Chapter V

Yet fall
What will, or can, Love makes amends for all.
C. HERVEY.

It was after Mr. Gresham’s departure, and the last day of the year, that the young groom once before-mentioned among the servants at Audley Court stood up in his place at dinner, and announced to his fellow servants this piece of intelligence: “that the time was come for him to inform them that he had made up his mind to call Mr. Everard his master, and to give him his due.”

The announcement was received with “Hear, hear,” from Harrison the butler, and a thump on the table and “well done,” from old Roger. And the two audible expressions of satisfaction, only conveyed the sentiments of the rest. Everard had already won from his servants an honour almost equal to that given to his father; but so long as the young groom stood out in dignified obstinence, a dread of being looked on as time-servers had withheld them from any strong expressions of regard.

When the first buzz of satisfaction died away, Harrison, somewhat formally, begged to know the reasons on which Thomas grounded his change of opinion.

“I said to myself, I’d see,” was the reply, “and I have see’d. I said I would be in no hurry, and I hav’nt been in no hurry. I said, I would do it if it was just, and now I say it is just; and I’ll tell you the reason why. I said to myself, if Mr. Everard goes and marries that young lady over there, and makes a great lord of himself, with ever so many millions of gold, and tries to cut out poor Mr. Robert every way, then I’ll have nothing to say to him, nor call him Mr. Vavasour, not if I’m put in the stocks for it; and I wouldn’t. But now I see what I see, and I know what I know, and I see no love of money in him, and so I say it’s just to give him his due, and I’ll do it if all the world goes against me.”

“Hear, hear,” said Harrison again.

“That’s true, Thomas,” replied Betsey, “but I do wish Mr. Everard was married, poor dear! that I do. He wants comforting. Miss Linton is fond of him now, and does as much good as she can, poor dear, but neither she nor my poor missus have eyes for him, where Mr. Robert’s in the way; and I think he feels it. That’s what I think.”

“All in good time, Betsey,” said Harrison solemnly; “the poet says, the funeral bake-meats are no fit ornaments to furnish out the marriage table.”

“No sure,” she replied sadly.

“Miss Gresham’s uncommon fond of Mr. Everard, our Mr. Vavasour,” observed Roger with great simplicity.

This speech was received with a shout of laughter from most of the servants, and with “oh, fie Roger!” from Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Vavasour’s maid.

“Why, there’s no harm,” he said, looking round bewildered. “Bless her pretty face, I see it as plain as I see my wig in this pewter plate here.”

“Poor dear!” exclaimed Betsey with a sigh.

“Be that as it may,” said the young groom, “it’s no business of ours. Mr. Everard, or Mr. Vavasour, as I mean to call him from henceforth, won’t have anything to say to her, beyond what a neighbourly gentleman should. And that’s what shows he has an honourable mind; and that he don’t mean to cut poor Mr. Robert out. I know his thoughts as well as I know my own; and that’s what I should do in his place, and so I’ll give him his due from henceforward, let who will go against it. And so here’s his health and a happy new year to him.”

The toast was drunk with enthusiasm, and could the echoes of the country voices have been carried to Everard’s ears, they might have cheered a heart which stood in need of cheering; for Christmas had brought Robert back, and with his return, had returned all the most painful feelings attending Everard’s new position.

Robert came for a visit of three weeks.

He was well in health, and though, perhaps, in a degree more thoughtful than he had ever seemed in his life before, he still was the same Robert, with his wonderful charm and animation, casting gladness about him, none knew how, without effort, as without consciousness. To his mother he was loving as ever, and to cheer her seemed the one object on which he was bent. By his endeavours Mrs. Vavasour was won to smile occasionally, and to take some interest in what was passing around her. That which Hope and Everard had utterly failed to do, Robert did in one week.

In one respect, however, Robert’s efforts failed like the others; and that was in his attempt to win her from her seclusion. On his first arrival he had implored her to come amongst them for his sake, in terms so fond and endearing, that it seemed strange his adoring mother should withstand him; but she did withstand. She wept bitterly in refusing his request, but no consent was won.

It gave him pain at first, on her account it gave him more pain afterwards, for before the three weeks had expired he saw plainly why it was she hid herself from their eyes. Her intercourse with Everard was constant and kindly, but it was cold. To her _he_ devoted time and thought, and care and affection, but he could make no progress in healing the wound his advancement had caused. His excellence of nature she had always owned, she owned it now and trusted to it; but that very excellence had injured her darling, and she could not love it. She was a poor unhappy woman, who found that that passion she had cherished with too much idolatry, had become her tormentor.

