Chapter XII

I kneel
There--meekly as you taught me--when you raised
For the first time my little hands to God;
A child, obedient and infirm as then,
I do implore you tell your wretched son
What he must suffer.
GLENCOE.--_A Tragedy._

The words of Hope, his mother’s mute relenting, the generous feeling shown by Robert, and Mr. Addison’s approbation of his decision, assisted to compose and calm Everard’s mind; and yet even while he thankfully felt how it smoothed his way before him, it in some respects added to the difficulty of his task. The sight and feeling of the excellence of Robert’s nature, made his own mind rebel more strongly against his decision, and he was well aware would make the injustice which had been done him more loudly called in question.

At Everard’s desire Mr. Addison made known on the following morning to the household and the principal tenantry, the change that had taken place. Before nightfall, it was known and discussed far and wide. _Consternation_ was the effect of the disclosure. Consternation, in the house, and out of the house; among the rich and the poor.

Robert’s faults and errors were many of them well known, for everything is known, but they had never come _home_ to his home. Mr. Vavasour, in the silence of his study, might muse upon the recklessness of principle he showed, and look forward to the issue of the course on which he had entered. But consequences are rarely thought of by the uneducated, and the future is but a shadow, when the charm of the present is felt. When Robert came to his home it was as the gay, generous, open-hearted, and open-handed young man; a character which even with personal charms far less than his, has an attraction none can withstand. Had it been possible to set forth the certain truth, that if Robert went on as he had begun, the hardly saved and much beloved inheritance of his forefathers must before many years be in the hands of strangers, that consideration might possibly have had weight, might in some degree have alleviated the blow; but such words had never been _said_ by Mr. Vavasour, and none said them now. The blow fell, and in his peoples’ eyes it was without excuse. With such a loyalty as the Lee family in the novel of Woodstock contemplated the misfortunes of Charles the Second, so rose up the hearts of his servants and his tenantry to sympathise with Robert.

Everard had observation enough, and he saw tears in the eyes of the elder men and women, stern looks on the brows of the young. He had not expected, he certainly had not wished it should be otherwise, and yet the language of his heart might be expressed in that of St. Paul, “What mean ye to weep and to break mine heart?” Was it not worse for him than for them? Had he followed the impulse of a nature only too quick to feel slights and distrust, he would have withdrawn himself in very cowardice till the first storm of astonishment and dismay was overpast; but the same sense of duty which prompted him to act at all, prompted him also to act bravely; and very conscious that supervision was necessary, and some guiding head wanting, he determined at once to rouse himself to the performance of all the duties that must now be his.

On the night after the disclosure there was sad and serious conversation in the servants’ hall. The butler who had been many years in the house, came to talk it over with the old coachman, and many others gathered round to hear.

“I never thought I should have had to blame my poor master,” the butler said. “I never felt before, but that his word was like the law and the gospel. If he said a thing was to be, I had no more a mind to say a word against it, than to the King on his throne. And it’s a hard thing to have to give him up; but mortal men are prone to err, and my poor master was like the rest of us.”

“It’s the _hinjustice_,” said the old coachman. “Ever since I was born, man and boy, there was never a time when I didn’t think _hinjustice_ was _hinjustice_; and if my poor master that’s in his grave was standing before me, I would tell him so to his face.”

“Very true, Roger. Mr. Everard is a quiet young gentleman, dutiful and good to his father, and kind to all. I have not a word to say against Mr. Everard: but he never was born to this; and he’s no more equal to Mr. Robert than I am; and to thrust himself into another’s place, is, as you say Roger, _injustice_. Servants must do their duty, but they can reason as well as other men.”

“Servants must do their duty of course,” observed a young groom who was devotedly attached to Robert, “but more than my duty I won’t do for Mr. Everard or anybody. I’ll do my work, but I won’t call him my master, not if he puts me in the stocks for it. It’s injustice, and I’ll show him I think so as sure as I live.”

