than an earl I am certain—or is it a prince? We know you may take what you please, you have but to stretch out your hand and coronets are scattered at your feet.”

Mr. Gresham bowed with some gravity. The thought of his moderation was not without annoyance. He was half ashamed of the wisdom with which he had controlled his desires, and restrained his power of choice. But after one moment’s consideration, the advantages of the choice he had made resumed their sway—the personal charms of Robert, the ancient family, the enormous territories which the union of the two proprietors would unite.... No, he did not repent, he was proud of his moderate and modest desires. Feeling it incumbent upon him, however, to explain his motives beforehand, he began to lay the principles on which he acted in a general way before his companion. His thoughts took their usual didactic form; he pointed out that it did not appear to be the design of Providence, that man should be possessed of every object of his desire, and spoke with feeling of the sacrifices it was needful for all, even for such as he to make,—thinking as he did so of the pressure he had been forced to apply to his conscience.

His harangue was lengthy and tedious, but the total impossibility of discovering its drift, bore Mrs. Vavasour to the end. To the very last word she expected light to dawn. When it concluded, however, as driftless as it began, she turned away her head to swallow two yawns which curiosity alone had hitherto held in check; when this relief was obtained she turned to him again, and with a countenance of renewed interest observed that his sentiments were very just, his philosophy much to be commended, with other expressions of a like flattering nature.

Such commendation encouraged him to lay before her some further views on the general government of the world, and he was opening his discourse by a remark on the necessity of considering all matters, however small, in a broad and enlarged, and in fact a philosophical view, when he was interrupted, and Mrs. Vansittart relieved, by the approach of the groom of the chambers, who informed Mr. Gresham that Mr. Robinson, his solicitor, was waiting below, and wished to have five minutes conversation with him in private.

A message from Robert he immediately suggested to himself, or, perhaps, a summons to Audley Court; and his chest heaved with joyful anticipations.

Desiring that Mr. Robinson should be shown into his study, he turned to Mrs. Vansittart to make his apologies for the interruption, and but for his own eagerness to be gone, would have opened a new discourse on the duties and the responsibilities of fathers, proprietors, and possibly, man in general. Being in haste, however, his words though polite and urbane, were short and to the purpose.

“No apologies, Mr. Gresham, I beg,” said his smiling companion, always ready with her appropriate flattery. “We all know that ‘uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’ Pray go and transact your necessary business, and we your subjects must reconcile ourselves to your absence as we can.”

He bowed, smiled, elevated his nose under the consciousness of the important matters that did devolve upon his head, and regally left the room, a slight bow embracing and apologizing to the whole circle of his company.

His return after the space of about twenty minutes was of another nature. In vain “Richard strove to be himself.” In vain he endeavoured to cast his bland and condescending glances around him. His nature was in truth too true and simple to be able to act a part. He showed his elation of heart in his own greatness and prosperity, and now in signs as little to be mistaken, disappointment sat upon his brow.

Of what had passed, however, he said nothing. He entered into conversation on the state of the atmosphere with a quiet old gentleman, and from the safe position by his side cast side-long glances at the clock. Sidelong, yet evident; bidding all discerning observers take notice that he wished them to begone.

Mrs. Vansittart was complying enough to act upon the hint, and by the bustle of her departure to force the same conviction upon the less discerning of the guests. Devoured with internal curiosity, but outwardly as placid as if they neither saw nor felt anything of the kind, she and Adelaide took leave, and in ten minutes the father and daughter were alone.

Angela had seen, in common with the rest of the company, the change in her father’s manner; and nothing but that strange self-restraint which society teaches, could have home her through the minutes that followed his re-entrance. Even as it was, her heart beat so violently, and her colour varied so rapidly, that it drew upon her not only the attention of Miss Vansittart, but also of the young gentleman who was entertaining her with some platitudes; into whose bosom her agitated reception of his words, introduced for the first time the idea of making a venture for the beautiful heiress.

When the company was gone, she seated herself on the sofa, in breathless anxiety, but in silence, and so awaited a communication from her father. Nor did he keep her waiting long.

