Initial commit of ebook 79390 filesHEADmain

8 files changed, 9386 insertions, 0 deletions

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/79390-0.txt b/79390-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0ee0f65
--- /dev/null
+++ b/79390-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,4547 @@
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79390 ***
+
+
+
+
+                           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. III.
+
+
+                                LONDON:
+                    HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
+                      SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
+                     13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
+                                 1858.
+
+                _The Right of Translation is reserved._
+
+
+
+
+                           THE TWO BROTHERS.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+    When I look back and in myself behold
+    The wandering ways that youth could not descry,
+    And mark the fearful course that youth did hold,
+    And melt in mind each step youth stray’d awry,
+    My knees I bow and from my heart I call--
+    Oh! Lord forget these faults and follies all.
+              LORD VAUX.
+
+
+The London season was over, and Mr. Gresham, full of high hopes, began
+to turn his thoughts towards Underwood. With that self-control and
+wisdom for which he was so remarkable, he had hitherto restrained his
+intense desire to be in the neighbourhood of Audley Court. He had argued
+thus. “Mr. Vavasour was much attached to his father. He may possibly
+suppose two or three months of seclusion to be a proper compliment to
+pay to his memory. He will do justice to my motives in withholding
+myself for a time, and will the more cordially meet my advances, when
+the season of mourning is at an end.”
+
+So arguing, he remained in London until the end of July; consoling
+himself for the inevitable delay, not only by his designs for the
+future, but by his admiration of his present self. The failure of his
+first plan had for a time humbled him; he had felt certainly humble in
+being compelled to inform Mrs. Vansittart that a scheme on which he had
+bestowed much thought had ended in smoke. But from this humiliation he
+drew many draughts of consolation--the equanimity with which he had
+borne disappointment, the fertility of imagination which had composed a
+second plan equal to the first, and finally the moderation he shewed in
+calmly waiting the now certain fulfilment of his hopes--each and all of
+these were themes for daily contemplation, admiration, and gratitude.
+
+There was yet another plan which added to the adoration and wonder with
+which he contemplated his self at this present moment, a plan so formed
+out of self-conquest, paternal affection, and paternal wisdom, that when
+he considered it in all its bearings, he could have fallen down and
+worshipped the originator of the scheme. This plan was announced to
+Angela a few days before they left London.
+
+“Have you lately visited Miss Price, my love?” he inquired, as she was
+leaving the breakfast room.
+
+“I saw her last week, Papa. I go to see her as often as I may.”
+
+“I believe, my love, her society gives you some pleasure.”
+
+“The very greatest,” Angela replied with warmth.
+
+“I have been considering, Angela, that there are occasions in the life
+of young females--occasions to which I need not do more than allude at
+present,--when a companion of their own sex is desirable; especially
+when that companion combines with other qualities something of a
+maternal character. Being at all times anxious, my love, to secure your
+best welfare, I have determined to send an invitation to Miss Price,
+requesting the ... the pleasure of her society during the next few weeks
+or months at Underwood, as the case may be; nay, the invitation is
+already despatched, and if it will give you satisfaction to enforce it
+in person, the carriage, my love, is at your disposal.” He drew himself
+up and sat the model father studying the welfare of his daughter.
+
+Angela’s cheeks were dyed with crimson, and her eyes cast down as he
+spoke. No length of time, no power of habit, could accustom her to the
+matter-of-fact way in which he alluded to events, which caused to her so
+much anxiety and unrest. When she looked up, however, the impassive gaze
+she met told her how idle were all feelings of sensitiveness in her
+intercourse with her father, and banishing her shyness, she forced
+herself to express the delight she really felt in the intelligence he
+gave.
+
+Some might have wondered at the pleasure felt by Angela in her aunt’s
+society, but there was no cause for wonder. Though poor in intellect
+Miss Price was rich in sympathy; though she had nothing to give, she
+had boundless powers of receiving and cherishing; and in this hard
+world, the givers of sympathy are not so many, that the very least can
+be other than an object of importance and affection.
+
+Her delight was so great, that in expressing her gratitude, Angela
+kissed her father. Such a heartfelt caress was not common for her to
+give or him to receive; and he would have been either surprised or
+gratified could the sense of the enormous merit of the act he had
+performed, have left room for any surprise in the gratitude it excited.
+He smiled benignly indeed, but it was the smile of conscious, modest
+merit, not of gratified affection.
+
+Miss Price accepted the invitation with all the humility and
+thankfulness Mr. Gresham had expected. She was indeed almost overwhelmed
+by _his_ condescension, and the sense of her inferiority, and but for
+her affection for Angela, might have declined it through the dread of
+proving herself unworthy of his favours; but that affection bore her
+through her many fears, and armed her to meet her brother-in-law with
+tolerable composure.
+
+He behaved with his usual liberality on this occasion, and desired
+Angela to spare no expense in making her aunt a fit object for his eyes
+to rest upon; and although beauty cannot be given to a faded woman of
+sixty, Angela’s taste and efforts did so far succeed, that after a
+scrutinizing gaze he pronounced her “passable.” “She can never give
+importance to us, my love,” he remarked, “but I am happy to see that she
+is able to receive importance from us. A handsome dress, as I have often
+observed to you, makes up for most deficiencies in the eyes of the
+world.”
+
+It was the 1st of August, when Mr. Gresham and suite arrived at
+Underwood. The evening was lovely, the garden and surrounding country
+were in all the luxuriance of their summer beauty; and when Miss Price
+seated in one of the windows of the long drawing-room, inhaling the
+fresh and scented air, and feasting her eyes on the glowing masses of
+the flowers, she felt as if she had been caught up into Paradise.
+
+Tears of rapture fell fast from her eyes on her new silk dress, and her
+handkerchief moved rapidly from the latter to the former, her terror for
+the destruction of her gown in no degree assisting her in calming the
+overflowing of her emotions.
+
+“What is the matter, dear Aunt Jane?” Angela said, after watching her
+for some moments. “Is there anything that makes you unhappy to-night?”
+
+“Not unhappy, my love, but too happy. I never thought to breathe such
+air, or see such sights again, and I am thankful to you and your dear
+papa and to God. Kind friends make me weep, my love, but it is with joy
+not sorrow.”
+
+Angela stood in the window observing her in silence. “Such things never
+make me thankful,” she said at last. “I have no room to feel them. It is
+the mind, Aunt Jane, that makes happiness, not outward things.”
+
+“Perhaps love, to you. My mind is not very strong, and things that
+others call little do give me pleasure. I like to look out on all these
+flowers, and think how good God is, and how beautiful His new world will
+be.”
+
+“It would be well then if all our minds were weak,” Angela replied. “I
+wish I could think such thoughts, but I can’t. I have too much to think
+of besides.”
+
+Miss Price dried her tears to look up in her niece’s face. Something in
+the tone of her voice compelled her. “You do not look happy to-night, my
+love,” she then observed.
+
+Angela pulled another chair into the window and sat down, leaning her
+head on her hand, as it rested on the window sill. “I don’t know how I
+look or feel,” she said sadly. “No not happy, certainly.”
+
+“And why, dearest?”
+
+Angela burst into tears.
+
+“My love, my love,” cried her aunt much fluttered, “what is this?”
+
+“I hardly know,” she replied, driving her tears away. “In London one
+cannot think, but everything here looks so calm and pure ... it makes me
+feel ... oh! Aunt Jane, that I wish the earth would cover me.”
+
+“That is what your dear mother used to say,” observed Miss Price. “She
+used to say that in London she thought of earth, but in the country of
+Heaven.”
+
+“She thought of Heaven everywhere,” Angela said, while softer tears fell
+down her cheeks, “and what I mean is not like what she felt. I am
+thinking only of earth now,” and she turned again to the window, gazing
+out intently on the distant woods.
+
+“In what direction is Audley Court, my love?”
+
+“There,” and Angela pointed with crimson cheeks, in the very direction
+in which she had been gazing.
+
+“Shall I some day see Mr. Vavasour?” was the next enquiry.
+
+“I cannot tell,” and Angela turned her eyes away, and again leant her
+head upon her hand.
+
+“I hope I shall, my love, it would be a great pleasure to me.”
+
+No answer.
+
+“I have heard a good deal about Mr. Vavasour lately, love.”
+
+“_You_, Aunt Jane!” Angela, exclaimed, raising her eyes in excited
+surprise.
+
+“Yes, love, it does seem strange, I know, but I have often observed that
+one does meet strangely in life. It was singular, love, that you should
+meet Mr. Vavasour at my house, and it is strange that I should have met
+a person who knew him.”
+
+“Yes, very,” she replied absently. “But what have you heard?”
+
+“Oh! so much good, my love, it was quite a pleasure to hear.” Angela
+turned her head away again, and listened in silence. “You know, dearest,
+we have lately got a new curate at Hampstead. A very pleasing young man,
+and particularly kind to me. Quite by chance, I found out that he was
+son to a friend or relation of that kind gentleman you have spoken of
+sometimes near Audley Court.”
+
+“Mr. Addison?”
+
+“Yes love; and a fortnight ago he went down to ask his advice on some
+business for his father, and he came back so full of Mr. Vavasour. He
+could talk of nothing else.”
+
+“Did he see him?” Angela asked without raising her eyes.
+
+“Yes, my love. He saw him riding. Very grave and sad, he said, but
+handsome. _He_ thought handsome, which I never did. But beauty is a
+matter of taste, and what we ought not to think of. Well, dearest, and
+he told me so much good of him. He says from what people say, he seems
+only to live to do good. That he seems to pass his time in finding out
+what he can do to help those about him; such a son, such a brother, and
+such a father to his people; and they say, that young as he is, people
+seem to depend on him just as they did on his father, and in fact, that
+he is just like his father, so steady, and so good, only more gentle.
+And my young friend told me that he had business both nights he was down
+there, and had some law papers to copy, and sat up late, and there he
+saw the light in Mr. Vavasour’s room burn so brightly till near two in
+the morning. In the distance you know, love, and he told Mr.----, (your
+friend, love) what he had observed--and he said, many people had noticed
+it; and he supposed he felt he had much to learn to make himself fit for
+his duties. But, my love, you are shedding tears. Why is this, dearest?”
+
+“At my unworthinesss,” she said sadly, while bitter tears did indeed
+fall down her cheeks.
+
+“But you may be worthy, my love, may you not? We all may if we please.”
+
+“I suppose we may,” she replied more humbly than was her wont, and
+without further conference, rising from her seat and mounting on her
+chair, she sprang out into the garden, with an agility that astonished
+her aunt beyond measure, and wandered off to recover in solitude her
+disordered spirits.
+
+Angela was far from feeling the certainty regarding her future prospects
+which her father felt. There were moments, indeed, when her hopes were
+strong, that he who had loved her once would love her still; but there
+were others when hope utterly died away; and there were more when hope
+and fear tortured her with their alternations.
+
+This night was a desponding night. It was a night on which she felt how
+unworthy she was of Everard’s recollection, and with equal force that
+life without him was utterly worthless in her eyes.
+
+During the many months that had elapsed since their last meeting, his
+image had become somewhat misty and undefined to her eyes. First,
+through her pique at _his_ conduct; then through the bewildering
+weakness and misery of her own; lastly, through the change in his
+circumstances. Unable to realize what he now was, how he thought,
+looked, and felt, neither did she realize how her heart had cast its all
+of happiness upon him. She knew that there was something which made her
+cold as ice to all efforts to win her favour; not only among those she
+scorned, but in the more varied society on which she had lately entered;
+but her life passed as an exciting dream, and to herself she was an
+enigma. Occasionally she saw in her secret imaginations, that could any
+man behave to her as she had done to Everard, she _never_ would forgive
+it; and on such occasions the cold chill of hopelessness would follow,
+lest his thoughts should be like hers. But such reflections came but
+seldom. She was now “come out,” and the course of dissipation swept her
+along, and admiration and flattery beguiled, though they could not win
+her; and the voice of conscience, though not dumb, was faintly heard.
+
+But Underwood brought her a full awakening. Much poetry has been written
+on summer evenings, but nothing has ever yet expressed, as should and
+might be expressed, the strange calm charm of the first evening, when
+London, with its noise and cares and heat has been left behind. It is
+almost such a change as we may fancy the disembodied spirit feels when
+it passes out of the world’s pain and misery, and enters on its rest.
+How poor seem all the vain trifles that have occupied the fancy. How
+more than vain, how darkened with sin, the thoughts and imaginations of
+the heart. How the soul aches to reach some vision of real good, to
+grasp some true thing, to find some stay on which to rest its weariness
+henceforward and for ever.
+
+So Angela felt as she wandered in the stillness and beauty and purity of
+that first evening; the soft air fanning her brow; the tranquillity
+penetrating her heart; the inexpressible loveliness soothing all her
+senses, and yet quickening her to think.
+
+She became very good as she walked and talked with herself, very
+penitent, very humble, very desirous to make a step into a better life;
+and though it was but a mood, and though it was an earthly love only
+that was beckoning her onward, yet, undoubtedly, even such moods are
+not valueless; for by whatever name the attraction be called, that must
+in its degree be good, which has led and is leading the soul to delight
+itself in good.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+    A grace though melancholy, manly too,
+    Moulded his being: pensive, grave, serene,
+    O’er his habitual bearing and his mien,
+    Unceasing pain, by patience tempered, threw
+    A shade of sweet austerity.
+              HENRY TAYLOR.
+
+
+Nine days of wonder is attached to most earthly surprises; but in these
+days, when time moves fast, nine days of wonder is as little to be
+expected as nine centuries. Nine hours for the most part exhaust
+exclamations, consternations, comments, and conjectures regarding any
+event, however weighty it be.
+
+That the event, the surprise which had taken place at Audley Court, had
+survived not only through nine days but even nine weeks of wondering,
+and was yet unexhausted, arose partly from circumstances and partly from
+the singularly marked characters of the Vavasour family. The indignation
+which the disinheriting of Robert had caused, could not die away into
+the calm of indifference. The poor indeed in their toils and cares, and
+in the discovery that they had a master as good and kind as their late
+one, were shortly satisfied. Present pains and gains occupied their
+intellects, and if the matter was talked over at all, it was to say in
+simple truisms, that “all was for the best no doubt,” or “it was God’s
+will, and He knows better than we.” But with the richer portion of the
+neighbourhood it was different.
+
+Though, owing to his long absences and other causes, not familiarly
+known, Robert was well known by sight and by reputation; and many a gay
+fancy had pictured the future at Audley Court under his auspices. Some
+rumours of his extravagances, and other careless habits, had mingled
+with the report of his marvellous charms, but, although the graver
+condemned, the very fact of the interest these rumours excited did but
+fasten more fixedly upon him the minds and fancies of all around. But
+while this was the case with Robert, Everard, on the contrary, was
+unthought of, and untalked of. That he was poor, and that he was not
+handsome; that he was grave in his demeanour, and correct in his
+conduct, these facts were known. They excited no interest, no
+speculations. He was nothing.
+
+When, therefore, the change came, the announcement was like a
+thunderbolt in its fall, and like a thunderstorm was the fury of the
+tempest that succeeded. To feel for the wronged and fallen is the
+generous characteristic of English nature. In Englishmen and women the
+sense of justice is very keen, and every act of injustice is felt with
+the force of a personal insult. It was so here. Young and old were up in
+rebellion. Mr. Vavasour was indignantly condemned; for Robert, even
+tears of pity and sorrow fell. Every thought was turned on Audley Court,
+and he was most welcomed at home, who could bring the most authentic
+intelligence regarding its inhabitants.
+
+When, after three weeks, Robert took his departure, this first frenzy
+died away. Such violent excitements cannot last, and when there was no
+more hope of hearing what he said, or how he looked, that portion of the
+subject began to be forgotten. But it was replaced by a new frenzy--hate
+of Everard. Each heart, each young heart especially, thought it a point
+of honour to hate him with all their power.
+
+Everard had contemplated hate and misinterpretation as his portion when
+he made his decision, yet could he have known what things were said and
+thought of him, even by the young and gentle, possibly even _his_
+motives could not have supported him under the trial. “Cold-blooded
+hypocrite” was by no means an uncommon phrase in which to denote him,
+and certainly by no means an uncommon form under which to summon him to
+the mind’s eye.
+
+His doings were therefore watched and criticized through the jaundiced
+vision of prejudice; and yet, strange to say, from that cloud, even in
+three months he had emerged, and was winning his way in men’s good
+opinions. Justice owned that he had been hastily condemned, and justice
+became anxious to make atonement.
+
+The first rumour that wrought a change in his favour, was when it was
+discovered,--as discovered things usually are,--and the news circulated
+about that he had paid all Robert’s debts. The sum was large, rumour
+doubled it, and in that case rumour did him a favour. It was then
+discovered that he was making retrenchments at Audley Court, and it
+could not but be owned that these retrenchments were not only kindly and
+judiciously made, but that he chose such points as must have been least
+pleasing to his natural taste; denying himself especially every luxury
+in that region, which most comes home to a man’s heart.
+
+The tide of condemnation came to a stand still, then began slowly to
+move backwards. The poor began to tell of his kindness and forethought;
+men of business who chanced to have to do with him, spoke of his
+excellent sense and judgment; elderly gentlemen of his unpretending
+behaviour; and those who are less accustomed to reason than to be guided
+by their fancy and feelings, were affected and converted by his
+appearance.