“Now Thomas,” said the elderly housemaid, who had seen Everard’s grief, and had been deeply touched by his sufferings, “I won’t have you speak so. Mr. Everard, poor dear, feels it all as sadly as the rest of us. That evening after the will had been read, I went in to take a kettle to his room, and he was standing there. Poor dear! I never shall forget his face. I thought there must be something bad, and I asked him if I could bring him something to do him good, and he said ‘no Betsey, nothing,’ so bitterly, as if nothing could ever do him good again. Poor dear! I thought it was about his papa, for he was always uncommon fond of his papa; but no doubt it was the will that troubled him. Depend upon it he feels it as bad as we do.”

“Then why not throw it up, Betsy,” said the coachman. “No man is bound to _hinjustice_ as I believe, and I think I know the law.”

“Well, but then he promised,” she said with a look of awe. “When my poor master was a dying, and the young gentlemen arrived, Mrs. Allen was standing outside, lest she might be called to my poor mistress in her grief--and she _heard_. She didn’t know then what it meant, but she heard my master ask Mr. Everard if he would obey him when he was dead and gone; and she heard Mr. Everard, poor dear, make a kind of a vow for ever and ever, and she said she thought it meant to be a good young gentleman, but no doubt this was in his mind. Mrs. Allen told me so to-day, and she says she thinks Mr. Everard can’t help himself no more than a marriage vow.”

Betsy’s communication produced a great effect so far as Everard was concerned. The butler and the old coachman both declared that a vow was a vow, and must be kept; and resolved to do their duties to Everard as if he were their true master. The young groom alone held out, and said that whatever others did he didn’t care--“he would never call Everard Mr. Vavasour, not if he lived for twenty years in his service,”--and there was so much dignity in his look and speech as he made the announcement, that his fellow servants could not help regarding him as belonging more or less to the army of martyrs and themselves as poor creatures in comparison.

A trifling circumstance softened towards Everard the hearts of his servants, and gave them a better understanding of his feelings. On the morning on which he determined to assume his new position in the house, he marked it by the recommencement of family prayers, which, with only occasional intermissions, had been read by his father for nearly fifty years. He was too much agitated as yet for this to be otherwise than an effort, but his frame of mind was also that which almost finds pleasure in trying itself. He miscalculated, however, his powers of self-command. Against the many sad thoughts natural to the occasion, he had steeled himself, but one sight overset him. It was Robert who had discovered his intention, and was seated with the rest, and awaiting him; as if prompt, only too prompt in Everard’s eyes, to show obedience to his wishes.

Thus overset, he could not recover himself, and when he sat down and opened the Bible at the second lesson for the day, no voice came at his call. The maids, soft-hearted and excitable, and already with their handkerchiefs to their eyes, gave way to their feelings in stifled sobs, and a most painful scene might have ensued, had not Hope, putting aside all selfish feelings of nervousness and timidity, risen from her seat, and drawing a chair to Everard’s side, begged him aloud to let her read for him.

He acquiesced with a look of gratitude which was not lost upon the watchful audience, and as the servants returned to their work, “poor Mr. Everard” was said, with a heartfelt tone which showed a real relenting. It even affected the resolution of the young groom, for in the course of the day, after giving the matter due consideration, he confidentially told the coachman that if “Mr. Everard seemed to make a point of it, he should see what he could do after a bit, about calling him Mr. Vavasour.”

Hope’s conduct, her utter forgetfulness of self, touched Robert deeply, and as they walked together to the breakfast room, he laid his hand on her arm and in an unsteady voice said, “I have no right to say such things now, Hope, but if ever there was an angel on earth, I believe you are one.”

He did not look at her, nor seek to hear her speak, nor did he touch upon the subject further, but this slight allusion to old feelings, the only one he ever made, brought a beating to her heart, and a flush to her cheek, which told to herself at least too plainly how little had as yet been done in separating her life from his.

When breakfast was over and Hope had left the room, her cousins still lingering at the table, Robert suddenly and hurriedly took a letter from his pocket, and put it into Everard’s hands, observing, “I wish you to see it before it goes.”

It was addressed to Mr. Gresham. The communication was short, for Robert had nothing of the complete letter-writer about him. He said only what he had to say, suppressing at all times feeling and reflections, and big words of all kinds.

