Chapter XII

What shall I do? Make vows and break them still?
’Twill be but labour lost;
My good cannot prevail against mine ill:
The business will be crost.

Oh! say not so; thou canst not tell what strength
Thy God will give thee at the length:
Renew thy vows and if thou keep the last
Thy God will pardon all that’s past.

CHRISTOPHER HERVEY.

“Has Everard spoken to you of his troubles, Joan?” Mr. Vavasour enquired of his wife on the evening of the day following the return of his sons.

Mrs. Vavasour looked up with surprise.

“He came to me,” he continued, “this morning, with a confession; to ask my advice, and I believe to take it.”

“If you smile there can be no great cause of trouble,” Mrs. Vavasour said with an inward sigh, as she thought of the frowns over Robert’s troubles.

“If I smile, it is not because I think lightly of it. Everard is in love, and love with Everard will be serious.”

“Everard in love. Impossible!”

“And why so, Joan?” Mr. Vavasour asked with a look of enquiry.

“Everard,” Mrs. Vavasour replied, after a moment’s thought, “is grave and cold, and reserved. Of a strong attachment, I can suppose him capable, but of a sudden fancy I should never have suspected him.”

Mr. Vavasour shook his head, but merely said, “Nevertheless, it has come to pass.” After a moment he continued, “He came to me for advice and I gave it; but in justice to Everard, I must say, that his judgment was even more decisive than mine. He leaves us to-morrow.”

“You must tell me the tale,” said Mrs. Vavasour, smiling. “It is a new thought to think of Everard as a lover.”

Mr. Vavasour mentioned the few particulars that Everard had told him; among which, was the notification he had had of Mr. Gresham’s dissatisfaction with his manners. “Everard’s tale,” he continued, “was somewhat incoherently told. I gathered the particulars rather than received them. He fully confessed the fact of his love, but owing to Miss Gresham’s position, seemed to dread my condemnation, and to be ashamed to confess it. My feeling was different. I was neither surprised at the confession nor unprepared for it; but my opinion was decisive and I gave it. In consequence, he leaves us to-morrow.”

“Forgive me if I ask it,” said Mrs. Vavasour, “but is this departure either needful or reasonable?”

“Yes, Joan, both. Everard confesses that at this moment he cannot answer for his self-control. He has, therefore, no choice. I am not one to recommend a flight from temptation. If possible, I would always say, meet it whatever it be, and overcome it; but if a man in cold blood foresees that he shall fail, I see no course but flight.”

“But why,” said Mrs. Vavasour--“forgive me again for differing with you--why should not Everard love Angela Gresham, win her, and marry her?”

“Because his soul and mine also,” said Mr. Vavasour, proudly, “revolts from it. It is not for Everard, at twenty, to court the favour of the heiress of thousands. An honourable soul avoids the appearance of baseness.”

“Angela would be a good wife for Everard,” said his wife, after some consideration, “and I think Everard would be a good and wise husband for her. Is the fear of a mere appearance of evil to be placed in competition with a true attachment, and one from which the blessing of domestic happiness would spring.”

“If this thing be good and desirable,” was her husband’s reply, “it may at some future time be brought about by other means. Everard must not seek it.”

“If Everard loves at all his love will be strong,” said his mother. “It will grieve me if his love is wasted.”

“The test of love is time. What is it now but a fancy, and what right has Everard at twenty to think his first fancy shall be satisfied?”

Mrs. Vavasour was silent. At last she said, “And Everard agreed at once to your decision?”

“Yes, and with all his heart.”

“You are pleased with Everard’s conduct,” she said again, and this time timidly.

“I am, Joan, and chiefly for this reason--that although the feelings of youth are strong, his desire to do that which _we_ call right is unshaken. He honours his father and mother, and that honour guides him right, when possibly other principles have not attained sufficient growth to restrain him.”

“Many have that,” she said, with some passion in her voice, “but God has not given them the strength of purpose to do all things well.”

Her husband saw where her thoughts had flown, and looked at her compassionately and tenderly; but his words were grave. “He might, Joan, if they sought it; we must trust He will.”