To his position in the house Robert accommodated himself apparently without pain, certainly without effort; but he perceived that that which he could, his mother could not do. She could not see Everard master and Robert nothing. He saw this plainly, and he saw that Everard understood it also; and he could well imagine that a part of that gravity which unceasingly sate upon his brow, was caused by his mother’s conduct.

He attempted no change until the conclusion of his visit, but the day before his departure he made it a last request to Mrs. Vavasour that she would leave her rooms, and give her children the happiness of living with them once more. “I ask it, Mother,” he concluded, “for Everard’s sake.”

“I cannot,” she said, quickly. “Do not ask it yet, dear Robert. I will do it when I can.”

“If not for Everard’s sake, Mother, I ask it for mine. I don’t know how _you_ bear it, but it is to _me_ a perpetual grief to see his face. You surely see he looks unhappy.”

“Yes, perhaps,” she allowed, “but there are many reasons for that. You know there are reasons for that....” She stopt with tears raining from her eyes.

“Yes, Mother,” Robert said, tenderly, “I know; I know there are many causes, but still there is a something beyond these, and I think you cause it. Dear Mother, how you used to scold me, if I hurt a worm, or a poor little tortured bird, and does it now give you no pain to torture your own son.”

“Oh! Robert,” she exclaimed, “what would you have me do?”

“I would have you love and honour him, Mother, by every means in your power, and be proud of having such a son; for if ever a man has sacrificed happiness to his duty, I think Everard has. Do you suppose it was not torture to him to take my place as he did; but could he do otherwise? I ask you, Mother, could he have done otherwise? And dear Mother,” he continued, winding his arms round her, “I want you to own more than this. I want you to own that my father was right, for has he not set over his people a son like himself, and has he not, so far as man can yet see, saved me from destruction. If I had been rich and idle, I am very sure, even with my best resolutions, there was no hope for me. Dear Mother, if Everard has saved me, will you not give him your blessing for that?”

She did consent. She could not but have consented; but Robert’s words told both ways; for the more his generous nature shone out the more she felt the injury he had received; and though with her body she did endeavour to do Everard honour, she could not force the feelings of her heart. _They_ held out against her husband’s will, strong and rebellious, and while they rebelled she could not but be miserable.

When Robert spoke of himself as saved from destruction, it was not that he seemed in any way confident of his persistence in well doing. There had been one occasion on which disappointment had been bitterly felt. When on Christmas-day Everard and his mother and Hope knelt at the altar, Robert was absent. He had left the Church with a flushed cheek and reluctant step; but though reluctant still had left it.

Not reproaching, not urging, Mr. Addison simply asked him the reason why.

“Because I am not sure I am in a fit state,” he replied, gravely.

“I think you are, dear Robert, as far as man can judge. Are you not leading a new life, and sincerely purposing to continue to lead it?”

“I am not sure,” he said, in the same tone. “I am not at all sure of my sincerity, or else I would do what I know I ought.”

On an inquiry from Mr. Addison as to his meaning, he said, “he must have more time. What he had hitherto done had been from remorse, and now that that was beginning to lose its power, he was not at all sure of himself.”

In this he persisted; he was evidently really distrustful, and his distrust left some anxiety in Mr. Addison’s mind.

After his departure, Everard inquired one day of Mr. Addison, if he was not perfectly happy about him.

“Happy, yes, Everard,” was the reply, “very happy at what has been done. But we must have patience.”

Everard looked annoyed. Very young people do not much like that word patience. To them it implies more of care than hope.

“You are angry because I do not speak with perfect confidence,” Mr. Addison said with a slight smile, “but, Everard, there is no wisdom in over-confidence. I only fear as Robert fears himself, because time has not sufficiently proved his strength.”

“I can conceive of no reason but one,” Everard said, with some vehemence, “for having a single fear; and in that _I_ think Robert was right. I do not like people to be over rash in such solemn things. In every way he seems to me perfect.”

“You make more of the word fear, Everard, than I intend,” Mr. Addison said kindly; “all I feel is, that poor Robert’s nature is very weak, and his temptations unusually strong ones. One day’s temptation, while his principles and habits are new, might mislead him again. For him and for ourselves it is always wisest to face the truth. It has not been uncommon for one in his position to be disheartened by the very confidence and over expectations of his friends.”

Everard said no more, but after a short pause proceeded to speak on a subject which occupied much of his thoughts, and which, perhaps, was the cause of his annoyance, in the qualified opinion of Mr. Addison. This subject was the relations of Robert and Hope.

To Hope alone his return had brought no increase of _personal_ happiness, but rather the reverse. During his last stay, with whatever difficulty it was accomplished, he had managed to keep up the old intimacy; but on this occasion the tie was altogether broken; and though forced to be constantly in her society, reserve and constraint had grown up between them. No more confidence from Robert, no more help, no more advice from Hope.