“Dear Mr. Gresham,--You will have heard before this of the change in my circumstances. As our engagement was entered into in the supposition of my being in the place of an elder son, that change dissolves it, or if anything more is required, I hasten to set you free from what can no longer be agreeable to you. I sincerely thank you for the kind intentions you expressed towards me, and for your confidence in the promises I fear I very rashly made.

“As my engagement was with _you_, I suppose my duty is to communicate only with you; but if I did not very well know that Miss Gresham’s consent, (if she consented,) would only have been a matter of obedience, I should not have been contented to break it without some reference to her.

“I remain yours, very truly,
“ROBERT VAVASOUR.

“Audley Court, April 23.”

Everard read the letter with a burning cheek, such as the slightest allusion to that subject always produced; but he returned it without a look or word.

“I must of course be guided by what he says,” Robert continued in the hurried tone in which he had before spoken, “but I know what that will be.”

“Perhaps not,” Everard said gravely.

“Yes I do. I know him better than you.” And then as if glad to shift the subject, Robert continued more easily, “And now, Everard, as to the future; I must do something. Have you thought for me? What shall it be?”

“Under _any_ circumstances,” Everard asked, the changing colour again showing to what he alluded.

“Yes, I must and will do something; whatever I can; that is not much I fear.”

“Then I _have_ thought,” Everard said with some hesitation, “and I have written this letter--I brought it to show you in case you liked my opinion. What do you think of it?” and he tossed a letter across the table.

Everard was more accustomed to write than Robert, and his letter was a better one, but like his it was concise and straightforward, with an entire suppression of all reflections on what he said; and all explanations regarding his own personal situation and conduct. It was addressed to Mr. Perceval. It simply stated Robert’s circumstances, and his wish for employment; mentioned _his_, Everard’s opinion, that it should be employment in some public office; and asked his advice and assistance in and upon the matter. Mr. Perceval’s assistance was very valuable, as his interest with public men chanced to be considerable.

“That will do famously,” Robert said, as he tossed it back to his brother; “the very thing I should like best. Do you know,” he added, “there have been times in these last months when I have longed even to be a ploughman working for my bread.”

“The _thing_ is different from the wish,” was Everard’s reply, as if he understood the difference well. “To have to work is hard work sometimes.”

“The harder the better. If you had my thoughts, Everard,” he continued in a tone of passion, “you would feel as I do, that employment must be had. Get it settled for me as fast as you can, and let me be gone.”

The way in which Robert put himself into Everard’s hands, in two days looking to him and treating him as his natural guardian, was touching and singular. If it proved on the one hand the worth and strength of Everard’s nature, shewing it to be one on which man naturally leans, it shewed on the other a beauty of disposition in the elder brother, which even vice had been unable as yet to spoil. It showed that it was no qualities on the surface, which won the love of the good and wise and holy; but the qualities of the heart, that good soul on which Hope built so much.

It was four days before Mr. Gresham’s answer was received, for the post was not so rapid a thing as now, in the days of this tale. When it arrived, it was in its style very unlike Robert’s communication to him, for it was lengthy, and wordy, and full of reflections, personal and otherwise.

There was an essay on engagements, how binding and when; there was the usual essay on the responsibilities of fathers, proprietors, &c.; there was an essay also on the duty of resistance to mere feeling. After this came the sum total, that he allowed the engagement _was_ dissolved. The letter was very kind, however, and bore the traces of much struggle of mind, and real feeling towards Robert. To give him up was evidently a bitter pill. Of Angela he said nothing. For a young female to send a message on such an occasion he was not prepared.

A message, however, Robert did receive.

He was sitting in the library an hour or two after breakfast, when Mr. Addison put his head in at the door.

“Can I speak with you for a moment, Robert?” he enquired, and being eagerly desired to come in, he approached with a letter in his hand.

“I suppose I am justified,” he said, “in shewing you this. Indeed it requires to be read to be understood; for I could not trust myself to repeat properly the substance of what it contains.”

The letter was from Angela, written, as the style plainly showed, in great agitation of mind.

