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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/79388-0.txt b/79388-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..41b00ca --- /dev/null +++ b/79388-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5644 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79388 *** + + + + + THE TWO BROTHERS. + + BY + + THE AUTHOR OF + + “THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,” “CLARE ABBEY,” + “THE YOUNG LORD,” + &c., &c. + + + “Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.”--DRYDEN. + + + IN THREE VOLUMES. + VOL. I. + + + LONDON: + HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, + SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, + 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. + 1858. + _The Right of Translation is reserved._ + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +Two persons stood on the brow of a hill overlooking an extensive and +fertile valley. In this valley lay the properties of two gentlemen, side +by side. The houses which were on the outskirts of each domain stood +within a mile and a half of each other; but the lands surrounding each +habitation spread for miles into the distance on the opposite sides. + +The houses were very different in form and feature. One was, or had +been, an old feudal castle. Modern additions had at various times been +made to the building, but it preserved untouched two massy ivy-crowned +towers, which rose up dark and gloomy against the sky. The other house +was such a dwelling place as pocket-books exhibit in their portraitures +of “country seats.” It was a country seat on a very large scale; nothing +more. + +Of the two persons mentioned above, the one was a stranger, the other an +inhabitant of the district; the latter had been showing off with pride +and pleasure the extensive and luxuriant vale in which he lived. + +“I could invent a tale about those houses,” the stranger observed, after +intently contemplating them. “Nay, I have already invented it. My tale +is done.” + +“What is your tale?” asked his companion, smiling. + +“After all I believe it is such an obvious one that I need not have +boasted of my _invention_. One has but to look at those two buildings, +and the tale is composed. In that one I see a proud, high-minded, but +somewhat forbidding family. In this one exactly the reverse--charm +without character. Hate of course springs up between them. Then after +hate comes love. A proud, high-minded son falls in love with a charming +modern maiden. Then come strifes, and disinheritings, and broken hearts, +and then ... either tragedy or comedy. I cannot quite decide on the +conclusion of my tale.” + +“There is a tale, and not of a very old date, belonging to those houses. +It has some features of yours, and yet is not like it. A very simple +domestic tale, but one not devoid of interest; that is to say, it will +have interest for those who take pleasure in seeing how human beings act +under peculiar circumstances; not, perhaps, otherwise, since it is +devoid of ‘moving accidents by flood and field,’ hair-breadth escapes, +or indeed exciting events of any kind. If you care to hear them, these +are the few facts of the story.” + +He entered into a short detail of certain events that had taken place in +the two families. + +His companion listened with interest, then observed, “I like your story +better than mine.” He looked again intently at the older building, and +after a short silence made some inquiries. “You must enlarge a little +upon the facts you told me. For instance, how was it that being as you +say so proud a family, so jealous of its honour, so steady and +irreproachable in character, the possessions of the Vavasours were so +loaded with debt? If all were good, who was the culprit?” + +“There was none, properly speaking. Loyalty (perhaps misdirected) was +the cause. The old traditions of the family speak of a time of almost +princely splendour till the days of the great rebellion. From that time +the fortunes have fallen. For Charles I., his son, grandson, and great +grandson, heavy mortgages were placed upon the land, and there never was +breathing time enough for the property to right itself. Yet no Vavasour +ever sold a rood of land, and no son ever complained of the debts his +father left him. There was a family fire of enthusiasm and romance in +the which supported it in all troubles.” + +“And Mr. Vavasour, the father of your story,” inquired the stranger, “he +was a regular old Vavasour you say?” + +“Yes, a fine character, but quite idolizing in the love and pride he +bore to, and had in, his place and family. When he succeeded to _his_ +father, he found the property so swallowed up with debt as barely to +leave an income necessary for the common expenses of life. He was only +just of age, and it was a melancholy prospect. He was advised to sell. +The property was not entailed, never had been so; he could do as he +pleased; but no Vavasour ever had sold, and he would not. He determined +by care and energy to clear off a part at least of the debt, and to +raise his house again. For thirty years he lived in that old castle +alone, bent on this object. Yet while saving and sparing, he was +preserved by that same jealous honour, and lofty character, and strong +sense, I suppose, of the responsibilities of his position, from the +least taint of parsimony. It was a miraculous escape, but he did escape +untouched.” + +“And after thirty years. What?” + +“He married. He was then fifty. His love story shows the same +characteristics as all the rest of the Vavasour history--Romance and +strength. At eight and thirty he emerged in some degree from his +seclusion, and in society he met a young lady of this county, then +seventeen, and in the bloom of a beauty that made her name famous. She +was as amiable as she was lovely. He saw her and loved her with the +strong tenacious love of the Vavasours, but he gave no sign of what he +felt. Fifty was the age, the earliest age he could appoint for a +relaxation of his severe life, and he thought he had no right to impose +a long delay upon her. He saw her for twelve years beset with suitors, +and vehement ones; for while from natural manner she was gracious to +all, it seemed as if her heart had still to be won; but he bore it in +silence. At fifty he spoke, and found that through those long years she +had waited, though almost without hope, for him. He was then grey and +careworn, yet no one, I believe, ever thought the marriage unsuitable, +and no young marriage was ever such a love marriage as that.” + +“I hope she had money.” + +“No; that is, nothing beyond a young lady’s portion. It was a part of +the Vavasour pride that no member of the family had ever married an +heiress.” + +“You speak,” said the stranger smilingly, “of the Vavasour pride, and +the Vavasour character, as if it was a man--whereas, you mean, I +suppose, some generations of men. Were all the Vavasours always alike?” + +“A family character is, I believe, no uncommon thing. We see moral, and +sometimes immoral qualities running through a whole race. Historians +speak of the strong will of the Tudors, and the insincerity and +despotic tendencies of the Stuarts. So it seems to have been with the +Vavasours. In many lighter qualities no doubt they differed; but with +that single exception I mentioned to you, I never heard of one who +deviated from the family character. That character I have always thought +might be best described by the few words in which Milton describes +himself--‘a certain niceness of nature, an honest haughtiness which let +envy call pride.’” + +“You admire the family character I see, and even the family pride.” + +“I do in a great degree. Of all kinds of pride, none seems to me more +nearly blameless than that which makes its foundation on the noble +qualities, not on the rank and wealth of its ancestors. I only say, +however, more nearly blameless, for I believe all pride to be wrong. It +is idolatry, and it will inevitably, at some time or other, be found to +have a root of bitterness. + +“‘That which man makes his god, shall inevitably, at some time, be his +tormentor.’ So says Bishop Hall.” + +“Yes, and with truth.” + + N.B.--The incident which suggested this tale may be found mentioned + in “Burnet’s Life of Sir Matthew Hale.” + + + + +THE TWO BROTHERS. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + For foresight is a melancholy gift + Which bares the bald, and speeds the all too swift. + HENRY TAYLOR. + + +The description of a youthful scene shall introduce the principal +persons of the following tale. + +Imagine a long, old library--gloomy, but interesting in its gloom. The +rays of a brilliant sunset streaming in from the western window, enliven +and yet shadow it. Here and there the rays of light fall on heavy oak +carvings; here and there on rows of morose-looking books; but the masses +of light serve chiefly to reveal, with the force of contrast, the deep +recesses of the room. It is easy to see that the abode is the home of an +ancient family, and that the possessor of the abode cherishes, with +fondness and pride, every mark of age. + +The occupants of this library are not unsuited to their abode, yet there +is little of the solemnity of the room in their air. They are three in +number: two boys of thirteen and fourteen, and a little girl about four +years younger. + +The boys are seated at a long library-table, a little too high for +comfort; and around and about them are the usual accompaniments of +schoolboys’ tasks; coverless books, torn leaves, split pens, and shreds +of blotting paper that can blot no more. The boys are _boys_ in the full +sense of the word: active, vigorous, and full of life; _both_ are so; +but with the likeness in this respect the likeness between them ends; +for brothers, they are singularly unlike. + +The elder boy is very handsome; and to the charm of beauty, of features, +and figure, adds all the charm of expression. It is such a face as a +mother can hardly fail to worship even too much. Open and animated, full +of sweetness, and spirit, and intelligence. One thing only is lacking; +and this want is best expressed by the word _principle_. Acute +physiognomists, and even common observers can discover the traces of an +unsteady and over facile disposition. It is difficult to watch him, and +not to suffer a sigh to escape, as the eyes look onward into life and +its temptations. + +The other boy is not handsome--he is, perhaps, ugly--his limbs, though +well formed, are stragling and ungainly; his features are so strongly +marked as to be hard and stern: but though he lacks beauty, and lacks, +also, what is commonly understood by the word charm, there is much to +interest in his appearance. He has, in a remarkable degree, the one +thing wanting in the other. Truth and steadfastness shine in his face, +producing a kind of day-light over it. There are, besides, in his +countenance, marked and strongly-opposing characteristics. Inflexible +determination, bordering on obstinacy, and endurance, stoical and stern; +yet, in contrast to these qualities, signs betokening strong passions +and a fiery temper; and about the mouth, nervous and tremulous lines +bespeaking something of feminine softness. + +Over these brothers the little girl sits watching, like a spirit. Her +place is in the western window; and the streaming sun-beams fall on her +white neck and gold threads of hair, but her face is towards the +occupants of the room; on one of these she rests her soft, brown eyes +with a gaze at once serious, and tender, and full of pity. + +The stillness of the tableau is suddenly broken. The little girl glides +from her seat, approaches the elder brother’s chair, and lays her tiny +hand upon the page his eyes devour. It is a page different in kind and +type to the pages of closely-printed Greek that lie beside him. + +He starts, looks up, and colours: then laughs, and says, + +“Why, you little fairy, I did not see you; what do you want here?” + +“Dear Robert,” she says, in a voice of singular softness, “you will +never have done; do let me take it away.” + +He yields at once to the imploring tone; delivers to her hands the small +volume of fiction; smiles with one of his enchanting smiles at his +little monitress; then with a groan, and a glance at his industrious +brother, exclaims, “Now to my weary work again,” and betakes himself to +his task. + +The little girl retreats with a soft smile on her countenance, and +resumes her place and her watching. The other boy pauses for a moment in +his labours--looks at his two companions, for a moment contracts his +brow, then with a sigh resumes his work. + +The circumstances of the task were these:--there had been a boat-race in +the neighbourhood of Audley Court, the old family place of the +Vavasours. The two boys, sons of Mr. Vavasour, fond of all active sports +and pastimes, had asked leave to attend it: voluntarily offering to +accomplish their usual morning’s studies when they returned in the +afternoon. Such requests were not unseldom made; and though all work and +no play is good for no man, Mr. Vavasour was equally convinced of the +truth of the opposite statement. He accepted the voluntary offer, yet +considering the exciting nature of the day’s amusement, only partially +accepted it; for the usual more lengthy studies substituting a careful +translation of a few lines of a Greek ode. The boys were grateful, and a +promise was readily given that the appointed task should be done. + +The morning and afternoon were both alike consumed in amusement. The +boys returned late, flushed with excitement, heated with exercise, in no +mood for study. They joined their father and mother, and in glowing +terms recounted the adventures of the day. Both parents listened with +willing interest; no reproach regarding the many hours of absence was +made; only when the full flow of narrative came to a pause, the father +simply said, “And now I depend on your promise, my boys.” + +The promise had been forgotten, and a shade overspread both faces. If +observed, however, no comment was made. Mr. Vavasour returned to the +occupation his sons’ entrance had disturbed, and glancing at the clock, +merely added, “Go into the library. I shall come to you in an hour.” It +was then half-past five. + +The boys retreated. No word of their father’s was ever controverted, and +they fully understood that he depended upon their adherence to their +word. + +The task had difficulties; but none which attention could not master. +Mr. Vavasour was firm and strict with his sons; but never unjust or +severe. He required self-conquest; but never asked for conquests beyond +their power to perform. On entering the library, the boys found all +prepared, and went at once to their work. + +Everard, the younger boy, prepared to do it with all his might. One +passion at this time ruled and governed his life--love for his father; a +love made up of fear and reverence, and strong natural affection. To +please him, made his happiness--the dread of disappointing him haunted +him like a spectre. A gay scene was dancing before his eyes; a pleasant +noise of dashing oars and shouts of triumph were ringing in his ears: +but his father’s voice, “I depend on your promise,” rose above these and +drowned them. He leant his head on his hands, and with a vigorous +effort, conquering the lassitude and dissipation of his mind, set to +work. + +Robert also set to work, but less resolutely. The same sounds were in +his ears, and wanting the determined will, he could not banish them. He +tried, but it was a feeble trial. He too loved his father, and feared to +displease him; but his was not the love that conquers all things. His +gaze wandered over his book, but his mind received no idea. He wrote a +few words, then scratched them out; then scribbled some figures of boats +and boatmen on the blotting paper; then spoiled some pens, then mended +them; then, with an expression of weariness, he pulled his +pocket-handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. In returning +it whence it came, his hands encountered the small volume of fiction +mentioned above, and drawing it out he glanced over the pages. It was +the _Mysteries of Udolpho_; he had been engaged in its study the day +before. The pages were refreshing after the hard lines of distasteful +Greek, and he reposed himself as he read. + +Deprived of this temptation by the watchful care of his little guardian, +he returned to his task, but the resolute will was still wanting. In +vain he endeavoured to master the sense of what he read. When one line +was clear, the next appeared to contradict it; when the sense was found +and the ideas formed, no words in the English language appeared to be +capable of expressing them. His head became dizzy and perplexed; and +suddenly starting up he approached the western window. + +“What a shame to be shut up here!” he exclaimed, his eye wandering +longingly over the sunny woods and fields. “I would give twenty pounds +at this moment to be that cow. Better be a cow at liberty, than a man a +slave.” + +“It is a pity,” responded the sympathizing voice of the little girl, +“but, dear Robert, you know you promised.” + +“I promised to try, and I have tried, and I can’t do it. I tell you +what, Hope, I hate Greek, and I hate translating, and I hate being shut +up here. Now, really,” and his voice became quite pathetic, “would not +_any_ one say it was a shame to be boxed up in a dingy old prison, on +such a night as this. I am sure it grieves my soul.” + +“But all this grieves only you, dear Robert,” the child argued, looking +up at him with a pleading look, “but if you don’t do it, it grieves your +father.” + +Robert was affected by her words. He smiled, and put his hand +caressingly on her head. “You have not expressed yourself very clearly, +little logician, but I see what you mean, and you are right; so come, my +good angel, and take me back to my work.” He held out his hand, and with +a sweet, proud smile of joy, she led him to his place. He began again to +work, and she stood by his side patient and immoveable; her eyes fixed +upon him, and him alone. + +The other boy looked up. He had watched her passing; and now with a +contraction of his brow, he contemplated her absorbed devotion to his +brother. “You give _me_ no help nor encouragement, little Hope,” at last +he said; and there was pain in the tone in which he spoke. + +“You don’t want it,” she replied, gently and simply; and not even then +did a glance of her eye wander towards him. + +Everard threw down his pen, and lay back in his chair. Sadness, +hurt-feeling, and something of impatience clouded his countenance. He +seemed to be disgusted with his own industry. + +The movement attracted Robert’s attention. He turned his head and +glanced at his brother’s well-filled page. “Why, Everard, you have +almost done!” he exclaimed; “what a shame!” + +“Yes, it is a shame!” Everard cried, with flashing eyes, “that you, who +are as far beyond me in cleverness as I am to little Hope, should allow +me to outstrip you so.” + +“Well, it is a shame,” Robert replied; a glow, half of shame, and half +of gratified vanity, overspreading his handsome face. + +“It is not too late, dear Robert,” prompted the sweet voice of his +little guardian, “if only you will work and make haste.” + +Robert looked at his watch, shook his head, and sighed. “Twenty minutes +after six, Hope; it’s no use now; but at any rate,” he added, after a +moment, “I’ll have a try for it;” and he set to work with an earnestness +which half an hour before would have successfully completed his task. + +Everard remained thoughtful. He leant back in his chair, and his eye +wandered gloomily and uneasily from his own unfinished task to his +brother. Emulation with an equal, with one we have a right to surpass, +and who to-morrow may outstrip us, is a painless and animating feeling. +But generous natures feel pain, and not pleasure, in a victory that by +right should not be won. So far as his own feeling was concerned, +Everard would have preferred to share in his brother’s disgrace. To +fail with him, would bring him more and greater love than success. Not +Hope alone, but his mother, would, he well knew, look with kindlier eyes +on failure with Robert, than success without him. For three or four +minutes of the now precious time, Everard remained agitated and +undecided; and then, again, he saw his father’s face, and heard his +father’s voice, and again the ruling passion conquered. He returned with +energy to his work, and when the old Manor House clock chimed the +half-hour, the last word was written by his pen. + +The clock struck, and Mr. Vavasour, the soul of punctuality, rose and +called his wife. + +“Come, Joan,” he said, “let us see how these boys have obeyed us.” + +They entered the library together; and anxious looks from one parent, +and penetrating ones from the other, fell on the two brothers. + +Mr. Vavasour was like Everard; but age had softened and harmonized his +proportions, and he was a handsome old man. A merely superficial +observer was always struck by his benevolent and venerable air: his tall +figure slightly bent, his silver hairs, his firm but lingering tread; he +seemed a picture of graceful old age, from which gentleness and sympathy +might be expected; but a very little study discovered that the +countenance was stern. Age had softened the hard features; but the +mental expression was far more really stern than that of his son. There +were, however, the same marks of opposing qualities that have been +mentioned as apparent in the countenance of Everard. Strong passions, +and deep feeling, and the same soft and tremulous lines about the mouth. +It was a face which some would have feared too much to love; but which +those who did love, loved passionately. + +The elder son was a reflection of his mother--though time, experience, a +woman’s nature, and obedience to her husband, had banished from her +countenance the unsteadiness apparent in his. She was many years younger +than her husband, and was still remarkable for a beauty, once the theme +of wonder and praise; but even this beauty was less attractive than the +softness and gentleness of her air and voice. Her character had singular +charms, and much virtue, and if a few faults mingled with her virtues, +it was but the common lot of humanity. Of these faults the most serious +was the idolatry of her eldest son. To love too much is impossible, but +to idolize is selfish. It harms the idol, and tends to injustice +regarding others. + +Mr. Vavasour approached, and both his sons arose; but there was no +eagerness in either. _Their_ eyes were cast down, while little Hope +fastened hers on his face with a look that deprecated displeasure. + +Mr. Vavasour looked from one to the other, and his brows knit into an +expression of mingled sternness and pain. With him no dereliction of +duty was small or great. Obedience was obedience, and a promise a +promise; and no consideration of more or less could make a duty not a +duty. + +“Well, Robert,” he said, “how have you obeyed me?” + +Robert made no answer. Though daring enough in his father’s absence, his +_present_ displeasure always unmanned him. + +“I see you have failed; I did not expect this.” And without another word +he passed on. + +“And you, Everard,” he said, turning to his second son--and anxiety made +his voice harsh. + +Everard gave his completed task; but his heart swelled with sorrow, not +with joy, for no glance from his mother’s eye spoke of anxiety for him. +Her eyes and Hope’s were with Robert in his disgrace. + +Mr. Vavasour read the translation carefully through, then laid it down. +“There are many faults here, Everard,” he said, looking at his son, +“but they are faults of ignorance, not of negligence. I do not need to +be told that you have tried with all your heart to please me. God bless +you, my boy,” and he laid his hand softly and kindly on Everard’s +shoulder. + +For a moment Everard’s heart bounded beneath that approving touch, but +it sunk and died as he saw his mother’s averted face. His praise was +agony to her; he knew it, saw it, felt it. + +Mr. Vavasour stayed for no more words, but retraced his steps down the +long library. When he reached the door, he looked back. Everard was +standing alone. Robert’s head was laid on the table; and beside him and +over him bent his mother and Hope. + +“Joan,” he called; and leaving the door open returned to the study. + +Mrs. Vavasour stayed but to whisper one gentle word; and, still without +a glance to Everard, rejoined her husband. Not that Everard was not +loved. He was only forgotten, because Robert was unhappy. + +Mr. Vavasour did not speak till his wife was seated. He then said, not +with sternness--for to her he was never stern--but sadly, “Joan, you +will spoil that boy.” + +“Love cannot spoil,” she replied, with some agitation, “though harshness +sometimes may.” + +“Do you call _me_ harsh?” asked her husband; and round his lips quivered +that tremulous movement which in him, as in Everard, betokened strong or +wounded feelings. + +“To none but Robert,” she eagerly rejoined; “sometimes to him.” + +“No, Joan,” he said, regarding her fixedly, “not harsh; but wise in +time. You look at Robert’s single faults--you see now a little +indolence, now carelessness, now self-indulgence, and you think that, +with his youth and high spirits, these may be excused; but I look on: +and as, day after day, I see the signs of unsteadiness, and cowardice, +and want of truth, I ask myself, what will be the end when these faults +have strengthened themselves and bear fruit? If Robert is to be saved +from becoming a dishonour to our house, it must be through the +discipline of awe and fear, as well as love. Let him see that his faults +grieve and pain us--as they do in my heart!” he broke out passionately; +then resumed again; “and that he may see it, let us not lightly own, nor +lightly forgive them.” + +“I believe you are right,” she replied, humbly, “and yet when Robert is +miserable.... You do not know how he loves you--how ardent his feelings +are--how he suffers under your displeasure!” + +“Yes, Joan, but I do know, and it is these very ardent feelings that +make me tremble. If now, in their freshness, while yet in his father’s +house, they fail in every moment of temptation, how will they stand in +the fiery trial of the world? Believe me, unless a great change takes +place, the good seed in Robert’s heart will too soon be choked with +thorns.” + +The twilight was deepening; the clock chimed the quarter after seven; +there came a low tap at the study door. + +It opened; and Robert entered, holding in one hand his completed task, +while the other yielded to the guidance of Hope. There was no shame on +his fine countenance, but an expression of open and truthful humility. + +“I am very sorry to have displeased you, father,” he said, simply, “and +I have done the best I can to atone for it. Hope persuaded me, and +Everard gave me help, and here is my task. I know it is too late to give +you pleasure; but I hope not too late to show that ... that I am very +sorry father!” + +Mr. Vavasour received it from his hands, with a faint glow on his +countenance; and the “God bless you, my boy,” which was his usual simple +and forcible expression of extreme approval, made more than one heart +supremely happy. + +This childish scene has been thus minutely detailed, in order more +rapidly and vividly to pourtray the actors in the following tale, than +description can easily do. + +A few more words are required to set in its proper light the position of +one of these. + +Hope Linton was the orphan child of a sister of Mrs. Vavasour. In her +aunt’s house, and adopted by her husband, the worst evils of an orphan’s +lot were unknown. They treated her as their child--the boys as their +sister--and few ever thought of her in any other light. + +She was a child of peculiar character, appearing to be made of two +qualities only--love and pity. Her love, not the love that clings, but +more angel-like, desires to spread its wings and shield; her pity, an +intense compassion, which made her appear, in spite of the guileless +goodness of her own nature, sent into the world on a special mission to +the erring. She was not clever, yet had her own silent, serious +thoughts; and though neither energetic, nor active-spirited, seemed, by +the intensity of her feeling, to accomplish what she had to do. + +The somewhat unnatural seriousness of her nature was partly the effect +of circumstances. Her father had been a thoughtless, unprincipled man; +her mother had borne, not the ills alone that extravagance brings in its +train, but the deeper pain of her husband’s neglect. After a desolate +life of many years, a child was born to her. It came like light into a +dark place; and partly in thankful acknowledgment of the blessing given, +and partly as a warning to her own failing spirits against despair, she +called it “Hope.” Four years after its birth her husband died. The hope +for which she had waited all her life-long was then fulfilled. The hours +of sickness and death brought his repentance and returning love. She saw +him die: and as if her task was then accomplished, quickly followed +him--leaving her child to her sister’s protection. The house in which +the little orphan was born, was a house of sorrow. Early clouds hung +over her infancy; and a sobering hue was left for ever on her soft cheek +and thoughtful disposition. There was, however, something of her name in +her nature. She was serious, but rarely sad. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; + A pride in honest fame by virtue gained, + In sturdy boys to virtue’s labours trained: + Pride in a life that slander’s tongue defied, + In fact a noble passion, misnamed Pride. + CRABBE. + + +The strongly-marked character of the Vavasour family has been noticed in +the introduction of this tale. The exception to the hitherto unbroken +line of true Vavasours was in Robert. He was no Vavasour. The family +pride did not influence him. The “niceness of nature” and “honest +haughtiness” were not to be found in him. He was inclined to laugh at +his grim old ancestors, and had been heard to wish away some relics of +their grandeur. His character was full of good and full of beauty, but +it was not the good or the beauty of his own family. In place of their +nobility of soul--truly noble, yet somewhat narrow--he had a generous +spirit, open and world-wide. In place of their slumbering and +self-restrained romance, he had warm affections, ardent but volatile; In +place of their unconquerable resolution, he had an altogether different +form of resolution--self-will; and in place of their self-control he had +no counterpart to offer--for impatient of authority, and fond of +pleasure, he was not disposed to be a severe Mentor to himself. + +In any family, Robert’s character would have excited care and anxiety; a +care as strong as the love he inspired; but in this family it excited a +fear amounting to torture. Mr. Vavasour loved his son passionately (in +his mind every feeling was a passion); this very love made his eyes +sharp and keen to detect Robert’s failures. Every childish fault was +seen--not only in its own proportions, but in the dimensions of future +years; not as the small shadow of the noonday, but as the long shadow of +the evening. + +Yet it would have been hard to say wherein lay the fault in Robert’s +education. If there was strictness, it was without severity. If there +were restraints, there were also unbounded indulgences. Though obedient +to the idolizing mother’s wish--the boys were brought up at home--they +were not home boys; both were famous in the country for their bold +riding and skill in every sport. + +The fault was probably in the bounded limits of Mr. Vavasour’s mind and +sympathies. He had his standard, his _own_ standard, therefore a narrow +one. He endeavoured too much to assimilate Robert to his own idea. He +did not go forward to meet the hopes, the thoughts, the qualities, +springing up in his differently-moulded son. + +Robert may have felt the standard to be too sternly high. It may have +strained his eyes to look upon it. Conceiving such a lofty form of +virtue to be required, he may have felt an improbability set before him; +and the very excellence of the standard may have caused a laxity in his +mind. It is possible! + +Such criticisms on education are easily made. Such inferences are easily +drawn, when a plan has failed to work. It is not so easy for those whose +hearts are in their children’s welfare, and who feel their +responsibility to God who gave the child, for every thought implanted in +its mind, to trace the exact limits of duty, and to discover the point +at which an excess of good instruction begins. + +Mr. Vavasour was a religious man, and all he did was religiously done. +If he failed it was human infirmity that failed; the human infirmity of +overmuch pride in his family’s good deeds; the over idolizing cherishing +of an honour hitherto without a stain. + + * * * * * + +It was three years later than the date of the last chapter. Mr. +Vavasour’s two sons were on the eve of going to college. Words are not +needed to picture the hopes and fears of that time; the hopes of the +young; the hopes and far stronger fears of those who send their +treasures for the first time into the world’s fiery trials. + +The evening passed silently. Mr. Vavasour sat by the fire in profound +thought: even his newspapers untouched beside him. On the opposite side +of the fire sat Mrs. Vavasour, working with unremitting industry. Tears, +very natural ones, were in her eyes, and thus she concealed them. + +At a little distance from her sat Robert; and Hope on a lower chair +beside him. Hope was unchanged still; like a child and a spirit; and +unchanged, too, was the intensity of the gaze with which she watched +him. Occasionally he laid his hand caressingly on her head; occasionally +smiled, and addressed to her a few laughing words; but for the most +part he, too, was silent, and his countenance was sad. Up to this moment +he had been looking forward joyfully; but now his happy youth, his home, +his mother’s love, rose up like a sweet and soothing picture, and +touched him. Robert’s feelings were strong and excitable. If volatile, +yet, while they lasted, intense. He saw his mother’s tear-stained and +trembling lashes. He saw his father’s thoughtfulness; he knew that fears +and hopes filled their hearts for him; hopes great as their love; fears, +which his conscience told him were not idle. Agitated with these and +other thoughts, he found it hard to restrain his own tears. They came +and went--brushed away with a dash of his hand, and a half-ashamed +smile; and every smile and every tear gave a new charm to his +countenance. In her stealthy glances his mother saw them, and his +softness bound a fresh link of love round her already too idolizing +heart. + +But there was one who was more sad than all. This night had brought to +Everard the knowledge, never hitherto so fully understood, that he was +_nothing_. + +He saw his mother’s rapid glances into Robert’s face; he saw Hope’s +unchanging gaze; he saw his father’s meditations; and felt that anxiety +for Robert was the cause. He, too, was going into the world, and the +world’s temptations, and no love, no prayers of love would watch over +his unguarded youth. + +The consciousness brought exceeding bitterness. He said in his heart, +that he was selfish thus to have his thoughts fastened in himself. He +struggled with them, but in vain. The effect of the struggle was, to +make his countenance stern, and his voice hard. Once when he spoke his +mother looked up with a startled look--so harsh and dry was the tone. +Her eye wandered on to Robert’s softened countenance, and almost +unconsciously the contrast was remarked upon and felt. Everard felt it +himself; hated himself; owned that he was selfish and deserved no love, +and knitted his brows into yet sterner meditations. Thus we misjudge +others, nay, thus misjudge our ownselves. + +At length the clock struck half-past ten. It was the usual hour of +separation: and accustomed to please the husband and father in his love +of order and punctuality, all had been in the habit of obeying the +signal; but this evening there was no movement. The next word was to +be--farewell. The boys were to start before day the following morning, +and Mr. Vavasour had desired that no further leave-takings should take +place. Robert’s eyes were on his mother. He waited for her to speak. She +sat with cast-down eyes awaiting some other signal. + +The silence was broken by Mr. Vavasour. He raised his head from his +thoughtful posture, and simply said, “I wish to speak to you, my boys.” + +“Yes father,” they replied with tremulous eagerness; Robert was in the +mood for admonition; to Everard his father’s words were always pearls of +great price. + +Concisely, but forcibly, as was his wont, Mr. Vavasour gave his words of +parting advice. His first charge was to both his sons together, and +consisted of an admonition to fear God, and to honour their name. The +first was dwelt on at greater length: but there was a pathos in his +voice as he spoke of the second, which betrayed how near an idol it was +to his heart. + +When he addressed them separately, it was with a special regard to the +probable temptations of each. Both must have felt, both did feel, that +the minutest circumstances of their past life, and future prospects, had +been revolved in their father’s mind. He spoke to Robert as his heir. He +pointed to the duties and responsibilities for which he must prepare +himself, and dwelt on the temptations of those who are exempted from the +original curse, “In the sweat of thy brow, thou shalt eat bread.” “Make +yourself worthy, my boy,” were his concluding words, “of the position to +which, before many years, God will call you. Bind upon yourself the yoke +He has laid lightly on your shoulders, and remember, Robert,” he added +in a solemn and tremulous voice, “the words of the wise man, ‘_My son, +keep thy father’s commandment, and forsake not the love of thy mother; +for a wise son makes a glad father, but a foolish son puts his mother to +shame._’” + +There were strong resolves in Robert’s breast, and the “I will remember, +father,” was spoken with vehement earnestness. He drew nearer to his +mother, and placed his hand in hers--the movement of the body expressing +that the guide of his life was chosen. + +His fathers eyes followed him with a softened smile, and a look of glad +confidence. They rested on him for a moment; then he roused himself to +address his younger son. There was more to be said to Everard. There +were explanations to be made; and his voice, as he resumed, had a drier +and more business-like tone, which grated on his son’s ear. + +The explanations to Everard were regarding “the portion of goods” that +would fall to him. Having but two sons, Mr. Vavasour said, and being +well known to possess large estates, and full power over what he had, +“it might be Everard’s expectation, it would certainly be the +expectation of others, that for him an ample provision would be made.” +This he warned him would not be the case. He spoke minutely of the state +of his affairs, and pointed out the strong necessity that no divisions, +no deductions should be made. + +“What is just, Everard,” he gravely said, “you will have, but let your +dependence be on yourself.” + +Then leaving his drier tone, he spoke with a kindling eye of his hopes +from the industry of his son. + +“I am ambitious for you; yes, my boy, I own it. I would have you bring +fresh honour to our name. I put that name, I put that honour in your +hands, and confess to you that it is your father’s dearest treasure. And +yet,” he added, in a lower tone, “there is something beyond ambition. It +is in God’s hands whether or not you can be great; it is in yours with +His help that you can be good. My prayer for you both is that you may +guard our name from taint of vice, and bring it honour by your virtuous +deeds. Let this be done, and I am content. And now, my boys,” he said, +“God bless you.” + +He rose hastily from his seat, and extended a hand to each; then drawing +them nearer, with something of solemnity, kissed their brows. “And now +Joan,” he continued, “bid them good-bye.” + +Violent exhibitions of feeling were distasteful to Mr. Vavasour. All +knew it. Swiftly therefore and silently the farewell was taken. Robert, +softened and overcome, flew to his own room. Mrs. Vavasour, fearful of +grieving her husband by her overmuch sorrow, followed his example. The +drawing-room door closed, and Everard and Hope went up the stairs +together. + +Hope rarely cried, and was not crying now; but her thoughts were not +with her companion, as she walked silently by his side; and when they +reached the landing-place where their ways separated, she passed on +without perceiving him. + +He stopped her with an expression almost of anguish on his countenance. +“I wish you would say good-bye to me Hope. + +“I did,” she replied, in some surprise; but immediately and kindly held +out her little hand. + +“You did not say it as if you cared. I wish you would sometimes think of +me, Hope. I know you pray for Robert; I wish you would sometimes say a +prayer for me, that I may never disappoint my father.” + +“I will, Everard,” she replied; “but you don’t want it;” and she shook +her head with a melancholy shake, as if thinking of one who did. + +“I do,” he cried, passionately. “Why do you say that, Hope? It is unkind +of you.” + +She looked at him, as if startled and puzzled by his vehemence; but, +after a moment’s thought, in her sweet, kind voice, she replied to +him--“I am sure, dear Everard, I will think of you, and pray for you, if +it will make you happy; but you know you are not like poor Robert; and +you must not be angry if I think most of him. Oh! Everard,” she +continued, clasping her hands together, and for once speaking out all +the fears and troubles of her heart, “I am sometimes so frightened when +I think--if Robert should forget all that my uncle says, what will +become of him? He is so good--so good,” she repeated fondly; “but he +does forget. Will you think of him, dear Everard, and remind him when he +is far away?” + +“I will, if I can. But don’t be afraid, Hope. How can Robert forget, +when he thinks of _you_? Good-bye,” and the hard-featured boy stooped +and kissed his young cousin, with a mother’s tenderness. + +“Good-bye,” she said softly, and held out her hand again, before she +glided away. + +He stood looking after her, till the last glimpse of her white dress +disappeared from the long corridor; and when he returned to his own +room, a tear was on his lashes, and an aching longing in his heart. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + Her younger sister, that Speranza hight, + Was clad in blue, that her beseemed well; + Not all so cheerful seemed she of sight + As was her sister; whether dread did dwell + Or anguish in her heart, is hard to tell. + Upon her arm a silver anchor lay, + Whereon she leaned ever, as befell, + And ever up to Heaven as she did pray, + Her steadfast eyes were bent, nor swerved other way. + + SPENSER’S _Faery Queen_. + + +Nearly four years more have come and gone. Robert Vavasour is +twenty-one. The tale of these four years is an oft-told tale. + +During the first year of college life he had been tolerably steady. The +lingering influences of his home, the companionship of his brother, and +the sincere wish to do well, kept him, for the most part, in the right +track. In the second year he began to be less anxious. Evil began to be +familiar to him. He fell into a gay and thoughtless set, and found its +charms seductive. His high spirits, his ready wit, his unfailing +good-humour, and lavish generosity, made him a desirable companion, and +he was courted with an assiduity that might have turned a stronger head. +For a time, days of remorse succeeded his weeks of thoughtless +dissipation; but remorse was distasteful, and he endeavoured to escape +from it. He began to shun Everard, on whose example he could not look +without remorse. Temptations assailed him on all sides, and he ceased to +desire not to be led into temptation. He was hurrying along his +dangerous way, when, early in the third year, Mr. Vavasour received a +kind recommendation from an old friend at Oxford, that he should be +withdrawn at once. There was no hope for him, he said, where he was, and +he might thus be saved from public disgrace. It was done. His numerous +debts were paid, and he returned home. + +It was a painful return. Robert was smarting under a sense of unjust +usage, and was more rebellious than penitent. He had done no more than +others, so at least he felt, and why was he to be disgraced. His state +of mind required judicious treatment, and in this Mr. Vavasour failed. +To deal judiciously with the erring, _justice_ is almost more necessary +than kindness. One degree too much of condemnation and the good +influence is lost. To be perfectly just, it is necessary to look on the +fault, not through the calm eyes of a mere observer, but with the eyes +of the erring and tempted themselves. Nothing, indeed, can to a sane and +right mind disguise the blackness of moral ill; yet perfect justice +considers the circumstances of the offender, and allows a question of +more or less in guilt. + +It was in this perfection of justice that Mr. Vavasour failed. The word +_disgrace_ was rankling in his heart; the idol passion blinded his eyes. +He was not unkind to his son. He loved him too deeply, his desire for +his welfare was far too intense for unkindness; but he was severe. He +did not, like the father in the prodigal, go forth to meet him; but, +while receiving him with forgiveness, suffered him to feel the weight of +his displeasure. While pardoning the offender, he looked with something +of bitter contempt on the offence, and Robert’s quick mind felt it, and +it stung him. + +The return home was painful, so painful, that a long sojourn was not to +be thought of. In his father’s presence, Robert’s haughty and rebellious +spirit was, even against his will, awed; and the restraint was irksome. +With his mother and Hope he was full of remorse, but what is so +unendurable as the remorse that leads to no repentance. He longed to +make his escape! While much perplexed in mind regarding the destination +of his son, Mr. Vavasour was applied to by Robert for permission to +travel. He had received an invitation from a young man of his +acquaintance a year or two younger than himself, to accompany him and +his tutor on a tour of some length. Mr. Vavasour knew nothing of the +young man’s family, but the invitation was opportune, the tutor sounded +well, and in the few enquiries he had time to make, he heard nothing to +lead him to refuse a permission earnestly sought. It was given, and with +it advice so touching in its anxiety, and means so ample to secure his +improvement and enjoyment in the life before him, that Robert again left +home, his heart swelling with sorrow, love, and penitence. But man’s +nature is not formed to bear a repetition of the same excitements. +Exhaustion is the necessary end of violent and shortlived emotions. + +Of Everard’s college life there is little to be said. Whatever the inner +life might be, the outer life, sober and industrious, furnished no +materials to tell a tale. _Not to disappoint his father._ This had been +the influencing principle of his early days; this was the principle that +carried him safely through the snares of his opening youth. He left +college with a moral character on which there rested no spot, and with a +reputation, if not for genius, yet for sound intellect and unconquerable +energy. “You may be proud of your son,” were the words of healing balm, +which soothed Mr. Vavasour’s wounded spirit. On leaving college, Everard +went to London to study for the bar, and read in the chambers of an +eminent solicitor. + + * * * * * + +“No, Joan,” said Mr. Vavasour, resolutely though sadly, “when my mind is +made up as to a duty, not even your wish can alter my determination.” + +It was a few days before Robert’s birthday of twenty-one. + +Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour were seated in the study formerly mentioned. Mrs. +Vavasour was sitting near her husband, her hands on a small table +placed between them, and a look of imploring earnestness on her +countenance. She was but little changed in the three years that had +passed; there are some hearts so hopeful that in them anxiety takes the +form of hope; but her husband was much changed. His complexion was +paler, his features sharper, his head more bowed. It was easy to see +that secret suffering was undermining his strength, and slowly, but +surely bringing his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. + +“Then do not make it up too hastily,” was Mrs. Vavasour’s reply, in a +tone of strong agitation; “_consider_.” + +“I have considered. Ah! Joan, have I not had time to do it. If I saw in +Robert one grain of true repentance, I would be the first to hail it, +and honour him with the best honour I could shew; but I know, and you +know, that there is no repentance in him.” + +There was no reply. After a short silence Mr. Vavasour said more gently, +“What have you to urge that I have not already considered.” + +“Much,” she said eagerly and tremulously. “Let that honour be shown to +Robert in the sight of your people, which he has not done himself. From +his earliest years you have spoken of this day--your people have looked +to it as one of rejoicing--if you pass it now in silence, you shame him +whom you wish them to honour. If Robert felt more fully that their eyes +were upon him, that after you they look to him as their protector and +friend; the weight of responsibility would press upon him, and the shame +of coming short from the example of his father, would make him strong.” + +She paused--the tremulous movements of her husband’s lips encouraging +her to hope; but though agitated, there was no relenting; his voice, +when it came, was low and stern. + +“No Joan, it is not the vain honour of false outward show that will +bring a shameless and degenerate son to reason.” + +“You speak too harshly of him,” his mother cried with earnest passion. + +“Do I speak too harshly?” he said, and the anguish of a wounded spirit +was in his tone, “then listen Joan to these,” and he drew some letters +from his pocket. “I would have spared you the pain of hearing them.” + +“Hope, my child,” said Mrs. Vavasour softly, putting out her hand to +arrest her husband, “it will be best for you to leave us.” + +Hope rose from her seat in one of the deep recesses of the windows, but +not to obey her aunt. She came forward and laid her hands on Mr. +Vavasour’s chair, “Are they about Robert?” she asked; “then let me +stay.” + +Mrs. Vavasour hesitated and looked reluctant. + +“Better to know all,” she pleaded, earnestly, “than to dread too much.” + +“Let her stay, Joan,” Mr. Vavasour said decidedly, and she stood +leaning on his chair while he read. + +The first letter was from the family solicitor, enclosing bills from +some of Robert’s alarmed creditors, and requesting in a formal style to +know Mr. Vavasour’s pleasure on the subject. There was a second letter +from the same person. This was written as a friend’s, it informed him of +some facts which he had ascertained regarding Robert’s money +transactions, and offered his advice on the best manner of dealing with +them. A third letter was from a Mr. Percival, an old friend of Mr. +Vavasour’s, resident in London. It was written in the supposition that +Mr. Vavasour was ignorant of Robert’s mode of life. He could not, he +said, neglect to give him the information he thought necessary, however +painful it might be. + +Parts only of this letter were read aloud. Mr. Vavasour hurried to the +conclusion, It was an earnest recommendation that Robert should be +ordered to return home. From some circumstances, the writer said, which, +owing to the intimacy of Robert with a nephew of his own, had come to +his knowledge, he was convinced that he was suffering severely from the +want of money; and he felt certain that this would be the moment to +induce him to make a full confession of his difficulties, and to release +him from the snares in which he was entangled. + +The letter was read with an unfaltering voice; but when he paused there +was the sadness of a breaking heart in the question, “Is this, Joan, a +son to honour?” + +Mrs. Vavasour remained silent. Tears of bitter sorrow were in her heart; +but not one was permitted to start into her eyes, lest the sight of his +mother’s grief should add a drop to the full cup of Robert’s +condemnation. + +“You do not speak, Joan,” her husband said, regarding her steadfastly. +“Hope, my child,” and he passed his arm round her waist, “am I not +right?” + +“Perhaps,” she said, softly, “but dear uncle Richard, you must not +despair. Let Robert come home; he will yet be all you wish.” + +“I will not despair,” he replied, “if I have strength.--God give me +_hope_!” + +The passionate sorrow of this prayer broke from him as if against his +will. He drew himself up sternly after it--whilst his wife, unable any +longer to battle with her tears, withdrew to a distant part of the room. + +Hope stooped and kissed his brow; then followed her aunt, to put her +arms round her neck, and whisper, “There is hope, indeed, dear aunt +Joan,” and left the room. + +For a time the husband and wife remained in silence, and apart. At +length Mr. Vavasour rose and walked to the window, where the mother +stood shedding, yet concealing most bitter tears. + +He looked at her for some moments, then he held out his hand to her and +said, “Joan, forgive me now and henceforward, the pain I may cause you +for Robert’s sake. You think me harsh; believe me, the pain you feel +lies deeper _here_!” and he laid his other hand on his own breast. + +With trembling lips and reverencing love Mrs. Vavasour kissed the hand +extended to her. No harshness on his part could for one moment change +her feelings towards him; the bitterness of her grief was in the strife +of two loves equally idolizing, and the endeavour to think with blind +partiality of the actions of each. + + * * * * * + +Four days after this conversation, on the eve of Robert’s birthday, the +25th of August, a post-chaise stopped at the lodge gate of Audley Court. + +The lodge on the London side was a mile from the house. So soon as the +chaise had passed through the gate, a voice, loud and impatient, called +to the post-boy to stop. + +“Let us get out and walk,” Robert said, restlessly addressing his +brother. “I have got to prepare myself for awful company, and I can’t do +it, boxed up here.” + +The chaise was left; and striking out of the road, the brothers took +their way across the park. + +Both were much changed in appearance: and in Everard the change was all +on the right side. He was not handsome, but he was no longer ugly. His +figure, once straggling and ungainly, had attained its due proportions: +and there was a certain grace of strength about him which gave ease and +power to his movements. His features were still too large and too +strongly marked; his countenance, when in repose, still grave and stern; +but his air was frank and simple, his smile sweet, and the light of his +dark-grey eyes so soft, that no harsh or repelling impression was left +on the mind. + +As a boy, his appearance had been interesting: in its improved state it +was more interesting. He was young--barely twenty--and his body had all +the activity and elasticity of youth; but the expression of his +countenance was that of mature and advanced manhood. None could have +heard with surprise that he was thirty. This was caused in a degree by +his marked features; but it was far more the shining-out of the mind +within. The freshness of youth his mind had in its tastes and fancies; +but the tone of his feelings was that of comparative age. None heard him +speak, none looked in his face without discovering that life had been to +him no flowery way, the fire of temptation “no moist and whistling +wind;” that in his efforts not to disappoint his father, he had learned +by experience man’s frailty; and that if he had been victorious in the +end the conflicts of the way had left no faint traces on his character. + +With Robert it was different; he, too, was outwardly improved. From the +crown of his head to the sole of his foot there was no blemish in him. +His blue eye was darker and brighter; his raven hair more glossy and +curling; while the deeper hue of his complexion, and the vigour and +activity of his limbs preserved him from that appearance of effeminacy +which too perfect beauty in a man is apt to give. But with all these +improvements there was a painful change. It is sad to see the freshness +of youth obscured with worldly cares; it is sad to see its frank +ingenuousness troubled with worldly forethought; but more or less these +things must happen; and the necessity causes sorrow rather than pain. In +Robert the change was a sadder and deeper one. There was a reckless, +restless light in his eye which told a tale of dissipation; of innocence +passing away; of familiarity with vice; while a daring something in his +manner, spoke of conscience hardly dealt with--its efforts resisted--its +pleadings repelled and subdued. + +He walked silently by Everard’s side; but there was agitation in his +_deeds_. His foot trampled on every wild flower, and his cane switched +off the head of many a young springing plant. + +At last he spoke, in a tone whose lightness endeavoured to conceal a +troubled mind. “I wonder what reception I am likely to meet. The +ceremony will be an unpleasant one, and I, for my part, would eschew it +if I could.” + +Everard was silent; but not from indifference. He was troubled with the +same painful feelings he had felt in his youth--almost a disgust at his +own superior steadiness--almost a longing to be as Robert was. + +“Why don’t you speak out, Everard?” Robert exclaimed, in an irritated +manner; “and why do you look so solemn? If you know anything of the +matter, say it at once; what am I to expect?” + +“I know nothing,” he replied, with warmth, “except that I am sorry you +have any doubts. My father and mother, you must know better than I do, +are longing for your return.” + +“Doubts! I have some little reason to have doubts. First, a bad +conscience; secondly, this letter received this morning. Take it, and +now tell me what I am to expect.” + +The letter contained a few lines from Mr. Vavasour, apprising his son of +his determination not to celebrate his coming of age. It was written +with kindness and feeling, but there was no attempt at disguising his +view of his conduct. Through every line, in every expression, the broken +heart revealed itself. + +Everard’s blood mounted to his cheek as he read; and returning it to +Robert, he said, in strong emotion, “Oh! Robert, how can you bear thus +to grieve my father? I would rather die than do it.” + +“So would I at this moment,” Robert said, agitatedly, “I wish I was dead +this moment, and buried in that ditch. And yet,” after an instant, he +lightly added, as if ashamed of the feeling he had shewn, “though it is +as good as I deserve, I would, if I might, bespeak a wholesomer grave.” + +“You can give more pleasure than ever you have caused pain,” burst from +Everard’s lips. “Oh! Robert, be yourself! Do you remember the night +before we went to college?” + +There was a visible struggle in Robert’s countenance. It was evident +that an effort was made to repress his better feelings; but partly +shame, partly the very dread of his rising penitence, fought with, and +mastered them. “I have a better memory than I wish to have,” he said, +carelessly. “A good memory is a good thing in some cases, but it does +not do for those who have a ghostlike past to bring up at a moment’s +notice. Come, Everard, let us leave this solemn talk; you were a good +hand at vaulting once--let us see if study has paralyzed your limbs.” + +He sprang lightly over a high fence, calling to his brother to follow +him. Everard complied with equal success. “That’s a good fellow,” +Robert said, nodding his head approvingly; “I would as soon see a man a +woman, as a bookworm.” + +“There is Hope,” Everard observed, after a short silence. + +“Where?” cried Robert, excitedly. “Ah! so she is, my good angel. Poor +little Hope!” he added, in a low voice and a tone of deep feeling. “I +shall never weary her out.” But the words were hardly said, before he +resumed his wild spirits; and talking and laughing, he went on to the +spot where she stood. + +She had seen them from her window, and had hurried without her bonnet to +a gate which led from the pleasure grounds into the park. There she +paused; the evening breeze blowing about her golden curls, and a faint +colour of expectation on her cheek. + +Hope was scarcely altered, except in height, since her childhood. For +this reason she was more striking as a woman than she had been as a +child. Few preserve, even in early youth that soft and rounded grace +which is the charm of children’s beauty; fewer still carry on to maturer +years the ethereal, innocent look which so many children possess. In +both these respects Hope was unchanged. She was now, at seventeen, +singularly lovely; but it was a strange loveliness. Clothed, indeed, in +earthly form, but giving the idea of pure spirit. + +A peculiarity in the growth of her hair added to her uncommon and +spiritual look. Never since childhood had it increased in length or +thickness, but was still like the hair of a little girl--thin, fair, +soft, and silky. A few wavy curls hung about her face; the rest, without +form or fashion, were gathered up behind. This would rarely be a beauty, +yet it was a beauty in her. + +Robert approached; Hope gazed at him intently; but before she spoke, he +put his arms round her and embraced her. He had done so from earliest +years; and it was not this that made her colour rise, and prompted her, +with a scarcely perceptible movement, to shrink from him. + +The time was come when she must understand what Robert was--when she +must understand and feel the tainted mind. Till now evil had been to her +but a name; Robert’s misdoings but a multiplication of old youthful +offences; a child herself, and Robert only thoughtless in ill, she had +never yet _felt_ the change. The knowledge came upon her, as she met the +first bright, daring glance of his eye, and instinctively her spirit +shrank before it. + +Robert had a quick and keen perception, especially as regarded Hope’s +feelings towards himself. He needed no words to tell him what meant that +gentle movement backwards; but he chose to interpret it otherwise, and +addressed her in a bantering tone, little calculated to allay her fears. + +“What, Hope, are you growing shy of me? I don’t mean to stand that, I +can tell you--why, you are lovely;” and he fixed his admiring eye upon +her: “prettier than ever--I have seen nothing so pretty for two long +years. Come, Hope,” and he held out his hand again, “don’t blush so. You +must learn to hear that you are pretty; you will hear it often, if you +look as you do to-day!” + +And she did look strangely lovely, as she stood--startled, grieved, +perplexed; her colour rising higher and higher--something, even of +terror, at Robert’s bold, careless tone, in her air. + +And Robert read every thought of her heart--loved her for her +shrinking--and yet persisted in grieving her. + +Hope’s uneasiness was so visible, that Everard approached to relieve +her. He had paused at a distance till now, contemplating their meeting, +with the intense longings Hope’s love for Robert always excited in his +mind. + +“You have not thought of me, Hope,” he said, with a smile. + +At his words she withdrew from Robert, and turned to him; and, as she +received his quiet, kind embrace, she raised her eyes to his face. The +clear, steadfast expression of his countenance attracted her attention, +as it had never done before, and she stood regarding him in silence. + +“Now, Hope, I am not going to allow this!” Robert cried, as he again +placed himself at her side. “I am jealous; and have good right to be so. +You never used to make up to Everard in this way;--come, don’t turn your +head away,” and he laid his hand upon her arm; “don’t you know that it +is a pleasure to me to look at you?” + +“Oh! Robert,” she said, in a tone of inexpressible pain. + +“And why, _oh! Robert_; is it wrong to be pretty? and is it right to be +blind? Let me tell you, Hope....” + +Some idle words were yet unspoken on his lips, when Mr. and Mrs. +Vavasour appeared, from the glass door of the study. Mr. Vavasour was +leaning on his wife’s arm; and even in the distance his lingering, +unsteady steps were visible. It was nearly two years since Robert had +seen him. The change was, to his eyes, but too apparent. + +His cheek grew suddenly as white as ashes; and the hand that lay on +Hope’s arm seized her with a grasp of iron. + +“Go to him at once, dear Robert,” she said, softly and pityingly, “it +will be far better.” + +But he put his finger on his lips to silence her, and drew her back +behind an evergreen. + +Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour passed on. They had not perceived their sons’ +approach, and were now taking their way along the broad gravel walk that +led to the avenue, to watch for them. + +Robert waited till they were out of sight. He then drew a deep breath, +and in an altered manner said, “No, Hope, not yet; I am not fit to meet +my father yet. Vile wretch!” he muttered, with a contracted brow; then +added, aloud, “Wait for me here--and when I am fit to bear it, you shall +take me to him.” With rapid steps he hurried away in an opposite +direction. + +Hope stood looking after him--unutterable thoughts clouding her brow. + +Everard approached her compassionately. “Dear Hope,” he said, “do not +look so sad, it makes me miserable. Robert is not himself to-day. Do not +think he feels little--he feels too much; only he will not let us see +it.” + +“Oh! Everard,” she asked, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up in +his face, “is all they say of Robert _true_?” + +“Not all, but some,” he replied, with serious truth. “Robert has bad +companions and is easily led away. But there is no cause for despair; as +surely as we stand here, Robert will be won back again.” + +“He speaks ... he never used to speak as he does. What is it Everard; +what does he mean?” + +“You must not be too severe, Hope,” Everard said, with a smile. “Beauty +is a good thing, and it pleases Robert to see you have it. Do not be +angry with him for that.” + +“Not angry,” she said, sadly. + +“Nor grieved,” he added with tenderness. “Robert loves you, and looks to +you as his guardian angel. He must not see you afraid.” + +She looked in his face for a moment, as if to receive some new idea from +his words. In that moment the impulsive desire of early years changed to +a living principle. She _would_ be his guardian angel--undaunted, +undismayed. She stood by Everard’s side in silence till Robert returned. +As soon as his steps were heard, she went forward to meet him. + +Everard left them together, and went towards the house. He shortly saw +his father and mother returning, and went back to give notice. One +glance shewed Robert changed; it was as if something had fallen from +him--so utterly had the bold and daring air vanished. The old Robert was +there, with all his excellent nature shining in his face. + +“Go on, Everard, there’s a good fellow, and lead the way. Hope and I +will come after you.” He spoke without agitation. A softened humility +had taken the place of fear. + +Everard obeyed, and hastened onwards. His father met him as he was ever +wont to do. A greeting, cordial though quiet; a smile, faint but +expressive; an eye of full trust, gratitude, and hope; and the greeting +ever repaid Everard for every effort and every struggle. With his mother +it was otherwise; even while her arm was round his neck, and her lips +touched his cheek, he could see and feel the eye straining onwards in +search of another; it was but natural, for Robert’s had been a long +absence; but with a throb of jealous pain he almost longed again to +have returned as a penitent. + +They walked on a few steps: till, suddenly, from a narrow path, Robert +appeared. + +He paused, to await his father’s will. That will was to receive him with +more than kindness. The violence he had done to his own and to his +wife’s feelings, in his resolution respecting Robert’s birthday, had +changed and softened Mr. Vavasour, producing an earnest desire to atone +for his determination: but even if unprepared for kindness, no heart +could have resisted the charm of Robert’s penitence. No pride or false +shame stood in the way; no reserve or affectation marred the truth of +his humility. + +Mr. Vavasour hesitated not a moment; but with a smile, sweet in its +invitingness, stretched out his hand. + +Robert’s agitation became violent, but he struggled to speak. “Father,” +he said, tremulously, “you have forgiven me many times, but I am come +for forgiveness again.” + +“And you have it fully and freely,” his father said, in his feeling +voice. “God bless you my boy, and make you strong. Here, Joan,” he +added, turning to his wife, and placing Robert’s hand in hers, “I will +not keep him from you; though he knows already,” and he faintly smiled, +“that he has _your_ blessing.” + +He then put his hand in Everard’s arm, and walked on. He felt that pain +in excited feeling which strong natures often do. He passed his hand +over his eyes, as if to still himself. When he withdrew it he perceived +Hope also at his side. + +“You were right to hope, my child,” he said, gently touching her +shoulder, “Robert may do us honour yet.” + +She smiled as she looked in his face. The smile was such as we may fancy +on an angel’s countenance, when there is joy in Heaven over the lost and +found. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + See where he sits, contemplative and fixed! + Pleasure and wonder in his features mixed; + His passions tamed, and all at his control, + How perfect the composure of his soul! + Complacency has breathed a gentle gale + O’er all his thoughts, and swell’d his easy sail. + COWPER. + + +We must now go backwards for a few years, to make acquaintance with, and +follow, some new characters; until their history (within two months of +Robert’s coming of age) becomes linked with those to whom we are already +known. + +Before a blazing fire, in a large drawing room in Portland Place, a +gentleman stood alone. + +It was seven o’clock; and he was awaiting the arrival of a number of +guests invited to a dinner-party. The room was splendidly furnished. The +massy frames of the mirrors seemed drooping under the weight of their +magnificence; the stiff, rich damask of the furniture seemed to repel +with scorn the idea of repose. One glance around the room proclaimed +that the owner was rich, and that his riches were by no means +distasteful to him. + +It was the owner who stood warming himself on the hearth. He was a +handsome man, and there was none of the vulgarity of his mansion in his +air. His figure was tall; his features good, and though their natural +expression was inanimate and pompous, the light of an intense +self-complacency shone upon them from within, and gave them +intelligence. In this self-complacency there was, however, no appearance +of vanity or conceit; it was something so simple and truthful as to give +almost an air of _bonhommie_ to his demeanour. + +As was the outward, so was the inward man. Mr. Gresham was a banker, +possessed of large and increasing riches; and to these riches his heart +was given. But, in him, wealth was not a sordid passion. He could be +generous and lavish; he could give in charity, or assist struggling +merit. If he was without warmth, he had kindliness. But all he did +proceeded from one source. He lived in the eyes of the world. To _show_ +was his delight. As things _showed_, according to their degree of merit +in that respect, so were they valued. This, perhaps, is no very uncommon +quality; but there _was_ something uncommon in the open simplicity with +which his views were avowed. He had no concealments about it. His +opinions were, in his eyes, as wise as they were cherished; and with +perfect truth he expressed them. Like Mr. Bye-Ends, in the “Pilgrim’s +Progress,” he would have said, with unhesitating satisfaction, “I am +always most zealous for religion when he goes in silver slippers; and +love much to walk with him in the street, when the sun shines, and the +people applaud him.” This truthfulness redeemed his character from +common-place worldliness; for where an amused smile is caused scorn is +disarmed. + +He now stood and gazed around him with a satisfied air. The room was +over-lighted, if that is possible; the masses of gilding shone like pure +gold; every article of furniture was profusely ornamented; and every +article, and every ornament, had a double being in the light of the +numerous mirrors. He was satisfied: not a fault was to be found. The +eyes of the world would own, not only his wealth, but, what was more +precious, how lavishly he spent it. + +The door opened, and a lady entered; a pretty young woman, of about +six-and-twenty; but, though pretty, very unlike Mr. Gresham or his room. +She was ill-dressed; walked ill; and seemed altogether ill at ease. +This was Mrs. Gresham. + +A slight frown contracted Mr. Gresham’s brow, as she made her approach. +His wife was the one thing that disturbed his comfort. Not that he was +an unkind husband--in his way he had a real affection for her--but she +offended his taste. There was no show about her. Even her prettiness had +no show. She made no use of it. + +There had been a time when his riches had not seemed so secure a +possession as of late they had been; a time when, without any worldly +desires, so, at least, it seemed to him, it was his duty to secure +certain sums, over which the chances of life would have no power. At +that time he married the pretty daughter of a millionaire, who had but +lately struggled up into the eyes of the world; and who was, therefore, +not aware of all that those eyes would demand from his children. Mr. +Gresham knew all the disadvantages under which his chosen one laboured. +He knew she was uneducated; he saw that she had no grace or +accomplishment. But she was young and pretty, simple and docile; +whatever fancy he had was taken by her fresh beauty, and her grateful +admiration of himself; and the rest he thought might be given. She only +wanted an air, and a becoming sense of dignity to make her all he +desired, and when once _his_ wife, that would be an easy acquisition. + +Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may he, there are some +natures on which even the best instructions will not tell. After nine +years of married life, after instruction and example, notwithstanding a +blind admiration of her husband’s superiority, and an intense desire to +please him, Mrs. Gresham remained unchanged. Simple and docile, still, +ungraceful and ill-dressed. Advancing years cultivated unconsciously the +inner and moral being. She became more gentle, loving, truthful, and +refined; but she could not, with her best endeavour, learn worldliness; +she could not be a fine lady; she could not understand her own dignity, +or learn to have one thought of herself; it was a bad job, and Mr. +Gresham owned it. On that one point his complacency was vulnerable. +Untired, however, and undismayed, he persisted in his instructions, and +Mrs. Gresham in her endeavour to learn. + +With a scrutinizing air he inspected her this day, as she advanced +towards him. It was a first dinner party in a new house. All things +shewed well. He expected his wife to do the same. + +“My dear Marianne,” he exclaimed, in grave displeasure, “your gown is +shabby! What is the cause?” + +“Is it shabby?” she said, colouring with penitence and regret, “I +thought it was pretty. I thought it would do.” + +“Would do,” he repeated, in calm contempt. “Once more, Marianne, let me +remind you that I choose to see you dressed as becomes your station. +Look here,” and he drew her towards one of the long mirrors, “ask +yourself--is such a dress as this becoming the mistress of these +apartments? You might be my housekeeper--scarcely my governess--never my +wife.” + +He was quite right. Her dress was _not_ becoming her station. Though +composed of silk--and perhaps good silk--it was faded, tumbled, +tastelessly trimmed, and badly put on. The poor thing coloured crimson +again. She did feel out of place--she owned it. + +“I am very sorry,” she said gently, “I will order a new gown to-morrow.” + +“Not one new gown: order many. It is a remarkable thing that while most +men complain of the extravagance of their wives, I cannot get mine to +dress with decency. If, as some husbands do, I ordered you to dress, and +gave you no means of doing so, it might be a different question; but +how is it with me? I say, go where you please, spend what you please, +and command me. It is my pride and delight to put myself at your +orders.” His countenance glowed with satisfaction at his boundless +liberality. + +“You are very kind,” his wife said, humbly and gratefully. “I wish I +deserved it better.” + +There was a knock at the door; a “Come in,” from Mr. Gresham; and a +little girl, freeing herself from the hands of her nurse, bounded into +the room. + +“Come here, Angela,” said her father. But the child did not notice him. +“Mamma, mamma, dear mamma!” she cried, and springing to her mother’s +neck, clasped her arms about her, to the further detriment of the +toilette. + +“Come to me, Angela--come when I call you,” Mr. Gresham repeated. + +“I choose to stay with mamma,” she replied wilfully, and retained her +place. + +“You must not, my darling,” her mother murmured in her ear. “Papa +calls--to please me, go.” + +After a little consideration, Angela obeyed. She approached her father, +and stood coldly and quietly by his side. + +“I want to look at you,” he said, twisting her round, and examining her +dress. After a moment he added, with dissatisfaction, “You look after +her dress no better than your own, Marianne. Let her have silk frocks, I +am tired of this muslin. Every pauper can wear muslin.” + +“Angela does not like silk,” observed his wife. + +“Folly and nonsense, to talk of a child’s taste. What can she know of +the matter? I beg I may be obeyed.” + +“I won’t have silk. I don’t like it,” the little girl said, vehemently; +“it rustles so, and it makes Margaret tiresome. She tells me to be still +and to mind my frock, and I don’t like it. I don’t like to take care--” + +“Quite right, my little girl,” cried her father, delighted, “why should +you take care? Tell Margaret not to talk nonsense. Tell her you may +spoil as many frocks as you please, and that I don’t want you to take +care.” + +“But may I, really?” and Angela looked for an answer to her mother. + +“You may, indeed; you have my leave for it. You shall have new silk +frocks, and you may spoil them all as fast as you please.” + +“And you must give the old ones to Margaret’s poor little nieces,” +suggested the kind mother--unconsciously dropping her balm into the +poison of his words. + +“Oh! mamma, may I indeed spoil my things as fast as I can? May I blow +bubbles with my best frocks on; and may I dig a hole, and fill it with +water; and may Margaret never tell me not to make a mess again? Oh! what +fun it will be!” and she clapped her hands in rapture. + +The trio were interrupted by the entrance of the first guest. It was a +lady--and a fine one, with a languid voice. After paying due attention +to her host and hostess, she called Angela to her side. + +“Come here, my sweet child, and tell me what will be good fun.” + +But Angela stood immoveable. She had strong tastes; and, at first sight, +this lady displeased her. + +“She is to have as many silk frocks as she pleases,” her father +observed, taking her reluctant hand, and leading her, mute and rigid, to +his guest. + +“Dear, how nice,” said the lady, caressingly, “and what a lucky little +mortal you are. My chicks will be so jealous; for they have but one or +two silk frocks in a year.” + +“But I hate silk frocks!” Angela burst out vehemently; “and I didn’t say +it would be good fun to have them; and papa shouldn’t have said I did, +because it was a story.” + +Mr. Gresham laughed. His little girl’s ways did not displease him. She +was not, indeed, what he intended her to be; but, at present, she +fulfilled the object of life tolerably well; she attracted that is, her +due degree of attention. + +“Hush, my love,” said her gentle mother, drawing her back, and seating +her beside her, “that is not the right way to speak;” but the soft +stroke of her curls, and the gentle touch on her fair, fat shoulders, +spoke no lesson of displeasure. + +She sat quietly while the party assembled. She was a lovely and a taking +child, with a Hebe countenance of health and animation; and many were +the attentions and compliments she received. But she was as capricious +as a spoiled beauty in her choice. This night the party was not to her +taste, and she made no concealment of her feelings. + +An old gentleman watched her with amusement, and having seen her repulse +with disdain the caresses of three good-looking young gentlemen and as +many young ladies, who concealed their inward merits under overmuch +outward airs and graces, approached her to try his chance. + +“May I kiss you?” he said, stooping towards her, “I should rather like +it.” + +“Margaret does not like _everybody_ to kiss me,” she said, loftily, “but +_you_ may;” and she put up her blooming cheek to receive his caress. + +“You are very kind to me,” he said, seating himself by her side, with a +smile, “and now will you tell me why you are kinder to me than to those +young gentlemen yonder?” + +“Because I like you best,” she said readily. + +“That is being very good-natured; particularly, as you don’t know +anything about me. Do you know it makes me such a vain old man, that I +must ask you the reason why?” + +“I like mamma twenty times better than papa,” was Angela’s not very +pertinent answer. + +“Oh!” he observed, not quite certain how this confidence should be +received. “But I was not talking about your papa and mamma. I was +talking about number one. Why do you like me? Is it because I have got a +bald head, and an old coat, and no gloves, and a face all smothered in +wrinkles,” and he screwed up his features into a ridiculous caricature +of age. + +“Yes, yes!” Angela cried with delight, “that is why I like you best.” + +“Then I need not do so any more, to please young ladies;” and he drew +down his nose and forehead till the wrinkled skin looked like a +pavement. + +Angela screamed, and clapped her hands; but seeing that she was noticed, +and that one of the good-looking young gentlemen was moving towards her, +she drew herself up, and became as cold and demure as a moment before +she had been animated and gay. + +The old man smiled at her youthful airs, and fell into a reverie. + +In the dining-room he managed to place himself by Mrs. Gresham’s side. +He had an interest in the family, and some sleeping interest in the +banking-house to which Mr. Gresham belonged; but ill health kept him +generally abroad. + +“I have been talking to that little lady of yours,” he observed; when +she relaxed her painful endeavours to play the lady of the house to a +stranger at her side. + +With cordiality and gratitude she turned to him at once. “I saw you and +Angela making acquaintance; it was very kind of you. I am afraid she was +not very good to-night; but we must not expect too much. She is so +young.” + +“She was quite good enough for me,” he said, emphatically. “I am not +fond of over sweet sugar-plums. She is the kind of animal--I beg her +pardon--that I like to have to do with; full of life and character. What +is her name?” + +“Angela. She was called so after Mr. Gresham’s grandmother, who was, I +believe, a very beautiful woman.” + +“She is badly named. There is nothing of the angel about her.” + +“You must not judge of her by to-night,” Mrs. Gresham said, with +anxiety, “indeed you must not. She was a little annoyed before you came, +and she did not quite recover herself; but she is a good child in +general; indeed she is!” + +“My dear Madam,” he said, with an impatient smile, “I can see that; a +good child in her way, but no angel, nor would I wish to have her so. I +hope some time to find the angels good company; but while I am a human +being, human beings suit best with my infirmities. Miss Angela is a +human being, and one which I fancy may some day give you a good deal of +trouble.” + +The fond and simple mother again began her protestations and apologies; +but they were received as if they were not heard. + +“I don’t know if you find it so,” he continued, in a thoughtful tone, +“but some people set me thinking. I cannot help picturing what their +life and trials may be; that little lady of yours, for instance. As I +watched her, my fancy went on into future days, days when questions of +marrying and giving in marriage may arise. There will be trouble, I +guess. She has a will of her own, and a rarer acquisition, opinions of +her own: and in some cases this is not very convenient.” + +“Angela may be a little wilful, perhaps,” said her mother, “but she is +so affectionate and so generous, that it is always a pleasure to her to +give up her will for those she loves.” + +“That’s something--cultivate that; your little girl’s safeguard will be +in teaching her to love wisely and well. She needs education, let me +tell you; not book-learning, but something to guide her good, wild +heart. You must give her an anchor to rest upon; that life’s trials may +soften, not break her spirit.” + +“We all have our trials,” observed Mrs. Gresham, quietly, “please God, +Angela may not have a large share.” + +“Amen, with all my heart. She is a taking little thing, and though I +shall not probably live to see it, will be a lovely and interesting +woman. If I held the thread of her destiny, I would spin her a full yarn +without a knot or tangle in it. But after all this might not be for her +good; and so we must be content to leave her in wiser hands than ours, +for her pilgrimage through this sweet yet weary world.” Perceiving that +his conversation was little better than Greek to his simple hostess, the +old man here paused, and the subject was changed. + +Angela Gresham grew up. + +Mr. Gresham was certainly unfortunate in the soil committed to his care +and husbandry. He scattered his good seed as laboriously and unceasingly +on the heart of his daughter as he had done on that of his wife, but +with even less success. Mrs. Gresham received, and cherished the seed, +and it was no fault of hers that it withered and died. Angela, like the +hard and beaten wayside, stubbornly rejected it. + +Mr. Gresham had an ideal in his head: and to this ideal his daughter was +to be formed. She was to be polished in manner, easy in conversation--a +well-bred, well-dressed, showy and accomplished woman. To attain this +object, no expense was spared. The all-importance of the world’s opinion +was held up unceasingly to her view; and father, mother, and teachers, +all united in their endeavours, to season her impressible mind with +vain-glory and self-conceit. + +But all in vain. To learn, indeed, Angela submitted with a good grace, +for she had an inquiring and intelligent mind; but she learned for the +pleasure of learning, and rebelliously refused to exhibit, or even to +make the best of her attainments. With quick intuition, she perceived +her father’s love for the world’s estimation: and she early took the +world to her utter scorn. Her father cared for the world’s words--she +held all opinions in contempt. + +There is always something noble in the eyes that look right through the +shows of things, and are unsatisfied till the reality is found; but +scorn of the world’s ways, when held as a principle, is unsafe. A very +host of rebellious and bitter thoughts Angela cherished in her breast, +and in her scorn of show, many a wise restraint was cast away. + +If left to herself, and to her father’s influence, she might possibly +have grown up, in spite of a truthful and virtuous nature, an unpleasing +woman; but there was a counter influence at work, not the less powerful +that it was unconscious. + +Mrs. Gresham did her best, employed the full purpose of her mind to act +with her husband, and ruin her daughter. Conscious of her own +deficiencies, she contemplated with admiration those outward graces her +husband approved, and assisted in all his attempts to turn a natural +character into an artificial one. This was what she endeavoured to do; +but the unconscious influence, be it good or bad, is the active one. +Soft as the falling of the dew on a tender herb, fell the influence of +the mother’s unworldly nature on the daughter’s impressible mind. Too +simple for systems, too unreflective for principles, Mrs. Gresham could +not teach didactically, even the first elements of religious knowledge; +but there is a natural religion of the heart which nothing can conceal; +and humility, charity, and reverence flowed with never-ceasing flow from +her thoughts, words, and actions. + +In early days this influence was apparently without effect. Angela was a +rebellious child; and her self-willed spirit startled her father and +grieved her mother. To the latter, indeed, she was gentle, and though +not submissive, loving; but her father she did not love; his ways she +thwarted and opposed; and many a tear Mrs. Gresham shed in secret, as +the clash of opposing characters brought discord into her home. But +then came a time of bitter trial; and with trial, reflection and +remembrance. Mrs. Gresham died--the only being Angela loved. It seemed a +hard deprivation; it seemed a loss as severe to her well-being, as to +her happiness. Influenced only by love, stubborn to restraint, the loss +of love seemed a loss irreparable. So man argues. So it seemed wise to +argue; but this was not the only case in which man’s arguments prove +fallacious. Some influence more in death or absence than in presence; it +was so with Mrs. Gresham. The dead mother guided where the living could +not. _Alive_, Angela with her superior cleverness was the victor in +every argument; _dead_, her mother’s least remembered word vanquished +her. _Alive_, example failed; the gentle submission of the wife to the +husband irritated the daughter’s soul; _dead_, Angela recalled, only to +love that gentleness; and perforce was drawn to imitate. _Alive_, Mrs. +Gresham was no bond between the father and daughter; _dead_, she became +so: for each in their measure mourned her, and in that sympathy found a +kindred nature. Mr. Gresham loved his wife as much as he loved anybody, +and grieved for her as much as he could grieve. It was not great, but in +its measure it was sincere grief. He comforted himself by the splendour +of her funeral; but the gaudy trappings of woe were not all show. A sad +heart heat beneath. Angela’s grief was wild, ardent, undisciplined; it +was the loss of all to her; she was disposed to think that none grieved, +none could mourn but her; but when, with a real tear in his eye, and a +real tremble in his voice, her father told her to take her mother’s +place, she owned the reality of his sorrow, and a link, slight indeed, +yet still a link, was knit between them. + +Angela was fifteen when her mother died. From that time her character +grew in various directions. Like a tree that has lost its leader, her +branches fell luxuriantly, but irregularly--producing a kind of +picturesqueness on the whole, yet being not the less irregular. +Something she lost in strength, much she gained in amiableness; +self-will was still dominant, but it was no longer sole lord. She wished +to please herself, and scorned most opinions but her own; but she also +wished to be like her mother; she wished to be, for her sake, a +tolerable daughter to her father; she wished also passionately, yet +vaguely, to be good, and to follow her mother on the path to heaven. +These opposing wishes, this strife of good principles, with faults and +caprices, made her a mass of inconsistencies--and inconsistency is +childish. She was sometimes like a woman, and sometimes a foolish child. +More childish at sixteen than at ten, because more inconsistent. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + ... As a child + She still was simple, rather shall I say + More simple than a child, as being lost + In deeper admirations and desires. + The roseate richness of her childish bloom + Remain’d, but by inconstancies and change + Referr’d itself to sources passion-swept. + EVE OF THE CONQUEST. + + +On the sofa of the small drawing-room of a small house, on the road to +Hampstead, lay a lady, of some age between fifty and sixty. Her +appearance was sickly and shabby--such, also, was the appearance of the +room; but it was a shabbiness of taste more than of necessity. There is +a hue in every colour, too full to be delicate, and too pale to be +decided, which good taste avoids; but it was this tone of colour which +nature had bestowed on Miss Price; and which she, following nature, +chose for the adornment of her room and person. Her hair was a dull, +dark flaxen; her complexion a sallow grey; her gown a muddy brown; her +furniture a sickly blue. Her countenance was as insipid as her taste, +devoid of character, and devoid of intellect; nevertheless, when closely +scrutinized, it was not devoid of a certain charm,--it was gentle and +patient; and her smile, the smile of a grateful and affectionate heart, +had the power to light up and dignify her face. She was now lying on the +sofa, with a shawl of salmon-colour over her feet, and a piece of sickly +worsted-work in her hands. + +At a little distance from her, her two arms leaning on a table, was a +figure of a very different appearance. She was a young lady, healthful +and lovely, and with no lack of taste or decision about her. The +smoothness and roundness of her dazzling complexion, and the freshness +of her air, betokened very early youth, sixteen or seventeen at the +utmost; but in other respects her appearance was womanly. The silk of +her dress and the costly lace on her cloak were in a style uncommon to +young ladies in general; and the ease and decision of her graceful +figure seemed the acquirement of maturer years. + +She was lovely rather than beautiful. Her hazel eyes bright and +piercing; her auburn hair soft and silky; her colouring full and fresh. +It was the beauty of animation and colour more than of feature: though +it would have been hard to fancy a time when her countenance would cease +to please. + +At this moment there was discontent and dissatisfaction upon it; but it +sat upon her with an air of piquancy. Her bonnet was thrown off; and as +she pushed back her long thick curls from her face, she said, “My dear +aunt Jane, the fact is, this life is a very weary life.” + +“I don’t find it so, my dear,” replied her aunt, while with a look of +interest she pulled out a needleful of olive-green worsted. + +“And what makes you not find it so? Tell me, for it is what I cannot +understand.” + +“The many things I have to be thankful for,” and she put down her work, +in grateful reverence to the words she said. + +“You;--poor aunt Jane, and what have you to be thankful for?” + +“My sight, my hearing, my tolerable health, my food and clothing, and +your love my dear, besides many other things, which it would take me a +long time to tell.” + +“In that view, I suppose I have things to be thankful for too--but I +can’t say I feel it.” + +“You have of course, my love, and many more than I have; you have youth +and beauty, and riches....” + +“Ah! now,” said the young lady, decidedly, “stop there--don’t say +riches; the Bible says that money is the root of all evil, and I think +so too. One day I heard a little boy in the street say, ‘hang larning;’ +I don’t exactly know what he meant; but since then I sometimes say +‘hang riches,’ and it gives me pleasure.” + +“My love,” said her aunt, with a look of sincere consternation, “do you +know that is a very improper way of speaking!” + +“Don’t look so shocked, my dear aunt Jane, I mean no harm. I only mean +that I wish all bags of gold were wound round with a rope, and chucked +into the sea.” + +“Money is a very useful thing. I don’t mean to say, my love,” Miss Price +added, with some perplexity, “that money is _not_ the root of evil--of +course not; but it is a useful thing, and we ought to try to do good +with it.” + +“Do you know what makes me out of temper to-day?” the young lady said, +with out attending to her aunt’s musings, “I mean especially out of +temper--more than usual.” + +“You look very nice, my love,” she replied fondly, putting down her +worsted to examine her niece’s countenance. + +“But cross. Look again.” + +“You do frown, my love, certainly, but you don’t mean it, I know.” + +“But I do mean it, and I must tell you why. Aunt Jane, did you ever wish +to marry?” + +“My love, my love,” she said, fluttered and bewildered at the sudden +question. + +“Don’t answer me, if you don’t like it,” said her niece, kindly, “all I +want to be sure of is, that you can understand me when I ask you, if +_you_ could submit to marry anybody that was picked out for you, however +little you cared for him.” + +“My love,” replied her aunt, humbly, “I think I would rather not give an +opinion on such subjects. My head is not particularly strong.” + +“To be bought and sold like a piece of land. I never, never will submit +to it; and yet I don’t well know how it is to be avoided.” + +“God will provide, dearest--we need not fret ourselves about our future +lives.” + +“I see people bought and sold with my own eyes,” said the young lady +with vehemence. “This is a vile world I live in. There is not one person +in all the world that I look up to and respect; and yet, unless I +respect, I never, never will marry: that is, so long as I can struggle +against it.” + +“Certainly, my love; to esteem is the safest way; for we cannot esteem +bad people, you know.” + +“Very true, Aunt Jane,” said her niece, smiling; “but now let me tell +you what has put me out of temper. Papa sent for me, yesterday morning, +to speak to me. I went down to his room, and he told me two things. +First, he told me a thing that made me very happy. He told me that he +had bought a large property, and that henceforward we should live a +great part of the year in the country.” + +“That will be nice, indeed, my love! You will see all the flowers, and +hear the birds sing.” + +“Yes, and be _free_, Aunt Jane. If you knew how I sometimes long to be +free! I was so pleased that I said so, and thanked papa, and behaved +like a very good, amiable daughter. And when he said he hoped as he had +pleased me in this that I should be more obedient in future, and conform +myself to his wishes, I said--Oh, yes, I would, indeed;--and I really +meant and felt what I said: and then what do you think he said next?” + +“Now you frown again, my love, and I am sorry to see it.” + +“He said the time would soon be approaching when he should wish me to +marry; and that he hoped when the proper person appeared that I should +behave myself as a dutiful daughter ought. My dear Aunt Jane, he said it +as quietly as if he spoke of a new gown.” + +“Well, my love, I have heard that parents sometimes choose a very proper +person; and I would not set myself against him on that account.” + +“I don’t. Do you know that I am so sensible and unromantic that if the +Bishop of London, who I suppose is a good man, was to bring me a person, +and say, ‘Here is a good man, wise and good, whom I am certain you can +admire and respect,’ I am so weary of scoffing and scorning that I would +consent as dutifully as if I were four years old; but I cannot trust +papa. Don’t look shocked, Aunt Jane! sometimes we _must_ speak the +truth; and I know if you would speak the truth you would allow that you +don’t trust him either. Now look at me, and answer!” + +“A father, my love, is a father; and I don’t give opinions on such +subjects. It is better not.” + +“Perhaps you are right. I do try myself not to express all I feel. If +you could tell what a boiling indignation I sometimes have pent up +here,” and she pressed her hands on her heart; “but I must speak for +once. I cannot trust papa’s choice; he would marry me to a post, if it +were rich enough.” + +“Perhaps not, dearest. It is better not to distrust. Wait till the time +comes, and don’t fret till then. Did he say more? Did he speak of any +person in particular?” + +“No, he did not say; but I have a guess.” + +“And would it be a very unwelcome choice, my love, if you guessed +right?” + +“I don’t know anything about it. I have a guess at the name; but I know +no more who it is, nor what he is, than you do. And I was such a fool, +aunt Jane--so astounded at what he said, that I did not say half what I +thought and felt; and, besides, I don’t know how it is, but I cannot +argue with papa. He seems to think he must be right, and has such a +contempt for everybody that does not think as he does. I am not afraid +of him; I don’t mind being in a passion, but somehow or other I feel +like a slave. It seems no use. He treats everything one says, however +wise it is, as if a baby spoke it. Sometimes I think I shall go mad.” +She started up as she spoke, and walked impetuously to the window. When +she came back, she said, “And so, Aunt Jane, you really are thankful for +your life; and to me it seems _so_ dreary. I wish I could feel as you +do. No I don’t. I would not feel contented with anything but perfect +happiness for all the world. Do you never think life dreary.” + +“Days come and go, my love, and every day brings its great blessings. I +have no right to be dreary. Just now I feel particularly thankful.” + +“For what?” asked her niece, quickly-- + +“For my fall, my love. Its--” + +“For your fall! I call that truly wicked; one must _bear_ pain, but I +don’t think we ever were intended to like it.” + +“I was going to say, my love,” continued her Aunt, in the same placid +manner, “that my fall has brought me a great good; and so I am +thankful, very thankful, even for the fall--” + +“What can you mean? what great good?” + +“A new friend, my love, and a kind one. I will tell you how it +happened.--You know I slipped down in the mud, about twenty yards from +my door; I was half stunned when I fell, and I could not get up. I heard +little boys laughing; and I wondered how long I should lie there. It was +not very pleasant. Then I heard a nice voice say, ‘Don’t crowd so--be +off!’ and then I felt strong arms lift me up; and then the kind voice +said, ‘Where shall I carry you?’ so I just forced out ‘Number 7,’ for I +was very faint; and then I don’t know any more, till I found myself on +this sofa, and a young man standing by me. Kitty was there too; but +girls are so easily frightened, and he seemed sorry to see me with +nobody but a frightened girl; and he was very kind, and told her to get +some water; and then he went himself for the doctor, and came back, and +was very kind; and since then, I suppose, being sorry to see me all +alone, he has called two or three times; and yesterday he sat down for a +long time, and read me out of the papers about those dreadful riots. +Altogether, he is particularly kind.” + +“He does seem kind, indeed,” said the young lady; and the gaze with +which she contemplated her aunt, though full of affection, seemed to own +that she was no attractive object of a young man’s benevolence. “That is +the kind of thing I like to hear of; most people are kind, only for +show, or for some selfish thing.” + +“Oh! my love, how you speak--” + +“I speak what I think; it is a vile world I live in: but as to this +young man, what sort of a young man is he? Is he young? and is he +good-looking?” + +“Not very good-looking, my dear. That is not what _I_ call handsome,” +and she glanced about her room with a satisfied air, as if her pride +(poor humble thing) was in her taste. “His nose is too large, and his +eyebrows are rather fierce; but, then, his countenance is very pleasant, +and I thought his smile particularly sweet.” + +“I like a large nose, and fierce eyebrows,” said her niece laughing: +“there are sense and meaning in them. I should like to see your young +man. Do you know what his name is?” + +“He did send up a card one day, but I forget; it was Travers, I think; +no, not Travers, but Vavers. I know I thought of two Vs. Vavers, or +Vassour; no, that’s not it, because of the two Vs. I forget, I am sorry +to say.” + +“Not Vavasour?” asked the young lady, with a slight blush, and a look of +curiosity. + +“Yes, my love, that was it indeed. Do you know him?” + +“Oh, no; only the name.” She fell into a meditation; and as she mused, +there passed over her countenance a furtive smile, arch and +mischievous. The fruit of her meditations appeared at last. “I should +like to see your young man, Aunt Jane. When will he come again?” + +“On Friday next, my love, he said he would call again, if he possibly +could; and he was kind enough to say, that if there was anything +interesting in the papers, he would bring one with him.” + +“I shall come to see him--that is, if I can. Now you are ill, I think +papa will not refuse to let me come. I felt quite ashamed, when you said +your friend seemed sorry to see you alone. And it _is_ a shame, when you +have a niece who could take care of you. I shall tell papa what I +think.” + +“If he lets you come, my love, I shall be very grateful, but I shall not +expect it.” + +“You may expect it, for I mean to come; but you must not be grateful, +because this once I am not coming to see _you_, but out of mere +curiosity. And now, good-bye.--My dear Aunt Jane, what a hateful cat! Is +that piece of work for your new friend?” + +“My love, I would not take such a liberty for all the world. It is for +the grocer’s wife who has been very kind to me. She thought it a pretty +thing, and so did I.” + +“I suppose it is well tastes differ in this world,” said her niece with +a smile, as she affectionately kissed her. “But how tastes come to be +what they are, is past my understanding.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + What will your kindred think? + ELIZ. What they will think? + What pleases them. + _The Saint’s Tragedy._ + + +Angela Gresham arrived on the appointed day, but not quite in her own +person. When she had thrown off a cloak and bonnet, she came and stood, +with mirth dancing in her eye, by the side of her aunt’s couch. + +The placid aunt looked at her with a gaze of fear and wonder, and gasped +out “My love!” + +“How do you like me?” enquired Angela, kneeling down by her sofa, and +laughing at the amazed countenance. + +“My dear child, what have you done to yourself?” + +“This gown I am to give to a kitchen-maid, who is going to be married; +and my cap is for somebody else. I brought them to shew you.” Her gown +was of some dark material, very plainly made; and her luxuriant curls +were braided back beneath a neat cap of plain net, tied under her chin. +The disguise of her dress was complete, yet it was by no means a +disfigurement. The bright intelligence, and lovely colouring, were +perhaps the more striking under the simple attire. + +“Oh! my love, but why is this?” with a groan. + +“I will tell you, Aunt Jane, if you can listen to a story. There is a +poor young lady in London, who is very rich; twenty times a day, she is +told how rich she is. Everybody who comes near her knows she is rich, +and this poor young lady never can tell whether she is liked for +herself, or for her riches. Is not that a hard fate?” + +“It is, my love,” replied Miss Price, with a gleam of intelligence, “but +she may be sure--” + +“No, she cannot be sure; she is, on the contrary, very much afraid that +all the flattery she receives is given to her riches; and for once she +wishes to know what would be her fate, if she were poor. So I am come to +see your stranger in this dress. Do you mind?” + +“I am almost afraid, my love, I do.” + +“Then I am almost afraid I must do it whether you mind or not. So, dear +Aunt Jane”--and she kissed her, “it will be no use for you to say any +more.” + +“If it were not a disguise, my love, I should not mind, but disguises +are dangerous things. I have often read of them: they are dangerous +things.” + +“But this is no disguise. I am your niece, and if I lived with you, this +is the way in which I should dress; and, indeed, if I had my will, I +should dress in this way at all times. I am sick of ornaments. You see +there is no harm.” + +“Your father, my love! I am afraid....” + +“Oh! never mind that. What I am doing, I guess, will please Papa very +well.--He ... but there is a knock--now dear Aunt Jane, only remember +that you must not say who I am, nor call me by any name.” + +“I never do, my love. There is no fear.” + +Angela seized the hateful cat out of her aunt’s reluctant fingers, and +seated herself at a distance to work; but was scarcely seated before +disgust at the monstrosity of the sandy cat on an olive-green ground +made her jump up and restore it. A letter was then seized, which she +tore up into strips for matches, as a means of employing her fingers. + +The small maid of the house opened the door, and announced “the +gentleman.” It seemed to be the fashion of the establishment to suppress +names in general. + +Everard Vavasour entered the room, but paused at the door in some +annoyance. His kindness to Miss Price had been in simple obedience to a +kindly nature. Her apparently desolate position, though common enough, +had touched one unaccustomed to such phases of life. For Everard was by +no means adventurous in charity. Perhaps, to say the truth, his mind +over-engrossed with one sphere of duty--the withstanding the baits of +idleness and pleasure--was in some danger of becoming narrowed and +self-contracted. Be this as it may, he had no taste for adventures, and +felt annoyed and embarrassed at the sight of a visitor in the room. + +After a second’s pause, however, he came forward without looking to the +right or the left, sat down in the chair Miss Price had ordered to be +placed for him, and enquired after her health. + +She gave a favourable account, and then with gentleness and gratitude, +thanked him for his kindness past and present. + +He cut her short with a quick “I assure you I am glad to come,” and +then, like one not quite at ease, began to descant upon the weather. + +When this came to an end, Miss Price said, “My niece;--will you allow me +to introduce my niece?” + +Angela blushed and bowed; and unable to restrain her smiles, cast down +her eyes, and tore up her paper into fragments. + +Everard looked at her for the first time; and with a gaze of surprise +mingled with admiration. “Miss Price’s niece!” In that insipid faded +room, her freshness and brightness were singularly striking. + +Still more embarrassed, however, at the introduction, and uncertain +whether it would be proper to address her or not, his conversation came +to a pause. Retired and studious habits prevent the acquisition of an +easy flow of discourse, and when there was nothing tangible to be said, +Everard was often in the awkward predicament of having nothing he could +say. On such occasions to pause and consider is fatal. + +Miss Price relieved his embarrassment. “Those dreadful riots,” she said, +with placid interest, “I have thought of them so much; are they quite at +an end?” + +“Yes, quite. When soldiers appear, a mob is soon brought to its senses, +or at least,” he added smiling, “to good behaviour.” + +“You have nothing more I fear to tell.” + +“I think,” he replied, colouring slightly, “you do not want my +services.” + +“My niece, I am sure, will be happy to hear you. I beg your pardon; I +fear I am too troublesome, but it was a great treat.” + +Everard hesitated, and while he hesitated, Angela raised her eyes, and +said, “Your reading was a great pleasure to my aunt. I hope you will not +deprive her of it, because I am here.” She spoke with an ease and grace +that astonished him beyond measure. + +He acquiesced in the request; and though much inclined to laugh at the +novelty of his position, pulled a newspaper from his pocket. It had been +placed there for Miss Price’s special entertainment. + +The account he read was of a fire in some country town, and several acts +of extraordinary heroism were related. He read with considerable spirit; +a kind of reading likely to strike the inert senses of one like Miss +Price. She listened with body and mind; and though her needle fell to +the ground, forebore to mention the fact. + +Angela listened, too, until she forgot herself; fixing her sparkling, +speaking eyes on the reader. So fixed, Everard once surprised them; and +colouring, he knew not why, continued to read with a strange sensation. + +When he had finished she burst out, “It does me good to hear of such +things; it proves that _all_ the world are not given up to selfishness.” + +“Were you afraid that such was the case?” Everard asked, smiling and +amused. + +“Sometimes I am.” + +“I should be sorry to think so,” he said, and paused, hoping she would +speak again. + +But Angela was now alarmed at her boldness, and twisting and untwisting +her matches, occupied herself in silence. + +Everard withdrew his eyes, and listened for a few minutes to Miss +Price’s insipid remarks; but meanwhile his countenance gathered into +thought. He was thinking deeply. Something within him was warning him, +that this acquaintance had better be prosecuted no farther; the +curiosity, the pleasure he felt, were in themselves warnings; it +required little forethought to point out difficulties and dangers that +might ensue. Yet, on the other hand, there was the tempting plea of +kindness and charity to invite him on. + +The strong integrity of his character brought him to a rapid decision, +and as soon as it was made, he put himself out of temptation by acting +upon it. + +“I am very glad,” he said, suddenly rising and holding out his hand to +Miss Price, “to see you so much recovered; and I hope,” he added +smiling, “you will never need such service as mine again.” + +“You are very kind, but,” and she held fast the hand he had given--“I +fear by the way you speak, this is your last visit--I know I should not +expect.... I beg your pardon I hardly know what I meant to say.” + +“I shall not be able to call again at present, but I shall do so some +day; and when I do I hope I shall find you quite well. Good-bye.” + +He stood for a moment doubtful, then went a few steps towards Angela, +and held out his hand. In his moment’s doubting he had decided that the +civility was uncalled for; but he instantly acted in opposition to his +decision. + +If uncalled for, it was unexpected, and Angela blushed deeply as she +gave her hand, Everard could not but observe that she did, and again +with a strange sensation owned the impression that her beauty made. + +“I think I am well out of this,” was his thought as he left the house, +but the “well out,” was most reluctantly accomplished. + +A silence followed his departure. Angela sat grave and thoughtful, and +yet satisfied. Occupied with certain reflections of her own she did not +for a few minutes observe her aunt. When she did so she saw her wiping +away a few tears from her cheeks. + +“My dearest Aunt Jane,” she said, going hastily towards her, “what is +the matter?” + +“Nothing, my love, nothing of consequence. I felt a little disappointed +for a moment, but it is over now. I know I expected too much. I thought +I had got a new friend. Of course I was wrong. We ought not to presume.” + +“Oh! Aunt Jane, Aunt Jane, what a brute I am. All this comes of my +selfishness. He will not come again because I am here. I am the cause of +your loss!” + +“And if you are, my love, is it not my great happiness that it should be +so. Is a stranger like my own niece?” + +“I almost wish that this visit had never been paid, and yet....” and she +blushed and smiled. + +“Don’t wish it, my love, on my account. It is over now, and I am quite +thankful for the pleasure I have had, and some day may, perhaps, have +again.” + +“I hope you will. Oh! Aunt Jane,” she said, suddenly, “don’t you +sometimes wish you could pull down with your own fingers the great +curtain that hangs before time and see what is behind it?” + +“No, my love,” replied her Aunt, with simple philosophy, “trials come +soon enough, and blessings are better when they come and surprise us.” + +“I am not sure, but no matter. Now good-bye. Did I tell you that Papa +has given me leave to come once or twice a week while you are ill. Will +that do as well as your stranger friend?” + +“Oh! my love, every body is too kind to me, and I don’t know how to be +thankful enough.” + +“Poor thing!” was the reflection of the niece full of life and hope, +clothed with health and wealth, and beauty, as she drove to her +luxurious home. “What a life to have to be thankful for; and yet I +_cannot_ be thankful for mine!” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + There stood a maiden near + Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared + On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair + In gloss and hue the chestnut.... + Then, wondering, asked her, “Are you from the Farm?” + TENNYSON--_The Brook._ + + +In the garden of Audley Court, Robert Vavasour and Mr. Addison, (the +clergyman of the parish) awaited the coming of Hope and Everard. It was +an afternoon early in September. + +Mr. Addison was about fifty, a grave and quiet man. Like his namesake, +the _Spectator_, he had been distinguished all his life by a “profound +silence;” but his silence had nothing repelling; it was, on the +contrary, an inviting silence, giving him admirable qualities as a +listener and adviser. Observant, kindly, serious, and thoughtful, he +made his way along his path of life--dropping as he could, and where he +could, his words of sympathy, warning, or wisdom. “That man has a +history,” many said who watched his serious eyes, and slight, grave +smile; but it was not so; that is, not according to the meaning of the +phrase. His history was but the history of man in general. Some early +hopes; some early wanderings; some disappointments; some pleasures; some +deeper joys and sorrows scattered here and there; through these he had +worked out experience in man’s nature; wisdom to warn and soothe; +patience with this world; and hope for a better. + +He was seated now on a bit of terrace wall; observant as usual. His eyes +were on Robert, and there was interest in their gaze. He watched his +movements as he restlessly wandered to and fro. He was going from bed +to bed, from bush to bush, gathering flowers, at random, as it seemed, +yet evidently guided by some taste or fancy. He picked a bunch of the +prettiest the garden afforded; then paused; and after some examination +of the bunch, selected two. These he placed with care in his +button-hole; the rest in all their freshness and beauty were cast away, +some trampled under his foot. + +“So will the good dispositions of his heart be thoughtlessly thrown +away.” Thus Mr. Addison silently mused, and there was a sigh in his +heart, though it made no sound. For he only, undazzled by the force and +charm of his penitence, saw the old nature, the old lack of principle, +apparent as ever within. + +Robert now came towards him, swinging his cane and switching the bushes +as he walked along. His air was more thoughtful than usual; and once or +twice he looked at his chosen flowers with a kind of softness in his +gaze. Mr. Addison’s eyes fell on them also, and a thought, no new one, +passed through his mind. Why had his choice been made? The flowers were +a white carnation, without spot or stain, and a white rose with the +faintest and softest blush in the centre. Was there something in his +nature to which the purity of those flowers appealed? Were they emblems +of another love struggling with his worser qualities? + +“Are you tired of waiting, Mr. Addison?” Robert said. + +“No, where are the others?” + +“My father called Hope to write a letter, and Everard is at his +toilette. He fell into a ditch when he was shooting, and did not think +himself smart enough for our company.” + +“Were you not shooting, Robert?” + +“Not to day. What do you think I have been doing to day?” + +“I cannot guess.” + +“Drawing a saint,” he said, with a slight flush on his cheek, “that is, +taking Hope’s picture.” + +“And have you succeeded?” + +“No! how should I?” he replied, in a peculiar tone, “I have not the +key.” + +A silence succeeded; both remained thoughtful. Robert disturbed the +stones in the gravel-walk, dug them up, and trampled them in again. At +length he said, “I liked your sermon yesterday, Mr. Addison.” + +“Did you listen to it, Robert?” Mr. Addison said, seriously; “that is +not usual, is it?” + +“No, it is not; that I confess. I listened for a reason. That bit at the +beginning took my fancy; that picture of charity. It was a quaint bit, +and I thought like Hope. Did you think of her when you wrote it?” + +“It was not mine--it was from Jeremy Taylor.” + +“Did you think of her?” he repeated. + +“No, but it is like her, as all pictures of heavenly charity must be.” + +“People talk of the impossibility of perfection,” Robert began with some +vehemence, “but they talk stuff, or they have not seen Hope. Whoever of +us is so happy as to reach the kingdom of Heaven will find nothing there +in body or spirit more perfect than her.” + +“I almost feel as you do, Robert. Do you like the picture of what we may +find there?” + +Robert coloured a little, then with unwonted seriousness, though with +excitement, replied, “Is it not strange Mr. Addison, that those who see +virtue in a form so lovely, that they are compelled to worship and +adore; yet cannot yield to its influence, nor follow it.” + +“It shows at least, dear Robert,” said his companion, with a grave +tenderness in his voice, “that the mind is heaven, though the flesh may +yet be earth. The day will come when both together will worship.” + +“You think better of me than I deserve,” Robert said, with some passion. +“I admire, but I do not know that I even wish to imitate.” + +“Cherish, then, the admiration as the best gift of God. To admire good +is to be good, at least in a degree.” + +A silence again followed. Robert still pursued his occupation of +disordering and re-adjusting the stones in the walk. + +Thought--some internal conflict, was evidently at work within. Mr. +Addison guessed its nature--guessed it still more nearly, when he saw +the light on his countenance when Hope appeared from the house. But he +made no attempt to draw his feelings from him. There was that in his +serious kindness which invited confidence, but he himself had a dread of +confidences reposed before the time. + +Hope was followed by Everard. Robert and Mr. Addison went forward to +meet them. + +A long walk was in prospect. Its object was to visit Underwood, the +house and property lately purchased by Mr. Gresham. + +By the road it was three or four miles from Audley Court, but across the +two parks, which were united and separated by a little wood, a little +stream, and a little bridge, not two. A maid of the house had been +dangerously ill in the preceding week, and Mr. Addison had attended her. +He wished to visit her on her recovery, and many ludicrous reports of +the magnificence of the house and furniture having reached Audley Court, +Robert, a being of universal curiosity, had expressed his intention of +accompanying him. + +“Now let us be off,” he said, shaking off his thoughtful mood without +effort; “if Mr. Gresham should chance to be arrived, and we are caught +prowling about, our guilt lies on Mr. Addison’s head. Mr. Addison, are +you prepared to bear it?” + +“The housekeeper assured me he was not expected till Wednesday; I think +there is no fear.” + +“After all, if we _are_ caught, what does it matter, we can but say ‘I +hope I don’t intrude.’” + +“We are the only people who have not seen Underwood,” Everard remarked, +“so at least Stephens says. He went there yesterday, and is in such a +frenzy of admiration, that I confess I am curious. I am sure he expects +Mr. Gresham to arrive in a coach and six.” + +“And so he will, I dare say,” said Robert, laughing, “or the Lord +Mayor’s coach if he can get it. He is such a fool.” + +“You have never seen his daughter, have you Robert?” enquired Hope. + +“No, never. I have only seen Mr. Gresham twice. He invited me to dine +with him, but I thought it would be a bore, and declined. She is very +pretty I hear, and immensely rich I know. It is a fine opportunity for +Everard. I thought of that as soon as ever I heard of her.” + +“No thank you; no heiresses for me, I hate them.” + +“That’s all nonsense, a bit of Vavasour pride. I have always had a +conviction that you would marry an heiress; I bet you twenty pounds you +do.” + +“And I bet you twenty thousand I don’t,” with some unnecessary +vehemence. + +“I am too honourable to take it,” Robert replied, amused. “I foresee.... +However, upon the whole, I agree with you in hating heiresses. Not +because of what my father tells us about our forefathers, but from a +feeling of my own, which is a better guide than the feelings of my +ancestors. I don’t like a woman with money any better than I like a +clever woman. Talents and money both put them too forward.” + +“That is making yourself a lord of the creation indeed,” Everard said, +laughing. + +“Lords are better than ladies, are they not, Hope? Women were made for +better things than to be clever.” + +Before they reached Underwood, Robert endeavoured to shake the nerves of +his companions, by picturing the awkwardness of their situation, should +the new possessors have already taken possession of their abode. + +Mr. Addison again assured him there was no fear; but as it happened, +Robert’s anticipations were realized. + +The shady paths of the wood emerged at once into the pleasure-grounds +that skirted the inner garden; and before any precautions could be +taken, Mr. Gresham and his curious visitors came face to face. He was +walking down a broad gravel walk, about a quarter of a mile from the +house, in apparent meditation or contemplation. His hands were joined +under his coat-tails, his nose was uplifted, and an air of serene +rapture sat upon his countenance. + +The direction in which his eyes were turned, might have given his guests +an opportunity to draw back unseen; but to escape, Robert had no desire. +He made, indeed, movements and grimaces of consternation, which almost +overset the gravity even of the grave people who accompanied him; but +he stood his ground, and when the eyes came down from their upward +flight, and Mr. Gresham became aware of the presence of strangers, he +went forward with outward courteousness, though inward mirth, to explain +the circumstances of the intrusion. + +His reception was overwhelming in its politeness. Mr. Gresham would not +hear of apology. He was happy in, he was grateful for, their coming. The +advantage of associating with individuals bearing the name of Vavasour, +had been his chief inducement in the purchase he had lately made. +Anything that hastened that end was welcome to him. Intrusion was a word +he could not permit; then, and always, he hoped Mr. Vavasour would make +himself at home at Underwood. + +With demure gravity Robert thanked him, and then begged to be allowed to +introduce his companions. “This is Mr. Addison,” he said, “the clergyman +of this parish; and though as a clergyman he ought to have known +better, I feel it my duty to say that he was the guilty cause of our +indiscretion to-day.” + +“I hope,” said Mr. Gresham, blandly and bowing low, “that I shall profit +by your future instructions as much as I have profited by those given to +my young friend to-day.” + +Mr. Addison only bowed. He had nothing to say. + +“This,” continued Robert, “is my cousin Hope Linton, and this is my +brother Everard.” + +“I look forward, Miss Linton, with satisfaction to the advantage my +daughter will inevitably derive from your society.” This was the speech +that accompanied the bow to Hope--to Everard it was:--“I anticipate +nothing but pleasure from the hope of adding another of the name of +Vavasour to my list of friends.” + +Having made his guests duly welcome, he invited them to return with him +to the house. His address was to Robert. Robert was evidently the +object of his idolatry. Robert, however, referred it to Hope; and Mr. +Gresham was then profuse in his apologies for the omission of which he +had been guilty. + +Hope’s consent was given in few words.--She had no feeling of her own on +the subject; no shyness, no fear of intrusion. She looked into Robert’s +face, and saw he was desirous to go on, and was content. + +Mr. Gresham led the way, attended by Robert and Mr. Addison. Everard and +Hope followed. Mr. Gresham explained, as they walked along, the cause of +his unexpected arrival. + +“I was threatened on Saturday with a cold in my head; I have a +particular objection to a cold in my head. My medical adviser +recommended change of air. I left London, therefore, with my daughter, +and slept at a remarkably excellent inn about forty miles from here. And +there,” bowing to Mr. Addison, “I made a point of passing Sunday, and +attending Divine service.” + +“I hope your cold is better, Mr. Gresham,” Robert asked. + +“A complete cure. There is something very refreshing in the air of the +country. We arrived here this afternoon; and I confess I already feel +satisfaction in my late purchase, and promise myself much pleasure from +my abode here, not the least part of which will be derived from my +acquaintance with you, Mr. Vavasour, and your family.” + +Underwood was, as has been already said, the picture of a “country +seat.” It was a square, white, stone house, with two long lower wings. +There was no especial charm about the place, but it was bright and +fresh; and as the garden was full of flowers, and the park was prettily +wooded, it had a certain degree of attraction. + +Mr. Gresham evidently admired it exceedingly, and as they entered the +house, observed, _en passant_, that there were four-and-twenty windows +from wing to wing, which he believed was a large number. “How many +windows were there at Audley Court?” + +“I never counted,” Robert said, with assumed interest, “but I will as +soon as ever I go home. I am sure, however, there are not +four-and-twenty.” + +“No,” observed Mr. Addison, with a desire to make himself agreeable +also. + +“Ah!” said Mr. Gresham, “I was told it was a large number.” + +He led his guests into the drawing-room, and for a moment, put his hands +under his coat-tails, and elevated his nose, while he observed the +effects of the _coup d’œil_. + +It was a long and very handsome room, magnificently, though tastelessly +furnished; every slab and table glittering with _ormolu_, like Howell +and James’. + +“What a very fine room!” Robert said, never at a loss to express what +was expected of him, but giving a side glance to Hope and Everard. + +“It usurps to itself, you see, a large portion of those said windows,” +Mr. Gresham observed, jestingly. + +“You must have bought up all the silk and satin in England to make the +curtains,” Robert replied. + +Mr. Gresham smiled, and then said he would call his daughter. “Pray, +Miss Linton, be seated. Gentlemen all, I hope you will make yourselves +at home.” + +“Say something witty, Everard, that I may relieve myself by a good +laugh,” was Robert’s request. + +“You are too bad,” was Everard’s reply. “He cannot be such a fool as not +to see you are laughing.” + +“I never made an acquaintance which gave me half as much pleasure as I +anticipate from this one; what do you expect the daughter to be?” + +“Something very fine,” said Everard, “there is no doubt about that! Here +they come.” + +There certainly was no doubt about the fineness. Angela’s silk flounces +rustled, and her chains and bracelets rattled as she came in; but it was +not her fineness, it was her beauty that struck every eye. She held her +bonnet in her hand, and her luxuriant auburn curls fell about her face +and shoulders. An air of shyness and diffidence, curiously mixed with +mirth and expectation, gave a charm even greater than usual to her +appearance, and a brighter colouring to her cheeks. + +“My daughter, Miss Linton, Mr. Vavasour,” and then waving his hand +around, he carelessly named Everard and Mr. Addison. + +Angela blushed more deeply. She hardly raised her eyes as she returned +the bows of each, and as if to make her escape, hurried to Hope, and +smiling held out her hand. + +There was nothing conventional in Hope’s manners. It would not have +occurred to her to say she feared they had taken Miss Gresham by +surprise, or any other polite phrase, but pleased with the frank +cordiality of Angela’s manner, she said simply, “I am glad to make +acquaintance with you.” + +Angela sat down beside her, and began hurriedly to talk. She did not +dare look up. What she had so lightly done, alarmed her now by the +thought of its boldness. + +Everard, meanwhile, had seen her with a sudden throb of pleasure. Her +face had been the first which had much impressed his youthful fancy; and +being the first, the impression was not even after two months entirely +effaced. Yet, after the first instant of recognition, her air and +general appearance was so totally different to the vision of his memory, +that he laughed at himself for the moment’s folly. The process of +remembering and laughing was, however, repeated a second time. Again, a +third time, he examined her with puzzled curiosity; and again the half +recognition was on the point of changing to derision, when Angela looked +up and met his scrutinizing gaze. She blushed deeply, and immediately +cast down her eyes; and this time the likeness to a former recollected +movement was so exact, that he suddenly moved towards her and +exclaimed--“Surely I have seen you before?” + +“Yes,” she said, instantly regaining her self possession. “I was not +certain that you remembered me.” + +“I did,” he said, doubtingly, “and yet I did not. Even now I am puzzled. +How is it?” And he looked at her with perplexity. + +It is conscience that makes a coward. An answer to his perplexity was +not difficult; but Angela’s conscience gave her a panic, and instead of +replying, she blushed, looked annoyed, and made Everard, ever backward +and sensitive, fearful that he had been presuming. + +He stood by her in silence for a moment, then said, with constraint, +and because he thought he ought to speak, “I hope Miss Price is better.” + +Mr. Gresham was engaged with Robert, but at this name he turned round. +“Are you acquainted with Miss Price?” he asked of Everard, with cold +surprise. + +“Yes, papa,” Angela said, with a quickness that relieved Everard from +the fear of having given offence. “Mr. Vavasour was very kind to my +aunt. I met him one day at her house.” + +“Indeed,” he said, with uneasy politeness, “I am happy to hear Miss +Price keeps such good company.” + +Miss Price was his wife’s half sister, the daughter of her mother, not +of her father, born many years before Mrs. Gresham. She was poor, and +without grace or charm to attract the eyes of the world. Mr. Gresham had +thought it right, and his bounden duty, therefore, to ignore as far as +possible the relationship; and it was only since his wife’s death that +his softened feelings had permitted Angela to keep up a slight +acquaintance with her. + +Now that he had been discovered, however, with a poor relation, he +thought it best to put a good face on the matter, and Miss Price was the +cause of his bestowing some attention on Everard. + +“Miss Price,” he said, in a jesting tone, and in a slight degree +elevating his nose, “does not trouble herself to keep exactly the +society most suited to her station. In consequence, we meet but seldom. +She is, however, an estimable person, and charitable, I understand, +beyond due bounds.” + +“I did not know Miss Price was connected with you till this moment,” +Everard replied. “She seems very good, and I was glad to be of service +to her.” + +“I am sure she must have been duly sensible of the honour of your +attentions; and I wonder she did not think it worth while to communicate +the matter to me. I think also my daughter might have spoken on the +subject; but better late than never, and I am happy in having this +opportunity of offering you my thanks in person.” + +His chest heaved with the pride of virtue in thus taking the obligation +to Miss Price upon himself; and having done his duty, he returned to +Robert. + +Angela had listened tranquilly to the conversation until her father’s +last observation. When he named _her_, she blushed, and turning quickly +to Hope, began to talk to her. Everard saw the change, and could not +help wondering what the cause might be. + +The next movement of Mr. Gresham was to offer to show his guests the +house; and having performed this office with a truthful and genuine +delight in the _newness_ and magnificence of all he exhibited, he then +gave them his company into the garden and a part of the way homewards. + +In the garden, Mr. Addison, who had been to pay his purposed visit, +rejoined them. During his absence, Robert having been Mr. Gresham’s +special property, Everard and Hope had, through their peregrinations, +been accompanied by Angela; but though Everard and Angela were already +on easy terms, no recurrence had been made to their former meeting. +Everard wondered at her silence on the subject, but could not a second +time obtrude remarks which evidently were not desired. + +When the wood was reached, at the entrance of which Mr. Gresham had +first met his guests, he suffered them to take leave of him. His parting +speeches were as polite and almost as elaborate as his greetings had +been. Yet with some persons to be elaborate is no proof of insincerity; +it is the habitual tone and form of their feelings, and so it was with +Mr. Gresham. + +As he proceeded home with his daughter, he enlarged on the gratification +he had experienced during the visit. “Those are charming young people, +Angela; I hope you are as much prepossessed in their favour as I am?” + +“Yes, I like them all,” she replied, with warmth. + +“I am glad to hear it. It is my wish that you should cultivate their +society in every way they will permit. I understand from Mr. Vavasour, +that he and his brother remain in this neighbourhood for three weeks. It +is a fortunate circumstance, and I wish you to avail yourself of this +opportunity for forming an acquaintance with them. The Vavasours are a +remarkably old family--highly connected, and much esteemed by the world. +I feel pride and pleasure in my neighbourhood to Audley Court, and I +shall do so in any connexion I may hereafter make with the family. But +of this enough. I shall show my respect to the elder Mr. Vavasour by +calling on him to-morrow: though in point of etiquette I believe he +ought to be the first to wait on me.” + +If, with something of dread, Angela had awaited the expression of her +father’s sentiments, she now with hopeful heedlessness cast all fear +aside. The appearance of two Mr. Vavasours had indeed deranged many a +pre-conceived idea; and a very decided leaning towards one, not +diminished by her father’s apparent leaning to the other, had made her +expect and fear a more clearly expressed admonition regarding a future +connection. Since it was not given, she was herself willing to leave the +future in uncertainty. + +The remainder of the party walked home together, until Mr. Addison’s way +diverged from the path to Audley Court. When they separated, and he +wished his young companions good-bye, Everard said he would walk with +him homewards. + +“I am glad of this new acquaintance,” was Mr. Addison’s remark as they +went on together, “and chiefly on Robert’s account. I have sometimes +feared the uniformity of life at Audley Court might be too monotonous +for one of his lively disposition.” + +“I suppose a lively disposition makes its own life,” Everard said, “for +certainly Robert does not appear to feel it dull. There are, however, +other causes for that. Loved and appreciated as Robert is, it would be +strange if he were not happy.” + +“He seems to be well aware of the beauty of Miss Linton, both in person +and character.” + +“Yes,” Everard said, with a smile. + +“Do you not feel, as I do, that her influence will prevail. She will +give him her soul, and her good spirit will bring all the chaos of his +nature into order.” + +“I have not, I never had a doubt of it. It is not within the bounds of +possibility that any one who loves what Hope is, can have anything but +the best of natures within him.” + +“I am glad of this acquaintance also on your account, Everard;” Mr. +Addison continued, pursuing the train of his own thoughts. “It pleased +me to see you to-day. You were not quite yourself.” + +“How you watch, Mr. Addison!” Everard said, colouring. “What have I done +to-day unlike myself?” + +“You were less grave than is common to you in society, and I was glad to +observe it. You study too hard, Everard, to be able to do without +recreation. The mind becomes hard and tough; it needs unbending.” + +“What do you think of Miss Gresham?” Everard enquired, after a moment’s +thought. + +“She has a very sweet countenance; one that promises truth, and +ingenuousness, and many virtues. She is somewhat undisciplined, I should +suppose, in mind, as in manner, but life soon softens and tames. She +seems disposed to be friendly with you, Everard. I am glad of it. I know +no recreation so likely to be useful to you as the society of an amiable +young woman. It is refining both outwardly and within. Your habit is to +keep yourself too much aloof.” + +Everard coloured again. He had an inward warning that the society of a +young woman would _not_ be useful to him in the present case; and as he +walked home alone, he questioned himself with some seriousness. +Self-examination, though honest, is not however always useful. It can +deal well with an acknowledged feeling, or a strong one, but there are +in the mind, fancies, shoots, and bubbles of feeling, which examination +disperses like the sun the mist. When Everard came to question the +pleasure he had felt and was anticipating from Angela’s society, the +vague dangers seemed to fade away. There was nothing which on +examination portended more than pleasure; and having very honestly +examined himself and been satisfied, he cast away the burthen of +thought, and went resolvedly into the chances of the future. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + A figure like Aurora, flushed with joy. + HENRY TAYLOR. + + A silent and a loving woman is a gift of the Lord, and there is + nothing so much worth as a well instructed mind. + + _Book of Ecclesiasticus._ + + +Mr. Gresham paid his visit to Audley Court on the following day. He +looked about him with eager curiosity, as he drew near. It was the scene +and sphere of the day-dreams he had been lately building, and had it +come short of his expectations, great disappointment must have ensued. + +But disappointment was not in store. It is true that the narrow income +of the Vavasours was apparent both in the keeping and the furnishing of +their abode; there was a large sphere for improvement, but this was no +objection to Mr. Gresham. He, in common with most people, loved to +create; and certainly did not think with dissatisfaction of the show +which his future labours would make in the eyes of the world. With +something of joy and pride, therefore, he marked the inferiority in +general style and polish to his own Underwood; while, at the same time, +his senses were excited and impressed by the antique grandeur of the +building and the magnificent trees that formed the avenue to the house. +The old towers especially caught his fancy, and as he pictured the hour +when he should stand in a paternal relation to their majesty, his soul +became almost too his; for the feeble confines of his body. + +He was received by Mr. Vavasour with the grave and courteous grace that +belonged to him; he too was calculated to impress the imagination, and +though a speculation as to the probable short term of his life, had +occupied Mr. Gresham while he drove along, it vanished in the presence +of his stately and venerable age. + +Somewhat awed, however, by the same stateliness, he dexterously +presented his daughter to Mr. Vavasour, and devoted himself to his less +awful wife. The arrangement answered well. Mrs. Vavasour was gracious in +manner and easy to entertain; and Mr. Vavasour had an old man’s love for +youth and beauty, and a grave nature’s pleasure in gaiety of spirit. + +When the visit came to a conclusion Mr. Vavasour made a request that +Angela might remain, promising that his niece and his sons should escort +her home. Angela’s eyes sparkled with delight. Mr. Gresham equally +gratified gave his ready acquiescence. The request seemed to bring +certainty to his desires, and as he looked back from the carriage on +the old, dark towers, no doubt of his future relationship troubled the +sweetness of his dreams. + +Angela was quite as much impressed by the appearance of Audley Court as +her father was. _Her_ peculiar taste was gratified as much as his; for +the glitter of gold was absent; the fashionable ornaments of the day had +failed to penetrate the old abode; and the handsome frames of the +pictures and mirrors were sober with age. The house being as it was, +these things were not unsuitable; though there was simplicity, there was +freshness, and though a lack of ornament, no lack of comfort; yet, +undoubtedly, a luxurious taste would have found much to criticise. + +When Hope, at Angela’s request, had conducted her to every part of the +rambling building, they entered the garden together, and walking +quietly, began to converse. The dissimilarity of the young companions +was very striking. + +“I am quite sorry to have been here,” Angela said, looking about her. +“I was so pleased with Underwood yesterday, and now I think nothing of +it. How much prettier this is.” + +“One is old, the other is new. Both are pretty in their way,” Hope +replied. “Why compare?” + +“I always compare. I cannot help it; and what falls short of what it +should be, I utterly condemn.” + +“But so many things are pretty in themselves. It seems a pity not to +like them for their own sakes.” + +“But I only wish to like what is best,” Angela said, with decision. “If +one likes everything that is a little pretty, one’s taste becomes poor +and false. I only wish to like what is _very_ good.” + +Hope was silent. She was not fond of argument; and unless some point on +which she felt strongly was touched, unable to cope with others in +arguing. Not so Angela. Her mind was full of thought, and where she +could hope to meet with novelty of opinion, her unexpressed sentiment +was “Let me not burst in ignorance.” + +“I like to do the same with _characters_,” she began again. “I know what +I think good, and I know what I like. By comparing and comparing, I hope +at last I shall find something perfect, or almost perfect, and then I +shall be happy.” + +“I would so much rather not compare,” Hope now said, with more interest +in her voice. “There is so much that is good in every character, that I +think we should appreciate it when we find it,--not without wishing for, +more certainly, but still liking what there is.” + +“Do you think there is much good to be found?” Angela asked doubtingly. +“I find very little.” + +“I am sure there is.” + +“Where? I look and look, but I cannot find it. I think you are good, and +Mr. Addison and I should think Mr. Everard Vavasour was good; but I +cannot say I think goodness is a common thing.” + +There was a slight flush on Hope’s cheek, perhaps of pain, in the +selection or the omission of a name. It was perceived but not understood +by her companion. + +“Do you think me wrong for speaking as I do?” Angela asked, anxiously. +“I don’t mean anything very wrong. I only mean that I think people’s +motives very mean, low, and mercenary, and I scorn them, and I can’t +help it. Do you never scorn?” + +“I don’t think I do. I am too sorry for people, to scorn them.” + +“But are you sorry for bad people? I am sorry for good people in +distress, but I cannot care for bad ones. I am not good myself, that I +know very well; but I must say that vice, and wickedness, and meanness, +I utterly abhor.” + +“What is _really_ bad I do not speak of, of course,” Hope said, after a +little thought, “but most, I think, have good souls, tried and tempted +with many temptations; and,” she continued with an earnestness that was +almost passionate, “to save a good soul from its temptations, I would +die if I might.” + +Angela looked at her young companion with reverence and surprise. “I +like what you say,” she said, “though I cannot feel it. How is it that +you, who are so good, are so kind, while I, who am bad, am bitter and +harsh?” + +“People are different,” Hope said, smiling. “I could not be harsh if I +tried. I am not good, because of that.” + +On their return to the garden, they met Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour coming to +meet them. Mr. Vavasour was anxious about Angela’s return home, and said +his sons were later than he expected. They all strolled together towards +the gate that opened into the park; and sons, keepers, dogs, and game +shortly appeared. + +Not perceiving the group in the garden, Robert and Everard walked +slowly. “They are tired,” Angela said. “What will they say to the +engagement you have made for them?” + +“My sons are never tired,” Mr. Vavasour said, with something of pride in +the hardy spirits he had nurtured. + +“Or if they are,” Mrs. Vavasour added, “I hope they have enough of an +old-fashioned thing called chivalry, to forget it in this service.” + +She looked with a kind glance of admiration at Angela. The half implied +compliment, expectation, curiosity, the novelty of all she saw, lit up +Angela’s countenance, and it was bright and sparkling as it met the +first glances of the two young men. + +“She is uncommonly pretty, I must say, Everard,” was Robert’s remark, as +he hurried on. + +He approached her with the fearless manner of one accustomed to please. +Everard with something more like the chivalry of which his mother +spoke. + +“I have made an engagement for you, my boys,” said Mr. Vavasour. “Miss +Gresham remained here this afternoon under a promise on my part, that +you would conduct her safely home.” + +“Miss Gresham has only to command us, and we will obey,” said Robert. “I +speak in Sir Charles Grandison’s style for both Everard and myself.” + +“Then, if Miss Gresham has no objection to your present style of dress, +it is growing late, and you had better be gone.” + +From Angela’s answer, it appeared that though she had often read of a +shooting dress, she had never seen it, or any other accompaniments of +shooting before; for in those days, a shooting dress was not the common +dress of man. + +The specimen this confession of ignorance afforded of her London +education, gave Robert much amusement. Though acquainted with almost all +kinds of good and bad society, and possessed of what is called +knowledge of the world, there was yet alive in him something of a +school-boy’s nature; ready to spring up whenever freedom from dangerous +excitements left him at leisure to be himself. He found, therefore, a +boy’s gratification in playing upon Angela’s simplicity, in astonishing +her with marvellous tales, and drawing from her, her general notions of +life; notions chiefly formed from books, and not the best; for London +and Brighton had been almost the sole spheres for her observation. + +Angela was little accustomed to be amused. She was too lately grown up +to have been able to effect a change at home; and as like clings to +like, the society at Mr. Gresham’s house was in average liveliness not +much above himself. Robert’s conversation was to her “like a play;” and +the more her merriment acknowledged his powers, the more animated did he +become. + +In the course of his anecdotes, he gave her a graphic and ludicrous +account of the adventures of a friend of his who had one night assumed +the disguise of a ballad singer in the streets of London. Excited by her +amusement at what he related, he was proceeding to narrate the history +of a disguise, planned and to be executed by himself, of a more serious +description than the first. + +“But this,” he interrupted himself, “did not come off, to my great and +everlasting regret. I was dissuaded by the grave judge, Mr. Everard +Vavasour, and gave up my own opinion in humble submission to his.” + +“I hate plots and disguises,” Everard said, quickly. + +Angela suddenly withdrew her eager eyes and blushed rosy red. Not that +she owned to a disguise. She denied it; but conscience, quick and true, +made its confession upon her cheek. + +All her companions saw her change of countenance. Everard, with some +surprise, but without notice. Robert was less discreet. + +“Miss Gresham,” he said playfully, “what a guilty face! While I have +been entertaining you to the best of my powers, I believe you might have +been entertaining me, with the history of one of those very plots and +disguises Everard condemns.” + +“Indeed I could not,” she said, hastily; but blushed more deeply as she +spoke. + +She was very uncomfortable. What must Everard think? After a moment’s +reflection, however, she remembered that appearances were nothing, if a +person was really innocent; and shaking off her embarrassment, she +observed, boldly, “I think such things must be very amusing.” + +“If done well, and with spirit they are,” Robert said. “My friend, the +ballad singer, says, he never had better fun in his life. The danger is +when they are undertaken by people who are not up to it; and then +nothing can be more flat and unprofitable.” + +They walked on a few steps; then Angela’s uneasy mind asked this +question. “Why do you condemn all disguises, Mr. Vavasour?” + +Everard coloured at this expression of interest in his opinions, but +answered, resolutely, “_Condemn_ is a severe word. I only spoke of my +own feelings. I hate all tricks and disguises. If they are complicated +it is difficult to keep to the truth, and I hate falsehood. Besides, +they are generally mischievous and sometimes dangerous.” + +“There, Miss Gresham,” Robert said, laughing. “Now if your conscience +confesses that you have been guilty of putting on a disguise, Everard +has pronounced your doom without mercy.” + +“I have not,” she said, with decision and displeasure. “I don’t confess +it.” + +Robert had too much tact to press the matter farther, but Angela was +uncomfortable; in her discomfort became grave, and conversation flagged. + +When they reached the borders of the wood, she stopped and insisted on +her companions hurrying homewards, as the sun was sinking fast. + +All demurred, for the engagement had been to see her home. “You must,” +she said, playfully and peremptorily, “or I shall think you cannot trust +me.” + +“I am afraid I cannot,” Robert said, with a mischievous look which he +could not resist. + +“Let us go, Robert,” Hope said, struck by the appearance of annoyance on +Angela’s countenance. + +Everard saw it too and with perplexity. In vain he told himself he had +no business with the matter. He felt a singular desire to penetrate the +mystery. + +The progress to Underwood had been slow. It was now really growing late; +and after parting with Angela, Everard, who was famous for his quick +walking, hurried home. The hours at Audley Court were early, and Mr. +Vavasour encouraged punctuality, not so much for its own sake, as for +the exercise it gave to an unselfish and respectful tone of feeling. His +sons, Robert as well as Everard, in this respect endeavoured to please +him; and it was Robert who now despatched Everard to give notice they +should be in time. + +“I have been wondering, Hope,” Robert said, as they walked on alone, +“how it is that Miss Gresham finds me so witty and wise, and all my wit +and wisdom is lost on you.” + +“Oh, Robert,” she cried, eagerly, “don’t say so. I like to listen to +you.” + +“But you never laugh.” + +“I can’t laugh,” she replied. “Something prevents it.” + +“Who or what prevents it? I want to know.” + +“I can’t tell,” she replied, after a moment’s thought. “I only know what +I feel.” + +“I wish I could see into that mysterious mind of yours, Hope,” Robert +said, smiling, “I believe I should find curious things there.” + +“Do you wish me to laugh more?” Hope asked, suddenly fixing her anxious +eyes upon him. + +“I; what, wish you to be anything but what you are. No, indeed, my +dearest.” He spoke with warmth, then quickly smiling again. “But I +should like to dive deep down into your mind and search out all your +most secret thoughts and feelings. I wish I had the power. Should you +mind, Hope, if I had.” He fixed a smiling but yet a keen and anxious +gaze upon her face. + +“No, Robert, I don’t think I should,” she replied, meeting his gaze with +a look of confiding innocence. + +A shade of disappointment crossed his brow, but it was driven away, and +with something of thought and seriousness he said, “That is a strange +and happy thing to say. I wish I could say it. I wish I could offer you +to let your eyes dive into my mind, but I can’t, I am afraid. And yet,” +he added, “I would rather have yours than any others. I should grieve +for what you might find there, but I should not fear.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + The gifts of genius were not thine, + Proudly before the world to shine; + And none Remember Thee + Save me. + + MRS. NORTON. + + +About a fortnight after Mr. Gresham’s arrival in the country, a formal +invitation was sent to Audley Court, requesting that the whole, or any +part of the Vavasour family would pay a week’s visit at Underwood. + +This fortnight, although there has been nothing of event to record, had +been a fortnight full of life and full of excitement. To Angela and +Everard, it had been like waking up in a new existence. + +_Her_ enjoyment had many sources. The free country life, the novelty of +all she saw, the amusement she derived from the society of companions +suited to her taste--all these things conspired to excite and delight; +all conspired to make her days pass as in a dream of enchantment; and +when, added to this, the dawning light of romance threw its golden hue +over her days, no wonder that she felt like a bird loosened from a chain +and cage, and set free in Paradise. + +To Everard, the novelty in some respects was not so great, but there +_was_ a dangerous novelty in Angela’s society against which he was not +proof. She _liked_ him. The mere fact that he was liked by one so +winning and so lovely, was a novelty which bewildered and excited him. +She liked him, and showed that she did so; in no strange ways; in ways +common enough for most men to see, but new to him. She sympathised in +his tastes, agreed with his opinions, cared to hear his feelings and +thoughts expressed; would not suffer him to be unnoticed, talked to him +with the same apparent pleasure, that she did to Robert--not so much +perhaps, nor so freely, but with a something in her manner, that she had +not to him; a kind of deference to which he was little accustomed. He +had not yet begun to think about it, but he knew how quick the days +passed, how bright was the autumn, how he dreaded the thoughts of his +return to London, and escaped from it, as from a bad dream; how he could +hardly sleep at night, for longing that the morning would come. These +were dangerous symptoms in one of Everard’s controlled and restrained +nature; and vaguely he knew it; though too vaguely to acknowledge it in +words. + +Hope brought Mr. Gresham’s invitation to her cousins, as they sat one +morning reading the newspapers in the library. “My uncle desired me to +bring it,” she said. “He cannot go, of course, but he begs you will do +as you please. I think he wishes you to go.” + +Robert took the note. It was couched in pompous language, but was almost +servile in its anticipations of pleasure, should the honour of +acceptance be conferred. “Formal old prig,” he said laughing, “I would +not disappoint him for the world. I am sure my anticipations of pleasure +are quite equal to his. Yes, I will go. What do you say, Everard?” + +“Not for a week. I will go for a day or two.” + +“No, a week would be too much, even of his sweet society. Well, Hope, +tell my father we accept for a day or two; and you, do you mean to go +with us?” + +“I? oh! no, Robert.” + +“And why, oh! no, in that decisive tone? Would there be anything +strange if you went?” + +“I think there would,” she said, with a slight smile. + +“But why? Are you never to come out of the shade? Are you to be for ever +a flower wasting your sweetness on the desert air? + +“I don’t wish to go,” she replied quickly. “I am not made for such +things. I would go if my uncle wished it, but he says I may do as I +please.” + +“So you shall, and it is best as it is. I am glad you are satisfied to +stay at home, for that is where I like you to be. I don’t covet to see +you in the thick of festivities, though, perhaps, I am a selfish brute +to say so. Well, Hope, give our messages to my father; tell him I accept +with pleasure, and Everard with rapture.” He gave a mischievous wink at +his brother, but Everard either did not, or did not choose to see. + +Hope left the room. + +“Philosophers tell us as a remarkable fact,” Robert observed, after a +moment, “that no two people are exactly alike. Now that fact does not +seem to me remarkable in the least; but a thing that does surprise me +is, how two people of the same species, same rank, same education, same +age, can be so absolutely and entirely different as Hope and Miss +Gresham. As far as I can see, they have no property in common, except +that both are human.” + +“Do you dislike Miss Gresham?” Everard asked. + +“Dislike! I never said anything about liking. I like her. She is not my +favourite style of woman, but she is a kind I tolerate very well. But +what makes you so hot and peppery to-day? Why take up her cudgels so +fast?” + +“I am quite cool,” Everard said, smiling, “though if you choose to make +me hot, I know it is no use for me to say so.” + +“If you had not been so warm, I was going to ask you which of the two +species of woman I mentioned, you would choose, if you must choose, for +your wife?” + +“As both are out of my reach, why should I think?” Everard said, +colouring unconsciously. + +“Why are both out of your reach?” + +“You had better not ask that, Robert,” he said, good-humouredly, “if you +do I shall tell you. Miss Gresham is an heiress, and heiresses are not +for me, nor I for heiresses; the other you may guess.” + +“Well, but now supposing Miss Gresham was not an heiress,” persisted +Robert, “and that you....” + +“We may suppose anything, and I don’t care for suppositions,” Everard +said, with some impatience, and then added, laughing, “It is very bad +manners, Robert, to ask questions. Dr. Johnson says so.” + +“In some people, perhaps, not in others. I consider it my bounden duty +to make these and other inquiries, and when it is my duty of course I +do not shrink. Duty first, manners second. However, for the present my +duty is done, so you may go back to your law reports if you please.” + +Angela drove to Audley Court to endeavour to alter Hope’s resolution, +but was unsuccessful; neither did she find the co-operation she had +expected on the part of any of its inhabitants. + +As she returned to the carriage after her vain efforts, Robert appeared +in the courtyard. + +He came to the carriage-door, and she told him her errand and its ill +success. + +“I am glad,” he said. + +“Are you?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Why?” + +“It is very well for _us_ to care for the pomps and vanities of the +world,” he replied, gravely enough, “because it is our nature--but it is +a pleasure to see a head into which they have never entered, and I +should be sorry to have it troubled with them.” + +“You are not very complimentary, Mr. Vavasour,” Angela said, laughing. + +“Well, I will be complimentary now then,” he replied: “I should not have +said what I did, if I had not a very good opinion of you.” + +“That is really a _good_ compliment,” she said, smiling, “and now I go +away quite satisfied. Good-bye!” + +“That is a good girl,” Robert said to himself, as he returned to the +house; “considering the weight of gold she bears, a very good girl. A +man might have many less dainty dishes set before him. It is rather a +singular thing, and shows the moderation of my nature, that I feel no +desire to avail myself of what I might have if I pleased. Units, tens, +hundreds, thousands, laid at my feet, and as calm as an old philosopher, +I avert my eyes and allow them to be picked up by whosoever pleases. +For once, my respected forefathers, I think I am a credit to you. Hope, +where are you?” + +She came flying towards him at the sound of his voice. + +“I want a button, Hope, and a needle, and a thread, and then I want your +assistance to put the button on my sleeve. For the loss of a button I am +come home in a very depressed state of mind. Such is man!” + +He watched her with a fond, sweet expression of countenance, as her +quick fingers accomplished the task he set her. To judge by his +countenance, it seemed as if he had feelings within that would not be +restrained; but when she had done he only said, quietly and gaily, +“Thanks, my fair angel, I like to have you waiting upon me. Get your +bonnet, and let us have a walk.” + + * * * * * + +The two brothers arrived late at Underwood, and Mr. Gresham, who was as +elaborate in his toilette as in his speeches, was obliged to relinquish +his purpose of receiving them on their first arrival, in the hall. + +He stood, however, at the door of the drawing-room to await their +entrance there, and give his welcome in due form. A large party were +assembled. One gentleman, Mr. Merivale (the old friend of Angela’s +childhood), from London; the rest gathered from different parts of the +country. Almost all were unknown to the brothers, for Mr. Vavasour’s +secluded life, and the long absences of his sons, had in a great degree +prevented them from mixing in the society of a very populous district. +Mr. Gresham wished to be a good neighbour; he liked society, for society +brought upon him the eyes of the world, but it was on the score of duty +that he framed his plan of life. “The riches that Providence bestows,” +he observed, on this evening, to Mr. Merivale, “are not to be hid under +a bushel. If I have been blessed with a more than common share of good +things, it is but just and right that I should display them. I feel that +many eyes are upon me, and I must make it my endeavour to act according +to the station in which I have been placed.” A slight elevation of the +head betrayed how lofty that station was in his own estimation. + +“Very good,” was Mr. Merivale’s calm answer to the oration which has +here been considerably abridged in its proportions. + +As soon as Robert appeared, Mr. Gresham welcomed him with flattering +attention, and then with Everard in his suite conducted him in a kind of +royal progress round the room. “Mr. Vavasour and his brother,” this was +his mode of introduction. Nor did his attention end here. Desiring him +to take Angela to dinner, and to place her at his left side, he +continued his favours without intermission. Thoughts, lips, and eyes +were all alike devoted to Robert. He could scarcely attend with common +politeness to a dull lady on his right side, and in his desire that +Robert should eat of the best, could scarcely spare time to satisfy the +cravings of his own nature. To make a lion is not a work of difficulty. +Had Robert been possessed of few personal claims to distinction, the +notice of his host would have won for him the notice of the guests; but +in truth Robert’s pretensions were so incontrovertible that no attention +appeared to surpass his claims, and very willingly Mr. Gresham’s guests +did homage to the idol he set up. + +Robert was no coxcomb and no fool. He laughed in his heart, but to only +a few people notice is distasteful, and it certainly was not distasteful +to him. He was excited by it, exerted himself to please, and won by his +own powers, the regard which at first had been won for him. + +Everard’s fate was naturally very different. He sat at the other end of +the table, between two dull gentlemen, silent and unnoticed. Except as +Robert’s brother, Mr. Gresham had bestowed no attention upon him; and +Mr. Gresham’s guests for the most part followed his lead. Even the dull +men that sat by his side stretched forward to catch Robert’s gay words, +and wished themselves nearer to the sphere in which he moved. + +In the evening the distinction between the two brothers was made yet +more apparent. With something of the same royal honour as before +described, Mr. Gresham conducted Robert from the dining to the +drawing-room, and then to Angela’s side. Angela was good-naturedly +endeavouring to entertain the good but dull lady who was her companion, +but not being supremely gifted with patience, felt and looked, exhausted +with her efforts. + +“Will you help?” she whispered to Robert as he stood beside her. He +laughed, but with ready good humour agreed, and drawing a chair close to +Angela and her guest, sat himself down to the task of entertainment. To +be entertaining was rarely an effort to him: his observation was so +quick, his sense of humour so keen, his forms of expression so +original; but this evening, excited and pleased by the pleasure he so +evidently gave, he surpassed himself. The other guests were drawn to the +centre of attraction. + +Some joined in the conversation; some assisted it by their unfailing +laugh. Some stood with open eyes and ears. Grateful to Robert, excited +and amused, Angela listened, talked, and laughed, with all her powers. + +On the outskirts of the crowd Everard stood in a reverie. Almost all +were strange to him; none thought of, none heeded him. He was +unaccustomed to notice, and certainly had not expected it; but suddenly +his mind became aware, as it never had been before, of the extraordinary +difference between Robert and himself; the difference in charm, in +position, in hopes and promises of fortune. Till now, except perhaps as +regarded his mother, he had never felt jealous; he had always +acknowledged Robert’s superiority as a thing of course, a fact so plain +and established that it was not worth a thought, but this night the +conviction of that superiority brought a pang so sharp, a stir of envy +so bitter and tumultuous, that he himself was startled by it. + +“What is the matter with me?” he asked himself, with a feeling of hate +and abhorrence. His eyes looked inwards, keenly and resolutely, and the +answer was given. + +It was the answer to this question that had plunged Everard into his +reverie. No sooner was he aware of the state of his feelings, than he +began to fight and argue with them, to say to himself that vain word in +such cases--“Folly.” The fight, the struggle was depicted on his +countenance; it was always grave when in repose, but this night it was +stern. + +Mr. Merivale was the only person who had not gathered about Robert’s +charmed circle. He was an old friend, a privileged guest; one who did as +he pleased, without fear of questionings. He liked to read the +newspapers of an evening--and come what might he did read them. + +While he read, he watched. An acute observer, a student of human nature, +and one especially interested in the fate of Angela, he watched the two +brothers with interest and attention. The countenance of Everard +attracted him. He had once or twice across the table, addressed him +during dinner; and his unpretendingness of manner and intelligent +answers had pleased him. The feelings now depicted on his face +interested him still more. Suddenly laying down the newspaper, he rose +and approached him. + +“After all, Mr. Vavasour,” he said, rather abruptly entering on the +conversation, “it is manners make the man.” + +“I believe it is, indeed,” Everard said, smiling, “but what has brought +you to this sudden decision?” + +“I will tell you why I say it just now;--I was prepared this evening to +hate your brother. I always am, when I hear a name more often than I +think a name should be pronounced. That was before I saw him. When you +came in to-night, I was prepared to hate him more. I always am, when +attention, which I consider superabundant, is paid to a person. But +after all this preparation, he has disarmed me. There is a charm about +him which I cannot resist.” + +“All who know Robert feel the same,” Everard said, with warmth. + +“That is a brotherly speech; but from my own sensations, I have no doubt +it is true. Now the fact is, I have a good right to hate him; and when I +tell you the circumstances, I think you will allow it. I have not been +in England for five years. I arrive, and being an old friend of Mr. +Gresham and his daughter, I pursue them down here. I come, expecting to +be made much of. I arrive, and the very first day my nose is put out of +joint by a young new friend; I am thought no more of than an old shoe. +You will own this is enough to fill me with hatred and all +uncharitableness.” + +“Most certainly,” Everard said, laughing. + +“So conscious was I that such ought to be the proper state of my +feelings, that it was with surprise I found myself totally untouched by +bad passions. ‘How is this?’ I asked myself; and the answer I received +was the observation with which I addressed you. Manners make the man. +There is no feeling indignation where honours are borne as your brother +bears them. He deserves them well.” + +“I believe I was making much the same reflection,” Everard replied; “and +to say the truth, I am afraid I was indulging in some envy of the +qualities you speak of.” + +“That is a thing of course,” said his companion. “So was I. We would not +deprive him of what sits so well upon him, but if we could, we would +all, have those, or any qualities, which command attention, still more +admiration, still more love.” + +“I suppose so,” Everard said, gravely. + +“These are new acquaintances of yours, Mr. Vavasour, I believe?” + +He acquiesced. + +“I have not seen Miss Gresham for five years. My chief purpose in +coming to England was to see her again. I left her a child. I wished to +see what she was as a woman.” + +“You must be satisfied I think,” Everard said, smiling. + +“Why, yes, upon the whole. She is not so pretty as I thought she +promised to be; but in other ways she is improved.” + +“You must have expected a good deal if you are disappointed,” Everard +said, with more warmth than he was conscious of. + +“She was a beautiful child. I suppose the child haunts my dreams and +makes me less satisfied with the woman. The eyes and complexion are +perfect, but I could have wished the nose and mouth were more +classical.” + +“That is being very critical,” Everard said, amused. + +“Yes; but like Iago, I am nothing if not critical. I am, however, +satisfied on the whole, and the mental improvement is more than I looked +for.” + +Everard was not aware that the critical eyes had been watching him +during this conversation. Mr. Merivale was a dangerous person. When bent +on observation, it was hard to elude him. + +At this moment the party broke up. The lady who came from a distance was +taking her departure, and Mr. Gresham, too much absorbed in Robert, to +have hitherto attended to his own pleasures, was making up a whist +table. Mr. Merivale was in request for this purpose. + +Everard stood where he left him, and took up for a moment the newspaper +that Mr. Merivale had laid down. He was glancing over it, when he was +startled by Angela’s voice. She had left her place, and had taken a seat +on the sofa, near the table at which he stood. + +“I am afraid I interrupt you, Mr. Vavasour,” she said, in a voice +peculiarly sweet and winning. “Is there anything very interesting in +that newspaper?” + +“Not much,” he said, smiling, and laying it down. + +“I am come to ask you,” she continued, “a strange thing, but you must +remember that I am in two characters in this house. I am a young lady, +and, therefore, bound to be very discreet; but I am also the lady of the +house, and bound to see that all my guests are amused and happy. I want +to know if there is anything the matter with you to-night, and why you +are so grave.” Her manner was peculiar. It was more than kind, and yet +at the same time had a grace and dignity which became the character she +wished to assume. + +“Am I grave?” he said, unconscious that his outward man had so betrayed +his inward thoughts. + +“Yes, grave all the evening, but lately more than grave.” + +“I believe I always am grim-looking,” he said, smiling, “but I am not +really so grim as I look.” + +“I see you do not like my questions,” she said, “and I dare say I am +impertinent; but what I wished to say was this, I feared you might think +that you were neglected while others were made much of; and I wished to +tell you it was not so, though it might seem so. You must remember,” she +added, quickly, as if in explanation of her rising colour, “that it is +my duty as mistress of this house to see that all are happy, that is as +far as may be; and so you must excuse my impertinence.” + +Lord Byron says-- + + “It is in vain that we would coldly gaze + On those that smile on us. The heart must + Leap kindly back to kindness.” + +If not always true, it certainly is so in a case like Everard’s, where +such kindness was rarely expressed towards him, and where already he was +far from coldly gazing. He was deeply touched. But he was now on his +guard, awakened to his danger, and determined to resist it. His answer +was little expressive of what he really felt. + +“You have imposed very severe duties on your position,” he said, +smiling, “and I think a short practise will tell you, you must give them +up. For myself, thank you a thousand times. I assure you, I was not so +vain as to suppose myself neglected.” + +He fancied, but he thought it must be fancy, that she looked hurt at his +answer. She was silent for a moment; then suddenly said, laughing, and +in another tone, “That is a new phase of vanity, is it not, to suppose +itself neglected? I thought vanity supposed itself to be observed.” + +“I think vanity is to suppose itself of importance at all,” he replied, +“and quite as often complains of neglect, as it takes to itself praise.” + +“Well, perhaps. And now good night. Do you think, as mistress of the +house, I need sit up till that whist party breaks up? I am rather tired +of laughing, and I should be glad to go. What do you say, Mr. +Vavasour?” turning to Robert, who passed at the moment. + +“Put the question,” he said, “and I will give an answer in a moment, be +the point what it may; but I am like Nebuchadnezzar’s poor ill-used +sages. I cannot give an answer, without knowing what the question is.” + +Angela laughed and explained. + +“Go to bed by all means,” he replied, “though it is extremely uncivil of +me to say so. I hate rules and laws; and especially on this point. Let +all men go to bed when they are inclined, and we shall have an end of +that worst of evils, a face convulsed with yawns. Good night. Pray go to +bed.” + +“It is a pity she is an heiress, is it not, Everard?” he said archly, as +she left them; but without waiting for observation or answer, went on to +the whist table. Everard again took up the newspaper, but not to read. +His mind was severely struggling with new and strange feelings. Folly, +idle dreams, he again called them, and was determined to crush them at +once, and for ever. The arguments with which he animated his rebellious +will, were drawn from the source, which animated all his endeavours to +do his duty. What would his father say, if he yielded to his first +temptation? A temptation to dream his life away, to set before himself +an illusive hope, to escape from the more toilsome life laid out for +him. He imagined his father’s face of pain, if he should hear that he, +Everard, was courting the favour of the heiress, and the imagination was +for the moment at least all powerful. With a sigh, he blew away the vain +fancies that were bewildering him, and returned to himself. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + From time to time + Henceforth I felt, although I met them not, + The visitation of those serious eyes. + _Eve of the Conquest._ + + +Everard came down early the following morning, earlier, that is, than +the breakfast hour of the house. Finding the breakfast room empty, and +being told by the servants that he was half an hour too soon, he went +out for a walk. When he returned, he was observed by Angela from the +breakfast room window, and she opened the window to invite him to come +in. She and Mr. Merivale were there alone. Mr. Merivale was reading his +letters. + +“You have been out to shame us, I suppose,” she said laughing, “but it +is only just ten o’clock.” + +“I went out because I came down too soon,” he said, smiling; “like the +man in the moon. I had no other reason.” + +“But you do think our hours very late?” + +“Indeed I do not. Mine are earlier, but that does not make yours late.” + +“I won’t ask you at what o’clock you _get up_, for I feel sure that it +is at some unearthly hour; but at what o’clock do you come down at +Audley Court?” + +“At half-past eight.” + +“And do you all breakfast then? Does poor Mr. Vavasour? I don’t think he +can like it much; your brother I mean.” + +“No; we don’t breakfast till nine. Robert is very good. He does not much +like it, but he is not often late.” + +“Then what takes place at half-past eight?” + +“My father reads prayers.” + +“Oh!” Angela said, gravely; then, smiling, “Why did you not say that +before?” + +“I had no need, had I?” + +“Now, Mr. Vavasour, for once you don’t speak quite the truth. You did +not choose to say it, because you thought it would be a reproach to a +house where there were no prayers.” + +“I will not be positive. It may have been so; but I really do not think +it was.” + +“Is it common to have family prayers? I beg your pardon,” she said, +suddenly, “for asking so many questions. I believe I never speak without +a question; but my ignorance of the ways of the world is such that I am +forced to do it. I hope to improve. Is it common?” + +“I fancy it is,” Everard said, after a moment’s thought. “I should +suppose it is; but I know very little of the interior arrangements of +houses in general.” + +“Do you think it a right custom?” + +“It seems, I think, a good and natural one.” + +“I will release you now,” she said, laughing. “I know I must be a bore; +but my ignorance is my excuse.” + +“I shall be most happy to answer any questions,” Everard said, smiling +also; “but if they are about the ways of the world, perhaps I am not +much wiser than you are.” + +“Did you hear me, Mr. Merivale?” Angela said, approaching him. “Did you +think me a bore?” + +“Rather, my dear child,” he said, looking up from his letter; “I could +not understand a word I read.” + +Nevertheless, with a glance, half amused, half anxious, he had been +watching her from behind his letter. + +The rest of the party (with the exception of Robert), consisting of Mr. +Gresham and two or three gentlemen, now entered the room, and all +proceeded to breakfast. + +Nothing could be more pompously urbane than Mr. Gresham was to all; but +his eyes were on the door, and he was evidently ill at ease in daring to +eat before Robert appeared. Once or twice he apologised to himself for +doing so; and the only special notice he took of Everard was to make the +same apology to him. He had some good shooting, which was the avowed +purpose for which the party had been formed; but nothing was allowed to +be settled on the subject, or even debated, until Robert came. “It was +all in Mr. Vavasour’s hands.” This reduced every inquirer to silence. + +When Robert did appear, at the very end of breakfast, the superabundant +attentions of the preceding evening were resumed. He went forward to +meet him, overpowered his apologies for his lateness, by his (Mr. +Gresham’s) apologies for his rudeness, and made amends for the latter by +supplying Robert’s wants, with a hospitality and ostentation five times +as great as that he had shown to his other guests. + +Robert accepted it all with careless ease and good humour; neither +rejecting the attentions of his host nor glorying in them. It was +impossible to be angry with _him_, and yet though he escaped, there was +a rising wrath and rebellion in Angela’s mind, which boded future strife +in the house. + +As she left the breakfast room she overheard a young man say to Everard, +“I am sure I wish I was an elder son, don’t you?” + +She slackened her steps to catch Everard’s reply. It was given with more +truth than politeness, so far, at least, as the young gentleman was +concerned. “Unless we wish for other qualities at the same time, perhaps +the matter of birth would be no great advantage to us.” + +Angela smiled to herself as she walked on, but the observation of the +young man, though she owned it was ill bred, added to the irritation of +her mind. + +In the course of the morning Mr. Merivale entered the drawing-room. He +found Angela seated at a table, with a large Prayer-book before her. +His quick observation immediately guessed the nature of her occupation, +but without discovering this, he approached her and asked, “What are you +about now, Angela?” + +“I wish to have family prayers in the house,” she replied with dignity, +“and I am making out a proper selection. I wish to have them to-morrow +morning, or I would wait till I could see Mr. Addison, and ask him to +choose for me.” + +“And who is to read, my love?” + +“I mean to read myself; that is, if papa refuses, which I know he will.” + +“_You!_” + +“Yes. You seem surprised. Is there anything extraordinary in my doing +it?” + +“A little, I think. Don’t do it, my dear child, if you will take my +advice. It is an office not very consistent with your age, and +giddiness, and other things.” + +“I don’t see that,” she said. “I know I am not very good, but if we +wait till we are perfect before we do anything that is right, I don’t +see that we ever can improve. I think it right to have prayers in a +house, and if I can I will have them. I dare say I shall be frightened +at first, but I don’t care for that.” + +“Now, my dear child, listen to me,” said Mr. Merivale, with difficulty +restraining a smile. “I am the very last person to say a word against +your zeal; but do not be in such haste. Let all things be done decently +and in order. Do not while all your servants are busy and hurried begin +such a thing. Let them know you are thinking about it; give them time to +consider it, and consider it yourself, and then take some quiet time to +begin. Trust me, I am giving you good advice.” + +“I don’t think you are,” she said eagerly; “one should act rightly while +one feels the spirit to do it. I never do a thing if I let the right +time go by.” + +“It requires principle, certainly; but, believe me, hasty things are +dangerous things. Besides, there is another reason: if you do this thing +suddenly, what will Mr. Everard Vavasour think? It strikes me he will +think you pay a very undue regard to his opinion.” + +“I don’t care,” she said, though her blood mounting to her temples, +somewhat contradicted her words, “I am glad he should see on the +contrary that some regard is paid to his opinion in this house. I like +what he said, and I am not ashamed to shew it.” + +“Poor little thing,” he said, suddenly patting her shoulders, “you had +better take care of yourself.” + +She did not notice his observation, but resumed her inspection of the +Prayer-book. + +A moment afterwards Mr. Gresham entered the room, and as if to shew +herself entirely unmoved by Mr. Merivale’s arguments, she immediately +made her request to her father. + +He placed himself before the fire, and after a moment’s reflection +observed, “This requires consideration. If it is a proper thing it shall +be done, though at some inconvenience. Is it a common appendage of a +country house?” + +“I don’t know,” Angela said, “but I know that in some houses it is done. +Mr. Vavasour reads prayers at Audley Court.” + +“Indeed!” Mr. Gresham asked eagerly. “Has Mr. Vavasour been speaking on +the subject? His opinion is of importance.” + +“Mr. _Everard_ Vavasour told me so,” Angela said with emphasis. + +“Oh!” was Mr. Gresham’s reply. “Mr. Everard Vavasour’s opinion is +another thing; deserving of consideration certainly, but, comparatively +speaking, of less moment.” + +“I don’t see that,” Angela said warmly and with a deep blush. + +“Nor I,” said Mr. Merivale. + +Mr. Gresham looked from one to the other with too much surprise in his +countenance to leave room for an expression of displeasure. He was one +of those who with difficulty are brought to see that which they do not +wish to see; and though there was something in Angela’s look which might +have made him uneasy for his cherished plans, he did not appear to be +conscious of it. + +Without resuming the subject, he in a moment observed to Mr. Merivale, +“That Mr. Vavasour is a very pleasing young man; a very fine young man.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Merivale, “they both are.” + +“I spoke of the eldest. He is, I should say, the first young man of his +day. Accomplished, amiable in manner, striking in appearance, and, if I +mistake not, formed to have the eyes of the world upon him.” + +“I like both,” persisted Mr. Merivale, “but I am not certain that I do +not like the youngest best.” + +“It would be rather singular,” Mr. Gresham said, contemptuously +elevating his nose, “to prefer the younger to the elder.” + +Angela’s heart was bursting to speak, but she refrained. Her cheek, +however, was again crimson. + +Mr. Gresham looked at her with a stare of observation, through a +countenance totally unmoved. After a short silence he left his place, +and, approaching the table, asked what she was doing. + +She told him. + +“You need not trouble yourself,” he said coldly. “I will attend to the +subject myself. If I find that family prayers are a common appendage of +country houses, I will undertake the duty in proper time. Meanwhile, I +beg that my affairs may not be canvassed with those who can have no +concern with them. Merivale, do you choose to walk with me?” + +“With all my heart,” he said, and followed him from the room, leaving +Angela with a mind in which rebellion was beginning to be harboured. The +feelings that animated her were partly generous, partly romantic, and +partly wilful; but the generous motives were so predominant, they were +in their nature so right and true, that she scarcely acknowledged the +second, and entirely disregarded the third. Her taste and heart alike +revolted from this courting of Robert, and she proudly determined that +she would show a spirit animated by other feelings. + +In this temper of mind she awaited the evening. + +Another party had been invited, and the second evening was in many +respects a repetition of the first. During dinner Angela sat again +between her father and Robert, and as Mr. Gresham listened to and joined +in their animated conversation, he banished every dawning uneasiness +regarding the success of his scheme. Angela and Robert did indeed get on +exceedingly well together. Both, of course, perceived, one with internal +chafing, the other with internal merriment, Mr. Gresham’s designs, but +both were very willing to be pleased and amused, whensoever and +howsoever they could. When therefore Robert, in the beginning of the +evening, was again pompously conducted to Angela’s side, she received +him without any show of annoyance, and he accepted his position without +reluctance. + +Waiting until they were engaged in a full flow of discourse, Mr. +Gresham, having performed his duty as a father, proceeded to amuse +himself. Whist was the supreme and solemn diversion of his life. Even at +whist he still was Mr. Gresham; even his play was in the eyes of the +world, but certainly he was less guarded, less conscious of his enormous +responsibilities when engaged in that employment, than on any other +occasions of his life. This evening the whist table was formed early, +and he sat down to play in serene majesty, at peace with himself, his +daughter, and all the world. + +“Are you really going back to Audley Court to-morrow?” Angela said to +Robert shortly after they had been left to themselves. + +“Yes, we must go. We shall only be a week or ten days more at home, and +we don’t like to leave my father for a longer time. That is Everard does +not, and I think he is right.” + +“And you go after breakfast to-morrow--that is you go out shooting, and +don’t come back any more?” + +“I believe that is the plan.” + +“Then I must go and speak to your brother now. I have got something to +ask him.” + +“Have you,” Robert said, laughing, “what is it? May I be a partaker of +the secret?” + +“It is not a secret, it is something about my aunt, to whom your brother +was very good-natured in London. I will tell you another time what it +is, if you care to know, but I must seize my opportunity, or perhaps I +shall not have one again. Will you let me go by.” + +He moved his chair, and watched her for a minute as she crossed over to +Everard, amused alike by her ways and by Everard’s face when he was +summoned. He was much too quick not to see that they were what he called +“a little taken,” and the idea afforded him infinite entertainment. + +“Mr. Vavasour!” Angela said, slightly raising her voice to attract +Everard’s attention, as she seated herself on a sofa near him. + +He was talking to, or rather listening to a prosy gentleman; but thus +called upon, he could not but leave him in the midst of his prose. + +He came to her. “I wish you would sit down for a minute,” she said, +assuming in her manner something of the same ease and dignity she had +assumed on the previous evening. “I have got something I wish to say?” + +He looked startled, as Robert had observed. These conversations tried +his self command too severely to be agreeable to him. He could do +nothing, however, but obey. + +“What I want to say is this,” she began. “I have an impression on my +mind that you must think I do not tell quite the truth, and I do not +like you to think it.” + +“I think I know what you mean,” Everard said, smiling. + +“When we spoke of plots and disguises the other day, I know by my looks +I acknowledged I had done something of the kind, and yet I denied it. I +know you must think I did not speak the truth, but I had not courage to +explain myself. The fact is, I do not call it a disguise. I will tell +you how it was. My aunt told me of a Mr. Vavasour’s kindness to her. I +knew that a Mr. Vavasour lived near the place which my father had lately +bought. I dare say it was a foolish fancy, but I thought I should like +to see him before we came here, and yet not exactly in my own person. I +dressed myself, therefore, as my aunt’s niece ought to dress. There is +the history.” + +“I am very much obliged to you for explaining it,” Everard said. “It is +quite plain and very natural.” + +“And what do you say now?” she asked, playfully. “Do you condemn all +plots and disguises, even such a very little thing as that?” + +“If you ask me,” he replied, “I must say what I think. I do not like +them.” + +“You think I was very wrong then?” + +“Very wrong, oh no, that is a strong expression. But why, Miss Gresham, +ask my opinion? It cannot matter. I have an objection to such things. I +think them mischievous, dangerous things, but I do not wish to be forced +to say so.” + +“There could be no great mischief or danger there.” + +“There might,” he said, quickly. + +“I cannot see it; and though I too like truth, I think you are severe. +What harm have I done or could I do?” + +“I cannot very well explain myself,” he said, hastily. “I ought, I +believe, to beg your pardon for giving my opinion so freely, but when a +person is asked....” + +“When a person asks questions as I do,” Angela said, playfully, “she +will be answered. And now I have got a favour to ask. Will you grant +it?” + +“I will when I know what I have to grant.” + +“I knew you would say that,” she replied, laughing. “All I want to ask +is, whether you will be so kind when you go back to London as to visit +my aunt again?” + +“I will, certainly,” he replied. + +“Do not suppose that I am not well aware that I am asking a favour. My +poor aunt is very tedious except to those who love her as I do. I know +this very well; but your visits were so great a pleasure to her, and +her life is so dreary, that I cannot help asking you to do this +kindness--a kindness to me as well as to her.” + +“I assure you I did not find my visits tedious,” he said, with warmth. +“I am obliged to study very hard and live with many very dry people. I +found it rather a pleasure than otherwise to be able to be kind to her, +and to be received with kindness. Perhaps you will not understand what I +mean, but it was something so new and different, that it refreshed me.” + +“Then why did you so very quickly give up the pleasure?” + +He coloured slightly. “Not because I found it tedious, but because I +thought it was time.” + +“She thought you were tired of her,” persisted Angela, “and her +feelings, poor thing, were hurt. She never expects attentions, but she +feels the want of them all the same.” + +“I am very sorry,” he said, with great earnestness. “My reason was very +different; I had supposed her to be alone; when I found it was otherwise +I thought it was wiser and better to bring my visits to an end.” + +His voice had a hurried tone, and when he had done there was a moment’s +pause; then Angela bent forward, and with something of a queenly air, +calm and steady, though with great meaning, asked, “And for what reason +_wiser_?” + +He looked suddenly up at her and coloured deeply, and in the moment of +temptation, forgetting his late resolutions, allowed his eyes to flash +with a fire that shortly told a long tale. Angela met his gaze, drew +back, and coloured still more deeply than he did. She had provoked that +look, but now was abashed at having provoked it. He drew back also. + +Neither spoke, and a very awkward silence followed. It was still more +awkwardly broken. + +Mr. Gresham rose from his whist table, came to the spot where Angela +sat, and coldly said, “You will oblige me by going to the pianoforte. We +all enjoy music, and I do not know why a young lady is taught to play +with much pains and expense, if she cannot entertain her friends.” + +His interference restored Angela’s self possession, and as coldly she +replied, “I shall be very happy to play; I will go this instant.” + +Mr. Gresham returned with a stately air to his seat. Angela rose from +hers, and paused for a moment at the table. She then said, with +something of the constraint of shyness in her manner, “Then I may depend +on your promise, Mr. Vavasour, and tell my aunt that you will be kind +enough to visit her again.” + +“I will certainly,” he replied, rising from his chair, but not looking +at her. His whole air and manner were changed. + +Angela went slowly and uneasily to the pianoforte. He did not follow +even with his eyes, but joined himself to a group of gentlemen, who were +talking over country news and business, and stood there silent and +pre-occupied. He was miserable--as miserable as a conscientious man who +has broken a resolution conscientiously made, as a man who hopes he is +strong and finds himself weak,--can be. What Angela felt or meant he +could not guess, but for himself he was convinced that he had taken +undue advantage of her kindliness. What Mr. Gresham meant he understood +well. + +After Angela had left the drawing-room, and the whist party was broken +up, Mr. Gresham came to make his request to Robert that he would prolong +his visit for another day. He had a party whom he wished him to meet; he +had depended on his remaining; he was, in short, very pressing. + +Robert, easy, good-natured, and well amused, was inclined to give way. +“I will stay,” he replied, “if Everard will; but if he thinks we had +better go then I am afraid I must refuse.” + +Everard was standing at a little distance. Mr. Gresham turned to him. +“Yes, I think we had better go,” he said, quickly. + +With great civility, with more attention than he had yet shown him, Mr. +Gresham begged him to relent, and pressed his request with overmuch +pressing. + +A man is ashamed to refuse a trifling favour when it is asked with +earnestness, and Everard gave way. Hardly had he done so, however, +before he longed to recall his consent, feeling that the trifle was no +trifle to him. + +Mr. Gresham was profuse in his thanks, and so gracious in his manner, +that Everard went to bed perplexed and bewildered. Strange hopes, vague +dreams flitted about his pillow, and tormented him with their +pertinacity. Resist them as he might they came again. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + He spake of virtue; not the gods + More purely when they wish to charm + Pallas and Juno sitting by: + And with a sweeping of the arm, + And a lack lustre dead blue eye + Devolved his rounded periods. + TENNYSON. + + +Everard awoke the following morning with a resolute determination to +keep out of temptation, by avoiding Angela’s society. For this purpose +he remained in his room till after ten o’clock, and then, hearing Mr. +Gresham’s step, followed him down stairs to breakfast. + +At the foot of the stairs Mr. Gresham turned and looked up, and seeing +Everard, waited until he joined him. + +“It is my wish, Mr. Vavasour,” he then said, speaking more suddenly and +quickly than was his custom, “to say a few words to you in my private +room. I am fortunate in meeting you here. May I request you to be so +good as to give me the favour of your attention for a short time +immediately after breakfast. The shooting party wall not leave Underwood +until half-past eleven.” + +Everard coloured but assented. He was surprised and troubled; conscience +pointed in one direction, and made him dread the interview. + +“When I leave the room, Mr. Vavasour, perhaps you will be good enough to +follow me. I wish our conversation to be _private_,” with a marked +emphasis on the word, “nor do I wish it to incur observation.” + +“I will take care,” Everard replied, quietly, and they went on together +into the breakfast room. + +Angela blushed, as she shook hands with him; that which she had done on +the spur of the moment; that which her principles (_i.e._, that the +conventional etiquette of the world was nonsense,) had prompted her to +do, had, on reflection, agitated her. She feared Everard would think she +had been forward. She longed to see him again, that she might read the +impression she had made. His non-appearance had annoyed her; and his +countenance, which, in spite of all his efforts was grave and +pre-occupied when he did come, troubled her more. + +Shaking off her embarrassment, however, and forcing herself to speak, +she said, laughing, “You are learning bad habits in this house, Mr. +Vavasour. I don’t think it was any unearthly hour this morning.” + +“I think I am,” he replied with a grave smile, and as Mr. Gresham +observed at the moment that breakfast was ready, he turned away and +chose his place far from Angela’s seat. + +Feelings quickly change. Angela had feared _his_ disapprobation. She now +imagined that he was in fear of her, and she was at peace again. + +When Angela had left the breakfast room Mr. Gresham made a silent signal +to Everard, and left it by another door. In a minute, when, obedient to +his instructions, it could be done without observation, Everard +followed. + +“Be so good as to be seated, Mr. Vavasour,” was Mr. Gresham’s request; +and Everard having taken a seat near the fire, Mr. Gresham placed +himself with his back towards it and prepared for his discourse. + +“My object, Mr. Vavasour, in requesting you to give me your attention, +is in order to inform you of some circumstances regarding my daughter’s +prospects and position in life. They are circumstances of importance, +as indeed, all circumstances affecting a young lady in her position +must be.” + +He paused a moment, and Everard replied, “I am, of course, Mr. Gresham, +ready to listen to anything you may wish to communicate, but excuse me +if I say that I cannot conceive what right I have to be informed of the +circumstances you mention. + +“That will hereafter appear. Be so good, my dear Mr. Vavasour, as to +grant me your attention. My daughter is, as you are aware, my only +child; according to my present intention, she is also my sole heiress--I +say my present intention--for my life is not so far advanced but that I +remain liable to the common changes and chances of the world. +Circumstances might occur, differences might arise, which would afford +an inducement to change my intention. At present, however, it is my wish +that she should be my sole heiress, and few, perhaps, may hope to be +endowed with a more goodly dowry.” + +He paused again, looked around him, glanced at the ornamented ceiling +and gaudy carpet, and, finally, threw open his coat and closed it again. + +“All this I supposed,” Everard said, seeing an observation was expected, +“but again I must say that I cannot see how it affects me.” + +He waved his hand to bespeak patience and began again. “Such being the +circumstances, it is natural that I should with grave consideration, +reflect on the future destination of my possessions. If I had desired +that my wealth should flow into full treasuries, if I had desired to +mingle my name and blood with the blood of noble families, I confess it +appears to me the desire would have been natural. If I had desired to +place a coronet on my daughter’s head, I confess, with her position and +outward accomplishments, I think the desire would have been justified. +And such, indeed, _was_ my desire; but man, Mr. Vavasour, is a finite +being; he cannot accomplish all his wishes. It becomes us to submit to +the ordinary dispensations of Providence, which rarely sees fit to give +all things into one hand. In a word I felt it my duty to make a choice +of good things, to select some and be content to part with others. I +chose, therefore, for my daughter’s future husband, one not +noble,--though in every country but ours he would be noble--not wealthy, +but of ancient lineage, of fair possessions, and endowed with all those +gifts and accomplishments which are calculated to attract the eyes of +the world.” + +“You mean my brother,” Everard said, colouring slightly. + +“We will speak further on that point. Be so good as to allow me to +proceed. Such being my feelings and desires, you may conceive, Mr. +Vavasour, that any disappointment in the plans I have cherished would be +painful to me. I am aware that you would not willingly thwart my +desires, I have too high a sense of your character, but I confess I +yesterday observed with pain, that is, some circumstances drew me to +observe, that you regarded my daughter--did her the honour to regard +her--with favour, and (be so obliging as to hear me, Mr. Vavasour) led +me to fear that my daughter might, through your efforts, be drawn to +regard you with favour;--you, Mr. Vavasour, endowed with many virtues, +but undistinguished in the world, of small fortune, and small prospect +of advancement; and this at the early age of seventeen, before the mind +or judgment is formed, or capable of a decision. You may imagine my +feelings.” + +He raised his nose and placed his hands behind his coat-tails in +amazement and dismay. + +With difficulty Everard heard him out. Pride, wounded feeling, and a +strange throb of pleasure, mingled their sensations in his breast, but +he mastered them and answered without excitement. + +“I have listened to you patiently, Mr. Gresham, because you desired me +to do so, and because I acknowledge it is natural you should feel +anxious respecting your daughter’s happiness; but I must now tell you +that you have mistaken me. I confess, indeed, that I have not seen Miss +Gresham with indifference, it would be difficult to do it; if she were +poor, if she were a beggar--but no matter for that. As it is, I have had +no such view as you imagine. Not,” he continued, his colour rising, and +speaking with a proud dignity, “that I think money of such immense +worth, that nothing but rank and worldly goods are worthy to win it--I +should be ashamed of having so base a thought; but there is a natural +feeling in men’s minds that it needs _some_ worth, some weight of +character, or age, or tried industry, to win this world’s good things, +and I feel it myself as much as any. I knew that I was not one likely to +win your favour, and whatever may be hereafter, I felt I was too young +and undistinguished at present, to attempt to win it; and more than +this, I do not even wish to win it. I do not speak of the idle thoughts +and hopes that cross the mind without one’s will--but I speak of my +reason and conscience; they tell me that I ought not to wish, and it is +my desire to obey them; now I have said all I have to say, and I trust +you are satisfied.” + +“Perfectly so, Mr. Vavasour, you have spoken extremely well. I perceive +that the opinion I formed of your character, and which disposed me to +place this confidence in you, was well grounded. Allow me to detain you +a few moments longer. This being satisfactorily settled, I leave the +future in the hands of Providence. I have done my part in choosing a +proper direction in which my great possessions may flow; and I think, +Mr. Vavasour, if you consider the subject, you will observe that I have +also chosen well regarding the advantages to your family. What your +father has toiled and spared to gain, I offer to him; and to your +brother I offer that lavish wealth which his disposition is peculiarly +formed to require. My plans have been laid out with forethought and +wisdom. I confess I cherish them, and I think I may say, have a right to +cherish them.” + +Everard was silent. He did very forcibly see the worldly advantages; but +he could not, without pain, think of Angela as Robert’s wife; and though +he had no right to speak of so vague a thing as Robert’s attachment to +Hope, he would not give any opinion regarding the possibilities or +probabilities of such a marriage. + +Mr. Gresham had expected a demonstration of admiration and gratitude, +and was disappointed; but he was human, and after a moment’s +observation, he reflected that Everard might feel some pain in the +scheme, even while its beauty was fully acknowledged. He was content, +therefore, to let his silence pass unnoticed. + +There was a pause, and Everard rose. “One moment, Mr. Vavasour. I have +two requests to make. One is that the plans I have unfolded to you in +this conversation may remain absolutely private. I have intrusted them +to you alone.” + +“Of course I consider this conversation private,” was Everard’s reply. +“You may depend on my discretion.” + +“My second, Mr. Vavasour, is regarding your conduct to my daughter. You +will meet her again this evening. May I request that while there is +nothing in your manner that seeks her favour, there may also be no +withdrawing of common attentions, no constraint, no avoidance. I do not +wish to have her interest, or curiosity, or attention, in any way +excited. You will perceive at once my object in this request.” + +“It may be difficult,” Everard said, gravely, “and I can make no +promise, but I think you may trust me. I mean to do my best; not so much +because you ask it, as because my own sense of what is right tells me +that under the circumstances this will be the proper course of conduct. +Forgive me if I express myself too plainly. I desire of course to obey +your wishes, but I could not promise to do so, unless my judgment +approved them.” + +“Of course, of course, Mr. Vavasour. I ask no more, and now permit me to +thank you for your kind manner in listening to me, and to express my +interest now and henceforward in your welfare. I see the keepers +approaching. I wish you a good day’s sport.” + +Everard left the room; and, without trusting himself to think, joined +his brother and the rest of the party, who were now assembling in the +hall. + +In the course of the day Mr. Gresham recounted to Mr. Merivale what had +passed with Everard, taking the opportunity to lay before him at the +same moment his plans for Angela. + +Mr. Merivale was a person who thought matters generally righted +themselves, and that there were few occasions in life where remonstrance +and interference were useful. He saw all the worldliness of the plan, +and from his own observation of Robert, did not see any great +appearance of its success. If it did succeed, he saw good qualities +enough to give him hope for Angela’s happiness; and to make the marriage +a sufficiently desirable one. His opinion was, however, that Everard was +not only preferred at the moment, but would continue to be so; and if +this should be the case, he thought what Mr. Gresham had done the best +thing that could happen. Both were too young for any present +arrangements, and he thought a true and wise attachment likely to be of +infinite service to Angela’s character. + +These were his motives for saying little against Mr. Gresham’s plans, +beyond a warning that he had better enquire more fully into Robert’s +character and habits. On one point, however, he spoke warmly, and this +was to advise greater confidence towards Angela. He wished Mr. Gresham +to mention to her that her manner to Everard had not pleased him, and, +in short, to make known his feelings regarding over intimacy with him. +“If you omit this,” he said, “Angela may observe constraint and +avoidance in his manner, may misread it, and may be led to some overt +acts unbecoming her position, and much to be deprecated.” + +“I should hope,” Mr. Gresham replied, “that the essential modesty +belonging to a young female will in itself prevent such an evil.” + +“That Angela is essentially modest,” Mr. Merivale said with some +earnestness, “I am certain; but her feelings are quick, her character +self-willed; and from the manner in which she has been brought up she +has an undue scorn for the small yet just proprieties of her age and +circumstances. Believe me confidence will win her confidence; but +underplots will fail in mastering her.” + +“I differ with you entirely. If I once speak to Angela on this subject, +our two wills become definite things. If I let it pass, as Mr. Everard +Vavasour has assured me it shall pass, the slight preference I have +observed with pain and displeasure will be dissipated. A young woman, a +young lady, should have no will and no thoughts on such subjects. The +delicacy of the female character forbids it. To place her advantageously +and properly in life is the duty of her natural guardian, one happily +who is fully alive to all the requirements and responsibilities of his +position, and to his will she must assent.” + +“Well, Gresham, as Solomon says, ‘the lot is cast into the lap, but the +whole disposing is of the Lord.’ I hope you will be satisfied, and +Angela have a worthy husband, and I am content.” + +Angela awaited the evening with impatience. Fancy is ever busy, and the +human mind ever prone to anxiety; the ease produced by her morning’s +conviction survived only half the day; and during the remaining hours +she relapsed into her former fears. When the evening came the first +disappointment was in Everard’s late appearance. He entered with Robert +only a minute or two before dinner; Robert confessed that for his part +sleep had overtaken him; but the night before, Everard had not waited +for an escort. Her second disappointment was more bitter. As the +gentlemen left the dining-room, Everard said to Mr. Gresham, that if a +fourth was wanted he should be happy to play at whist. Mr. Gresham +understood him, accepted with quick and gratified politeness, and before +Angela had considered the evening begun, she saw him summoned by her +father and seated at the whist table for the night. + +“How people can play at whist,” she said to Robert, unable to restrain +some expression of her feelings, “is a marvel to me. Do you like it?” + +“Very much when I am in the mood. I am afraid too much sometimes; but I +don’t like to trifle my play away. I am like Elia’s aunt in the Essays +of Elia; I consider it a serious matter. Did you ever read the Essay I +mean? It is one of the best pieces of writing in the world;” and as +Angela had not read it, and as he had observed the book in question, +then a new book, to be on the table, he took it and read it for her +entertainment. + +Mr. Gresham, from his whist table, complacent and elated, contemplated +them with unmeasured delight. + +Desirous, as he had promised, to do his best, and to avoid the +appearance of avoidance, Everard came down somewhat earlier the +following morning, first ascertaining, however, that Mr. Merivale was +before him. Angela was pleased, but had no power to enter into +conversation, for Mr. Merivale, much to her annoyance, occupied the +short interval before breakfast, by reading aloud a letter he had +received from Italy. Of the annoyance he caused Mr. Merivale was +perfectly aware, but he fancied he read Everard’s design, and gave him +his assistance. + +There was no shooting this day, and shortly after breakfast the +brothers went into the drawing-room to wish Angela good-bye. Mr. +Merivale was with her, still engaged with letters or papers. Angela was +reading. + +She laid down her book when they appeared, and Robert, ever curious, +took it up. + +“Camilla!” he said; “are you wading through Camilla?” + +“If by wading,” was Angela’s warm reply, “you mean doing something +difficult and heavy, no, I am not wading, but I am reading it, that is, +I am _re_-reading it, for I finished it yesterday, and am looking at it +again.” + +“Is it possible! and my mind was filled with thankfulness when, having +once begun and feeling myself in duty bound to proceed, I found myself +at the end.” + +“I dare say your opinion is very wise and good, Mr. Vavasour,” Angela +said, “but I don’t mean to be scoffed out of mine. I like it.” + +“And you are right,” Mr. Merivale observed; “there is a great deal of +trash in the book, and a great deal that is overdone, but there are many +good and natural characters, and whenever that is the case, a book is +worth reading, and worth liking.” + +“That is easily done,” Robert said. “I could do it myself. If that is +all that is required to make a book worth reading, nothing is so easy.” + +“I doubt it,” said Mr. Merivale. “Not _your_ powers, Mr. Vavasour, no +doubt they are equal to anything, but I doubt the easiness of portraying +natural characters.” + +“It is all done by receipt,” Robert insisted. “Take your characters--any +will do, the commoner the better--get them into a mess, no matter what, +one hears of a hundred avoidable ones every day--then get them out +again, and the story is done.” + +“Very good. I shall expect your work with interest, Mr. Vavasour.” + +“And so shall I,” Angela said, laughing, “but till it comes, I must be +satisfied with such as Camilla. I hope you like it? Have you ever read +it?” she added, turning quickly to Everard. + +“Yes, my mother advised me to read it the other day, and I did.” + +“And are you on my side?” + +“Part of it amused me very much. Camilla’s character I thought extremely +well done and very pretty.” + +“Oh, I don’t care about Camilla,” Angela cried, with quickness. “Edgar +is what I like, and it is for the sake of Edgar that I am going to read +the book again.” + +“Edgar was a prig,” Robert observed. + +“No,” Everard said, “not at least my idea of a prig; but I don’t like +him. I think he behaved very badly.” + +“Edgar badly. How?” Angela said, eagerly. + +“I think he failed in the very first of duties, confidence and trust. I +was sometimes so provoked I could have thrown the book out of window.” + +“If you mean towards Camilla--how could he trust her? As far as +appearances went, she did seem to behave most strangely.” + +“Yes, perhaps, but that is what I mean; we are not to be led by what +_seems_ in such cases. When we have formed on just grounds a good +opinion of a person’s character, we ought to trust them. Many persons,” +he added, with some warmth, “may be compelled by circumstances to act +strangely; but if we have good reason to think well of their character, +we ought to trust them, however appearances may be against them.” + +“So I think,” said Robert, “though I believe Everard you have the Bible +against you. As Strafford said, ‘Put not your trust in princes, nor in +any child of man.’” + +“I know one’s trust might sometimes fail,” Everard replied, “but I will +stand to my opinion. I will trust, and I hope to be trusted.” + +Chance words, opinions expressed by chance, sometimes make an +impression which words spoken for the purpose of impressing fail to do. +This opinion of Everard’s sank deep into Angela’s mind. It remained +buried, and perhaps forgotten, but in an after time revived again. + +When the conversation on this point dropt, Robert said he had appointed +Hope to meet them, and it was time to be gone; both wished Angela +good-bye, and departed accordingly. + +She was taken by surprise at their sudden departure, and not till they +were gone remembered that since those strange words of hers she had had +no opportunity of speaking to Everard, or even of judging by his +countenance and manner what he thought of her. She took up “Camilla,” +and sat pondering over it, not on Camilla’s affairs but her own. Why had +she not offered to walk with them? what could have been more natural. +Why was Mr. Merivale always in the way? Yet again, if she had seen +Everard what could she have said? She could not recur to what had +passed. How grave he had looked when he wished her good bye! She wished +she could see into his mind. No doubt, however, she should shortly see +him again, and with this last thought, after many cogitations, she +smoothed her ruffled brow and began to read in earnest. + +Mr. Merivale had been watching her; when he saw the knitted brow relaxed +he rose and said, + +“If I were not so crazy a concern in point of health, I think I should +ask your father to board and lodge me. Italy is a long way off when +one’s eyes have business in England.” + +“I wish you would come and live with us,” Angela said cordially; “I +should like it of all things.” + +“Should you, my dear child?” he said, looking towards her with a +scrutinizing air. + +“I don’t mean to say,” she said, blushing a little, “that you don’t +sometimes worry me. I am not very fond of being looked at in that +curious way, and I don’t quite agree with your views and opinions, but I +should be ungrateful indeed if it did not give me greater pleasure than +almost anything in the world to have you here, and even to have you find +fault with me.” + +“You want watching, Angela; you are here alone, a very young, very +excitable, and I may as well say what you know, a very pretty woman. +Your manners ought to be guarded, sober, and discreet, instead of +yielding, as you do, to every impulse. A guardian would be a good thing +for you; a sensible woman guardian especially; but there is a still +better thing, and that is, that you should be a guard upon yourself. I +believe a woman’s own refined and regulated mind is always her safest +guard.” + +“If you will give me my rules to go by,” she said, “I am sure I will do +my very best to follow them; but how is it possible to be always +weighing every word and every action. I know I sometimes do what I am +sorry for afterwards, but at the moment it seems so right. Besides, Mr. +Merivale, don’t think I mean to argue with you, I only say what I +think--I think the world is too much tied up with rules; not good rules, +but mere society rules--rules that leave what is good alone, and take +notice only of what is showy. I will do my best I promise you, to do +what is _right_, but I _will not_ be tied up with rules that I scorn and +despise.” + +He looked at her with a smile that said how plainly he read what was +passing in her mind. He did not, however, intrude upon it, but only +observed, “I partly agree with you, but remember this--a young woman is +not the proper person to set herself against the world’s common +opinions. Her view may in itself be the right one, but it becomes wrong +when held by one whose proper character is to be modest, sober, gentle, +and discreet. A woman who braves the world, may amuse, but is rarely +respected. Now I have done. I hate lecturing, but I could not leave you +without giving you a piece of my mind.” + +“And though I seem so rebellious, I thank you a thousand times. I will +really try to be discreet, but sometimes I think the world is a vile +world, and that my mission is to reform it. How I hate gold and silver.” + +“Little fool,” he said, “how little you know what you hate.