Everard watched them both intently, and he could see what Hope evidently could not see, that Robert’s thoughts were seldom absent from her; and he put his own interpretation on his brother’s constraint.

It was on this subject that he now spoke to Mr. Addison, and asked his advice as to whether or no he might write to Robert and say what he felt.

“No, Everard, wait,” was Mr. Addison’s earnest reply. “Do not be over hasty. Reformation is of slow growth, not in the outward, perhaps, but in the inward man. Robert has been during the past months under the influence of excited feelings. Excitement dies; wait and see whether reformation grows when excitement is past. I see I give you pain. You are in too much haste to make others happy; but wait. It is a hard lesson, perhaps, but a wise man must learn it.”

Everard smiled, and said, “I will take your advice to-day; reluctantly, I confess, but I will take it.”

And he did wait.

But when Easter brought Robert a second time, not only unchanged, but with all the best and highest parts of his nature shining in his face and flowing forth in his life and conversation, Everard felt that he read him most truly who trusted him most entirely; and that it was more for his welfare to help him on to happiness, than to leave him longer to struggle alone.

One morning in May he said to Hope as she was leaving the breakfast-room, “I want to speak to you, Hope. I have some letters I want you to read. Shall I find you in the library about twelve?” There was seriousness more than usual in his manner.

“Oh! Everard,” she cried turning back, “not about Robert?”

“Are you distrustful, Hope?” he said reproachfully, “I did not expect that from you.”

A flush of regret flitted over her cheek, but she did not justify herself.

“It _is_ about Robert,” he continued quickly. “I want your.... your assistance and advice. Nothing I hope that will distress you.” And he left the room without saying more.

When he returned he had a number of letters in his hand. He found her awaiting him with evident anxiety, but as evidently without any suspicion of what he had to say. He came and stood by the fire with the letters in his hand, and said, “Last year, Hope, I believe you were of my opinion, when there was a question about my mother’s going to live with Robert. I think you agreed with me that it was best at that time, that he should try his strength alone.”

“Yes I certainly did,” she said, “and I think, Everard, that time has proved you were right.”

“I hope there is no doubt about that, dear Hope. But _now_ things are different. It seems to me now a very great question whether Robert would not be better with a home. It is on that subject I want your advice.” He paused and looked at her. “What do you think, Hope?”

“Perhaps you are right again,” she said after a little thought. “I had been so happy to see him as he is, that I had not begun to consider about a change. But I did hear him say the other day that he was sometimes dreary of an evening, an yet did not feel to care for Mr. Perceval’s company.”

“So did I, Hope; that made me think a great deal about it.”

“Has Aunt Joan decided? Have you talked to her, Everard?”

“Yes, but I do not think she will go.” He paused again, then looking at her with a furtive smile,” he said, “Will you go to him, Hope?”

“Me,” she cried turning deadly pale and clasping her hands together. “Oh! Everard.”

“My dearest Hope,” he said, stooping towards her tenderly, “have I startled you? I did not mean to do it; but there it is; will you be Robert’s wife? He dares not ask you himself, and so I must do it. And Hope,” he continued seriously, laying his hand on hers, “remember that I have been made your guardian, and trust me that I would ask nothing but what your own father and my father, could they have been here to act for you, would have approved. There,” he added quickly, for he saw her agitation was very great, “read these, and I will come back again presently,” and he hastily left the room and left her to herself.

The correspondence was arranged according to their dates. The first letter was from Everard to Robert, asking his opinion as to the desireableness of his having a home in London. He told him plainly the reasons which had made him oppose it the year before, dwelling especially on that reason which regarded Hope. He said he had fancied that Robert was not at his ease in her presence, and that he had thought it most right to save Hope from the pain of altered circumstances as far as was possible. But now he concluded, he no longer felt the same, and he would be glad to know Robert’s wishes.

The style of the correspondence was according to the usual manner of the two brothers very simple and concise, not a word more than was necessary.

Robert in his answer thanked Everard, but said he preferred that no change should be made. Not he said that there were not times when he longed to have a home, but the reasons against it were stronger than his wishes. “These reasons are chiefly two,” he concluded. “First, I am quite as sure as ever that my mother would be miserable cooped up in London; and secondly, I really cannot undertake to live constantly with Hope, as I used to do. I know that I must not think of marriage for some years to come, and therefore, I had better not be tempted to think of it. You perhaps may think me very weak, but some people cannot help saying what is in their minds, and I find it hard work as it is.”