“Dear Mr. Addison,

“I have nobody to apply to but you; to you, therefore, I must write
to say what I feel. My father tells me that Mr. Vavasour offers to
give up the engagement with him on account of his changed
circumstances, and that he accepts. He may accept, but I will not.
I would not for all the world do so dishonourable and ungenerous a
thing. _You_ know what I felt before, so you will not misunderstand
me now. It may break my heart, but I would rather die than act in
any other way. You have often said that if right is done, peace
will come at last, and so I hope peace will come at last to me, for
I am sure that I am right in what I intend. I have been too
obedient, but I will not be obedient now. I must leave it to you to
make known to Mr. Vavasour what I say; you must do it in the way
that it should be done. You will know best what is right, and, as I
said, I leave it to you. You must tell him that I will try to be a
good wife to him, and that if we went away from England it would be
easier to me. If he persists, I do not think my father will be hard
to persuade. Forgive me, and pity me, dear Mr. Addison, and do not
think I am doing a strange thing, for, indeed, it must be done.

“Yours, affectionately,
“ANGELA GRESHAM.”

Mr. Addison watched Robert intently as he read. That he was touched was very plain.

“Poor little thing,” he said tenderly, “I will write to her myself.”

“Shall you accept, Robert?”

“Accept! Mr. Addison,” he cried, “what do you take me for? I have given her pain enough; I will set her mind at ease at once. Leave me the letter, and I will write.”

“Is it no temptation?” asked his old friend, looking fixedly at him.

“Not the least, Mr. Addison. Don’t think better of me than I deserve. If I could be a galley-slave just now, that might be a temptation. This is none. I don’t speak of the future, for I know my resolutions are no better than Delilah’s packthread when temptation comes, but if work can keep me from temptation, I will work against any man.” He paused and crossed his arms, and an expression of intense and painful feeling gathered on his face. “When I remember what I have _done_, Mr. Addison,” he continued, “that _death_ is on my shoulders, I only wonder I have the power to live on as I do. But God is merciful I suppose, and does not let remorse be harder than one can bear.”

“No, Robert, for He gives a future, where all may yet be redeemed.”

“Not _all_,” was the reply, with an accent of suffering, which haunted Mr. Addison for many days.

But he was thankful for the words that Robert had said, for so elastic was his natural temperament, and so foreign was it to his nature to make a show of any emotion he could suppress, that Mr. Addison had been doubtful in what degree a real impression had been made.

When left to himself Robert took Angela’s letter and answered it.

“My dear Miss Gresham,

“Not for worlds would I take advantage of the kind words you have
written about me. All is, and all should be, at an end between us;
for you know as well as I know that on neither side were there
feelings which could have won a blessing. I am going to make
myself very vile in your eyes and to tell you all the truth. It was
your position and my sad and sinful circumstances that led me to
think of you. My love, if I am not too unworthy to talk of love,
has long been altogether with another. It is a truth painful for me
to tell, and not flattering to you to hear, but you deserve
truth,--and my respect and gratitude, and, I will say, my affection
too, will not let me hide it from you. Now then you are free, and
God grant you may soon be happy also.

“As you speak of my change of circumstances, I will tell you this,
it was not at first welcome but now it is. I am better pleased to
see Everard in my father’s place than I could ever have been to
stand there myself, for he is such a son as my father should have
had, and I, as we all know too well, am not.

“Forgive me for all the anxiety and trouble I have caused you, and
forgive me also now if my words are too plain. I wish I could
better thank you for that kindness which I am sure I feel.

“God bless you,
“ROBERT VAVASOUR.”

When the letter was done Robert took it and Angela’s also, and went in search of Everard. He found him with the steward, devoting himself, with a sad and careworn face, to the understanding of all the intricacies of the management of a property, large and laden with debt. Everard had a clear head, but he was totally unaccustomed to business of this kind, and his look as he hung over the books was so bewildered that it almost drew from Robert a smile.

“If you can spare one moment, Everard,” he said, as he paused at the door, “I want you.”

Everard coloured when he perceived that Robert saw his business, and sprang up and followed him.

“Just read these,” Robert said, “before they go;” and he put the two letters into his hand. He turned away, but from a distance glanced at his brother with an expression of archness about his eyes and lips.

A burning blush as he read Angela’s letter, and a lip trembling with suppressed emotion when he came to Robert’s words about himself--these two signs of feeling he showed as he perused them, but this was all. When he turned to Robert to replace them in his hand, it was not only without agitation, but it was with an air of such indifference, as if his opinion had been simply asked respecting some matter of business.