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + What shall I do? Make vows and break them still? + ’Twill be but labour lost; + My good cannot prevail against mine ill: + The business will be crost. + + Oh! say not so; thou canst not tell what strength + Thy God will give thee at the length: + Renew thy vows and if thou keep the last + Thy God will pardon all that’s past. + + CHRISTOPHER HERVEY. + + +“Has Everard spoken to you of his troubles, Joan?” Mr. Vavasour enquired +of his wife on the evening of the day following the return of his sons. + +Mrs. Vavasour looked up with surprise. + +“He came to me,” he continued, “this morning, with a confession; to ask +my advice, and I believe to take it.” + +“If you smile there can be no great cause of trouble,” Mrs. Vavasour +said with an inward sigh, as she thought of the frowns over Robert’s +troubles. + +“If I smile, it is not because I think lightly of it. Everard is in +love, and love with Everard will be serious.” + +“Everard in love. Impossible!” + +“And why so, Joan?” Mr. Vavasour asked with a look of enquiry. + +“Everard,” Mrs. Vavasour replied, after a moment’s thought, “is grave +and cold, and reserved. Of a strong attachment, I can suppose him +capable, but of a sudden fancy I should never have suspected him.” + +Mr. Vavasour shook his head, but merely said, “Nevertheless, it has come +to pass.” After a moment he continued, “He came to me for advice and I +gave it; but in justice to Everard, I must say, that his judgment was +even more decisive than mine. He leaves us to-morrow.” + +“You must tell me the tale,” said Mrs. Vavasour, smiling. “It is a new +thought to think of Everard as a lover.” + +Mr. Vavasour mentioned the few particulars that Everard had told him; +among which, was the notification he had had of Mr. Gresham’s +dissatisfaction with his manners. “Everard’s tale,” he continued, “was +somewhat incoherently told. I gathered the particulars rather than +received them. He fully confessed the fact of his love, but owing to +Miss Gresham’s position, seemed to dread my condemnation, and to be +ashamed to confess it. My feeling was different. I was neither surprised +at the confession nor unprepared for it; but my opinion was decisive and +I gave it. In consequence, he leaves us to-morrow.” + +“Forgive me if I ask it,” said Mrs. Vavasour, “but is this departure +either needful or reasonable?” + +“Yes, Joan, both. Everard confesses that at this moment he cannot answer +for his self-control. He has, therefore, no choice. I am not one to +recommend a flight from temptation. If possible, I would always say, +meet it whatever it be, and overcome it; but if a man in cold blood +foresees that he shall fail, I see no course but flight.” + +“But why,” said Mrs. Vavasour--“forgive me again for differing with +you--why should not Everard love Angela Gresham, win her, and marry +her?” + +“Because his soul and mine also,” said Mr. Vavasour, proudly, “revolts +from it. It is not for Everard, at twenty, to court the favour of the +heiress of thousands. An honourable soul avoids the appearance of +baseness.” + +“Angela would be a good wife for Everard,” said his wife, after some +consideration, “and I think Everard would be a good and wise husband for +her. Is the fear of a mere appearance of evil to be placed in +competition with a true attachment, and one from which the blessing of +domestic happiness would spring.” + +“If this thing be good and desirable,” was her husband’s reply, “it may +at some future time be brought about by other means. Everard must not +seek it.” + +“If Everard loves at all his love will be strong,” said his mother. “It +will grieve me if his love is wasted.” + +“The test of love is time. What is it now but a fancy, and what right +has Everard at twenty to think his first fancy shall be satisfied?” + +Mrs. Vavasour was silent. At last she said, “And Everard agreed at once +to your decision?” + +“Yes, and with all his heart.” + +“You are pleased with Everard’s conduct,” she said again, and this time +timidly. + +“I am, Joan, and chiefly for this reason--that although the feelings of +youth are strong, his desire to do that which _we_ call right is +unshaken. He honours his father and mother, and that honour guides him +right, when possibly other principles have not attained sufficient +growth to restrain him.” + +“Many have that,” she said, with some passion in her voice, “but God has +not given them the strength of purpose to do all things well.” + +Her husband saw where her thoughts had flown, and looked at her +compassionately and tenderly; but his words were grave. “He might, Joan, +if they sought it; we must trust He will.” + +Judging from analogy the likeness of Everard to his father ought to have +won from Mrs. Vavasour, the same worshipping tenderness she gave her +husband. But analogy in the seemingly capricious fancies of the human +heart is no safe guide. That very strength of purpose and self-restraint +which Mrs. Vavasour saw in her husband with idolatry, was painful to her +in her son. She would have loved him better, if he had at this moment +been less unflinching. She owned, indeed, that since Mr. Gresham had +spoken, he had little choice; but some demonstrations of weakness, some +appeals to pity, would have pleased her well. As it was, she saw him +simple and self-possessed; the cold, reserved Everard of her +imagination; and being so, she let him go without a word of sympathy, or +allusions, either serious or playful, to the cause of his departure. + +But so once again she misjudged him. Everard left home with a wounded +heart; wounded not by his feelings for Angela, but by his mother’s +carelessness to his concerns. He hoped for her interest, but failing to +find it did not dare to approach her with his confession. Never before +had the longing, the almost womanish longing to be loved so assailed +him, and to this cause was it more especially owing that his thoughts +pertinaciously recurred to the image that had been forbidden--that one +being who seemed to consider him worthy of her interest and regard. + +The day after Everard’s departure was Sunday, and Robert walked, as he +and Everard had generally done, part of the way homewards with Angela +and her father. + +He talked of the pretty singing of the village children; praised and +criticised Mr. Addison’s sermon; and drew a smile of pure amusement from +Mr. Gresham’s lips, as he related some school-boy tales of extraordinary +misadventures during the church service; but he made no mention of +Everard’s departure. His non-appearance was a great disappointment to +Angela. She had counted much on these few minutes walk homewards; she +determined, however, that she would not ask where he was; _that_ she +supposed would be acting with the propriety Mr. Merivale recommended. +The natural woman was, however, too strong for the restrained one, and +notwithstanding the determination, before they parted with Robert the +question _was_ asked-- + +“Where is your brother to-day?” + +“I cannot exactly say,” Robert said, wilfully misunderstanding her. “At +St. Dunstan’s, or St. Clement’s, or St. Martin’s, or St. Paul’s, or....” + +“What _do_ you mean, Mr. Vavasour?” + +“I mean that I don’t know Everard’s movements, nor the churches he +frequents. I am only sure it is something very staunch and orthodox. No +_ism_ of any sort where Everard goes.” + +“Has Mr. Everard Vavasour left you?” Mr. Gresham enquired with interest +and politeness. + +“Yes, he went yesterday.” + +“And when does he come back?” Angela asked quickly. + +“That I don’t know. He has gone back to his business. My father gave him +something to do which made him go sooner than he had intended. At +least,” he added with a mischievous smile, “so he said.” + +Hurt, angry, injured, and indignant, Angela with difficulty restrained +her feelings; and having parted from Robert, she walked on without a +word. + +Mr. Gresham saw her heightened colour, and felt how wise had been his +precautions, and how happy he was in having to do with so estimable and +amenable a young man as Everard. This danger at an end, all he assured +himself would go smoothly, and he already boasted like those who are +putting off their harness, their labour done. + +Many conflicting feelings agitated Angela. Sometimes one class of +emotions predominated, sometimes another. A sense of injury at his +coldness; alarm lest she had lost his good opinion; a conviction that he +loved, but owing to her worldly circumstances dared not approach her; +and a longing to tell him with what joy she would give up all into his +hands. Under her ceaseless conjecturings her feelings made strides, and +more than her fancy began to fasten itself upon him. + +Robert followed Everard in a week. Before his reconciliation with his +father he had made an engagement with a friend to accompany him in his +yacht to the east. On his arrival at home in the first warmth of his +feelings he had offered to give up the excursion if displeasing to his +father. But Mr. Vavasour had declined to accept the offer. It was indeed +his hope that Robert might learn to take and find more of his pleasures +at home, but his concentrated thoughts and affections had not made him +unwise or narrow-minded. He had sympathy with the natural curiosity of +youth, and he was besides well aware that reluctant obedience is to the +restless a dangerous trial. He knew no harm of the proposed companion, +and was willing, therefore, to hope the best. + +Robert’s conduct during this last visit had completely disarmed Mr. +Vavasour’s resentment. On a former occasion _he_ had been smarting from +the sense of disgrace, and had seemed cold; and coldly Robert had met +his forgiveness. On this occasion the feelings and conduct on both sides +had been different. Robert had been really repentant, and Mr. Vavasour +really forgiving. A new bond had been knit between them, and Mr. +Vavasour, whose strong and limited attachments made him prone to +idolatry, was unconsciously hoping for his son with more than reasonable +hope, and building in his sleeping and waking dreams proud and stable +castles for the future. + +All but Mr. Addison and one other shared in Mr. Vavasour’s hopes. There +was one other who felt with sad conviction that the time for confidence +was not yet come. Hope watched Robert with eyes of vigilant affection, +with eyes not blind through love, but from the very depth of her love +clear and searching; and to her it was plain that in his good feelings +there was no root, and that there was no settled principle in his mind. +She saw his repentance, his humility, his dutiful affection, his warmth +of heart, his many good, many generous, many attractive qualities--saw +and loved them; they were the signs of the good soul within; the buds of +promise foretelling a future day of grace. But she saw them as they +were, without the halo of illusion, and saw them unstable as water, and +fading as flowers. + +She determined before he went to make an effort to save him. + +He was not very willing at any time to speak of himself or the future, +and serious discussions even with her he avoided. It was painful to him +to have his steadiness questioned, or good resolves doubted; perhaps +from the very consciousness of the hollowness of the foundation on which +they were built he did not care to have them sifted and weighed; and to +give him pain was very painful to her. Still she resolved to venture. + +Two mornings before his departure she sought him for her purpose. + +She found him in the library reading, or at least with a book in his +hand. He was leaning back in an arm chair, close to a blazing fire; for +the September mornings were growing chilly, and Robert loved comfort. + +The door by which she entered was behind him, and she stood by his side +before he perceived her. + +“I am so glad to have found you alone,” she said, softly. + +“So am I, Hope;” and he looked in her face with a fond and serious +smile. “But why? Have you anything to say to me?” + +“Yes, Robert. And yet it is nothing new. Oh! Robert,” and she clasped +her hands together with an earnest movement, common to her when excited, +“I want you to promise me to try not to forget.” + +“Forget _you_, Hope. Do you mean that? Yes, I will promise and vow, that +I never--never will forget you. There was no need to ask that.” + +His tone was eager, and brought a faint unconscious blush to her cheek. +But no other consciousness. “No, Robert,” she replied with simple +frankness, “it was not that. I am not afraid of your forgetting me. It +was your father, his wishes, his forgiveness; dear Robert, will you +promise me to try and remember when you are gone far away.” + +“I will do my best, Hope. You may trust me for that; but the path of +life is exceedingly narrow, and some pilgrims are apt to grow weary in +their progress.” + +He spoke not without earnestness and sincerity, and yet there was a +careless wording in his speech, which left a doubtful impression on her +mind. + +“Don’t look so troubled, Hope,” he continued. “I really and truly mean +that I will do my very best, but one must not be proud and confident. +You know frail and mortal man is born to get into trouble; at least, +some are, and it is not for the weak to boast themselves like the +strong.” + +“I would not have you boast, but only.... Oh! what would happen if you +were to forget again.” + +“If I were to forget again, I should be a rascal and a villain, Hope, +and should not find, and should not deserve forgiveness. Don’t let us +dream of such horrible possibilities. Let us rather think, dear Hope, +that I shall persevere, and win all your loves, and all your honours.” + +He was still seated by the fire, and she still stood by his side. So as +a child had she been accustomed to wait upon him, and old habits had +never been broken. Dr. South beautifully says of those who have kept +unstained their early innocence, that “the Holy Ghost has descended on +them in the form of a dove.” Such words are very expressive of what +Hope was. The guileless purity of her look had always exercised a +singular power over Robert. He sat watching her, as she stood now beside +him, silent and thoughtful, with strong but suppressed emotion in his +face. + +“Well, Hope,” at last he said, “have you more to say? I think you have; +you are not satisfied yet.” + +“There is one thing I should like to say,” she replied with a slightly +rising colour, “but....” + +“Dear Hope, say all you wish,” he said kindly; “don’t be afraid!” + +“You say you are weak, Robert, so are we all, if we do not try to be +strong. Oh! Robert, why will you not. You know how it should be, but I +am sometimes afraid you forget. Oh! dear Robert; will you promise me to +remember your prayers.” + +“You shall pray for me, Hope; that will be far better. Your prayers are +certain to be heard. I am not so sure about mine.” + +“But oh! Robert,” and she clasped her hands, “what can any prayers do if +you will not pray for yourself?” + +“I hope they can do much. I depend on yours for me. I think of them, +Hope, like so many good angels guarding me.” + +“But yourself, dear Robert, yourself. It is so dreadful to live and say +no prayer. Oh! will you promise me to try?” + +He looked very uneasy. He could not bear to refuse her, but hidden +conscious weakness made him hesitate. “To tell you the truth, Hope,” he +replied, after a little thought, “I would rather not promise. I know I +make resolutions, and break them, and that is bad enough; but there is +something more sacred in this. I should not like to promise you this, +and then to go and forget.” + +“But why forget, dear Robert, why forget?” + +“Ah! Hope, why? That is a very puzzling question, and I can’t answer it. +I tell you I am weak, and I do not like to trust myself with promises +of this kind. I would rather not.” He spoke hurriedly. + +“I will urge you no more,” she replied sadly. “I meant it only for your +good.” + +Her tone was so soft and sweet, that it went to Robert’s heart. It +seemed to overset some hitherto restrained emotion. + +“I know it,” he cried, starting passionately from his seat. “I know it, +Hope, my darling, and if I were not a fool and a coward, I should ask +you, not only to pray for me, but to be my wife; my wife to lead and +guide me all my life long; but I am afraid, Hope, you are too young yet. +I might break your heart. Why do you blush so, my dearest?” he continued +yet more vehemently. “Don’t you know that I worship _you_; don’t you +know that if it were to promise to kneel to _you_, were it night and +day, I would do it, and never forget.” + +It was with no thrill of rapture that this passionate declaration of +love was heard and received by Hope. _Her_ love for him had had no +dreams of earth about it; it was love bound up with his soul’s welfare, +and his profane and reckless words startled that affection, terrified +and afflicted it. She withdrew from him a few steps, and stood before +him with clasped hands and downcast eyes, looking so fair, so grave, so +holy, so like some young saint in an ancient picture, that the next +instant, half in jest, but much more in earnest, Robert in very deed +knelt at her feet to ask forgiveness. + +“Oh! Robert,” she said, covering her face with her hands, “if you could +know how you grieve me.” + +“Do I grieve you?” he cried, springing up; “yes, I know I do, and if you +could but tell how I hate myself for it. But Hope,” he continued, in an +altered tone of almost reverend tenderness, “you must not be too hard +upon me. I cannot be like you all in a minute, though I hope to be some +day. If my love grieves you, you must forget it. I know such a +worthless sinner as I am, should not expect to have a holy saint for his +portion; and yet, Hope,” he paused and took her hand and looked fondly +in her face, “and yet, perhaps, he does expect it.” + +She raised her eyes and looked at him, no longer shrinking from his +gaze. She was not given to tears, but now a single tear did sparkle on +her lashes, and dropped upon his hand. What it meant, nor she, perhaps, +nor he could fully tell, but as he saw it his heart swelled with strange +emotion, and silently and gratefully he pressed his lips upon her hand. + +Nor then nor during the remainder of his stay did Robert speak of his +own, or in any way seek to draw from Hope a confession of her affection. +His manner was as it had been before, only that possibly something more +of thoughtfulness characterized his intercourse with her. + +Some departures take place without emotion; some even when it is but for +a short absence, agitate the surface of the home left behind. Everard +went, and amid the kindly glances that followed him, none were dimmed +with tears; no heart felt to lose its being as he disappeared. Robert +went, and his father’s voice was tremulous; his mother wept and could +not restrain herself, and Hope stood mute and still in speechless +sorrow. There might be other reasons for the difference; and Robert +guessed them; yet still, above and beyond all other motives, he knew and +felt he was the idolized son of the house, and felt it with a pang. It +pierced on his conscious unworthiness like a dagger’s stab. + +“Mr. Addison,” he said with emotion, for Mr. Addison stood at the door +of his chaise, “I hope to come back worthy of my father’s trust. If I +fail....” he paused, then added hurriedly, “Mr. Addison, will you stand +my friend? Remember that man is weak. Don’t let them ask too much, or +judge me too hardly.” + +Mr. Addison grasped his hand in mute token of assent. “God bless you, +Robert,” he said, “and deliver you from evil.” + +Not with a thrill of rapture had Hope heard of Robert’s love. Not with a +thrill of rapture did she recur to it when he was gone. And yet.... + +At first she trembled at the recurrence of his image to her thoughts--at +first dreaded lest his words had placed a barrier between him and her +devoted affection. But this was but the natural disturbance on the +surface. When this passed by and her heart settled again into calm, she +found that the new link that bound them was holier than before. He had a +double claim to her thoughts and her prayers, and with a more intense +devotion she gave herself up to be his guardian spirit for ever. + +After Robert’s departure, Hope felt that she had no right to withhold +from her aunt the knowledge of what had passed. “Aunt Joan, did Robert +tell you what he said to me?” was her confession. + +It was no new thought, no new hope, to Mrs. Vavasour, nor was Hope’s +confession an altogether unexpected one. She wound her arms round her +niece, and said, “Cherish his love, dearest; to that love I have ever +looked as the feeling which will win him, and bind him, and make him all +we would have him be in this world and for ever.” And much as she had +ever loved her niece, this new bond knit her soul to hers with a dearer +affection. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, + Their sober wishes never learned to stray; + Along the cool sequester’d vale of life, + They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. + + GRAY. + + +“The gentleman.” + +So Mrs. Price’s little maid announced Everard, a few days after his +return to London. + +Miss Price had not completely recovered from her accident, and was still +lying faded in looks on her faded sofa. A sermon book and a piece of +work were on her lap, but she had dozed over both, and in her doze +Everard’s knock escaped unheard. The present piece of work was intended +to give the impression of a heap of shells on the sand, and the hues of +the various colours were very faithfully depicted. It was her own +special choice, and she looked upon it as an exquisite thing. + +“Good morning, Mr. Vavasour,” she exclaimed, half rising, and extremely +nervous and fluttered in manner; not that she owned to having been +caught dozing, but she perceived that the salmon-coloured shawl had +fallen from her feet, and her sense of propriety was shocked in +consequence. + +“I am afraid I startled you,” he said, kindly. + +“Oh, no, by no means, that is to say,” as with a dexterous manœuvre she +caught the shawl and threw it over her shoes, “I certainly did not +expect a visitor this afternoon. And you least of any. I thought you +were in the country.” + +“I left Audley Court last Friday. I should have called before if I had +been able. I thought you would like to hear the news.” + +“Thank you, you are too kind. I hardly know how to express how kind I +take your visit. It is not every person, not every young man who would +take such trouble. I assure you I feel it.” + +“You need not thank me, Miss Price, for I am very glad to come,” Everard +said, quickly, “besides, I promised Miss Gresham I would call.” + +“Ah! dear Angela, she is always thoughtful. I hope you left her and her +father well in health.” + +“More than well,” said Everard, smiling, “you cannot think how well and +happy they are.” + +“I hear from my niece occasionally, and I gathered from her letters that +she was pleased with the country. I often think it must be a pleasant +thing to see the fields and the flowers. When I was young I thought +little of the blessing, but now I feel as if it would make me young +again. I sometimes see them in my dreams.” + +“I hope you will see them in reality some day,” he said, kindly, touched +by the dreary ideas her words presented. “I am sure Miss Gresham, when +she is a little older, and has more liberty, will procure the pleasure +for you.” + +“When she is married you mean.” + +“Yes,” with a slight change of colour. + +“Perhaps it is best not to think of such things. The future is not in +our power. I try not to think of it. I try to be thankful as I am.” + +“I am sure that is being very wise; but I don’t know that it is an easy +example to follow, or that I should like to follow it if it were easy.” + +“Perhaps not. You are like dear Angela in that, she always wishes to +know, and I tell her, better not. We might see a great deal of trial in +the future. God is very merciful. He hides it from us.” + +Everard looked at her, coloured and made no answer. + +“And you left dear Angela well?” + +“Yes well and ... beautiful,” he added after a moment with a smile. + +“She is pretty, certainly, and when she is happy, her smile is very +sweet. I think she is happy. I told you that I heard from her +occasionally, and when she wrote she _said_ she was happy. She would +write often if her father allowed it, but he thinks correspondence is +dangerous for young ladies, and perhaps he is right; young ladies are +not always wise.” + +“I think she might write to you without danger,” Everard said laughing; +“you would only teach her what is good, I am sure.” + +“I hope that is true. Still her father does not know; and besides, I am +not very wise. I mean,” and she assumed an air of some dignity, “that I +do not live much in the world, and I am not much in the habit of +meeting with young ladies, and I might not perfectly understand. In fact +it is best as it is, I sit and think of her, and pray she may be kept +from evil, and may be happy when God pleases.” + +A pause followed. Though Everard’s call had been made only in obedience +to Angela’s request, he had certainly felt strangely anxious about the +visit; as if something, he could not tell what, would be discovered or +betrayed. He now smiled at the folly of his expectations, and in his +meditations on the subject, forgot to make himself agreeable. + +“Are you come to town for the winter season, Mr. Vavasour?” enquired +Miss Price, after a silence of some moments. + +“Hardly winter yet; but yes, I am come to stay till Christmas, or near +it. There is a great deal of knowledge which has to be got into my dull +brains, and the sooner it is done the better. I am going to study very +hard.” + +“You will be a great man I hope, Mr. Vavasour.” + +“I wish I could hope I should for my father’s sake. He would like it. +For myself, I do not care about greatness, except that....” He stopped +and coloured, and then was going to explain away his exception, when the +placid answer showed him there was no need to think curious eyes were +upon him. + +“That is like dear Angela. She says she does not care about greatness +and riches; but I tell her she does not know. Young people know very +little what they like, or what they wish; especially gay young people +like Angela. Life is so very different to what they think.” + +“Yes,” Everard replied gravely. + +“I suppose we none of us quite know what we like till we have tried it. +I don’t mean to say dear Angela is more giddy than most people; but she +has strong fancies, and she thinks they will last, and perhaps she does +not know. We none of us do know. Man is very changeable. Not that I +should think you were, Mr. Vavasour. I should say you were strong, only +that we don’t know till we try.” + +“No, I do not think I am changeable,” he said in the same grave voice, +“but you are right, we do not know.” + +Her common places were not common places to him. She had forced on his +mind a thought which had not been very present before. That fancy for +him which Angela had shewn was probably but the caprice of a day. He had +no right to build upon it. + +It was not a pleasant, but it was a useful reflection; and assisted him +in his struggle to banish the vain and flattering illusions, which were +but too ready to flit before his fancy. + +In the course of the autumn Miss Price added this postcript to her +letter to Angela. + +“I omitted to tell you, my love, that I had a visit from your friend Mr. +Vavasour. He was particularly kind, but I know, dearest, I had you to +thank for the visit, for he told me so. I have not seen him since, but +he said he would call some day, so I know he will. He has been +exceedingly kind. I happened to mention that I was fond of flowers; I +don’t know how it came out, but I did. I am sure, my love, you will +believe I did not mean to ask for favours; but he has twice sent me a +bunch of violets, so sweet and so fresh, it made me feel happy to smell +them. I long to see him that I may thank him; but I know I must wait +patiently.” + +Why Miss Price put this into a postcript it might have been hard to say, +being, as it was, the only thing approaching to interest in her prosy +letter. She certainly did not intend to fix Angela’s mind the more +intently on her communication, for she had not, as yet, opened her +intellect to receive the knowledge or suspicion of her attachment; but, +though unintended, such was naturally the result. It would, at any +rate, have excited interest. So communicated, Angela saw in it mysteries +without end. It served her for many days of happy thought. + +While Everard, in London, did his best to forget Angela, she, in the +country, did her best to impress his image on her mind. Though the +process is different the end attained is usually the same. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + Thrill me not + With words that, in their agony, suggest + A hope too ravishing. + ION. _A Tragedy._ + + +Before Robert’s departure he had voluntarily promised to return for +Christmas. It was two years since he had passed a Christmas at home; and +he was well aware of the joy his presence would give. At the end of +November, in a letter dated three weeks before, from some port in the +Mediterranean, he spoke of his intention as unaltered. But Christmas +came, and no Robert came with it. Night and day, Mrs. Vavasour and Hope +caught in the wintry winds that swept round the house heralds of +Robert’s approach; but they were empty sounds. + +Christmas came and past without a word. What each one felt, each one +knew; but nothing was said. Mr. Vavasour waited with something of a +new-born patience, as if unwilling to distrust again. Mrs. Vavasour +assumed a cheerfulness she did not feel, lest her husband should suspect +she had a fear. Hope trembled, and was still. + +She had had her terrors. She had them still. Over the far future a star +of hope ever shone, but darkness hung around the future that was near. +She had a fear that a valley as of the shadow of death had to be passed +through; and silently she strengthened herself to walk through it with +him without dismay. No joyous visions entered into this her first love. + +Though Robert did not come, Everard came as usual. His greeting was as +his departure had been, calm. The same kindly and approving looks and +words; the same absence of that eager joy which marks the return of the +house’s idol. Perhaps in the disappointment regarding Robert, his +greeting was more calm than usual; or perchance it was only his fancy +that called it so. + +He came back graver than he went, but more resolved. A few words of +approbation in one of his father’s letters regarding his conduct to +Angela, a few words expressive of perfect trust in his truth and honour, +had given him the spur he wanted. His father’s views were so exactly the +views of his own sober mind, his distaste to any courting of Mr. Gresham +so instinctively shared, that though distant hopes might haunt his +imagination, Everard was very firmly resolved against any further +weakness in the present. + +At the church door on Christmas day he and Angela met again. Mr. +Vavasour was leaning on Everard’s arm. Angela’s veil was down. There +could be little to excite or satisfy the imagination. Yet Everard, +through her veil, saw Angela’s heightened colour, and Angela felt the +gravity of his looks; and both entered the church full of earthly care. +Everard struggling with a sudden revival of old weakness, Angela +escaping from the present into pictures of future meetings; questioning +the meaning of his grave face, and planning means of discovering the +secrets of his soul. + +On both, Mr. Addison’s text fell warningly and startlingly--“Comfort ye, +comfort ye, my people, saith your God,”--for the world’s sorrows, of +which he began to speak, were not like to their troubles, and the +message of comfort he brought had little force at that moment to them. +Everard roused himself with a sigh, and a conscious furtive smile; +Angela said in her heart how bad she must be, and she wished she was +better, and then ... dreamed again. + +At the church door they met a second time, and the two families crossed +the church-yard and went for a few steps down the lane together; but +Everard had again given his arm to his father, and there was not even +the appearance of a wish to escape. Mr. Gresham addressed Everard with +the utmost politeness; inquired after his health, his journey, and the +state of the atmosphere in London; but of a desire to see more of him +said nothing. So they met and so they parted. After months of dreaming +this was their meeting. Angela went home weary and discontented with the +world. Not so weary, however, but that before evening she had recovered +her sanguine temper, and was full of restless desires for the morrow. + +Many morrows came and went, however, and brought no meetings more +satisfactory than this. She saw Everard constantly, but for more than a +moment rarely saw him. No restrictions were placed upon her movements. +During the early winter she had been in the habit of visiting Hope +frequently, and she was allowed the same freedom now. Mr. Gresham +appeared to ignore the possibility of danger from her intercourse at +Audley Court. This implicit trust in his honour bound and strengthened +Everard as nothing else could have done. It gave him pain, but it was an +appeal he could not resist. With all his powers he endeavoured to meet +his cousin’s guest with indifference, neither to avoid nor to seek her. +Possibly, nay, probably, his duty was overdone. Such things always are. +Possibly, nay, certainly, Angela’s mind was but the more stedfastly bent +on endeavouring to discover the truth through the barrier of his +indifference. + +One morning, it was within a few days of Everard’s return to London, +Angela drove over early to spend some hours with Hope. This early visit +was at Hope’s request, and Hope’s request had been made on a suggestion +from Mr. Addison. Watching Angela with silent but observing eyes, seeing +the good of her disposition and the evils also, her precocious scorn of +the world’s ways, and her unreal and childish view of its actual ways +and troubles, he thought that some knowledge of life in another sphere +of thought, some sight of the unromantic ills of the poor, by bringing +reality, might bring good to her character. It was in the morning that +Hope usually attended to the sick and the suffering whom Mr. Addison +placed under her special care, and her invitation to Angela was in the +hope of persuading her to accompany her. + +To Hope, Angela’s feelings were very visible. A month or two before, it +would not have been so; but experience teaches! Strangely different as +were Hope’s views of love, still her feelings for Robert, the new form +of her feelings had opened a door in her soul hitherto closed. In some +sort, these new feelings dragged her down to earth; but only +superficially speaking. There is nothing heavenly in narrowness of +vision: the gaze upward from a ravine may be more concentrated, than +from a plain; but it does not therefore, go nearer to Heaven; the wider +field, the larger experience; the more embracing love is that which +brings man nearer to an angel’s life. Knowledge and observation, and +experience, to natures like Hope’s, bring suffering with them, for the +dragging down is pain; but it brings increased strength for their +mission on earth, and in the end wings the soul on fresher wings +upwards. She was more fitted now to do good to Angela. She had a +perception of mental trials and common temptations, before unknown; and +with the knowledge, as it ever was with her, came sympathy and desire to +help. + +She acted on Mr. Addison’s suggestion at once. The attempt was not, +however, successful; in this first essay, at least, it was not so, and +that from two causes:--the first cause, that Angela went to the work, +her heart smarting and bitter with disappointment, too recent to leave +her much power to consider the troubles of others. On their way to the +village, they overtook Everard strolling along with his dog. He was +evidently in no haste, and Angela thought common civility must force him +to join them. He seemed to think so himself, for he did walk with them +to the outskirts of the village; but there, instead of accompanying them +further, he stopped, said he should call on Mr. Addison, and with a +quick “good-bye,” went off in another direction. + +A second cause of ill-success in interesting her in the poor was, from +the ill doings of the poor themselves. When she found the poverty of one +family proceeding from the fact, that the husband was an habitual +drunkard; the sorrow of another, from the transportation of a son; when +she found in another house, the illness of a young girl proceeding from +a beating given her by her mother, and that beating caused by frantic +rage at the girl’s vain and thoughtless conduct; her indignation and +abhorrence knew no bounds. Little perfect as she was herself she had yet +to learn that man is frail, and that the bitterest sorrows are those +that sin brings with them. + +As they returned homewards, she expressed, in no measured terms, her +condemnation of the wickedness of the poor, and her astonishment that +one so good as Hope could by her presence countenance guilt. + +Hope, accustomed to the mixture of good and ill, and so hating sin that +she would have gone into a furnace could she have dragged a sinner out, +was yet unable to cope with Angela in argument; that charity which would +do all things to save some, does not bear argument: it is the mission of +some, not of all, perhaps only of those whose holiness is too +deep-seated a quality to fear contamination. + +“I will shew you some verses Everard copied for me the other day,” at +last she said. “They will say better than I can do, what my feeling +about human nature is.” + +This speech silenced Angela; partly satisfied her, partly sent her mind +from her indignation against the poor, to her own troubles. + +On re-entering the house, they found luncheon ready. There was a place +for Everard, but he did not come. Mrs. Vavasour saw Angela’s wandering +eyes, and casually, but kindly, observed that Everard was very little of +a luncheon eater. That might be a fact, Angela thought, but it did not +make it less clear that he could have been at home if he had pleased. + +Immediately after luncheon, Angela’s carriage drove to the door; but a +violent storm came on, and it was sent away for an hour. She then +reminded Hope of her promise to show her Everard’s verses; and together +they proceeded to Hope’s sitting room. + +It was a pretty cheerful room in one of the towers--pretty, but +simple--in all its arrangements, betokening that the spirit which +presided over it, was neither a lover of beauty nor intellect, nor +luxury, but of something more earnest than any of these. + +Hope brought her manuscript book, and was about to shew Angela the +verses to which she had alluded, when a knock at the door summoned her +to Mr. Vavasour, who wished her to copy a letter before post-time. She +left Angela alone to look over her book at her pleasure. + +The study of Hope’s character in the selection of prose and verse before +her, would in some moods have interested her; but disappointed and +restless, she could at this moment only give her mind to that which +concerned herself. The hand-writing of Everard did concern her; and over +that she meditated, endeavouring to trace his qualities in the bold, +upright hand; until, as she listlessly read the verses, their sentiments +caught her attention, expressing as they did Hope’s epitome of +Christian charity. The poem was by Emily Taylor; these were among the +stanzas:-- + + There is an evil and a good + In every soul unknown to thee-- + A darker or a brighter mood + Than aught thine eye can ever see. + Words, actions, faintly mark the whole + That lies within a living soul. + + Perhaps thy sterner mind condemns + Some brother mind that, reasoning less, + The tide of error slowly stems + In pain, in fear, in weariness; + Thou call’st him weak--he may be so-- + What made him weak, thou canst not know. + + Perhaps thy spirit’s calm repose + No evil dream hath come to spoil; + A firm, resistless front it shews + Amidst the passions’ fiercest broil; + ’Tis well!--enjoy and bless thy lot, + Still pitying him who shares it not! + +Touched and softened she lingered over them. To feel real charity was +very soothing, and, for the moment, the new feeling absorbed her. She +was reading the poem intently for the third time when another knock +disturbed her. Before she could say “Come in,”--for, like a brother, +Everard waited for no answer to his announcement of himself--the door +opened, and he hastily entered. + +When he saw the occupant of the room he stood still, and a flush of +crimson changed the whole character of his face. For a moment they gazed +at each other in embarrassed silence. It was the first time they had +been alone since that evening whose memory pursued Angela with ceaseless +torment. If he did not remember this she did. + +He was the first to recover himself, and to speak. “I beg your pardon,” +he said, quickly; “I came to speak to Hope.” + +“Hope is gone to Mr. Vavasour,” Angela said, composedly; her heart was +bounding with expectation, but she was determined to behave with dignity +and propriety. “She has been gone some minutes; I think she will be back +directly.” + +There was a pause. Angela waited. She would not be forward; she would be +ready, but not bold; she waited, her countenance, perhaps, very +speaking, but her lips still. The pause was broken by Everard’s slowly +advancing; making her heart beat till it almost broke. But it was a +needless agitation. He approached only to place a letter on the table, +and, speaking in quiet tones, begged her to give it to Hope, and to tell +her Mr. Addison wished for an early answer. Having delivered his +message, he retraced his steps, merely bowing his head and observing, “I +will not disturb you,” as he left the room. + +Tears of passion and resentment sprang to Angela’s eyes, and would have +fallen in a torrent if they had not suddenly been arrested by pride. “He +does not, cannot care for me,” she said, with bitterness of tongue, “and +if he does not care, why should I? I do not mean to waste my life on a +feeling that he despises.” + +She walked impetuously to the window and threw it open; the sharp air +braced and cooled her, and having stilled her agitation, and calmed her +countenance, she sat down again to await Hope’s return. As she resumed +her seat, a vision flashed before her eyes--Everard’s startled gaze and +flushed cheek when he saw her alone--and she involuntarily said, “Was +_that_ indifference?” With the words her resentful mood passed by; +conviction, absolute conviction, took its place, that it was her hated +gold which made him afraid, and strange venturous thoughts presented +themselves to her mind. + +“Uncle Richard thinks you had better go, Angela,” Hope said, as she +entered. “The sky looks so black he is afraid it will be a stormy +evening.” + +“I think so too,” Angela said, in a hasty manner, restless to be doing +something. “Let us go down stairs. Oh! I forgot. Mr. Everard Vavasour +brought that letter for you, and begged you to send Mr. Addison an +answer.” + +Hope looked at her, and saw her disturbed countenance; but, except by +increased kindness in her own manner, did not appear to notice it. They +went down together to the hall door, where the carriage was now waiting. +The afternoon was piercingly cold, and on seeing the very slight +preparations for a cold drive which Angela had made, Hope remonstrated, +and insisted on going to Mrs. Vavasour to borrow a fur cloak and other +necessaries. + +There was a short cut to Mrs. Vavasour’s rooms through the upper part of +the library, and her uncle having recommended Angela’s speedy departure, +Hope opened the library door and hastened through. Angela followed her. + +By the library fire Everard was sitting, reading the newspapers. He was +accustomed to the servants passing through with coals, and when the +door opened he did not look round. + +Hope went on her errand, but Angela paused. A strange impulse seized +her. + +With a step like lightning, as noiseless and rapid, she glided down the +room and suddenly stood by Everard’s side. It was in the very same place +where Hope had heard Robert’s words of love. + +Everard sprang up with a startled “Miss Gresham!” and wonder and even +dismay on his countenance, but, nothing daunted, Angela held her ground. +Her manner was hurried, but was far from deficient in the dignity she +knew so well how to assume, and which certainly in some degree qualified +the strange things she did. + +“Seeing you at leisure, Mr. Vavasour, I am come to ask you why you avoid +me as you do. We used to be good friends. Have I done anything to offend +you?” + +“Offend!” he cried, in involuntary excitement. But the passionate sound +of his voice startled him into recollection; and feeling only the +absolute necessity of self command, he suddenly became cold. + +His hurried exclamation had not had time to assure and encourage her +before he added, and in a manner as involuntarily grave and measured as +that had been passionate, “Miss Gresham ought to know that she may give +pain and pleasure, but cannot offend.” + +It is difficult for those who with violence restrain their feelings to +hit the due medium. They can be hot or cold. They cannot be temperate. +Very cold and grave were Everard’s words, and coldly they fell upon +Angela’s impetuous spirit. She felt reproved, rebuked; and the impulse +that had blindly led her ceasing to act, she stood humbled in her own +sight and before him. Her colour went and came, her fingers trembled, +and the conviction of being despised, made her incapable of raising her +eyes to his face. + +But these galling sensations were quickly put to flight. + +In an altered voice whose tones were music to her ears, Everard abruptly +said, “I am going to confess what I know I ought not; but you have +rightly judged me. I _have_ avoided you. I must; because I am a fool and +cannot trust myself in your presence. I did not presume to think my +conduct needed explanation; but if it does, if you care to know why I +dare not come near you, your father’s wishes, his most natural wishes, +must explain it. And now forgive me and forget what I have said.” + +“Forget!” she said, softly. + +Everard sighed and turned away his head; and in that sigh gasped down a +temptation that was almost too strong for him. “Yes, forgive me,” he +said, hurriedly, “for I am saying what I should not. I have been warned, +and I have promised, and I have no right to speak of what I feel.” And +perfectly conscious that if he were not to speak he must be gone, he +merely grasped her hand for an instant, and _was_ gone before another +word could be said. + +Angela stood in a trance of happiness for a second, then glided away +likewise. + +Hope had passed through the room, and was now awaiting her with a cloak. +Angela blushed deeply as she met the intent enquiring gaze of her young +companion, but she said not a word. Silently kissing her, she jumped +into the carriage and drove away. + + + END OF VOL. I. + + + London, Godfrey & Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand. + + + To be had at all the Libraries, in 2 Vols., + + THE YOUNG LORD. + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + “THE TWO BROTHERS,” “THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,” &c. + + + OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. + +“This novel, by Lady Emily Ponsonby, is interesting as a story, and +still more to be commended for the tone of high principle with which it +is pervaded, and the profitable lessons it inculcates.”--_Literary +Gazette._ + +“No novel was ever written in a better spirit, and few with a better +development, both of story and character.”--_Morning Chronicle._ + +“The reputation Lady Emily Ponsonby acquired by her ‘Discipline of +Life,’ is more than maintained in her ‘Young Lord,’ which can scarcely +be surpassed even by her own well balanced mind. It is a high-toned and +interesting novel.”--_Messenger._ + +“‘The Young Lord’ is a beautiful story, clearly and truthfully told, +natural as well as interesting; the writing is excellent. A vein of pure +poetry and romance runs through the tale--in that respect raising it far +above the prosaic fictions of the admirable Jane Austen.”--_Globe._ + +“Lady Emily Ponsonby has established herself as one of the most +accomplished writers of the day, and in the ‘Young Lord’ she has given +us one of the best, if not _the_ best of the novels of the season. The +interest never flags.”--_Sunday Times._ + +“A very beautiful and affecting story.”--_Observer._ + +“This book pre-eminently belongs to the higher class of works. It is +adapted to the taste of the superior in feeling, as much as the +intelligent in intellect. All must acknowledge the purity of its +motives, the genuineness of its expression of feeling, and the force of +its arguments.”--_Sun._ + +“‘The Young Lord,’ by Lady Emily Ponsonby, must be considered as one of +the most successful novels of the season. It is almost impossible to lay +down the work after its perusal has been commenced.”--_Daily News._ + +“‘The Young Lord,’ from the practised pen of Lady Emily Ponsonby, is as +instructive as it is amusing. The merit of ‘The Young Lord’ lies in its +completeness and finish. The various persons are clearly conceived in +the writer’s mind, and distinctly wrought out to the reader. The +incidents are so planned to display the qualities and affect the fate of +the persons, and written with such eloquent strength, if it may not be +called power, that the attraction is as great as with stories of deeper +passion. A serious sense of duty and goodness pervades the whole, +influencing the tone of the narrative, and inducing judicious +reflections without sermonizing.”--_Spectator._ + + + HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, SUCCESSORS TO HENRY + COLBURN, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79388 *** diff --git a/79388-h/79388-h.htm b/79388-h/79388-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4cda0d --- /dev/null +++ b/79388-h/79388-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5901 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + <head> +<link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + +<meta charset="utf-8"> +<title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The two brothers; vol. 1 [of 3], +by Emily Charlotte Mary Ponsonby. +</title> +<style> + +a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} + + link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} + +a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} + +a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} + +body{margin-left:4%;margin-right:6%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} + +.blockquot {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;} + +.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} + +.fint {text-align:center;text-indent:0%; +margin-top:2em;} + +.figcenter {margin:3% auto 3% auto;clear:both; +text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} + + h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both; +font-weight:normal;} + + h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; + font-size:100%;font-weight:normal;} + + hr {width:90%;margin:2em auto 2em auto;clear:both;color:black;} + + hr.full {width: 60%;margin:2% auto 2% auto;border-top:1px solid black; +padding:.1em;border-bottom:1px solid black;border-left:none;border-right:none;} + +hr.tb {width:15%;margin:1em auto 1em auto;clear:both;color:black;} + + img {border:none;} + +.lftspc {margin-left:.25em;} + +.nind {text-indent:0%;} + + p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} + +.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; +left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; +background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal; +font-style:normal;font-weight:normal; +text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} + +.r {text-align:right;margin-right: 5%;} + +small {font-size: 70%;} + +.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} + +table {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;} + +div.poetry {text-align:center;} +div.poem {font-size:90%;margin:auto auto;text-indent:0%; +display: inline-block; text-align: left;} +.poem .stanza {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;} +.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} +.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} +.poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} +.poem span.i5 {display: block; margin-left: 3.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} +.poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} +.poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + +.toc {margin:1em auto;max-width:25em; +border:2px solid black;text-indent:0%;text-align:center;} + +</style> + </head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79388 ***</div> + +<hr class="full"> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="339" height="550" alt=""> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_i">{i}</a></span></p> + +<p class="toc"> + +<a href="#INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION.</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III"> III., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"> XII., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV.</a> + +</p> + +<h1> +THE TWO BROTHERS.</h1> + +<p class="c">BY<br><br> +THE AUTHOR OF<br> +<small>“THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,” “CLARE ABBEY,”<br> +“THE YOUNG LORD,”<br> +&c., &c.</small><br><br><br><small> +“Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.”—<span class="smcap">Dryden.</span></small> +<br><br><br> +IN THREE VOLUMES.<br> +VOL. I.<br><br><br> +LONDON:<br> +HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,<br> +SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,<br> +13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.<br> +1858.<br> +<i>The Right of Translation is reserved.</i> +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ii">{ii}</a><br> +<a id="Page_iii">{iii}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION.</a></h2> + +<p>Two persons stood on the brow of a hill overlooking an extensive and +fertile valley. In this valley lay the properties of two gentlemen, side +by side. The houses which were on the outskirts of each domain stood +within a mile and a half of each other; but the lands surrounding each +habitation spread for miles into the distance on the opposite sides.</p> + +<p>The houses were very different in form and feature. One was, or had +been, an old feudal castle. Modern additions had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iv">{iv}</a></span> at various times been +made to the building, but it preserved untouched two massy ivy-crowned +towers, which rose up dark and gloomy against the sky. The other house +was such a dwelling place as pocket-books exhibit in their portraitures +of “country seats.” It was a country seat on a very large scale; nothing +more.</p> + +<p>Of the two persons mentioned above, the one was a stranger, the other an +inhabitant of the district; the latter had been showing off with pride +and pleasure the extensive and luxuriant vale in which he lived.</p> + +<p>“I could invent a tale about those houses,” the stranger observed, after +intently contemplating them. “Nay, I have already invented it. My tale +is done.”</p> + +<p>“What is your tale?” asked his companion, smiling.</p> + +<p>“After all I believe it is such an obvious<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_v">{v}</a></span> one that I need not have +boasted of my <i>invention</i>. One has but to look at those two buildings, +and the tale is composed. In that one I see a proud, high-minded, but +somewhat forbidding family. In this one exactly the reverse—charm +without character. Hate of course springs up between them. Then after +hate comes love. A proud, high-minded son falls in love with a charming +modern maiden. Then come strifes, and disinheritings, and broken hearts, +and then ... either tragedy or comedy. I cannot quite decide on the +conclusion of my tale.”</p> + +<p>“There is a tale, and not of a very old date, belonging to those houses. +It has some features of yours, and yet is not like it. A very simple +domestic tale, but one not devoid of interest; that is to say, it will +have interest for those who take pleasure in seeing how human beings act +under peculiar cir<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi">{vi}</a></span>cumstances; not, perhaps, otherwise, since it is +devoid of ‘moving accidents by flood and field,’ hair-breadth escapes, +or indeed exciting events of any kind. If you care to hear them, these +are the few facts of the story.”</p> + +<p>He entered into a short detail of certain events that had taken place in +the two families.</p> + +<p>His companion listened with interest, then observed, “I like your story +better than mine.” He looked again intently at the older building, and +after a short silence made some inquiries. “You must enlarge a little +upon the facts you told me. For instance, how was it that being as you +say so proud a family, so jealous of its honour, so steady and +irreproachable in character, the possessions of the Vavasours were so +loaded with debt? If all were good, who was the culprit?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vii">{vii}</a></span></p> + +<p>“There was none, properly speaking. Loyalty (perhaps misdirected) was +the cause. The old traditions of the family speak of a time of almost +princely splendour till the days of the great rebellion. From that time +the fortunes have fallen. For Charles I., his son, grandson, and great +grandson, heavy mortgages were placed upon the land, and there never was +breathing time enough for the property to right itself. Yet no Vavasour +ever sold a rood of land, and no son ever complained of the debts his +father left him. There was a family fire of enthusiasm and romance in +the which supported it in all troubles.”</p> + +<p>“And Mr. Vavasour, the father of your story,” inquired the stranger, “he +was a regular old Vavasour you say?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, a fine character, but quite idolizing in the love and pride he +bore to, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii">{viii}</a></span> had in, his place and family. When he succeeded to <i>his</i> +father, he found the property so swallowed up with debt as barely to +leave an income necessary for the common expenses of life. He was only +just of age, and it was a melancholy prospect. He was advised to sell. +The property was not entailed, never had been so; he could do as he +pleased; but no Vavasour ever had sold, and he would not. He determined +by care and energy to clear off a part at least of the debt, and to +raise his house again. For thirty years he lived in that old castle +alone, bent on this object. Yet while saving and sparing, he was +preserved by that same jealous honour, and lofty character, and strong +sense, I suppose, of the responsibilities of his position, from the +least taint of parsimony. It was a miraculous escape, but he did escape +untouched.”</p> + +<p>“And after thirty years. What?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ix">{ix}</a></span></p> + +<p>“He married. He was then fifty. His love story shows the same +characteristics as all the rest of the Vavasour history—Romance and +strength. At eight and thirty he emerged in some degree from his +seclusion, and in society he met a young lady of this county, then +seventeen, and in the bloom of a beauty that made her name famous. She +was as amiable as she was lovely. He saw her and loved her with the +strong tenacious love of the Vavasours, but he gave no sign of what he +felt. Fifty was the age, the earliest age he could appoint for a +relaxation of his severe life, and he thought he had no right to impose +a long delay upon her. He saw her for twelve years beset with suitors, +and vehement ones; for while from natural manner she was gracious to +all, it seemed as if her heart had still to be won; but he bore it in +silence. At fifty he spoke, and found that through those long years she +had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_x">{x}</a></span> waited, though almost without hope, for him. He was then grey and +careworn, yet no one, I believe, ever thought the marriage unsuitable, +and no young marriage was ever such a love marriage as that.”</p> + +<p>“I hope she had money.”</p> + +<p>“No; that is, nothing beyond a young lady’s portion. It was a part of +the Vavasour pride that no member of the family had ever married an +heiress.”</p> + +<p>“You speak,” said the stranger smilingly, “of the Vavasour pride, and +the Vavasour character, as if it was a man—whereas, you mean, I +suppose, some generations of men. Were all the Vavasours always alike?”</p> + +<p>“A family character is, I believe, no uncommon thing. We see moral, and +sometimes immoral qualities running through a whole race. Historians +speak of the strong will of the Tudors, and the insincerity and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xi">{xi}</a></span> +despotic tendencies of the Stuarts. So it seems to have been with the +Vavasours. In many lighter qualities no doubt they differed; but with +that single exception I mentioned to you, I never heard of one who +deviated from the family character. That character I have always thought +might be best described by the few words in which Milton describes +himself—‘a certain niceness of nature, an honest haughtiness which let +envy call pride.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> + +<p>“You admire the family character I see, and even the family pride.”</p> + +<p>“I do in a great degree. Of all kinds of pride, none seems to me more +nearly blameless than that which makes its foundation on the noble +qualities, not on the rank and wealth of its ancestors. I only say, +however, more nearly blameless, for I believe all pride to be wrong. It +is idolatry, and it will in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xii">{xii}</a></span>evitably, at some time or other, be found to +have a root of bitterness.</p> + +<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>That which man makes his god, shall inevitably, at some time, be his +tormentor.’ So says Bishop Hall.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and with truth.”</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>N.B.—The incident which suggested this tale may be found mentioned +in “Burnet’s Life of Sir Matthew Hale.”</p></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1">{1}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="THE_TWO_BROTHERS">THE TWO BROTHERS.</a></h2> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For foresight is a melancholy gift<br></span> +<span class="i0">Which bares the bald, and speeds the all too swift.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Henry Taylor.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> description of a youthful scene shall introduce the principal +persons of the following tale.</p> + +<p>Imagine a long, old library—gloomy, but interesting in its gloom. The +rays of a brilliant sunset streaming in from the western window, enliven +and yet shadow it. Here and there the rays of light fall on heavy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2">{2}</a></span> oak +carvings; here and there on rows of morose-looking books; but the masses +of light serve chiefly to reveal, with the force of contrast, the deep +recesses of the room. It is easy to see that the abode is the home of an +ancient family, and that the possessor of the abode cherishes, with +fondness and pride, every mark of age.</p> + +<p>The occupants of this library are not unsuited to their abode, yet there +is little of the solemnity of the room in their air. They are three in +number: two boys of thirteen and fourteen, and a little girl about four +years younger.</p> + +<p>The boys are seated at a long library-table, a little too high for +comfort; and around and about them are the usual accompaniments of +schoolboys’ tasks; coverless books, torn leaves, split pens, and shreds +of blotting paper that can blot no more. The boys are <i>boys</i> in the full +sense of the word: active, vigorous, and full of life; <i>both</i> are so; +but with the likeness in this respect the likeness<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3">{3}</a></span> between them ends; +for brothers, they are singularly unlike.</p> + +<p>The elder boy is very handsome; and to the charm of beauty, of features, +and figure, adds all the charm of expression. It is such a face as a +mother can hardly fail to worship even too much. Open and animated, full +of sweetness, and spirit, and intelligence. One thing only is lacking; +and this want is best expressed by the word <i>principle</i>. Acute +physiognomists, and even common observers can discover the traces of an +unsteady and over facile disposition. It is difficult to watch him, and +not to suffer a sigh to escape, as the eyes look onward into life and +its temptations.</p> + +<p>The other boy is not handsome—he is, perhaps, ugly—his limbs, though +well formed, are stragling and ungainly; his features are so strongly +marked as to be hard and stern: but though he lacks beauty, and lacks, +also, what is commonly understood by the word charm, there is much to +interest in his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4">{4}</a></span> appearance. He has, in a remarkable degree, the one +thing wanting in the other. Truth and steadfastness shine in his face, +producing a kind of day-light over it. There are, besides, in his +countenance, marked and strongly-opposing characteristics. Inflexible +determination, bordering on obstinacy, and endurance, stoical and stern; +yet, in contrast to these qualities, signs betokening strong passions +and a fiery temper; and about the mouth, nervous and tremulous lines +bespeaking something of feminine softness.</p> + +<p>Over these brothers the little girl sits watching, like a spirit. Her +place is in the western window; and the streaming sun-beams fall on her +white neck and gold threads of hair, but her face is towards the +occupants of the room; on one of these she rests her soft, brown eyes +with a gaze at once serious, and tender, and full of pity.</p> + +<p>The stillness of the tableau is suddenly broken. The little girl glides +from her seat,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5">{5}</a></span> approaches the elder brother’s chair, and lays her tiny +hand upon the page his eyes devour. It is a page different in kind and +type to the pages of closely-printed Greek that lie beside him.</p> + +<p>He starts, looks up, and colours: then laughs, and says,</p> + +<p>“Why, you little fairy, I did not see you; what do you want here?”</p> + +<p>“Dear Robert,” she says, in a voice of singular softness, “you will +never have done; do let me take it away.”</p> + +<p>He yields at once to the imploring tone; delivers to her hands the small +volume of fiction; smiles with one of his enchanting smiles at his +little monitress; then with a groan, and a glance at his industrious +brother, exclaims, “Now to my weary work again,” and betakes himself to +his task.</p> + +<p>The little girl retreats with a soft smile on her countenance, and +resumes her place and her watching. The other boy pauses for a moment in +his labours—looks at his two<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6">{6}</a></span> companions, for a moment contracts his +brow, then with a sigh resumes his work.</p> + +<p>The circumstances of the task were these:—there had been a boat-race in +the neighbourhood of Audley Court, the old family place of the +Vavasours. The two boys, sons of Mr. Vavasour, fond of all active sports +and pastimes, had asked leave to attend it: voluntarily offering to +accomplish their usual morning’s studies when they returned in the +afternoon. Such requests were not unseldom made; and though all work and +no play is good for no man, Mr. Vavasour was equally convinced of the +truth of the opposite statement. He accepted the voluntary offer, yet +considering the exciting nature of the day’s amusement, only partially +accepted it; for the usual more lengthy studies substituting a careful +translation of a few lines of a Greek ode. The boys were grateful, and a +promise was readily given that the appointed task should be done.</p> + +<p>The morning and afternoon were both<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7">{7}</a></span> alike consumed in amusement. The +boys returned late, flushed with excitement, heated with exercise, in no +mood for study. They joined their father and mother, and in glowing +terms recounted the adventures of the day. Both parents listened with +willing interest; no reproach regarding the many hours of absence was +made; only when the full flow of narrative came to a pause, the father +simply said, “And now I depend on your promise, my boys.”</p> + +<p>The promise had been forgotten, and a shade overspread both faces. If +observed, however, no comment was made. Mr. Vavasour returned to the +occupation his sons’ entrance had disturbed, and glancing at the clock, +merely added, “Go into the library. I shall come to you in an hour.” It +was then half-past five.</p> + +<p>The boys retreated. No word of their father’s was ever controverted, and +they fully understood that he depended upon their adherence to their +word.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8">{8}</a></span></p> + +<p>The task had difficulties; but none which attention could not master. +Mr. Vavasour was firm and strict with his sons; but never unjust or +severe. He required self-conquest; but never asked for conquests beyond +their power to perform. On entering the library, the boys found all +prepared, and went at once to their work.</p> + +<p>Everard, the younger boy, prepared to do it with all his might. One +passion at this time ruled and governed his life—love for his father; a +love made up of fear and reverence, and strong natural affection. To +please him, made his happiness—the dread of disappointing him haunted +him like a spectre. A gay scene was dancing before his eyes; a pleasant +noise of dashing oars and shouts of triumph were ringing in his ears: +but his father’s voice, “I depend on your promise,” rose above these and +drowned them. He leant his head on his hands, and with a vigorous +effort, conquering the lassitude and dissipation of his mind, set to +work.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9">{9}</a></span></p> + +<p>Robert also set to work, but less resolutely. The same sounds were in +his ears, and wanting the determined will, he could not banish them. He +tried, but it was a feeble trial. He too loved his father, and feared to +displease him; but his was not the love that conquers all things. His +gaze wandered over his book, but his mind received no idea. He wrote a +few words, then scratched them out; then scribbled some figures of boats +and boatmen on the blotting paper; then spoiled some pens, then mended +them; then, with an expression of weariness, he pulled his +pocket-handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. In returning +it whence it came, his hands encountered the small volume of fiction +mentioned above, and drawing it out he glanced over the pages. It was +the <i>Mysteries of Udolpho</i>; he had been engaged in its study the day +before. The pages were refreshing after the hard lines of distasteful +Greek, and he reposed himself as he read.