Everard’s answer to this was to say, that he supposed he understood that Robert alluded to money matters, when he said he could not marry, and he was anxious to show him, that provided he could be content to begin moderately, he thought that question might he satisfactorily arranged. He then reminded him, that Hope had been left to his guardianship, and asked him if he could doubt, that in the event of her marriage with any other person, his father would not have provided for her like his own daughter. He therefore proposed, he said, to give her £10,000, which, with what Robert had, would enable them to begin with £1000 a year, or rather more. Would Robert be content with this? he asked.

A very serious reply was returned, thanking Everard for his care and interest, but reminding him of his father’s constantly expressed desire that the property should never be weakened by over charges.

“I know that I, who have done so much to charge it, have no right to speak on this point, but I must remind you of it, lest your desire for my happiness should tempt you to forget.” This was the conclusion of the letter.

There was yet another answer from Everard, laying before Robert a full statement of the present condition of the property. This statement showed the care and judgment which Everard had exhibited in the management, for it proved, that, notwithstanding the new charges, the condition was hopeful and flourishing. He directed his attention especially to one fact, which he said, enabled him with a clear conscience to make new charges. This was the paying off an old mortgage at a very high rate of interest by a sum borrowed at a lesser rate. As the mortgage was large, this had made a considerable difference in the yearly receipts.

Robert now changed his ground, and wrote a somewhat passionate and excited letter on the subject of his unworthiness of Hope. “That she loves me,” he said, “I will not even pretend to doubt. I know that angel cannot change, but that she would marry me, I do very much doubt, and still more do I doubt my right to ask it. I do not speak of how I have treated her, for I do believe she would forgive that as she forgives everything; but think of my past life and hers, and ask yourself if it is fit that two such contrasts should be joined together. I dare not think of it, and am inclined to wonder, that you, her guardian, should propose it, especially, as whatever I may _intend_, promise and vow I dare not.”

There was more, and forcibly put, and by the dates of the letters it was evident that Everard had not replied to it in haste. There was nearly a week between them. This was the reply, when it came.

“My dear Robert,

“For many days I have been thinking of your letter. You put my duty
towards Hope, in a stronger light than I had yet considered it, and
I would not answer till I had thought it over in every point of
view. I am sure I do not wonder at your feelings, and though it is
hardly for me to say so to you, I can assure you, it is not because
I think lightly of your objections, that I still hold to my wishes.
But there are other points of view in which the case may be
considered. The past is your own consideration, the future is what
I have to do with, and for that I do trust you. One who has behaved
as you have done to me, shows a nature too noble and generous not
to be safely trusted with the care and happiness, even of one like
Hope. So far, therefore, as my consent is needed, you have it.

“Not for worlds, however, would I press you further, and if you
feel you cannot undertake the trust, this shall be the last I will
say on the subject. I shall be disappointed, but that is not a
matter of importance. Shall you think of coming down and talking to
her?

“Always, dear Robert,
“Yours affectionately,
“EVERARD VAVASOUR.”

There was a pause of four days more, and then this answer.

“My dear Everard,

“If you can trust me, that is more to the purpose than my own
feelings. You would not unless you saw good reason, and that gives
me confidence. I put myself in your hands. Speak for me to Hope.
Tell her I dare not ask it--tell her what I feel when I think of
her as my wife. Yet tell her that with her love and prayers I do
trust I may yet be more worthy of her. You must tell me how she
looks. If she can bear to think of it, I will come and speak for
myself.

“Yours affectionately,
“ROBERT VAVASOUR.”

So ended the correspondence.

* * * * *

Hope was still sitting with the letters in her hand when Everard returned, and as she did not seem to observe him, he took a book and sat down at a distance in silence.

It was some time longer before a slight movement roused her to a sense of her abstraction. When he saw she observed him, he got up and went towards her.

“Have you considered, dear Hope?” he enquired, not with a smile, for he saw that grave thoughts had occupied her, and were now painted on her pale cheek.

She looked up in his face with an expression of confidence that touched him to the heart.

“Like Robert, dear Everard,” she said, “I put myself in your hands. I trust you when I could not dare to trust myself,” and she put both her hands in his as she said the words.

“I think you may trust me,” he said, stooping and kissing her brow, with a something fatherly in his manner, that sat upon him with singular grace. “We all may be mistaken, but I do believe that Robert is now worthy of your love. If I did not, no thought for his happiness could have led me to wish for this marriage. Your happiness was too sacred a trust. Dear Hope, are you happy now?”

“Yes, too happy,” she said, and tears shone in her eyes.

“Then all is well, and God bless you, for you have made _me_ happy!” and his face did look for the moment as if the weight of care that oppressed it, was lifted and gone.