“Will it do, Everard?” Robert enquired, as he took them back.

“I suppose so; yes, I have no doubt very well,” he replied, but his tone was constrained and cold.

“Oh, then that is all, don’t let me detain you,” Robert said, quickly, and he turned away, puzzled and disappointed by his brother’s manner.

Everard looked after him with a sad and wistful look, but he did not recall him; and after standing thus for a few seconds, he returned with a brow no less harassed and careworn to his business.

Three or four days longer passed before an answer was received from Mr. Perceval. When it arrived at last, he apologised in it for his delay, by announcing the success of his applications in Robert’s behalf. Interest worked more powerfully in those days than it does now, and as before was said Mr. Perceval’s interest chanced to be considerable. He had stated his own claims and Robert’s peculiar circumstances, not concealing his former erring life, but expressing a strong hope and confidence that the future would efface the past. At the moment of his application, a clerkship in one of the highest offices was vacant, and after some consideration and demur, it was given to him.

These were the facts on which he dwelt; and in making the announcement to Everard, he merely and simply said that he trusted to Robert not to bring down censure upon his head.

A postscript to the letter made a proposition, for Robert to accept or decline as he thought proper. It was an offer of apartments in his house. That he would be as perfectly independent there as in a lodging, Mr. Perceval said he could not of course promise, but he would insure to him all reasonable independence, and as he was a bachelor, and often absent from home, he did not think the society of his house need weigh upon any man as a burden. He made the offer, he said, under the supposition and the hope, that Robert was sincerely desirous to improve himself, and it had occurred to him that the slight tie of such a home as his, might be an assistance without being a bondage.

Unwilling to have any communications regarding his brother but such as were perfectly open, Everard laid the whole letter before Robert.

The first part he read, and having read expressed his extreme gratification and obligation. The postcript was on another page, and he returned the letter without perceiving it. Everard directed his attention to its contents, and to the fact that a speedy answer was requested.

Robert coloured deeply as he read it, and looked at Everard. “For myself,” he said, hesitatingly, “there is nothing I should like better, but don’t you know, Everard ... has not my mother mentioned it to you--she wishes to have a house with me in London.”

Everard became very pale. Though the idea was but a natural one, the possibility of his decision driving his mother from the home in which her affections had taken absolute root, had never presented itself to him.

“I think it a very bad plan,” Robert said quickly, seeing and feeling for his brother’s distress, “and I have said all I can against it. Though she is too unhappy now to care, I know very well what she has always felt, and will again feel in a short time, about London. There is no one so dependent on the freedom of country life. I wish you would speak to her. I have said all I can without seeming absolutely unkind; I wish you would try what you can do.”

“But why should I?” he asked with great sadness. “You all wish to be together. It is very natural though I had not thought of it.”

“_I_ do not wish it. Besides that I think it a bad plan for my mother, I do not wish it for myself. For _many_ reasons,” he added, colouring again, “I dislike it. As I said before, _I_ can say no more without seeming not to be anxious to have her, but if you can do anything, I shall be very truly glad.”

Everard observed him intently as he spoke, but made no further observation at that moment.

He went out for a long and solitary walk, that he might reflect in peace. He had reasons for thinking the plan a bad one in more respects than one, and yet again, had he yielded to the promptings of his sensitive spirit, he would have disclaimed all wish to interfere, and would have permitted those who desired to leave him, to leave him without remonstrance. But responsibility was bringing to Everard that change which it must bring to all thoughtful tempers.

Those who are placed in any sense over others, may no longer act for themselves. If they do, they show themselves unworthy of the burden imposed upon them. His father’s words in which he committed to _him_ the guardianship of those he left behind him, were unceasingly sounding in Everard’s ears. No distrust of his own powers, no dread of seeming to put himself forward, could overcome the sense of responsibility they brought. His determination when he decided to accept his father’s will had also been to act as far as his inexperienced years would allow, in his father’s stead; and in that spirit he was prepared and resolved to act now, It was an occasion involving the highest interests of all committed to him, his mother, Robert, and Hope, and he bent all his powers to weigh and consider the course he should pursue.