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10">{10}</a></span></p> + +<p>Deprived of this temptation by the watchful care of his little guardian, +he returned to his task, but the resolute will was still wanting. In +vain he endeavoured to master the sense of what he read. When one line +was clear, the next appeared to contradict it; when the sense was found +and the ideas formed, no words in the English language appeared to be +capable of expressing them. His head became dizzy and perplexed; and +suddenly starting up he approached the western window.</p> + +<p>“What a shame to be shut up here!” he exclaimed, his eye wandering +longingly over the sunny woods and fields. “I would give twenty pounds +at this moment to be that cow. Better be a cow at liberty, than a man a +slave.”</p> + +<p>“It is a pity,” responded the sympathizing voice of the little girl, +“but, dear Robert, you know you promised.”</p> + +<p>“I promised to try, and I have tried, and I can’t do it. I tell you +what, Hope, I hate<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11">{11}</a></span> Greek, and I hate translating, and I hate being shut +up here. Now, really,” and his voice became quite pathetic, “would not +<i>any</i> one say it was a shame to be boxed up in a dingy old prison, on +such a night as this. I am sure it grieves my soul.”</p> + +<p>“But all this grieves only you, dear Robert,” the child argued, looking +up at him with a pleading look, “but if you don’t do it, it grieves your +father.”</p> + +<p>Robert was affected by her words. He smiled, and put his hand +caressingly on her head. “You have not expressed yourself very clearly, +little logician, but I see what you mean, and you are right; so come, my +good angel, and take me back to my work.” He held out his hand, and with +a sweet, proud smile of joy, she led him to his place. He began again to +work, and she stood by his side patient and immoveable; her eyes fixed +upon him, and him alone.</p> + +<p>The other boy looked up. He had watched her passing; and now with a +contraction of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12">{12}</a></span> his brow, he contemplated her absorbed devotion to his +brother. “You give <i>me</i> no help nor encouragement, little Hope,” at last +he said; and there was pain in the tone in which he spoke.</p> + +<p>“You don’t want it,” she replied, gently and simply; and not even then +did a glance of her eye wander towards him.</p> + +<p>Everard threw down his pen, and lay back in his chair. Sadness, +hurt-feeling, and something of impatience clouded his countenance. He +seemed to be disgusted with his own industry.</p> + +<p>The movement attracted Robert’s attention. He turned his head and +glanced at his brother’s well-filled page. “Why, Everard, you have +almost done!” he exclaimed; “what a shame!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, it is a shame!” Everard cried, with flashing eyes, “that you, who +are as far beyond me in cleverness as I am to little Hope, should allow +me to outstrip you so.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it is a shame,” Robert replied; a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13">{13}</a></span> glow, half of shame, and half +of gratified vanity, overspreading his handsome face.</p> + +<p>“It is not too late, dear Robert,” prompted the sweet voice of his +little guardian, “if only you will work and make haste.”</p> + +<p>Robert looked at his watch, shook his head, and sighed. “Twenty minutes +after six, Hope; it’s no use now; but at any rate,” he added, after a +moment, “I’ll have a try for it;” and he set to work with an earnestness +which half an hour before would have successfully completed his task.</p> + +<p>Everard remained thoughtful. He leant back in his chair, and his eye +wandered gloomily and uneasily from his own unfinished task to his +brother. Emulation with an equal, with one we have a right to surpass, +and who to-morrow may outstrip us, is a painless and animating feeling. +But generous natures feel pain, and not pleasure, in a victory that by +right should not be won. So far as his own feeling was concerned, +Everard would have preferred to share in his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14">{14}</a></span> brother’s disgrace. To +fail with him, would bring him more and greater love than success. Not +Hope alone, but his mother, would, he well knew, look with kindlier eyes +on failure with Robert, than success without him. For three or four +minutes of the now precious time, Everard remained agitated and +undecided; and then, again, he saw his father’s face, and heard his +father’s voice, and again the ruling passion conquered. He returned with +energy to his work, and when the old Manor House clock chimed the +half-hour, the last word was written by his pen.</p> + +<p>The clock struck, and Mr. Vavasour, the soul of punctuality, rose and +called his wife.</p> + +<p>“Come, Joan,” he said, “let us see how these boys have obeyed us.”</p> + +<p>They entered the library together; and anxious looks from one parent, +and penetrating ones from the other, fell on the two brothers.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour was like Everard; but age<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15">{15}</a></span> had softened and harmonized his +proportions, and he was a handsome old man. A merely superficial +observer was always struck by his benevolent and venerable air: his tall +figure slightly bent, his silver hairs, his firm but lingering tread; he +seemed a picture of graceful old age, from which gentleness and sympathy +might be expected; but a very little study discovered that the +countenance was stern. Age had softened the hard features; but the +mental expression was far more really stern than that of his son. There +were, however, the same marks of opposing qualities that have been +mentioned as apparent in the countenance of Everard. Strong passions, +and deep feeling, and the same soft and tremulous lines about the mouth. +It was a face which some would have feared too much to love; but which +those who did love, loved passionately.</p> + +<p>The elder son was a reflection of his mother—though time, experience, a +woman’s nature, and obedience to her husband, had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16">{16}</a></span> banished from her +countenance the unsteadiness apparent in his. She was many years younger +than her husband, and was still remarkable for a beauty, once the theme +of wonder and praise; but even this beauty was less attractive than the +softness and gentleness of her air and voice. Her character had singular +charms, and much virtue, and if a few faults mingled with her virtues, +it was but the common lot of humanity. Of these faults the most serious +was the idolatry of her eldest son. To love too much is impossible, but +to idolize is selfish. It harms the idol, and tends to injustice +regarding others.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour approached, and both his sons arose; but there was no +eagerness in either. <i>Their</i> eyes were cast down, while little Hope +fastened hers on his face with a look that deprecated displeasure.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour looked from one to the other, and his brows knit into an +expression of mingled sternness and pain. With him no<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17">{17}</a></span> dereliction of +duty was small or great. Obedience was obedience, and a promise a +promise; and no consideration of more or less could make a duty not a +duty.</p> + +<p>“Well, Robert,” he said, “how have you obeyed me?”</p> + +<p>Robert made no answer. Though daring enough in his father’s absence, his +<i>present</i> displeasure always unmanned him.</p> + +<p>“I see you have failed; I did not expect this.” And without another word +he passed on.</p> + +<p>“And you, Everard,” he said, turning to his second son—and anxiety made +his voice harsh.</p> + +<p>Everard gave his completed task; but his heart swelled with sorrow, not +with joy, for no glance from his mother’s eye spoke of anxiety for him. +Her eyes and Hope’s were with Robert in his disgrace.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour read the translation carefully through, then laid it down. +“There<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18">{18}</a></span> are many faults here, Everard,” he said, looking at his son, +“but they are faults of ignorance, not of negligence. I do not need to +be told that you have tried with all your heart to please me. God bless +you, my boy,” and he laid his hand softly and kindly on Everard’s +shoulder.</p> + +<p>For a moment Everard’s heart bounded beneath that approving touch, but +it sunk and died as he saw his mother’s averted face. His praise was +agony to her; he knew it, saw it, felt it.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour stayed for no more words, but retraced his steps down the +long library. When he reached the door, he looked back. Everard was +standing alone. Robert’s head was laid on the table; and beside him and +over him bent his mother and Hope.</p> + +<p>“Joan,” he called; and leaving the door open returned to the study.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour stayed but to whisper one gentle word; and, still without +a glance to Everard, rejoined her husband. Not that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19">{19}</a></span> Everard was not +loved. He was only forgotten, because Robert was unhappy.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour did not speak till his wife was seated. He then said, not +with sternness—for to her he was never stern—but sadly, “Joan, you +will spoil that boy.”</p> + +<p>“Love cannot spoil,” she replied, with some agitation, “though harshness +sometimes may.”</p> + +<p>“Do you call <i>me</i> harsh?” asked her husband; and round his lips quivered +that tremulous movement which in him, as in Everard, betokened strong or +wounded feelings.</p> + +<p>“To none but Robert,” she eagerly rejoined; “sometimes to him.”</p> + +<p>“No, Joan,” he said, regarding her fixedly, “not harsh; but wise in +time. You look at Robert’s single faults—you see now a little +indolence, now carelessness, now self-indulgence, and you think that, +with his youth and high spirits, these may be excused; but I look on: +and as, day after day, I see the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20">{20}</a></span> signs of unsteadiness, and cowardice, +and want of truth, I ask myself, what will be the end when these faults +have strengthened themselves and bear fruit? If Robert is to be saved +from becoming a dishonour to our house, it must be through the +discipline of awe and fear, as well as love. Let him see that his faults +grieve and pain us—as they do in my heart!” he broke out passionately; +then resumed again; “and that he may see it, let us not lightly own, nor +lightly forgive them.”</p> + +<p>“I believe you are right,” she replied, humbly, “and yet when Robert is +miserable.... You do not know how he loves you—how ardent his feelings +are—how he suffers under your displeasure!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Joan, but I do know, and it is these very ardent feelings that +make me tremble. If now, in their freshness, while yet in his father’s +house, they fail in every moment of temptation, how will they stand in +the fiery trial of the world? Believe me,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21">{21}</a></span> unless a great change takes +place, the good seed in Robert’s heart will too soon be choked with +thorns.”</p> + +<p>The twilight was deepening; the clock chimed the quarter after seven; +there came a low tap at the study door.</p> + +<p>It opened; and Robert entered, holding in one hand his completed task, +while the other yielded to the guidance of Hope. There was no shame on +his fine countenance, but an expression of open and truthful humility.</p> + +<p>“I am very sorry to have displeased you, father,” he said, simply, “and +I have done the best I can to atone for it. Hope persuaded me, and +Everard gave me help, and here is my task. I know it is too late to give +you pleasure; but I hope not too late to show that ... that I am very +sorry father!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour received it from his hands, with a faint glow on his +countenance; and the “God bless you, my boy,” which was his usual simple +and forcible expression of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22">{22}</a></span> extreme approval, made more than one heart +supremely happy.</p> + +<p>This childish scene has been thus minutely detailed, in order more +rapidly and vividly to pourtray the actors in the following tale, than +description can easily do.</p> + +<p>A few more words are required to set in its proper light the position of +one of these.</p> + +<p>Hope Linton was the orphan child of a sister of Mrs. Vavasour. In her +aunt’s house, and adopted by her husband, the worst evils of an orphan’s +lot were unknown. They treated her as their child—the boys as their +sister—and few ever thought of her in any other light.</p> + +<p>She was a child of peculiar character, appearing to be made of two +qualities only—love and pity. Her love, not the love that clings, but +more angel-like, desires to spread its wings and shield; her pity, an +intense compassion, which made her appear, in spite of the guileless +goodness of her own nature, sent into the world on a special mission to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23">{23}</a></span> +the erring. She was not clever, yet had her own silent, serious +thoughts; and though neither energetic, nor active-spirited, seemed, by +the intensity of her feeling, to accomplish what she had to do.</p> + +<p>The somewhat unnatural seriousness of her nature was partly the effect +of circumstances. Her father had been a thoughtless, unprincipled man; +her mother had borne, not the ills alone that extravagance brings in its +train, but the deeper pain of her husband’s neglect. After a desolate +life of many years, a child was born to her. It came like light into a +dark place; and partly in thankful acknowledgment of the blessing given, +and partly as a warning to her own failing spirits against despair, she +called it “Hope.” Four years after its birth her husband died. The hope +for which she had waited all her life-long was then fulfilled. The hours +of sickness and death brought his repentance and returning love. She saw +him die: and as if her task was then accomplished, quickly fol<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24">{24}</a></span>lowed +him—leaving her child to her sister’s protection. The house in which +the little orphan was born, was a house of sorrow. Early clouds hung +over her infancy; and a sobering hue was left for ever on her soft cheek +and thoughtful disposition. There was, however, something of her name in +her nature. She was serious, but rarely sad.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25">{25}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;<br></span> +<span class="i0">A pride in honest fame by virtue gained,<br></span> +<span class="i0">In sturdy boys to virtue’s labours trained:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Pride in a life that slander’s tongue defied,<br></span> +<span class="i0">In fact a noble passion, misnamed Pride.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Crabbe.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> strongly-marked character of the Vavasour family has been noticed in +the introduction of this tale. The exception to the hitherto unbroken +line of true Vavasours was in Robert. He was no Vavasour. The family +pride did not influence him. The “niceness of nature” and “honest +haughtiness” were not to be found in him. He was inclined to laugh at +his grim old ancestors, and had been heard to wish away some relics<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26">{26}</a></span> of +their grandeur. His character was full of good and full of beauty, but +it was not the good or the beauty of his own family. In place of their +nobility of soul—truly noble, yet somewhat narrow—he had a generous +spirit, open and world-wide. In place of their slumbering and +self-restrained romance, he had warm affections, ardent but volatile; In +place of their unconquerable resolution, he had an altogether different +form of resolution—self-will; and in place of their self-control he had +no counterpart to offer—for impatient of authority, and fond of +pleasure, he was not disposed to be a severe Mentor to himself.</p> + +<p>In any family, Robert’s character would have excited care and anxiety; a +care as strong as the love he inspired; but in this family it excited a +fear amounting to torture. Mr. Vavasour loved his son passionately (in +his mind every feeling was a passion); this very love made his eyes +sharp and keen to detect Robert’s failures. Every childish<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27">{27}</a></span> fault was +seen—not only in its own proportions, but in the dimensions of future +years; not as the small shadow of the noonday, but as the long shadow of +the evening.</p> + +<p>Yet it would have been hard to say wherein lay the fault in Robert’s +education. If there was strictness, it was without severity. If there +were restraints, there were also unbounded indulgences. Though obedient +to the idolizing mother’s wish—the boys were brought up at home—they +were not home boys; both were famous in the country for their bold +riding and skill in every sport.</p> + +<p>The fault was probably in the bounded limits of Mr. Vavasour’s mind and +sympathies. He had his standard, his <i>own</i> standard, therefore a narrow +one. He endeavoured too much to assimilate Robert to his own idea. He +did not go forward to meet the hopes, the thoughts, the qualities, +springing up in his differently-moulded son.</p> + +<p>Robert may have felt the standard to be too sternly high. It may have +strained his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28">{28}</a></span> eyes to look upon it. Conceiving such a lofty form of +virtue to be required, he may have felt an improbability set before him; +and the very excellence of the standard may have caused a laxity in his +mind. It is possible!</p> + +<p>Such criticisms on education are easily made. Such inferences are easily +drawn, when a plan has failed to work. It is not so easy for those whose +hearts are in their children’s welfare, and who feel their +responsibility to God who gave the child, for every thought implanted in +its mind, to trace the exact limits of duty, and to discover the point +at which an excess of good instruction begins.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour was a religious man, and all he did was religiously done. +If he failed it was human infirmity that failed; the human infirmity of +overmuch pride in his family’s good deeds; the over idolizing cherishing +of an honour hitherto without a stain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29">{29}</a></span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was three years later than the date of the last chapter. Mr. +Vavasour’s two sons were on the eve of going to college. Words are not +needed to picture the hopes and fears of that time; the hopes of the +young; the hopes and far stronger fears of those who send their +treasures for the first time into the world’s fiery trials.</p> + +<p>The evening passed silently. Mr. Vavasour sat by the fire in profound +thought: even his newspapers untouched beside him. On the opposite side +of the fire sat Mrs. Vavasour, working with unremitting industry. Tears, +very natural ones, were in her eyes, and thus she concealed them.</p> + +<p>At a little distance from her sat Robert; and Hope on a lower chair +beside him. Hope was unchanged still; like a child and a spirit; and +unchanged, too, was the intensity of the gaze with which she watched +him. Occasionally he laid his hand caressingly on her head; occasionally +smiled, and addressed to her a few laughing words; but for the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30">{30}</a></span> most +part he, too, was silent, and his countenance was sad. Up to this moment +he had been looking forward joyfully; but now his happy youth, his home, +his mother’s love, rose up like a sweet and soothing picture, and +touched him. Robert’s feelings were strong and excitable. If volatile, +yet, while they lasted, intense. He saw his mother’s tear-stained and +trembling lashes. He saw his father’s thoughtfulness; he knew that fears +and hopes filled their hearts for him; hopes great as their love; fears, +which his conscience told him were not idle. Agitated with these and +other thoughts, he found it hard to restrain his own tears. They came +and went—brushed away with a dash of his hand, and a half-ashamed +smile; and every smile and every tear gave a new charm to his +countenance. In her stealthy glances his mother saw them, and his +softness bound a fresh link of love round her already too idolizing +heart.</p> + +<p>But there was one who was more sad than<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31">{31}</a></span> all. This night had brought to +Everard the knowledge, never hitherto so fully understood, that he was +<i>nothing</i>.</p> + +<p>He saw his mother’s rapid glances into Robert’s face; he saw Hope’s +unchanging gaze; he saw his father’s meditations; and felt that anxiety +for Robert was the cause. He, too, was going into the world, and the +world’s temptations, and no love, no prayers of love would watch over +his unguarded youth.</p> + +<p>The consciousness brought exceeding bitterness. He said in his heart, +that he was selfish thus to have his thoughts fastened in himself. He +struggled with them, but in vain. The effect of the struggle was, to +make his countenance stern, and his voice hard. Once when he spoke his +mother looked up with a startled look—so harsh and dry was the tone. +Her eye wandered on to Robert’s softened countenance, and almost +unconsciously the contrast was remarked upon and felt. Everard felt it +himself;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32">{32}</a></span> hated himself; owned that he was selfish and deserved no love, +and knitted his brows into yet sterner meditations. Thus we misjudge +others, nay, thus misjudge our ownselves.</p> + +<p>At length the clock struck half-past ten. It was the usual hour of +separation: and accustomed to please the husband and father in his love +of order and punctuality, all had been in the habit of obeying the +signal; but this evening there was no movement. The next word was to +be—farewell. The boys were to start before day the following morning, +and Mr. Vavasour had desired that no further leave-takings should take +place. Robert’s eyes were on his mother. He waited for her to speak. She +sat with cast-down eyes awaiting some other signal.</p> + +<p>The silence was broken by Mr. Vavasour. He raised his head from his +thoughtful posture, and simply said, “I wish to speak to you, my boys.”</p> + +<p>“Yes father,” they replied with tremu<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33">{33}</a></span>lous eagerness; Robert was in the +mood for admonition; to Everard his father’s words were always pearls of +great price.</p> + +<p>Concisely, but forcibly, as was his wont, Mr. Vavasour gave his words of +parting advice. His first charge was to both his sons together, and +consisted of an admonition to fear God, and to honour their name. The +first was dwelt on at greater length: but there was a pathos in his +voice as he spoke of the second, which betrayed how near an idol it was +to his heart.</p> + +<p>When he addressed them separately, it was with a special regard to the +probable temptations of each. Both must have felt, both did feel, that +the minutest circumstances of their past life, and future prospects, had +been revolved in their father’s mind. He spoke to Robert as his heir. He +pointed to the duties and responsibilities for which he must prepare +himself, and dwelt on the temptations of those who are exempted from the +original curse, “In the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34">{34}</a></span> sweat of thy brow, thou shalt eat bread.” “Make +yourself worthy, my boy,” were his concluding words, “of the position to +which, before many years, God will call you. Bind upon yourself the yoke +He has laid lightly on your shoulders, and remember, Robert,” he added +in a solemn and tremulous voice, “the words of the wise man, ‘<i>My son, +keep thy father’s commandment, and forsake not the love of thy mother; +for a wise son makes a glad father, but a foolish son puts his mother to +shame.</i>’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> + +<p>There were strong resolves in Robert’s breast, and the “I will remember, +father,” was spoken with vehement earnestness. He drew nearer to his +mother, and placed his hand in hers—the movement of the body expressing +that the guide of his life was chosen.</p> + +<p>His fathers eyes followed him with a softened smile, and a look of glad +confidence. They rested on him for a moment; then he roused himself to +address his younger son. There was more to be said to Everard.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35">{35}</a></span> There +were explanations to be made; and his voice, as he resumed, had a drier +and more business-like tone, which grated on his son’s ear.</p> + +<p>The explanations to Everard were regarding “the portion of goods” that +would fall to him. Having but two sons, Mr. Vavasour said, and being +well known to possess large estates, and full power over what he had, +“it might be Everard’s expectation, it would certainly be the +expectation of others, that for him an ample provision would be made.” +This he warned him would not be the case. He spoke minutely of the state +of his affairs, and pointed out the strong necessity that no divisions, +no deductions should be made.</p> + +<p>“What is just, Everard,” he gravely said, “you will have, but let your +dependence be on yourself.”</p> + +<p>Then leaving his drier tone, he spoke with a kindling eye of his hopes +from the industry of his son.</p> + +<p>“I am ambitious for you; yes, my boy, I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36">{36}</a></span> own it. I would have you bring +fresh honour to our name. I put that name, I put that honour in your +hands, and confess to you that it is your father’s dearest treasure. And +yet,” he added, in a lower tone, “there is something beyond ambition. It +is in God’s hands whether or not you can be great; it is in yours with +His help that you can be good. My prayer for you both is that you may +guard our name from taint of vice, and bring it honour by your virtuous +deeds. Let this be done, and I am content. And now, my boys,” he said, +“God bless you.”</p> + +<p>He rose hastily from his seat, and extended a hand to each; then drawing +them nearer, with something of solemnity, kissed their brows. “And now +Joan,” he continued, “bid them good-bye.”</p> + +<p>Violent exhibitions of feeling were distasteful to Mr. Vavasour. All +knew it. Swiftly therefore and silently the farewell was taken. Robert, +softened and overcome, flew to his own room. Mrs. Vavasour, fearful of +grieving her husband by her overmuch<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37">{37}</a></span> sorrow, followed his example. The +drawing-room door closed, and Everard and Hope went up the stairs +together.</p> + +<p>Hope rarely cried, and was not crying now; but her thoughts were not +with her companion, as she walked silently by his side; and when they +reached the landing-place where their ways separated, she passed on +without perceiving him.</p> + +<p>He stopped her with an expression almost of anguish on his countenance. +“I wish you would say good-bye to me Hope.</p> + +<p>“I did,” she replied, in some surprise; but immediately and kindly held +out her little hand.</p> + +<p>“You did not say it as if you cared. I wish you would sometimes think of +me, Hope. I know you pray for Robert; I wish you would sometimes say a +prayer for me, that I may never disappoint my father.”</p> + +<p>“I will, Everard,” she replied; “but you don’t want it;” and she shook +her head with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38">{38}</a></span> a melancholy shake, as if thinking of one who did.</p> + +<p>“I do,” he cried, passionately. “Why do you say that, Hope? It is unkind +of you.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him, as if startled and puzzled by his vehemence; but, +after a moment’s thought, in her sweet, kind voice, she replied to +him—“I am sure, dear Everard, I will think of you, and pray for you, if +it will make you happy; but you know you are not like poor Robert; and +you must not be angry if I think most of him. Oh! Everard,” she +continued, clasping her hands together, and for once speaking out all +the fears and troubles of her heart, “I am sometimes so frightened when +I think—if Robert should forget all that my uncle says, what will +become of him? He is so good—so good,” she repeated fondly; “but he +does forget. Will you think of him, dear Everard, and remind him when he +is far away?”</p> + +<p>“I will, if I can. But don’t be afraid,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39">{39}</a></span> Hope. How can Robert forget, +when he thinks of <i>you</i>? Good-bye,” and the hard-featured boy stooped +and kissed his young cousin, with a mother’s tenderness.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye,” she said softly, and held out her hand again, before she +glided away.</p> + +<p>He stood looking after her, till the last glimpse of her white dress +disappeared from the long corridor; and when he returned to his own +room, a tear was on his lashes, and an aching longing in his heart.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40">{40}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her younger sister, that Speranza hight,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Was clad in blue, that her beseemed well;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not all so cheerful seemed she of sight<br></span> +<span class="i0">As was her sister; whether dread did dwell<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or anguish in her heart, is hard to tell.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Upon her arm a silver anchor lay,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whereon she leaned ever, as befell,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And ever up to Heaven as she did pray,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Her steadfast eyes were bent, nor swerved other way.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Spenser’s</span> <i>Faery Queen</i>.<br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Nearly</span> four years more have come and gone. Robert Vavasour is +twenty-one. The tale of these four years is an oft-told tale.</p> + +<p>During the first year of college life he had been tolerably steady. The +lingering influences of his home, the companionship of his brother, and +the sincere wish to do<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41">{41}</a></span> well, kept him, for the most part, in the right +track. In the second year he began to be less anxious. Evil began to be +familiar to him. He fell into a gay and thoughtless set, and found its +charms seductive. His high spirits, his ready wit, his unfailing +good-humour, and lavish generosity, made him a desirable companion, and +he was courted with an assiduity that might have turned a stronger head. +For a time, days of remorse succeeded his weeks of thoughtless +dissipation; but remorse was distasteful, and he endeavoured to escape +from it. He began to shun Everard, on whose example he could not look +without remorse. Temptations assailed him on all sides, and he ceased to +desire not to be led into temptation. He was hurrying along his +dangerous way, when, early in the third year, Mr. Vavasour received a +kind recommendation from an old friend at Oxford, that he should be +withdrawn at once. There was no hope for him, he said, where he was, and +he might<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42">{42}</a></span> thus be saved from public disgrace. It was done. His numerous +debts were paid, and he returned home.</p> + +<p>It was a painful return. Robert was smarting under a sense of unjust +usage, and was more rebellious than penitent. He had done no more than +others, so at least he felt, and why was he to be disgraced. His state +of mind required judicious treatment, and in this Mr. Vavasour failed. +To deal judiciously with the erring, <i>justice</i> is almost more necessary +than kindness. One degree too much of condemnation and the good +influence is lost. To be perfectly just, it is necessary to look on the +fault, not through the calm eyes of a mere observer, but with the eyes +of the erring and tempted themselves. Nothing, indeed, can to a sane and +right mind disguise the blackness of moral ill; yet perfect justice +considers the circumstances of the offender, and allows a question of +more or less in guilt.</p> + +<p>It was in this perfection of justice that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43">{43}</a></span> Mr. Vavasour failed. The word +<i>disgrace</i> was rankling in his heart; the idol passion blinded his eyes. +He was not unkind to his son. He loved him too deeply, his desire for +his welfare was far too intense for unkindness; but he was severe. He +did not, like the father in the prodigal, go forth to meet him; but, +while receiving him with forgiveness, suffered him to feel the weight of +his displeasure. While pardoning the offender, he looked with something +of bitter contempt on the offence, and Robert’s quick mind felt it, and +it stung him.</p> + +<p>The return home was painful, so painful, that a long sojourn was not to +be thought of. In his father’s presence, Robert’s haughty and rebellious +spirit was, even against his will, awed; and the restraint was irksome. +With his mother and Hope he was full of remorse, but what is so +unendurable as the remorse that leads to no repentance. He longed to +make his escape! While much perplexed in mind regarding the destination<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44">{44}</a></span> +of his son, Mr. Vavasour was applied to by Robert for permission to +travel. He had received an invitation from a young man of his +acquaintance a year or two younger than himself, to accompany him and +his tutor on a tour of some length. Mr. Vavasour knew nothing of the +young man’s family, but the invitation was opportune, the tutor sounded +well, and in the few enquiries he had time to make, he heard nothing to +lead him to refuse a permission earnestly sought. It was given, and with +it advice so touching in its anxiety, and means so ample to secure his +improvement and enjoyment in the life before him, that Robert again left +home, his heart swelling with sorrow, love, and penitence. But man’s +nature is not formed to bear a repetition of the same excitements. +Exhaustion is the necessary end of violent and shortlived emotions.</p> + +<p>Of Everard’s college life there is little to be said. Whatever the inner +life might be, the outer life, sober and industrious, fur<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45">{45}</a></span>nished no +materials to tell a tale. <i>Not to disappoint his father.</i> This had been +the influencing principle of his early days; this was the principle that +carried him safely through the snares of his opening youth. He left +college with a moral character on which there rested no spot, and with a +reputation, if not for genius, yet for sound intellect and unconquerable +energy. “You may be proud of your son,” were the words of healing balm, +which soothed Mr. Vavasour’s wounded spirit. On leaving college, Everard +went to London to study for the bar, and read in the chambers of an +eminent solicitor.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“No, Joan,” said Mr. Vavasour, resolutely though sadly, “when my mind is +made up as to a duty, not even your wish can alter my determination.”</p> + +<p>It was a few days before Robert’s birthday of twenty-one.</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour were seated in the study formerly mentioned. Mrs. +Vavasour<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46">{46}</a></span> was sitting near her husband, her hands on a small table +placed between them, and a look of imploring earnestness on her +countenance. She was but little changed in the three years that had +passed; there are some hearts so hopeful that in them anxiety takes the +form of hope; but her husband was much changed. His complexion was +paler, his features sharper, his head more bowed. It was easy to see +that secret suffering was undermining his strength, and slowly, but +surely bringing his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.</p> + +<p>“Then do not make it up too hastily,” was Mrs. Vavasour’s reply, in a +tone of strong agitation; “<i>consider</i>.”</p> + +<p>“I have considered. Ah! Joan, have I not had time to do it. If I saw in +Robert one grain of true repentance, I would be the first to hail it, +and honour him with the best honour I could shew; but I know, and you +know, that there is no repentance in him.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47">{47}</a></span></p> + +<p>There was no reply. After a short silence Mr. Vavasour said more gently, +“What have you to urge that I have not already considered.”</p> + +<p>“Much,” she said eagerly and tremulously. “Let that honour be shown to +Robert in the sight of your people, which he has not done himself. From +his earliest years you have spoken of this day—your people have looked +to it as one of rejoicing—if you pass it now in silence, you shame him +whom you wish them to honour. If Robert felt more fully that their eyes +were upon him, that after you they look to him as their protector and +friend; the weight of responsibility would press upon him, and the shame +of coming short from the example of his father, would make him strong.”</p> + +<p>She paused—the tremulous movements of her husband’s lips encouraging +her to hope; but though agitated, there was no relenting; his voice, +when it came, was low and stern.</p> + +<p>“No Joan, it is not the vain honour of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48">{48}</a></span> false outward show that will +bring a shameless and degenerate son to reason.”</p> + +<p>“You speak too harshly of him,” his mother cried with earnest passion.</p> + +<p>“Do I speak too harshly?” he said, and the anguish of a wounded spirit +was in his tone, “then listen Joan to these,” and he drew some letters +from his pocket. “I would have spared you the pain of hearing them.”</p> + +<p>“Hope, my child,” said Mrs. Vavasour softly, putting out her hand to +arrest her husband, “it will be best for you to leave us.”</p> + +<p>Hope rose from her seat in one of the deep recesses of the windows, but +not to obey her aunt. She came forward and laid her hands on Mr. +Vavasour’s chair, “Are they about Robert?” she asked; “then let me +stay.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour hesitated and looked reluctant.</p> + +<p>“Better to know all,” she pleaded, earnestly, “than to dread too much.”</p> + +<p>“Let her stay, Joan,” Mr. Vavasour said<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49">{49}</a></span> decidedly, and she stood +leaning on his chair while he read.</p> + +<p>The first letter was from the family solicitor, enclosing bills from +some of Robert’s alarmed creditors, and requesting in a formal style to +know Mr. Vavasour’s pleasure on the subject. There was a second letter +from the same person. This was written as a friend’s, it informed him of +some facts which he had ascertained regarding Robert’s money +transactions, and offered his advice on the best manner of dealing with +them. A third letter was from a Mr. Percival, an old friend of Mr. +Vavasour’s, resident in London. It was written in the supposition that +Mr. Vavasour was ignorant of Robert’s mode of life. He could not, he +said, neglect to give him the information he thought necessary, however +painful it might be.</p> + +<p>Parts only of this letter were read aloud. Mr. Vavasour hurried to the +conclusion,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50">{50}</a></span> It was an earnest recommendation that Robert should be +ordered to return home. From some circumstances, the writer said, which, +owing to the intimacy of Robert with a nephew of his own, had come to +his knowledge, he was convinced that he was suffering severely from the +want of money; and he felt certain that this would be the moment to +induce him to make a full confession of his difficulties, and to release +him from the snares in which he was entangled.</p> + +<p>The letter was read with an unfaltering voice; but when he paused there +was the sadness of a breaking heart in the question, “Is this, Joan, a +son to honour?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour remained silent. Tears of bitter sorrow were in her heart; +but not one was permitted to start into her eyes, lest the sight of his +mother’s grief should add a drop to the full cup of Robert’s +condemnation.</p> + +<p>“You do not speak, Joan,” her husband said, regarding her steadfastly. +“Hope, my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51">{51}</a></span> child,” and he passed his arm round her waist, “am I not +right?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” she said, softly, “but dear uncle Richard, you must not +despair. Let Robert come home; he will yet be all you wish.”</p> + +<p>“I will not despair,” he replied, “if I have strength.—God give me +<i>hope</i>!”</p> + +<p>The passionate sorrow of this prayer broke from him as if against his +will. He drew himself up sternly after it—whilst his wife, unable any +longer to battle with her tears, withdrew to a distant part of the room.</p> + +<p>Hope stooped and kissed his brow; then followed her aunt, to put her +arms round her neck, and whisper, “There is hope, indeed, dear aunt +Joan,” and left the room.</p> + +<p>For a time the husband and wife remained in silence, and apart. At +length Mr. Vavasour rose and walked to the window, where the mother +stood shedding, yet concealing most bitter tears.</p> + +<p>He looked at her for some moments, then<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52">{52}</a></span> he held out his hand to her and +said, “Joan, forgive me now and henceforward, the pain I may cause you +for Robert’s sake. You think me harsh; believe me, the pain you feel +lies deeper <i>here</i>!” and he laid his other hand on his own breast.</p> + +<p>With trembling lips and reverencing love Mrs. Vavasour kissed the hand +extended to her. No harshness on his part could for one moment change +her feelings towards him; the bitterness of her grief was in the strife +of two loves equally idolizing, and the endeavour to think with blind +partiality of the actions of each.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Four days after this conversation, on the eve of Robert’s birthday, the +25th of August, a post-chaise stopped at the lodge gate of Audley Court.</p> + +<p>The lodge on the London side was a mile from the house. So soon as the +chaise had passed through the gate, a voice, loud and impatient, called +to the post-boy to stop.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53">{53}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Let us get out and walk,” Robert said, restlessly addressing his +brother. “I have got to prepare myself for awful company, and I can’t do +it, boxed up here.”</p> + +<p>The chaise was left; and striking out of the road, the brothers took +their way across the park.</p> + +<p>Both were much changed in appearance: and in Everard the change was all +on the right side. He was not handsome, but he was no longer ugly. His +figure, once straggling and ungainly, had attained its due proportions: +and there was a certain grace of strength about him which gave ease and +power to his movements. His features were still too large and too +strongly marked; his countenance, when in repose, still grave and stern; +but his air was frank and simple, his smile sweet, and the light of his +dark-grey eyes so soft, that no harsh or repelling impression was left +on the mind.</p> + +<p>As a boy, his appearance had been interesting: in its improved state it +was more<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54">{54}</a></span> interesting. He was young—barely twenty—and his body had all +the activity and elasticity of youth; but the expression of his +countenance was that of mature and advanced manhood. None could have +heard with surprise that he was thirty. This was caused in a degree by +his marked features; but it was far more the shining-out of the mind +within. The freshness of youth his mind had in its tastes and fancies; +but the tone of his feelings was that of comparative age. None heard him +speak, none looked in his face without discovering that life had been to +him no flowery way, the fire of temptation “no moist and whistling +wind;” that in his efforts not to disappoint his father, he had learned +by experience man’s frailty; and that if he had been victorious in the +end the conflicts of the way had left no faint traces on his character.</p> + +<p>With Robert it was different; he, too, was outwardly improved. From the +crown of his head to the sole of his foot there was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55">{55}</a></span> no blemish in him. +His blue eye was darker and brighter; his raven hair more glossy and +curling; while the deeper hue of his complexion, and the vigour and +activity of his limbs preserved him from that appearance of effeminacy +which too perfect beauty in a man is apt to give. But with all these +improvements there was a painful change. It is sad to see the freshness +of youth obscured with worldly cares; it is sad to see its frank +ingenuousness troubled with worldly forethought; but more or less these +things must happen; and the necessity causes sorrow rather than pain. In +Robert the change was a sadder and deeper one. There was a reckless, +restless light in his eye which told a tale of dissipation; of innocence +passing away; of familiarity with vice; while a daring something in his +manner, spoke of conscience hardly dealt with—its efforts resisted—its +pleadings repelled and subdued.</p> + +<p>He walked silently by Everard’s side; but there was agitation in his +<i>deeds</i>. His foot trampled on every wild flower, and his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56">{56}</a></span> cane switched +off the head of many a young springing plant.</p> + +<p>At last he spoke, in a tone whose lightness endeavoured to conceal a +troubled mind. “I wonder what reception I am likely to meet. The +ceremony will be an unpleasant one, and I, for my part, would eschew it +if I could.”</p> + +<p>Everard was silent; but not from indifference. He was troubled with the +same painful feelings he had felt in his youth—almost a disgust at his +own superior steadiness—almost a longing to be as Robert was.</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you speak out, Everard?” Robert exclaimed, in an irritated +manner; “and why do you look so solemn? If you know anything of the +matter, say it at once; what am I to expect?”</p> + +<p>“I know nothing,” he replied, with warmth, “except that I am sorry you +have any doubts. My father and mother, you must know better than I do, +are longing for your return.”</p> + +<p>“Doubts! I have some little reason to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57">{57}</a></span> have doubts. First, a bad +conscience; secondly, this letter received this morning. Take it, and +now tell me what I am to expect.”</p> + +<p>The letter contained a few lines from Mr. Vavasour, apprising his son of +his determination not to celebrate his coming of age. It was written +with kindness and feeling, but there was no attempt at disguising his +view of his conduct. Through every line, in every expression, the broken +heart revealed itself.</p> + +<p>Everard’s blood mounted to his cheek as he read; and returning it to +Robert, he said, in strong emotion, “Oh! Robert, how can you bear thus +to grieve my father? I would rather die than do it.”</p> + +<p>“So would I at this moment,” Robert said, agitatedly, “I wish I was dead +this moment, and buried in that ditch. And yet,” after an instant, he +lightly added, as if ashamed of the feeling he had shewn, “though<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58">{58}</a></span> it is +as good as I deserve, I would, if I might, bespeak a wholesomer grave.”</p> + +<p>“You can give more pleasure than ever you have caused pain,” burst from +Everard’s lips. “Oh! Robert, be yourself! Do you remember the night +before we went to college?”</p> + +<p>There was a visible struggle in Robert’s countenance. It was evident +that an effort was made to repress his better feelings; but partly +shame, partly the very dread of his rising penitence, fought with, and +mastered them. “I have a better memory than I wish to have,” he said, +carelessly. “A good memory is a good thing in some cases, but it does +not do for those who have a ghostlike past to bring up at a moment’s +notice. Come, Everard, let us leave this solemn talk; you were a good +hand at vaulting once—let us see if study has paralyzed your limbs.”</p> + +<p>He sprang lightly over a high fence, calling to his brother to follow +him. Everard<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59">{59}</a></span> complied with equal success. “That’s a good fellow,” +Robert said, nodding his head approvingly; “I would as soon see a man a +woman, as a bookworm.”</p> + +<p>“There is Hope,” Everard observed, after a short silence.</p> + +<p>“Where?” cried Robert, excitedly. “Ah! so she is, my good angel. Poor +little Hope!” he added, in a low voice and a tone of deep feeling. “I +shall never weary her out.” But the words were hardly said, before he +resumed his wild spirits; and talking and laughing, he went on to the +spot where she stood.</p> + +<p>She had seen them from her window, and had hurried without her bonnet to +a gate which led from the pleasure grounds into the park. There she +paused; the evening breeze blowing about her golden curls, and a faint +colour of expectation on her cheek.</p> + +<p>Hope was scarcely altered, except in height, since her childhood. For +this reason she was more striking as a woman than she had been as a +child. Few preserve, even in early<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60">{60}</a></span> youth that soft and rounded grace +which is the charm of children’s beauty; fewer still carry on to maturer +years the ethereal, innocent look which so many children possess. In +both these respects Hope was unchanged. She was now, at seventeen, +singularly lovely; but it was a strange loveliness. Clothed, indeed, in +earthly form, but giving the idea of pure spirit.</p> + +<p>A peculiarity in the growth of her hair added to her uncommon and +spiritual look. Never since childhood had it increased in length or +thickness, but was still like the hair of a little girl—thin, fair, +soft, and silky. A few wavy curls hung about her face; the rest, without +form or fashion, were gathered up behind. This would rarely be a beauty, +yet it was a beauty in her.</p> + +<p>Robert approached; Hope gazed at him intently; but before she spoke, he +put his arms round her and embraced her. He had done so from earliest +years; and it was not this that made her colour rise, and prompted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61">{61}</a></span> her, +with a scarcely perceptible movement, to shrink from him.</p> + +<p>The time was come when she must understand what Robert was—when she +must understand and feel the tainted mind. Till now evil had been to her +but a name; Robert’s misdoings but a multiplication of old youthful +offences; a child herself, and Robert only thoughtless in ill, she had +never yet <i>felt</i> the change. The knowledge came upon her, as she met the +first bright, daring glance of his eye, and instinctively her spirit +shrank before it.</p> + +<p>Robert had a quick and keen perception, especially as regarded Hope’s +feelings towards himself. He needed no words to tell him what meant that +gentle movement backwards; but he chose to interpret it otherwise, and +addressed her in a bantering tone, little calculated to allay her fears.</p> + +<p>“What, Hope, are you growing shy of me? I don’t mean to stand that, I +can tell you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62">{62}</a></span>—why, you are lovely;” and he fixed his admiring eye upon +her: “prettier than ever—I have seen nothing so pretty for two long +years. Come, Hope,” and he held out his hand again, “don’t blush so. You +must learn to hear that you are pretty; you will hear it often, if you +look as you do to-day!”</p> + +<p>And she did look strangely lovely, as she stood—startled, grieved, +perplexed; her colour rising higher and higher—something, even of +terror, at Robert’s bold, careless tone, in her air.</p> + +<p>And Robert read every thought of her heart—loved her for her +shrinking—and yet persisted in grieving her.</p> + +<p>Hope’s uneasiness was so visible, that Everard approached to relieve +her. He had paused at a distance till now, contemplating their meeting, +with the intense longings Hope’s love for Robert always excited in his +mind.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63">{63}</a></span></p> + +<p>“You have not thought of me, Hope,” he said, with a smile.</p> + +<p>At his words she withdrew from Robert, and turned to him; and, as she +received his quiet, kind embrace, she raised her eyes to his face. The +clear, steadfast expression of his countenance attracted her attention, +as it had never done before, and she stood regarding him in silence.</p> + +<p>“Now, Hope, I am not going to allow this!” Robert cried, as he again +placed himself at her side. “I am jealous; and have good right to be so. +You never used to make up to Everard in this way;—come, don’t turn your +head away,” and he laid his hand upon her arm; “don’t you know that it +is a pleasure to me to look at you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Robert,” she said, in a tone of inexpressible pain.</p> + +<p>“And why, <i>oh! Robert</i>; is it wrong to be pretty? and is it right to be +blind? Let me tell you, Hope....”</p> + +<p>Some idle words were yet unspoken on his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64">{64}</a></span> lips, when Mr. and Mrs. +Vavasour appeared, from the glass door of the study. Mr. Vavasour was +leaning on his wife’s arm; and even in the distance his lingering, +unsteady steps were visible. It was nearly two years since Robert had +seen him. The change was, to his eyes, but too apparent.</p> + +<p>His cheek grew suddenly as white as ashes; and the hand that lay on +Hope’s arm seized her with a grasp of iron.</p> + +<p>“Go to him at once, dear Robert,” she said, softly and pityingly, “it +will be far better.”</p> + +<p>But he put his finger on his lips to silence her, and drew her back +behind an evergreen.</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour passed on. They had not perceived their sons’ +approach, and were now taking their way along the broad gravel walk that +led to the avenue, to watch for them.</p> + +<p>Robert waited till they were out of sight. He then drew a deep breath, +and in an altered manner said, “No, Hope, not yet; I am not fit to meet +my father yet. Vile<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65">{65}</a></span> wretch!” he muttered, with a contracted brow; then +added, aloud, “Wait for me here—and when I am fit to bear it, you shall +take me to him.” With rapid steps he hurried away in an opposite +direction.</p> + +<p>Hope stood looking after him—unutterable thoughts clouding her brow.</p> + +<p>Everard approached her compassionately. “Dear Hope,” he said, “do not +look so sad, it makes me miserable. Robert is not himself to-day. Do not +think he feels little—he feels too much; only he will not let us see +it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Everard,” she asked, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up in +his face, “is all they say of Robert <i>true</i>?”</p> + +<p>“Not all, but some,” he replied, with serious truth. “Robert has bad +companions and is easily led away. But there is no cause for despair; as +surely as we stand here, Robert will be won back again.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66">{66}</a></span></p> + +<p>“He speaks ... he never used to speak as he does. What is it Everard; +what does he mean?”</p> + +<p>“You must not be too severe, Hope,” Everard said, with a smile. “Beauty +is a good thing, and it pleases Robert to see you have it. Do not be +angry with him for that.”</p> + +<p>“Not angry,” she said, sadly.</p> + +<p>“Nor grieved,” he added with tenderness. “Robert loves you, and looks to +you as his guardian angel. He must not see you afraid.”</p> + +<p>She looked in his face for a moment, as if to receive some new idea from +his words. In that moment the impulsive desire of early years changed to +a living principle. She <i>would</i> be his guardian angel—undaunted, +undismayed. She stood by Everard’s side in silence till Robert returned. +As soon as his steps were heard, she went forward to meet him.</p> + +<p>Everard left them together, and went towards the house. He shortly saw +his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67">{67}</a></span> father and mother returning, and went back to give notice. One +glance shewed Robert changed; it was as if something had fallen from +him—so utterly had the bold and daring air vanished. The old Robert was +there, with all his excellent nature shining in his face.</p> + +<p>“Go on, Everard, there’s a good fellow, and lead the way. Hope and I +will come after you.” He spoke without agitation. A softened humility +had taken the place of fear.</p> + +<p>Everard obeyed, and hastened onwards. His father met him as he was ever +wont to do. A greeting, cordial though quiet; a smile, faint but +expressive; an eye of full trust, gratitude, and hope; and the greeting +ever repaid Everard for every effort and every struggle. With his mother +it was otherwise; even while her arm was round his neck, and her lips +touched his cheek, he could see and feel the eye straining onwards in +search of another; it was but natural, for Robert’s had been a long +absence; but with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68">{68}</a></span> a throb of jealous pain he almost longed again to +have returned as a penitent.</p> + +<p>They walked on a few steps: till, suddenly, from a narrow path, Robert +appeared.</p> + +<p>He paused, to await his father’s will. That will was to receive him with +more than kindness. The violence he had done to his own and to his +wife’s feelings, in his resolution respecting Robert’s birthday, had +changed and softened Mr. Vavasour, producing an earnest desire to atone +for his determination: but even if unprepared for kindness, no heart +could have resisted the charm of Robert’s penitence. No pride or false +shame stood in the way; no reserve or affectation marred the truth of +his humility.</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour hesitated not a moment; but with a smile, sweet in its +invitingness, stretched out his hand.</p> + +<p>Robert’s agitation became violent, but he struggled to speak. “Father,” +he said, tremulously, “you have forgiven me many times, but I am come +for forgiveness again.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69">{69}</a></span></p> + +<p>“And you have it fully and freely,” his father said, in his feeling +voice. “God bless you my boy, and make you strong. Here, Joan,” he +added, turning to his wife, and placing Robert’s hand in hers, “I will +not keep him from you; though he knows already,” and he faintly smiled, +“that he has <i>your</i> blessing.”</p> + +<p>He then put his hand in Everard’s arm, and walked on. He felt that pain +in excited feeling which strong natures often do. He passed his hand +over his eyes, as if to still himself. When he withdrew it he perceived +Hope also at his side.</p> + +<p>“You were right to hope, my child,” he said, gently touching her +shoulder, “Robert may do us honour yet.”</p> + +<p>She smiled as she looked in his face. The smile was such as we may fancy +on an angel’s countenance, when there is joy in Heaven over the lost and +found.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70">{70}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">See where he sits, contemplative and fixed!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Pleasure and wonder in his features mixed;<br></span> +<span class="i0">His passions tamed, and all at his control,<br></span> +<span class="i0">How perfect the composure of his soul!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Complacency has breathed a gentle gale<br></span> +<span class="i0">O’er all his thoughts, and swell’d his easy sail.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Cowper.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">We</span> must now go backwards for a few years, to make acquaintance with, and +follow, some new characters; until their history (within two months of +Robert’s coming of age) becomes linked with those to whom we are already +known.</p> + +<p>Before a blazing fire, in a large drawing room in Portland Place, a +gentleman stood alone.</p> + +<p>It was seven o’clock; and he was awaiting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71">{71}</a></span> the arrival of a number of +guests invited to a dinner-party. The room was splendidly furnished. The +massy frames of the mirrors seemed drooping under the weight of their +magnificence; the stiff, rich damask of the furniture seemed to repel +with scorn the idea of repose. One glance around the room proclaimed +that the owner was rich, and that his riches were by no means +distasteful to him.</p> + +<p>It was the owner who stood warming himself on the hearth. He was a +handsome man, and there was none of the vulgarity of his mansion in his +air. His figure was tall; his features good, and though their natural +expression was inanimate and pompous, the light of an intense +self-complacency shone upon them from within, and gave them +intelligence. In this self-complacency there was, however, no appearance +of vanity or conceit; it was something so simple and truthful as to give +almost an air of <i>bonhommie</i> to his demeanour.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72">{72}</a></span></p> + +<p>As was the outward, so was the inward man. Mr. Gresham was a banker, +possessed of large and increasing riches; and to these riches his heart +was given. But, in him, wealth was not a sordid passion. He could be +generous and lavish; he could give in charity, or assist struggling +merit. If he was without warmth, he had kindliness. But all he did +proceeded from one source. He lived in the eyes of the world. To <i>show</i> +was his delight. As things <i>showed</i>, according to their degree of merit +in that respect, so were they valued. This, perhaps, is no very uncommon +quality; but there <i>was</i> something uncommon in the open simplicity with +which his views were avowed. He had no concealments about it. His +opinions were, in his eyes, as wise as they were cherished; and with +perfect truth he expressed them. Like Mr. Bye-Ends, in the “Pilgrim’s +Progress,” he would have said, with unhesitating satisfaction, “I am +always most zealous for religion<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73">{73}</a></span> when he goes in silver slippers; and +love much to walk with him in the street, when the sun shines, and the +people applaud him.” This truthfulness redeemed his character from +common-place worldliness; for where an amused smile is caused scorn is +disarmed.</p> + +<p>He now stood and gazed around him with a satisfied air. The room was +over-lighted, if that is possible; the masses of gilding shone like pure +gold; every article of furniture was profusely ornamented; and every +article, and every ornament, had a double being in the light of the +numerous mirrors. He was satisfied: not a fault was to be found. The +eyes of the world would own, not only his wealth, but, what was more +precious, how lavishly he spent it.</p> + +<p>The door opened, and a lady entered; a pretty young woman, of about +six-and-twenty; but, though pretty, very unlike Mr. Gresham or his room. +She was <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74">{74}</a></span>ill-dressed; walked ill; and seemed altogether ill at ease. +This was Mrs. Gresham.</p> + +<p>A slight frown contracted Mr. Gresham’s brow, as she made her approach. +His wife was the one thing that disturbed his comfort. Not that he was +an unkind husband—in his way he had a real affection for her—but she +offended his taste. There was no show about her. Even her prettiness had +no show. She made no use of it.</p> + +<p>There had been a time when his riches had not seemed so secure a +possession as of late they had been; a time when, without any worldly +desires, so, at least, it seemed to him, it was his duty to secure +certain sums, over which the chances of life would have no power. At +that time he married the pretty daughter of a millionaire, who had but +lately struggled up into the eyes of the world; and who was, therefore, +not aware of all that those eyes would demand from his children. Mr. +Gresham<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75">{75}</a></span> knew all the disadvantages under which his chosen one laboured. +He knew she was uneducated; he saw that she had no grace or +accomplishment. But she was young and pretty, simple and docile; +whatever fancy he had was taken by her fresh beauty, and her grateful +admiration of himself; and the rest he thought might be given. She only +wanted an air, and a becoming sense of dignity to make her all he +desired, and when once <i>his</i> wife, that would be an easy acquisition.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may he, there are some +natures on which even the best instructions will not tell. After nine +years of married life, after instruction and example, notwithstanding a +blind admiration of her husband’s superiority, and an intense desire to +please him, Mrs. Gresham remained unchanged. Simple and docile, still, +ungraceful and ill-dressed. Advancing years cultivated unconsciously the +inner and moral being. She became more gentle,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76">{76}</a></span> loving, truthful, and +refined; but she could not, with her best endeavour, learn worldliness; +she could not be a fine lady; she could not understand her own dignity, +or learn to have one thought of herself; it was a bad job, and Mr. +Gresham owned it. On that one point his complacency was vulnerable. +Untired, however, and undismayed, he persisted in his instructions, and +Mrs. Gresham in her endeavour to learn.</p> + +<p>With a scrutinizing air he inspected her this day, as she advanced +towards him. It was a first dinner party in a new house. All things +shewed well. He expected his wife to do the same.</p> + +<p>“My dear Marianne,” he exclaimed, in grave displeasure, “your gown is +shabby! What is the cause?”</p> + +<p>“Is it shabby?” she said, colouring with penitence and regret, “I +thought it was pretty. I thought it would do.”</p> + +<p>“Would do,” he repeated, in calm contempt. “Once more, Marianne, let me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77">{77}</a></span> +remind you that I choose to see you dressed as becomes your station. +Look here,” and he drew her towards one of the long mirrors, “ask +yourself—is such a dress as this becoming the mistress of these +apartments? You might be my housekeeper—scarcely my governess—never my +wife.”</p> + +<p>He was quite right. Her dress was <i>not</i> becoming her station. Though +composed of silk—and perhaps good silk—it was faded, tumbled, +tastelessly trimmed, and badly put on. The poor thing coloured crimson +again. She did feel out of place—she owned it.</p> + +<p>“I am very sorry,” she said gently, “I will order a new gown to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Not one new gown: order many. It is a remarkable thing that while most +men complain of the extravagance of their wives, I cannot get mine to +dress with decency. If, as some husbands do, I ordered you to dress, and +gave you no means of doing so, it might be a different question; but +how<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78">{78}</a></span> is it with me? I say, go where you please, spend what you please, +and command me. It is my pride and delight to put myself at your +orders.” His countenance glowed with satisfaction at his boundless +liberality.</p> + +<p>“You are very kind,” his wife said, humbly and gratefully. “I wish I +deserved it better.”</p> + +<p>There was a knock at the door; a “Come in,” from Mr. Gresham; and a +little girl, freeing herself from the hands of her nurse, bounded into +the room.</p> + +<p>“Come here, Angela,” said her father. But the child did not notice him. +“Mamma, mamma, dear mamma!” she cried, and springing to her mother’s +neck, clasped her arms about her, to the further detriment of the +toilette.</p> + +<p>“Come to me, Angela—come when I call you,” Mr. Gresham repeated.</p> + +<p>“I choose to stay with mamma,” she replied wilfully, and retained her +place.</p> + +<p>“You must not, my darling,” her mother<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79">{79}</a></span> murmured in her ear. “Papa +calls—to please me, go.”</p> + +<p>After a little consideration, Angela obeyed. She approached her father, +and stood coldly and quietly by his side.</p> + +<p>“I want to look at you,” he said, twisting her round, and examining her +dress. After a moment he added, with dissatisfaction, “You look after +her dress no better than your own, Marianne. Let her have silk frocks, I +am tired of this muslin. Every pauper can wear muslin.”</p> + +<p>“Angela does not like silk,” observed his wife.</p> + +<p>“Folly and nonsense, to talk of a child’s taste. What can she know of +the matter? I beg I may be obeyed.”</p> + +<p>“I won’t have silk. I don’t like it,” the little girl said, vehemently; +“it rustles so, and it makes Margaret tiresome. She tells me to be still +and to mind my frock, and I don’t like it. I don’t like to take care—”</p> + +<p>“Quite right, my little girl,” cried her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80">{80}</a></span> father, delighted, “why should +you take care? Tell Margaret not to talk nonsense. Tell her you may +spoil as many frocks as you please, and that I don’t want you to take +care.”</p> + +<p>“But may I, really?” and Angela looked for an answer to her mother.</p> + +<p>“You may, indeed; you have my leave for it. You shall have new silk +frocks, and you may spoil them all as fast as you please.”</p> + +<p>“And you must give the old ones to Margaret’s poor little nieces,” +suggested the kind mother—unconsciously dropping her balm into the +poison of his words.</p> + +<p>“Oh! mamma, may I indeed spoil my things as fast as I can? May I blow +bubbles with my best frocks on; and may I dig a hole, and fill it with +water; and may Margaret never tell me not to make a mess again? Oh! what +fun it will be!” and she clapped her hands in rapture.</p> + +<p>The trio were interrupted by the entrance of the first guest. It was a +lady—and a fine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81">{81}</a></span> one, with a languid voice. After paying due attention +to her host and hostess, she called Angela to her side.</p> + +<p>“Come here, my sweet child, and tell me what will be good fun.”</p> + +<p>But Angela stood immoveable. She had strong tastes; and, at first sight, +this lady displeased her.</p> + +<p>“She is to have as many silk frocks as she pleases,” her father +observed, taking her reluctant hand, and leading her, mute and rigid, to +his guest.</p> + +<p>“Dear, how nice,” said the lady, caressingly, “and what a lucky little +mortal you are. My chicks will be so jealous; for they have but one or +two silk frocks in a year.”</p> + +<p>“But I hate silk frocks!” Angela burst out vehemently; “and I didn’t say +it would be good fun to have them; and papa shouldn’t have said I did, +because it was a story.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham laughed. His little girl’s ways did not displease him. She +was not,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82">{82}</a></span> indeed, what he intended her to be; but, at present, she +fulfilled the object of life tolerably well; she attracted that is, her +due degree of attention.</p> + +<p>“Hush, my love,” said her gentle mother, drawing her back, and seating +her beside her, “that is not the right way to speak;” but the soft +stroke of her curls, and the gentle touch on her fair, fat shoulders, +spoke no lesson of displeasure.</p> + +<p>She sat quietly while the party assembled. She was a lovely and a taking +child, with a Hebe countenance of health and animation; and many were +the attentions and compliments she received. But she was as capricious +as a spoiled beauty in her choice. This night the party was not to her +taste, and she made no concealment of her feelings.</p> + +<p>An old gentleman watched her with amusement, and having seen her repulse +with disdain the caresses of three good-looking young gentlemen and as +many young ladies, who concealed their inward<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83">{83}</a></span> merits under overmuch +outward airs and graces, approached her to try his chance.