Chapter I

For foresight is a melancholy gift
Which bares the bald, and speeds the all too swift.
HENRY TAYLOR.

The description of a youthful scene shall introduce the principal persons of the following tale.

Imagine a long, old library--gloomy, but interesting in its gloom. The rays of a brilliant sunset streaming in from the western window, enliven and yet shadow it. Here and there the rays of light fall on heavy oak carvings; here and there on rows of morose-looking books; but the masses of light serve chiefly to reveal, with the force of contrast, the deep recesses of the room. It is easy to see that the abode is the home of an ancient family, and that the possessor of the abode cherishes, with fondness and pride, every mark of age.

The occupants of this library are not unsuited to their abode, yet there is little of the solemnity of the room in their air. They are three in number: two boys of thirteen and fourteen, and a little girl about four years younger.

The boys are seated at a long library-table, a little too high for comfort; and around and about them are the usual accompaniments of schoolboys’ tasks; coverless books, torn leaves, split pens, and shreds of blotting paper that can blot no more. The boys are _boys_ in the full sense of the word: active, vigorous, and full of life; _both_ are so; but with the likeness in this respect the likeness between them ends; for brothers, they are singularly unlike.

The elder boy is very handsome; and to the charm of beauty, of features, and figure, adds all the charm of expression. It is such a face as a mother can hardly fail to worship even too much. Open and animated, full of sweetness, and spirit, and intelligence. One thing only is lacking; and this want is best expressed by the word _principle_. Acute physiognomists, and even common observers can discover the traces of an unsteady and over facile disposition. It is difficult to watch him, and not to suffer a sigh to escape, as the eyes look onward into life and its temptations.

The other boy is not handsome--he is, perhaps, ugly--his limbs, though well formed, are stragling and ungainly; his features are so strongly marked as to be hard and stern: but though he lacks beauty, and lacks, also, what is commonly understood by the word charm, there is much to interest in his appearance. He has, in a remarkable degree, the one thing wanting in the other. Truth and steadfastness shine in his face, producing a kind of day-light over it. There are, besides, in his countenance, marked and strongly-opposing characteristics. Inflexible determination, bordering on obstinacy, and endurance, stoical and stern; yet, in contrast to these qualities, signs betokening strong passions and a fiery temper; and about the mouth, nervous and tremulous lines bespeaking something of feminine softness.

Over these brothers the little girl sits watching, like a spirit. Her place is in the western window; and the streaming sun-beams fall on her white neck and gold threads of hair, but her face is towards the occupants of the room; on one of these she rests her soft, brown eyes with a gaze at once serious, and tender, and full of pity.

The stillness of the tableau is suddenly broken. The little girl glides from her seat, approaches the elder brother’s chair, and lays her tiny hand upon the page his eyes devour. It is a page different in kind and type to the pages of closely-printed Greek that lie beside him.

He starts, looks up, and colours: then laughs, and says,

“Why, you little fairy, I did not see you; what do you want here?”

“Dear Robert,” she says, in a voice of singular softness, “you will never have done; do let me take it away.”

He yields at once to the imploring tone; delivers to her hands the small volume of fiction; smiles with one of his enchanting smiles at his little monitress; then with a groan, and a glance at his industrious brother, exclaims, “Now to my weary work again,” and betakes himself to his task.

The little girl retreats with a soft smile on her countenance, and resumes her place and her watching. The other boy pauses for a moment in his labours--looks at his two companions, for a moment contracts his brow, then with a sigh resumes his work.

The circumstances of the task were these:--there had been a boat-race in the neighbourhood of Audley Court, the old family place of the Vavasours. The two boys, sons of Mr. Vavasour, fond of all active sports and pastimes, had asked leave to attend it: voluntarily offering to accomplish their usual morning’s studies when they returned in the afternoon. Such requests were not unseldom made; and though all work and no play is good for no man, Mr. Vavasour was equally convinced of the truth of the opposite statement. He accepted the voluntary offer, yet considering the exciting nature of the day’s amusement, only partially accepted it; for the usual more lengthy studies substituting a careful translation of a few lines of a Greek ode. The boys were grateful, and a promise was readily given that the appointed task should be done.