+
+The last Mr. Vavasour, since increasing infirmities had taken from him
+his independance, had lived a secluded life, and was but seldom seen
+beyond the precincts of his own domain; but Everard, strong and active,
+and anxiously bent on mastering all facts important for the discharge of
+his new duties, was constantly to be met with walking or riding; and
+those who in their drives thus met with him, could not but own that
+there was nothing like triumph in his air. The “customary suit of black”
+was very plainly the livery of his mind; the most inexperienced, and the
+most prejudiced, felt alike touched and softened as they gazed.
+
+Minds were thus in transition at the time of Mr. Gresham’s arrival; and
+as converts are ever zealous, and ever desirous to prove their changed
+opinions to be founded on truth, conversation turned on Everard with
+very ceaseless flow. Angela heard of all he had said during the last
+three months, and every word and every deed won her to esteem, and
+honour, and love him, a thousand fold more than before. But while she
+heard much--_him_ she saw not.
+
+The day after his arrival, Mr. Gresham sent his cards to Audley Court.
+Cards from himself and his daughter to Mrs. Vavasour and Hope, and a
+single card to Everard. The meaning conveyed in Lord Burleigh’s famous
+shake of the head, was as nothing compared to what this card was
+intended to intimate. A volume might have been written on the
+sentiments it was designed to express. To put it shortly, its messages
+were seven in number. First it condoled with Everard on the late Mr.
+Vavasour’s death. Secondly, it intimated Mr. Gresham’s acceptance of Mr.
+Vavasour’s will. Thirdly, it conveyed _approval_ of the will, not mere
+acceptance, but approval. Fourthly, it proclaimed Mr. Gresham’s arrival.
+Fifthly, his haste and eagerness to claim Everard’s acquaintance.
+Sixthly, it showed his urbane desire to efface the past; and seventhly,
+it said as plainly as words could speak, that daughter and worldly goods
+were laid at his disposal.
+
+Whether or not Everard understood the hidden language of the card must
+be doubtful. He saw it lying on the hall table, glanced at it, and
+passed on. In three or four days he sent cards in return, and no further
+notice was taken.
+
+The meaning Mr. Gresham had affixed to his own card gave him power to
+understand the language of Everard’s; and after studying it and reading
+in it an expression of genuine satisfaction with all that he, Mr.
+Gresham, had intimated, and the announcement of an early intention of
+availing himself of the munificent and benevolent gifts awaiting him, he
+rested on his oars and was at peace.
+
+When time, however, passed on and nothing was seen of Everard, he began
+to suspect that possibly the language of the card had _not_ been read
+aright, and he determined to take a further step.
+
+“Angela, my love,” he said one morning, “have you visited Miss Linton
+yet?”
+
+“No,” she replied, with a sudden deep blush. “I did not like to go to
+her.”
+
+“Have you written to her on the subject of future intercourse?”
+
+“No,” she replied again, and added with a murmur, “I did not dare.”
+
+“I think, my love, she may have cause to complain of neglect on your
+part. Possibly in the present state of Mrs. Vavasour’s spirits, she may
+be unwilling to leave her for any length of time, but we need not stand
+on ceremony, and since you have means of conveyance always at your
+disposal, it may be most proper, most considerate on your part to pay
+that marked attention which is due to persons who have been in
+affliction. I should wish you to write her a note; intimating your
+desire to renew that intercourse, which was so fruitful in happiness
+during the past year.”
+
+Angela remained silent with downcast eyes and a heightened colour.
+
+“Do you not approve of my proposal, Miss Price?” he inquired, turning
+blandly to that lady. “I am aware that when the sentiments of young
+females are concerned, it is possible for a man to be mistaken; but I
+confess I am unable to perceive any want of proper etiquette in the
+opinion I express.”
+
+“I think dear Angela had much better write,” was the reply, flutteringly
+given--for Mr. Gresham’s condescension always made her nervous--but
+perfectly decided in its import.
+
+“I am happy to find my opinion coincides with yours,” he said,
+graciously, and as he left the room he repeated his commands to Angela
+to write the note in question. “My groom will call for it in the course
+of half an hour,” he added, and disappeared to escape from remonstrance.
+
+Angela sat in profound thought, but of the feelings that agitated her
+said nothing to her aunt. She had been silent regarding the despondency,
+which for the last ten days had been stealing over her, and of the
+struggle with her pride in being the first to claim attention, she was
+equally uncommunicative. She once had thought that she should be
+perfectly happy could she have her aunt’s sympathy always at hand; but
+feelings change, and now that it was there always ready, always
+watchful, the desire to avail herself of it had departed. She was sad at
+heart and cared not to speak of her sadness.
+
+The half-hour had very nearly elapsed before the letter was written. She
+then suddenly rose and obeyed her father’s wishes. Possibly Mr. Gresham
+would have been surprised had the note been laid before him, at the
+terms in which she made known her wish to see Hope.
+
+
+     “Dear Hope,
+
+     “Will you tell me all the truth. Do you like to see me, or do you
+     not? I know how unhappy you have been, and would not force myself
+     on you for the world; but if you would like it I should like it
+     too. I can go to you at any time.
+
+                                                 “Yours, affectionately,
+                                                       “ANGELA GRESHAM.”
+
+
+She gave her orders that the groom was _not_ to wait for an answer; and
+he obeyed her. She did not choose to seem in haste to have her offer
+accepted.
+
+Hope’s seeming neglect of Angela was from no backwardness, or distaste
+to her society, but simply from uncertainty regarding Everard’s wishes
+on the subject. She had expected a visit as a thing of course, but as
+Angela did not come, and Everard said nothing, she was uncertain how to
+act. She asked the advice of her aunt; but Mrs. Vavasour had always been
+reserved with Everard, and could not force herself to break the barrier
+now. Her advice was to seek the advice of Mr. Addison. Mr. Addison was
+out of health, and having been recommended to try the benefit of sea
+air, was at this moment absent. As an early return was expected, Hope,
+in obedience to her aunt’s suggestion, postponed a decision till he
+came.
+
+When Angela’s note was given to her, she went at once in search of
+Everard; and on finding him put it into his hand with the simple enquiry
+what he wished her to do.
+
+He coloured as he read it, but she could not decide what feelings caused
+the show of emotion, for, on returning it, he exclaimed with warmth and
+anxiety, “My dear Hope, surely you do not so mistake me as to think I
+have any wish to control your actions.”
+
+“No,” she replied, hesitatingly, “only in this case....”
+
+“Not in any case. If it will give you pleasure to see Miss Gresham, and
+I should think it would, pray follow your own wishes without any thought
+of me.”
+
+She looked at him, perplexed and anxious. His manner, though earnest as
+regarded her part in the concern, betrayed little as to what he felt for
+Angela; betrayed nothing in fact; it was as if he spoke of a common
+acquaintance. “Then I will ask her to come to-morrow afternoon,” she
+said, after a moment’s thought. “Will you send the note for me?”
+
+He acquiesced, and waited while she wrote. When it was done, he took it
+without any further comment and dispatched it.
+
+Angela paid her visit the following day alone. Although Miss Price had
+specially been invited to Underwood, that she might assist a young
+female on such an occasion as the present, she was forced to resign her
+office, owing to a severe sore throat. Mr. Gresham had counted on her
+chaperonage in this first visit to Everard’s house, and was mortified
+that the delicacy of his arrangements should be thus counteracted; but
+necessity, as he observed, knows no law of etiquette or otherwise, and
+Angela was permitted to go alone.
+
+To Angela her aunt’s presence or absence was a matter of utter
+indifference. She was far too much absorbed in other feelings to
+consider whether or not it was Everard’s house. The hope of meeting him
+and the dread of meeting him, occupied her imagination to the exclusion
+of every other thought, and caused an agitation so excessive, that when
+she did actually arrive, was shown into the library, and found herself
+in Hope’s arms, she was unable to speak one word, and scarcely knew
+whether she was awake or asleep.
+
+That long library, quite unaltered, the scene of the strange interview
+with Everard, that day of rapturous happiness never to be
+forgotten--when she recovered her senses, it was to this that her fancy
+flew back, and she sat down, blushing over the recollections it excited.
+
+This long library was now Hope’s common sitting room. Mrs. Vavasour
+rarely left her own apartments, and Everard, shrinking from the
+dreariness of the house, had made it a request to Hope that she should
+sometimes be found there. It was not to be supposed that Hope should
+have the same vivid recollections of the room as Angela had, yet
+something of recollection did arrive, as she saw her agitated
+countenance, and she wondered with what feelings her young companion
+found herself there again.
+
+They sat opposite to each other in silence; each uncertain what to say,
+and fearful to begin. It was Angela who spoke at last; as she looked at
+Hope, the remembrance of death, and the awe of death came over her, and
+her exclamation had no touch of selfish dreamings in it.
+
+“Oh! Hope,” she said, sadly, “how changed you are.”
+
+Hope was surprised, and a faint streak of colour flitted over her cheek.
+She had been thinking of Angela, and not of all the changes at Audley
+Court. “Yes, there has been a great change,” she replied, after a
+moment.
+
+“And _you_ are changed in the change. Dear Hope, have you been so very
+unhappy?”
+
+Hope did not immediately answer. Angela’s question made her think of
+herself, a thing that rarely happened. “I think I am changed,” she said
+at last. “I used to think, it was in my ignorance, that I did not mind
+sorrow, that it was my place to comfort, and that if I could have power
+to do that, I should not dread the sight of grief. But now....”
+
+“Now what, dear Hope?” said Angela, anxiously.
+
+“Now I know that sorrow is the punishment of sin, and must have
+bitterness;” and as she spoke a tear fell from her eye.
+
+“Oh! how you must have suffered,” Angela exclaimed, and she felt a kind
+of shame at her own trials, as she looked in Hope’s face.
+
+“I was not thinking of myself,” was Hope’s reply, “but of all I have
+seen and still see. It is not that I am unhappy myself, but I long to
+do more to put grief away, and have not the power. It is _here_; and I
+find now that God must comfort, for man cannot.”
+
+“Are they all so unhappy?” Angela asked, after a moment, in a low voice.
+
+“My poor aunt; you can fancy what that is Angela. She has lost all that
+occupied her; and she is not as some are, calm and strong in their
+grief. She is very good, but is miserable. She never murmurs, but I can
+see the struggle to submit almost breaking her heart. I had often
+thought of such sorrow as hers, but now I _know_ what it is.”
+
+“And Mr. Vavasour,” Angela asked, after another pause, in a still lower
+tone. “Is he too miserable?”
+
+“Do you mean Robert or Everard, Angela?” And Hope turned her slow
+enquiring eyes on her companion.
+
+“I mean Mr. Robert Vavasour,” she said faintly, averting her eyes with a
+deep blush of shame from the gaze that was upon her.
+
+“Robert is happier than Everard,” Hope replied, after a moment’s
+thought. “He is trying to wash out the past, and that gives him a bright
+hope before him. I think Robert is happier than he ever was, for I
+think,--I try not to expect too much, but I think”--she paused and
+clasped her hands together, and added--“that God has granted him
+repentance.”
+
+Angela sat silent and sighed. Hope’s anxiety for Robert’s welfare,
+showed her in true colours what her conduct had been during that mad
+time when right and wrong seemed obliterated in her mind. Shame pressed
+heavily upon her. It would have been a relief to confess it all, but she
+did not dare. She never had approached such subjects with Hope, less
+than ever she dared approach them now.
+
+After a short silence, during which she hoped but vainly, that Hope
+would speak of Everard, Angela inquired after Mr. Addison, and expressed
+her disappointment at finding him absent. She told Hope of her desire to
+begin to make herself useful, and to lead a better life than she had
+done, and said how much she needed advice and help; and this subject was
+more easily talked over than others, and the hour of her stay passed
+rapidly away. The clock struck five, and she looked up with regret.
+
+“I told the carriage to come round at five,” she said, “for we have got
+a dinner to-night, and I must be home early,” and when those words were
+said she suddenly remembered the visit was past, and Everard had not
+been seen.
+
+The thought had scarcely passed through her mind when he appeared. He
+came slowly in from the further end of the library and her heart had
+time almost to break with its beating before he reached her. Unable to
+articulate one word then she half rose and shook hands with him, and sat
+hurriedly down again.
+
+At first it was Everard’s mere presence that overcame her, but, as he
+stood before her, it was himself, his changed self, that affected her.
+
+Miss Price’s friend had called him handsome, and such an expression
+regarding him was no longer without truth. Thought and sorrow had so
+softened and refined his features that they in themselves were almost
+toned into beauty; and even had it not been so, there was an expression
+in his countenance, in his air and manner, so subdued, so melancholy,
+and so gentle, even strangers might have been affected by it.
+
+In that first instant she forgot herself, and tears of pity and love for
+_him_ sprang into her eyes; but when he addressed her, thoughts of her
+own self returned; and she was chilled into composure by his voice.
+
+No _empressement_, no embarrassment; some restraint, perhaps--but a
+grave, kind quietness, such as under any circumstances he, in his
+position, would have shown to his cousin’s guest.
+
+“I must do my errand,” he said, “though I hope it will not hurry you
+away. The carriage was waiting at the door as I came in, and they were
+coming to summon you. I said I would tell you it was ready.”
+
+“Thank you. I must go directly,” Angela said, and she got up with a
+strange feeling of mingled sadness and relief.
+
+As she wished Hope good-bye, she paused to make arrangements about
+another visit, and Everard walked first to the window and then out of
+the room.
+
+When Angela turned round he was gone. She pulled down her veil and
+hurried away with bitterness in her heart. “He hates me,” she thought,
+and before she reached the door, tears at once of passion and sorrow
+were in her eyes.
+
+But by the side of the carriage he stood awaiting her; and then in very
+shame she could have flown from him, and hid her agitation from his
+sight.
+
+The same manner, however, gravely, calmly, kind, in an instant composed
+her again. A faint glow on his cheek was the only sign he gave of being
+in any way moved at her presence.
+
+He stopped her as she was getting into the carriage and asked, “How do
+you think Hope looks?”
+
+“Very much changed,” Angela said hurriedly.
+
+“Yes,” he agreed, with a sadness that made her reproach herself for her
+hasty words, “But do you think her looking _ill_?”
+
+“Perhaps not really ill,” she said, desirous to relieve his mind, “but
+thinner than she used to be. She does not _seem_ ill.”
+
+“Her life is very lonely, and if you can come and see her, I think it
+would do her good. I am _sure_ she will be glad to have you come.” He
+spoke anxiously, but it was only for Hope’s sake.
+
+“I will certainly,” Angela replied, and as he said no more, she entered
+the carriage.
+
+He then approached again and asked, “I hear Miss Price is at Underwood.
+Is that true?”
+
+Angela replied that it was; and anxiously waited for what would follow.
+
+“Will you remember me to her?” This was all that came.
+
+Angela bowed her head, and so they parted.
+
+She went on her way shedding bitter tears, and he re-entered the house.
+
+Mr. Gresham, whose anxiety regarding the effects of the visit was too
+great to be restrained, came with much politeness to assist his daughter
+from the carriage.
+
+“Did you see Mr. Vavasour, my love?” he enquired.
+
+“Yes, Papa.”
+
+“I hope he is in good health.”
+
+“He seemed so,” she replied wearily; “he did not say.”
+
+“You gave him my compliments of course, my love, and expressed my wish
+to see him here.”
+
+“No,” and she shook her head. “I said very little.”
+
+“Ahem!” and for a moment Mr. Gresham came to a stand still. He then
+remembered the delicacy of the female character and added, “That was as
+it should be, my love. No young woman is forward to encourage the visits
+of the other sex. But no doubt he understood from your manner that you
+would receive him with pleasure. Did he express any wish, with regard to
+... to _our_ society?”
+
+“He asked me to go sometimes and see Hope,” Angela replied, feeling that
+by that answer she should for the time at least relieve herself from the
+torment of his questionings.
+
+“That is well; you have my permission to avail yourself of the
+invitation,” and drawing himself up to a princely air, he accompanied
+his daughter across the hall, and then allowed her to depart.
+
+She entered the drawing-room, kissed her aunt, as she lay on the sofa,
+said she hoped she was better, and then sat down at the window and
+looked out in silence.
+
+Time passed and she made no change in her position. At last Miss Price
+spoke. “Your father was here a short time ago, my love, and said he
+wished you to be in good time to-night. I think a Bishop dines here and
+you must be ready.”
+
+Angela came towards her with a smile, and said, “Oh! yes I will be ready
+for the Bishop; it is only half-past six, and _he_ will not care how I
+am dressed I suppose.”
+
+“No, love, I suppose not; but your father likes you to look nice.”
+
+Angela, however, now sat down by the sofa, and made no haste to prepare
+herself for the Bishop.
+
+“Did you see Mr. Vavasour, my love?” enquired her aunt at length.
+
+“Yes, Aunt Jane, I did see him.”
+
+“Well, love.”
+
+“Well Aunt Jane.”
+
+“You know what I would say, dearest. Did you have a happy meeting?”
+
+“A _happy_ meeting!” she repeated scornfully. “No not exactly happy.”
+
+“No, dearest, I expressed myself ill,--of course not happy, but I
+hope....”
+
+“If you wish to know all at once, Aunt Jane, I will tell you. He hates
+me;” and though tears trembled in her eyes, she drove them back with a
+look of indignant pride.
+
+“I hardly think so love; indeed I feel sure he does not.”
+
+“Why?” and Angela looked in her face as if her fate was to be read
+there.