</p> + +<p>“May I kiss you?” he said, stooping towards her, “I should rather like +it.”</p> + +<p>“Margaret does not like <i>everybody</i> to kiss me,” she said, loftily, “but +<i>you</i> may;” and she put up her blooming cheek to receive his caress.</p> + +<p>“You are very kind to me,” he said, seating himself by her side, with a +smile, “and now will you tell me why you are kinder to me than to those +young gentlemen yonder?”</p> + +<p>“Because I like you best,” she said readily.</p> + +<p>“That is being very good-natured; particularly, as you don’t know +anything about me. Do you know it makes me such a vain old man, that I +must ask you the reason why?”</p> + +<p>“I like mamma twenty times better than papa,” was Angela’s not very +pertinent answer.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84">{84}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Oh!” he observed, not quite certain how this confidence should be +received. “But I was not talking about your papa and mamma. I was +talking about number one. Why do you like me? Is it because I have got a +bald head, and an old coat, and no gloves, and a face all smothered in +wrinkles,” and he screwed up his features into a ridiculous caricature +of age.</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes!” Angela cried with delight, “that is why I like you best.”</p> + +<p>“Then I need not do so any more, to please young ladies;” and he drew +down his nose and forehead till the wrinkled skin looked like a +pavement.</p> + +<p>Angela screamed, and clapped her hands; but seeing that she was noticed, +and that one of the good-looking young gentlemen was moving towards her, +she drew herself up, and became as cold and demure as a moment before +she had been animated and gay.</p> + +<p>The old man smiled at her youthful airs, and fell into a reverie.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85">{85}</a></span></p> + +<p>In the dining-room he managed to place himself by Mrs. Gresham’s side. +He had an interest in the family, and some sleeping interest in the +banking-house to which Mr. Gresham belonged; but ill health kept him +generally abroad.</p> + +<p>“I have been talking to that little lady of yours,” he observed; when +she relaxed her painful endeavours to play the lady of the house to a +stranger at her side.</p> + +<p>With cordiality and gratitude she turned to him at once. “I saw you and +Angela making acquaintance; it was very kind of you. I am afraid she was +not very good to-night; but we must not expect too much. She is so +young.”</p> + +<p>“She was quite good enough for me,” he said, emphatically. “I am not +fond of over sweet sugar-plums. She is the kind of animal—I beg her +pardon—that I like to have to do with; full of life and character. What +is her name?”</p> + +<p>“Angela. She was called so after Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86">{86}</a></span> Gresham’s grandmother, who was, I +believe, a very beautiful woman.”</p> + +<p>“She is badly named. There is nothing of the angel about her.”</p> + +<p>“You must not judge of her by to-night,” Mrs. Gresham said, with +anxiety, “indeed you must not. She was a little annoyed before you came, +and she did not quite recover herself; but she is a good child in +general; indeed she is!”</p> + +<p>“My dear Madam,” he said, with an impatient smile, “I can see that; a +good child in her way, but no angel, nor would I wish to have her so. I +hope some time to find the angels good company; but while I am a human +being, human beings suit best with my infirmities. Miss Angela is a +human being, and one which I fancy may some day give you a good deal of +trouble.”</p> + +<p>The fond and simple mother again began her protestations and apologies; +but they were received as if they were not heard.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know if you find it so,” he con<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87">{87}</a></span>tinued, in a thoughtful tone, +“but some people set me thinking. I cannot help picturing what their +life and trials may be; that little lady of yours, for instance. As I +watched her, my fancy went on into future days, days when questions of +marrying and giving in marriage may arise. There will be trouble, I +guess. She has a will of her own, and a rarer acquisition, opinions of +her own: and in some cases this is not very convenient.”</p> + +<p>“Angela may be a little wilful, perhaps,” said her mother, “but she is +so affectionate and so generous, that it is always a pleasure to her to +give up her will for those she loves.”</p> + +<p>“That’s something—cultivate that; your little girl’s safeguard will be +in teaching her to love wisely and well. She needs education, let me +tell you; not book-learning, but something to guide her good, wild +heart. You must give her an anchor to rest upon; that life’s trials may +soften, not break her spirit.”</p> + +<p>“We all have our trials,” observed Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88">{88}</a></span> Gresham, quietly, “please God, +Angela may not have a large share.”</p> + +<p>“Amen, with all my heart. She is a taking little thing, and though I +shall not probably live to see it, will be a lovely and interesting +woman. If I held the thread of her destiny, I would spin her a full yarn +without a knot or tangle in it. But after all this might not be for her +good; and so we must be content to leave her in wiser hands than ours, +for her pilgrimage through this sweet yet weary world.” Perceiving that +his conversation was little better than Greek to his simple hostess, the +old man here paused, and the subject was changed.</p> + +<p>Angela Gresham grew up.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham was certainly unfortunate in the soil committed to his care +and husbandry. He scattered his good seed as laboriously and unceasingly +on the heart of his daughter as he had done on that of his wife, but +with even less success. Mrs. Gresham received, and cherished the seed,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89">{89}</a></span> +and it was no fault of hers that it withered and died. Angela, like the +hard and beaten wayside, stubbornly rejected it.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham had an ideal in his head: and to this ideal his daughter was +to be formed. She was to be polished in manner, easy in conversation—a +well-bred, well-dressed, showy and accomplished woman. To attain this +object, no expense was spared. The all-importance of the world’s opinion +was held up unceasingly to her view; and father, mother, and teachers, +all united in their endeavours, to season her impressible mind with +vain-glory and self-conceit.</p> + +<p>But all in vain. To learn, indeed, Angela submitted with a good grace, +for she had an inquiring and intelligent mind; but she learned for the +pleasure of learning, and rebelliously refused to exhibit, or even to +make the best of her attainments. With quick intuition, she perceived +her father’s love for the world’s estimation: and she early took the +world to her utter scorn. Her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90">{90}</a></span> father cared for the world’s words—she +held all opinions in contempt.</p> + +<p>There is always something noble in the eyes that look right through the +shows of things, and are unsatisfied till the reality is found; but +scorn of the world’s ways, when held as a principle, is unsafe. A very +host of rebellious and bitter thoughts Angela cherished in her breast, +and in her scorn of show, many a wise restraint was cast away.</p> + +<p>If left to herself, and to her father’s influence, she might possibly +have grown up, in spite of a truthful and virtuous nature, an unpleasing +woman; but there was a counter influence at work, not the less powerful +that it was unconscious.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gresham did her best, employed the full purpose of her mind to act +with her husband, and ruin her daughter. Conscious of her own +deficiencies, she contemplated with admiration those outward graces her +husband approved, and assisted in all his attempts to turn a natural +character into an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91">{91}</a></span> artificial one. This was what she endeavoured to do; +but the unconscious influence, be it good or bad, is the active one. +Soft as the falling of the dew on a tender herb, fell the influence of +the mother’s unworldly nature on the daughter’s impressible mind. Too +simple for systems, too unreflective for principles, Mrs. Gresham could +not teach didactically, even the first elements of religious knowledge; +but there is a natural religion of the heart which nothing can conceal; +and humility, charity, and reverence flowed with never-ceasing flow from +her thoughts, words, and actions.</p> + +<p>In early days this influence was apparently without effect. Angela was a +rebellious child; and her self-willed spirit startled her father and +grieved her mother. To the latter, indeed, she was gentle, and though +not submissive, loving; but her father she did not love; his ways she +thwarted and opposed; and many a tear Mrs. Gresham shed in secret, as +the clash of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92">{92}</a></span> opposing characters brought discord into her home. But +then came a time of bitter trial; and with trial, reflection and +remembrance. Mrs. Gresham died—the only being Angela loved. It seemed a +hard deprivation; it seemed a loss as severe to her well-being, as to +her happiness. Influenced only by love, stubborn to restraint, the loss +of love seemed a loss irreparable. So man argues. So it seemed wise to +argue; but this was not the only case in which man’s arguments prove +fallacious. Some influence more in death or absence than in presence; it +was so with Mrs. Gresham. The dead mother guided where the living could +not. <i>Alive</i>, Angela with her superior cleverness was the victor in +every argument; <i>dead</i>, her mother’s least remembered word vanquished +her. <i>Alive</i>, example failed; the gentle submission of the wife to the +husband irritated the daughter’s soul; <i>dead</i>, Angela recalled, only to +love that gentleness; and perforce was drawn to imitate. <i>Alive</i>, Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93">{93}</a></span> +Gresham was no bond between the father and daughter; <i>dead</i>, she became +so: for each in their measure mourned her, and in that sympathy found a +kindred nature. Mr. Gresham loved his wife as much as he loved anybody, +and grieved for her as much as he could grieve. It was not great, but in +its measure it was sincere grief. He comforted himself by the splendour +of her funeral; but the gaudy trappings of woe were not all show. A sad +heart heat beneath. Angela’s grief was wild, ardent, undisciplined; it +was the loss of all to her; she was disposed to think that none grieved, +none could mourn but her; but when, with a real tear in his eye, and a +real tremble in his voice, her father told her to take her mother’s +place, she owned the reality of his sorrow, and a link, slight indeed, +yet still a link, was knit between them.</p> + +<p>Angela was fifteen when her mother died. From that time her character +grew in various directions. Like a tree that has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94">{94}</a></span> lost its leader, her +branches fell luxuriantly, but irregularly—producing a kind of +picturesqueness on the whole, yet being not the less irregular. +Something she lost in strength, much she gained in amiableness; +self-will was still dominant, but it was no longer sole lord. She wished +to please herself, and scorned most opinions but her own; but she also +wished to be like her mother; she wished to be, for her sake, a +tolerable daughter to her father; she wished also passionately, yet +vaguely, to be good, and to follow her mother on the path to heaven. +These opposing wishes, this strife of good principles, with faults and +caprices, made her a mass of inconsistencies—and inconsistency is +childish. She was sometimes like a woman, and sometimes a foolish child. +More childish at sixteen than at ten, because more inconsistent.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95">{95}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">... As a child<br></span> +<span class="i0">She still was simple, rather shall I say<br></span> +<span class="i0">More simple than a child, as being lost<br></span> +<span class="i0">In deeper admirations and desires.<br></span> +<span class="i0">The roseate richness of her childish bloom<br></span> +<span class="i0">Remain’d, but by inconstancies and change<br></span> +<span class="i0">Referr’d itself to sources passion-swept.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Eve of the Conquest.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">On</span> the sofa of the small drawing-room of a small house, on the road to +Hampstead, lay a lady, of some age between fifty and sixty. Her +appearance was sickly and shabby—such, also, was the appearance of the +room; but it was a shabbiness of taste more than of necessity. There is +a hue in every colour, too full to be delicate, and too pale to be +decided, which good taste avoids; but it was this tone of colour which +nature<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96">{96}</a></span> had bestowed on Miss Price; and which she, following nature, +chose for the adornment of her room and person. Her hair was a dull, +dark flaxen; her complexion a sallow grey; her gown a muddy brown; her +furniture a sickly blue. Her countenance was as insipid as her taste, +devoid of character, and devoid of intellect; nevertheless, when closely +scrutinized, it was not devoid of a certain charm,—it was gentle and +patient; and her smile, the smile of a grateful and affectionate heart, +had the power to light up and dignify her face. She was now lying on the +sofa, with a shawl of salmon-colour over her feet, and a piece of sickly +worsted-work in her hands.</p> + +<p>At a little distance from her, her two arms leaning on a table, was a +figure of a very different appearance. She was a young lady, healthful +and lovely, and with no lack of taste or decision about her. The +smoothness and roundness of her dazzling complexion, and the freshness +of her air, betokened very early youth, sixteen or seventeen<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97">{97}</a></span> at the +utmost; but in other respects her appearance was womanly. The silk of +her dress and the costly lace on her cloak were in a style uncommon to +young ladies in general; and the ease and decision of her graceful +figure seemed the acquirement of maturer years.</p> + +<p>She was lovely rather than beautiful. Her hazel eyes bright and +piercing; her auburn hair soft and silky; her colouring full and fresh. +It was the beauty of animation and colour more than of feature: though +it would have been hard to fancy a time when her countenance would cease +to please.</p> + +<p>At this moment there was discontent and dissatisfaction upon it; but it +sat upon her with an air of piquancy. Her bonnet was thrown off; and as +she pushed back her long thick curls from her face, she said, “My dear +aunt Jane, the fact is, this life is a very weary life.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t find it so, my dear,” replied her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98">{98}</a></span> aunt, while with a look of +interest she pulled out a needleful of olive-green worsted.</p> + +<p>“And what makes you not find it so? Tell me, for it is what I cannot +understand.”</p> + +<p>“The many things I have to be thankful for,” and she put down her work, +in grateful reverence to the words she said.</p> + +<p>“You;—poor aunt Jane, and what have you to be thankful for?”</p> + +<p>“My sight, my hearing, my tolerable health, my food and clothing, and +your love my dear, besides many other things, which it would take me a +long time to tell.”</p> + +<p>“In that view, I suppose I have things to be thankful for too—but I +can’t say I feel it.”</p> + +<p>“You have of course, my love, and many more than I have; you have youth +and beauty, and riches....”</p> + +<p>“Ah! now,” said the young lady, decidedly, “stop there—don’t say +riches; the Bible says that money is the root of all evil, and I think +so too. One day I heard a little boy in the street say, ‘hang larning;’ +I don’t exactly know what he meant; but since then<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99">{99}</a></span> I sometimes say +‘hang riches,’ and it gives me pleasure.”</p> + +<p>“My love,” said her aunt, with a look of sincere consternation, “do you +know that is a very improper way of speaking!”</p> + +<p>“Don’t look so shocked, my dear aunt Jane, I mean no harm. I only mean +that I wish all bags of gold were wound round with a rope, and chucked +into the sea.”</p> + +<p>“Money is a very useful thing. I don’t mean to say, my love,” Miss Price +added, with some perplexity, “that money is <i>not</i> the root of evil—of +course not; but it is a useful thing, and we ought to try to do good +with it.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know what makes me out of temper to-day?” the young lady said, +with out attending to her aunt’s musings, “I mean especially out of +temper—more than usual.”</p> + +<p>“You look very nice, my love,” she replied fondly, putting down her +worsted to examine her niece’s countenance.</p> + +<p>“But cross. Look again.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100">{100}</a></span></p> + +<p>“You do frown, my love, certainly, but you don’t mean it, I know.”</p> + +<p>“But I do mean it, and I must tell you why. Aunt Jane, did you ever wish +to marry?”</p> + +<p>“My love, my love,” she said, fluttered and bewildered at the sudden +question.</p> + +<p>“Don’t answer me, if you don’t like it,” said her niece, kindly, “all I +want to be sure of is, that you can understand me when I ask you, if +<i>you</i> could submit to marry anybody that was picked out for you, however +little you cared for him.”</p> + +<p>“My love,” replied her aunt, humbly, “I think I would rather not give an +opinion on such subjects. My head is not particularly strong.”</p> + +<p>“To be bought and sold like a piece of land. I never, never will submit +to it; and yet I don’t well know how it is to be avoided.”</p> + +<p>“God will provide, dearest—we need not fret ourselves about our future +lives.”</p> + +<p>“I see people bought and sold with my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101">{101}</a></span> own eyes,” said the young lady +with vehemence. “This is a vile world I live in. There is not one person +in all the world that I look up to and respect; and yet, unless I +respect, I never, never will marry: that is, so long as I can struggle +against it.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, my love; to esteem is the safest way; for we cannot esteem +bad people, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Very true, Aunt Jane,” said her niece, smiling; “but now let me tell +you what has put me out of temper. Papa sent for me, yesterday morning, +to speak to me. I went down to his room, and he told me two things. +First, he told me a thing that made me very happy. He told me that he +had bought a large property, and that henceforward we should live a +great part of the year in the country.”</p> + +<p>“That will be nice, indeed, my love! You will see all the flowers, and +hear the birds sing.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and be <i>free</i>, Aunt Jane. If you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102">{102}</a></span> knew how I sometimes long to be +free! I was so pleased that I said so, and thanked papa, and behaved +like a very good, amiable daughter. And when he said he hoped as he had +pleased me in this that I should be more obedient in future, and conform +myself to his wishes, I said—Oh, yes, I would, indeed;—and I really +meant and felt what I said: and then what do you think he said next?”</p> + +<p>“Now you frown again, my love, and I am sorry to see it.”</p> + +<p>“He said the time would soon be approaching when he should wish me to +marry; and that he hoped when the proper person appeared that I should +behave myself as a dutiful daughter ought. My dear Aunt Jane, he said it +as quietly as if he spoke of a new gown.”</p> + +<p>“Well, my love, I have heard that parents sometimes choose a very proper +person; and I would not set myself against him on that account.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103">{103}</a></span></p> + +<p>“I don’t. Do you know that I am so sensible and unromantic that if the +Bishop of London, who I suppose is a good man, was to bring me a person, +and say, ‘Here is a good man, wise and good, whom I am certain you can +admire and respect,’ I am so weary of scoffing and scorning that I would +consent as dutifully as if I were four years old; but I cannot trust +papa. Don’t look shocked, Aunt Jane! sometimes we <i>must</i> speak the +truth; and I know if you would speak the truth you would allow that you +don’t trust him either. Now look at me, and answer!”</p> + +<p>“A father, my love, is a father; and I don’t give opinions on such +subjects. It is better not.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you are right. I do try myself not to express all I feel. If +you could tell what a boiling indignation I sometimes have pent up +here,” and she pressed her hands on her heart; “but I must speak for +once. I cannot trust papa’s choice;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104">{104}</a></span> he would marry me to a post, if it +were rich enough.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not, dearest. It is better not to distrust. Wait till the time +comes, and don’t fret till then. Did he say more? Did he speak of any +person in particular?”</p> + +<p>“No, he did not say; but I have a guess.”</p> + +<p>“And would it be a very unwelcome choice, my love, if you guessed +right?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know anything about it. I have a guess at the name; but I know +no more who it is, nor what he is, than you do. And I was such a fool, +aunt Jane—so astounded at what he said, that I did not say half what I +thought and felt; and, besides, I don’t know how it is, but I cannot +argue with papa. He seems to think he must be right, and has such a +contempt for everybody that does not think as he does. I am not afraid +of him; I don’t mind being in a passion, but somehow or other I feel +like a slave. It seems no use. He treats every<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105">{105}</a></span>thing one says, however +wise it is, as if a baby spoke it. Sometimes I think I shall go mad.” +She started up as she spoke, and walked impetuously to the window. When +she came back, she said, “And so, Aunt Jane, you really are thankful for +your life; and to me it seems <i>so</i> dreary. I wish I could feel as you +do. No I don’t. I would not feel contented with anything but perfect +happiness for all the world. Do you never think life dreary.”</p> + +<p>“Days come and go, my love, and every day brings its great blessings. I +have no right to be dreary. Just now I feel particularly thankful.”</p> + +<p>“For what?” asked her niece, quickly—</p> + +<p>“For my fall, my love. Its—”</p> + +<p>“For your fall! I call that truly wicked; one must <i>bear</i> pain, but I +don’t think we ever were intended to like it.”</p> + +<p>“I was going to say, my love,” continued her Aunt, in the same placid +manner, “that my fall has brought me a great good; and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106">{106}</a></span> so I am +thankful, very thankful, even for the fall—”</p> + +<p>“What can you mean? what great good?”</p> + +<p>“A new friend, my love, and a kind one. I will tell you how it +happened.—You know I slipped down in the mud, about twenty yards from +my door; I was half stunned when I fell, and I could not get up. I heard +little boys laughing; and I wondered how long I should lie there. It was +not very pleasant. Then I heard a nice voice say, ‘Don’t crowd so—be +off!’ and then I felt strong arms lift me up; and then the kind voice +said, ‘Where shall I carry you?’ so I just forced out ‘Number 7,’ for I +was very faint; and then I don’t know any more, till I found myself on +this sofa, and a young man standing by me. Kitty was there too; but +girls are so easily frightened, and he seemed sorry to see me with +nobody but a frightened girl; and he was very kind, and told her to get +some water; and then he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107">{107}</a></span> went himself for the doctor, and came back, and +was very kind; and since then, I suppose, being sorry to see me all +alone, he has called two or three times; and yesterday he sat down for a +long time, and read me out of the papers about those dreadful riots. +Altogether, he is particularly kind.”</p> + +<p>“He does seem kind, indeed,” said the young lady; and the gaze with +which she contemplated her aunt, though full of affection, seemed to own +that she was no attractive object of a young man’s benevolence. “That is +the kind of thing I like to hear of; most people are kind, only for +show, or for some selfish thing.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! my love, how you speak—”</p> + +<p>“I speak what I think; it is a vile world I live in: but as to this +young man, what sort of a young man is he? Is he young? and is he +good-looking?”</p> + +<p>“Not very good-looking, my dear. That is not what <i>I</i> call handsome,” +and she glanced about her room with a satisfied air,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108">{108}</a></span> as if her pride +(poor humble thing) was in her taste. “His nose is too large, and his +eyebrows are rather fierce; but, then, his countenance is very pleasant, +and I thought his smile particularly sweet.”</p> + +<p>“I like a large nose, and fierce eyebrows,” said her niece laughing: +“there are sense and meaning in them. I should like to see your young +man. Do you know what his name is?”</p> + +<p>“He did send up a card one day, but I forget; it was Travers, I think; +no, not Travers, but Vavers. I know I thought of two Vs. Vavers, or +Vassour; no, that’s not it, because of the two Vs. I forget, I am sorry +to say.”</p> + +<p>“Not Vavasour?” asked the young lady, with a slight blush, and a look of +curiosity.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my love, that was it indeed. Do you know him?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no; only the name.” She fell into a meditation; and as she mused, +there passed over her countenance a furtive smile,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109">{109}</a></span> arch and +mischievous. The fruit of her meditations appeared at last. “I should +like to see your young man, Aunt Jane. When will he come again?”</p> + +<p>“On Friday next, my love, he said he would call again, if he possibly +could; and he was kind enough to say, that if there was anything +interesting in the papers, he would bring one with him.”</p> + +<p>“I shall come to see him—that is, if I can. Now you are ill, I think +papa will not refuse to let me come. I felt quite ashamed, when you said +your friend seemed sorry to see you alone. And it <i>is</i> a shame, when you +have a niece who could take care of you. I shall tell papa what I +think.”</p> + +<p>“If he lets you come, my love, I shall be very grateful, but I shall not +expect it.”</p> + +<p>“You may expect it, for I mean to come; but you must not be grateful, +because this once I am not coming to see <i>you</i>, but out <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110">{110}</a></span>of mere +curiosity. And now, good-bye.—My dear Aunt Jane, what a hateful cat! Is +that piece of work for your new friend?”</p> + +<p>“My love, I would not take such a liberty for all the world. It is for +the grocer’s wife who has been very kind to me. She thought it a pretty +thing, and so did I.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose it is well tastes differ in this world,” said her niece with +a smile, as she affectionately kissed her. “But how tastes come to be +what they are, is past my understanding.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111">{111}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">What will your kindred think?<br></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Eliz.</span> What they will think?<br></span> +<span class="i5">What pleases them.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><i>The Saint’s Tragedy.</i><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Angela Gresham</span> arrived on the appointed day, but not quite in her own +person. When she had thrown off a cloak and bonnet, she came and stood, +with mirth dancing in her eye, by the side of her aunt’s couch.</p> + +<p>The placid aunt looked at her with a gaze of fear and wonder, and gasped +out “My love!”</p> + +<p>“How do you like me?” enquired Angela,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112">{112}</a></span> kneeling down by her sofa, and +laughing at the amazed countenance.</p> + +<p>“My dear child, what have you done to yourself?”</p> + +<p>“This gown I am to give to a kitchen-maid, who is going to be married; +and my cap is for somebody else. I brought them to shew you.” Her gown +was of some dark material, very plainly made; and her luxuriant curls +were braided back beneath a neat cap of plain net, tied under her chin. +The disguise of her dress was complete, yet it was by no means a +disfigurement. The bright intelligence, and lovely colouring, were +perhaps the more striking under the simple attire.</p> + +<p>“Oh! my love, but why is this?” with a groan.</p> + +<p>“I will tell you, Aunt Jane, if you can listen to a story. There is a +poor young lady in London, who is very rich; twenty times a day, she is +told how rich she is. Everybody who comes near her knows she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113">{113}</a></span> is rich, +and this poor young lady never can tell whether she is liked for +herself, or for her riches. Is not that a hard fate?”</p> + +<p>“It is, my love,” replied Miss Price, with a gleam of intelligence, “but +she may be sure—”</p> + +<p>“No, she cannot be sure; she is, on the contrary, very much afraid that +all the flattery she receives is given to her riches; and for once she +wishes to know what would be her fate, if she were poor. So I am come to +see your stranger in this dress. Do you mind?”</p> + +<p>“I am almost afraid, my love, I do.”</p> + +<p>“Then I am almost afraid I must do it whether you mind or not. So, dear +Aunt Jane”—and she kissed her, “it will be no use for you to say any +more.”</p> + +<p>“If it were not a disguise, my love, I should not mind, but disguises +are dangerous things. I have often read of them: they are dangerous +things.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114">{114}</a></span></p> + +<p>“But this is no disguise. I am your niece, and if I lived with you, this +is the way in which I should dress; and, indeed, if I had my will, I +should dress in this way at all times. I am sick of ornaments. You see +there is no harm.”</p> + +<p>“Your father, my love! I am afraid....”</p> + +<p>“Oh! never mind that. What I am doing, I guess, will please Papa very +well.—He ... but there is a knock—now dear Aunt Jane, only remember +that you must not say who I am, nor call me by any name.”</p> + +<p>“I never do, my love. There is no fear.”</p> + +<p>Angela seized the hateful cat out of her aunt’s reluctant fingers, and +seated herself at a distance to work; but was scarcely seated before +disgust at the monstrosity of the sandy cat on an olive-green ground +made her jump up and restore it. A letter was then seized, which she +tore up into strips for matches, as a means of employing her fingers.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115">{115}</a></span></p> + +<p>The small maid of the house opened the door, and announced “the +gentleman.” It seemed to be the fashion of the establishment to suppress +names in general.</p> + +<p>Everard Vavasour entered the room, but paused at the door in some +annoyance. His kindness to Miss Price had been in simple obedience to a +kindly nature. Her apparently desolate position, though common enough, +had touched one unaccustomed to such phases of life. For Everard was by +no means adventurous in charity. Perhaps, to say the truth, his mind +over-engrossed with one sphere of duty—the withstanding the baits of +idleness and pleasure—was in some danger of becoming narrowed and +self-contracted. Be this as it may, he had no taste for adventures, and +felt annoyed and embarrassed at the sight of a visitor in the room.</p> + +<p>After a second’s pause, however, he came forward without looking to the +right or the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116">{116}</a></span> left, sat down in the chair Miss Price had ordered to be +placed for him, and enquired after her health.</p> + +<p>She gave a favourable account, and then with gentleness and gratitude, +thanked him for his kindness past and present.</p> + +<p>He cut her short with a quick “I assure you I am glad to come,” and +then, like one not quite at ease, began to descant upon the weather.</p> + +<p>When this came to an end, Miss Price said, “My niece;—will you allow me +to introduce my niece?”</p> + +<p>Angela blushed and bowed; and unable to restrain her smiles, cast down +her eyes, and tore up her paper into fragments.</p> + +<p>Everard looked at her for the first time; and with a gaze of surprise +mingled with admiration. “Miss Price’s niece!” In that insipid faded +room, her freshness and brightness were singularly striking.</p> + +<p>Still more embarrassed, however, at the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117">{117}</a></span> introduction, and uncertain +whether it would be proper to address her or not, his conversation came +to a pause. Retired and studious habits prevent the acquisition of an +easy flow of discourse, and when there was nothing tangible to be said, +Everard was often in the awkward predicament of having nothing he could +say. On such occasions to pause and consider is fatal.</p> + +<p>Miss Price relieved his embarrassment. “Those dreadful riots,” she said, +with placid interest, “I have thought of them so much; are they quite at +an end?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, quite. When soldiers appear, a mob is soon brought to its senses, +or at least,” he added smiling, “to good behaviour.”</p> + +<p>“You have nothing more I fear to tell.”</p> + +<p>“I think,” he replied, colouring slightly, “you do not want my +services.”</p> + +<p>“My niece, I am sure, will be happy to hear you. I beg your pardon; I +fear I am too troublesome, but it was a great treat.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118">{118}</a></span></p> + +<p>Everard hesitated, and while he hesitated, Angela raised her eyes, and +said, “Your reading was a great pleasure to my aunt. I hope you will not +deprive her of it, because I am here.” She spoke with an ease and grace +that astonished him beyond measure.</p> + +<p>He acquiesced in the request; and though much inclined to laugh at the +novelty of his position, pulled a newspaper from his pocket. It had been +placed there for Miss Price’s special entertainment.</p> + +<p>The account he read was of a fire in some country town, and several acts +of extraordinary heroism were related. He read with considerable spirit; +a kind of reading likely to strike the inert senses of one like Miss +Price. She listened with body and mind; and though her needle fell to +the ground, forebore to mention the fact.</p> + +<p>Angela listened, too, until she forgot herself; fixing her sparkling, +speaking eyes on the reader. So fixed, Everard once sur<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119">{119}</a></span>prised them; and +colouring, he knew not why, continued to read with a strange sensation.</p> + +<p>When he had finished she burst out, “It does me good to hear of such +things; it proves that <i>all</i> the world are not given up to selfishness.”</p> + +<p>“Were you afraid that such was the case?” Everard asked, smiling and +amused.</p> + +<p>“Sometimes I am.”</p> + +<p>“I should be sorry to think so,” he said, and paused, hoping she would +speak again.</p> + +<p>But Angela was now alarmed at her boldness, and twisting and untwisting +her matches, occupied herself in silence.</p> + +<p>Everard withdrew his eyes, and listened for a few minutes to Miss +Price’s insipid remarks; but meanwhile his countenance gathered into +thought. He was thinking deeply. Something within him was warning him, +that this acquaintance had better be prosecuted no farther; the +curiosity, the pleasure he felt, were in themselves warn<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120">{120}</a></span>ings; it +required little forethought to point out difficulties and dangers that +might ensue. Yet, on the other hand, there was the tempting plea of +kindness and charity to invite him on.</p> + +<p>The strong integrity of his character brought him to a rapid decision, +and as soon as it was made, he put himself out of temptation by acting +upon it.</p> + +<p>“I am very glad,” he said, suddenly rising and holding out his hand to +Miss Price, “to see you so much recovered; and I hope,” he added +smiling, “you will never need such service as mine again.”</p> + +<p>“You are very kind, but,” and she held fast the hand he had given—“I +fear by the way you speak, this is your last visit—I know I should not +expect.... I beg your pardon I hardly know what I meant to say.”</p> + +<p>“I shall not be able to call again at present, but I shall do so some +day; and when I do I hope I shall find you quite well. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121">{121}</a></span></p> + +<p>He stood for a moment doubtful, then went a few steps towards Angela, +and held out his hand. In his moment’s doubting he had decided that the +civility was uncalled for; but he instantly acted in opposition to his +decision.</p> + +<p>If uncalled for, it was unexpected, and Angela blushed deeply as she +gave her hand, Everard could not but observe that she did, and again +with a strange sensation owned the impression that her beauty made.</p> + +<p>“I think I am well out of this,” was his thought as he left the house, +but the “well out,” was most reluctantly accomplished.</p> + +<p>A silence followed his departure. Angela sat grave and thoughtful, and +yet satisfied. Occupied with certain reflections of her own she did not +for a few minutes observe her aunt. When she did so she saw her wiping +away a few tears from her cheeks.</p> + +<p>“My dearest Aunt Jane,” she said, going hastily towards her, “what is +the matter?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122">{122}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Nothing, my love, nothing of consequence. I felt a little disappointed +for a moment, but it is over now. I know I expected too much. I thought +I had got a new friend. Of course I was wrong. We ought not to presume.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Aunt Jane, Aunt Jane, what a brute I am. All this comes of my +selfishness. He will not come again because I am here. I am the cause of +your loss!”</p> + +<p>“And if you are, my love, is it not my great happiness that it should be +so. Is a stranger like my own niece?”</p> + +<p>“I almost wish that this visit had never been paid, and yet....” and she +blushed and smiled.</p> + +<p>“Don’t wish it, my love, on my account. It is over now, and I am quite +thankful for the pleasure I have had, and some day may, perhaps, have +again.”</p> + +<p>“I hope you will. Oh! Aunt Jane,” she said, suddenly, “don’t you +sometimes wish you could pull down with your own fingers<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123">{123}</a></span> the great +curtain that hangs before time and see what is behind it?”</p> + +<p>“No, my love,” replied her Aunt, with simple philosophy, “trials come +soon enough, and blessings are better when they come and surprise us.”</p> + +<p>“I am not sure, but no matter. Now good-bye. Did I tell you that Papa +has given me leave to come once or twice a week while you are ill. Will +that do as well as your stranger friend?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! my love, every body is too kind to me, and I don’t know how to be +thankful enough.”</p> + +<p>“Poor thing!” was the reflection of the niece full of life and hope, +clothed with health and wealth, and beauty, as she drove to her +luxurious home. “What a life to have to be thankful for; and yet I +<i>cannot</i> be thankful for mine!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124">{124}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">There stood a maiden near<br></span> +<span class="i0">Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared<br></span> +<span class="i0">On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair<br></span> +<span class="i0">In gloss and hue the chestnut....<br></span> +<span class="i0">Then, wondering, asked her, “Are you from the Farm?”<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Tennyson</span>—<i>The Brook.</i><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the garden of Audley Court, Robert Vavasour and Mr. Addison, (the +clergyman of the parish) awaited the coming of Hope and Everard. It was +an afternoon early in September.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison was about fifty, a grave and quiet man. Like his namesake, +the <i>Spectator</i>, he had been distinguished all his life by a “profound +silence;” but his silence<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125">{125}</a></span> had nothing repelling; it was, on the +contrary, an inviting silence, giving him admirable qualities as a +listener and adviser. Observant, kindly, serious, and thoughtful, he +made his way along his path of life—dropping as he could, and where he +could, his words of sympathy, warning, or wisdom. “That man has a +history,” many said who watched his serious eyes, and slight, grave +smile; but it was not so; that is, not according to the meaning of the +phrase. His history was but the history of man in general. Some early +hopes; some early wanderings; some disappointments; some pleasures; some +deeper joys and sorrows scattered here and there; through these he had +worked out experience in man’s nature; wisdom to warn and soothe; +patience with this world; and hope for a better.</p> + +<p>He was seated now on a bit of terrace wall; observant as usual. His eyes +were on Robert, and there was interest in their gaze. He watched his +movements as he restlessly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126">{126}</a></span> wandered to and fro. He was going from bed +to bed, from bush to bush, gathering flowers, at random, as it seemed, +yet evidently guided by some taste or fancy. He picked a bunch of the +prettiest the garden afforded; then paused; and after some examination +of the bunch, selected two. These he placed with care in his +button-hole; the rest in all their freshness and beauty were cast away, +some trampled under his foot.</p> + +<p>“So will the good dispositions of his heart be thoughtlessly thrown +away.” Thus Mr. Addison silently mused, and there was a sigh in his +heart, though it made no sound. For he only, undazzled by the force and +charm of his penitence, saw the old nature, the old lack of principle, +apparent as ever within.</p> + +<p>Robert now came towards him, swinging his cane and switching the bushes +as he walked along. His air was more thoughtful than usual; and once or +twice he looked at his chosen flowers with a kind of softness in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127">{127}</a></span> his +gaze. Mr. Addison’s eyes fell on them also, and a thought, no new one, +passed through his mind. Why had his choice been made? The flowers were +a white carnation, without spot or stain, and a white rose with the +faintest and softest blush in the centre. Was there something in his +nature to which the purity of those flowers appealed? Were they emblems +of another love struggling with his worser qualities?</p> + +<p>“Are you tired of waiting, Mr. Addison?” Robert said.</p> + +<p>“No, where are the others?”</p> + +<p>“My father called Hope to write a letter, and Everard is at his +toilette. He fell into a ditch when he was shooting, and did not think +himself smart enough for our company.”</p> + +<p>“Were you not shooting, Robert?”</p> + +<p>“Not to day. What do you think I have been doing to day?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot guess.”</p> + +<p>“Drawing a saint,” he said, with a slight<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128">{128}</a></span> flush on his cheek, “that is, +taking Hope’s picture.”</p> + +<p>“And have you succeeded?”</p> + +<p>“No! how should I?” he replied, in a peculiar tone, “I have not the +key.”</p> + +<p>A silence succeeded; both remained thoughtful. Robert disturbed the +stones in the gravel-walk, dug them up, and trampled them in again. At +length he said, “I liked your sermon yesterday, Mr. Addison.”</p> + +<p>“Did you listen to it, Robert?” Mr. Addison said, seriously; “that is +not usual, is it?”</p> + +<p>“No, it is not; that I confess. I listened for a reason. That bit at the +beginning took my fancy; that picture of charity. It was a quaint bit, +and I thought like Hope. Did you think of her when you wrote it?”</p> + +<p>“It was not mine—it was from Jeremy Taylor.”</p> + +<p>“Did you think of her?” he repeated.</p> + +<p>“No, but it is like her, as all pictures of heavenly charity must be.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129">{129}</a></span></p> + +<p>“People talk of the impossibility of perfection,” Robert began with some +vehemence, “but they talk stuff, or they have not seen Hope. Whoever of +us is so happy as to reach the kingdom of Heaven will find nothing there +in body or spirit more perfect than her.”</p> + +<p>“I almost feel as you do, Robert. Do you like the picture of what we may +find there?”</p> + +<p>Robert coloured a little, then with unwonted seriousness, though with +excitement, replied, “Is it not strange Mr. Addison, that those who see +virtue in a form so lovely, that they are compelled to worship and +adore; yet cannot yield to its influence, nor follow it.”</p> + +<p>“It shows at least, dear Robert,” said his companion, with a grave +tenderness in his voice, “that the mind is heaven, though the flesh may +yet be earth. The day will come when both together will worship.”</p> + +<p>“You think better of me than I deserve,” Robert said, with some passion. +“I admire,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130">{130}</a></span> but I do not know that I even wish to imitate.”</p> + +<p>“Cherish, then, the admiration as the best gift of God. To admire good +is to be good, at least in a degree.”</p> + +<p>A silence again followed. Robert still pursued his occupation of +disordering and re-adjusting the stones in the walk.</p> + +<p>Thought—some internal conflict, was evidently at work within. Mr. +Addison guessed its nature—guessed it still more nearly, when he saw +the light on his countenance when Hope appeared from the house. But he +made no attempt to draw his feelings from him. There was that in his +serious kindness which invited confidence, but he himself had a dread of +confidences reposed before the time.</p> + +<p>Hope was followed by Everard. Robert and Mr. Addison went forward to +meet them.</p> + +<p>A long walk was in prospect. Its object was to visit Underwood, the +house and property lately purchased by Mr. Gresham.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131">{131}</a></span></p> + +<p>By the road it was three or four miles from Audley Court, but across the +two parks, which were united and separated by a little wood, a little +stream, and a little bridge, not two. A maid of the house had been +dangerously ill in the preceding week, and Mr. Addison had attended her. +He wished to visit her on her recovery, and many ludicrous reports of +the magnificence of the house and furniture having reached Audley Court, +Robert, a being of universal curiosity, had expressed his intention of +accompanying him.</p> + +<p>“Now let us be off,” he said, shaking off his thoughtful mood without +effort; “if Mr. Gresham should chance to be arrived, and we are caught +prowling about, our guilt lies on Mr. Addison’s head. Mr. Addison, are +you prepared to bear it?”</p> + +<p>“The housekeeper assured me he was not expected till Wednesday; I think +there is no fear.”</p> + +<p>“After all, if we <i>are</i> caught, what does it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132">{132}</a></span> matter, we can but say ‘I +hope I don’t intrude.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> + +<p>“We are the only people who have not seen Underwood,” Everard remarked, +“so at least Stephens says. He went there yesterday, and is in such a +frenzy of admiration, that I confess I am curious. I am sure he expects +Mr. Gresham to arrive in a coach and six.”</p> + +<p>“And so he will, I dare say,” said Robert, laughing, “or the Lord +Mayor’s coach if he can get it. He is such a fool.”</p> + +<p>“You have never seen his daughter, have you Robert?” enquired Hope.</p> + +<p>“No, never. I have only seen Mr. Gresham twice. He invited me to dine +with him, but I thought it would be a bore, and declined. She is very +pretty I hear, and immensely rich I know. It is a fine opportunity for +Everard. I thought of that as soon as ever I heard of her.”</p> + +<p>“No thank you; no heiresses for me, I hate them.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133">{133}</a></span></p> + +<p>“That’s all nonsense, a bit of Vavasour pride. I have always had a +conviction that you would marry an heiress; I bet you twenty pounds you +do.”</p> + +<p>“And I bet you twenty thousand I don’t,” with some unnecessary +vehemence.</p> + +<p>“I am too honourable to take it,” Robert replied, amused. “I foresee.... +However, upon the whole, I agree with you in hating heiresses. Not +because of what my father tells us about our forefathers, but from a +feeling of my own, which is a better guide than the feelings of my +ancestors. I don’t like a woman with money any better than I like a +clever woman. Talents and money both put them too forward.”</p> + +<p>“That is making yourself a lord of the creation indeed,” Everard said, +laughing.</p> + +<p>“Lords are better than ladies, are they not, Hope? Women were made for +better things than to be clever.”</p> + +<p>Before they reached Underwood, Robert endeavoured to shake the nerves of +his com<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134">{134}</a></span>panions, by picturing the awkwardness of their situation, should +the new possessors have already taken possession of their abode.</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison again assured him there was no fear; but as it happened, +Robert’s anticipations were realized.</p> + +<p>The shady paths of the wood emerged at once into the pleasure-grounds +that skirted the inner garden; and before any precautions could be +taken, Mr. Gresham and his curious visitors came face to face. He was +walking down a broad gravel walk, about a quarter of a mile from the +house, in apparent meditation or contemplation. His hands were joined +under his coat-tails, his nose was uplifted, and an air of serene +rapture sat upon his countenance.</p> + +<p>The direction in which his eyes were turned, might have given his guests +an opportunity to draw back unseen; but to escape, Robert had no desire. +He made, indeed, movements and grimaces of consternation, which almost +overset the gravity<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135">{135}</a></span> even of the grave people who accompanied him; but +he stood his ground, and when the eyes came down from their upward +flight, and Mr. Gresham became aware of the presence of strangers, he +went forward with outward courteousness, though inward mirth, to explain +the circumstances of the intrusion.</p> + +<p>His reception was overwhelming in its politeness. Mr. Gresham would not +hear of apology. He was happy in, he was grateful for, their coming. The +advantage of associating with individuals bearing the name of Vavasour, +had been his chief inducement in the purchase he had lately made. +Anything that hastened that end was welcome to him. Intrusion was a word +he could not permit; then, and always, he hoped Mr. Vavasour would make +himself at home at Underwood.</p> + +<p>With demure gravity Robert thanked him, and then begged to be allowed to +introduce his companions. “This is Mr. Addison,” he said, “the clergyman +of this parish; and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136">{136}</a></span> though as a clergyman he ought to have known +better, I feel it my duty to say that he was the guilty cause of our +indiscretion to-day.”</p> + +<p>“I hope,” said Mr. Gresham, blandly and bowing low, “that I shall profit +by your future instructions as much as I have profited by those given to +my young friend to-day.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Addison only bowed. He had nothing to say.</p> + +<p>“This,” continued Robert, “is my cousin Hope Linton, and this is my +brother Everard.”</p> + +<p>“I look forward, Miss Linton, with satisfaction to the advantage my +daughter will inevitably derive from your society.” This was the speech +that accompanied the bow to Hope—to Everard it was:—“I anticipate +nothing but pleasure from the hope of adding another of the name of +Vavasour to my list of friends.”</p> + +<p>Having made his guests duly welcome, he invited them to return with him +to the house.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137">{137}</a></span> His address was to Robert. Robert was evidently the +object of his idolatry. Robert, however, referred it to Hope; and Mr. +Gresham was then profuse in his apologies for the omission of which he +had been guilty.</p> + +<p>Hope’s consent was given in few words.—She had no feeling of her own on +the subject; no shyness, no fear of intrusion. She looked into Robert’s +face, and saw he was desirous to go on, and was content.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham led the way, attended by Robert and Mr. Addison. Everard and +Hope followed. Mr. Gresham explained, as they walked along, the cause of +his unexpected arrival.</p> + +<p>“I was threatened on Saturday with a cold in my head; I have a +particular objection to a cold in my head. My medical adviser +recommended change of air. I left London, therefore, with my daughter, +and slept at a remarkably excellent inn about forty miles from here. And +there,” bowing to Mr. Addison, “I made a point of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138">{138}</a></span> passing Sunday, and +attending Divine service.”</p> + +<p>“I hope your cold is better, Mr. Gresham,” Robert asked.</p> + +<p>“A complete cure. There is something very refreshing in the air of the +country. We arrived here this afternoon; and I confess I already feel +satisfaction in my late purchase, and promise myself much pleasure from +my abode here, not the least part of which will be derived from my +acquaintance with you, Mr. Vavasour, and your family.”</p> + +<p>Underwood was, as has been already said, the picture of a “country +seat.” It was a square, white, stone house, with two long lower wings. +There was no especial charm about the place, but it was bright and +fresh; and as the garden was full of flowers, and the park was prettily +wooded, it had a certain degree of attraction.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham evidently admired it exceedingly, and as they entered the +house, <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139">{139}</a></span>observed, <i>en passant</i>, that there were four-and-twenty windows +from wing to wing, which he believed was a large number. “How many +windows were there at Audley Court?”</p> + +<p>“I never counted,” Robert said, with assumed interest, “but I will as +soon as ever I go home. I am sure, however, there are not +four-and-twenty.”</p> + +<p>“No,” observed Mr. Addison, with a desire to make himself agreeable +also.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said Mr. Gresham, “I was told it was a large number.”</p> + +<p>He led his guests into the drawing-room, and for a moment, put his hands +under his coat-tails, and elevated his nose, while he observed the +effects of the <i>coup d’œil</i>.</p> + +<p>It was a long and very handsome room, magnificently, though tastelessly +furnished; every slab and table glittering with <i>ormolu</i>, like Howell +and James’.</p> + +<p>“What a very fine room!” Robert said, never at a loss to express what +was expected<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140">{140}</a></span> of him, but giving a side glance to Hope and Everard.</p> + +<p>“It usurps to itself, you see, a large portion of those said windows,” +Mr. Gresham observed, jestingly.</p> + +<p>“You must have bought up all the silk and satin in England to make the +curtains,” Robert replied.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham smiled, and then said he would call his daughter. “Pray, +Miss Linton, be seated. Gentlemen all, I hope you will make yourselves +at home.”</p> + +<p>“Say something witty, Everard, that I may relieve myself by a good +laugh,” was Robert’s request.</p> + +<p>“You are too bad,” was Everard’s reply. “He cannot be such a fool as not +to see you are laughing.”</p> + +<p>“I never made an acquaintance which gave me half as much pleasure as I +anticipate from this one; what do you expect the daughter to be?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141">{141}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Something very fine,” said Everard, “there is no doubt about that! Here +they come.”</p> + +<p>There certainly was no doubt about the fineness. Angela’s silk flounces +rustled, and her chains and bracelets rattled as she came in; but it was +not her fineness, it was her beauty that struck every eye. She held her +bonnet in her hand, and her luxuriant auburn curls fell about her face +and shoulders. An air of shyness and diffidence, curiously mixed with +mirth and expectation, gave a charm even greater than usual to her +appearance, and a brighter colouring to her cheeks.</p> + +<p>“My daughter, Miss Linton, Mr. Vavasour,” and then waving his hand +around, he carelessly named Everard and Mr. Addison.</p> + +<p>Angela blushed more deeply. She hardly raised her eyes as she returned +the bows of each, and as if to make her escape, hurried to Hope, and +smiling held out her hand.</p> + +<p>There was nothing conventional in Hop<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142">{142}</a></span>e’s manners. It would not have +occurred to her to say she feared they had taken Miss Gresham by +surprise, or any other polite phrase, but pleased with the frank +cordiality of Angela’s manner, she said simply, “I am glad to make +acquaintance with you.”</p> + +<p>Angela sat down beside her, and began hurriedly to talk. She did not +dare look up. What she had so lightly done, alarmed her now by the +thought of its boldness.</p> + +<p>Everard, meanwhile, had seen her with a sudden throb of pleasure. Her +face had been the first which had much impressed his youthful fancy; and +being the first, the impression was not even after two months entirely +effaced. Yet, after the first instant of recognition, her air and +general appearance was so totally different to the vision of his memory, +that he laughed at himself for the moment’s folly. The process of +remembering and laughing was, however, repeated a second time. Again, a +third time, he examined her with puzzled cu<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143">{143}</a></span>riosity; and again the half +recognition was on the point of changing to derision, when Angela looked +up and met his scrutinizing gaze. She blushed deeply, and immediately +cast down her eyes; and this time the likeness to a former recollected +movement was so exact, that he suddenly moved towards her and +exclaimed—“Surely I have seen you before?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said, instantly regaining her self possession. “I was not +certain that you remembered me.”</p> + +<p>“I did,” he said, doubtingly, “and yet I did not. Even now I am puzzled. +How is it?” And he looked at her with perplexity.</p> + +<p>It is conscience that makes a coward. An answer to his perplexity was +not difficult; but Angela’s conscience gave her a panic, and instead of +replying, she blushed, looked annoyed, and made Everard, ever backward +and sensitive, fearful that he had been presuming.</p> + +<p>He stood by her in silence for a moment,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144">{144}</a></span> then said, with constraint, +and because he thought he ought to speak, “I hope Miss Price is better.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham was engaged with Robert, but at this name he turned round. +“Are you acquainted with Miss Price?” he asked of Everard, with cold +surprise.</p> + +<p>“Yes, papa,” Angela said, with a quickness that relieved Everard from +the fear of having given offence. “Mr. Vavasour was very kind to my +aunt. I met him one day at her house.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed,” he said, with uneasy politeness, “I am happy to hear Miss +Price keeps such good company.”</p> + +<p>Miss Price was his wife’s half sister, the daughter of her mother, not +of her father, born many years before Mrs. Gresham. She was poor, and +without grace or charm to attract the eyes of the world. Mr. Gresham had +thought it right, and his bounden duty, therefore, to ignore as far as +possible the relationship; and it was only since his wif<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145">{145}</a></span>e’s death that +his softened feelings had permitted Angela to keep up a slight +acquaintance with her.</p> + +<p>Now that he had been discovered, however, with a poor relation, he +thought it best to put a good face on the matter, and Miss Price was the +cause of his bestowing some attention on Everard.</p> + +<p>“Miss Price,” he said, in a jesting tone, and in a slight degree +elevating his nose, “does not trouble herself to keep exactly the +society most suited to her station. In consequence, we meet but seldom. +She is, however, an estimable person, and charitable, I understand, +beyond due bounds.”</p> + +<p>“I did not know Miss Price was connected with you till this moment,” +Everard replied. “She seems very good, and I was glad to be of service +to her.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure she must have been duly sensible of the honour of your +attentions; and I wonder she did not think it worth while to communicate +the matter to me. I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146">{146}</a></span> think also my daughter might have spoken on the +subject; but better late than never, and I am happy in having this +opportunity of offering you my thanks in person.”</p> + +<p>His chest heaved with the pride of virtue in thus taking the obligation +to Miss Price upon himself; and having done his duty, he returned to +Robert.</p> + +<p>Angela had listened tranquilly to the conversation until her father’s +last observation. When he named <i>her</i>, she blushed, and turning quickly +to Hope, began to talk to her. Everard saw the change, and could not +help wondering what the cause might be.</p> + +<p>The next movement of Mr. Gresham was to offer to show his guests the +house; and having performed this office with a truthful and genuine +delight in the <i>newness</i> and magnificence of all he exhibited, he then +gave them his company into the garden and a part of the way homewards.</p> + +<p>In the garden, Mr. Addison, who had been to pay his purposed visit, +rejoined them.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147">{147}</a></span> During his absence, Robert having been Mr. Gresham’s +special property, Everard and Hope had, through their peregrinations, +been accompanied by Angela; but though Everard and Angela were already +on easy terms, no recurrence had been made to their former meeting. +Everard wondered at her silence on the subject, but could not a second +time obtrude remarks which evidently were not desired.</p> + +<p>When the wood was reached, at the entrance of which Mr. Gresham had +first met his guests, he suffered them to take leave of him. His parting +speeches were as polite and almost as elaborate as his greetings had +been. Yet with some persons to be elaborate is no proof of insincerity; +it is the habitual tone and form of their feelings, and so it was with +Mr. Gresham.</p> + +<p>As he proceeded home with his daughter, he enlarged on the gratification +he had experienced during the visit. “Those are charming young people, +Angela; I hope you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148">{148}</a></span> are as much prepossessed in their favour as I am?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I like them all,” she replied, with warmth.</p> + +<p>“I am glad to hear it. It is my wish that you should cultivate their +society in every way they will permit. I understand from Mr. Vavasour, +that he and his brother remain in this neighbourhood for three weeks. It +is a fortunate circumstance, and I wish you to avail yourself of this +opportunity for forming an acquaintance with them. The Vavasours are a +remarkably old family—highly connected, and much esteemed by the world. +I feel pride and pleasure in my neighbourhood to Audley Court, and I +shall do so in any connexion I may hereafter make with the family. But +of this enough. I shall show my respect to the elder Mr. Vavasour by +calling on him to-morrow: though in point of etiquette I believe he +ought to be the first to wait on me.”</p> + +<p>If, with something of dread, Angela had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149">{149}</a></span> awaited the expression of her +father’s sentiments, she now with hopeful heedlessness cast all fear +aside. The appearance of two Mr. Vavasours had indeed deranged many a +pre-conceived idea; and a very decided leaning towards one, not +diminished by her father’s apparent leaning to the other, had made her +expect and fear a more clearly expressed admonition regarding a future +connection. Since it was not given, she was herself willing to leave the +future in uncertainty.</p> + +<p>The remainder of the party walked home together, until Mr. Addison’s way +diverged from the path to Audley Court. When they separated, and he +wished his young companions good-bye, Everard said he would walk with +him homewards.</p> + +<p>“I am glad of this new acquaintance,” was Mr. Addison’s remark as they +went on together, “and chiefly on Robert’s account. I have sometimes +feared the uniformity of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150">{150}</a></span> life at Audley Court might be too monotonous +for one of his lively disposition.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose a lively disposition makes its own life,” Everard said, “for +certainly Robert does not appear to feel it dull. There are, however, +other causes for that. Loved and appreciated as Robert is, it would be +strange if he were not happy.”</p> + +<p>“He seems to be well aware of the beauty of Miss Linton, both in person +and character.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Everard said, with a smile.</p> + +<p>“Do you not feel, as I do, that her influence will prevail. She will +give him her soul, and her good spirit will bring all the chaos of his +nature into order.”</p> + +<p>“I have not, I never had a doubt of it. It is not within the bounds of +possibility that any one who loves what Hope is, can have anything but +the best of natures within him.”</p> + +<p>“I am glad of this acquaintance also on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151">{151}</a></span> your account, Everard;” Mr. +Addison continued, pursuing the train of his own thoughts. “It pleased +me to see you to-day. You were not quite yourself.”</p> + +<p>“How you watch, Mr. Addison!” Everard said, colouring. “What have I done +to-day unlike myself?”</p> + +<p>“You were less grave than is common to you in society, and I was glad to +observe it. You study too hard, Everard, to be able to do without +recreation. The mind becomes hard and tough; it needs unbending.”</p> + +<p>“What do you think of Miss Gresham?” Everard enquired, after a moment’s +thought.</p> + +<p>“She has a very sweet countenance; one that promises truth, and +ingenuousness, and many virtues. She is somewhat undisciplined, I should +suppose, in mind, as in manner, but life soon softens and tames. She +seems disposed to be friendly with you, Everard. I am glad of it. I know +no recreation so likely to be useful to you as the society of an amiable +young woman. It is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152">{152}</a></span> refining both outwardly and within. Your habit is to +keep yourself too much aloof.”</p> + +<p>Everard coloured again. He had an inward warning that the society of a +young woman would <i>not</i> be useful to him in the present case; and as he +walked home alone, he questioned himself with some seriousness. +Self-examination, though honest, is not however always useful. It can +deal well with an acknowledged feeling, or a strong one, but there are +in the mind, fancies, shoots, and bubbles of feeling, which examination +disperses like the sun the mist. When Everard came to question the +pleasure he had felt and was anticipating from Angela’s society, the +vague dangers seemed to fade away. There was nothing which on +examination portended more than pleasure; and having very honestly +examined himself and been satisfied, he cast away the burthen of +thought, and went resolvedly into the chances of the future.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153">{153}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A figure like Aurora, flushed with joy.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Henry Taylor.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>A silent and a loving woman is a gift of the Lord, and there is +nothing so much worth as a well instructed mind.</p> + +<p class="r"> +<i>Book of Ecclesiasticus.</i><br> +</p></div> + +<p>Mr. Gresham paid his visit to Audley Court on the following day. He +looked about him with eager curiosity, as he drew near. It was the scene +and sphere of the day-dreams he had been lately building, and had it +come short of his expectations, great disappointment must have ensued.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154">{154}</a></span></p> + +<p>But disappointment was not in store. It is true that the narrow income +of the Vavasours was apparent both in the keeping and the furnishing of +their abode; there was a large sphere for improvement, but this was no +objection to Mr. Gresham. He, in common with most people, loved to +create; and certainly did not think with dissatisfaction of the show +which his future labours would make in the eyes of the world. With +something of joy and pride, therefore, he marked the inferiority in +general style and polish to his own Underwood; while, at the same time, +his senses were excited and impressed by the antique grandeur of the +building and the magnificent trees that formed the avenue to the house. +The old towers especially caught his fancy, and as he pictured the hour +when he should stand in a paternal relation to their majesty, his soul +became almost too his; for the feeble confines of his body.</p> + +<p>He was received by Mr. Vavasour with the grave and courteous grace that +belonged<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155">{155}</a></span> to him; he too was calculated to impress the imagination, and +though a speculation as to the probable short term of his life, had +occupied Mr. Gresham while he drove along, it vanished in the presence +of his stately and venerable age.</p> + +<p>Somewhat awed, however, by the same stateliness, he dexterously +presented his daughter to Mr. Vavasour, and devoted himself to his less +awful wife. The arrangement answered well. Mrs. Vavasour was gracious in +manner and easy to entertain; and Mr. Vavasour had an old man’s love for +youth and beauty, and a grave nature’s pleasure in gaiety of spirit.</p> + +<p>When the visit came to a conclusion Mr. Vavasour made a request that +Angela might remain, promising that his niece and his sons should escort +her home. Angela’s eyes sparkled with delight. Mr. Gresham equally +gratified gave his ready acquiescence. The request seemed to bring +certainty to his desires, and as he looked back from the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156">{156}</a></span> carriage on +the old, dark towers, no doubt of his future relationship troubled the +sweetness of his dreams.</p> + +<p>Angela was quite as much impressed by the appearance of Audley Court as +her father was. <i>Her</i> peculiar taste was gratified as much as his; for +the glitter of gold was absent; the fashionable ornaments of the day had +failed to penetrate the old abode; and the handsome frames of the +pictures and mirrors were sober with age. The house being as it was, +these things were not unsuitable; though there was simplicity, there was +freshness, and though a lack of ornament, no lack of comfort; yet, +undoubtedly, a luxurious taste would have found much to criticise.</p> + +<p>When Hope, at Angela’s request, had conducted her to every part of the +rambling building, they entered the garden together, and walking +quietly, began to converse. The dissimilarity of the young companions +was very striking.</p> + +<p>“I am quite sorry to have been here,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157">{157}</a></span>” Angela said, looking about her. +“I was so pleased with Underwood yesterday, and now I think nothing of +it. How much prettier this is.”