The result of his reflections led him on his return to his mother’s room.

He found her sitting at her window gazing out with intent though abstracted eyes. During the last few days her bodily health had improved. She was no longer prostrate with grief, but the mental sorrows had gathered acuteness from the body’s restoration. The softness of her features was naturally calculated to express the more touching elements of grief, but such was not their expression now. There was not even the calm of one absorbing sorrow. Restless, tormenting, uncontrollable emotions agitated and disturbed them.

She was gazing out on the fair scenes that so long had been her home, now flushing into the freshness of early spring. Woods upon woods till they crowned a distant hill rising behind each other in all the tranquil beauty of an English landscape, and in the midst of them the tall spire of the village church, now her husband’s resting place, giving character, and life, and feeling to the scene. The gaze was so intent that Everard felt she must be taking a farewell, and there was a sadness in its intensity that gave him hope, she might be won to relent.

He came to her side, and sat down and said softly and sorrowfully, “Mother, it is I who am driving you far away from here.”

She was startled by his abrupt beginning,--although in truth it exactly harmonized with her thoughts,--and touched by the sadness of his voice, she looked up in his face and said hurriedly--“I go with Robert, it is right I should. Oh! Everard, you do not consider Robert.”

“Not consider him, Mother?”

“I mean,” she continued, agitated by the tone in which he spoke, “that you do not, that you cannot understand....” she broke off then began again. “It is a great change to Robert--he should not be left alone to bear it. It is right I should give myself to him.”

“Mother,” he began seriously after a short silence, “if it were only the pain your resolution gives to me, I would not say one word. I know Robert should be considered first, and I know it is no grief to you to give up all for him. But is it for his good. Mother?” he continued, stooping forward agitatedly and grasping her hands; “there were some words, do you remember them, of guardianship for _all_.... I cannot forget them; they are a charge upon me--I must do what I can to fulfil them; will you hear me?”

“Say what you wish, Everard,” she replied gently, while tears fell down her cheeks. “I am listening.”

“Would it be for Robert’s good, Mother? What you wish for him is it not that he should be strong. Would it not be best for him, that now when his resolutions are fresh and firm, he should learn to resist temptation, to stand alone, to _be_ strong. It is not his will that goes astray, Mother, we all know that, but his weakness. It seems as if now was the moment that never may come again, when he may learn to resist. It is strange of me, his brother, to speak of him as I do, but, dear Mother, I am compelled to do it.”

Mrs. Vavasour made no reply. Her conscience quick to feel, acknowledged that what he said was true. It was not in the atmosphere of such love as she gave him, misjudging, idolizing love, that he would learn strength. What Everard did not say she felt, and yet was silent.

“And Hope, Mother,” he continued after a moment. “Should you not think of her? If you go, she cannot stay with me, and yet, after all that has passed, would it not be best, would it not be most right both for her, and for Robert, that for a time they should he apart? Dear Mother, I may seem to take too much upon myself, but I speak only because I feel I _must_.”

His look, his tone, were so like his father’s, his care and forethought were so like to his, that Mrs. Vavasour could hardly resist him.

She was about to promise further thought on the subject; but before the words were spoken, Robert passed under the window at a little distance; walking, as he often did of late, with crossed arms and eyes bent upon the ground. The old feelings, the jealous pangs, returned anew at the sight, and the relenting words were withheld.

Yet, unwilling to wound him by an obstinate refusal, she considered for a moment, and then turning to him gravely said, “Everard, trust me, it is best as it is. What must come soon had better come at once. You will marry and then....”

“Marry, Mother!” he exclaimed quickly, and passionately, “no, Mother, I am not likely to marry.”

“But why, Everard?” she asked, looking up in some surprise in his flushed face, “Robert says....”

“There is nothing to be said. I am _not_ going to marry. When I do,” he added after a moment, suddenly recovering himself and speaking calmly, “you shall hear of it in time. In time to leave me, Mother, in time to find another home, since you think my home....” Tears of wounded feeling sprang into his eyes and his voice faltered.