“I have been summoned, Angela,” he began, standing before the fireplace, and fixing his stare upon her, “to a private audience with Mr. Robinson. He came on a matter of importance. He has been dining, it appears, with Mr. Low, the late Mr. Vavasour’s adviser and solicitor, and from him he has received a private and confidential communication of a most extraordinary and unforeseen event; an event I may say which no human care and foresight could possibly have foreseen. He naturally and dutifully, supposing it to be a matter of interest to me, hastened hither with the intelligence. I cannot blame myself, for as I before stated, human foresight is bounded, and man can but use such powers as have been committed to him. I acted for the best, I acted with all the consideration, the forethought, the discretion, that man can bring to bear upon any scheme, or plan, or desire he may form, I acted under a full sense of my responsibility, and yet——” here he waved his hands, as much as to say if he had failed, he washed his hands of it. “I believe, my love,” he resumed, “I have not yet informed you of the nature of this most unforeseen circumstance, unforeseen and unfortunate indeed, as when I tell you what has occurred, I believe you will agree with me in denominating it. It is my painful duty to declare that the late Mr. Vavasour has thought proper to disinherit his eldest son, and to leave all his possessions to the younger,—to Mr. Everard Vavasour in short.”

Notwithstanding the beatings of her heart Angela never moved, neither did her eyes once wander from her father’s face during his long discourse, but as he concluded she started up with a smothered exclamation of dismay, and a look of misery so intense, that even Mr. Gresham’s unperceiving eyes perceived it. He made a step towards her, and it was well he did so, for the movement brought him just in time to catch her as she fell senseless, and to save her head from a blow against an ornamental table near which she fell.

To recover a fainting girl was a new office for Mr. Gresham; and having placed her upright on the sofa, and held under her nose a bottle, snatched from the table, of costly but strong perfume, strong and overpowering enough to have made a giant faint, he began to perceive that his efforts were not successful, and rang the bell for her maid.

“Miss Gresham is overtired to-night,” he said when she appeared, “the party was large and the rooms close. She had better remain here until she has recovered herself,” and supposing he had deceived the undeceivable lady who waited on Angela, he kissed his daughter, and betook himself to uncomfortable reflections in his own room.

Three sources of comfort at length dawned upon him, and made him, after all his troubles, sleep almost as peaceably as usual.

The first sprung from the possibility of Everard’s refusing to profit by his father’s will. The second from the certainty that should he accept it, and could Mr. Gresham free himself from his engagement to Robert, there was Everard waiting to receive his daughter as a bride. The third topic of consolation arose from his own attachment to Robert in his personal capacity. If the worst came to the worst, still Robert was Robert, with all those charms and graces which rivet the eyes of the world. To receive comfort from this source required a strong effort, and nothing but Robert’s fascination could have inspired it. Still, if all else failed, there was consolation here, and having thus in the multitude of his consolers found hope, he retired with composure and dignity to bed.

CHAPTER XI.

Mortal, that standest on a point of time,

With an eternity on either hand,

Thou hast one duty above all sublime,

Where thou art placed serenely there to stand.

To stand undaunted by the threatening death,

Or harder circumstance of living doom,

Nor less untempted by the odorous breath

Of Hope, that rises even from the tomb.

R. M. MILNES.

IT is stated by some who have written on insanity, and who, from study and observation, are competent to form an opinion, that a well-regulated and well-principled mind has (though of course not in every case) a power to controul and withstand madness, which the unprincipled do not possess. Much more has a well-regulated mind the power to controul that temporary insanity which strong excitement brings. Not that a regulated mind feels less; not that the stirring up of the passions and affections produces in such a mind one whit less of disturbance; it is simply that the constant exercise of self-restraint gives to it a power over its own self, enabling it to raise a voice above the storm, and to say “Peace, be still.”

When Everard flew back to his own room on that sad evening, it was because the tumult of his thoughts was becoming unbearable; he needed the relief of solitude that he might by bodily movements check the stir and bewilderment within. He closed his door and resumed his impetuous pacings up and down; and passion—bringing along with it that aberration of intellect it is so apt to bring—was on the point of resuming its sway, when once again the recollection of Mr. Addison’s grave words presented itself to him: “It becomes a man to act like a man.”

It was true, as Mr. Addison had observed, that Everard of late had loosened the reins with which he had so long controlled himself. He had suffered absolute torture of mind in the thoughts of Angela as his brother’s wife, and it had upset him. But though such an upsetting is dangerous, though the loosening of the bent bow is apt to be violent in its recoil, yet in truth the habits of many years are not really destroyed in a short time; that which has once been familiar is not easily swept away, and if invited back is in waiting to return as a ready guest.

He paused as the words flashed upon him in his weary walk, and asked himself whether these passionate movements and unbridled thoughts, were such as could well decide upon a question of such momentous import. With the question his truer self resumed its place, and putting away the child and madman he became a man.

