Chapter III

Her younger sister, that Speranza hight,
Was clad in blue, that her beseemed well;
Not all so cheerful seemed she of sight
As was her sister; whether dread did dwell
Or anguish in her heart, is hard to tell.
Upon her arm a silver anchor lay,
Whereon she leaned ever, as befell,
And ever up to Heaven as she did pray,
Her steadfast eyes were bent, nor swerved other way.

SPENSER’S _Faery Queen_.

Nearly four years more have come and gone. Robert Vavasour is twenty-one. The tale of these four years is an oft-told tale.

During the first year of college life he had been tolerably steady. The lingering influences of his home, the companionship of his brother, and the sincere wish to do well, kept him, for the most part, in the right track. In the second year he began to be less anxious. Evil began to be familiar to him. He fell into a gay and thoughtless set, and found its charms seductive. His high spirits, his ready wit, his unfailing good-humour, and lavish generosity, made him a desirable companion, and he was courted with an assiduity that might have turned a stronger head. For a time, days of remorse succeeded his weeks of thoughtless dissipation; but remorse was distasteful, and he endeavoured to escape from it. He began to shun Everard, on whose example he could not look without remorse. Temptations assailed him on all sides, and he ceased to desire not to be led into temptation. He was hurrying along his dangerous way, when, early in the third year, Mr. Vavasour received a kind recommendation from an old friend at Oxford, that he should be withdrawn at once. There was no hope for him, he said, where he was, and he might thus be saved from public disgrace. It was done. His numerous debts were paid, and he returned home.

It was a painful return. Robert was smarting under a sense of unjust usage, and was more rebellious than penitent. He had done no more than others, so at least he felt, and why was he to be disgraced. His state of mind required judicious treatment, and in this Mr. Vavasour failed. To deal judiciously with the erring, _justice_ is almost more necessary than kindness. One degree too much of condemnation and the good influence is lost. To be perfectly just, it is necessary to look on the fault, not through the calm eyes of a mere observer, but with the eyes of the erring and tempted themselves. Nothing, indeed, can to a sane and right mind disguise the blackness of moral ill; yet perfect justice considers the circumstances of the offender, and allows a question of more or less in guilt.

It was in this perfection of justice that Mr. Vavasour failed. The word _disgrace_ was rankling in his heart; the idol passion blinded his eyes. He was not unkind to his son. He loved him too deeply, his desire for his welfare was far too intense for unkindness; but he was severe. He did not, like the father in the prodigal, go forth to meet him; but, while receiving him with forgiveness, suffered him to feel the weight of his displeasure. While pardoning the offender, he looked with something of bitter contempt on the offence, and Robert’s quick mind felt it, and it stung him.

The return home was painful, so painful, that a long sojourn was not to be thought of. In his father’s presence, Robert’s haughty and rebellious spirit was, even against his will, awed; and the restraint was irksome. With his mother and Hope he was full of remorse, but what is so unendurable as the remorse that leads to no repentance. He longed to make his escape! While much perplexed in mind regarding the destination of his son, Mr. Vavasour was applied to by Robert for permission to travel. He had received an invitation from a young man of his acquaintance a year or two younger than himself, to accompany him and his tutor on a tour of some length. Mr. Vavasour knew nothing of the young man’s family, but the invitation was opportune, the tutor sounded well, and in the few enquiries he had time to make, he heard nothing to lead him to refuse a permission earnestly sought. It was given, and with it advice so touching in its anxiety, and means so ample to secure his improvement and enjoyment in the life before him, that Robert again left home, his heart swelling with sorrow, love, and penitence. But man’s nature is not formed to bear a repetition of the same excitements. Exhaustion is the necessary end of violent and shortlived emotions.

Of Everard’s college life there is little to be said. Whatever the inner life might be, the outer life, sober and industrious, furnished no materials to tell a tale. _Not to disappoint his father._ This had been the influencing principle of his early days; this was the principle that carried him safely through the snares of his opening youth. He left college with a moral character on which there rested no spot, and with a reputation, if not for genius, yet for sound intellect and unconquerable energy. “You may be proud of your son,” were the words of healing balm, which soothed Mr. Vavasour’s wounded spirit. On leaving college, Everard went to London to study for the bar, and read in the chambers of an eminent solicitor.

* * * * *

“No, Joan,” said Mr. Vavasour, resolutely though sadly, “when my mind is made up as to a duty, not even your wish can alter my determination.”

It was a few days before Robert’s birthday of twenty-one.

Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour were seated in the study formerly mentioned. Mrs. Vavasour was sitting near her husband, her hands on a small table placed between them, and a look of imploring earnestness on her countenance. She was but little changed in the three years that had passed; there are some hearts so hopeful that in them anxiety takes the form of hope; but her husband was much changed. His complexion was paler, his features sharper, his head more bowed. It was easy to see that secret suffering was undermining his strength, and slowly, but surely bringing his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.

“Then do not make it up too hastily,” was Mrs. Vavasour’s reply, in a tone of strong agitation; “_consider_.”

“I have considered. Ah! Joan, have I not had time to do it. If I saw in Robert one grain of true repentance, I would be the first to hail it, and honour him with the best honour I could shew; but I know, and you know, that there is no repentance in him.”

There was no reply. After a short silence Mr. Vavasour said more gently, “What have you to urge that I have not already considered.”

“Much,” she said eagerly and tremulously. “Let that honour be shown to Robert in the sight of your people, which he has not done himself. From his earliest years you have spoken of this day--your people have looked to it as one of rejoicing--if you pass it now in silence, you shame him whom you wish them to honour. If Robert felt more fully that their eyes were upon him, that after you they look to him as their protector and friend; the weight of responsibility would press upon him, and the shame of coming short from the example of his father, would make him strong.”

She paused--the tremulous movements of her husband’s lips encouraging her to hope; but though agitated, there was no relenting; his voice, when it came, was low and stern.

“No Joan, it is not the vain honour of false outward show that will bring a shameless and degenerate son to reason.”

“You speak too harshly of him,” his mother cried with earnest passion.

“Do I speak too harshly?” he said, and the anguish of a wounded spirit was in his tone, “then listen Joan to these,” and he drew some letters from his pocket. “I would have spared you the pain of hearing them.”

“Hope, my child,” said Mrs. Vavasour softly, putting out her hand to arrest her husband, “it will be best for you to leave us.”

Hope rose from her seat in one of the deep recesses of the windows, but not to obey her aunt. She came forward and laid her hands on Mr. Vavasour’s chair, “Are they about Robert?” she asked; “then let me stay.”

Mrs. Vavasour hesitated and looked reluctant.

“Better to know all,” she pleaded, earnestly, “than to dread too much.”

“Let her stay, Joan,” Mr. Vavasour said decidedly, and she stood leaning on his chair while he read.

The first letter was from the family solicitor, enclosing bills from some of Robert’s alarmed creditors, and requesting in a formal style to know Mr. Vavasour’s pleasure on the subject. There was a second letter from the same person. This was written as a friend’s, it informed him of some facts which he had ascertained regarding Robert’s money transactions, and offered his advice on the best manner of dealing with them. A third letter was from a Mr. Percival, an old friend of Mr. Vavasour’s, resident in London. It was written in the supposition that Mr. Vavasour was ignorant of Robert’s mode of life. He could not, he said, neglect to give him the information he thought necessary, however painful it might be.

Parts only of this letter were read aloud. Mr. Vavasour hurried to the conclusion, It was an earnest recommendation that Robert should be ordered to return home. From some circumstances, the writer said, which, owing to the intimacy of Robert with a nephew of his own, had come to his knowledge, he was convinced that he was suffering severely from the want of money; and he felt certain that this would be the moment to induce him to make a full confession of his difficulties, and to release him from the snares in which he was entangled.

The letter was read with an unfaltering voice; but when he paused there was the sadness of a breaking heart in the question, “Is this, Joan, a son to honour?”

Mrs. Vavasour remained silent. Tears of bitter sorrow were in her heart; but not one was permitted to start into her eyes, lest the sight of his mother’s grief should add a drop to the full cup of Robert’s condemnation.

“You do not speak, Joan,” her husband said, regarding her steadfastly. “Hope, my child,” and he passed his arm round her waist, “am I not right?”

“Perhaps,” she said, softly, “but dear uncle Richard, you must not despair. Let Robert come home; he will yet be all you wish.”

“I will not despair,” he replied, “if I have strength.--God give me _hope_!”

The passionate sorrow of this prayer broke from him as if against his will. He drew himself up sternly after it--whilst his wife, unable any longer to battle with her tears, withdrew to a distant part of the room.

Hope stooped and kissed his brow; then followed her aunt, to put her arms round her neck, and whisper, “There is hope, indeed, dear aunt Joan,” and left the room.

For a time the husband and wife remained in silence, and apart. At length Mr. Vavasour rose and walked to the window, where the mother stood shedding, yet concealing most bitter tears.