The morning and afternoon were both alike consumed in amusement. The boys returned late, flushed with excitement, heated with exercise, in no mood for study. They joined their father and mother, and in glowing terms recounted the adventures of the day. Both parents listened with willing interest; no reproach regarding the many hours of absence was made; only when the full flow of narrative came to a pause, the father simply said, “And now I depend on your promise, my boys.”

The promise had been forgotten, and a shade overspread both faces. If observed, however, no comment was made. Mr. Vavasour returned to the occupation his sons’ entrance had disturbed, and glancing at the clock, merely added, “Go into the library. I shall come to you in an hour.” It was then half-past five.

The boys retreated. No word of their father’s was ever controverted, and they fully understood that he depended upon their adherence to their word.

The task had difficulties; but none which attention could not master. Mr. Vavasour was firm and strict with his sons; but never unjust or severe. He required self-conquest; but never asked for conquests beyond their power to perform. On entering the library, the boys found all prepared, and went at once to their work.

Everard, the younger boy, prepared to do it with all his might. One passion at this time ruled and governed his life--love for his father; a love made up of fear and reverence, and strong natural affection. To please him, made his happiness--the dread of disappointing him haunted him like a spectre. A gay scene was dancing before his eyes; a pleasant noise of dashing oars and shouts of triumph were ringing in his ears: but his father’s voice, “I depend on your promise,” rose above these and drowned them. He leant his head on his hands, and with a vigorous effort, conquering the lassitude and dissipation of his mind, set to work.

Robert also set to work, but less resolutely. The same sounds were in his ears, and wanting the determined will, he could not banish them. He tried, but it was a feeble trial. He too loved his father, and feared to displease him; but his was not the love that conquers all things. His gaze wandered over his book, but his mind received no idea. He wrote a few words, then scratched them out; then scribbled some figures of boats and boatmen on the blotting paper; then spoiled some pens, then mended them; then, with an expression of weariness, he pulled his pocket-handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. In returning it whence it came, his hands encountered the small volume of fiction mentioned above, and drawing it out he glanced over the pages. It was the _Mysteries of Udolpho_; he had been engaged in its study the day before. The pages were refreshing after the hard lines of distasteful Greek, and he reposed himself as he read.

Deprived of this temptation by the watchful care of his little guardian, he returned to his task, but the resolute will was still wanting. In vain he endeavoured to master the sense of what he read. When one line was clear, the next appeared to contradict it; when the sense was found and the ideas formed, no words in the English language appeared to be capable of expressing them. His head became dizzy and perplexed; and suddenly starting up he approached the western window.

“What a shame to be shut up here!” he exclaimed, his eye wandering longingly over the sunny woods and fields. “I would give twenty pounds at this moment to be that cow. Better be a cow at liberty, than a man a slave.”

“It is a pity,” responded the sympathizing voice of the little girl, “but, dear Robert, you know you promised.”

“I promised to try, and I have tried, and I can’t do it. I tell you what, Hope, I hate Greek, and I hate translating, and I hate being shut up here. Now, really,” and his voice became quite pathetic, “would not _any_ one say it was a shame to be boxed up in a dingy old prison, on such a night as this. I am sure it grieves my soul.”

“But all this grieves only you, dear Robert,” the child argued, looking up at him with a pleading look, “but if you don’t do it, it grieves your father.”

Robert was affected by her words. He smiled, and put his hand caressingly on her head. “You have not expressed yourself very clearly, little logician, but I see what you mean, and you are right; so come, my good angel, and take me back to my work.” He held out his hand, and with a sweet, proud smile of joy, she led him to his place. He began again to work, and she stood by his side patient and immoveable; her eyes fixed upon him, and him alone.

The other boy looked up. He had watched her passing; and now with a contraction of his brow, he contemplated her absorbed devotion to his brother. “You give _me_ no help nor encouragement, little Hope,” at last he said; and there was pain in the tone in which he spoke.

“You don’t want it,” she replied, gently and simply; and not even then did a glance of her eye wander towards him.

Everard threw down his pen, and lay back in his chair. Sadness, hurt-feeling, and something of impatience clouded his countenance. He seemed to be disgusted with his own industry.

The movement attracted Robert’s attention. He turned his head and glanced at his brother’s well-filled page. “Why, Everard, you have almost done!” he exclaimed; “what a shame!”

“Yes, it is a shame!” Everard cried, with flashing eyes, “that you, who are as far beyond me in cleverness as I am to little Hope, should allow me to outstrip you so.”

