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.