He looked at her for some moments, then he held out his hand to her and said, “Joan, forgive me now and henceforward, the pain I may cause you for Robert’s sake. You think me harsh; believe me, the pain you feel lies deeper _here_!” and he laid his other hand on his own breast.

With trembling lips and reverencing love Mrs. Vavasour kissed the hand extended to her. No harshness on his part could for one moment change her feelings towards him; the bitterness of her grief was in the strife of two loves equally idolizing, and the endeavour to think with blind partiality of the actions of each.

* * * * *

Four days after this conversation, on the eve of Robert’s birthday, the 25th of August, a post-chaise stopped at the lodge gate of Audley Court.

The lodge on the London side was a mile from the house. So soon as the chaise had passed through the gate, a voice, loud and impatient, called to the post-boy to stop.

“Let us get out and walk,” Robert said, restlessly addressing his brother. “I have got to prepare myself for awful company, and I can’t do it, boxed up here.”

The chaise was left; and striking out of the road, the brothers took their way across the park.

Both were much changed in appearance: and in Everard the change was all on the right side. He was not handsome, but he was no longer ugly. His figure, once straggling and ungainly, had attained its due proportions: and there was a certain grace of strength about him which gave ease and power to his movements. His features were still too large and too strongly marked; his countenance, when in repose, still grave and stern; but his air was frank and simple, his smile sweet, and the light of his dark-grey eyes so soft, that no harsh or repelling impression was left on the mind.

As a boy, his appearance had been interesting: in its improved state it was more interesting. He was young--barely twenty--and his body had all the activity and elasticity of youth; but the expression of his countenance was that of mature and advanced manhood. None could have heard with surprise that he was thirty. This was caused in a degree by his marked features; but it was far more the shining-out of the mind within. The freshness of youth his mind had in its tastes and fancies; but the tone of his feelings was that of comparative age. None heard him speak, none looked in his face without discovering that life had been to him no flowery way, the fire of temptation “no moist and whistling wind;” that in his efforts not to disappoint his father, he had learned by experience man’s frailty; and that if he had been victorious in the end the conflicts of the way had left no faint traces on his character.

With Robert it was different; he, too, was outwardly improved. From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot there was no blemish in him. His blue eye was darker and brighter; his raven hair more glossy and curling; while the deeper hue of his complexion, and the vigour and activity of his limbs preserved him from that appearance of effeminacy which too perfect beauty in a man is apt to give. But with all these improvements there was a painful change. It is sad to see the freshness of youth obscured with worldly cares; it is sad to see its frank ingenuousness troubled with worldly forethought; but more or less these things must happen; and the necessity causes sorrow rather than pain. In Robert the change was a sadder and deeper one. There was a reckless, restless light in his eye which told a tale of dissipation; of innocence passing away; of familiarity with vice; while a daring something in his manner, spoke of conscience hardly dealt with--its efforts resisted--its pleadings repelled and subdued.

He walked silently by Everard’s side; but there was agitation in his _deeds_. His foot trampled on every wild flower, and his cane switched off the head of many a young springing plant.

At last he spoke, in a tone whose lightness endeavoured to conceal a troubled mind. “I wonder what reception I am likely to meet. The ceremony will be an unpleasant one, and I, for my part, would eschew it if I could.”

Everard was silent; but not from indifference. He was troubled with the same painful feelings he had felt in his youth--almost a disgust at his own superior steadiness--almost a longing to be as Robert was.

“Why don’t you speak out, Everard?” Robert exclaimed, in an irritated manner; “and why do you look so solemn? If you know anything of the matter, say it at once; what am I to expect?”

“I know nothing,” he replied, with warmth, “except that I am sorry you have any doubts. My father and mother, you must know better than I do, are longing for your return.”

“Doubts! I have some little reason to have doubts. First, a bad conscience; secondly, this letter received this morning. Take it, and now tell me what I am to expect.”

The letter contained a few lines from Mr. Vavasour, apprising his son of his determination not to celebrate his coming of age. It was written with kindness and feeling, but there was no attempt at disguising his view of his conduct. Through every line, in every expression, the broken heart revealed itself.

Everard’s blood mounted to his cheek as he read; and returning it to Robert, he said, in strong emotion, “Oh! Robert, how can you bear thus to grieve my father? I would rather die than do it.”

“So would I at this moment,” Robert said, agitatedly, “I wish I was dead this moment, and buried in that ditch. And yet,” after an instant, he lightly added, as if ashamed of the feeling he had shewn, “though it is as good as I deserve, I would, if I might, bespeak a wholesomer grave.”

