But while, on this point, repentance seemed genuine, it was not so with regard to his conduct towards Miss Trevanion. His gipsy nurture, his loose associates, his extravagant French romances, his theatrical mode of looking upon love intrigues and stage plots, seemed all to rise between his intelligence and the due sense of the fraud and treachery he had practised. He seemed to feel more shame at the exposure than at the guilt; more despair at the failure of success than gratitude at escape from crime. In a word, the nature of a whole life was not to be remodelled at once—at least by an artificer so unskilled as I.
After one of these interviews, I stole into the room where Austin sat with Roland, and, watching a seasonable moment when Roland, shaking off a reverie, opened his Bible, and sat down to it, with each muscle in his face set, as I had seen it before, into iron resolution, I beckoned my father from the room.
Pisistratus.—I have again seen my cousin. I cannot make the way I wish. My dear father, you must see him.
Mr Caxton.—I!—yes, assuredly, if I can be of any service. But will he listen to me?
Pisistratus.—I think so. A young man will often respect in his elder, what he will resent as a presumption in his contemporary.
Mr Caxton.—It maybe so: (then, more thoughtfully,) but you describe this strange boy's mind as a wreck!—in what part of the mouldering timbers can I fix the grappling-hook? Here, it seems that most of the supports on which we can best rely, when we would save another, fail us. Religion, honour, the associations of childhood, the bonds of home, filial obedience—even the intelligence of self-interest, in the philosophical sense of the word. And I, too!—a mere book-man! My dear son!—I despair!
Pisistratus.—No, you do not despair—no, you must succeed; for, if you do not, what is to become of Uncle Roland? Do you not see his heart is fast breaking?
Mr Caxton.—Get me my hat; I will go. I will save this Ishmael—I will not leave him till he is saved!
Pisistratus (some minutes after, as they are walking towards Vivian's lodgings.)—You ask me what support you are to cling to! A strong and a good one, sir.
Mr Caxton.—Ay, what is that?