His first resolve was to think no more that night; a resolve easily made, hardly performed. And yet he did perform it, so far at least as his will was concerned, for there is an under current of thought which even the will itself cannot always subdue. He betook himself to his common nightly devotions—since his father’s death, more seriously performed than latterly had been the case—and the attempt to be still stilled him. And once stilled, those devotions, while they increased the sense of the responsibility of his decision, cleared, calmed, and elevated the tone of his mind, bade feeling and passion stand aside, while reason and conscience debated and gave judgment. He then lay down to rest, a strong hand still bridling the flood of thought, and exhausted even by the force of his self-restraint, sleep came at last and steeped him in the repose he needed.

He woke early, for the keen sense of a task to be done influences the mind even in sleep, and calls it to its duties; but he woke calm and refreshed, and with renewed energies to set himself to think.

In the course of the few early hours that followed, his decision was made, and once made, he was prepared to act upon it. He decided to accept his father’s will. This decision was not brought about by any consideration of the question generally; in a thousand cases his weight might have been thrown into the opposite scale. He was prepared to be blamed; prepared to be misinterpreted; prepared for evil report, and the imputation of selfish motives. Every possibility lay clear before his eyes, and yet his resolve was taken. It was he himself who could not do otherwise; it was he, Everard Vavasour, who could not oppose the last request of the father he had loved so well, and whom in life he had trusted with so entire and perfect a trust.

No decision was ever made more solemnly, and never in his life had such a prayer passed from Everard’s lips, as that morning’s prayer, that he might do his duty, whatever the cost might be, in the new circumstances on which he was entering.

Thus resolved, he went down to breakfast, the composure of decision, and something of the dignity of a brave and holy purpose already marking his air and features. A brave and holy purpose—some may think a mistaken one—but brave and holy in him, because a sincere and costly one.

He found Hope alone in the breakfast-room. She was standing at the window while she waited for her cousins. Her bearing up through her many sad offices and many trials had been wonderful; but as she stood now in the light, her fair skin contrasting with her mourning dress, Everard saw how trial had touched her. The soft, childlike roundness of her features was gone, and though her countenance was tranquil, it had not the unearthly quietness and serenity of other days.

He went to her, and put his arm round her with a warmth natural to him, yet rarely indulged in, and asked, “Are you as miserable, dear Hope, as all the rest in this miserable house?”

She looked up in his face.

“I know you must be unhappy, Everard, but it must not be yesterday that makes you so.”

His lips trembled, and tears came into his eyes.

Before he could steady his voice to answer, she went on—“Oh! Everard, we think too much of these things. If it should be for the saving of Robert’s soul, you will not regret what it cost you. I knew how it would be; I dreaded it long ago; I felt it certain in those last days; and though it was grief and pain at first, I see in it now the dawn of that day for which we have waited so long. Oh! Everard, be stedfast, and do not fear, and what seems a grief will be a blessing.”

He looked into her eyes, kindling with no earthly light, and felt their fire animating his soul. “God bless you, dearest Hope,” he said, stooping and kissing her, “you have given me comfort and courage. You must pray,” he added with solemn earnestness, “for me as you do for Robert, for him and for me, that we may not faint or fail.”

Robert entered as he spoke, and Hope turned from the window to meet him, and to take her seat at the table. Everard leant out to compose himself and to gather courage, and while he did so, Robert sat down.

When he turned, Robert was seated by Hope, and the place at the table which had been his father’s, that place in which with so keen a pang he had seen Robert the day before, was left for him.

Such things are but trifles, but some trifles speak with a thundering voice. Everard’s heart swelled, and for a moment with a return of passion he was about even with fierceness and irritation, to remove his chair to the vacant place opposite Robert, when a glance from Hope calmed him. His blood rose to his temples, but he sat down, feeling that in so doing he announced to Robert that his decision was made. That Robert so accepted it was plain from the deepening colour on his cheek, and his eyes stedfastly bent downward. And thus the new life began at Audley Court.

Hope left the room before her cousins had done breakfast, and they lingered at the table, both longing yet unable to speak. It was not till both had risen, and Robert, after wandering once or twice absently about the room, had actually his hand on the door to leave it, that Everard took courage and arrested him.

“Robert!”

Robert turned back at once, and the brothers stood flushed and agitated facing each other.

Everard composed himself with an effort and then said gravely, “Robert, I have determined to accept my father’s will.”