+
+“Because he loved you once so very truly. I saw him, dearest, once after
+your father refused him. He told me not to tell that he came, and I
+promised; so I never did; but he loved you very truly. I could see that;
+though I don’t understand such things much, I could see _that_.”
+
+“Yes, then he did,” and Angela sighed and suffered the tears to fall
+from her eyes.
+
+“And once, love, he told me, that he was not changeable, and I think I
+should say the same from his look; he does not look inconstant.”
+
+“Inconstant!” Angela exclaimed indignantly, “it is not inconstancy to
+change from a worthless object. If he _has_ changed I do not blame him.
+If he _could_ have behaved as I have done, I should care for him no
+more, and would _that_ be inconstancy?”
+
+“Perhaps not, love. I do not well understand these things. But I fancy
+he loves you still.”
+
+Angela shook her head, and yet was comforted.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+    You give me praise for what I do;
+    You blame me for what’s left undone;
+    Alas! how little is pierced through,
+    How little known of the lost and won
+    Under the Sun.
+              BARRY CORNWALL.
+
+
+Angela continued to visit Hope; but not as she had done the year before,
+with the freedom of eager friendship, regardless of times and seasons;
+she could not bring herself to that. Her visits were matters of intense
+thought. They occupied her entirely in the intervening days; her whole
+desire was to be at Audley Court, and see what one other visit would
+bring forth; and yet she restrained herself with an iron rule, and made
+her visits few and far between. If Everard had ceased to love her, he
+should learn to respect her. This was the thought that animated her to
+self-controul.
+
+The second and the third visit to Hope passed without any further
+meeting. Miss Price, now restored to health, accompanied Angela, and sat
+patiently by while her young companions talked. She could be no
+restraint to any one, and though on the first visit, Angela had been
+indifferent as to her chaperonage, she now felt protection in her
+company.
+
+As she and Miss Price were re-entering the carriage after the fourth
+visit, Everard and Mr. Addison appeared in the court yard together.
+Everard hastened forward, and after shaking hands with Angela, turned
+with much kindness to speak to Miss Price who was already seated. Angela
+fancied she had learned a great deal of proper pride and self-restraint
+during the last month, and yet when she suddenly found herself in his
+society again, all she had learned seemed to fail her. She thought his
+greeting to herself so cold, while to her aunt it was warm and kind, and
+tears no effort could hide sprang into her eyes. It was better Mr.
+Addison should see them than Everard, and she went to meet him as he
+more slowly walked up the court; but when she met him, she could think
+of nothing to say to explain her eagerness.
+
+He, however, had something to say to her, or else discovered something
+at the moment, and he kept her in conversation for a few minutes; it
+was only when she was quite composed, that he led the way back to the
+carriage.
+
+Everard assisted her into it, and though there was still the same want
+of what is easiest expressed by the word _empressement_, in his manner
+there was a smile, as he said, “You have done a good deed, Miss Gresham,
+in bringing Miss Price here. Fresh air has given her ten new years of
+life.”
+
+“I think so too,” Angela replied, more naturally, cheered in spite of
+herself by his smile; “but it was Papa’s good deed, not mine.”
+
+He smiled again, but said no more; nor made any effort to detain them.
+He and Mr. Addison drew back, and the carriage drove away.
+
+Everard went into the house to fetch some paper for which they had
+returned home, and then he and Mr. Addison pursued their way.
+
+“Everard,” Mr. Addison began, after they had walked for some time in
+silence, “will you allow me to say a word to you on a subject ... you
+may guess, perhaps, to what I allude.”
+
+Everard coloured deeply, but he made no answer either of acquiescence or
+denial.
+
+Mr. Addison glanced at him, and observed with a slight smile, “I will
+suppose that silence gives consent. May I ask you then, do you not
+intend to call at Underwood?”
+
+“No,” he replied gravely, “this year is and shall be sacred. I do not
+intend, I do not wish to enter upon any society, or to mix in any
+pleasures this year. If my own feeling did not forbid it, I could not
+look at my mother and do otherwise, but as it is ... it is my own wish
+also.”
+
+“I understand Everard, and love your intention. I am not one, that you
+know well, who would sweep away the influences of sorrow before their
+work is done. There is, indeed, a danger of becoming morbid in the
+indulgence of sad memories ... but that is not to the purpose now. What
+I wished to say was, that I think from many circumstances Underwood
+might be an exception. I think....”
+
+“Forgive me Mr. Addison,” Everard said, in a tone not exactly asking
+forgiveness, “but there are subjects on which advice is more than
+useless. This is one.”
+
+“Forgive _me_, Everard,” he replied gravely and quickly, “I did not mean
+to be intrusive.”
+
+“You think me impatient,” Everard said, colouring, though he smiled,
+“and perhaps I am. I didn’t mean, however, to be ill tempered; I only
+wish to remind you of a very certain truth. Advice in matters of
+practice is useful, but in matters of feeling not so. No man can tell
+what another man feels; unless, therefore, he makes confession advice is
+useless to him.”
+
+“And would confession be impossible?”
+
+“Impossible,” he replied with emphasis.
+
+“Then I will not annoy you with useless advice; only this one word, my
+conscience forces me to say. Do not cherish resentment for actions which
+I do believe might more justly be excused and pardoned; and do not
+needlessly wound the feelings of those who think kindly of you.”
+
+Everard’s cheek and brow were crimson, and he did not reply till the
+momentary passion, whatever it was, was past. He then said very gravely,
+“Thank you for advising me; and do not think me obstinate if I repeat
+that it is difficult to advise on matters such as these. I am not
+ungrateful for your kind thoughts for my happiness; but I must judge for
+myself. I think, perhaps,” he added after a moment’s thought, “that you
+mistake me, but no matter.”
+
+Mr. Addison said no more. He was quite of Everard’s mind regarding the
+usefulness of advice, if advice is not desired; and though pity for
+Angela had drawn him to speak his word of warning, he was content,
+having done so, to let the matter rest.
+
+After another short silence he began again, and in a less grave tone.
+“You say advice in matters of practice is useful. Will you take my
+advice on a practical subject. You work too hard. I wish you to take
+more rest.”
+
+He might have known that no man is amenable, where his health is
+concerned, and he did know it; nevertheless, he thought it right to
+speak.
+
+Everard’s only answer was a short laugh, and “I beg your pardon Mr.
+Addison, but really I am not a baby.”
+
+“A baby can be taken care of; but you are a wilful man, and therefore I
+speak. Work as you please all day long, but rest at night. Do you know,
+Everard, there are many comments on your open window and late vigils.”
+
+“People are very busy I must say,” he replied colouring, and with very
+unaccountable irritation.
+
+“Perhaps, we all are. Perhaps if it were another man you yourself would
+make the same comments on his habits; and if you saw one who had once
+been remarkable for strength look pale and wearied, you would perhaps
+say to him as I do to you--‘Take more rest, and do not waste so
+precious a gift as health.’”
+
+“It is not sleep I want,” Everard said, and he did look at the moment as
+if there was a weight upon him more than he could bear.
+
+“Not alone, perhaps,” replied his old friend kindly, “but still,
+Everard, mortal men do want sleep, even the best of them; you are up
+early in the morning, and there is time enough for work in the day. Be
+advised and rest at night.”
+
+“I will shut my window,” he said lightly, “reluctantly enough I own, and
+so hide myself from curious eyes, but I cannot promise that there will
+be any other change. I am very ignorant, Mr. Addison, and the day is not
+enough for my work. In practical knowledge I must learn what I can. My
+strong body was surely given me for some purpose. There is nothing to
+fear for my health.”
+
+His companion said no more, and Everard continued. “Pray give me some
+other advice, for I would not have you think me obstinate. Except on
+these two points I think you will not find me so.”
+
+“Except on _these_,” Mr. Addison said, with a slight smile, “that is
+what we all say. But do not think I mean to reproach you, Everard. I do
+not even wish you to take my advice if your conscience and reason
+counsel otherwise. You have taken to yourself, I do believe, higher
+assistance, and your views may be better and wiser than mine. Be assured
+so long as I live, I shall warn when I see cause, leaving it to you to
+be guided by my voice or not as you think fit.”
+
+“Dear Mr. Addison,” Everard said, almost passionately, “I will take your
+advice now, and always if I could, as if it were _my father’s_, but at
+this time I cannot.”
+
+“Do not distress yourself,” was the reply, tenderly given. “I fully
+trust your motives, and for the rest we each work out our own
+experience, and so become our own best guides. Let us speak of these
+things no more.”
+
+On the morning after Angela’s last visit to Audley Court, Mr. Gresham,
+who always conducted his interviews with much pomp, wrote a note to Miss
+Price, begging her to let him find her alone in the drawing-room at
+half-past eleven o’clock.
+
+Miss Price, no manœuvrer, was plunged into difficulties by this message,
+and spent an hour of torture, watching Angela’s movements about the
+room, without being able to devise any expedient to get rid of her. Mr.
+Gresham relieved her by appearing before the appointed time; he
+requested his his daughter to make a copy of a paper he put into her
+hands, and observed that it would be most carefully done in her own
+room. She obeyed and left the room without suspicion, and Mr. Gresham
+then placed himself opposite to Miss Price and began.
+
+“You will excuse me for being a few moments before the hour I specified.
+I am somewhat engaged this morning. My wish and desire is to have a
+short conversation with you regarding your niece and my daughter,
+believing that her welfare is a matter of interest to you.”
+
+“Dear Angela, yes,” said her aunt, nervously.
+
+“Will you be so good, Miss Price, as to inform me what sentiments you
+suppose Mr. Vavasour to entertain for Angela. You may remember that in
+our first interview, I put you in possession of my views and opinions
+on this subject, and requested you to give such support to my daughter,
+as a young female may naturally require in circumstances of delicacy.
+You have, I believe, according to my wish, accompanied her in her visits
+to Audley Court, and though I have hitherto refrained from making
+inquiries, I have, I confess, been anticipating some disclosure on your
+part. I must now request you to be explicit. Do not let me hurry you;”
+as he could not but observe the flutter of spirits into which he cast
+her, “though engaged, I have always leisure for the proper duties that
+devolve upon me.”
+
+“I have seen Mr. Vavasour only once,” she replied, when she had
+collected her senses, “and then only for a very short time.”
+
+“Am I to understand then, that in my daughter’s frequent visits to
+Audley Court, Miss Linton has been the sole attraction, or do you
+intend to convey, that Mr. Vavasour has no intention of renewing his
+addresses to us. Pray, Miss Price, be explicit.”
+
+“I do not know anything,” she said humbly. “I fancy he loves dear
+Angela, but it may be my fancy only. He certainly loved her once, and I
+should not suppose him to be one lightly given to change.”
+
+“I must beg you, my dear Miss Price, to be more explicit. Consider the
+importance of the subject on which we are engaged. Collect your mind,
+and exercise your judgment, and endeavour to answer me a few simple
+questions. I do not speak of the past. No wise man makes account of the
+past. Our business is with the present. Endeavour now to collect your
+senses, and tell me.... There are certain delicate attentions, trifles,
+yet on particular occasions not to be undervalued, by which those whom
+in common parlance we denominate lovers, are accustomed to insinuate
+their attachment to the object preferred. Can you recall any exhibition
+of such delicate attentions in the time, be it long or short, during
+which Mr. Vavasour was in my daughter’s company. I believe I make myself
+understood. Be so good as to answer me explicitly.”
+
+“He was very kind to me,” she replied, endeavouring to collect herself
+according to his desire, anxious to gratify him, yet too truthful to
+compose a narrative for the occasion. “Particularly kind. He spoke to me
+more than to dear Angela. Mr. Addison was present, and Angela conversed
+with him. The time was short.”
+
+“You can recall, then, no such attentions as I have pointed out. Is it
+possible that his manner denoted no gratification in her presence? Have
+you no reason to suppose him to be attached to her?”
+
+“He put her into the carriage, and he spoke to her once, and his smile
+was very sweet. He has a sweet smile, and to her I should say it was
+particularly sweet.”
+
+“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Gresham. “Pray, proceed, Miss Price.”
+
+“I fancy that he loves her, but I cannot say, he appeared to wish to
+detain us. I should say he is not happy, for his countenance is very
+sad, but, indeed, the time was short, and I myself was fluttered, and
+... I am sorry I can answer you no better. I will endeavour to be more
+watchful in future.”
+
+“Pray compose yourself,” he said, waving his hand graciously. “I think,
+from the observations you have made, that the opinion I have formed is a
+correct one. I suppose him to be attached to my daughter, but to be
+withheld, by--what shall we say, false motives of delicacy from making a
+second offer. You are aware, I believe, that his first offer was
+declined; properly declined; yet it is possible, declined in terms more
+forcible than was wise or polite considering (although the present state
+of things no human foresight could, as it appears to me, have foreseen).
+I am, therefore, disposed to apologize to him for any improper degree of
+warmth I may have shown, and to give him such encouragement as may be
+applicable to the occasion. Do you concur with me, that such a
+condescension may be desirable.”
+
+“I hardly know,” Miss Price began with a faint glow on her face; however
+small her intellect, too much of a woman to admire such a mode of
+proceeding. “Would dear Angela be willing ... I fear....”
+
+“Fear nothing,” he said, interrupting her. “If motives of delicacy
+alone forbid it, be assured a daughter’s delicacy is ever safe in a
+father’s hands. I confess, I think it possible such an acknowledgment
+may be due from me to him. I confess, I think it more than possible,
+that after the manner in which I once considered it my duty to address
+him, I should personally assure him of the change in my sentiments. You
+may be assured, Miss Price, that my actions will ever be ordered with
+all proper attention to female decorum and modesty.”
+
+“You know best,” she said gently. “There is no doubt he was wounded by
+your words.”
+
+“Exactly,” and he waved his head gracefully, and rose from his seat. “I
+have to thank you for the attention with which you have heard me, and
+for your concurrence in my sentiments, and I must also request, that,
+what we have confidentially communicated to each other, may remain
+confidential.”
+
+He bowed slightly, and left the room, decorum and modesty, and paternal
+care and affection, fluttering about him as he went.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?
+
+
+The plan on which Mr. Gresham had determined had been for some days
+forming in his mind. The concurrence of Miss Price was of no real
+importance to him, for his decisions were already made, before advice
+was asked; but he supposed a female opinion to be proper on such a
+subject, and he would have been glad also to secure female concurrence.
+Whether or no he had that concurrence he was uncertain, but be that as
+it might, _he_ had conducted himself with the propriety becoming the
+occasion, and was satisfied.
+
+The very next morning, at an hour when a gentleman, he supposed, would
+most probably be found at home, he repaired to Audley Court. The old
+black towers shone before his eyes as he rode along, a dazzling sunshine
+imparting so much of beauty to their majestic and venerable forms, that
+he was positively agitated as he gazed. The attachment of Mr. Gresham to
+these old towers has been often dwelt upon; but in truth there was
+something really romantic in the fascination they exercised over his
+fancy. He longed for them as Haman longed for Mordecai’s bow, only that
+all _his_ sentiments were regulated with too much of order and propriety
+to allow of any excess.
+
+Mr. Vavasour was at home, and Mr. Gresham was shown into the library.
+
+While he awaited Everard’s coming his thoughts reverted to the late Mr.
+Vavasour, whom until this moment he had forgotten; and he framed in his
+mind an exceedingly well-expressed form of condolence, with which to
+begin the conversation; but Mr. Gresham was by no means devoid of
+kindness of feeling, and when Everard appeared, he felt at first sight
+that his formulary would, on this occasion, be ill applied. It was,
+therefore, suppressed, and having had no time to frame another
+beginning, he contented himself with a remark on the state of the
+atmosphere.
+
+“Perhaps I ought to apologise to you, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, when
+they sat down, “for not having called upon you.” For since Mr. Gresham
+had thought it right to call upon him he felt that his omission had,
+perhaps, been considered ill-mannered. “I assure you I should have done
+so if I had called anywhere, but I have not as yet.”
+
+“I perfectly understand. Let there be no ceremony between us, Mr.
+Vavasour. I am far, very far, from wishing for ceremony. I am, on the
+contrary, sincerely desirous that there should be a friendly, I might
+say a more than friendly relationship between us.”
+
+He paused, looking both benign and dignified; and Everard coloured and
+was silent.
+
+“In point of fact, Mr. Vavasour,--for honesty, I believe, is the best
+policy, and is certainly the most honourable mode of proceeding between
+gentlemen--my object and purpose in calling upon you this morning is to
+assure you of my friendly, and even more than friendly feelings towards
+you. I am aware that you may have cause to look upon me from another
+point of view. I have not forgotten a certain event which took place,
+certain conversations which occurred between us some months back, and my
+purpose this morning is to offer you some apology for my behaviour, and
+to make some explanations regarding my motives on that particular
+occasion.”
+
+“It is perfectly needless, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, interrupting him
+hastily. “I am very much obliged to you for wishing to make such
+explanations, but I assure you it is not necessary. I am certain your
+motives were good, and I have no desire to recur to what is past.”
+
+“I must request you to hear me, Mr. Vavasour. I consider it due to you,
+and due also to myself, that you should consent to hear me. I believe
+you will agree with me that a daughter’s welfare is a father’s first
+duty. I feel the responsibility, I have always felt it, which Providence
+imposes on parents, and more especially on those in my position. I
+provided, therefore, for my daughter’s establishment in life, not only
+well and wisely so far as she was concerned, but I think you will do me
+the justice, Mr. Vavasour, to own, with both wisdom and generosity in
+respect to the husband of her, or rather of my choice.”