Judging from analogy the likeness of Everard to his father ought to have won from Mrs. Vavasour, the same worshipping tenderness she gave her husband. But analogy in the seemingly capricious fancies of the human heart is no safe guide. That very strength of purpose and self-restraint which Mrs. Vavasour saw in her husband with idolatry, was painful to her in her son. She would have loved him better, if he had at this moment been less unflinching. She owned, indeed, that since Mr. Gresham had spoken, he had little choice; but some demonstrations of weakness, some appeals to pity, would have pleased her well. As it was, she saw him simple and self-possessed; the cold, reserved Everard of her imagination; and being so, she let him go without a word of sympathy, or allusions, either serious or playful, to the cause of his departure.

But so once again she misjudged him. Everard left home with a wounded heart; wounded not by his feelings for Angela, but by his mother’s carelessness to his concerns. He hoped for her interest, but failing to find it did not dare to approach her with his confession. Never before had the longing, the almost womanish longing to be loved so assailed him, and to this cause was it more especially owing that his thoughts pertinaciously recurred to the image that had been forbidden--that one being who seemed to consider him worthy of her interest and regard.

The day after Everard’s departure was Sunday, and Robert walked, as he and Everard had generally done, part of the way homewards with Angela and her father.

He talked of the pretty singing of the village children; praised and criticised Mr. Addison’s sermon; and drew a smile of pure amusement from Mr. Gresham’s lips, as he related some school-boy tales of extraordinary misadventures during the church service; but he made no mention of Everard’s departure. His non-appearance was a great disappointment to Angela. She had counted much on these few minutes walk homewards; she determined, however, that she would not ask where he was; _that_ she supposed would be acting with the propriety Mr. Merivale recommended. The natural woman was, however, too strong for the restrained one, and notwithstanding the determination, before they parted with Robert the question _was_ asked--

“Where is your brother to-day?”

“I cannot exactly say,” Robert said, wilfully misunderstanding her. “At St. Dunstan’s, or St. Clement’s, or St. Martin’s, or St. Paul’s, or....”

“What _do_ you mean, Mr. Vavasour?”

“I mean that I don’t know Everard’s movements, nor the churches he frequents. I am only sure it is something very staunch and orthodox. No _ism_ of any sort where Everard goes.”

“Has Mr. Everard Vavasour left you?” Mr. Gresham enquired with interest and politeness.

“Yes, he went yesterday.”

“And when does he come back?” Angela asked quickly.

“That I don’t know. He has gone back to his business. My father gave him something to do which made him go sooner than he had intended. At least,” he added with a mischievous smile, “so he said.”

Hurt, angry, injured, and indignant, Angela with difficulty restrained her feelings; and having parted from Robert, she walked on without a word.

Mr. Gresham saw her heightened colour, and felt how wise had been his precautions, and how happy he was in having to do with so estimable and amenable a young man as Everard. This danger at an end, all he assured himself would go smoothly, and he already boasted like those who are putting off their harness, their labour done.

Many conflicting feelings agitated Angela. Sometimes one class of emotions predominated, sometimes another. A sense of injury at his coldness; alarm lest she had lost his good opinion; a conviction that he loved, but owing to her worldly circumstances dared not approach her; and a longing to tell him with what joy she would give up all into his hands. Under her ceaseless conjecturings her feelings made strides, and more than her fancy began to fasten itself upon him.

Robert followed Everard in a week. Before his reconciliation with his father he had made an engagement with a friend to accompany him in his yacht to the east. On his arrival at home in the first warmth of his feelings he had offered to give up the excursion if displeasing to his father. But Mr. Vavasour had declined to accept the offer. It was indeed his hope that Robert might learn to take and find more of his pleasures at home, but his concentrated thoughts and affections had not made him unwise or narrow-minded. He had sympathy with the natural curiosity of youth, and he was besides well aware that reluctant obedience is to the restless a dangerous trial. He knew no harm of the proposed companion, and was willing, therefore, to hope the best.

Robert’s conduct during this last visit had completely disarmed Mr. Vavasour’s resentment. On a former occasion _he_ had been smarting from the sense of disgrace, and had seemed cold; and coldly Robert had met his forgiveness. On this occasion the feelings and conduct on both sides had been different. Robert had been really repentant, and Mr. Vavasour really forgiving. A new bond had been knit between them, and Mr. Vavasour, whose strong and limited attachments made him prone to idolatry, was unconsciously hoping for his son with more than reasonable hope, and building in his sleeping and waking dreams proud and stable castles for the future.