“Of course,” said Robert hurriedly. “Did you think I expected or even wished it should be otherwise?”

“I cannot tell. I have thought till I have been nearly mad. Oh! Robert, what should you do, if you stood in my place?”

“What I should do is not to the purpose,” he said sadly. “I never did obey my father’s wishes as you have done, but if I were you Everard, I should do as you do. You never have, and you cannot now disobey him.”

“I cannot,” Everard said passionately.

“And besides, you have promised. Do you think I forget that time, and those words, and your answer. No never, if I live a hundred years.”

Everard held out his hand, with a vain effort at composure, and, as he grasped that of his brother, agitatedly said, “Then forgive me now and for ever, and promise that no distrust or ill-will shall ever grow up between us.”

“I promise,” Robert said gravely, and Everard withdrew his hand and hurried out of the room.

An hour or two later he came down and looked into the library. Robert was sitting at the writing table with a pen in his hand, and a harassed look on his brow.

Everard asked him to walk with him. Robert acquiesced, and throwing down his pen with an air of relief, and a toss of impatience and disgust, followed him from the room.

“There are some things, Robert,” Everard began, in the voice of grave composure in which he evidently tried to speak, “the discussion of which cannot be delayed. What you would have done for me you must let me do for you, and you must believe that it is not to remind you of what has passed; not to remind you of what I now must be, that I bring them forward. What is done cannot be undone—let us make it bearable by openness and truth with each other.”

“I am very sure, Everard, whatever you do is done from kindness,” Robert replied; some anxiety in his tone, and yet a kind of relief also in his brother’s plain dealing. “I perfectly trust you.”

“Perhaps you guess what I am going to say. If this change gets wind, it may cause you some trouble. There may be unpleasant applications. Dear Robert, will you remember that all is to be as if it were yours. It seems so strange to have to say it, I hardly know how, but I do it as I would be done by. Will you write to Mr. Low and make what arrangements you please, and promise me that no past thing shall distress you more. For the future—that needs more thought than we can give it now.”

More than once Robert’s colour rose. He did feel, and feel acutely the pain and humiliation in thus being subject to his brother, but his better nature struggled and conquered.

“Thanks, Everard, a thousand times. I will not be such a pitiful fool as to refuse your kindness, or conceal from you that it is a relief. I was tormenting myself with those cursed, yes cursed debts when you came in. I will write to Mr. Low as you tell me, and we will see what can be done. As to the future I have already thought of that, but I cannot speak of it to-day. To-morrow I will talk to you again. In the meanwhile you had better think for me. Something I must do.”

“Must you?” Everard asked with a collected manner, but a glow of crimson on his cheek.

Robert looked at him, but merely said, “I suppose so.” And as after this allusion constraint again stole over them, the walk was not much prolonged.

One other and most painful duty remained for Everard on that day. It was to announce to his mother his decision. He had seen her in the morning, but the same calm kiss and silent greeting and averted eyes had received him. Duty received and endured him; he saw that; but feeling rebelled. He shrank from what had to be done.

To prepare her in some degree for his announcement, he desired Hope to ask if he might speak to her. It was late in the afternoon, and having at Robert’s earnest request (to whom she could less than ever refuse anything) taken a tottering walk round the garden, she was lying in her room, weeping in darkness and alone. Her sense of duty to her husband compelled her to acquiesce in his petition, and Everard entered; but nothing invited him to her side. He approached and she allowed him to take his seat by her; but still no look helped or cheered him.

“Mother,” he began at once in his deep voice, touching from its tremulous earnestness, “will you not give me your blessing on the task I have undertaken?”

They were bold words, so bold that she was startled from her coldness, and looked at him.

The movement helped and encouraged him. “It is a task hard enough at the best,” he continued, “but without your love and blessing more than I have power to bear. Mother,” he went on in strong agitation, seizing both her hands and gazing into her face, “I know what you must feel towards me, but will you not consider who it was that laid it on me, and to his will submit as I do.”

She was overcome. For the moment melted, even though rebellious still. She drew him towards her, and twice kissed his brow. No words followed; no words, indeed, could have been spoken; for that relenting of the heart was not such as language could express: it was no blessing, no sanction, it was but the softened spirit shewing sympathy with her son’s pain. Such as it was, however, Everard was satisfied and relieved; and unwilling at that time to distress her further, kissed her, and left her alone.

CHAPTER XII.

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.

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Table of Contents

THE TWO BROTHERS.

THE TWO BROTHERS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

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