</p> + +<p>“One is old, the other is new. Both are pretty in their way,” Hope +replied. “Why compare?”</p> + +<p>“I always compare. I cannot help it; and what falls short of what it +should be, I utterly condemn.”</p> + +<p>“But so many things are pretty in themselves. It seems a pity not to +like them for their own sakes.”</p> + +<p>“But I only wish to like what is best,” Angela said, with decision. “If +one likes everything that is a little pretty, one’s taste becomes poor +and false. I only wish to like what is <i>very</i> good.”</p> + +<p>Hope was silent. She was not fond of argument; and unless some point on +which she felt strongly was touched, unable to cope with others in +arguing. Not so Angela. Her mind was full of thought, and where she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158">{158}</a></span> +could hope to meet with novelty of opinion, her unexpressed sentiment +was “Let me not burst in ignorance.”</p> + +<p>“I like to do the same with <i>characters</i>,” she began again. “I know what +I think good, and I know what I like. By comparing and comparing, I hope +at last I shall find something perfect, or almost perfect, and then I +shall be happy.”</p> + +<p>“I would so much rather not compare,” Hope now said, with more interest +in her voice. “There is so much that is good in every character, that I +think we should appreciate it when we find it,—not without wishing for, +more certainly, but still liking what there is.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think there is much good to be found?” Angela asked doubtingly. +“I find very little.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure there is.”</p> + +<p>“Where? I look and look, but I cannot find it. I think you are good, and +Mr. Addison and I should think Mr. Everard<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159">{159}</a></span> Vavasour was good; but I +cannot say I think goodness is a common thing.”</p> + +<p>There was a slight flush on Hope’s cheek, perhaps of pain, in the +selection or the omission of a name. It was perceived but not understood +by her companion.</p> + +<p>“Do you think me wrong for speaking as I do?” Angela asked, anxiously. +“I don’t mean anything very wrong. I only mean that I think people’s +motives very mean, low, and mercenary, and I scorn them, and I can’t +help it. Do you never scorn?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think I do. I am too sorry for people, to scorn them.”</p> + +<p>“But are you sorry for bad people? I am sorry for good people in +distress, but I cannot care for bad ones. I am not good myself, that I +know very well; but I must say that vice, and wickedness, and meanness, +I utterly abhor.”</p> + +<p>“What is <i>really</i> bad I do not speak of, of course,” Hope said, after a +little thought, “but most, I think, have good souls, tried<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160">{160}</a></span> and tempted +with many temptations; and,” she continued with an earnestness that was +almost passionate, “to save a good soul from its temptations, I would +die if I might.”</p> + +<p>Angela looked at her young companion with reverence and surprise. “I +like what you say,” she said, “though I cannot feel it. How is it that +you, who are so good, are so kind, while I, who am bad, am bitter and +harsh?”</p> + +<p>“People are different,” Hope said, smiling. “I could not be harsh if I +tried. I am not good, because of that.”</p> + +<p>On their return to the garden, they met Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour coming to +meet them. Mr. Vavasour was anxious about Angela’s return home, and said +his sons were later than he expected. They all strolled together towards +the gate that opened into the park; and sons, keepers, dogs, and game +shortly appeared.</p> + +<p>Not perceiving the group in the garden, Robert and Everard walked +slowly. “They<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161">{161}</a></span> are tired,” Angela said. “What will they say to the +engagement you have made for them?”</p> + +<p>“My sons are never tired,” Mr. Vavasour said, with something of pride in +the hardy spirits he had nurtured.</p> + +<p>“Or if they are,” Mrs. Vavasour added, “I hope they have enough of an +old-fashioned thing called chivalry, to forget it in this service.”</p> + +<p>She looked with a kind glance of admiration at Angela. The half implied +compliment, expectation, curiosity, the novelty of all she saw, lit up +Angela’s countenance, and it was bright and sparkling as it met the +first glances of the two young men.</p> + +<p>“She is uncommonly pretty, I must say, Everard,” was Robert’s remark, as +he hurried on.</p> + +<p>He approached her with the fearless manner of one accustomed to please. +Everard with something more like the chivalry of which his mother +spoke.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162">{162}</a></span></p> + +<p>“I have made an engagement for you, my boys,” said Mr. Vavasour. “Miss +Gresham remained here this afternoon under a promise on my part, that +you would conduct her safely home.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Gresham has only to command us, and we will obey,” said Robert. “I +speak in Sir Charles Grandison’s style for both Everard and myself.”</p> + +<p>“Then, if Miss Gresham has no objection to your present style of dress, +it is growing late, and you had better be gone.”</p> + +<p>From Angela’s answer, it appeared that though she had often read of a +shooting dress, she had never seen it, or any other accompaniments of +shooting before; for in those days, a shooting dress was not the common +dress of man.</p> + +<p>The specimen this confession of ignorance afforded of her London +education, gave Robert much amusement. Though acquainted with almost all +kinds of good and bad society, and possessed of what is called<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163">{163}</a></span> +knowledge of the world, there was yet alive in him something of a +school-boy’s nature; ready to spring up whenever freedom from dangerous +excitements left him at leisure to be himself. He found, therefore, a +boy’s gratification in playing upon Angela’s simplicity, in astonishing +her with marvellous tales, and drawing from her, her general notions of +life; notions chiefly formed from books, and not the best; for London +and Brighton had been almost the sole spheres for her observation.</p> + +<p>Angela was little accustomed to be amused. She was too lately grown up +to have been able to effect a change at home; and as like clings to +like, the society at Mr. Gresham’s house was in average liveliness not +much above himself. Robert’s conversation was to her “like a play;” and +the more her merriment acknowledged his powers, the more animated did he +become.</p> + +<p>In the course of his anecdotes, he gave her a graphic and ludicrous +account of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164">{164}</a></span> adventures of a friend of his who had one night assumed +the disguise of a ballad singer in the streets of London. Excited by her +amusement at what he related, he was proceeding to narrate the history +of a disguise, planned and to be executed by himself, of a more serious +description than the first.</p> + +<p>“But this,” he interrupted himself, “did not come off, to my great and +everlasting regret. I was dissuaded by the grave judge, Mr. Everard +Vavasour, and gave up my own opinion in humble submission to his.”</p> + +<p>“I hate plots and disguises,” Everard said, quickly.</p> + +<p>Angela suddenly withdrew her eager eyes and blushed rosy red. Not that +she owned to a disguise. She denied it; but conscience, quick and true, +made its confession upon her cheek.</p> + +<p>All her companions saw her change of countenance. Everard, with some +surprise, but without notice. Robert was less discreet.</p> + +<p>“Miss Gresham,” he said playfully, “what<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165">{165}</a></span> a guilty face! While I have +been entertaining you to the best of my powers, I believe you might have +been entertaining me, with the history of one of those very plots and +disguises Everard condemns.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed I could not,” she said, hastily; but blushed more deeply as she +spoke.</p> + +<p>She was very uncomfortable. What must Everard think? After a moment’s +reflection, however, she remembered that appearances were nothing, if a +person was really innocent; and shaking off her embarrassment, she +observed, boldly, “I think such things must be very amusing.”</p> + +<p>“If done well, and with spirit they are,” Robert said. “My friend, the +ballad singer, says, he never had better fun in his life. The danger is +when they are undertaken by people who are not up to it; and then +nothing can be more flat and unprofitable.”</p> + +<p>They walked on a few steps; then Angela’s uneasy mind asked this +question. “Why do you condemn all disguises, Mr. Vavasour?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166">{166}</a></span></p> + +<p>Everard coloured at this expression of interest in his opinions, but +answered, resolutely, “<i>Condemn</i> is a severe word. I only spoke of my +own feelings. I hate all tricks and disguises. If they are complicated +it is difficult to keep to the truth, and I hate falsehood. Besides, +they are generally mischievous and sometimes dangerous.”</p> + +<p>“There, Miss Gresham,” Robert said, laughing. “Now if your conscience +confesses that you have been guilty of putting on a disguise, Everard +has pronounced your doom without mercy.”</p> + +<p>“I have not,” she said, with decision and displeasure. “I don’t confess +it.”</p> + +<p>Robert had too much tact to press the matter farther, but Angela was +uncomfortable; in her discomfort became grave, and conversation flagged.</p> + +<p>When they reached the borders of the wood, she stopped and insisted on +her companions hurrying homewards, as the sun was sinking fast.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167">{167}</a></span></p> + +<p>All demurred, for the engagement had been to see her home. “You must,” +she said, playfully and peremptorily, “or I shall think you cannot trust +me.”</p> + +<p>“I am afraid I cannot,” Robert said, with a mischievous look which he +could not resist.</p> + +<p>“Let us go, Robert,” Hope said, struck by the appearance of annoyance on +Angela’s countenance.</p> + +<p>Everard saw it too and with perplexity. In vain he told himself he had +no business with the matter. He felt a singular desire to penetrate the +mystery.</p> + +<p>The progress to Underwood had been slow. It was now really growing late; +and after parting with Angela, Everard, who was famous for his quick +walking, hurried home. The hours at Audley Court were early, and Mr. +Vavasour encouraged punctuality, not so much for its own sake, as for +the exercise it gave to an unselfish and respectful tone of feeling. His +sons, Robert as well as Everard, in this respect endeavoured to please +him; and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168">{168}</a></span> it was Robert who now despatched Everard to give notice they +should be in time.</p> + +<p>“I have been wondering, Hope,” Robert said, as they walked on alone, +“how it is that Miss Gresham finds me so witty and wise, and all my wit +and wisdom is lost on you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Robert,” she cried, eagerly, “don’t say so. I like to listen to +you.”</p> + +<p>“But you never laugh.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t laugh,” she replied. “Something prevents it.”</p> + +<p>“Who or what prevents it? I want to know.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t tell,” she replied, after a moment’s thought. “I only know what +I feel.”</p> + +<p>“I wish I could see into that mysterious mind of yours, Hope,” Robert +said, smiling, “I believe I should find curious things there.”</p> + +<p>“Do you wish me to laugh more?” Hope asked, suddenly fixing her anxious +eyes upon him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169">{169}</a></span></p> + +<p>“I; what, wish you to be anything but what you are. No, indeed, my +dearest.” He spoke with warmth, then quickly smiling again. “But I +should like to dive deep down into your mind and search out all your +most secret thoughts and feelings. I wish I had the power. Should you +mind, Hope, if I had.” He fixed a smiling but yet a keen and anxious +gaze upon her face.</p> + +<p>“No, Robert, I don’t think I should,” she replied, meeting his gaze with +a look of confiding innocence.</p> + +<p>A shade of disappointment crossed his brow, but it was driven away, and +with something of thought and seriousness he said, “That is a strange +and happy thing to say. I wish I could say it. I wish I could offer you +to let your eyes dive into my mind, but I can’t, I am afraid. And yet,” +he added, “I would rather have yours than any others. I should grieve +for what you might find there, but I should not fear.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170">{170}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The gifts of genius were not thine,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Proudly before the world to shine;<br></span> +<span class="i2">And none Remember Thee<br></span> +<span class="i6">Save me.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Norton.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">About</span> a fortnight after Mr. Gresham’s arrival in the country, a formal +invitation was sent to Audley Court, requesting that the whole, or any +part of the Vavasour family would pay a week’s visit at Underwood.</p> + +<p>This fortnight, although there has been nothing of event to record, had +been a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171">{171}</a></span> fortnight full of life and full of excitement. To Angela and +Everard, it had been like waking up in a new existence.</p> + +<p><i>Her</i> enjoyment had many sources. The free country life, the novelty of +all she saw, the amusement she derived from the society of companions +suited to her taste—all these things conspired to excite and delight; +all conspired to make her days pass as in a dream of enchantment; and +when, added to this, the dawning light of romance threw its golden hue +over her days, no wonder that she felt like a bird loosened from a chain +and cage, and set free in Paradise.</p> + +<p>To Everard, the novelty in some respects was not so great, but there +<i>was</i> a dangerous novelty in Angela’s society against which he was not +proof. She <i>liked</i> him. The mere fact that he was liked by one so +winning and so lovely, was a novelty which bewildered and excited him. +She liked him, and showed that she did so; in no strange<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172">{172}</a></span> ways; in ways +common enough for most men to see, but new to him. She sympathised in +his tastes, agreed with his opinions, cared to hear his feelings and +thoughts expressed; would not suffer him to be unnoticed, talked to him +with the same apparent pleasure, that she did to Robert—not so much +perhaps, nor so freely, but with a something in her manner, that she had +not to him; a kind of deference to which he was little accustomed. He +had not yet begun to think about it, but he knew how quick the days +passed, how bright was the autumn, how he dreaded the thoughts of his +return to London, and escaped from it, as from a bad dream; how he could +hardly sleep at night, for longing that the morning would come. These +were dangerous symptoms in one of Everard’s controlled and restrained +nature; and vaguely he knew it; though too vaguely to acknowledge it in +words.</p> + +<p>Hope brought Mr. Gresham’s invitation to her cousins, as they sat one +morning<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173">{173}</a></span> reading the newspapers in the library. “My uncle desired me to +bring it,” she said. “He cannot go, of course, but he begs you will do +as you please. I think he wishes you to go.”</p> + +<p>Robert took the note. It was couched in pompous language, but was almost +servile in its anticipations of pleasure, should the honour of +acceptance be conferred. “Formal old prig,” he said laughing, “I would +not disappoint him for the world. I am sure my anticipations of pleasure +are quite equal to his. Yes, I will go. What do you say, Everard?”</p> + +<p>“Not for a week. I will go for a day or two.”</p> + +<p>“No, a week would be too much, even of his sweet society. Well, Hope, +tell my father we accept for a day or two; and you, do you mean to go +with us?”</p> + +<p>“I? oh! no, Robert.”</p> + +<p>“And why, oh! no, in that decisive tone?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174">{174}</a></span> Would there be anything +strange if you went?”</p> + +<p>“I think there would,” she said, with a slight smile.</p> + +<p>“But why? Are you never to come out of the shade? Are you to be for ever +a flower wasting your sweetness on the desert air?</p> + +<p>“I don’t wish to go,” she replied quickly. “I am not made for such +things. I would go if my uncle wished it, but he says I may do as I +please.”</p> + +<p>“So you shall, and it is best as it is. I am glad you are satisfied to +stay at home, for that is where I like you to be. I don’t covet to see +you in the thick of festivities, though, perhaps, I am a selfish brute +to say so. Well, Hope, give our messages to my father; tell him I accept +with pleasure, and Everard with rapture.” He gave a mischievous wink at +his brother, but Everard either did not, or did not choose to see.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175">{175}</a></span></p> + +<p>Hope left the room.</p> + +<p>“Philosophers tell us as a remarkable fact,” Robert observed, after a +moment, “that no two people are exactly alike. Now that fact does not +seem to me remarkable in the least; but a thing that does surprise me +is, how two people of the same species, same rank, same education, same +age, can be so absolutely and entirely different as Hope and Miss +Gresham. As far as I can see, they have no property in common, except +that both are human.”</p> + +<p>“Do you dislike Miss Gresham?” Everard asked.</p> + +<p>“Dislike! I never said anything about liking. I like her. She is not my +favourite style of woman, but she is a kind I tolerate very well. But +what makes you so hot and peppery to-day? Why take up her cudgels so +fast?”</p> + +<p>“I am quite cool,” Everard said, smiling, “though if you choose to make +me hot, I know it is no use for me to say so.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176">{176}</a></span></p> + +<p>“If you had not been so warm, I was going to ask you which of the two +species of woman I mentioned, you would choose, if you must choose, for +your wife?”</p> + +<p>“As both are out of my reach, why should I think?” Everard said, +colouring unconsciously.</p> + +<p>“Why are both out of your reach?”</p> + +<p>“You had better not ask that, Robert,” he said, good-humouredly, “if you +do I shall tell you. Miss Gresham is an heiress, and heiresses are not +for me, nor I for heiresses; the other you may guess.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but now supposing Miss Gresham was not an heiress,” persisted +Robert, “and that you....”</p> + +<p>“We may suppose anything, and I don’t care for suppositions,” Everard +said, with some impatience, and then added, laughing, “It is very bad +manners, Robert, to ask questions. Dr. Johnson says so.”</p> + +<p>“In some people, perhaps, not in others. I consider it my bounden duty +to make these<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177">{177}</a></span> and other inquiries, and when it is my duty of course I +do not shrink. Duty first, manners second. However, for the present my +duty is done, so you may go back to your law reports if you please.”</p> + +<p>Angela drove to Audley Court to endeavour to alter Hope’s resolution, +but was unsuccessful; neither did she find the co-operation she had +expected on the part of any of its inhabitants.</p> + +<p>As she returned to the carriage after her vain efforts, Robert appeared +in the courtyard.</p> + +<p>He came to the carriage-door, and she told him her errand and its ill +success.</p> + +<p>“I am glad,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Are you?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Why?”</p> + +<p>“It is very well for <i>us</i> to care for the pomps and vanities of the +world,” he replied, gravely enough, “because it is our nature—but it is +a pleasure to see a head into which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178">{178}</a></span> they have never entered, and I +should be sorry to have it troubled with them.”</p> + +<p>“You are not very complimentary, Mr. Vavasour,” Angela said, laughing.</p> + +<p>“Well, I will be complimentary now then,” he replied: “I should not have +said what I did, if I had not a very good opinion of you.”</p> + +<p>“That is really a <i>good</i> compliment,” she said, smiling, “and now I go +away quite satisfied. Good-bye!”</p> + +<p>“That is a good girl,” Robert said to himself, as he returned to the +house; “considering the weight of gold she bears, a very good girl. A +man might have many less dainty dishes set before him. It is rather a +singular thing, and shows the moderation of my nature, that I feel no +desire to avail myself of what I might have if I pleased. Units, tens, +hundreds, thousands, laid at my feet, and as calm as an old philosopher, +I avert my eyes and allow them to be picked up<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179">{179}</a></span> by whosoever pleases. +For once, my respected forefathers, I think I am a credit to you. Hope, +where are you?”</p> + +<p>She came flying towards him at the sound of his voice.</p> + +<p>“I want a button, Hope, and a needle, and a thread, and then I want your +assistance to put the button on my sleeve. For the loss of a button I am +come home in a very depressed state of mind. Such is man!”</p> + +<p>He watched her with a fond, sweet expression of countenance, as her +quick fingers accomplished the task he set her. To judge by his +countenance, it seemed as if he had feelings within that would not be +restrained; but when she had done he only said, quietly and gaily, +“Thanks, my fair angel, I like to have you waiting upon me. Get your +bonnet, and let us have a walk.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The two brothers arrived late at Underwood, and Mr. Gresham, who was as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180">{180}</a></span> +elaborate in his toilette as in his speeches, was obliged to relinquish +his purpose of receiving them on their first arrival, in the hall.</p> + +<p>He stood, however, at the door of the drawing-room to await their +entrance there, and give his welcome in due form. A large party were +assembled. One gentleman, Mr. Merivale (the old friend of Angela’s +childhood), from London; the rest gathered from different parts of the +country. Almost all were unknown to the brothers, for Mr. Vavasour’s +secluded life, and the long absences of his sons, had in a great degree +prevented them from mixing in the society of a very populous district. +Mr. Gresham wished to be a good neighbour; he liked society, for society +brought upon him the eyes of the world, but it was on the score of duty +that he framed his plan of life. “The riches that Providence bestows,” +he observed, on this evening, to Mr. Merivale, “are not to be hid under +a bushel. If I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181">{181}</a></span> have been blessed with a more than common share of good +things, it is but just and right that I should display them. I feel that +many eyes are upon me, and I must make it my endeavour to act according +to the station in which I have been placed.” A slight elevation of the +head betrayed how lofty that station was in his own estimation.</p> + +<p>“Very good,” was Mr. Merivale’s calm answer to the oration which has +here been considerably abridged in its proportions.</p> + +<p>As soon as Robert appeared, Mr. Gresham welcomed him with flattering +attention, and then with Everard in his suite conducted him in a kind of +royal progress round the room. “Mr. Vavasour and his brother,” this was +his mode of introduction. Nor did his attention end here. Desiring him +to take Angela to dinner, and to place her at his left side, he +continued his favours without intermission. Thoughts, lips, and eyes +were all alike devoted to Robert. He could scarcely attend with common +politeness to a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182">{182}</a></span> dull lady on his right side, and in his desire that +Robert should eat of the best, could scarcely spare time to satisfy the +cravings of his own nature. To make a lion is not a work of difficulty. +Had Robert been possessed of few personal claims to distinction, the +notice of his host would have won for him the notice of the guests; but +in truth Robert’s pretensions were so incontrovertible that no attention +appeared to surpass his claims, and very willingly Mr. Gresham’s guests +did homage to the idol he set up.</p> + +<p>Robert was no coxcomb and no fool. He laughed in his heart, but to only +a few people notice is distasteful, and it certainly was not distasteful +to him. He was excited by it, exerted himself to please, and won by his +own powers, the regard which at first had been won for him.</p> + +<p>Everard’s fate was naturally very different. He sat at the other end of +the table, between two dull gentlemen, silent and unnoticed. Except as +Robert’s brother, Mr. Gresham<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183">{183}</a></span> had bestowed no attention upon him; and +Mr. Gresham’s guests for the most part followed his lead. Even the dull +men that sat by his side stretched forward to catch Robert’s gay words, +and wished themselves nearer to the sphere in which he moved.</p> + +<p>In the evening the distinction between the two brothers was made yet +more apparent. With something of the same royal honour as before +described, Mr. Gresham conducted Robert from the dining to the +drawing-room, and then to Angela’s side. Angela was good-naturedly +endeavouring to entertain the good but dull lady who was her companion, +but not being supremely gifted with patience, felt and looked, exhausted +with her efforts.</p> + +<p>“Will you help?” she whispered to Robert as he stood beside her. He +laughed, but with ready good humour agreed, and drawing a chair close to +Angela and her guest, sat himself down to the task of entertainment. To +be entertaining was rarely an effort to him: his observation was so +quick, his sense of humour so keen, his forms of expression<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184">{184}</a></span> so +original; but this evening, excited and pleased by the pleasure he so +evidently gave, he surpassed himself. The other guests were drawn to the +centre of attraction.</p> + +<p>Some joined in the conversation; some assisted it by their unfailing +laugh. Some stood with open eyes and ears. Grateful to Robert, excited +and amused, Angela listened, talked, and laughed, with all her powers.</p> + +<p>On the outskirts of the crowd Everard stood in a reverie. Almost all +were strange to him; none thought of, none heeded him. He was +unaccustomed to notice, and certainly had not expected it; but suddenly +his mind became aware, as it never had been before, of the extraordinary +difference between Robert and himself; the difference in charm, in +position, in hopes and promises of fortune. Till now, except perhaps as +regarded his mother, he had never felt jealous; he had always +acknowledged Robert’s superiority as a thing of course, a fact so plain +and established that it was not worth a thought, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185">{185}</a></span> this night the +conviction of that superiority brought a pang so sharp, a stir of envy +so bitter and tumultuous, that he himself was startled by it.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter with me?” he asked himself, with a feeling of hate +and abhorrence. His eyes looked inwards, keenly and resolutely, and the +answer was given.</p> + +<p>It was the answer to this question that had plunged Everard into his +reverie. No sooner was he aware of the state of his feelings, than he +began to fight and argue with them, to say to himself that vain word in +such cases—“Folly.” The fight, the struggle was depicted on his +countenance; it was always grave when in repose, but this night it was +stern.</p> + +<p>Mr. Merivale was the only person who had not gathered about Robert’s +charmed circle. He was an old friend, a privileged guest; one who did as +he pleased, without fear of questionings. He liked to read the +newspapers of an evening—and come what might he did read them.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186">{186}</a></span></p> + +<p>While he read, he watched. An acute observer, a student of human nature, +and one especially interested in the fate of Angela, he watched the two +brothers with interest and attention. The countenance of Everard +attracted him. He had once or twice across the table, addressed him +during dinner; and his unpretendingness of manner and intelligent +answers had pleased him. The feelings now depicted on his face +interested him still more. Suddenly laying down the newspaper, he rose +and approached him.</p> + +<p>“After all, Mr. Vavasour,” he said, rather abruptly entering on the +conversation, “it is manners make the man.”</p> + +<p>“I believe it is, indeed,” Everard said, smiling, “but what has brought +you to this sudden decision?”</p> + +<p>“I will tell you why I say it just now;—I was prepared this evening to +hate your brother. I always am, when I hear a name more often than I +think a name should be pronounced. That was before I saw him.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187">{187}</a></span> When you +came in to-night, I was prepared to hate him more. I always am, when +attention, which I consider superabundant, is paid to a person. But +after all this preparation, he has disarmed me. There is a charm about +him which I cannot resist.”</p> + +<p>“All who know Robert feel the same,” Everard said, with warmth.</p> + +<p>“That is a brotherly speech; but from my own sensations, I have no doubt +it is true. Now the fact is, I have a good right to hate him; and when I +tell you the circumstances, I think you will allow it. I have not been +in England for five years. I arrive, and being an old friend of Mr. +Gresham and his daughter, I pursue them down here. I come, expecting to +be made much of. I arrive, and the very first day my nose is put out of +joint by a young new friend; I am thought no more of than an old shoe. +You will own this is enough to fill me with hatred and all +uncharitableness.”</p> + +<p>“Most certainly,” Everard said, laughing.</p> + +<p>“So conscious was I that such ought to be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188">{188}</a></span> the proper state of my +feelings, that it was with surprise I found myself totally untouched by +bad passions. ‘How is this?’ I asked myself; and the answer I received +was the observation with which I addressed you. Manners make the man. +There is no feeling indignation where honours are borne as your brother +bears them. He deserves them well.”</p> + +<p>“I believe I was making much the same reflection,” Everard replied; “and +to say the truth, I am afraid I was indulging in some envy of the +qualities you speak of.”</p> + +<p>“That is a thing of course,” said his companion. “So was I. We would not +deprive him of what sits so well upon him, but if we could, we would +all, have those, or any qualities, which command attention, still more +admiration, still more love.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose so,” Everard said, gravely.</p> + +<p>“These are new acquaintances of yours, Mr. Vavasour, I believe?”</p> + +<p>He acquiesced.</p> + +<p>“I have not seen Miss Gresham for five<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189">{189}</a></span> years. My chief purpose in +coming to England was to see her again. I left her a child. I wished to +see what she was as a woman.”</p> + +<p>“You must be satisfied I think,” Everard said, smiling.</p> + +<p>“Why, yes, upon the whole. She is not so pretty as I thought she +promised to be; but in other ways she is improved.”</p> + +<p>“You must have expected a good deal if you are disappointed,” Everard +said, with more warmth than he was conscious of.</p> + +<p>“She was a beautiful child. I suppose the child haunts my dreams and +makes me less satisfied with the woman. The eyes and complexion are +perfect, but I could have wished the nose and mouth were more +classical.”</p> + +<p>“That is being very critical,” Everard said, amused.</p> + +<p>“Yes; but like Iago, I am nothing if not critical. I am, however, +satisfied on the whole, and the mental improvement is more than I looked +for.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190">{190}</a></span></p> + +<p>Everard was not aware that the critical eyes had been watching him +during this conversation. Mr. Merivale was a dangerous person. When bent +on observation, it was hard to elude him.</p> + +<p>At this moment the party broke up. The lady who came from a distance was +taking her departure, and Mr. Gresham, too much absorbed in Robert, to +have hitherto attended to his own pleasures, was making up a whist +table. Mr. Merivale was in request for this purpose.</p> + +<p>Everard stood where he left him, and took up for a moment the newspaper +that Mr. Merivale had laid down. He was glancing over it, when he was +startled by Angela’s voice. She had left her place, and had taken a seat +on the sofa, near the table at which he stood.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid I interrupt you, Mr. Vavasour,” she said, in a voice +peculiarly sweet and winning. “Is there anything very interesting in +that newspaper?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191">{191}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Not much,” he said, smiling, and laying it down.</p> + +<p>“I am come to ask you,” she continued, “a strange thing, but you must +remember that I am in two characters in this house. I am a young lady, +and, therefore, bound to be very discreet; but I am also the lady of the +house, and bound to see that all my guests are amused and happy. I want +to know if there is anything the matter with you to-night, and why you +are so grave.” Her manner was peculiar. It was more than kind, and yet +at the same time had a grace and dignity which became the character she +wished to assume.</p> + +<p>“Am I grave?” he said, unconscious that his outward man had so betrayed +his inward thoughts.</p> + +<p>“Yes, grave all the evening, but lately more than grave.”</p> + +<p>“I believe I always am grim-looking,” he said, smiling, “but I am not +really so grim as I look.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192">{192}</a></span></p> + +<p>“I see you do not like my questions,” she said, “and I dare say I am +impertinent; but what I wished to say was this, I feared you might think +that you were neglected while others were made much of; and I wished to +tell you it was not so, though it might seem so. You must remember,” she +added, quickly, as if in explanation of her rising colour, “that it is +my duty as mistress of this house to see that all are happy, that is as +far as may be; and so you must excuse my impertinence.”</p> + +<p>Lord Byron says—</p> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“It is in vain that we would coldly gaze<br></span> +<span class="i0">On those that smile on us. The heart must<br></span> +<span class="i0">Leap kindly back to kindness.”<br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>If not always true, it certainly is so in a case like Everard’s, where +such kindness was rarely expressed towards him, and where already he was +far from coldly gazing. He was deeply touched. But he was now on his +guard, awakened to his danger, and determined to resist it. His answer +was little expressive of what he really felt.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193">{193}</a></span></p> + +<p>“You have imposed very severe duties on your position,” he said, +smiling, “and I think a short practise will tell you, you must give them +up. For myself, thank you a thousand times. I assure you, I was not so +vain as to suppose myself neglected.”</p> + +<p>He fancied, but he thought it must be fancy, that she looked hurt at his +answer. She was silent for a moment; then suddenly said, laughing, and +in another tone, “That is a new phase of vanity, is it not, to suppose +itself neglected? I thought vanity supposed itself to be observed.”</p> + +<p>“I think vanity is to suppose itself of importance at all,” he replied, +“and quite as often complains of neglect, as it takes to itself praise.”</p> + +<p>“Well, perhaps. And now good night. Do you think, as mistress of the +house, I need sit up till that whist party breaks up? I am rather tired +of laughing, and I should be glad to go. What do you say, Mr. +Va<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194">{194}</a></span>vasour?” turning to Robert, who passed at the moment.</p> + +<p>“Put the question,” he said, “and I will give an answer in a moment, be +the point what it may; but I am like Nebuchadnezzar’s poor ill-used +sages. I cannot give an answer, without knowing what the question is.”</p> + +<p>Angela laughed and explained.</p> + +<p>“Go to bed by all means,” he replied, “though it is extremely uncivil of +me to say so. I hate rules and laws; and especially on this point. Let +all men go to bed when they are inclined, and we shall have an end of +that worst of evils, a face convulsed with yawns. Good night. Pray go to +bed.”</p> + +<p>“It is a pity she is an heiress, is it not, Everard?” he said archly, as +she left them; but without waiting for observation or answer, went on to +the whist table. Everard again took up the newspaper, but not to read. +His mind was severely struggling<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195">{195}</a></span> with new and strange feelings. Folly, +idle dreams, he again called them, and was determined to crush them at +once, and for ever. The arguments with which he animated his rebellious +will, were drawn from the source, which animated all his endeavours to +do his duty. What would his father say, if he yielded to his first +temptation? A temptation to dream his life away, to set before himself +an illusive hope, to escape from the more toilsome life laid out for +him. He imagined his father’s face of pain, if he should hear that he, +Everard, was courting the favour of the heiress, and the imagination was +for the moment at least all powerful. With a sigh, he blew away the vain +fancies that were bewildering him, and returned to himself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196">{196}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">From time to time<br></span> +<span class="i0">Henceforth I felt, although I met them not,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The visitation of those serious eyes.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><i>Eve of the Conquest.</i><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Everard</span> came down early the following morning, earlier, that is, than +the breakfast hour of the house. Finding the breakfast room empty, and +being told by the servants that he was half an hour too soon, he went +out for a walk. When he returned, he was observed by Angela from the +breakfast room window, and she opened the window to invite him to come +in. She and Mr. Merivale were there alone. Mr. Merivale was reading his +letters.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197">{197}</a></span></p> + +<p>“You have been out to shame us, I suppose,” she said laughing, “but it +is only just ten o’clock.”</p> + +<p>“I went out because I came down too soon,” he said, smiling; “like the +man in the moon. I had no other reason.”</p> + +<p>“But you do think our hours very late?”</p> + +<p>“Indeed I do not. Mine are earlier, but that does not make yours late.”</p> + +<p>“I won’t ask you at what o’clock you <i>get up</i>, for I feel sure that it +is at some unearthly hour; but at what o’clock do you come down at +Audley Court?”</p> + +<p>“At half-past eight.”</p> + +<p>“And do you all breakfast then? Does poor Mr. Vavasour? I don’t think he +can like it much; your brother I mean.”</p> + +<p>“No; we don’t breakfast till nine. Robert is very good. He does not much +like it, but he is not often late.”</p> + +<p>“Then what takes place at half-past eight?”</p> + +<p>“My father reads prayers.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198">{198}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Oh!” Angela said, gravely; then, smiling, “Why did you not say that +before?”</p> + +<p>“I had no need, had I?”</p> + +<p>“Now, Mr. Vavasour, for once you don’t speak quite the truth. You did +not choose to say it, because you thought it would be a reproach to a +house where there were no prayers.”</p> + +<p>“I will not be positive. It may have been so; but I really do not think +it was.”</p> + +<p>“Is it common to have family prayers? I beg your pardon,” she said, +suddenly, “for asking so many questions. I believe I never speak without +a question; but my ignorance of the ways of the world is such that I am +forced to do it. I hope to improve. Is it common?”</p> + +<p>“I fancy it is,” Everard said, after a moment’s thought. “I should +suppose it is; but I know very little of the interior arrangements of +houses in general.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think it a right custom?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199">{199}</a></span></p> + +<p>“It seems, I think, a good and natural one.”</p> + +<p>“I will release you now,” she said, laughing. “I know I must be a bore; +but my ignorance is my excuse.”</p> + +<p>“I shall be most happy to answer any questions,” Everard said, smiling +also; “but if they are about the ways of the world, perhaps I am not +much wiser than you are.”</p> + +<p>“Did you hear me, Mr. Merivale?” Angela said, approaching him. “Did you +think me a bore?”</p> + +<p>“Rather, my dear child,” he said, looking up from his letter; “I could +not understand a word I read.”</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, with a glance, half amused, half anxious, he had been +watching her from behind his letter.</p> + +<p>The rest of the party (with the exception of Robert), consisting of Mr. +Gresham and two or three gentlemen, now entered the room, and all +proceeded to breakfast.</p> + +<p>Nothing could be more pompously urbane<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200">{200}</a></span> than Mr. Gresham was to all; but +his eyes were on the door, and he was evidently ill at ease in daring to +eat before Robert appeared. Once or twice he apologised to himself for +doing so; and the only special notice he took of Everard was to make the +same apology to him. He had some good shooting, which was the avowed +purpose for which the party had been formed; but nothing was allowed to +be settled on the subject, or even debated, until Robert came. “It was +all in Mr. Vavasour’s hands.” This reduced every inquirer to silence.</p> + +<p>When Robert did appear, at the very end of breakfast, the superabundant +attentions of the preceding evening were resumed. He went forward to +meet him, overpowered his apologies for his lateness, by his (Mr. +Gresham’s) apologies for his rudeness, and made amends for the latter by +supplying Robert’s wants, with a hospitality and ostentation five times +as great as that he had shown to his other guests.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201">{201}</a></span></p> + +<p>Robert accepted it all with careless ease and good humour; neither +rejecting the attentions of his host nor glorying in them. It was +impossible to be angry with <i>him</i>, and yet though he escaped, there was +a rising wrath and rebellion in Angela’s mind, which boded future strife +in the house.</p> + +<p>As she left the breakfast room she overheard a young man say to Everard, +“I am sure I wish I was an elder son, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>She slackened her steps to catch Everard’s reply. It was given with more +truth than politeness, so far, at least, as the young gentleman was +concerned. “Unless we wish for other qualities at the same time, perhaps +the matter of birth would be no great advantage to us.”</p> + +<p>Angela smiled to herself as she walked on, but the observation of the +young man, though she owned it was ill bred, added to the irritation of +her mind.</p> + +<p>In the course of the morning Mr. Merivale entered the drawing-room. He +found<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202">{202}</a></span> Angela seated at a table, with a large Prayer-book before her. +His quick observation immediately guessed the nature of her occupation, +but without discovering this, he approached her and asked, “What are you +about now, Angela?”</p> + +<p>“I wish to have family prayers in the house,” she replied with dignity, +“and I am making out a proper selection. I wish to have them to-morrow +morning, or I would wait till I could see Mr. Addison, and ask him to +choose for me.”</p> + +<p>“And who is to read, my love?”</p> + +<p>“I mean to read myself; that is, if papa refuses, which I know he will.”</p> + +<p>“<i>You!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Yes. You seem surprised. Is there anything extraordinary in my doing +it?”</p> + +<p>“A little, I think. Don’t do it, my dear child, if you will take my +advice. It is an office not very consistent with your age, and +giddiness, and other things.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see that,” she said. “I know I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203">{203}</a></span> am not very good, but if we +wait till we are perfect before we do anything that is right, I don’t +see that we ever can improve. I think it right to have prayers in a +house, and if I can I will have them. I dare say I shall be frightened +at first, but I don’t care for that.”</p> + +<p>“Now, my dear child, listen to me,” said Mr. Merivale, with difficulty +restraining a smile. “I am the very last person to say a word against +your zeal; but do not be in such haste. Let all things be done decently +and in order. Do not while all your servants are busy and hurried begin +such a thing. Let them know you are thinking about it; give them time to +consider it, and consider it yourself, and then take some quiet time to +begin. Trust me, I am giving you good advice.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think you are,” she said eagerly; “one should act rightly while +one feels the spirit to do it. I never do a thing if I let the right +time go by.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204">{204}</a></span></p> + +<p>“It requires principle, certainly; but, believe me, hasty things are +dangerous things. Besides, there is another reason: if you do this thing +suddenly, what will Mr. Everard Vavasour think? It strikes me he will +think you pay a very undue regard to his opinion.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t care,” she said, though her blood mounting to her temples, +somewhat contradicted her words, “I am glad he should see on the +contrary that some regard is paid to his opinion in this house. I like +what he said, and I am not ashamed to shew it.”</p> + +<p>“Poor little thing,” he said, suddenly patting her shoulders, “you had +better take care of yourself.”</p> + +<p>She did not notice his observation, but resumed her inspection of the +Prayer-book.</p> + +<p>A moment afterwards Mr. Gresham entered the room, and as if to shew +herself entirely unmoved by Mr. Merivale’s arguments, she immediately +made her request to her father.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205">{205}</a></span></p> + +<p>He placed himself before the fire, and after a moment’s reflection +observed, “This requires consideration. If it is a proper thing it shall +be done, though at some inconvenience. Is it a common appendage of a +country house?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” Angela said, “but I know that in some houses it is done. +Mr. Vavasour reads prayers at Audley Court.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” Mr. Gresham asked eagerly. “Has Mr. Vavasour been speaking on +the subject? His opinion is of importance.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. <i>Everard</i> Vavasour told me so,” Angela said with emphasis.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” was Mr. Gresham’s reply. “Mr. Everard Vavasour’s opinion is +another thing; deserving of consideration certainly, but, comparatively +speaking, of less moment.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see that,” Angela said warmly and with a deep blush.</p> + +<p>“Nor I,” said Mr. Merivale.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham looked from one to the other with too much surprise in his +coun<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206">{206}</a></span>tenance to leave room for an expression of displeasure. He was one +of those who with difficulty are brought to see that which they do not +wish to see; and though there was something in Angela’s look which might +have made him uneasy for his cherished plans, he did not appear to be +conscious of it.</p> + +<p>Without resuming the subject, he in a moment observed to Mr. Merivale, +“That Mr. Vavasour is a very pleasing young man; a very fine young man.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Mr. Merivale, “they both are.”</p> + +<p>“I spoke of the eldest. He is, I should say, the first young man of his +day. Accomplished, amiable in manner, striking in appearance, and, if I +mistake not, formed to have the eyes of the world upon him.”</p> + +<p>“I like both,” persisted Mr. Merivale, “but I am not certain that I do +not like the youngest best.”</p> + +<p>“It would be rather singular,” Mr. Gresham said, contemptuously +elevating his nose, “to prefer the younger to the elder.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207">{207}</a></span></p> + +<p>Angela’s heart was bursting to speak, but she refrained. Her cheek, +however, was again crimson.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham looked at her with a stare of observation, through a +countenance totally unmoved. After a short silence he left his place, +and, approaching the table, asked what she was doing.</p> + +<p>She told him.</p> + +<p>“You need not trouble yourself,” he said coldly. “I will attend to the +subject myself. If I find that family prayers are a common appendage of +country houses, I will undertake the duty in proper time. Meanwhile, I +beg that my affairs may not be canvassed with those who can have no +concern with them. Merivale, do you choose to walk with me?”</p> + +<p>“With all my heart,” he said, and followed him from the room, leaving +Angela with a mind in which rebellion was beginning to be harboured. The +feelings that animated her were partly generous, partly ro<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208">{208}</a></span>mantic, and +partly wilful; but the generous motives were so predominant, they were +in their nature so right and true, that she scarcely acknowledged the +second, and entirely disregarded the third. Her taste and heart alike +revolted from this courting of Robert, and she proudly determined that +she would show a spirit animated by other feelings.</p> + +<p>In this temper of mind she awaited the evening.</p> + +<p>Another party had been invited, and the second evening was in many +respects a repetition of the first. During dinner Angela sat again +between her father and Robert, and as Mr. Gresham listened to and joined +in their animated conversation, he banished every dawning uneasiness +regarding the success of his scheme. Angela and Robert did indeed get on +exceedingly well together. Both, of course, perceived, one with internal +chafing, the other with internal merriment, Mr. Gresham’s designs, but +both were very<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209">{209}</a></span> willing to be pleased and amused, whensoever and +howsoever they could. When therefore Robert, in the beginning of the +evening, was again pompously conducted to Angela’s side, she received +him without any show of annoyance, and he accepted his position without +reluctance.</p> + +<p>Waiting until they were engaged in a full flow of discourse, Mr. +Gresham, having performed his duty as a father, proceeded to amuse +himself. Whist was the supreme and solemn diversion of his life. Even at +whist he still was Mr. Gresham; even his play was in the eyes of the +world, but certainly he was less guarded, less conscious of his enormous +responsibilities when engaged in that employment, than on any other +occasions of his life. This evening the whist table was formed early, +and he sat down to play in serene majesty, at peace with himself, his +daughter, and all the world.</p> + +<p>“Are you really going back to Audley<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210">{210}</a></span> Court to-morrow?” Angela said to +Robert shortly after they had been left to themselves.</p> + +<p>“Yes, we must go. We shall only be a week or ten days more at home, and +we don’t like to leave my father for a longer time. That is Everard does +not, and I think he is right.”</p> + +<p>“And you go after breakfast to-morrow—that is you go out shooting, and +don’t come back any more?”</p> + +<p>“I believe that is the plan.”</p> + +<p>“Then I must go and speak to your brother now. I have got something to +ask him.”</p> + +<p>“Have you,” Robert said, laughing, “what is it? May I be a partaker of +the secret?”</p> + +<p>“It is not a secret, it is something about my aunt, to whom your brother +was very good-natured in London. I will tell you another time what it +is, if you care to know, but I must seize my opportunity, or perhaps I +shall not have one again. Will you let me go by.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211">{211}</a></span></p> + +<p>He moved his chair, and watched her for a minute as she crossed over to +Everard, amused alike by her ways and by Everard’s face when he was +summoned. He was much too quick not to see that they were what he called +“a little taken,” and the idea afforded him infinite entertainment.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Vavasour!” Angela said, slightly raising her voice to attract +Everard’s attention, as she seated herself on a sofa near him.</p> + +<p>He was talking to, or rather listening to a prosy gentleman; but thus +called upon, he could not but leave him in the midst of his prose.</p> + +<p>He came to her. “I wish you would sit down for a minute,” she said, +assuming in her manner something of the same ease and dignity she had +assumed on the previous evening. “I have got something I wish to say?”</p> + +<p>He looked startled, as Robert had observed. These conversations tried +his self<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212">{212}</a></span> command too severely to be agreeable to him. He could do +nothing, however, but obey.</p> + +<p>“What I want to say is this,” she began. “I have an impression on my +mind that you must think I do not tell quite the truth, and I do not +like you to think it.”</p> + +<p>“I think I know what you mean,” Everard said, smiling.</p> + +<p>“When we spoke of plots and disguises the other day, I know by my looks +I acknowledged I had done something of the kind, and yet I denied it. I +know you must think I did not speak the truth, but I had not courage to +explain myself. The fact is, I do not call it a disguise. I will tell +you how it was. My aunt told me of a Mr. Vavasour’s kindness to her. I +knew that a Mr. Vavasour lived near the place which my father had lately +bought. I dare say it was a foolish fancy, but I thought I should like +to see him before we came here, and yet not exactly in my own person. I +dressed myself,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213">{213}</a></span> therefore, as my aunt’s niece ought to dress. There is +the history.”</p> + +<p>“I am very much obliged to you for explaining it,” Everard said. “It is +quite plain and very natural.”</p> + +<p>“And what do you say now?” she asked, playfully. “Do you condemn all +plots and disguises, even such a very little thing as that?”</p> + +<p>“If you ask me,” he replied, “I must say what I think. I do not like +them.”</p> + +<p>“You think I was very wrong then?”</p> + +<p>“Very wrong, oh no, that is a strong expression. But why, Miss Gresham, +ask my opinion? It cannot matter. I have an objection to such things. I +think them mischievous, dangerous things, but I do not wish to be forced +to say so.”</p> + +<p>“There could be no great mischief or danger there.”</p> + +<p>“There might,” he said, quickly.</p> + +<p>“I cannot see it; and though I too like<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214">{214}</a></span> truth, I think you are severe. +What harm have I done or could I do?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot very well explain myself,” he said, hastily. “I ought, I +believe, to beg your pardon for giving my opinion so freely, but when a +person is asked....”</p> + +<p>“When a person asks questions as I do,” Angela said, playfully, “she +will be answered. And now I have got a favour to ask. Will you grant +it?”</p> + +<p>“I will when I know what I have to grant.”</p> + +<p>“I knew you would say that,” she replied, laughing. “All I want to ask +is, whether you will be so kind when you go back to London as to visit +my aunt again?”</p> + +<p>“I will, certainly,” he replied.</p> + +<p>“Do not suppose that I am not well aware that I am asking a favour. My +poor aunt is very tedious except to those who love her as I do. I know +this very well; but your visits were so great a pleasure to her,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215">{215}</a></span> and +her life is so dreary, that I cannot help asking you to do this +kindness—a kindness to me as well as to her.”</p> + +<p>“I assure you I did not find my visits tedious,” he said, with warmth. +“I am obliged to study very hard and live with many very dry people. I +found it rather a pleasure than otherwise to be able to be kind to her, +and to be received with kindness. Perhaps you will not understand what I +mean, but it was something so new and different, that it refreshed me.”</p> + +<p>“Then why did you so very quickly give up the pleasure?”</p> + +<p>He coloured slightly. “Not because I found it tedious, but because I +thought it was time.”</p> + +<p>“She thought you were tired of her,” persisted Angela, “and her +feelings, poor thing, were hurt. She never expects attentions, but she +feels the want of them all the same.”</p> + +<p>“I am very sorry,” he said, with great<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216">{216}</a></span> earnestness. “My reason was very +different; I had supposed her to be alone; when I found it was otherwise +I thought it was wiser and better to bring my visits to an end.”</p> + +<p>His voice had a hurried tone, and when he had done there was a moment’s +pause; then Angela bent forward, and with something of a queenly air, +calm and steady, though with great meaning, asked, “And for what reason +<i>wiser</i>?”</p> + +<p>He looked suddenly up at her and coloured deeply, and in the moment of +temptation, forgetting his late resolutions, allowed his eyes to flash +with a fire that shortly told a long tale. Angela met his gaze, drew +back, and coloured still more deeply than he did. She had provoked that +look, but now was abashed at having provoked it. He drew back also.</p> + +<p>Neither spoke, and a very awkward silence followed. It was still more +awkwardly broken.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217">{217}</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham rose from his whist table, came to the spot where Angela +sat, and coldly said, “You will oblige me by going to the pianoforte. We +all enjoy music, and I do not know why a young lady is taught to play +with much pains and expense, if she cannot entertain her friends.”</p> + +<p>His interference restored Angela’s self possession, and as coldly she +replied, “I shall be very happy to play; I will go this instant.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham returned with a stately air to his seat. Angela rose from +hers, and paused for a moment at the table. She then said, with +something of the constraint of shyness in her manner, “Then I may depend +on your promise, Mr. Vavasour, and tell my aunt that you will be kind +enough to visit her again.”</p> + +<p>“I will certainly,” he replied, rising from his chair, but not looking +at her. His whole air and manner were changed.</p> + +<p>Angela went slowly and uneasily to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218">{218}</a></span> pianoforte. He did not follow +even with his eyes, but joined himself to a group of gentlemen, who were +talking over country news and business, and stood there silent and +pre-occupied. He was miserable—as miserable as a conscientious man who +has broken a resolution conscientiously made, as a man who hopes he is +strong and finds himself weak,—can be. What Angela felt or meant he +could not guess, but for himself he was convinced that he had taken +undue advantage of her kindliness. What Mr. Gresham meant he understood +well.</p> + +<p>After Angela had left the drawing-room, and the whist party was broken +up, Mr. Gresham came to make his request to Robert that he would prolong +his visit for another day. He had a party whom he wished him to meet; he +had depended on his remaining; he was, in short, very pressing.</p> + +<p>Robert, easy, good-natured, and well amused, was inclined to give way. +“I will stay,” he replied, “if Everard will; but if<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219">{219}</a></span> he thinks we had +better go then I am afraid I must refuse.”</p> + +<p>Everard was standing at a little distance. Mr. Gresham turned to him. +“Yes, I think we had better go,” he said, quickly.</p> + +<p>With great civility, with more attention than he had yet shown him, Mr. +Gresham begged him to relent, and pressed his request with overmuch +pressing.</p> + +<p>A man is ashamed to refuse a trifling favour when it is asked with +earnestness, and Everard gave way. Hardly had he done so, however, +before he longed to recall his consent, feeling that the trifle was no +trifle to him.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham was profuse in his thanks, and so gracious in his manner, +that Everard went to bed perplexed and bewildered. Strange hopes, vague +dreams flitted about his pillow, and tormented him with their +pertinacity. Resist them as he might they came again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220">{220}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He spake of virtue; not the gods<br></span> +<span class="i0">More purely when they wish to charm<br></span> +<span class="i0">Pallas and Juno sitting by:<br></span> +<span class="i0">And with a sweeping of the arm,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And a lack lustre dead blue eye<br></span> +<span class="i0">Devolved his rounded periods.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Tennyson.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Everard</span> awoke the following morning with a resolute determination to +keep out of temptation, by avoiding Angela’s society. For this purpose +he remained in his room till after ten o’clock, and then, hearing Mr. +Gresham’s step, followed him down stairs to breakfast.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221">{221}</a></span></p> + +<p>At the foot of the stairs Mr. Gresham turned and looked up, and seeing +Everard, waited until he joined him.</p> + +<p>“It is my wish, Mr. Vavasour,” he then said, speaking more suddenly and +quickly than was his custom, “to say a few words to you in my private +room. I am fortunate in meeting you here. May I request you to be so +good as to give me the favour of your attention for a short time +immediately after breakfast. The shooting party wall not leave Underwood +until half-past eleven.”</p> + +<p>Everard coloured but assented. He was surprised and troubled; conscience +pointed in one direction, and made him dread the interview.</p> + +<p>“When I leave the room, Mr. Vavasour, perhaps you will be good enough to +follow me. I wish our conversation to be <i>private</i>,” with a marked +emphasis on the word, “nor do I wish it to incur observation.”</p> + +<p>“I will take care,” Everard replied, quietly,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222">{222}</a></span> and they went on together +into the breakfast room.</p> + +<p>Angela blushed, as she shook hands with him; that which she had done on +the spur of the moment; that which her principles (<i>i.e.</i>, that the +conventional etiquette of the world was nonsense,) had prompted her to +do, had, on reflection, agitated her. She feared Everard would think she +had been forward. She longed to see him again, that she might read the +impression she had made. His non-appearance had annoyed her; and his +countenance, which, in spite of all his efforts was grave and +pre-occupied when he did come, troubled her more.</p> + +<p>Shaking off her embarrassment, however, and forcing herself to speak, +she said, laughing, “You are learning bad habits in this house, Mr. +Vavasour. I don’t think it was any unearthly hour this morning.”</p> + +<p>“I think I am,” he replied with a grave smile, and as Mr. Gresham +observed at the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223">{223}</a></span> moment that breakfast was ready, he turned away and +chose his place far from Angela’s seat.</p> + +<p>Feelings quickly change. Angela had feared <i>his</i> disapprobation. She now +imagined that he was in fear of her, and she was at peace again.</p> + +<p>When Angela had left the breakfast room Mr. Gresham made a silent signal +to Everard, and left it by another door. In a minute, when, obedient to +his instructions, it could be done without observation, Everard +followed.</p> + +<p>“Be so good as to be seated, Mr. Vavasour,” was Mr. Gresham’s request; +and Everard having taken a seat near the fire, Mr. Gresham placed +himself with his back towards it and prepared for his discourse.</p> + +<p>“My object, Mr. Vavasour, in requesting you to give me your attention, +is in order to inform you of some circumstances regarding my daughter’s +prospects and position in life. They are circumstances of importance, +as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224">{224}</a></span> indeed, all circumstances affecting a young lady in her position +must be.”</p> + +<p>He paused a moment, and Everard replied, “I am, of course, Mr. Gresham, +ready to listen to anything you may wish to communicate, but excuse me +if I say that I cannot conceive what right I have to be informed of the +circumstances you mention.</p> + +<p>“That will hereafter appear. Be so good, my dear Mr. Vavasour, as to +grant me your attention. My daughter is, as you are aware, my only +child; according to my present intention, she is also my sole heiress—I +say my present intention—for my life is not so far advanced but that I +remain liable to the common changes and chances of the world. +Circumstances might occur, differences might arise, which would afford +an inducement to change my intention. At present, however, it is my wish +that she should be my sole heiress, and few, perhaps, may hope to be +endowed with a more goodly dowry.”</p> + +<p>He paused again, looked around him,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225">{225}</a></span> glanced at the ornamented ceiling +and gaudy carpet, and, finally, threw open his coat and closed it again.</p> + +<p>“All this I supposed,” Everard said, seeing an observation was expected, +“but again I must say that I cannot see how it affects me.”</p> + +<p>He waved his hand to bespeak patience and began again. “Such being the +circumstances, it is natural that I should with grave consideration, +reflect on the future destination of my possessions. If I had desired +that my wealth should flow into full treasuries, if I had desired to +mingle my name and blood with the blood of noble families, I confess it +appears to me the desire would have been natural. If I had desired to +place a coronet on my daughter’s head, I confess, with her position and +outward accomplishments, I think the desire would have been justified. +And such, indeed, <i>was</i> my desire; but man, Mr. Vavasour, is a finite +being; he cannot accomplish all his wishes. It becomes us to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226">{226}</a></span> submit to +the ordinary dispensations of Providence, which rarely sees fit to give +all things into one hand. In a word I felt it my duty to make a choice +of good things, to select some and be content to part with others. I +chose, therefore, for my daughter’s future husband, one not +noble,—though in every country but ours he would be noble—not wealthy, +but of ancient lineage, of fair possessions, and endowed with all those +gifts and accomplishments which are calculated to attract the eyes of +the world.”</p> + +<p>“You mean my brother,” Everard said, colouring slightly.</p> + +<p>“We will speak further on that point. Be so good as to allow me to +proceed. Such being my feelings and desires, you may conceive, Mr. +Vavasour, that any disappointment in the plans I have cherished would be +painful to me. I am aware that you would not willingly thwart my +desires, I have too high a sense of your character, but I confess I +yesterday observed with pain, that is, some<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227">{227}</a></span> circumstances drew me to +observe, that you regarded my daughter—did her the honour to regard +her—with favour, and (be so obliging as to hear me, Mr. Vavasour) led +me to fear that my daughter might, through your efforts, be drawn to +regard you with favour;—you, Mr. Vavasour, endowed with many virtues, +but undistinguished in the world, of small fortune, and small prospect +of advancement; and this at the early age of seventeen, before the mind +or judgment is formed, or capable of a decision. You may imagine my +feelings.”</p> + +<p>He raised his nose and placed his hands behind his coat-tails in +amazement and dismay.</p> + +<p>With difficulty Everard heard him out. Pride, wounded feeling, and a +strange throb of pleasure, mingled their sensations in his breast, but +he mastered them and answered without excitement.</p> + +<p>“I have listened to you patiently, Mr. Gresham, because you desired me +to do so,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228">{228}</a></span> and because I acknowledge it is natural you should feel +anxious respecting your daughter’s happiness; but I must now tell you +that you have mistaken me. I confess, indeed, that I have not seen Miss +Gresham with indifference, it would be difficult to do it; if she were +poor, if she were a beggar—but no matter for that. As it is, I have had +no such view as you imagine. Not,” he continued, his colour rising, and +speaking with a proud dignity, “that I think money of such immense +worth, that nothing but rank and worldly goods are worthy to win it—I +should be ashamed of having so base a thought; but there is a natural +feeling in men’s minds that it needs <i>some</i> worth, some weight of +character, or age, or tried industry, to win this world’s good things, +and I feel it myself as much as any. I knew that I was not one likely to +win your favour, and whatever may be hereafter, I felt I was too young +and undistinguished at present, to attempt to win it; and more than +this, I do<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229">{229}</a></span> not even wish to win it. I do not speak of the idle thoughts +and hopes that cross the mind without one’s will—but I speak of my +reason and conscience; they tell me that I ought not to wish, and it is +my desire to obey them; now I have said all I have to say, and I trust +you are satisfied.”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly so, Mr. Vavasour, you have spoken extremely well. I perceive +that the opinion I formed of your character, and which disposed me to +place this confidence in you, was well grounded. Allow me to detain you +a few moments longer. This being satisfactorily settled, I leave the +future in the hands of Providence. I have done my part in choosing a +proper direction in which my great possessions may flow; and I think, +Mr. Vavasour, if you consider the subject, you will observe that I have +also chosen well regarding the advantages to your family. What your +father has toiled and spared to gain, I offer to him; and to your +brother I offer that lavish wealth which his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230">{230}</a></span> disposition is peculiarly +formed to require. My plans have been laid out with forethought and +wisdom. I confess I cherish them, and I think I may say, have a right to +cherish them.”</p> + +<p>Everard was silent. He did very forcibly see the worldly advantages; but +he could not, without pain, think of Angela as Robert’s wife; and though +he had no right to speak of so vague a thing as Robert’s attachment to +Hope, he would not give any opinion regarding the possibilities or +probabilities of such a marriage.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham had expected a demonstration of admiration and gratitude, +and was disappointed; but he was human, and after a moment’s +observation, he reflected that Everard might feel some pain in the +scheme, even while its beauty was fully acknowledged. He was content, +therefore, to let his silence pass unnoticed.</p> + +<p>There was a pause, and Everard rose. “One moment, Mr. Vavasour. I have +two requests to make. One is that the plans I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231">{231}</a></span> have unfolded to you in +this conversation may remain absolutely private. I have intrusted them +to you alone.”</p> + +<p>“Of course I consider this conversation private,” was Everard’s reply. +“You may depend on my discretion.”</p> + +<p>“My second, Mr. Vavasour, is regarding your conduct to my daughter. You +will meet her again this evening. May I request that while there is +nothing in your manner that seeks her favour, there may also be no +withdrawing of common attentions, no constraint, no avoidance. I do not +wish to have her interest, or curiosity, or attention, in any way +excited. You will perceive at once my object in this request.”</p> + +<p>“It may be difficult,” Everard said, gravely, “and I can make no +promise, but I think you may trust me. I mean to do my best; not so much +because you ask it, as because my own sense of what is right tells me +that under the circumstances this will be the proper course of conduct. +Forgive me if I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232">{232}</a></span> express myself too plainly. I desire of course to obey +your wishes, but I could not promise to do so, unless my judgment +approved them.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, of course, Mr. Vavasour. I ask no more, and now permit me to +thank you for your kind manner in listening to me, and to express my +interest now and henceforward in your welfare. I see the keepers +approaching. I wish you a good day’s sport.”</p> + +<p>Everard left the room; and, without trusting himself to think, joined +his brother and the rest of the party, who were now assembling in the +hall.</p> + +<p>In the course of the day Mr. Gresham recounted to Mr. Merivale what had +passed with Everard, taking the opportunity to lay before him at the +same moment his plans for Angela.</p> + +<p>Mr. Merivale was a person who thought matters generally righted +themselves, and that there were few occasions in life where remonstrance +and interference were useful. He saw all the worldliness of the plan, +and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233">{233}</a></span> from his own observation of Robert, did not see any great +appearance of its success. If it did succeed, he saw good qualities +enough to give him hope for Angela’s happiness; and to make the marriage +a sufficiently desirable one. His opinion was, however, that Everard was +not only preferred at the moment, but would continue to be so; and if +this should be the case, he thought what Mr. Gresham had done the best +thing that could happen. Both were too young for any present +arrangements, and he thought a true and wise attachment likely to be of +infinite service to Angela’s character.</p> + +<p>These were his motives for saying little against Mr. Gresham’s plans, +beyond a warning that he had better enquire more fully into Robert’s +character and habits. On one point, however, he spoke warmly, and this +was to advise greater confidence towards Angela. He wished Mr. Gresham +to mention to her that her manner to Everard had not pleased him, and, +in short, to make known<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234">{234}</a></span> his feelings regarding over intimacy with him. +“If you omit this,” he said, “Angela may observe constraint and +avoidance in his manner, may misread it, and may be led to some overt +acts unbecoming her position, and much to be deprecated.”</p> + +<p>“I should hope,” Mr. Gresham replied, “that the essential modesty +belonging to a young female will in itself prevent such an evil.”</p> + +<p>“That Angela is essentially modest,” Mr. Merivale said with some +earnestness, “I am certain; but her feelings are quick, her character +self-willed; and from the manner in which she has been brought up she +has an undue scorn for the small yet just proprieties of her age and +circumstances. Believe me confidence will win her confidence; but +underplots will fail in mastering her.”</p> + +<p>“I differ with you entirely. If I once speak to Angela on this subject, +our two wills become definite things. If I let it pass, as Mr. Everard +Vavasour has assured me it shall<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235">{235}</a></span> pass, the slight preference I have +observed with pain and displeasure will be dissipated. A young woman, a +young lady, should have no will and no thoughts on such subjects. The +delicacy of the female character forbids it. To place her advantageously +and properly in life is the duty of her natural guardian, one happily +who is fully alive to all the requirements and responsibilities of his +position, and to his will she must assent.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Gresham, as Solomon says, ‘the lot is cast into the lap, but the +whole disposing is of the Lord.’ I hope you will be satisfied, and +Angela have a worthy husband, and I am content.”</p> + +<p>Angela awaited the evening with impatience. Fancy is ever busy, and the +human mind ever prone to anxiety; the ease produced by her morning’s +conviction survived only half the day; and during the remaining hours +she relapsed into her former fears. When the evening came the first +disappointment was in Everard’s late<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236">{236}</a></span> appearance. He entered with Robert +only a minute or two before dinner; Robert confessed that for his part +sleep had overtaken him; but the night before, Everard had not waited +for an escort. Her second disappointment was more bitter. As the +gentlemen left the dining-room, Everard said to Mr. Gresham, that if a +fourth was wanted he should be happy to play at whist. Mr. Gresham +understood him, accepted with quick and gratified politeness, and before +Angela had considered the evening begun, she saw him summoned by her +father and seated at the whist table for the night.</p> + +<p>“How people can play at whist,” she said to Robert, unable to restrain +some expression of her feelings, “is a marvel to me. Do you like it?”</p> + +<p>“Very much when I am in the mood. I am afraid too much sometimes; but I +don’t like to trifle my play away. I am like Elia’s aunt in the Essays +of Elia; I consider it a serious matter. Did you ever read the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237">{237}</a></span> Essay I +mean? It is one of the best pieces of writing in the world;” and as +Angela had not read it, and as he had observed the book in question, +then a new book, to be on the table, he took it and read it for her +entertainment.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham, from his whist table, complacent and elated, contemplated +them with unmeasured delight.</p> + +<p>Desirous, as he had promised, to do his best, and to avoid the +appearance of avoidance, Everard came down somewhat earlier the +following morning, first ascertaining, however, that Mr. Merivale was +before him. Angela was pleased, but had no power to enter into +conversation, for Mr. Merivale, much to her annoyance, occupied the +short interval before breakfast, by reading aloud a letter he had +received from Italy. Of the annoyance he caused Mr. Merivale was +perfectly aware, but he fancied he read Everard’s design, and gave him +his assistance.</p> + +<p>There was no shooting this day, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238">{238}</a></span> shortly after breakfast the +brothers went into the drawing-room to wish Angela good-bye. Mr. +Merivale was with her, still engaged with letters or papers. Angela was +reading.</p> + +<p>She laid down her book when they appeared, and Robert, ever curious, +took it up.</p> + +<p>“Camilla!” he said; “are you wading through Camilla?”</p> + +<p>“If by wading,” was Angela’s warm reply, “you mean doing something +difficult and heavy, no, I am not wading, but I am reading it, that is, +I am <i>re</i>-reading it, for I finished it yesterday, and am looking at it +again.”</p> + +<p>“Is it possible! and my mind was filled with thankfulness when, having +once begun and feeling myself in duty bound to proceed, I found myself +at the end.”</p> + +<p>“I dare say your opinion is very wise and good, Mr. Vavasour,” Angela +said, “but I don’t mean to be scoffed out of mine. I like it.”</p> + +<p>“And you are right,” Mr. Merivale ob<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239">{239}</a></span>served; “there is a great deal of +trash in the book, and a great deal that is overdone, but there are many +good and natural characters, and whenever that is the case, a book is +worth reading, and worth liking.”</p> + +<p>“That is easily done,” Robert said. “I could do it myself. If that is +all that is required to make a book worth reading, nothing is so easy.”</p> + +<p>“I doubt it,” said Mr. Merivale. “Not <i>your</i> powers, Mr. Vavasour, no +doubt they are equal to anything, but I doubt the easiness of portraying +natural characters.”</p> + +<p>“It is all done by receipt,” Robert insisted. “Take your characters—any +will do, the commoner the better—get them into a mess, no matter what, +one hears of a hundred avoidable ones every day—then get them out +again, and the story is done.”</p> + +<p>“Very good. I shall expect your work with interest, Mr. Vavasour.”</p> + +<p>“And so shall I,” Angela said, laughing, “but till it comes, I must be +satisfied with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240">{240}</a></span> such as Camilla. I hope you like it? Have you ever read +it?” she added, turning quickly to Everard.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my mother advised me to read it the other day, and I did.”</p> + +<p>“And are you on my side?”</p> + +<p>“Part of it amused me very much. Camilla’s character I thought extremely +well done and very pretty.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t care about Camilla,” Angela cried, with quickness. “Edgar +is what I like, and it is for the sake of Edgar that I am going to read +the book again.”</p> + +<p>“Edgar was a prig,” Robert observed.</p> + +<p>“No,” Everard said, “not at least my idea of a prig; but I don’t like +him. I think he behaved very badly.”</p> + +<p>“Edgar badly. How?” Angela said, eagerly.</p> + +<p>“I think he failed in the very first of duties, confidence and trust. I +was sometimes so provoked I could have thrown the book out of window.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241">{241}</a></span></p> + +<p>“If you mean towards Camilla—how could he trust her? As far as +appearances went, she did seem to behave most strangely.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, perhaps, but that is what I mean; we are not to be led by what +<i>seems</i> in such cases. When we have formed on just grounds a good +opinion of a person’s character, we ought to trust them. Many persons,” +he added, with some warmth, “may be compelled by circumstances to act +strangely; but if we have good reason to think well of their character, +we ought to trust them, however appearances may be against them.”</p> + +<p>“So I think,” said Robert, “though I believe Everard you have the Bible +against you. As Strafford said, ‘Put not your trust in princes, nor in +any child of man.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> + +<p>“I know one’s trust might sometimes fail,” Everard replied, “but I will +stand to my opinion. I will trust, and I hope to be trusted.”</p> + +<p>Chance words, opinions expressed by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242">{242}</a></span> chance, sometimes make an +impression which words spoken for the purpose of impressing fail to do. +This opinion of Everard’s sank deep into Angela’s mind. It remained +buried, and perhaps forgotten, but in an after time revived again.</p> + +<p>When the conversation on this point dropt, Robert said he had appointed +Hope to meet them, and it was time to be gone; both wished Angela +good-bye, and departed accordingly.</p> + +<p>She was taken by surprise at their sudden departure, and not till they +were gone remembered that since those strange words of hers she had had +no opportunity of speaking to Everard, or even of judging by his +countenance and manner what he thought of her. She took up “Camilla,” +and sat pondering over it, not on Camilla’s affairs but her own. Why had +she not offered to walk with them? what could have been more natural. +Why was Mr. Merivale always in the way? Yet again, if she had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243">{243}</a></span> seen +Everard what could she have said? She could not recur to what had +passed. How grave he had looked when he wished her good bye! She wished +she could see into his mind. No doubt, however, she should shortly see +him again, and with this last thought, after many cogitations, she +smoothed her ruffled brow and began to read in earnest.</p> + +<p>Mr. Merivale had been watching her; when he saw the knitted brow relaxed +he rose and said,</p> + +<p>“If I were not so crazy a concern in point of health, I think I should +ask your father to board and lodge me. Italy is a long way off when +one’s eyes have business in England.”</p> + +<p>“I wish you would come and live with us,” Angela said cordially; “I +should like it of all things.”</p> + +<p>“Should you, my dear child?” he said, looking towards her with a +scrutinizing air.</p> + +<p>“I don’t mean to say,” she said, blushing a little, “that you don’t +sometimes worry<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244">{244}</a></span> me. I am not very fond of being looked at in that +curious way, and I don’t quite agree with your views and opinions, but I +should be ungrateful indeed if it did not give me greater pleasure than +almost anything in the world to have you here, and even to have you find +fault with me.”</p> + +<p>“You want watching, Angela; you are here alone, a very young, very +excitable, and I may as well say what you know, a very pretty woman. +Your manners ought to be guarded, sober, and discreet, instead of +yielding, as you do, to every impulse. A guardian would be a good thing +for you; a sensible woman guardian especially; but there is a still +better thing, and that is, that you should be a guard upon yourself. I +believe a woman’s own refined and regulated mind is always her safest +guard.”</p> + +<p>“If you will give me my rules to go by,” she said, “I am sure I will do +my very best to follow them; but how is it possible to be always +weighing every word and every<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245">{245}</a></span> action. I know I sometimes do what I am +sorry for afterwards, but at the moment it seems so right. Besides, Mr. +Merivale, don’t think I mean to argue with you, I only say what I +think—I think the world is too much tied up with rules; not good rules, +but mere society rules—rules that leave what is good alone, and take +notice only of what is showy. I will do my best I promise you, to do +what is <i>right</i>, but I <i>will not</i> be tied up with rules that I scorn and +despise.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her with a smile that said how plainly he read what was +passing in her mind. He did not, however, intrude upon it, but only +observed, “I partly agree with you, but remember this—a young woman is +not the proper person to set herself against the world’s common +opinions. Her view may in itself be the right one, but it becomes wrong +when held by one whose proper character is to be modest, sober, gentle, +and discreet. A woman who braves<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246">{246}</a></span> the world, may amuse, but is rarely +respected. Now I have done. I hate lecturing, but I could not leave you +without giving you a piece of my mind.”</p> + +<p>“And though I seem so rebellious, I thank you a thousand times. I will +really try to be discreet, but sometimes I think the world is a vile +world, and that my mission is to reform it. How I hate gold and silver.”</p> + +<p>“Little fool,” he said, “how little you know what you hate.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247">{247}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What shall I do? Make vows and break them still?<br></span> +<span class="i2">’Twill be but labour lost;<br></span> +<span class="i0">My good cannot prevail against mine ill:<br></span> +<span class="i2">The business will be crost.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! say not so; thou canst not tell what strength<br></span> +<span class="i2">Thy God will give thee at the length:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Renew thy vows and if thou keep the last<br></span> +<span class="i2">Thy God will pardon all that’s past.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Christopher Hervey.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Has</span> Everard spoken to you of his troubles, Joan?” Mr. Vavasour enquired +of his wife on the evening of the day following the return of his sons.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour looked up with surprise.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248">{248}</a></span></p> + +<p>“He came to me,” he continued, “this morning, with a confession; to ask +my advice, and I believe to take it.”</p> + +<p>“If you smile there can be no great cause of trouble,” Mrs. Vavasour +said with an inward sigh, as she thought of the frowns over Robert’s +troubles.</p> + +<p>“If I smile, it is not because I think lightly of it. Everard is in +love, and love with Everard will be serious.”</p> + +<p>“Everard in love. Impossible!”</p> + +<p>“And why so, Joan?” Mr. Vavasour asked with a look of enquiry.</p> + +<p>“Everard,” Mrs. Vavasour replied, after a moment’s thought, “is grave +and cold, and reserved. Of a strong attachment, I can suppose him +capable, but of a sudden fancy I should never have suspected him.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour shook his head, but merely said, “Nevertheless, it has come +to pass.” After a moment he continued, “He came to me for advice and I +gave it; but in justice to Everard, I must say, that his judgment<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249">{249}</a></span> was +even more decisive than mine. He leaves us to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“You must tell me the tale,” said Mrs. Vavasour, smiling. “It is a new +thought to think of Everard as a lover.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Vavasour mentioned the few particulars that Everard had told him; +among which, was the notification he had had of Mr. Gresham’s +dissatisfaction with his manners. “Everard’s tale,” he continued, “was +somewhat incoherently told. I gathered the particulars rather than +received them. He fully confessed the fact of his love, but owing to +Miss Gresham’s position, seemed to dread my condemnation, and to be +ashamed to confess it. My feeling was different. I was neither surprised +at the confession nor unprepared for it; but my opinion was decisive and +I gave it. In consequence, he leaves us to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Forgive me if I ask it,” said Mrs. Vavasour, “but is this departure +either needful or reasonable?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250">{250}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes, Joan, both. Everard confesses that at this moment he cannot answer +for his self-control. He has, therefore, no choice. I am not one to +recommend a flight from temptation. If possible, I would always say, +meet it whatever it be, and overcome it; but if a man in cold blood +foresees that he shall fail, I see no course but flight.”</p> + +<p>“But why,” said Mrs. Vavasour—“forgive me again for differing with +you—why should not Everard love Angela Gresham, win her, and marry +her?”</p> + +<p>“Because his soul and mine also,” said Mr. Vavasour, proudly, “revolts +from it. It is not for Everard, at twenty, to court the favour of the +heiress of thousands. An honourable soul avoids the appearance of +baseness.”</p> + +<p>“Angela would be a good wife for Everard,” said his wife, after some +consideration, “and I think Everard would be a good and wise husband for +her. Is the fear of a mere appearance of evil to be placed in +competi<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251">{251}</a></span>tion with a true attachment, and one from which the blessing of +domestic happiness would spring.”</p> + +<p>“If this thing be good and desirable,” was her husband’s reply, “it may +at some future time be brought about by other means. Everard must not +seek it.”</p> + +<p>“If Everard loves at all his love will be strong,” said his mother. “It +will grieve me if his love is wasted.”</p> + +<p>“The test of love is time. What is it now but a fancy, and what right +has Everard at twenty to think his first fancy shall be satisfied?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vavasour was silent. At last she said, “And Everard agreed at once +to your decision?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and with all his heart.”</p> + +<p>“You are pleased with Everard’s conduct,” she said again, and this time +timidly.</p> + +<p>“I am, Joan, and chiefly for this reason—that although the feelings of +youth are strong, his desire to do that which <i>we</i> call<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252">{252}</a></span> right is +unshaken. He honours his father and mother, and that honour guides him +right, when possibly other principles have not attained sufficient +growth to restrain him.”</p> + +<p>“Many have that,” she said, with some passion in her voice, “but God has +not given them the strength of purpose to do all things well.”</p> + +<p>Her husband saw where her thoughts had flown, and looked at her +compassionately and tenderly; but his words were grave. “He might, Joan, +if they sought it; we must trust He will.”</p> + +<p>Judging from analogy the likeness of Everard to his father ought to have +won from Mrs. Vavasour, the same worshipping tenderness she gave her +husband. But analogy in the seemingly capricious fancies of the human +heart is no safe guide. That very strength of purpose and self-restraint +which Mrs. Vavasour saw in her husband with idolatry, was painful to her +in her son.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253">{253}</a></span> She would have loved him better, if he had at this moment +been less unflinching. She owned, indeed, that since Mr. Gresham had +spoken, he had little choice; but some demonstrations of weakness, some +appeals to pity, would have pleased her well. As it was, she saw him +simple and self-possessed; the cold, reserved Everard of her +imagination; and being so, she let him go without a word of sympathy, or +allusions, either serious or playful, to the cause of his departure.</p> + +<p>But so once again she misjudged him. Everard left home with a wounded +heart; wounded not by his feelings for Angela, but by his mother’s +carelessness to his concerns. He hoped for her interest, but failing to +find it did not dare to approach her with his confession. Never before +had the longing, the almost womanish longing to be loved so assailed +him, and to this cause was it more especially owing that his thoughts +pertinaciously recurred to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254">{254}</a></span> image that had been forbidden—that one +being who seemed to consider him worthy of her interest and regard.</p> + +<p>The day after Everard’s departure was Sunday, and Robert walked, as he +and Everard had generally done, part of the way homewards with Angela +and her father.</p> + +<p>He talked of the pretty singing of the village children; praised and +criticised Mr. Addison’s sermon; and drew a smile of pure amusement from +Mr. Gresham’s lips, as he related some school-boy tales of extraordinary +misadventures during the church service; but he made no mention of +Everard’s departure. His non-appearance was a great disappointment to +Angela. She had counted much on these few minutes walk homewards; she +determined, however, that she would not ask where he was; <i>that</i> she +supposed would be acting with the propriety Mr. Merivale recommended. +The natural woman was, however, too strong for the restrained one, and +notwithstanding the determination,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255">{255}</a></span> before they parted with Robert the +question <i>was</i> asked—</p> + +<p>“Where is your brother to-day?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot exactly say,” Robert said, wilfully misunderstanding her. “At +St. Dunstan’s, or St. Clement’s, or St. Martin’s, or St. Paul’s, or....”</p> + +<p>“What <i>do</i> you mean, Mr. Vavasour?”</p> + +<p>“I mean that I don’t know Everard’s movements, nor the churches he +frequents. I am only sure it is something very staunch and orthodox. No +<i>ism</i> of any sort where Everard goes.”</p> + +<p>“Has Mr. Everard Vavasour left you?” Mr. Gresham enquired with interest +and politeness.</p> + +<p>“Yes, he went yesterday.”</p> + +<p>“And when does he come back?” Angela asked quickly.</p> + +<p>“That I don’t know. He has gone back to his business. My father gave him +something to do which made him go sooner than<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256">{256}</a></span> he had intended. At +least,” he added with a mischievous smile, “so he said.”</p> + +<p>Hurt, angry, injured, and indignant, Angela with difficulty restrained +her feelings; and having parted from Robert, she walked on without a +word.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gresham saw her heightened colour, and felt how wise had been his +precautions, and how happy he was in having to do with so estimable and +amenable a young man as Everard. This danger at an end, all he assured +himself would go smoothly, and he already boasted like those who are +putting off their harness, their labour done.</p> + +<p>Many conflicting feelings agitated Angela. Sometimes one class of +emotions predominated, sometimes another. A sense of injury at his +coldness; alarm lest she had lost his good opinion; a conviction that he +loved, but owing to her worldly circumstances dared not approach her; +and a longing to tell him with what joy she would give up all into his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257">{257}</a></span> +hands. Under her ceaseless conjecturings her feelings made strides, and +more than her fancy began to fasten itself upon him.</p> + +<p>Robert followed Everard in a week. Before his reconciliation with his +father he had made an engagement with a friend to accompany him in his +yacht to the east. On his arrival at home in the first warmth of his +feelings he had offered to give up the excursion if displeasing to his +father. But Mr. Vavasour had declined to accept the offer. It was indeed +his hope that Robert might learn to take and find more of his pleasures +at home, but his concentrated thoughts and affections had not made him +unwise or narrow-minded. He had sympathy with the natural curiosity of +youth, and he was besides well aware that reluctant obedience is to the +restless a dangerous trial. He knew no harm of the proposed companion, +and was willing, therefore, to hope the best.</p> + +<p>Robert’s conduct during this last visit had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258">{258}</a></span> completely disarmed Mr. +Vavasour’s resentment. On a former occasion <i>he</i> had been smarting from +the sense of disgrace, and had seemed cold; and coldly Robert had met +his forgiveness. On this occasion the feelings and conduct on both sides +had been different. Robert had been really repentant, and Mr. Vavasour +really forgiving. A new bond had been knit between them, and Mr. +Vavasour, whose strong and limited attachments made him prone to +idolatry, was unconsciously hoping for his son with more than reasonable +hope, and building in his sleeping and waking dreams proud and stable +castles for the future.</p> + +<p>All but Mr. Addison and one other shared in Mr. Vavasour’s hopes. There +was one other who felt with sad conviction that the time for confidence +was not yet come. Hope watched Robert with eyes of vigilant affection, +with eyes not blind through love, but from the very depth of her love +clear and searching; and to her it was plain that in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259">{259}</a></span> his good feelings +there was no root, and that there was no settled principle in his mind. +She saw his repentance, his humility, his dutiful affection, his warmth +of heart, his many good, many generous, many attractive qualities—saw +and loved them; they were the signs of the good soul within; the buds of +promise foretelling a future day of grace. But she saw them as they +were, without the halo of illusion, and saw them unstable as water, and +fading as flowers.</p> + +<p>She determined before he went to make an effort to save him.</p> + +<p>He was not very willing at any time to speak of himself or the future, +and serious discussions even with her he avoided. It was painful to him +to have his steadiness questioned, or good resolves doubted; perhaps +from the very consciousness of the hollowness of the foundation on which +they were built he did not care to have them sifted and weighed; and to +give him pain<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260">{260}</a></span> was very painful to her. Still she resolved to venture.</p> + +<p>Two mornings before his departure she sought him for her purpose.</p> + +<p>She found him in the library reading, or at least with a book in his +hand. He was leaning back in an arm chair, close to a blazing fire; for +the September mornings were growing chilly, and Robert loved comfort.</p> + +<p>The door by which she entered was behind him, and she stood by his side +before he perceived her.</p> + +<p>“I am so glad to have found you alone,” she said, softly.</p> + +<p>“So am I, Hope;” and he looked in her face with a fond and serious +smile. “But why? Have you anything to say to me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Robert. And yet it is nothing new. Oh! Robert,” and she clasped +her hands together with an earnest movement, common to her when excited, +“I want you to promise me to try not to forget.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261">{261}</a></span></p> + +<p>“Forget <i>you</i>, Hope. Do you mean that? Yes, I will promise and vow, that +I never—never will forget you. There was no need to ask that.”</p> + +<p>His tone was eager, and brought a faint unconscious blush to her cheek. +But no other consciousness. “No, Robert,” she replied with simple +frankness, “it was not that. I am not afraid of your forgetting me. It +was your father, his wishes, his forgiveness; dear Robert, will you +promise me to try and remember when you are gone far away.”</p> + +<p>“I will do my best, Hope. You may trust me for that; but the path of +life is exceedingly narrow, and some pilgrims are apt to grow weary in +their progress.”</p> + +<p>He spoke not without earnestness and sincerity, and yet there was a +careless wording in his speech, which left a doubtful impression on her +mind.</p> + +<p>“Don’t look so troubled, Hope,” he continued. “I really and truly mean +that I will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262">{262}</a></span> do my very best, but one must not be proud and confident. +You know frail and mortal man is born to get into trouble; at least, +some are, and it is not for the weak to boast themselves like the +strong.”</p> + +<p>“I would not have you boast, but only.... Oh! what would happen if you +were to forget again.”</p> + +<p>“If I were to forget again, I should be a rascal and a villain, Hope, +and should not find, and should not deserve forgiveness. Don’t let us +dream of such horrible possibilities. Let us rather think, dear Hope, +that I shall persevere, and win all your loves, and all your honours.”</p> + +<p>He was still seated by the fire, and she still stood by his side. So as +a child had she been accustomed to wait upon him, and old habits had +never been broken. Dr. South beautifully says of those who have kept +unstained their early innocence, that “the Holy Ghost has descended on +them in the form of a dove.” Such words are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263">{263}</a></span> very expressive of what +Hope was. The guileless purity of her look had always exercised a +singular power over Robert. He sat watching her, as she stood now beside +him, silent and thoughtful, with strong but suppressed emotion in his +face.</p> + +<p>“Well, Hope,” at last he said, “have you more to say? I think you have; +you are not satisfied yet.”</p> + +<p>“There is one thing I should like to say,” she replied with a slightly +rising colour, “but....”</p> + +<p>“Dear Hope, say all you wish,” he said kindly; “don’t be afraid!”</p> + +<p>“You say you are weak, Robert, so are we all, if we do not try to be +strong. Oh! Robert, why will you not. You know how it should be, but I +am sometimes afraid you forget. Oh! dear Robert; will you promise me to +remember your prayers.”</p> + +<p>“You shall pray for me, Hope; that will be far better. Your prayers are +certain to be heard. I am not so sure about mine.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264">{264}</a></span></p> + +<p>“But oh! Robert,” and she clasped her hands, “what can any prayers do if +you will not pray for yourself?”</p> + +<p>“I hope they can do much. I depend on yours for me. I think of them, +Hope, like so many good angels guarding me.”</p> + +<p>“But yourself, dear Robert, yourself. It is so dreadful to live and say +no prayer. Oh! will you promise me to try?”</p> + +<p>He looked very uneasy. He could not bear to refuse her, but hidden +conscious weakness made him hesitate. “To tell you the truth, Hope,” he +replied, after a little thought, “I would rather not promise. I know I +make resolutions, and break them, and that is bad enough; but there is +something more sacred in this. I should not like to promise you this, +and then to go and forget.”</p> + +<p>“But why forget, dear Robert, why forget?”</p> + +<p>“Ah! Hope, why? That is a very puzzling question, and I can’t answer it. +I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265">{265}</a></span> tell you I am weak, and I do not like to trust myself with promises +of this kind. I would rather not.” He spoke hurriedly.</p> + +<p>“I will urge you no more,” she replied sadly. “I meant it only for your +good.”</p> + +<p>Her tone was so soft and sweet, that it went to Robert’s heart. It +seemed to overset some hitherto restrained emotion.</p> + +<p>“I know it,” he cried, starting passionately from his seat. “I know it, +Hope, my darling, and if I were not a fool and a coward, I should ask +you, not only to pray for me, but to be my wife; my wife to lead and +guide me all my life long; but I am afraid, Hope, you are too young yet. +I might break your heart. Why do you blush so, my dearest?” he continued +yet more vehemently. “Don’t you know that I worship <i>you</i>; don’t you +know that if it were to promise to kneel to <i>you</i>, were it night and +day, I would do it, and never forget.”</p> + +<p>It was with no thrill of rapture that this passionate declaration of +love was heard and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266">{266}</a></span> received by Hope. <i>Her</i> love for him had had no +dreams of earth about it; it was love bound up with his soul’s welfare, +and his profane and reckless words startled that affection, terrified +and afflicted it. She withdrew from him a few steps, and stood before +him with clasped hands and downcast eyes, looking so fair, so grave, so +holy, so like some young saint in an ancient picture, that the next +instant, half in jest, but much more in earnest, Robert in very deed +knelt at her feet to ask forgiveness.</p> + +<p>“Oh! Robert,” she said, covering her face with her hands, “if you could +know how you grieve me.”</p> + +<p>“Do I grieve you?” he cried, springing up; “yes, I know I do, and if you +could but tell how I hate myself for it. But Hope,” he continued, in an +altered tone of almost reverend tenderness, “you must not be too hard +upon me. I cannot be like you all in a minute, though I hope to be some +day. If my love grieves you, you must forget it.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267">{267}</a></span> I know such a +worthless sinner as I am, should not expect to have a holy saint for his +portion; and yet, Hope,” he paused and took her hand and looked fondly +in her face, “and yet, perhaps, he does expect it.”</p> + +<p>She raised her eyes and looked at him, no longer shrinking from his +gaze. She was not given to tears, but now a single tear did sparkle on +her lashes, and dropped upon his hand. What it meant, nor she, perhaps, +nor he could fully tell, but as he saw it his heart swelled with strange +emotion, and silently and gratefully he pressed his lips upon her hand.</p> + +<p>Nor then nor during the remainder of his stay did Robert speak of his +own, or in any way seek to draw from Hope a confession of her affection. +His manner was as it had been before, only that possibly something more +of thoughtfulness characterized his intercourse with her.</p> + +<p>Some departures take place without emotion; some even when it is but for +a short<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268">{268}</a></span> absence, agitate the surface of the home left behind. Everard +went, and amid the kindly glances that followed him, none were dimmed +with tears; no heart felt to lose its being as he disappeared. Robert +went, and his father’s voice was tremulous; his mother wept and could +not restrain herself, and Hope stood mute and still in speechless +sorrow. There might be other reasons for the difference; and Robert +guessed them; yet still, above and beyond all other motives, he knew and +felt he was the idolized son of the house, and felt it with a pang. It +pierced on his conscious unworthiness like a dagger’s stab.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Addison,” he said with emotion, for Mr. Addison stood at the door +of his chaise, “I hope to come back worthy of my father’s trust. If I +fail....” he paused, then added hurriedly, “Mr. Addison, will you stand +my friend? Remember that man is weak. Don’t let them ask too much, or +judge me too hardly.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269">{269}</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Addison grasped his hand in mute token of assent. “God bless you, +Robert,” he said, “and deliver you from evil.”</p> + +<p>Not with a thrill of rapture had Hope heard of Robert’s love. Not with a +thrill of rapture did she recur to it when he was gone. And yet....</p> + +<p>At first she trembled at the recurrence of his image to her thoughts—at +first dreaded lest his words had placed a barrier between him and her +devoted affection. But this was but the natural disturbance on the +surface. When this passed by and her heart settled again into calm, she +found that the new link that bound them was holier than before. He had a +double claim to her thoughts and her prayers, and with a more intense +devotion she gave herself up to be his guardian spirit for ever.</p> + +<p>After Robert’s departure, Hope felt that she had no right to withhold +from her aunt the knowledge of what had passed. “Aunt Joan, did Robert +tell you what he said to me?” was her confession.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270">{270}</a></span></p> + +<p>It was no new thought, no new hope, to Mrs. Vavasour, nor was Hope’s +confession an altogether unexpected one. She wound her arms round her +niece, and said, “Cherish his love, dearest; to that love I have ever +looked as the feeling which will win him, and bind him, and make him all +we would have him be in this world and for ever.” And much as she had +ever loved her niece, this new bond knit her soul to hers with a dearer +affection.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271">{271}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,<br></span> +<span class="i2">Their sober wishes never learned to stray;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Along the cool sequester’d vale of life,<br></span> +<span class="i2">They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Gray.</span><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>“The gentleman.”</p> + +<p>So Mrs. Price’s little maid announced Everard, a few days after his +return to London.</p> + +<p>Miss Price had not completely recovered from her accident, and was still +lying faded in looks on her faded sofa. A sermon book and a piece of +work were on her lap, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272">{272}</a></span> she had dozed over both, and in her doze +Everard’s knock escaped unheard. The present piece of work was intended +to give the impression of a heap of shells on the sand, and the hues of +the various colours were very faithfully depicted. It was her own +special choice, and she looked upon it as an exquisite thing.</p> + +<p>“Good morning, Mr. Vavasour,” she exclaimed, half rising, and extremely +nervous and fluttered in manner; not that she owned to having been +caught dozing, but she perceived that the salmon-coloured shawl had +fallen from her feet, and her sense of propriety was shocked in +consequence.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid I startled you,” he said, kindly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, by no means, that is to say,” as with a dexterous manœuvre she +caught the shawl and threw it over her shoes, “I certainly did not +expect a visitor this afternoon. And you least of any. I thought you +were in the country.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273">{273}</a></span></p> + +<p>“I left Audley Court last Friday. I should have called before if I had +been able. I thought you would like to hear the news.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, you are too kind. I hardly know how to express how kind I +take your visit. It is not every person, not every young man who would +take such trouble. I assure you I feel it.”</p> + +<p>“You need not thank me, Miss Price, for I am very glad to come,” Everard +said, quickly, “besides, I promised Miss Gresham I would call.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! dear Angela, she is always thoughtful. I hope you left her and her +father well in health.”</p> + +<p>“More than well,” said Everard, smiling, “you cannot think how well and +happy they are.”</p> + +<p>“I hear from my niece occasionally, and I gathered from her letters that +she was pleased with the country. I often think it must be a pleasant +thing to see the fields<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274">{274}</a></span> and the flowers. When I was young I thought +little of the blessing, but now I feel as if it would make me young +again. I sometimes see them in my dreams.”</p> + +<p>“I hope you will see them in reality some day,” he said, kindly, touched +by the dreary ideas her words presented. “I am sure Miss Gresham, when +she is a little older, and has more liberty, will procure the pleasure +for you.”</p> + +<p>“When she is married you mean.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” with a slight change of colour.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps it is best not to think of such things. The future is not in +our power. I try not to think of it. I try to be thankful as I am.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure that is being very wise; but I don’t know that it is an easy +example to follow, or that I should like to follow it if it were easy.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not. You are like dear Angela in that, she always wishes to +know, and I tell her, better not. We might see a great<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275">{275}</a></span> deal of trial in +the future. God is very merciful. He hides it from us.”</p> + +<p>Everard looked at her, coloured and made no answer.</p> + +<p>“And you left dear Angela well?”</p> + +<p>“Yes well and ... beautiful,” he added after a moment with a smile.</p> + +<p>“She is pretty, certainly, and when she is happy, her smile is very +sweet. I think she is happy. I told you that I heard from her +occasionally, and when she wrote she <i>said</i> she was happy. She would +write often if her father allowed it, but he thinks correspondence is +dangerous for young ladies, and perhaps he is right; young ladies are +not always wise.”</p> + +<p>“I think she might write to you without danger,” Everard said laughing; +“you would only teach her what is good, I am sure.”</p> + +<p>“I hope that is true. Still her father does not know; and besides, I am +not very wise. I mean,” and she assumed an air of some dignity, “that I +do not live much in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276">{276}</a></span> world, and I am not much in the habit of +meeting with young ladies, and I might not perfectly understand. In fact +it is best as it is, I sit and think of her, and pray she may be kept +from evil, and may be happy when God pleases.”</p> + +<p>A pause followed. Though Everard’s call had been made only in obedience +to Angela’s request, he had certainly felt strangely anxious about the +visit; as if something, he could not tell what, would be discovered or +betrayed. He now smiled at the folly of his expectations, and in his +meditations on the subject, forgot to make himself agreeable.</p> + +<p>“Are you come to town for the winter season, Mr. Vavasour?” enquired +Miss Price, after a silence of some moments.</p> + +<p>“Hardly winter yet; but yes, I am come to stay till Christmas, or near +it. There is a great deal of knowledge which has to be got into my dull +brains, and the sooner it is done the better. I am going to study very +hard.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277">{277}</a></span></p> + +<p>“You will be a great man I hope, Mr. Vavasour.”</p> + +<p>“I wish I could hope I should for my father’s sake. He would like it. +For myself, I do not care about greatness, except that....” He stopped +and coloured, and then was going to explain away his exception, when the +placid answer showed him there was no need to think curious eyes were +upon him.</p> + +<p>“That is like dear Angela. She says she does not care about greatness +and riches; but I tell her she does not know. Young people know very +little what they like, or what they wish; especially gay young people +like Angela. Life is so very different to what they think.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Everard replied gravely.</p> + +<p>“I suppose we none of us quite know what we like till we have tried it. +I don’t mean to say dear Angela is more giddy than most people; but she +has strong fancies, and she thinks they will last, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278">{278}</a></span> perhaps she does +not know. We none of us do know. Man is very changeable. Not that I +should think you were, Mr. Vavasour. I should say you were strong, only +that we don’t know till we try.”</p> + +<p>“No, I do not think I am changeable,” he said in the same grave voice, +“but you are right, we do not know.”</p> + +<p>Her common places were not common places to him. She had forced on his +mind a thought which had not been very present before. That fancy for +him which Angela had shewn was probably but the caprice of a day. He had +no right to build upon it.</p> + +<p>It was not a pleasant, but it was a useful reflection; and assisted him +in his struggle to banish the vain and flattering illusions, which were +but too ready to flit before his fancy.</p> + +<p>In the course of the autumn Miss Price added this postcript to her +letter to Angela.</p> + +<p>“I omitted to tell you, my love, that I had a visit from your friend Mr. +Vavasour.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279">{279}</a></span> He was particularly kind, but I know, dearest, I had you to +thank for the visit, for he told me so. I have not seen him since, but +he said he would call some day, so I know he will. He has been +exceedingly kind. I happened to mention that I was fond of flowers; I +don’t know how it came out, but I did. I am sure, my love, you will +believe I did not mean to ask for favours; but he has twice sent me a +bunch of violets, so sweet and so fresh, it made me feel happy to smell +them. I long to see him that I may thank him; but I know I must wait +patiently.”</p> + +<p>Why Miss Price put this into a postcript it might have been hard to say, +being, as it was, the only thing approaching to interest in her prosy +letter. She certainly did not intend to fix Angela’s mind the more +intently on her communication, for she had not, as yet, opened her +intellect to receive the knowledge or suspicion of her attachment; but, +though unintended, such was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280">{280}</a></span> naturally the result. It would, at any +rate, have excited interest. So communicated, Angela saw in it mysteries +without end. It served her for many days of happy thought.</p> + +<p>While Everard, in London, did his best to forget Angela, she, in the +country, did her best to impress his image on her mind. Though the +process is different the end attained is usually the same.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281">{281}</a></span></p> + +<h2><a id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h2> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">Thrill me not<br></span> +<span class="i0">With words that, in their agony, suggest<br></span> +<span class="i0">A hope too ravishing.<br></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Ion.</span> <i>A Tragedy.</i><br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Before</span> Robert’s departure he had voluntarily promised to return for +Christmas. It was two years since he had passed a Christmas at home; and +he was well aware of the joy his presence would give. At the end of +November, in a letter dated three weeks before, from some port in the +Mediterranean, he spoke of his intention as unaltered. But<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_282">{282}</a></span> Christmas +came, and no Robert came with it. Night and day, Mrs. Vavasour and Hope +caught in the wintry winds that swept round the house heralds of +Robert’s approach; but they were empty sounds.</p> + +<p>Christmas came and past without a word. What each one felt, each one +knew; but nothing was said. Mr. Vavasour waited with something of a +new-born patience, as if unwilling to distrust again. Mrs. Vavasour +assumed a cheerfulness she did not feel, lest her husband should suspect +she had a fear. Hope trembled, and was still.</p> + +<p>She had had her terrors. She had them still. Over the far future a star +of hope ever shone, but darkness hung around the future that was near. +She had a fear that a valley as of the shadow of death had to be passed +through; and silently she strengthened herself to walk through it with +him without dismay. No joyous visions entered into this her first love.</p> + +<p>Though Robert did not come, Everard<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_283">{283}</a></span> came as usual. His greeting was as +his departure had been, calm. The same kindly and approving looks and +words; the same absence of that eager joy which marks the return of the +house’s idol. Perhaps in the disappointment regarding Robert, his +greeting was more calm than usual; or perchance it was only his fancy +that called it so.</p> + +<p>He came back graver than he went, but more resolved. A few words of +approbation in one of his father’s letters regarding his conduct to +Angela, a few words expressive of perfect trust in his truth and honour, +had given him the spur he wanted. His father’s views were so exactly the +views of his own sober mind, his distaste to any courting of Mr. Gresham +so instinctively shared, that though distant hopes might haunt his +imagination, Everard was very firmly resolved against any further +weakness in the present.</p> + +<p>At the church door on Christmas day he and Angela met again. Mr. +Vavasour was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_284">{284}</a></span> leaning on Everard’s arm. Angela’s veil was down. There +could be little to excite or satisfy the imagination. Yet Everard, +through her veil, saw Angela’s heightened colour, and Angela felt the +gravity of his looks; and both entered the church full of earthly care. +Everard struggling with a sudden revival of old weakness, Angela +escaping from the present into pictures of future meetings; questioning +the meaning of his grave face, and planning means of discovering the +secrets of his soul.</p> + +<p>On both, Mr. Addison’s text fell warningly and startlingly—“Comfort ye, +comfort ye, my people, saith your God,”—for the world’s sorrows, of +which he began to speak, were not like to their troubles, and the +message of comfort he brought had little force at that moment to them. +Everard roused himself with a sigh, and a conscious furtive smile; +Angela said in her heart how bad she must be, and she wished she was +<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285">{285}</a></span>better, and then ... dreamed again.</p> + +<p>At the church door they met a second time, and the two families crossed +the church-yard and went for a few steps down the lane together; but +Everard had again given his arm to his father, and there was not even +the appearance of a wish to escape. Mr. Gresham addressed Everard with +the utmost politeness; inquired after his health, his journey, and the +state of the atmosphere in London; but of a desire to see more of him +said nothing. So they met and so they parted. After months of dreaming +this was their meeting. Angela went home weary and discontented with the +world. Not so weary, however, but that before evening she had recovered +her sanguine temper, and was full of restless desires for the morrow.</p> + +<p>Many morrows came and went, however, and brought no meetings more +satisfactory than this. She saw Everard constantly, but for more than a +moment rarely saw him. No restrictions were placed upon her movements. +During the early winter she had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286">{286}</a></span> been in the habit of visiting Hope +frequently, and she was allowed the same freedom now. Mr. Gresham +appeared to ignore the possibility of danger from her intercourse at +Audley Court. This implicit trust in his honour bound and strengthened +Everard as nothing else could have done. It gave him pain, but it was an +appeal he could not resist. With all his powers he endeavoured to meet +his cousin’s guest with indifference, neither to avoid nor to seek her. +Possibly, nay, probably, his duty was overdone. Such things always are. +Possibly, nay, certainly, Angela’s mind was but the more stedfastly bent +on endeavouring to discover the truth through the barrier of his +indifference.</p> + +<p>One morning, it was within a few days of Everard’s return to London, +Angela drove over early to spend some hours with Hope. This early visit +was at Hope’s request, and Hope’s request had been made on a suggestion +from Mr. Addison. Watching Angela with silent but observing eyes, seeing +the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287">{287}</a></span> good of her disposition and the evils also, her precocious scorn of +the world’s ways, and her unreal and childish view of its actual ways +and troubles, he thought that some knowledge of life in another sphere +of thought, some sight of the unromantic ills of the poor, by bringing +reality, might bring good to her character. It was in the morning that +Hope usually attended to the sick and the suffering whom Mr. Addison +placed under her special care, and her invitation to Angela was in the +hope of persuading her to accompany her.</p> + +<p>To Hope, Angela’s feelings were very visible. A month or two before, it +would not have been so; but experience teaches! Strangely different as +were Hope’s views of love, still her feelings for Robert, the new form +of her feelings had opened a door in her soul hitherto closed. In some +sort, these new feelings dragged her down to earth; but only +superficially speaking. There is nothing heavenly in narrowness of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288">{288}</a></span> +vision: the gaze upward from a ravine may be more concentrated, than +from a plain; but it does not therefore, go nearer to Heaven; the wider +field, the larger experience; the more embracing love is that which +brings man nearer to an angel’s life. Knowledge and observation, and +experience, to natures like Hope’s, bring suffering with them, for the +dragging down is pain; but it brings increased strength for their +mission on earth, and in the end wings the soul on fresher wings +upwards. She was more fitted now to do good to Angela. She had a +perception of mental trials and common temptations, before unknown; and +with the knowledge, as it ever was with her, came sympathy and desire to +help.</p> + +<p>She acted on Mr. Addison’s suggestion at once. The attempt was not, +however, successful; in this first essay, at least, it was not so, and +that from two causes:—the first cause, that Angela went to the work, +her heart smarting and bitter with disappoint<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289">{289}</a></span>ment, too recent to leave +her much power to consider the troubles of others. On their way to the +village, they overtook Everard strolling along with his dog. He was +evidently in no haste, and Angela thought common civility must force him +to join them. He seemed to think so himself, for he did walk with them +to the outskirts of the village; but there, instead of accompanying them +further, he stopped, said he should call on Mr. Addison, and with a +quick “good-bye,” went off in another direction.</p> + +<p>A second cause of ill-success in interesting her in the poor was, from +the ill doings of the poor themselves. When she found the poverty of one +family proceeding from the fact, that the husband was an habitual +drunkard; the sorrow of another, from the transportation of a son; when +she found in another house, the illness of a young girl proceeding from +a beating given her by her mother, and that beating caused by frantic +rage at the girl’s vain and thoughtless con<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290">{290}</a></span>duct; her indignation and +abhorrence knew no bounds. Little perfect as she was herself she had yet +to learn that man is frail, and that the bitterest sorrows are those +that sin brings with them.</p> + +<p>As they returned homewards, she expressed, in no measured terms, her +condemnation of the wickedness of the poor, and her astonishment that +one so good as Hope could by her presence countenance guilt.</p> + +<p>Hope, accustomed to the mixture of good and ill, and so hating sin that +she would have gone into a furnace could she have dragged a sinner out, +was yet unable to cope with Angela in argument; that charity which would +do all things to save some, does not bear argument: it is the mission of +some, not of all, perhaps only of those whose holiness is too +deep-seated a quality to fear contamination.</p> + +<p>“I will shew you some verses Everard copied for me the other day,” at +last she said. “They will say better than I can do,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291">{291}</a></span> what my feeling +about human nature is.”</p> + +<p>This speech silenced Angela; partly satisfied her, partly sent her mind +from her indignation against the poor, to her own troubles.</p> + +<p>On re-entering the house, they found luncheon ready. There was a place +for Everard, but he did not come. Mrs. Vavasour saw Angela’s wandering +eyes, and casually, but kindly, observed that Everard was very little of +a luncheon eater. That might be a fact, Angela thought, but it did not +make it less clear that he could have been at home if he had pleased.</p> + +<p>Immediately after luncheon, Angela’s carriage drove to the door; but a +violent storm came on, and it was sent away for an hour. She then +reminded Hope of her promise to show her Everard’s verses; and together +they proceeded to Hope’s sitting room.</p> + +<p>It was a pretty cheerful room in one of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292">{292}</a></span> towers—pretty, but +simple—in all its arrangements, betokening that the spirit which +presided over it, was neither a lover of beauty nor intellect, nor +luxury, but of something more earnest than any of these.</p> + +<p>Hope brought her manuscript book, and was about to shew Angela the +verses to which she had alluded, when a knock at the door summoned her +to Mr. Vavasour, who wished her to copy a letter before post-time. She +left Angela alone to look over her book at her pleasure.</p> + +<p>The study of Hope’s character in the selection of prose and verse before +her, would in some moods have interested her; but disappointed and +restless, she could at this moment only give her mind to that which +concerned herself. The hand-writing of Everard did concern her; and over +that she meditated, endeavouring to trace his qualities in the bold, +upright hand; until, as she listlessly read the verses, their sentiments +caught her attention, expressing as they did Hop<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293">{293}</a></span>e’s epitome of +Christian charity. The poem was by Emily Taylor; these were among the +stanzas:—</p> + +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is an evil and a good<br></span> +<span class="i2">In every soul unknown to thee—<br></span> +<span class="i0">A darker or a brighter mood<br></span> +<span class="i2">Than aught thine eye can ever see.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Words, actions, faintly mark the whole<br></span> +<span class="i0">That lies within a living soul.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Perhaps thy sterner mind condemns<br></span> +<span class="i2">Some brother mind that, reasoning less,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The tide of error slowly stems<br></span> +<span class="i2">In pain, in fear, in weariness;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thou call’st him weak—he may be so—<br></span> +<span class="i0">What made him weak, thou canst not know.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Perhaps thy spirit’s calm repose<br></span> +<span class="i2">No evil dream hath come to spoil;<br></span> +<span class="i0">A firm, resistless front it shews<br></span> +<span class="i2">Amidst the passions’ fiercest broil;<br></span> +<span class="i0">’Tis well!—enjoy and bless thy lot,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Still pitying him who shares it not!<br></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>Touched and softened she lingered over them. To feel real charity was +very soothing, and, for the moment, the new feeling absorbed her. She +was reading the poem intently for the third time when another<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294">{294}</a></span> knock +disturbed her. Before she could say “Come in,”—for, like a brother, +Everard waited for no answer to his announcement of himself—the door +opened, and he hastily entered.</p> + +<p>When he saw the occupant of the room he stood still, and a flush of +crimson changed the whole character of his face. For a moment they gazed +at each other in embarrassed silence. It was the first time they had +been alone since that evening whose memory pursued Angela with ceaseless +torment. If he did not remember this she did.</p> + +<p>He was the first to recover himself, and to speak. “I beg your pardon,” +he said, quickly; “I came to speak to Hope.”</p> + +<p>“Hope is gone to Mr. Vavasour,” Angela said, composedly; her heart was +bounding with expectation, but she was determined to behave with dignity +and propriety. “She has been gone some minutes; I think she will be back +directly.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295">{295}</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a pause. Angela waited. She would not be forward; she would be +ready, but not bold; she waited, her countenance, perhaps, very +speaking, but her lips still. The pause was broken by Everard’s slowly +advancing; making her heart beat till it almost broke. But it was a +needless agitation. He approached only to place a letter on the table, +and, speaking in quiet tones, begged her to give it to Hope, and to tell +her Mr. Addison wished for an early answer. Having delivered his +message, he retraced his steps, merely bowing his head and observing, “I +will not disturb you,” as he left the room.</p> + +<p>Tears of passion and resentment sprang to Angela’s eyes, and would have +fallen in a torrent if they had not suddenly been arrested by pride. “He +does not, cannot care for me,” she said, with bitterness of tongue, “and +if he does not care, why should I? I do not mean to waste my life on a +feeling that he despises.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296">{296}</a></span></p> + +<p>She walked impetuously to the window and threw it open; the sharp air +braced and cooled her, and having stilled her agitation, and calmed her +countenance, she sat down again to await Hope’s return. As she resumed +her seat, a vision flashed before her eyes—Everard’s startled gaze and +flushed cheek when he saw her alone—and she involuntarily said, “Was +<i>that</i> indifference?” With the words her resentful mood passed by; +conviction, absolute conviction, took its place, that it was her hated +gold which made him afraid, and strange venturous thoughts presented +themselves to her mind.</p> + +<p>“Uncle Richard thinks you had better go, Angela,” Hope said, as she +entered. “The sky looks so black he is afraid it will be a stormy +evening.”</p> + +<p>“I think so too,” Angela said, in a hasty manner, restless to be doing +something. “Let us go down stairs. Oh! I forgot. Mr. Everard Vavasour +brought that letter<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297">{297}</a></span> for you, and begged you to send Mr. Addison an +answer.”</p> + +<p>Hope looked at her, and saw her disturbed countenance; but, except by +increased kindness in her own manner, did not appear to notice it. They +went down together to the hall door, where the carriage was now waiting. +The afternoon was piercingly cold, and on seeing the very slight +preparations for a cold drive which Angela had made, Hope remonstrated, +and insisted on going to Mrs. Vavasour to borrow a fur cloak and other +necessaries.</p> + +<p>There was a short cut to Mrs. Vavasour’s rooms through the upper part of +the library, and her uncle having recommended Angela’s speedy departure, +Hope opened the library door and hastened through. Angela followed her.</p> + +<p>By the library fire Everard was sitting, reading the newspapers. He was +accustomed to the servants passing through with coals,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298">{298}</a></span> and when the +door opened he did not look round.</p> + +<p>Hope went on her errand, but Angela paused. A strange impulse seized +her.</p> + +<p>With a step like lightning, as noiseless and rapid, she glided down the +room and suddenly stood by Everard’s side. It was in the very same place +where Hope had heard Robert’s words of love.</p> + +<p>Everard sprang up with a startled “Miss Gresham!” and wonder and even +dismay on his countenance, but, nothing daunted, Angela held her ground. +Her manner was hurried, but was far from deficient in the dignity she +knew so well how to assume, and which certainly in some degree qualified +the strange things she did.</p> + +<p>“Seeing you at leisure, Mr. Vavasour, I am come to ask you why you avoid +me as you do. We used to be good friends. Have I done anything to offend +you?”</p> + +<p>“Offend!” he cried, in involuntary excitement. But the passionate sound +of his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299">{299}</a></span> voice startled him into recollection; and feeling only the +absolute necessity of self command, he suddenly became cold.</p> + +<p>His hurried exclamation had not had time to assure and encourage her +before he added, and in a manner as involuntarily grave and measured as +that had been passionate, “Miss Gresham ought to know that she may give +pain and pleasure, but cannot offend.”</p> + +<p>It is difficult for those who with violence restrain their feelings to +hit the due medium. They can be hot or cold. They cannot be temperate. +Very cold and grave were Everard’s words, and coldly they fell upon +Angela’s impetuous spirit. She felt reproved, rebuked; and the impulse +that had blindly led her ceasing to act, she stood humbled in her own +sight and before him. Her colour went and came, her fingers trembled, +and the conviction of being despised, made her incapable of raising her +eyes to his face.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_300">{300}</a></span></p> + +<p>But these galling sensations were quickly put to flight.</p> + +<p>In an altered voice whose tones were music to her ears, Everard abruptly +said, “I am going to confess what I know I ought not; but you have +rightly judged me. I <i>have</i> avoided you. I must; because I am a fool and +cannot trust myself in your presence. I did not presume to think my +conduct needed explanation; but if it does, if you care to know why I +dare not come near you, your father’s wishes, his most natural wishes, +must explain it. And now forgive me and forget what I have said.”</p> + +<p>“Forget!” she said, softly.</p> + +<p>Everard sighed and turned away his head; and in that sigh gasped down a +temptation that was almost too strong for him. “Yes, forgive me,” he +said, hurriedly, “for I am saying what I should not. I have been warned, +and I have promised, and I have no right to speak of what I feel.” And +perfectly conscious that if he were not to speak he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_301">{301}</a></span> must be gone, he +merely grasped her hand for an instant, and <i>was</i> gone before another +word could be said.</p> + +<p>Angela stood in a trance of happiness for a second, then glided away +likewise.</p> + +<p>Hope had passed through the room, and was now awaiting her with a cloak. +Angela blushed deeply as she met the intent enquiring gaze of her young +companion, but she said not a word. Silently kissing her, she jumped +into the carriage and drove away.</p> + +<p class="fint">END OF VOL. I.</p> + +<p class="c">London, Godfrey & Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand.</p> +<hr> +<p class="c">To be had at all the Libraries, in 2 Vols.,</p> + +<p class="c">THE YOUNG LORD.</p> + +<p class="c">BY THE AUTHOR OF</p> + +<p class="c">“THE TWO BROTHERS,” “THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,” &c.</p> + +<p class="c">OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.</p> + +<p>“This novel, by Lady Emily Ponsonby, is interesting as a story, and +still more to be commended for the tone of high principle with which it +is pervaded, and the profitable lessons it inculcates.”—<i>Literary +Gazette.</i></p> + +<p>“No novel was ever written in a better spirit, and few with a better +development, both of story and character.”—<i>Morning Chronicle.</i></p> + +<p>“The reputation Lady Emily Ponsonby acquired by her ‘Discipline of +Life,’ is more than maintained in her ‘Young Lord,’ which can scarcely +be surpassed even by her own well balanced mind. It is a high-toned and +interesting novel.”—<i>Messenger.</i></p> + +<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>The Young Lord’ is a beautiful story, clearly and truthfully told, +natural as well as interesting; the writing is excellent. A vein of pure +poetry and romance runs through the tale—in that respect raising it far +above the prosaic fictions of the admirable Jane Austen.”—<i>Globe.</i></p> + +<p>“Lady Emily Ponsonby has established herself as one of the most +accomplished writers of the day, and in the ‘Young Lord’ she has given +us one of the best, if not <i>the</i> best of the novels of the season. The +interest never flags.”—<i>Sunday Times.</i></p> + +<p>“A very beautiful and affecting story.”—<i>Observer.</i></p> + +<p>“This book pre-eminently belongs to the higher class of works. It is +adapted to the taste of the superior in feeling, as much as the +intelligent in intellect. All must acknowledge the purity of its +motives, the genuineness of its expression of feeling, and the force of +its arguments.”—<i>Sun.</i></p> + +<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>The Young Lord,’ by Lady Emily Ponsonby, must be considered as one of +the most successful novels of the season. It is almost impossible to lay +down the work after its perusal has been commenced.”—<i>Daily News.</i></p> + +<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>The Young Lord,’ from the practised pen of Lady Emily Ponsonby, is as +instructive as it is amusing. The merit of ‘The Young Lord’ lies in its +completeness and finish. The various persons are clearly conceived in +the writer’s mind, and distinctly wrought out to the reader. The +incidents are so planned to display the qualities and affect the fate of +the persons, and written with such eloquent strength, if it may not be +called power, that the attraction is as great as with stories of deeper +passion. A serious sense of duty and goodness pervades the whole, +influencing the tone of the narrative, and inducing judicious +reflections without sermonizing.”—<i>Spectator.</i></p> + +<p class="fint"> +HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, SUCCESSORS TO HENRY<br> +COLBURN, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.<br> +</p> + +<hr class="full"> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79388 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/79388-h/images/cover.jpg b/79388-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f6c7ba0 --- /dev/null +++ b/79388-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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