* * * * *

As the course of this love now ran smoothly it needs but a few more words. The marriage took place in the following month of June. Before that time Everard went with Robert to London to make some arrangements, and to find a house. A small, but pretty one was chosen near the Green Park. Its cost was beyond what was justified by Robert’s circumstances, but Everard insisted on supplying the _unjustified_ part of the sum, and, as was now felt by all, when Everard insisted he had his way. His argument was that Hope was unaccustomed to London and must have fresh air; and to this Robert submitted.

“I submit,” he said, laughing, “because I can’t help it, and because I think it gives you pleasure, and because....” He paused and looked into his brother’s face to see if he might venture. He certainly saw no invitation to venture, yet he proceeded, “because I hope you will soon have so much money, you will not know what to do with it.”

There was no answer to this, it had only the effect of restoring the grave look which was beginning to be shaken off.

The marriage was celebrated with great privacy. This was partly in order to induce Mrs. Vavasour to attend, and partly according to a well known opinion of Robert’s. “I don’t like to see a woman stared at,” he had often said, “on her wedding day more than any other day, and my wife never shall,” and he kept his word. Nevertheless, he requested Hope to dress herself with as much care as if there were to be a thousand spectators, and she in whose eyes everything was sanctified that could give pleasure to him, woke up her slumbering taste and did her utmost to gratify him.

When she came down in her bridal dress before they set off for the church, he seemed to feel what she was, almost beyond what he had ever felt before, and stood gazing at her in a kind of transport, as serious as it was full of love and admiration. “My dear Hope,” he said at last, with sadness in his voice, “how you make me ashamed. What have I ever done that I should have an angel to bear me company?”

Everard and his mother stood at the door to see them take their departure, when--after the ceremony was over, and they had returned to Audley Court for Hope to change her dress,--they set out on their way.

Hope’s last word was to Everard. She came to him and put her hand in his, looking with grateful affection into his face. “It is to you we owe it all, dear Everard,” she said in her sweet tremulous voice. “You have saved him, and made me happy. God bless you for it.”

And Robert’s voice murmured something of the same import as he shook his hand, and followed her.

Everard’s heart swelled and tears were in his eyes. He stood watching them in deep thought.

When the last sound of the wheels was heard, he was roused by a hand laid gently on his arm. He turned round. His mother was there looking up at him, with such a look of love as had often been Robert’s portion but never his, till this moment. She smiled almost playfully and said, “Can you be content, Everard, with an old mother for your company.”

More than a thousand repentant protestations were contained in those simple words; Everard was loved at last, and he felt it. He kissed her with an emotion which, in its warmth and freedom, reacted upon her, and the chains of many years’ binding, fell off and left them free.

Robert’s marriage had had the effect of rousing Mrs. Vavasour from the cloud in which her grief had wrapt her. The thought of the new home of her darling had won her to look into that future over which so dark a mist had been brooding, and she found there hope and comfort. Once aroused she saw her duties more clearly, the shadow fell away, and she found strength for what yet was left in life for her to do. And when the shadow departed she saw Everard as he was. She saw what Hope and Robert felt towards him, the trust they reposed in him, the reverence with which they regarded him; no longer unwilling she allowed them to speak, and they told her of all his ways, and all his acts of generous kindness; of the affection he was winning from his people, of the regard and estimation of all--she heard and pondered it in her heart, and thus a change came.

It seemed a strange thing to Everard, that that action, which had cost him such agony of spirit, which in its beginning had seemed to produce only hate, should in the end win for him the thing his soul longed for with feverish longing. He who had been nothing was now all. _The_ one on whom all seemed to hang for affection, help, and guidance, the one on whom warm words of grateful love were for ever falling, making his heart beat and his eyes dim with tears. It was very strange to him, and being more inclined to humility than to pride, he felt humbled in the possession of the blessing, which, when absent, he had almost thought he deserved.

But though a strange thing in Everard’s eyes, it is no uncommon thing in the ways of the world. The rough path of a hard duty, or that which looks like a duty to sincere eyes, sometimes becomes strangely smooth, when the steps are steadfastly set to walk along it; and many a low valley long despised in men’s eyes, becoming fertile through the dews of Heaven, draws to itself the gaze which it seemed unwilling to meet, and in due time is exalted.

As Everard and his mother re-entered her sitting-room after Robert’s departure, she again laid her hand on his arm, and said,

“Dear Everard, do you never mean to be as happy as Robert is?”

And, again, a shadow fell over his face, and he said, “The future is a dark place, Mother, who can tell what is hid in it.”

“Do not some make it darker than it need be?” she asked again.

He silently shook his head, and the subject dropped.