“Well, it is a shame,” Robert replied; a glow, half of shame, and half of gratified vanity, overspreading his handsome face.

“It is not too late, dear Robert,” prompted the sweet voice of his little guardian, “if only you will work and make haste.”

Robert looked at his watch, shook his head, and sighed. “Twenty minutes after six, Hope; it’s no use now; but at any rate,” he added, after a moment, “I’ll have a try for it;” and he set to work with an earnestness which half an hour before would have successfully completed his task.

Everard remained thoughtful. He leant back in his chair, and his eye wandered gloomily and uneasily from his own unfinished task to his brother. Emulation with an equal, with one we have a right to surpass, and who to-morrow may outstrip us, is a painless and animating feeling. But generous natures feel pain, and not pleasure, in a victory that by right should not be won. So far as his own feeling was concerned, Everard would have preferred to share in his brother’s disgrace. To fail with him, would bring him more and greater love than success. Not Hope alone, but his mother, would, he well knew, look with kindlier eyes on failure with Robert, than success without him. For three or four minutes of the now precious time, Everard remained agitated and undecided; and then, again, he saw his father’s face, and heard his father’s voice, and again the ruling passion conquered. He returned with energy to his work, and when the old Manor House clock chimed the half-hour, the last word was written by his pen.

The clock struck, and Mr. Vavasour, the soul of punctuality, rose and called his wife.

“Come, Joan,” he said, “let us see how these boys have obeyed us.”

They entered the library together; and anxious looks from one parent, and penetrating ones from the other, fell on the two brothers.

Mr. Vavasour was like Everard; but age had softened and harmonized his proportions, and he was a handsome old man. A merely superficial observer was always struck by his benevolent and venerable air: his tall figure slightly bent, his silver hairs, his firm but lingering tread; he seemed a picture of graceful old age, from which gentleness and sympathy might be expected; but a very little study discovered that the countenance was stern. Age had softened the hard features; but the mental expression was far more really stern than that of his son. There were, however, the same marks of opposing qualities that have been mentioned as apparent in the countenance of Everard. Strong passions, and deep feeling, and the same soft and tremulous lines about the mouth. It was a face which some would have feared too much to love; but which those who did love, loved passionately.

The elder son was a reflection of his mother--though time, experience, a woman’s nature, and obedience to her husband, had banished from her countenance the unsteadiness apparent in his. She was many years younger than her husband, and was still remarkable for a beauty, once the theme of wonder and praise; but even this beauty was less attractive than the softness and gentleness of her air and voice. Her character had singular charms, and much virtue, and if a few faults mingled with her virtues, it was but the common lot of humanity. Of these faults the most serious was the idolatry of her eldest son. To love too much is impossible, but to idolize is selfish. It harms the idol, and tends to injustice regarding others.

Mr. Vavasour approached, and both his sons arose; but there was no eagerness in either. _Their_ eyes were cast down, while little Hope fastened hers on his face with a look that deprecated displeasure.

Mr. Vavasour looked from one to the other, and his brows knit into an expression of mingled sternness and pain. With him no dereliction of duty was small or great. Obedience was obedience, and a promise a promise; and no consideration of more or less could make a duty not a duty.

“Well, Robert,” he said, “how have you obeyed me?”

Robert made no answer. Though daring enough in his father’s absence, his _present_ displeasure always unmanned him.

“I see you have failed; I did not expect this.” And without another word he passed on.

“And you, Everard,” he said, turning to his second son--and anxiety made his voice harsh.

Everard gave his completed task; but his heart swelled with sorrow, not with joy, for no glance from his mother’s eye spoke of anxiety for him. Her eyes and Hope’s were with Robert in his disgrace.

Mr. Vavasour read the translation carefully through, then laid it down. “There are many faults here, Everard,” he said, looking at his son, “but they are faults of ignorance, not of negligence. I do not need to be told that you have tried with all your heart to please me. God bless you, my boy,” and he laid his hand softly and kindly on Everard’s shoulder.

For a moment Everard’s heart bounded beneath that approving touch, but it sunk and died as he saw his mother’s averted face. His praise was agony to her; he knew it, saw it, felt it.

Mr. Vavasour stayed for no more words, but retraced his steps down the long library. When he reached the door, he looked back. Everard was standing alone. Robert’s head was laid on the table; and beside him and over him bent his mother and Hope.