+
+He paused for an assent, and Everard gave it.
+
+“I do own it, Mr. Gresham.”
+
+“Such being the case, it was certainly natural that I should feel dismay
+when I perceived that my designs were in danger of being upset ... even
+though by yourself, Mr. Vavasour. In the emotions of the moment, I may
+have expressed my feelings more warmly than was just, and if it were so,
+if I gave you pain, I most sincerely apologize for what I thought my
+duty commanded.”
+
+“You did give me pain,” Everard replied after a moment’s thought; “but
+as you only spoke what you were anxious I should understand, I had no
+right to blame you. I will not say that for a time I felt no resentment,
+but believe me, it is long past, and I am sincerely sorry that you
+should have felt an apology necessary.”
+
+“An honourable and candid man is never backward to own his failings, Mr.
+Vavasour. I am not ashamed to own that I was blind; all men are liable
+to error, and I among the rest. No human foresight I believe, could have
+anticipated the course which late events have taken. Had I been gifted
+with the power to penetrate into the secrets of futurity, believe me, my
+dear Mr. Vavasour, my conduct would have been altogether different.”
+
+A deep flush crossed Everard’s face, but he made no answer.
+
+“One thing more you must allow me to say. You must allow me to express
+my hearty, my entire concurrence in the decision made by your late
+father. The manner in which your name is now mentioned, the distinction
+which you now enjoy in the eyes of the world, convince me that he was
+gifted with that foresight in which I humbly acknowledge I am deficient,
+and engages me to extend to you _all_ those feelings which once I
+entertained towards your brother.”
+
+He dilated into his largest proportions as he made this delicate
+insinuation of his generous designs, and then paused for an
+acknowledgment. But no acknowledgment came. There was a still deeper
+glow on Everard’s countenance, but he said not one word.
+
+Mr. Gresham was not a physiognomist; he never saw anything that was not
+as clear as daylight. The disturbance, however--whatever it might
+mean--on the face of his companion, _was_ clear; and observing it, he
+felt no doubt that it proceeded from diffidence, and uncertainty as to
+how far the delicate insinuation was to be understood. He, in short,
+like other men who are entirely pre-occupied with one idea, and excited
+by the expression of it, lost in the warmth of the moment, the
+perception of the limits to which he might safely go. He gathered
+himself up to express his meaning with more perspicuity, and in so
+doing, in some degree forgot the decorum he prized so highly.
+
+“I had hoped, Mr. Vavasour, that I had spoken so as to be understood. If
+I have not done so, if I have seemed to you reserved and obscure in my
+allusions, you must excuse me, on the grounds of that regard which is
+due to the laws of common society. But believe me, I consider such laws
+of lesser importance than the serious interests on which our minds are
+centered; and for your encouragement and welfare, as well as for my own
+gratification, I am willing to sacrifice them, and to speak more
+explicitly. Allow me, therefore, to assure you, my dear Mr. Vavasour,
+that should it at any time, I speak of no time in particular, but should
+it at any time be your wish or desire to renew an application you once
+tendered to me, you will find my acceptance, not only willing, but
+waiting your orders; and should any scruple regarding my daughter,
+should any fears regarding her feelings cause you to hesitate, I believe
+I may....”
+
+But here Everard rose from his seat, and in much agitation interrupted
+him. “You must excuse me, Mr. Gresham, but I cannot suffer this to
+proceed. I have listened too long. I do sincerely thank you for the
+kindness of feeling you express towards me, although,” and here his
+already flushed cheek deepened in its crimson hue, and a bitterness he
+seemed unable to suppress gave intensity to his voice, “I fear that it
+is to my position alone that I am indebted for the change. I can say no
+more, nor would I willingly discuss this matter further.”
+
+“Am I to understand then, Mr. Vavasour,” Mr. Gresham enquired, not
+indeed that he really thought the question necessary, but thinking it
+both politic and dignified to put it, “that you decline to avail
+yourself of the favourable intentions I have expressed towards you.”
+
+There was a moment’s pause; and Everard’s face, which during the
+interview had been flushed and heated, became very pale. He answered,
+however, and his answer, though low, was unfaltering--“I do!”
+
+Mr. Gresham was so startled at this reply--in common speech was so taken
+aback by it--that he relieved himself by a forcible exclamation of
+astonishment, and an uplifting of his hands.
+
+Everard said no other word, although there was a something in his
+compressed lips that seemed to say, violence alone restrained him from
+speech.
+
+After a few moments’ indecision, Mr. Gresham recovered his composure,
+and rising, with an imperial dignity of manner for which he certainly
+might be pardoned, bowed to Everard, and said “I wish you good morning,
+Mr. Vavasour, and you must allow me to apologize for having taken up
+your time with communications so indifferent to you;” and with another
+freezing salutation he was leaving the room when Everard arrested him.
+
+“You must not leave me in anger, Mr. Gresham,” he said, with little of
+_indifference_ in his voice; “I wish I could express how far, how very
+far I am from intending to show disrespect to you, much more to Miss
+Gresham, ...” he stopt abruptly, for his voice became unsteady, then
+began again. “If it were possible I would ask you to forget the painful
+circumstances of this conversation, and to allow me to remain, what
+indeed I must ever be....”
+
+“What, sir, should you desire to be?” Mr. Gresham asked, with stately
+coldness.
+
+“A friend, and a very grateful one,” Everard said, with emotion, and he
+held out his hand.
+
+Mr. Gresham was softened, but the offence to his dignity could not be so
+easily forgotten. He did shake hands; but it was a languid, inexpressive
+shake; and merely repeating his “good morning,” he took his departure.
+
+Everard closed the door after him, and then stood gazing out into the
+garden in a vacancy of thought that seemed to have no sense of time
+about it; and so remained until Hope’s entrance aroused him.
+
+“Are you ill, Everard?” she enquired, looking at him.
+
+“Ill, my dear Hope! why should I be ill?”
+
+“You look so.”
+
+“I have had a visit from Mr. Gresham, which has given me some pain,” he
+said gravely; “but it is over now,” and he sighed profoundly, as if thus
+to sweep away from his memory the recollection of what had passed.
+
+Mr. Gresham went on his way. While in Everard’s presence, offended
+majesty had been the paramount sensation in his mind; but when alone,
+disappointment, the disappointment of his dearly cherished hopes,
+overcame his sense of dignity; and to efface disappointment he would
+have been contented to sacrifice a considerable portion of his dignity.
+
+Insensibly he guided his horse’s head to the hill mentioned in the
+Introduction to this tale, in order to gaze once more on the glories he
+had prepared for the Vavasours and himself. It was a fair vision; but
+not for its natural beauty was it now, or had it ever been visited by
+Mr. Gresham. There he had often stood, with a swelling heart, gazing
+over the fertile and extensive valley, and repeating, “I am monarch of
+all I survey,” till tears almost, of pride and thankfulness, had filled
+his eyes. It was on the wide extent, brought by his forethought and care
+under the sway of one ruler, that his eyes delighted to rest; creation’s
+beauties re-created by his hand.
+
+In an altered mood he stood there now. Bitter mortification, fallen
+pride, insulted benevolence, and the sting of ingratitude, all these
+together caused his heart actually to smart with sorrow. For a time the
+very powers of his mind were prostrated by his disappointment, and it
+was not till they recovered their tone that comfort dawned upon him. He
+came at length, in the shape of a wise saying springing up from the
+stores of his memory, “The race is not always to the swift, nor the
+battle to the strong; but time and chance happen to all men.” If Solomon
+in his glory had had experience of this truth, he, Mr. Gresham, must not
+be astonished if his schemes were unattended with success. This idea
+soothed his mortification; and, endeavouring to compose himself by a
+noble submission to the inevitable lot of mortals, he took a solemn
+farewell of his idol, and left it at the top of the hill.
+
+That is, he supposed he did; but before he reached the bottom of the
+hill, strange to say, he found his idol accompanying him home. How it
+was, that having solemnly forsworn it as the companion of his thoughts,
+he permitted it to cling to him, cannot be explained unless by the fact
+that such partings between men and their idols are of daily occurrence;
+but certain it is that before he reached Underwood it was not only
+whispering within, but was again absolutely tyrannizing over him, and
+luring him on to fresh schemes in the future. It had begun to renew its
+reign from the moment when he resolved to say nothing to Miss Price or
+to Angela of what had occurred. After that wise decision he proceeded to
+meditate in a manner which may be shortly embodied in these few
+reflections.
+
+“The future is ever uncertain. It becomes a man to hope the best. Great
+designs are not realized at once; and the noble spirit is not crushed
+by one, nor by two repulses. Man is a being of complicated structure;
+nor can man’s passions be played upon like a harpsichord. To touch the
+proper chord requires a degree of wisdom and experience not perfectly
+bestowed on any mortal being.”
+
+Having reflected in the general, he then proceeded to reflect
+practically.
+
+“The future is uncertain. My plan is wisely and beautifully designed;
+and my daughter’s attractions are generally allowed to be great. Wisdom
+plans, but practice crowns. Men are punctilious. It is possible Mr.
+Vavasour may quarrel with my openness; or, he may consider that thoughts
+of matrimonial engagements are unsuited to a house of mourning; or he
+may be a man of delicacy and may consider it an offence to delicacy,
+that a young lady should be engaged to two brothers in the course of a
+few months, or.....”
+
+Among his many thoughts as on a former occasion, he found comforters
+enough, and thus it happened that shortly after the mortification he had
+endured, he was building on the future as certainly as ever.
+
+The sense of his wisdom in thus retaining hope was confirmed shortly
+afterwards.
+
+About ten days after his visit to Audley Court, Everard returned it, and
+Mr. Gresham was at home. _He_ was stately, and Everard grave, but there
+was perfect politeness on both sides.
+
+When the visit was over, Mr. Gresham, not without dignity, asked if he
+chose to pay his respects to Miss Price, with whom he understood he was
+on terms of intimacy.
+
+Though it might have been guessed from Everard’s countenance, that the
+visit was far from being desired, he, as if unwilling in any way to be
+guilty of further disrespect, consented to it, and was conducted by Mr.
+Gresham to the drawing-room.
+
+It was a great mortification to the father to find his attractive
+daughter absent, and during the ten minutes of Everard’s stay, his eye
+was perpetually on the door; but dignity and decorum did not permit him
+on this occasion to mention or to summon her.
+
+After ten minutes, which passed like so many hours, so utterly unsuited
+were the three companions to each other, Everard rose with evident
+relief, and went away; and four minutes after his departure, Angela
+looked in at the window with her bonnet on.
+
+“You have just missed Mr. Vavasour, my love,” said Miss Price, quietly,
+even with all her love and sympathy unable to conceive the feelings her
+words could excite in her niece. “He has been sitting with your father
+and me for a few minutes.”
+
+Angela stood leaning on the window sill in silence, so astonished was
+she at the news.
+
+“Why did he come?” at last she inquired.
+
+“To call, my love, I suppose; he was as usual particularly kind, but
+exceedingly grave. Perhaps, love, because you were absent, but I cannot
+tell.”
+
+She walked away without asking more questions. It seemed perverse to
+have waited, hoped, longed, for this visit for months of weary waiting,
+and when it took place to be five minutes too late.
+
+It was about this time that Angela began to look upon herself as doomed
+for her faults and follies, to a life of disappointment; nor did the
+events, or rather non-events of the autumn, brighten this not very
+cheerful view of things. She never met Everard again. See him, she did
+often; sometimes at a distance, sometimes near enough for a bow or a
+smile or word; hear of him she did unceasingly, for all delighted to do
+him honour, now that their hate was passed by; but meet him she never
+did. He called again late in the year,--shortly before they left
+Underwood for a round of visits,--and at an hour when on every day but
+this, she had been at home, and on this day was only prevented from
+being at home by an accident to her carriage; and this last mischance
+filled her cup to the brim.
+
+Though she had ceased to bewail her fate to her aunt, it cost her many,
+bitter, secret, silent tears; and much she mused on life and its
+strange ways, and much on the folly which had estranged the only being
+whose love for her, had been for herself, and not her position. Robert’s
+confession had deepened tenfold her distrust of the motives of those who
+approached her, and suspicion threw its cloud over her already clouded
+thoughts. She was in short in a very gloomy frame of mind, and though
+she owned she deserved all she suffered, she with her strong
+capabilities for happiness, could not bring herself to acquiesce calmly
+in such a state of things.
+
+Having met with other small disappointments in her endeavours to make
+some poor people happy, she took advantage of these discouragements, to
+ask Mr. Addison his opinion generally on the use of disappointments to
+human nature. It was on the occasion of his last visit before she left
+Underwood.
+
+Reading a good deal more of her mind than she thought she exhibited, he
+replied seriously--“I suppose they may be good for all, but for some
+characters I think they have a very special and particular use.”
+
+“For whom?” she asked.
+
+“For those I think whose natural dispositions lead them too earnestly to
+desire a Paradise on earth.”
+
+“Then for me,” she said, “I confess I do not like to be thwarted, and I
+do pine to be happy.”
+
+“Then for you,” he said with a slight kind smile. “But dear Miss Gresham
+remember this. The disappointments will do nothing, will only irritate
+the temper unless they are received humbly and borne patiently. They can
+do no good in themselves.”
+
+“I am afraid they only irritate me,” she said with humility; “they make
+me feel bitter and sour to all the world. I suppose I may be wrong, but
+I _think_ if I were happy I should be different. I think happiness makes
+me much more amiable and kind.”
+
+“There is no doubt it does,” he said quickly; “to feel happy and to feel
+good are almost the same things; whereas to have the mind fretted with
+many cares is almost to feel wicked.”
+
+“Exactly,” she cried eagerly; “then surely it would be better not to be
+fretted.”
+
+“It would indeed; and that is just what I wish you to understand we
+should never be. There are many thoughts should help us to this. Not to
+speak now of more serious ones, that we suffer far, far less than we
+deserve; that every trial is sent to do us good, and bring us good,
+perhaps on earth, certainly in heaven; and then again, that it is but
+for a moment, and will pass away, ‘even on earth that it will pass
+away.’”
+
+She looked at him very earnestly as if to discover whether he had
+meaning in his last words, but she could not trace any special thought
+in his grave, kind face.
+
+“One must be very good to feel all that,” she replied, after a moment.
+
+“But difficulty never disheartens a sincere person. You must try and
+feel it, my dear Miss Gresham.”
+
+“I will try,” she replied. But her thoughts were evidently wandering,
+and after a pause of consideration, she said, blushing slightly, but
+speaking composedly and steadily, “Talking of good people, I am going to
+ask what you will perhaps think a strange question. I have often wished
+to ask it. Do you call Mr. Vavasour a religious man? Good--I know he is,
+because everybody speaks of his goodness, but is he religious? You must
+not think I ask from levity, or because I would rather talk of my
+neighbour’s faults than my own.”
+
+“What distinction do you draw between a good and a religious man?” he
+asked with a slight smile.
+
+“A good man I can suppose to make mistakes,” she said quickly, “but not
+a religious man.”
+
+“Perhaps you expect too much even of a religious man,” he replied,
+smiling again; “but however, in a degree your distinction is just, for a
+commonly good man walks in his own strength, but a religious man in the
+strength of God.”
+
+“Well!” she asked eagerly.
+
+“In that sense I certainly do consider Mr. Vavasour to be a religious
+man. That he has all the feelings some might require for the term, I
+will not, because I cannot, assert; but I do believe that he frames his
+life as in the sight of God, and that from his duty so seen, cost him
+what it may, he will not swerve. That his decisions are always right I
+would not undertake to be sure. Why do you ask?” he enquired looking at
+her fixedly.
+
+“Only because I wish to know,” she replied gravely. A moment after she
+added, “Thank you for so patiently answering my questions. I think you
+are right about disappointments, and I will try what I can do to bear
+them better. I have a good many trials in that way, I really do think,”
+and a tear shone in her eye, “I wish I could take them more cheerfully.”
+
+“I think you have,” he said kindly. “God grant you may improve and not
+waste them.”
+
+He saw a wistful look in her face, as if she would have won from him
+some expression of hope to carry away with her, but he was too truly
+wise to speak only for pity’s sake. What would happen to her or Everard
+before another eight months had flown by what foresight could picture?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+                                      Yet fall
+    What will, or can, Love makes amends for all.
+              C. HERVEY.
+
+
+It was after Mr. Gresham’s departure, and the last day of the year, that
+the young groom once before-mentioned among the servants at Audley Court
+stood up in his place at dinner, and announced to his fellow servants
+this piece of intelligence: “that the time was come for him to inform
+them that he had made up his mind to call Mr. Everard his master, and
+to give him his due.”
+
+The announcement was received with “Hear, hear,” from Harrison the
+butler, and a thump on the table and “well done,” from old Roger. And
+the two audible expressions of satisfaction, only conveyed the
+sentiments of the rest. Everard had already won from his servants an
+honour almost equal to that given to his father; but so long as the
+young groom stood out in dignified obstinence, a dread of being looked
+on as time-servers had withheld them from any strong expressions of
+regard.
+
+When the first buzz of satisfaction died away, Harrison, somewhat
+formally, begged to know the reasons on which Thomas grounded his change
+of opinion.