“You can give more pleasure than ever you have caused pain,” burst from Everard’s lips. “Oh! Robert, be yourself! Do you remember the night before we went to college?”

There was a visible struggle in Robert’s countenance. It was evident that an effort was made to repress his better feelings; but partly shame, partly the very dread of his rising penitence, fought with, and mastered them. “I have a better memory than I wish to have,” he said, carelessly. “A good memory is a good thing in some cases, but it does not do for those who have a ghostlike past to bring up at a moment’s notice. Come, Everard, let us leave this solemn talk; you were a good hand at vaulting once--let us see if study has paralyzed your limbs.”

He sprang lightly over a high fence, calling to his brother to follow him. Everard complied with equal success. “That’s a good fellow,” Robert said, nodding his head approvingly; “I would as soon see a man a woman, as a bookworm.”

“There is Hope,” Everard observed, after a short silence.

“Where?” cried Robert, excitedly. “Ah! so she is, my good angel. Poor little Hope!” he added, in a low voice and a tone of deep feeling. “I shall never weary her out.” But the words were hardly said, before he resumed his wild spirits; and talking and laughing, he went on to the spot where she stood.

She had seen them from her window, and had hurried without her bonnet to a gate which led from the pleasure grounds into the park. There she paused; the evening breeze blowing about her golden curls, and a faint colour of expectation on her cheek.

Hope was scarcely altered, except in height, since her childhood. For this reason she was more striking as a woman than she had been as a child. Few preserve, even in early youth that soft and rounded grace which is the charm of children’s beauty; fewer still carry on to maturer years the ethereal, innocent look which so many children possess. In both these respects Hope was unchanged. She was now, at seventeen, singularly lovely; but it was a strange loveliness. Clothed, indeed, in earthly form, but giving the idea of pure spirit.

A peculiarity in the growth of her hair added to her uncommon and spiritual look. Never since childhood had it increased in length or thickness, but was still like the hair of a little girl--thin, fair, soft, and silky. A few wavy curls hung about her face; the rest, without form or fashion, were gathered up behind. This would rarely be a beauty, yet it was a beauty in her.

Robert approached; Hope gazed at him intently; but before she spoke, he put his arms round her and embraced her. He had done so from earliest years; and it was not this that made her colour rise, and prompted her, with a scarcely perceptible movement, to shrink from him.

The time was come when she must understand what Robert was--when she must understand and feel the tainted mind. Till now evil had been to her but a name; Robert’s misdoings but a multiplication of old youthful offences; a child herself, and Robert only thoughtless in ill, she had never yet _felt_ the change. The knowledge came upon her, as she met the first bright, daring glance of his eye, and instinctively her spirit shrank before it.

Robert had a quick and keen perception, especially as regarded Hope’s feelings towards himself. He needed no words to tell him what meant that gentle movement backwards; but he chose to interpret it otherwise, and addressed her in a bantering tone, little calculated to allay her fears.

“What, Hope, are you growing shy of me? I don’t mean to stand that, I can tell you--why, you are lovely;” and he fixed his admiring eye upon her: “prettier than ever--I have seen nothing so pretty for two long years. Come, Hope,” and he held out his hand again, “don’t blush so. You must learn to hear that you are pretty; you will hear it often, if you look as you do to-day!”

And she did look strangely lovely, as she stood--startled, grieved, perplexed; her colour rising higher and higher--something, even of terror, at Robert’s bold, careless tone, in her air.

And Robert read every thought of her heart--loved her for her shrinking--and yet persisted in grieving her.

Hope’s uneasiness was so visible, that Everard approached to relieve her. He had paused at a distance till now, contemplating their meeting, with the intense longings Hope’s love for Robert always excited in his mind.

“You have not thought of me, Hope,” he said, with a smile.

At his words she withdrew from Robert, and turned to him; and, as she received his quiet, kind embrace, she raised her eyes to his face. The clear, steadfast expression of his countenance attracted her attention, as it had never done before, and she stood regarding him in silence.

“Now, Hope, I am not going to allow this!” Robert cried, as he again placed himself at her side. “I am jealous; and have good right to be so. You never used to make up to Everard in this way;--come, don’t turn your head away,” and he laid his hand upon her arm; “don’t you know that it is a pleasure to me to look at you?”

“Oh! Robert,” she said, in a tone of inexpressible pain.

“And why, _oh! Robert_; is it wrong to be pretty? and is it right to be blind? Let me tell you, Hope....”