“Joan,” he called; and leaving the door open returned to the study.

Mrs. Vavasour stayed but to whisper one gentle word; and, still without a glance to Everard, rejoined her husband. Not that Everard was not loved. He was only forgotten, because Robert was unhappy.

Mr. Vavasour did not speak till his wife was seated. He then said, not with sternness--for to her he was never stern--but sadly, “Joan, you will spoil that boy.”

“Love cannot spoil,” she replied, with some agitation, “though harshness sometimes may.”

“Do you call _me_ harsh?” asked her husband; and round his lips quivered that tremulous movement which in him, as in Everard, betokened strong or wounded feelings.

“To none but Robert,” she eagerly rejoined; “sometimes to him.”

“No, Joan,” he said, regarding her fixedly, “not harsh; but wise in time. You look at Robert’s single faults--you see now a little indolence, now carelessness, now self-indulgence, and you think that, with his youth and high spirits, these may be excused; but I look on: and as, day after day, I see the signs of unsteadiness, and cowardice, and want of truth, I ask myself, what will be the end when these faults have strengthened themselves and bear fruit? If Robert is to be saved from becoming a dishonour to our house, it must be through the discipline of awe and fear, as well as love. Let him see that his faults grieve and pain us--as they do in my heart!” he broke out passionately; then resumed again; “and that he may see it, let us not lightly own, nor lightly forgive them.”

“I believe you are right,” she replied, humbly, “and yet when Robert is miserable.... You do not know how he loves you--how ardent his feelings are--how he suffers under your displeasure!”

“Yes, Joan, but I do know, and it is these very ardent feelings that make me tremble. If now, in their freshness, while yet in his father’s house, they fail in every moment of temptation, how will they stand in the fiery trial of the world? Believe me, unless a great change takes place, the good seed in Robert’s heart will too soon be choked with thorns.”

The twilight was deepening; the clock chimed the quarter after seven; there came a low tap at the study door.

It opened; and Robert entered, holding in one hand his completed task, while the other yielded to the guidance of Hope. There was no shame on his fine countenance, but an expression of open and truthful humility.

“I am very sorry to have displeased you, father,” he said, simply, “and I have done the best I can to atone for it. Hope persuaded me, and Everard gave me help, and here is my task. I know it is too late to give you pleasure; but I hope not too late to show that ... that I am very sorry father!”

Mr. Vavasour received it from his hands, with a faint glow on his countenance; and the “God bless you, my boy,” which was his usual simple and forcible expression of extreme approval, made more than one heart supremely happy.

This childish scene has been thus minutely detailed, in order more rapidly and vividly to pourtray the actors in the following tale, than description can easily do.

A few more words are required to set in its proper light the position of one of these.

Hope Linton was the orphan child of a sister of Mrs. Vavasour. In her aunt’s house, and adopted by her husband, the worst evils of an orphan’s lot were unknown. They treated her as their child--the boys as their sister--and few ever thought of her in any other light.

She was a child of peculiar character, appearing to be made of two qualities only--love and pity. Her love, not the love that clings, but more angel-like, desires to spread its wings and shield; her pity, an intense compassion, which made her appear, in spite of the guileless goodness of her own nature, sent into the world on a special mission to the erring. She was not clever, yet had her own silent, serious thoughts; and though neither energetic, nor active-spirited, seemed, by the intensity of her feeling, to accomplish what she had to do.

The somewhat unnatural seriousness of her nature was partly the effect of circumstances. Her father had been a thoughtless, unprincipled man; her mother had borne, not the ills alone that extravagance brings in its train, but the deeper pain of her husband’s neglect. After a desolate life of many years, a child was born to her. It came like light into a dark place; and partly in thankful acknowledgment of the blessing given, and partly as a warning to her own failing spirits against despair, she called it “Hope.” Four years after its birth her husband died. The hope for which she had waited all her life-long was then fulfilled. The hours of sickness and death brought his repentance and returning love. She saw him die: and as if her task was then accomplished, quickly followed him--leaving her child to her sister’s protection. The house in which the little orphan was born, was a house of sorrow. Early clouds hung over her infancy; and a sobering hue was left for ever on her soft cheek and thoughtful disposition. There was, however, something of her name in her nature. She was serious, but rarely sad.