+
+“I said to myself, I’d see,” was the reply, “and I have see’d. I said I
+would be in no hurry, and I hav’nt been in no hurry. I said, I would do
+it if it was just, and now I say it is just; and I’ll tell you the
+reason why. I said to myself, if Mr. Everard goes and marries that young
+lady over there, and makes a great lord of himself, with ever so many
+millions of gold, and tries to cut out poor Mr. Robert every way, then
+I’ll have nothing to say to him, nor call him Mr. Vavasour, not if I’m
+put in the stocks for it; and I wouldn’t. But now I see what I see, and
+I know what I know, and I see no love of money in him, and so I say it’s
+just to give him his due, and I’ll do it if all the world goes against
+me.”
+
+“Hear, hear,” said Harrison again.
+
+“That’s true, Thomas,” replied Betsey, “but I do wish Mr. Everard was
+married, poor dear! that I do. He wants comforting. Miss Linton is fond
+of him now, and does as much good as she can, poor dear, but neither
+she nor my poor missus have eyes for him, where Mr. Robert’s in the way;
+and I think he feels it. That’s what I think.”
+
+“All in good time, Betsey,” said Harrison solemnly; “the poet says, the
+funeral bake-meats are no fit ornaments to furnish out the marriage
+table.”
+
+“No sure,” she replied sadly.
+
+“Miss Gresham’s uncommon fond of Mr. Everard, our Mr. Vavasour,”
+observed Roger with great simplicity.
+
+This speech was received with a shout of laughter from most of the
+servants, and with “oh, fie Roger!” from Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Vavasour’s
+maid.
+
+“Why, there’s no harm,” he said, looking round bewildered. “Bless her
+pretty face, I see it as plain as I see my wig in this pewter plate
+here.”
+
+“Poor dear!” exclaimed Betsey with a sigh.
+
+“Be that as it may,” said the young groom, “it’s no business of ours.
+Mr. Everard, or Mr. Vavasour, as I mean to call him from henceforth,
+won’t have anything to say to her, beyond what a neighbourly gentleman
+should. And that’s what shows he has an honourable mind; and that he
+don’t mean to cut poor Mr. Robert out. I know his thoughts as well as I
+know my own; and that’s what I should do in his place, and so I’ll give
+him his due from henceforward, let who will go against it. And so here’s
+his health and a happy new year to him.”
+
+The toast was drunk with enthusiasm, and could the echoes of the country
+voices have been carried to Everard’s ears, they might have cheered a
+heart which stood in need of cheering; for Christmas had brought Robert
+back, and with his return, had returned all the most painful feelings
+attending Everard’s new position.
+
+Robert came for a visit of three weeks.
+
+He was well in health, and though, perhaps, in a degree more thoughtful
+than he had ever seemed in his life before, he still was the same
+Robert, with his wonderful charm and animation, casting gladness about
+him, none knew how, without effort, as without consciousness. To his
+mother he was loving as ever, and to cheer her seemed the one object on
+which he was bent. By his endeavours Mrs. Vavasour was won to smile
+occasionally, and to take some interest in what was passing around her.
+That which Hope and Everard had utterly failed to do, Robert did in one
+week.
+
+In one respect, however, Robert’s efforts failed like the others; and
+that was in his attempt to win her from her seclusion. On his first
+arrival he had implored her to come amongst them for his sake, in terms
+so fond and endearing, that it seemed strange his adoring mother should
+withstand him; but she did withstand. She wept bitterly in refusing his
+request, but no consent was won.
+
+It gave him pain at first, on her account it gave him more pain
+afterwards, for before the three weeks had expired he saw plainly why it
+was she hid herself from their eyes. Her intercourse with Everard was
+constant and kindly, but it was cold. To her _he_ devoted time and
+thought, and care and affection, but he could make no progress in
+healing the wound his advancement had caused. His excellence of nature
+she had always owned, she owned it now and trusted to it; but that very
+excellence had injured her darling, and she could not love it. She was a
+poor unhappy woman, who found that that passion she had cherished with
+too much idolatry, had become her tormentor.
+
+To his position in the house Robert accommodated himself apparently
+without pain, certainly without effort; but he perceived that that
+which he could, his mother could not do. She could not see Everard
+master and Robert nothing. He saw this plainly, and he saw that Everard
+understood it also; and he could well imagine that a part of that
+gravity which unceasingly sate upon his brow, was caused by his mother’s
+conduct.
+
+He attempted no change until the conclusion of his visit, but the day
+before his departure he made it a last request to Mrs. Vavasour that she
+would leave her rooms, and give her children the happiness of living
+with them once more. “I ask it, Mother,” he concluded, “for Everard’s
+sake.”
+
+“I cannot,” she said, quickly. “Do not ask it yet, dear Robert. I will
+do it when I can.”
+
+“If not for Everard’s sake, Mother, I ask it for mine. I don’t know how
+_you_ bear it, but it is to _me_ a perpetual grief to see his face. You
+surely see he looks unhappy.”
+
+“Yes, perhaps,” she allowed, “but there are many reasons for that. You
+know there are reasons for that....” She stopt with tears raining from
+her eyes.
+
+“Yes, Mother,” Robert said, tenderly, “I know; I know there are many
+causes, but still there is a something beyond these, and I think you
+cause it. Dear Mother, how you used to scold me, if I hurt a worm, or a
+poor little tortured bird, and does it now give you no pain to torture
+your own son.”
+
+“Oh! Robert,” she exclaimed, “what would you have me do?”
+
+“I would have you love and honour him, Mother, by every means in your
+power, and be proud of having such a son; for if ever a man has
+sacrificed happiness to his duty, I think Everard has. Do you suppose
+it was not torture to him to take my place as he did; but could he do
+otherwise? I ask you, Mother, could he have done otherwise? And dear
+Mother,” he continued, winding his arms round her, “I want you to own
+more than this. I want you to own that my father was right, for has he
+not set over his people a son like himself, and has he not, so far as
+man can yet see, saved me from destruction. If I had been rich and idle,
+I am very sure, even with my best resolutions, there was no hope for me.
+Dear Mother, if Everard has saved me, will you not give him your
+blessing for that?”
+
+She did consent. She could not but have consented; but Robert’s words
+told both ways; for the more his generous nature shone out the more she
+felt the injury he had received; and though with her body she did
+endeavour to do Everard honour, she could not force the feelings of her
+heart. _They_ held out against her husband’s will, strong and
+rebellious, and while they rebelled she could not but be miserable.
+
+When Robert spoke of himself as saved from destruction, it was not that
+he seemed in any way confident of his persistence in well doing. There
+had been one occasion on which disappointment had been bitterly felt.
+When on Christmas-day Everard and his mother and Hope knelt at the
+altar, Robert was absent. He had left the Church with a flushed cheek
+and reluctant step; but though reluctant still had left it.
+
+Not reproaching, not urging, Mr. Addison simply asked him the reason
+why.
+
+“Because I am not sure I am in a fit state,” he replied, gravely.
+
+“I think you are, dear Robert, as far as man can judge. Are you not
+leading a new life, and sincerely purposing to continue to lead it?”
+
+“I am not sure,” he said, in the same tone. “I am not at all sure of my
+sincerity, or else I would do what I know I ought.”
+
+On an inquiry from Mr. Addison as to his meaning, he said, “he must have
+more time. What he had hitherto done had been from remorse, and now that
+that was beginning to lose its power, he was not at all sure of
+himself.”
+
+In this he persisted; he was evidently really distrustful, and his
+distrust left some anxiety in Mr. Addison’s mind.
+
+After his departure, Everard inquired one day of Mr. Addison, if he was
+not perfectly happy about him.
+
+“Happy, yes, Everard,” was the reply, “very happy at what has been done.
+But we must have patience.”
+
+Everard looked annoyed. Very young people do not much like that word
+patience. To them it implies more of care than hope.
+
+“You are angry because I do not speak with perfect confidence,” Mr.
+Addison said with a slight smile, “but, Everard, there is no wisdom in
+over-confidence. I only fear as Robert fears himself, because time has
+not sufficiently proved his strength.”
+
+“I can conceive of no reason but one,” Everard said, with some
+vehemence, “for having a single fear; and in that _I_ think Robert was
+right. I do not like people to be over rash in such solemn things. In
+every way he seems to me perfect.”
+
+“You make more of the word fear, Everard, than I intend,” Mr. Addison
+said kindly; “all I feel is, that poor Robert’s nature is very weak, and
+his temptations unusually strong ones. One day’s temptation, while his
+principles and habits are new, might mislead him again. For him and for
+ourselves it is always wisest to face the truth. It has not been
+uncommon for one in his position to be disheartened by the very
+confidence and over expectations of his friends.”
+
+Everard said no more, but after a short pause proceeded to speak on a
+subject which occupied much of his thoughts, and which, perhaps, was the
+cause of his annoyance, in the qualified opinion of Mr. Addison. This
+subject was the relations of Robert and Hope.
+
+To Hope alone his return had brought no increase of _personal_
+happiness, but rather the reverse. During his last stay, with whatever
+difficulty it was accomplished, he had managed to keep up the old
+intimacy; but on this occasion the tie was altogether broken; and though
+forced to be constantly in her society, reserve and constraint had
+grown up between them. No more confidence from Robert, no more help, no
+more advice from Hope.
+
+Everard watched them both intently, and he could see what Hope evidently
+could not see, that Robert’s thoughts were seldom absent from her; and
+he put his own interpretation on his brother’s constraint.
+
+It was on this subject that he now spoke to Mr. Addison, and asked his
+advice as to whether or no he might write to Robert and say what he
+felt.
+
+“No, Everard, wait,” was Mr. Addison’s earnest reply. “Do not be over
+hasty. Reformation is of slow growth, not in the outward, perhaps, but
+in the inward man. Robert has been during the past months under the
+influence of excited feelings. Excitement dies; wait and see whether
+reformation grows when excitement is past. I see I give you pain. You
+are in too much haste to make others happy; but wait. It is a hard
+lesson, perhaps, but a wise man must learn it.”
+
+Everard smiled, and said, “I will take your advice to-day; reluctantly,
+I confess, but I will take it.”
+
+And he did wait.
+
+But when Easter brought Robert a second time, not only unchanged, but
+with all the best and highest parts of his nature shining in his face
+and flowing forth in his life and conversation, Everard felt that he
+read him most truly who trusted him most entirely; and that it was more
+for his welfare to help him on to happiness, than to leave him longer to
+struggle alone.
+
+One morning in May he said to Hope as she was leaving the
+breakfast-room, “I want to speak to you, Hope. I have some letters I
+want you to read. Shall I find you in the library about twelve?” There
+was seriousness more than usual in his manner.
+
+“Oh! Everard,” she cried turning back, “not about Robert?”
+
+“Are you distrustful, Hope?” he said reproachfully, “I did not expect
+that from you.”
+
+A flush of regret flitted over her cheek, but she did not justify
+herself.
+
+“It _is_ about Robert,” he continued quickly. “I want your.... your
+assistance and advice. Nothing I hope that will distress you.” And he
+left the room without saying more.
+
+When he returned he had a number of letters in his hand. He found her
+awaiting him with evident anxiety, but as evidently without any
+suspicion of what he had to say. He came and stood by the fire with the
+letters in his hand, and said, “Last year, Hope, I believe you were of
+my opinion, when there was a question about my mother’s going to live
+with Robert. I think you agreed with me that it was best at that time,
+that he should try his strength alone.”
+
+“Yes I certainly did,” she said, “and I think, Everard, that time has
+proved you were right.”
+
+“I hope there is no doubt about that, dear Hope. But _now_ things are
+different. It seems to me now a very great question whether Robert would
+not be better with a home. It is on that subject I want your advice.” He
+paused and looked at her. “What do you think, Hope?”
+
+“Perhaps you are right again,” she said after a little thought. “I had
+been so happy to see him as he is, that I had not begun to consider
+about a change. But I did hear him say the other day that he was
+sometimes dreary of an evening, an yet did not feel to care for Mr.
+Perceval’s company.”
+
+“So did I, Hope; that made me think a great deal about it.”
+
+“Has Aunt Joan decided? Have you talked to her, Everard?”
+
+“Yes, but I do not think she will go.” He paused again, then looking at
+her with a furtive smile,” he said, “Will you go to him, Hope?”
+
+“Me,” she cried turning deadly pale and clasping her hands together.
+“Oh! Everard.”
+
+“My dearest Hope,” he said, stooping towards her tenderly, “have I
+startled you? I did not mean to do it; but there it is; will you be
+Robert’s wife? He dares not ask you himself, and so I must do it. And
+Hope,” he continued seriously, laying his hand on hers, “remember that I
+have been made your guardian, and trust me that I would ask nothing but
+what your own father and my father, could they have been here to act for
+you, would have approved. There,” he added quickly, for he saw her
+agitation was very great, “read these, and I will come back again
+presently,” and he hastily left the room and left her to herself.
+
+The correspondence was arranged according to their dates. The first
+letter was from Everard to Robert, asking his opinion as to the
+desireableness of his having a home in London. He told him plainly the
+reasons which had made him oppose it the year before, dwelling
+especially on that reason which regarded Hope. He said he had fancied
+that Robert was not at his ease in her presence, and that he had thought
+it most right to save Hope from the pain of altered circumstances as far
+as was possible. But now he concluded, he no longer felt the same, and
+he would be glad to know Robert’s wishes.
+
+The style of the correspondence was according to the usual manner of the
+two brothers very simple and concise, not a word more than was
+necessary.
+
+Robert in his answer thanked Everard, but said he preferred that no
+change should be made. Not he said that there were not times when he
+longed to have a home, but the reasons against it were stronger than his
+wishes. “These reasons are chiefly two,” he concluded. “First, I am
+quite as sure as ever that my mother would be miserable cooped up in
+London; and secondly, I really cannot undertake to live constantly with
+Hope, as I used to do. I know that I must not think of marriage for some
+years to come, and therefore, I had better not be tempted to think of
+it. You perhaps may think me very weak, but some people cannot help
+saying what is in their minds, and I find it hard work as it is.”
+
+Everard’s answer to this was to say, that he supposed he understood that
+Robert alluded to money matters, when he said he could not marry, and he
+was anxious to show him, that provided he could be content to begin
+moderately, he thought that question might he satisfactorily arranged.
+He then reminded him, that Hope had been left to his guardianship, and
+asked him if he could doubt, that in the event of her marriage with any
+other person, his father would not have provided for her like his own
+daughter. He therefore proposed, he said, to give her £10,000, which,
+with what Robert had, would enable them to begin with £1000 a year, or
+rather more. Would Robert be content with this? he asked.
+
+A very serious reply was returned, thanking Everard for his care and
+interest, but reminding him of his father’s constantly expressed desire
+that the property should never be weakened by over charges.
+
+“I know that I, who have done so much to charge it, have no right to
+speak on this point, but I must remind you of it, lest your desire for
+my happiness should tempt you to forget.” This was the conclusion of the
+letter.
+
+There was yet another answer from Everard, laying before Robert a full
+statement of the present condition of the property. This statement
+showed the care and judgment which Everard had exhibited in the
+management, for it proved, that, notwithstanding the new charges, the
+condition was hopeful and flourishing. He directed his attention
+especially to one fact, which he said, enabled him with a clear
+conscience to make new charges. This was the paying off an old mortgage
+at a very high rate of interest by a sum borrowed at a lesser rate. As
+the mortgage was large, this had made a considerable difference in the
+yearly receipts.
+
+Robert now changed his ground, and wrote a somewhat passionate and
+excited letter on the subject of his unworthiness of Hope. “That she
+loves me,” he said, “I will not even pretend to doubt. I know that angel
+cannot change, but that she would marry me, I do very much doubt, and
+still more do I doubt my right to ask it. I do not speak of how I have
+treated her, for I do believe she would forgive that as she forgives
+everything; but think of my past life and hers, and ask yourself if it
+is fit that two such contrasts should be joined together. I dare not
+think of it, and am inclined to wonder, that you, her guardian, should
+propose it, especially, as whatever I may _intend_, promise and vow I
+dare not.”
+
+There was more, and forcibly put, and by the dates of the letters it
+was evident that Everard had not replied to it in haste. There was
+nearly a week between them. This was the reply, when it came.
+
+
+     “My dear Robert,
+
+     “For many days I have been thinking of your letter. You put my duty
+     towards Hope, in a stronger light than I had yet considered it, and
+     I would not answer till I had thought it over in every point of
+     view. I am sure I do not wonder at your feelings, and though it is
+     hardly for me to say so to you, I can assure you, it is not because
+     I think lightly of your objections, that I still hold to my wishes.
+     But there are other points of view in which the case may be
+     considered. The past is your own consideration, the future is what
+     I have to do with, and for that I do trust you. One who has behaved
+     as you have done to me, shows a nature too noble and generous not
+     to be safely trusted with the care and happiness, even of one like
+     Hope. So far, therefore, as my consent is needed, you have it.
+
+     “Not for worlds, however, would I press you further, and if you
+     feel you cannot undertake the trust, this shall be the last I will
+     say on the subject. I shall be disappointed, but that is not a
+     matter of importance. Shall you think of coming down and talking to
+     her?
+
+                                                   “Always, dear Robert,
+                                                  “Yours affectionately,
+                                                     “EVERARD VAVASOUR.”
+
+
+There was a pause of four days more, and then this answer.
+
+
+     “My dear Everard,
+
+     “If you can trust me, that is more to the purpose than my own
+     feelings. You would not unless you saw good reason, and that gives
+     me confidence. I put myself in your hands. Speak for me to Hope.
+     Tell her I dare not ask it--tell her what I feel when I think of
+     her as my wife. Yet tell her that with her love and prayers I do
+     trust I may yet be more worthy of her. You must tell me how she
+     looks. If she can bear to think of it, I will come and speak for
+     myself.
+
+                                                  “Yours affectionately,
+                                                      “ROBERT VAVASOUR.”
+
+
+So ended the correspondence.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hope was still sitting with the letters in her hand when Everard
+returned, and as she did not seem to observe him, he took a book and sat
+down at a distance in silence.
+
+It was some time longer before a slight movement roused her to a sense
+of her abstraction. When he saw she observed him, he got up and went
+towards her.
+
+“Have you considered, dear Hope?” he enquired, not with a smile, for he
+saw that grave thoughts had occupied her, and were now painted on her
+pale cheek.
+
+She looked up in his face with an expression of confidence that touched
+him to the heart.
+
+“Like Robert, dear Everard,” she said, “I put myself in your hands. I
+trust you when I could not dare to trust myself,” and she put both her
+hands in his as she said the words.
+
+“I think you may trust me,” he said, stooping and kissing her brow, with
+a something fatherly in his manner, that sat upon him with singular
+grace. “We all may be mistaken, but I do believe that Robert is now
+worthy of your love. If I did not, no thought for his happiness could
+have led me to wish for this marriage. Your happiness was too sacred a
+trust. Dear Hope, are you happy now?”
+
+“Yes, too happy,” she said, and tears shone in her eyes.
+
+“Then all is well, and God bless you, for you have made _me_ happy!” and
+his face did look for the moment as if the weight of care that oppressed
+it, was lifted and gone.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+As the course of this love now ran smoothly it needs but a few more
+words. The marriage took place in the following month of June. Before
+that time Everard went with Robert to London to make some arrangements,
+and to find a house. A small, but pretty one was chosen near the Green
+Park. Its cost was beyond what was justified by Robert’s circumstances,
+but Everard insisted on supplying the _unjustified_ part of the sum,
+and, as was now felt by all, when Everard insisted he had his way. His
+argument was that Hope was unaccustomed to London and must have fresh
+air; and to this Robert submitted.
+
+“I submit,” he said, laughing, “because I can’t help it, and because I
+think it gives you pleasure, and because....” He paused and looked into
+his brother’s face to see if he might venture. He certainly saw no
+invitation to venture, yet he proceeded, “because I hope you will soon
+have so much money, you will not know what to do with it.”
+
+There was no answer to this, it had only the effect of restoring the
+grave look which was beginning to be shaken off.
+
+The marriage was celebrated with great privacy. This was partly in order
+to induce Mrs. Vavasour to attend, and partly according to a well known
+opinion of Robert’s. “I don’t like to see a woman stared at,” he had
+often said, “on her wedding day more than any other day, and my wife
+never shall,” and he kept his word. Nevertheless, he requested Hope to
+dress herself with as much care as if there were to be a thousand
+spectators, and she in whose eyes everything was sanctified that could
+give pleasure to him, woke up her slumbering taste and did her utmost to
+gratify him.
+
+When she came down in her bridal dress before they set off for the
+church, he seemed to feel what she was, almost beyond what he had ever
+felt before, and stood gazing at her in a kind of transport, as serious
+as it was full of love and admiration. “My dear Hope,” he said at last,
+with sadness in his voice, “how you make me ashamed. What have I ever
+done that I should have an angel to bear me company?”
+
+Everard and his mother stood at the door to see them take their
+departure, when--after the ceremony was over, and they had returned to
+Audley Court for Hope to change her dress,--they set out on their way.
+
+Hope’s last word was to Everard. She came to him and put her hand in
+his, looking with grateful affection into his face. “It is to you we owe
+it all, dear Everard,” she said in her sweet tremulous voice. “You have
+saved him, and made me happy. God bless you for it.”
+
+And Robert’s voice murmured something of the same import as he shook his
+hand, and followed her.
+
+Everard’s heart swelled and tears were in his eyes. He stood watching
+them in deep thought.
+
+When the last sound of the wheels was heard, he was roused by a hand
+laid gently on his arm. He turned round. His mother was there looking up
+at him, with such a look of love as had often been Robert’s portion but
+never his, till this moment. She smiled almost playfully and said, “Can
+you be content, Everard, with an old mother for your company.”
+
+More than a thousand repentant protestations were contained in those
+simple words; Everard was loved at last, and he felt it. He kissed her
+with an emotion which, in its warmth and freedom, reacted upon her, and
+the chains of many years’ binding, fell off and left them free.
+
+Robert’s marriage had had the effect of rousing Mrs. Vavasour from the
+cloud in which her grief had wrapt her. The thought of the new home of
+her darling had won her to look into that future over which so dark a
+mist had been brooding, and she found there hope and comfort. Once
+aroused she saw her duties more clearly, the shadow fell away, and she
+found strength for what yet was left in life for her to do. And when the
+shadow departed she saw Everard as he was. She saw what Hope and Robert
+felt towards him, the trust they reposed in him, the reverence with
+which they regarded him; no longer unwilling she allowed them to speak,
+and they told her of all his ways, and all his acts of generous
+kindness; of the affection he was winning from his people, of the regard
+and estimation of all--she heard and pondered it in her heart, and thus
+a change came.
+
+It seemed a strange thing to Everard, that that action, which had cost
+him such agony of spirit, which in its beginning had seemed to produce
+only hate, should in the end win for him the thing his soul longed for
+with feverish longing. He who had been nothing was now all. _The_ one on
+whom all seemed to hang for affection, help, and guidance, the one on
+whom warm words of grateful love were for ever falling, making his heart
+beat and his eyes dim with tears. It was very strange to him, and being
+more inclined to humility than to pride, he felt humbled in the
+possession of the blessing, which, when absent, he had almost thought he
+deserved.
+
+But though a strange thing in Everard’s eyes, it is no uncommon thing in
+the ways of the world. The rough path of a hard duty, or that which
+looks like a duty to sincere eyes, sometimes becomes strangely smooth,
+when the steps are steadfastly set to walk along it; and many a low
+valley long despised in men’s eyes, becoming fertile through the dews of
+Heaven, draws to itself the gaze which it seemed unwilling to meet, and
+in due time is exalted.
+
+As Everard and his mother re-entered her sitting-room after Robert’s
+departure, she again laid her hand on his arm, and said,
+
+“Dear Everard, do you never mean to be as happy as Robert is?”
+
+And, again, a shadow fell over his face, and he said, “The future is a
+dark place, Mother, who can tell what is hid in it.”
+
+“Do not some make it darker than it need be?” she asked again.
+
+He silently shook his head, and the subject dropped.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+    The backward flower may yet be wooed to blow,
+    The dying flame may yet be set a glow,
+    The truant bird be lured, the fickle heart
+    Won back again by spell of love’s sweet art;
+    But thou, so kind, so constant, yet so cold,
+    What spell for thee shall all love’s store unfold?
+              _From Poems by E. Hinxman._
+
+
+“Well, Angela,” cried Miss Vansittart, eagerly entering the drawing-room
+at Underwood, “what do you think? Mr. Gresham has proposed, and Mr.
+Vavasour has accepted.”
+
+Angela was seated in a window of the room drawing. Miss Price was lying
+on the sofa. It was in the middle of August. Mr. Gresham (bringing Miss
+Price in his suite to be again a chaperone to his daughter “on certain
+delicate occasions,”) had returned to Underwood about ten days before,
+his mind as tenaciously bent on the acquisition of its idol as in the
+previous year. The Vansittart family were paying him a visit.
+
+There was certainly nothing very attractive even to the most anxious
+heart, in the terms of Miss Vansittart’s announcement, but Angela’s
+inner life was too constantly agitated to allow her to hear it with
+calmness. A flush of astonishment strangely mingled with hope and anger,
+dyed her cheeks, and a startled light flashed in her eyes.
+
+At the sight of her discomposure, Miss Vansittart laughed heartily, as
+heartily that is, as she thought it becoming in a young lady to laugh,
+and more heartily than she would have laughed had Mr. Gresham been in
+the room.
+
+“Why, Angela,” she exclaimed, “what is the matter? You could not look
+more moved, if a proposal of marriage had been in question, instead of a
+simple proposal to dine.”
+
+“You startled me,” Angela said coldly, and resumed her drawing without
+further inquiries.
+
+“But why,” asked her companion eagerly. “What did you think I meant? Did
+you really, is it possible you could really suppose, that I was speaking
+of a matrimonial proposal. Is it possible?”
+
+With an effort Angela drove away her annoyance and laughed. “If your
+father was my father, Adelaide,” she said, lightly, “you would sometimes
+feel as I do, _terrified_ at what he might think it right to do.”
+
+“Terror!” said her tormentor. “I don’t think it was only terror I saw in
+your face.”
+
+Angela made no reply. She was now herself again, guarded and prepared
+for Miss Vansittart’s questioning.
+
+“Come, Angela,” she said, drawing a chair into the window. “Now I have
+found you alone or as good as alone,” glancing at Miss Price who was
+reading, and quite unmoved by what had passed, “do talk to me a little.
+I must tell you that I know all about you and Mr. Vavasour. My interest
+was excited about him last night, so I made it my business to drag it
+all out of your Papa in the course of that walk we took this morning. He
+has been telling me everything from beginning to end.”
+
+“Then probably you know much more than I do,” was Angela’s cold reply.
+
+“Perhaps,” with a little air of importance. “But still I know only the
+dry facts such as a man can tell; I want the comments which only a woman
+can make. Come, do be a good girl, and make a _confidante_ of me.”
+
+“I will answer any question you please to ask,” Angela said. “But as I
+have nothing whatever to tell, you must excuse my making confidences.”
+
+“You are very ungrateful, do you know,” said Miss Vansittart playfully.
+“You owe this dinner engagement entirely to me. After your Papa told me
+the dry facts this morning, I made him come in and write an invitation
+to dine and sleep for Saturday, on the spur of the moment. He consented,
+wrote it, desired the groom to wait for an answer, and the answer being
+favorable, allowed me to be the bearer of the good news to you at once.
+It came while we were playing at billiards, and I resigned my place to
+Mamma, and hastened to you.”
+
+“Thank you.”
+
+“Oh! you wretch, is that all you have to say after my efforts in your
+service?”
+
+“As you could not possibly know, Adelaide, whether it would please me or
+not, I can only suppose you wish to see Mr. Vavasour himself.”
+
+“There I will confess you are right; for though I am entirely of your
+Papa’s mind that the union of the two properties is motive sufficient to
+form the matrimonial project, still being somewhat younger than he is,
+and in its proper place somewhat more romantic, I allow that the outward
+man and manners are of importance. Now tell me--Is Mr. Vavasour
+handsome?”
+
+“My aunt says not.”
+
+“Do you, Miss Price,” said Miss Vansittart, startling her into
+attention. “Do you call Mr. Vavasour ugly? I am sorry for that.”
+
+“Ugly, my love, no indeed,” replied Miss Price much distressed. “I
+believe, I did once say that to my taste he was not handsome; his nose
+is large, and his eyebrows very marked--but he is pleasing, decidedly
+pleasing.”
+
+“And what do you say, Angela?”
+
+“Oh! pleasing, decidedly pleasing,” she replied carelessly.
+
+“Well, I see I must judge for myself. He comes on Saturday. I told you
+that, Angela, did I not? to dine, but not to sleep; and I can tell you,
+that since you refuse to confide in me, you must be prepared to be
+watched with the eyes of a lynx. I have no doubt that _I_ shall discover
+what is the mystery.”
+
+“What mystery?” Angela said impatiently provoked out of her coolness.
+
+“What mystery? why, my dear Angela, the very inexplicable mystery of
+why, seeing he is now in a position to be accepted, he does not repeat
+his former unwelcome proposal.”
+
+“If you put it in that light, I think what you call the mystery is very
+easily explained. Some men are not particularly fond of being accepted
+for their position, and some women would scorn them if they were.”
+
+“Yes some, but not you, Angela,” she replied mischievously. “You would
+e’en take him, although he has the misfortune to have a fine property
+saddled upon him.”
+
+“What makes you take so much interest in Mr. Vavasour?” Angela asked,
+evading any reply to this accusation.
+
+“That Mr. Selwyn with whom you sent me in to dinner last night. He
+talked of very little except Mr. Vavasour, and as I had nothing better
+to hear from him, I allowed him and even encouraged him to speak. You
+know, Angela, men say, that a woman never praises a woman. Now I have
+happened to remark, that except very young men, a man never praises a
+man; and therefore when a man does praise a man, I always suppose there
+is good reason.”
+
+“And Mr. Selwyn praised Mr. Vavasour?” Angela asked with as small a show
+of interest as she could possibly put on.
+
+“He did indeed, he even excited _my_ prosaic mind. He told me that a
+year ago he in common with many others, positively hated him for
+stepping as he did into his brother’s place, but that somehow or other,
+he has so won the good opinion of his neighbours, that there is not one
+who does not love him. He says, he mixes in society a good deal now, as
+much as he can without leaving his mother alone, and that his manners
+and conversation are so agreeable, so kind, and so sensible, that ... in
+short, I suppose, Angela, that if Mr. Selwyn has any daughters, they are
+your rivals; and perhaps a great many others besides. I did not like to
+ask the question point blank, but I beat delicately about the bush, and
+I found, that Mr. Vavasour is not looked upon as a marrying man, but
+that if he were, he would have no great difficulty in finding a wife.”
+
+“I should think not,” Angela said composedly. “When a person’s character
+is very high, and there is nothing in other ways to repel, I think the
+difficulty must be _not_ to like them.”
+
+“That is your opinion, is it, Angela? And you think love is guided by
+character? Well, my view of the world differs from yours; and I should
+say, upon the whole, that my experience is more to be trusted. However,
+I must tell you one thing more that Mr. Selwyn said. He found a fault.
+Are you interested? Do you care to know what it is? Have you any fears
+for Mr. Vavasour’s character?” and she fixed her mischievous eyes on
+Angela’s face.
+
+“Not much fear for his character,” she said, with a very slight glow on
+her cheek, “but I should certainly like to hear what the fault is.”
+
+“To tell you the truth, it was the fault that most took my fancy. Not
+that I myself admire it; I quite agree with Mr. Selwyn, and with your
+papa, who joined in the conversation, that it is a great fault; but
+still it is not a very common one, and therefore it took my attention.
+The world is full of people, worthy and unworthy, who try to make much
+of themselves. To be blameably backward is less common, and though a
+fault, is not an offensive one. When I hear of a young man in Mr.
+Vavasour’s position, being too modest to take his proper place in the
+world, I think it a very great pity, and so I shall tell him if I have
+an opportunity; but it excites my interest.”
+
+“Yes,” Angela replied, with the same quietness of manner with which she
+had pursued the conversation.
+
+Miss Vansittart here gave a slight and affected yawn, as if to do away
+with the impression of having been really interested in the
+conversation, and began to admire the embroidery of Angela’s collar, and
+the fineness of her muslin gown. This was a common change in her ways
+and manners. She had more in her than she quite liked to have, or knew
+what to do with, and after any unusual shew of interest, retraced her
+steps to worldliness or frivolity, as the practice of some serious duty
+she had set before her eyes.
+
+Angela was too lavishly supplied with the means of adorning herself to
+take much interest in her dress, and while her companion admired, her
+thoughts went far away.
+
+There was nothing new in their track. The same hope, the same fear, the
+same despondency, had occupied her mind for many months, and were
+occupying them still. She returned unchanged. “The strength of love is
+constancy,” and certainly hers day by day gathered strength, and
+engraved itself with iron in her soul. This was not altogether a
+conscious virtue, or a willing one. There had been many moments during
+the weary, yet exciting months she had passed, when she had said she
+would wait no more. There had been moments, when her heart sickening
+with hope deferred, and pining to be loved and cherished, had
+resolved--among the many who only waited the softening of a glance to
+come forward,--to make a new and happier choice.
+
+But little did these resolutions avail her. It is the happiness, and yet
+the trial of attachments like hers, that they cannot be shaken.
+Sympathies are broken, fancies change, charms are dispelled; but the
+chain that binds to the rock of a lofty character no wind or storm can
+break, so long as the rock itself is fast and sure. Inconstant natures
+may, indeed, be weary of reverencing, as they grow weary of all things
+else in earth and in Heaven; but better natures are not fickle ones--and
+in these the love that is built on reverence is as immoveable as the
+stars in the sky. Angela struggled with her passion only to find that it
+grasped her with a might beyond her power to overcome.
+
+So she returned to Underwood, and so entered again upon her life of
+exciting expectation.
+
+On the Sunday after her return, she had twice seen Everard in church;
+but there had been no meeting outside. In the morning _she_ had been
+late, and in the afternoon _he_ was so; and on both occasions he had
+remained with his mother--who was still unwilling to encounter the gaze
+of strangers--when the service was over. Whether this was a pain to him
+or no, she could not tell. Their pews were on different sides of the
+church; and though she had fancied that his eyes followed her down the
+aisle, she could not he sure.
+
+“I am glad I shall see Mr. Vavasour,” broke in the placid voice of her
+aunt, about half-an-hour after Miss Vansittart left the room, “I shall
+be happy to meet him again.”
+
+Angela started from her meditations, and went to her and kissed her. She
+did feel sanguine at this early acceptance of her father’s invitation,
+and thus her heart expressed itself.
+
+“You will be happy too, love?”
+
+“I cannot tell,” Angela said, and sighed, and sat down again to her
+drawing.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Mr. Gresham stood at the drawing-room door to receive Everard, much in
+the same manner as he had received Robert two years before; and with
+something of the same pomp he would have conducted him around the room;
+but Everard escaped from him. Leaving Mr. Addison, with whom he came, to
+hear the conclusion of Mr. Gresham’s speeches, he went quickly across
+the room to Angela, and having as quickly shaken hands with her,
+retreated to the background, where Miss Price sat, and placed himself by
+her side. It was all so easily and rapidly done, that Angela’s heart had
+scarcely begun to bound, and her cheek to flush, before the meeting was
+over. How over she could not tell; but she was so far relieved as to be
+convinced that even Miss Vansittart’s curious eyes had seen nothing to
+satisfy them; and she resolved that this first meeting safely over,
+nothing to gratify them _should_ be exhibited during the remainder of
+the evening.
+
+Mr. Gresham was disappointed in being unable to make a hero of Everard.
+He could not appreciate a character that did not love to walk in the
+eyes of the world; and he gave a sigh to Robert.
+
+Mr. Selwyn’s complaint regarding Everard’s manners and habits, was the
+common complaint of the neighbourhood. Perhaps it is the case in all
+countries--in England it certainly is so great a pleasure to admire, and
+either privately or publicly to make a hero, that in the same degree as
+arrogance offends, over-diffidence displeases. It is a disappointment to
+a very good trait in human nature, and human nature is angry. And yet,
+on the other hand, it was this very simplicity and modesty of nature
+which had won for Everard the regard in which he was now held. It might
+disappoint, but it attracted--it might be condemned with the lips, but
+the inner heart approved; and, though with reluctance, it was some times
+confessed, that in his peculiar position even over-diffidence, perhaps,
+was fitting.
+
+Unwilling to be thwarted in all his efforts to do honor to his guest,
+Mr. Gresham, when dinner was announced, approached Everard, and desired
+him aloud to take his daughter in to dinner. Having made his
+arrangements, he then gave his own arm to Mrs. Vansittart, and departed.
+
+A bright color glowed for a moment on the cheeks of both Everard and
+Angela, but he obeyed Mr. Gresham’s commands without hesitation, and
+came to her side at once. Not so Angela. Not coldly, yet with dignity,
+she stood up on his approach, and with ease and self-possession said,
+“No, I think it will be better for you to take Miss Vansittart,” and
+making a slight introduction, she drew back.
+
+Again he colored, but obeyed with the same perfect obedience.
+
+“Will you take me, Mr. Addison?” Angela asked, having previously
+mortally offended a youth, by sending him in to dinner with Miss Price,
+and she placed herself at the table well satisfied with what she had
+done.
+
+But the satisfaction did not last very long. From her end of the table
+she could not help observing what passed at the other end; and the easy
+conversation which was kept up between Everard and Miss Vansittart,
+annoyed her. She observed, and justly, that he was changed. Having been
+forced into notice, all that was awkward in his manners had worn away,
+and he was able to bear his part in common society without effort or
+pain. His countenance, when in repose, was still singularly grave; but
+being no longer permitted to be silent, the gravity was not so striking.
+He was changed, as life and society changes all men; and in his case
+there was no doubt that the change was an improvement. But Angela could
+not, and would not, own it; a feeling of jealousy and annoyance crept
+over her, and after some struggle, the mind’s feelings came forth in
+words.
+
+“Mr. Vavasour, I see, has quite recovered his spirits,” she observed to
+Mr. Addison.
+
+“In a degree,” he replied, “not entirely. Even yet, I sometimes accuse
+him of moroseness.”
+
+“I don’t see much of it,” she said quickly.
+
+He glanced at her, but said no more.
+
+“I hear he mixes a great deal in society,” she began again, after
+another somewhat angry gaze down the table.
+
+“Not a very great deal; what he does is chiefly for his mother’s sake.
+She will not see any one herself, and he thinks it necessary therefore,
+for her good and her happiness, to have some new things to tell her. He
+leaves her unwillingly, but he thinks occasional absences make
+diversity in her life; and he is right.”
+
+“Yes, I dare say. I was not disapproving, I assure you, Mr. Addison. I
+was only remarking on the fact as a new one. He strikes me as being very
+much changed.”
+
+“You will not think so when you see more of him. I see him most days,
+and I see no change. Except ...” he added, after a moment, “that he
+changes as we all ought to change--he improves.”
+
+“Oh, yes, so I hear,” she replied; but she was not in the mood to think
+of any changes with pleasure, and her tone was not cordial.
+
+“I think _you_ are changed, Miss Gresham,” Mr. Addison said, looking at
+her after a short silence.
+
+“Am I? How?”
+
+“You are graver and quieter; _older_,” he added, with a smile.
+
+“And is it a good change?” Angela asked, smiling also.
+
+“Yes, I think so,” he replied, kindly.
+
+“Do you _really_ think I am growing better? I should be very glad;” and
+there was real anxiety in her voice.
+
+“Yes, I think so,” he repeated.
+
+“I wonder why you think so. What have I done; I feel so very far from
+being better myself.”
+
+He looked round to see if any one was listening, and then said quietly,
+“You used to give me much pain by your wandering eyes at church, you do
+so no longer. That is one good change.”
+
+“Ah!” she exclaimed, colouring deeply.
+
+“I remember you told me once. Yes I have tried to change that. But
+perhaps....” She stopped, and sighed, and said no more; but meant
+perhaps to say, that the inner eyes were wandering still.
+
+They continued to talk during the remainder of dinner; not so
+unceasingly, however, as to prevent Angela from perceiving the flow of
+discourse between Everard and Miss Vansittart. Not even in the early
+days of their acquaintance had Everard been thus conversible with her.
+
+On returning to the drawing-room, Miss Vansittart approached her with
+her hands joined together and said, “My dear Angela, I must really beg
+your pardon! I am afraid you will never forgive me.”
+
+“For what?” Angela said, forcing a smile, but uneasy in heart.
+
+“I will tell you. Quite inadvertently I am afraid I have deprived you of
+Mr. Vavasour’s society this evening. In the course of dinner I asked
+your Papa if he would let me play at whist to-night--you know I have
+before now begged him to let me join his party, and he has refused,
+thinking I did it out of civility--well he agreed at last; and then
+quite without thought I asked Mr. Vavasour if he would be my partner; to
+my utter dismay, he said yes. I am really sorry, Angela, but I could not
+help it.”
+
+Angela’s heart died within her. This, then, was to be the end of that
+meeting, from which she had hoped so much. She turned pale with
+disappointment, but seeing four curious eyes eagerly watching her face,
+she controlled herself enough to say indifferently, “If it pleases you
+and him, you are quite welcome. For myself I hate the very sight of
+whist, but that I suppose is a matter of taste.”
+
+“You seemed to be getting on famously with Mr. Vavasour, Adelaide,” said
+her mother. “I was quite afraid Mr. Gresham would be jealous.”
+
+“Oh, no fear of that,” Adelaide replied, with a slight affected laugh,
+“he knew what I was doing. He told me to make much of Mr. Vavasour, and
+I was only obeying orders.”
+
+Angela had now recovered herself, and sitting down and inviting the
+others to sit down also, she said, composedly, “What did you talk about,
+Adelaide? I should have thought no two people on earth could have had so
+little in common.”
+
+“What has that to do with conversation?” was Miss Vansittart’s reply.
+“Society would be very tame if there was nothing but agreement.”
+
+“I don’t want agreement; but to talk pleasantly people must more or less
+see things from the same point of view. Now, I should say, you and Mr.
+Vavasour might have been born in different planets.”
+
+“I should think we were, and that he was born in the planet Mars, for
+instance; but let people come from whence they may, I will find means to
+make them talk to me. But however, Mr. Vavasour and I _had_ a subject in
+common, and we did great justice to it.”
+
+“And what was that?” asked Mrs. Vansittart. Miss Vansittart bowed to
+Angela with a peculiar smile.
+
+“Me!” cried Angela, indignantly. “I should be much obliged to you, then,
+not to talk about me.”
+
+“I am very sorry, but I really cannot oblige you. I talk of you very
+often. You are quite one of my subjects. I admire you, and blame you,
+and envy you, just as the circumstances suggest, and you would rob me of
+one of my greatest pleasures if you set an embargo on my lips.”
+
+“And what line did you take to-night?” asked her mother smiling.
+
+“I began by admiring, of course, and then I asked him the question point
+blank whether he did not admire also. You know, Angela, I had no reason
+to hold my tongue. And what do you think he said?”
+
+Angela’s heart beat, but she only quietly said, “Very little, I should
+guess.”
+
+“Well, he did not make an oration, certainly; but he answered
+readily,--no blushing or stammering, as I had expected, ‘Yes, very
+much.’ So then I went on to my next subject--envy; and on that I dilated
+at some length. But here we did not agree so well; in fact, to say the
+truth, I think he looked on my views as very worldly. When I observed
+that I could conceive nothing earthly so happy as your position, he said
+gravely, ‘that he did not think great riches were an advantage to a
+woman, but much more a trial.’”
+
+Angela blushed, but remained silent.
+
+Miss Price, who generally slumbered by fits and starts during the
+evening, here softly murmured, “It is all as God ordains,” a sentiment
+which was very commonly in her mouth, and which during her half
+slumbers, she sometimes applied with less opportuneness than at this
+moment.
+
+“Very true, Miss Price,” said Miss Vansittart good-humouredly, “and I
+hope you will not think me wrong if I say I wish it had been ordained
+for me. I do not agree with Mr. Vavasour at all, and so I told him; and
+I took that opportunity to give him a piece of advice which I had been
+treasuring in my mind for some days, namely, that he, in his position,
+ought not to keep himself so backward. I told him position was not given
+to be hid under a bushel.”
+
+“What did he say?” Angela asked eagerly, forgetting how little interest
+she desired to shew on the subject.
+
+“He did not much like my advice, I think. He tried to change the subject
+again and again, but it is one on which I feel strongly, and so I
+persisted, and delivered myself of a great many wise sentiments. He
+said, at last, he was very much obliged to me, and he hoped he should
+profit by my advice; but it was not serious, and I am very much afraid I
+made no impression.”
+
+“Young men are apt to be perverse,” said Mrs. Vansittart, vacantly, as
+she looked over her rings and bracelets, and wondered why the gentlemen
+sat so long after dinner.
+
+“How prettily you are dressed to-night, Angela,” observed Miss
+Vansittart, changing her manner. “I made that remark to Mr. Vavasour;
+and he looked at you and said ‘yes, he liked white;’ so now you know his
+taste, if you did not before, which I suspect you did. What did you give
+for that silk, and where did you have it made?”
+
+“I know nothing about it,” Angela said, impatiently. “I have told you a
+hundred times that I know no more about my dress than the man in the
+moon. Papa told me to bring six new gowns into the country, and I
+obeyed, though I thought it was shocking waste. I told my maid to go and
+order them, and this is one.”
+
+Miss Vansittart put up her hands to her eyes and Mrs. Vansittart said,
+“I remember when you were quite a little thing, Angela, finding you one
+night very angry about wearing silk frocks. Some poet says, I believe,
+that the boy is father to the man. I am sure in your case the girl is
+mother to the woman.”
+
+“I think I remember,” Angela said laughing, “that was the first night I
+ever saw Mr. Merivale. Do you know that he is coming over. We expect him
+here in about three weeks.”
+
+“I rejoice to hear it,” said Mrs. Vansittart! “He is too great a
+stranger to us all. But here come the gentlemen at last!” and as she
+spoke Mr. Gresham and his suite entered the room.
+
+Poor Angela was destined to new disappointment. Had Everard intended to
+approach her he could not have done so, for the mortally offended youth,
+thinking no small things of himself, and determined to make amends for
+the tedium of the dinner hour, took a chair, placed it in front of
+Angela, and cut her off from the room; and she, too conscious of her
+intense desire to escape from him to allow it to appear, was forced to
+endure with patience.
+
+Everard was first seized by the button, while an old gentleman expounded
+in his ears his views on foreign politics; he was freed from this grasp
+after a time by Mr. Gresham, who brought a request from Mrs. Vansittart,
+that she might be allowed to make his acquaintance. She looked on all
+young men in Everard’s circumstances under two aspects; first as
+valuable in themselves, and secondly, as valuable in respect to her
+three daughters; and she laid herself out to make herself agreeable to
+him.
+
+Angela watched, and could she have seen one weary glance directed
+towards herself would have been content; but no glance came. She did not
+think he looked interested or amused, but there was no appearance of a
+wish to escape, and languidly and restlessly she endeavoured to attend
+to her own companion.
+
+Then came a move; and hope once more arose; but it was only to the whist
+table, which,--in a desire to show his gratitude to Miss Vansittart for
+her interest in his favourite recreation--Mr. Gresham caused to be set
+out at an earlier hour than usual.
+
+Everard was summoned; and no longer fearful of her motives being read
+too plainly, Angela freed herself from the youth who had poisoned her
+evening, and sitting down by her aunt, indulged her troubled thoughts in
+silence.
+
+From this comparative peace she was aroused by an order from Mr. Gresham
+to entertain them with music; she obeyed and was followed to the
+piano-forte by the youth, and by Mr. Alfred Vansittart, a young
+gentleman who for several years had been carrying on a mild courtship,
+insipid but constant, never daunted, but never elated into hope.
+
+Though improved and improving outwardly and inwardly; though softened in
+manner, and to a considerable degree disciplined in mind, Angela was
+still very far from a saint either in gentleness or patience. Mortified
+and disappointed she could not refrain from venting a part of her
+irritation on her two pertinacious admirers, and first by obtuseness to
+their speeches, and then by rebuffs to their polite attentions, she
+endeavoured to soothe herself, and weary them. Of the ill temper in
+which she was indulging she was totally unconscious, until, a
+considerable time having elapsed in mingled concord and discord, sweet
+sounds of music and irritation of temper, she suddenly perceived that
+she had a third auditor. Behind Alfred Vansittart Everard was standing
+and watching her.
+
+She felt her cheeks glow, and unable to bear her prominent position, she
+closed her music book, pushed back her chair, and said with a laugh that
+she had played enough and could play no more.
+
+The young men remonstrated, re-opened the book, and sorted her music in
+search of fresh pieces; and while they thus occupied themselves, Everard
+came round to her.
+
+“I am going now,” he said, “Mrs. Vansittart has taken my place. My
+mother likes to sit up for me, and I don’t wish to be late. I have
+something to ask you before I go. You saw Hope in London, did you not?”
+
+“Once. Only once. She only arrived just before we left London.”
+
+“Did she make a request to you?”
+
+“Yes,” Angela said blushing a little, “but....”
+
+“I hope you will be so kind as to attend to it,” he said earnestly;
+“Hope told me she should ask you to come and see my mother, and I cannot
+help enforcing her request myself. It will be a kindness, a real charity
+if you will; for since Hope went, my mother is too much alone.”
+
+“Do you think she will see me?”
+
+“I am almost sure she will, if you can make the attempt.”
+
+“Then I will.”
+
+There was a short silence, and then Everard said, “I believe I am very
+troublesome, but would it be possible to you to name the day. The reason
+I ask this is, that I may be at home when you come. If I tell my mother
+of your visit beforehand, it will make her nervous, but I think if I
+tell her you are _there_, she will be very willing to meet you. It is
+only for the first time.”
+
+“I am afraid I cannot go while the Vansittarts are here,” Angela said
+after a moment’s thought. “Will this day week do? I think I could manage
+it then, at about half-past three.”
+
+“Thank you. That will do perfectly. You see I presume on your kindness.
+Mr. Addison says,” he added with a slight smile, “that you are anxious
+to do good. I am sure this is an opportunity.”
+
+Though nothing could be more unlike a lover’s than his manner, it was so
+quiet, unembarrassed, and friendly, that Angela forgot for a moment all
+discomforts, and took courage to say softly, “Shall I find her very much
+changed.”
+
+“Yes, I fear so,” he replied sadly. “Sorrow, such as she has suffered,
+leaves deep traces behind it.” His own countenance saddened as he
+spoke, and Angela did not dare to say more.
+
+A moment afterwards he held out his hand, shook hers, and was gone as
+quickly as he had made his entrance into the room.
+
+Angela could not analyze what she felt. When she did attempt to go over
+what had passed, to consider his looks and words, she believed his wish
+and intention was to return to a friendly intercourse, to show her how
+much he desired to be on friendly terms, but also to show that he had no
+other thoughts. For a time she felt that this was all she desired. If
+she could be friends with him, life must be happy; but alas! this
+conclusion did not suffice for more than a few hours. It soothed her
+sleep that night, but she woke up to other hopes in the morning.
+
+The Vansittarts left Underwood on the Saturday following, leaving, as
+Mr. Gresham observed to Angela, a great blank behind them. She did not
+agree, but she did not express her feelings. Among the many points in
+which she was improved, not the least was patience with her father. She
+could not submit her mind and opinions to his, and indeed it was little
+desirable she should, but she no longer made her home a battle scene
+between two opinions, and her home was the happier in consequence.
+
+With a beaming smile Mr. Gresham received the news she now imparted to
+him, that she was going to see Mrs. Vavasour, and though he refrained
+from comment, it was evident that once again he looked upon his hopes as
+on the eve of fulfilment.
+
+Attended by her aunt Angela drove to Audley Court and found Everard
+awaiting her. He assisted her from the carriage, and took her himself to
+his mother’s room; walking by her side in silence indeed, yet treating
+her with that quiet friendliness which could not do otherwise than set
+her at her ease in his presence. At the door he begged her to wait while
+he gained his mother’s consent for her entrance, and then with a smile
+of encouragement, for he saw she was fluttering with the nervousness of
+this pause, made way for her to go in alone.