Mrs. Vavasour was touched and grieved. She felt she had excused herself unworthily. In the impulse of the moment she said, “I will stay with you, Everard,” and she stretched out her hand to him. But it was hardly given before it was withdrawn, and as if the effort had been too great, she dropped her head in her hands and burst into passionate tears.

Everard sprang up as if beside himself. “Oh! Mother, am I indeed so hateful to you?”

“No, Everard, no; dear Everard, no;” she replied endeavouring to compose herself, “it is not that; _but_ I cannot ... forgive me, but I cannot submit to _his_ will.”

“Oh! Mother,” he cried in passionate sorrow, “only tell me what I shall do. _Can_ I do otherwise, Mother? I put it in your hands; only tell me. _Can_ I disobey? Do you command me, and to you I submit.” He knelt beside her, and forcibly drew her hands from her face.

She became calm when she saw her son’s excessive agitation, but she had no words with which to compose him. Her husband’s will had broken her heart and made her soul rebel, but _he_ was loved as passionately as ever, and not for worlds would she have commanded or even desired a resistance to it. She parted Everard’s hair, and kindly, almost tenderly, kissed his brow, but in answer to his appeal only shook her head.

“I make you wretched, mother,” he said mournfully, “but not so wretched as I make myself. You feel for Robert, you should also feel for me.”

“I do,” she replied faintly, and for the first time there was a dim consciousness of what it cost him to act as he did.

Mrs. Vavasour’s change of intention was received both by Hope and Robert with satisfaction. Hope’s views regarding the advantages of independence for Robert,--at this moment when, if ever, his roused feeling would give him strength, and teach him to resist,--coincided exactly with those of Everard. She had long begun to be aware that there was a something enervating in Mrs. Vavasour’s love for her son, that in spite of her own pure and high motives and character, a something warped in her judgment when she considered Robert’s failings; and she was of opinion that it was best at this time at least that he should once again face life alone. That it was a relief to Robert was also evident, and the reason of that relief, was very plain.

Everard had perceived already that since the first excitement of sorrow had passed, Robert had never been perfectly easy in Hope’s presence; and that although careful not to wound her, he by many indirect ways endeavoured to avoid being alone with her. So far therefore he was strengthened in his opinion, and comforted in having enforced it. Yet as the time of Robert’s departure drew near, when he saw his mother’s grief, and thought of Robert going alone into his new and strange life, his mental suffering was more than he could bear. Nor was the day of departure in any way calculated to soothe his troubled spirit.

It was a day of unspeakable bitterness to all; but it could be to none what it was to him. Not only the sorrow _in_ the house, not only the sight of his mother’s wild grief, and Robert’s passionate farewell--there was more to bear. The whole tenantry assembled to see him go; the whole household of weeping servants surrounded his chaise; all pressed round him, as if with him their very life departed; and Everard stood in silence, and felt as if it were written with a dagger’s point on his heart, “And I the cause.”

Robert came from his mother’s room in an excitement of grief he could not restrain. He walked by Hope’s side, and in the hall stopped to embrace her. “Hope,” he said passionately, “I am unworthy to ask it, but pray for me night and day that I may redeem the past.”

“I will, Robert,” was all she said; while a deep glow overspread her face, and she drew back.

He went on and came in sight of the thronged court yard; Everard was standing, at the door calm, but pale as death.

“This is bitter,” he muttered, and grasping Everard’s hand for an instant, he sprang rapidly down the steps, and threw himself into the chaise.

There was no definite noise, but a subdued sound of sobs and murmurs rose on every side--and so the chaise drove off.

Everard re-entered the hall. A deadly sorrow was upon him that chilled his very soul. Hope was still standing, gazing from a window, but at the sight of him, her thoughts changed from the one that was gone, to the one that was left.

She came up to him. “Everard you look wretched,” she said kindly and pitifully.

“It is bitter,” he murmured, as if the echo of Robert’s words was ringing in his heart.

“Bitter now, but not hereafter. Oh! Everard, it will be your happy part to save him.”

He looked at her as if endeavouring to take her comfort into his soul; but though it passed faintly over the surface the dead cold chill remained beneath.

He turned from her and fetching his hat, went and sat for hours by his father’s grave. If comfort was at that moment to be gathered it was there alone.

END OF VOL. II.

London, Godfrey & Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand.