So does one bad feeling at the time being, govern even our worst of passions.
Eugene on his part did not, as may well be supposed, trouble himself to analyse the merits of his father's unexpected generosity.
He was really overcome with gratitude at the ready manner in which his anxiety and trouble were thus alleviated. He thanked his father with earnest emotion, and repeated protestations of never again requiring such beneficence at his hands.
Mr. Trevor waved him away. He had done the deed—he had shown forth his own perfect independence of will and power—satisfied his own bad feelings towards the object of his unnatural aversion, and mortified—as seemed his constant aim—the partial feelings, as he deemed them of his gentle wife towards her second son. And now the ruling passion began again to struggle into power.
The remembrance that he had just signed away a thousand pounds of his close-kept hoards, without more demur than in former times he might have bestowed a half-crown piece upon the boy, began to stir within his breast no very great feeling of satisfaction.
Eugene knew his father too well to risk any further provocation of the feelings he could pretty plainly divine, and hastened to beat a triumphant retreat, purposing to leave Montrevor that same night.
In the exuberance of his feelings, he would probably, at least by a glance, have thanked his mother for the service she had so auspiciously rendered him; but Mrs. Trevor's looks were sorrowfully averted, and he passed her by, not caring to irritate his father by any more manifest token of attention. He did, however, stop to shake hands with Eustace as he passed the window near which he stood—the first greeting exchanged between the brothers, who had not met before for several months.
Eustace Trevor returned his brother's greeting with no lack of kindly warmth. He had stood mute and motionless as a statue throughout the late trying scene which had been enacted. No sign of dark passion—of envious, hateful feeling could have been read upon that countenance, pale as marble, and beautiful in its nobly-suppressed emotion. Only once—that time when his mother had raised her meek voice in his defence, had an expression of strong feeling—a mixture of disdain, indignation, and grateful affection—broke forth over his countenance, and his dark, full eyes turned upon that much-loved champion with a glance not to be described, whilst his lips moved as if he were about to entreat her not to distress herself for his sake, when his father's angry interruption had more effectually supplied any deprecation on his part to that effect.
But now, having returned, as we have said, his brother's greeting in a manner which showed no particle of invidious feeling to have been excited against the object of such unjust and unmerited favouritism; when, too, his mother had softly and sadly left the room, without daring to cast another look upon the beloved object for whom her heart was bleeding; he came forth and stood before his father, with a firm and composed mien and countenance.
"Father!" he said.