All but Mr. Addison and one other shared in Mr. Vavasour’s hopes. There was one other who felt with sad conviction that the time for confidence was not yet come. Hope watched Robert with eyes of vigilant affection, with eyes not blind through love, but from the very depth of her love clear and searching; and to her it was plain that in his good feelings there was no root, and that there was no settled principle in his mind. She saw his repentance, his humility, his dutiful affection, his warmth of heart, his many good, many generous, many attractive qualities--saw and loved them; they were the signs of the good soul within; the buds of promise foretelling a future day of grace. But she saw them as they were, without the halo of illusion, and saw them unstable as water, and fading as flowers.

She determined before he went to make an effort to save him.

He was not very willing at any time to speak of himself or the future, and serious discussions even with her he avoided. It was painful to him to have his steadiness questioned, or good resolves doubted; perhaps from the very consciousness of the hollowness of the foundation on which they were built he did not care to have them sifted and weighed; and to give him pain was very painful to her. Still she resolved to venture.

Two mornings before his departure she sought him for her purpose.

She found him in the library reading, or at least with a book in his hand. He was leaning back in an arm chair, close to a blazing fire; for the September mornings were growing chilly, and Robert loved comfort.

The door by which she entered was behind him, and she stood by his side before he perceived her.

“I am so glad to have found you alone,” she said, softly.

“So am I, Hope;” and he looked in her face with a fond and serious smile. “But why? Have you anything to say to me?”

“Yes, Robert. And yet it is nothing new. Oh! Robert,” and she clasped her hands together with an earnest movement, common to her when excited, “I want you to promise me to try not to forget.”

“Forget _you_, Hope. Do you mean that? Yes, I will promise and vow, that I never--never will forget you. There was no need to ask that.”

His tone was eager, and brought a faint unconscious blush to her cheek. But no other consciousness. “No, Robert,” she replied with simple frankness, “it was not that. I am not afraid of your forgetting me. It was your father, his wishes, his forgiveness; dear Robert, will you promise me to try and remember when you are gone far away.”

“I will do my best, Hope. You may trust me for that; but the path of life is exceedingly narrow, and some pilgrims are apt to grow weary in their progress.”

He spoke not without earnestness and sincerity, and yet there was a careless wording in his speech, which left a doubtful impression on her mind.

“Don’t look so troubled, Hope,” he continued. “I really and truly mean that I will do my very best, but one must not be proud and confident. You know frail and mortal man is born to get into trouble; at least, some are, and it is not for the weak to boast themselves like the strong.”

“I would not have you boast, but only.... Oh! what would happen if you were to forget again.”

“If I were to forget again, I should be a rascal and a villain, Hope, and should not find, and should not deserve forgiveness. Don’t let us dream of such horrible possibilities. Let us rather think, dear Hope, that I shall persevere, and win all your loves, and all your honours.”

He was still seated by the fire, and she still stood by his side. So as a child had she been accustomed to wait upon him, and old habits had never been broken. Dr. South beautifully says of those who have kept unstained their early innocence, that “the Holy Ghost has descended on them in the form of a dove.” Such words are very expressive of what Hope was. The guileless purity of her look had always exercised a singular power over Robert. He sat watching her, as she stood now beside him, silent and thoughtful, with strong but suppressed emotion in his face.

“Well, Hope,” at last he said, “have you more to say? I think you have; you are not satisfied yet.”

“There is one thing I should like to say,” she replied with a slightly rising colour, “but....”

“Dear Hope, say all you wish,” he said kindly; “don’t be afraid!”

“You say you are weak, Robert, so are we all, if we do not try to be strong. Oh! Robert, why will you not. You know how it should be, but I am sometimes afraid you forget. Oh! dear Robert; will you promise me to remember your prayers.”

“You shall pray for me, Hope; that will be far better. Your prayers are certain to be heard. I am not so sure about mine.”

“But oh! Robert,” and she clasped her hands, “what can any prayers do if you will not pray for yourself?”

“I hope they can do much. I depend on yours for me. I think of them, Hope, like so many good angels guarding me.”

“But yourself, dear Robert, yourself. It is so dreadful to live and say no prayer. Oh! will you promise me to try?”

He looked very uneasy. He could not bear to refuse her, but hidden conscious weakness made him hesitate. “To tell you the truth, Hope,” he replied, after a little thought, “I would rather not promise. I know I make resolutions, and break them, and that is bad enough; but there is something more sacred in this. I should not like to promise you this, and then to go and forget.”

“But why forget, dear Robert, why forget?”