Some idle words were yet unspoken on his lips, when Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour appeared, from the glass door of the study. Mr. Vavasour was leaning on his wife’s arm; and even in the distance his lingering, unsteady steps were visible. It was nearly two years since Robert had seen him. The change was, to his eyes, but too apparent.

His cheek grew suddenly as white as ashes; and the hand that lay on Hope’s arm seized her with a grasp of iron.

“Go to him at once, dear Robert,” she said, softly and pityingly, “it will be far better.”

But he put his finger on his lips to silence her, and drew her back behind an evergreen.

Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour passed on. They had not perceived their sons’ approach, and were now taking their way along the broad gravel walk that led to the avenue, to watch for them.

Robert waited till they were out of sight. He then drew a deep breath, and in an altered manner said, “No, Hope, not yet; I am not fit to meet my father yet. Vile wretch!” he muttered, with a contracted brow; then added, aloud, “Wait for me here--and when I am fit to bear it, you shall take me to him.” With rapid steps he hurried away in an opposite direction.

Hope stood looking after him--unutterable thoughts clouding her brow.

Everard approached her compassionately. “Dear Hope,” he said, “do not look so sad, it makes me miserable. Robert is not himself to-day. Do not think he feels little--he feels too much; only he will not let us see it.”

“Oh! Everard,” she asked, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up in his face, “is all they say of Robert _true_?”

“Not all, but some,” he replied, with serious truth. “Robert has bad companions and is easily led away. But there is no cause for despair; as surely as we stand here, Robert will be won back again.”

“He speaks ... he never used to speak as he does. What is it Everard; what does he mean?”

“You must not be too severe, Hope,” Everard said, with a smile. “Beauty is a good thing, and it pleases Robert to see you have it. Do not be angry with him for that.”

“Not angry,” she said, sadly.

“Nor grieved,” he added with tenderness. “Robert loves you, and looks to you as his guardian angel. He must not see you afraid.”

She looked in his face for a moment, as if to receive some new idea from his words. In that moment the impulsive desire of early years changed to a living principle. She _would_ be his guardian angel--undaunted, undismayed. She stood by Everard’s side in silence till Robert returned. As soon as his steps were heard, she went forward to meet him.

Everard left them together, and went towards the house. He shortly saw his father and mother returning, and went back to give notice. One glance shewed Robert changed; it was as if something had fallen from him--so utterly had the bold and daring air vanished. The old Robert was there, with all his excellent nature shining in his face.

“Go on, Everard, there’s a good fellow, and lead the way. Hope and I will come after you.” He spoke without agitation. A softened humility had taken the place of fear.

Everard obeyed, and hastened onwards. His father met him as he was ever wont to do. A greeting, cordial though quiet; a smile, faint but expressive; an eye of full trust, gratitude, and hope; and the greeting ever repaid Everard for every effort and every struggle. With his mother it was otherwise; even while her arm was round his neck, and her lips touched his cheek, he could see and feel the eye straining onwards in search of another; it was but natural, for Robert’s had been a long absence; but with a throb of jealous pain he almost longed again to have returned as a penitent.

They walked on a few steps: till, suddenly, from a narrow path, Robert appeared.

He paused, to await his father’s will. That will was to receive him with more than kindness. The violence he had done to his own and to his wife’s feelings, in his resolution respecting Robert’s birthday, had changed and softened Mr. Vavasour, producing an earnest desire to atone for his determination: but even if unprepared for kindness, no heart could have resisted the charm of Robert’s penitence. No pride or false shame stood in the way; no reserve or affectation marred the truth of his humility.

Mr. Vavasour hesitated not a moment; but with a smile, sweet in its invitingness, stretched out his hand.

Robert’s agitation became violent, but he struggled to speak. “Father,” he said, tremulously, “you have forgiven me many times, but I am come for forgiveness again.”

“And you have it fully and freely,” his father said, in his feeling voice. “God bless you my boy, and make you strong. Here, Joan,” he added, turning to his wife, and placing Robert’s hand in hers, “I will not keep him from you; though he knows already,” and he faintly smiled, “that he has _your_ blessing.”

He then put his hand in Everard’s arm, and walked on. He felt that pain in excited feeling which strong natures often do. He passed his hand over his eyes, as if to still himself. When he withdrew it he perceived Hope also at his side.

“You were right to hope, my child,” he said, gently touching her shoulder, “Robert may do us honour yet.”

She smiled as she looked in his face. The smile was such as we may fancy on an angel’s countenance, when there is joy in Heaven over the lost and found.