“Ah! Hope, why? That is a very puzzling question, and I can’t answer it. I tell you I am weak, and I do not like to trust myself with promises of this kind. I would rather not.” He spoke hurriedly.

“I will urge you no more,” she replied sadly. “I meant it only for your good.”

Her tone was so soft and sweet, that it went to Robert’s heart. It seemed to overset some hitherto restrained emotion.

“I know it,” he cried, starting passionately from his seat. “I know it, Hope, my darling, and if I were not a fool and a coward, I should ask you, not only to pray for me, but to be my wife; my wife to lead and guide me all my life long; but I am afraid, Hope, you are too young yet. I might break your heart. Why do you blush so, my dearest?” he continued yet more vehemently. “Don’t you know that I worship _you_; don’t you know that if it were to promise to kneel to _you_, were it night and day, I would do it, and never forget.”

It was with no thrill of rapture that this passionate declaration of love was heard and received by Hope. _Her_ love for him had had no dreams of earth about it; it was love bound up with his soul’s welfare, and his profane and reckless words startled that affection, terrified and afflicted it. She withdrew from him a few steps, and stood before him with clasped hands and downcast eyes, looking so fair, so grave, so holy, so like some young saint in an ancient picture, that the next instant, half in jest, but much more in earnest, Robert in very deed knelt at her feet to ask forgiveness.

“Oh! Robert,” she said, covering her face with her hands, “if you could know how you grieve me.”

“Do I grieve you?” he cried, springing up; “yes, I know I do, and if you could but tell how I hate myself for it. But Hope,” he continued, in an altered tone of almost reverend tenderness, “you must not be too hard upon me. I cannot be like you all in a minute, though I hope to be some day. If my love grieves you, you must forget it. I know such a worthless sinner as I am, should not expect to have a holy saint for his portion; and yet, Hope,” he paused and took her hand and looked fondly in her face, “and yet, perhaps, he does expect it.”

She raised her eyes and looked at him, no longer shrinking from his gaze. She was not given to tears, but now a single tear did sparkle on her lashes, and dropped upon his hand. What it meant, nor she, perhaps, nor he could fully tell, but as he saw it his heart swelled with strange emotion, and silently and gratefully he pressed his lips upon her hand.

Nor then nor during the remainder of his stay did Robert speak of his own, or in any way seek to draw from Hope a confession of her affection. His manner was as it had been before, only that possibly something more of thoughtfulness characterized his intercourse with her.

Some departures take place without emotion; some even when it is but for a short absence, agitate the surface of the home left behind. Everard went, and amid the kindly glances that followed him, none were dimmed with tears; no heart felt to lose its being as he disappeared. Robert went, and his father’s voice was tremulous; his mother wept and could not restrain herself, and Hope stood mute and still in speechless sorrow. There might be other reasons for the difference; and Robert guessed them; yet still, above and beyond all other motives, he knew and felt he was the idolized son of the house, and felt it with a pang. It pierced on his conscious unworthiness like a dagger’s stab.

“Mr. Addison,” he said with emotion, for Mr. Addison stood at the door of his chaise, “I hope to come back worthy of my father’s trust. If I fail....” he paused, then added hurriedly, “Mr. Addison, will you stand my friend? Remember that man is weak. Don’t let them ask too much, or judge me too hardly.”

Mr. Addison grasped his hand in mute token of assent. “God bless you, Robert,” he said, “and deliver you from evil.”

Not with a thrill of rapture had Hope heard of Robert’s love. Not with a thrill of rapture did she recur to it when he was gone. And yet....

At first she trembled at the recurrence of his image to her thoughts--at first dreaded lest his words had placed a barrier between him and her devoted affection. But this was but the natural disturbance on the surface. When this passed by and her heart settled again into calm, she found that the new link that bound them was holier than before. He had a double claim to her thoughts and her prayers, and with a more intense devotion she gave herself up to be his guardian spirit for ever.

After Robert’s departure, Hope felt that she had no right to withhold from her aunt the knowledge of what had passed. “Aunt Joan, did Robert tell you what he said to me?” was her confession.

It was no new thought, no new hope, to Mrs. Vavasour, nor was Hope’s confession an altogether unexpected one. She wound her arms round her niece, and said, “Cherish his love, dearest; to that love I have ever looked as the feeling which will win him, and bind him, and make him all we would have him be in this world and for ever.” And much as she had ever loved her niece, this new bond knit her soul to hers with a dearer affection.