+
+When she returned to the carriage she found him talking to Miss Price.
+He came forward to meet her, and holding out his hand, said warmly,
+“Thank you again and again. You have done a great kindness.”
+
+With a swelling heart and glowing cheeks, Angela re-entered the
+carriage, and it was only when they had driven away that she became
+conscious there had been nothing in his manner to encourage her aching
+heart.
+
+He had been very grateful for his mother’s sake, but he had made no use
+of the opportunity her visit gave him to renew his acquaintance with
+_her_. He had been silent when they were alone, and had made not even a
+momentary effort to retain her.
+
+“How did you find Mrs. Vavasour, my love?” placidly inquired Miss Price,
+after a quarter of an hour of silence.
+
+The inquiry broke the thread of Angela’s selfish reflections, and she
+sadly answered, “Changed, very much changed. Her hair which had not a
+thread of grey is quite white, and the beautiful color she used to have
+in her cheeks is gone. Oh! Aunt Jane,” she continued, almost
+passionately. “I sometimes think it would be better to live as you and I
+do, without having any one to care very much for, than to care, and then
+to lose it. It makes life too dreadful to think of.”
+
+“No, my love,” said her Aunt, emphatically, “it is good for those indeed
+to whom God appoints it, but it would be a thankless thing to turn from
+the blessing for fear of the pain. He who gives the happiness can also
+give the power to bear its loss.”
+
+Angela sighed and from her heart, as she always did when forms of
+goodness and submission, that seemed to her unattainable, were placed
+before her eyes. Yet the question was not set at rest. Mrs. Vavasour’s
+altered countenance haunted her for many days, and she tormented herself
+with inquiries, whether it were not better to be a stoic, than to care
+so much for what this life contains.
+
+It was a very useless question in her case, since no efforts could have
+made a stoic of her.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+    Hope can disperse the thickest clouds of night
+    That fear hath overspread the soul withal;
+    And make the darkest shadows shine as bright
+    As the Sunbeams spread on a silver wall.
+              C. HERVEY.
+
+
+“Well, my dear child,” said Mr. Merivale, “how are you?”
+
+This enquiry was made the morning after his arrival, when he chanced to
+be left with Angela alone.
+
+Mr. Merivale’s visit took place about a month after the departure of the
+Vansittarts, and perhaps it will be as much to the weariness of the
+reader to hear, as it was to the depression of Angela to know, that the
+hopes excited in the last chapter had faded during that month into
+nothingness. She saw no more of Everard. When she went to Audley Court
+he was absent, and on the occasion of his single call at Underwood, Mr.
+Gresham was not at home. Since no good reason now prevented him from
+seeking her society, it was plain that the will was not there, and hope
+deferred was beginning to cast its deadly chill upon her heart.
+
+“Quite well,” she replied carelessly to Mr. Merivale’s inquiry.
+
+“I am very glad to hear that. I like a healthy woman.”
+
+“Then I am sure you must like me,” Angela said, laughing at his dry
+manner. “My health is something quite incomprehensible.”
+
+“You speak as if you were a little disposed to quarrel with your health.
+Have you any strong desire to be in a dying state?”
+
+“I am very thankful for my health of course,” she replied, gravely; “but
+I cannot feel as my aunt wishes me to feel, that health is everything.
+It is very possible to be uncomfortable in mind even though one’s health
+does happen to be good.”
+
+“Very possible, indeed, my love. Health of course is a thing to be very
+thankful for, and if you had such a pitiful body as mine, you would feel
+it more; but still health is not as you say everything, and we should be
+but poor creatures if it were. It is difficult to be happy and ill, but
+it is not at all difficult to be unhappy and well.”
+
+“Oh! what a pleasure it is to be understood,” cried Angela warmly. “How
+glad I am to see you again.”
+
+“Is that your grief then, my poor child; the not being understood.”
+
+“I did not say I had any grief, did I?” she said perversely, longing for
+him to question her, and yet dreading it.
+
+“No--but I have eyes and I can see, and I have intellect, and I can
+gather. You are not happy, are you?”
+
+“I suppose I am quite as happy as most people. Books say, you know, that
+no one is quite happy in this world.”
+
+“Ah! Angela, but you and I never were satisfied with what books say. We
+see that some people are happy. And when they are not, we like to know
+the reason why.”
+
+Angela laughed but did not seem at all the more disposed to make
+confidences.
+
+“Get your work, my dear child, and let us have a talk. I have come all
+the way from Italy for the sole purpose of having a talk with you, and
+after that you cannot be so ungracious as to refuse. Get your work and
+let us make the most of having the room to ourselves.”
+
+Angela obeyed.
+
+“What is that?” he enquired, looking at the piece of work she unfolded.
+
+“A very small baby’s shirt,” she replied, smiling.
+
+“Oh; and what is that for?”
+
+“Mr. Addison told me it would be good for my restless mind to work for
+the poor; and I do most things Mr. Addison advises.”
+
+“So should I if he were my spiritual pastor and master. He looks wise. I
+should like to know more of him. Get your father to ask him to dinner
+for me.”
+
+“Oh, yes, certainly; I am sure he will be glad.”
+
+“There was another person I took a fancy to when last I was here--the
+second Mr. Vavasour. How is he?”
+
+“Of course, Mr. Merivale,” Angela replied, without raising her eyes,
+“you know his history.”
+
+“His having his brother’s property--yes; your father wrote me word of
+that. How does he bear his honors?”
+
+“You can see for yourself. I believe he dines here on Thursday.”
+
+“I am glad of that. I like to see people who have been placed in
+difficult circumstances. I look them through and through, and find out
+all their secrets.”
+
+“That is pleasant, certainly.”
+
+“Do you know, Angela, when last I was here I fancied that young man was
+in love with you. Is all that gone off?”
+
+“How can I tell,” she answered impatiently; “I suppose you know that
+papa refused him once.”
+
+“Why, yes, I heard that; but I confess I thought better of him than to
+expect he would be satisfied with such a rebuff. But the world is not
+what it was. In my youth people had more spirit, more feeling, more
+honor than now-a-days.”
+
+“As to that,” Angela cried, her temper and her cheeks alike flaming high
+in his defence, “the way in which he was treated excuses him from any
+want of spirit or truth, if he _has_ changed. I do not know that it
+would not have been want of spirit to persist. _I_ would not have
+persisted if I had been treated as he has been.”
+
+“You mean _your_ behaviour. Well, my dear child, I agree with you there.
+It was a bad business. And yet I think if I had been in the young
+gentleman’s place, even that would not have daunted me. I should have
+thought you very weak; but, knowing you as I do, not unfaithful.”
+
+“No, never,” she cried, passionately.
+
+Mr. Merivale rose from his chair, and coming towards her, patted her
+head. “Poor little thing,” he said, kindly, “that was what I thought.
+Then how is it--has he forgotten you?”
+
+“I cannot tell,” she replied, drooping her head over her work, ashamed
+of her admission, yet unable to recall it. “Oh! Mr. Merivale, you must
+not scorn me.”
+
+“Scorn! Angela, and why should I scorn?”
+
+“I scorn myself. I scorn every woman who gives her love to those who
+don’t prize it.”
+
+“And yet though you scorn you are constant. Is that it, my dear child?”
+
+“If it is to be constant,” she said, with a kind of _abandon_ in her
+tone, “to have no other thought by day or night--to care for no
+pleasant thing--to look forward to no future hope--to find myself at my
+age joyless, and hopeless, and all because of.... Oh! how you will scorn
+me,” she continued, arresting her excited words. “I have tried not to be
+constant, but the more I try the worse it is. There now you have made me
+speak, and now you know what I am.”
+
+“Yes, but you have told me nothing I did not see. Don’t be afraid, my
+dear child, you need not mind an old friend who was once a constant
+fool, with far less reason than you have. Well, I will see this Mr.
+Vavasour.”
+
+“See him,” and Angela almost screamed with terror. “Mr. Merivale, what
+would you do?”
+
+“Poor little fool,” he said, fondly. “I would do nothing, you may be
+sure. You are far too precious to be forced on any man. I meant see
+with my eyes. Look him through and through, and when I have found out
+his secrets ...” he paused.
+
+“What!” Angela exclaimed, anxiously.
+
+“I shall keep them to myself. Don’t expect to hear anything from me.
+What I discover by dint of the intellect God has blessed me with, I
+consider as sacred as if it were revealed to me by confession. You may
+trust me. My mind is like the depths of the sea, strewed with treasures
+in the shape of secrets, never to be revealed; yours is among them, and
+so will his be.”
+
+“If there be one.”
+
+“Why, yes, if there be one; and now in good time here comes my niece and
+your aunt. Very unsuitable companions. Your aunt is as mild as a dove,
+but Janet has nothing dovelike about her. I wish she had. I like a soft
+woman, even when she has as little intellect as your aunt. Well,
+Janet,” addressing himself to a young lady of eight or nine and twenty,
+black eyed and black haired, and looking as sharp as a needle. “What
+have you been doing with yourself?”
+
+“Making acquaintance,” she replied. “I am never comfortable in a place
+till I have made acquaintance; are you Miss Gresham? I don’t mean with
+persons but things. Now, I know my way about, I know how to get to my
+room in the shortest time, I know the names of the pictures, and how to
+find a book when I want it; in short, thanks to Miss Price’s kindness, I
+am comfortable, which I was not till this moment.”
+
+“I am sorry for that,” said Angela, laughing. “I could have made you so
+last night, if I had but known.”
+
+“One is prepared for one night’s discomfort,” she replied, in the same
+tone. “Are we welcome here?” And she looked about her with bright keen
+eyes like her uncle’s; only, as he said, without softness in them. “You
+and my uncle seemed to be in deep talk.”
+
+“Yes,” and Angela blushed a little. “Mr. Merivale is a good talker and a
+kind one.”
+
+“Too kind. That is his fault. If he would but see the world as it is, I
+should think much more highly of him. Is it not so?” she said, putting
+her hand playfully on his shoulder. “Don’t you own that good nature
+blinds your eyes.”
+
+“I don’t attempt to compete with you, certainly,” he said, drily, “but
+it may be, because it pleases me better to find virtues than faults.”
+
+“But it _should_ please you only to find what exists, and you know
+faults are more plentiful than virtues,” and Janet Merivale set herself
+down to argue, an occupation in which she delighted, and in which also
+she excelled, for she had quick and original thoughts, and a temper that
+could not he ruffled.
+
+Everard had been for the third time invited to dine at Underwood, and
+for the second time had accepted the invitation. New expectation for
+Angela and new disappointment. An old lord from a distance had, somewhat
+to his surprise, also accepted Mr. Gresham’s invitation to dine on the
+same evening, and even the desire to do honor to Everard had been forced
+to give way to his claims. Angela went into dinner with the old lord,
+and had the mortification of seeing Everard as conversible with Janet
+Merivale as he had been with Miss Vansittart, and judging from
+appearances, more really amused and interested in her conversation. She
+thought she at last understood him. He now received from many that
+notice, which once had been the charm that won him to think of _her_; he
+was looking about in the world, and saw many worthy of his affection,
+and she was nothing. It was a very bitter thought, and very bitter on
+that evening was her frame of mind.
+
+A slight hope rose again when the gentlemen returned to the
+drawing-room. Mr. Gresham was talking to the old lord and Everard was
+left at peace, and for a moment she fancied he looked as if he were
+coming towards her. If it were so his purpose was arrested. He was
+called by Mr. Gresham to join _his_ conference, and the old lord--who
+had told Angela at dinner that he was anxious to gain Mr. Vavasour’s
+co-operation in some plan of benevolent intention,--laid hold of him,
+drew some papers from his pocket, and finally led him out of the room to
+a smaller adjoining one, where a discussion and examination could be
+carried on more at leisure.
+
+Disappointment, disappointment. It was but a slight addition to the many
+her latter life had afforded, but it seemed so cruel a one, that tears
+of pity for herself came into her eyes.
+
+She looked up fearful of being observed, and met the kind, compassionate
+glance of Mr. Merivale. Kind as it was, however, his watchfulness vexed
+her, and her vexation on that account roused her spirit, and made her
+determine to be a slave to her feelings no more. She got up, and to give
+time to her eyes to forget their tears, busied herself in fetching and
+preparing some work, and then sitting down at a table where Janet
+Merivale was seated, entered with interest into her conversation.
+
+She was a talker and a good one, and several persons were standing about
+her. When Angela sat down she was praising a novel that had just come
+out. She turned to Angela with an eager inquiry as to whether she had
+read it.
+
+“Yes, there it is,” Angela said, pointing to a book on another table,
+“but I did not like it at all. It made me wretched.”
+
+“Wretched, but why? There are no romantic sorrows in it; that is why I
+like it. We have novels more than enough with romantic sorrows, but this
+is clever, it is like life.”
+
+“That is, it thinks it is,” replied Angela, “but if it _were_, the world
+would be as unbearable as the book. Does it please you to think society
+as false and heartless as that book describes.”
+
+“Everything pleases me that is _real_. Of course I should be glad that
+the world was better than it is, but since it is not, I like to see it
+as it is. Romantic pictures of the world, with heroes and heroines in
+them, are no better than fairy tales. Give me truth, however severe.”
+
+“I thought _I_ was severe upon the world,” Angela said, laughing, “but
+now I find I am very mild. I plainly say that if the world is such a
+place as that book makes it appear, I would rather die at once and be
+out of it.”
+
+“And if Miss Gresham dies, I will die too,” said the mortally offended
+youth, with a small attempt at a complimentary badinage.
+
+“But Miss Gresham does not mean to die,” said another gentleman, “for
+she knows the book’s picture is false, and so do I. It has chosen to
+depict certain classes of people, and the worst specimens of each class.
+Now we all know that there are false and heartless people in the world,
+but happily also we do know some few with feeling, and some few that
+are true. And if each of us is happy enough to know a few, the sum total
+will not be insignificant.”
+
+“But I deny the fact,” said Janet Merivale, eagerly. “I know hardly any
+one that _I_ call true; and other virtues are just as rare. Now, Miss
+Gresham, let us question you. I think you are true, and I think my uncle
+is true, but I know no one else of whom I could speak as decidedly; no
+one who would not say a false or an equivocating thing if the temptation
+were strong. Do you know a true person? Give me an example. I like
+examples. General facts are nothing.”
+
+“I could give several,” Angela said, “but I don’t mean to do it. If I
+pick out a few I might seem to impute falseness to others. I am happy to
+say I do know many people on whose truth I entirely depend.”
+
+“We must take your word of course, Miss Gresham, and be content,” cried
+Janet, “although we might throw a doubt on nameless individuals; but let
+us go on to other virtues. What do you think of natural affection? Do
+you think the world shines in that particular. What remark does one hear
+on all sides at a London party. ‘Look at so and so! _how_ indecent! her
+sister only died a month ago;’ or ‘Lady So and So out again! Is it
+possible! I heard she was heartbroken for the loss of her son.’ Is it
+not true?” she cried, appealing all round. “Am I saying what is false?”
+
+“No,” said several laughing, “I am afraid not.”
+
+“Only that the very remarks seem to contradict you. We only remark on
+what is _un_common,” Angela said.
+
+“I doubt the fact, but I will be generous and give you the benefit of
+the doubt. But let me proceed. Do you admire the virtue of constancy. I
+do. I am not romantic, but I do admire constancy. Well, what do you say
+to that as a common virtue?”
+
+“Oh! as to constancy,” Angela said, bitterly, all the disappointments
+and mortifications of months kindling in her mind into one outburst of
+indignant feeling. “I give up to you at once. We read of constancy in
+those romantic books you talk of, but as to real life, I very much doubt
+if it is to be found.”
+
+A something indescribable, for it was not a sound made her suddenly turn
+her head. Everard and the old lord stood at a little distance behind
+her. The light was bright, and though at a distance she could see that
+Everard’s eyes were intently fixed upon her, and that his cheek was
+pale.
+
+She turned back her head, shame and regret dyeing her face with crimson.
+It was all the work of an instant.
+
+Janet Merivale was far too quick not to see that something had ruffled
+the surface of the life before her, but she had also perfect tact, and
+she continued without a pause; “Very well, then there is nothing more to
+be said on that score; let us proceed to some other question. What do
+you say to kindness and goodnature? Do you think we are to our
+neighbours’ faults a little blind? and to their virtues very kind?”
+
+“No, Janet,” said her uncle coming up to the table, possibly with the
+intention of giving Angela more time to recover herself. “Nobody can
+accuse us of that; especially after they have heard us this evening.”
+
+“You had no business to listen to me,” she said with playful good
+humour, “but you have only proved the truth of what I said. Are you to
+my faults a little blind? Have you done your best to hide them?”
+
+The conversation proceeded merrily, and after a time Angela recovered
+herself enough to join in it; but her very heart was trembling and
+vibrating with emotion. What had he thought of her? What could he think?
+
+Later in the evening, when Mr. Gresham had made up his whist party, and
+Mr. Merivale and Mr. Addison were engaged in conversation, Everard, who
+had been listening to them for a time, slowly left them, and sat down
+opposite to Angela by Janet Merivale’s side.
+
+If he had been discomposed, he was so no longer, and he addressed
+himself to Janet with ease and quietness. “You were mentioning several
+books at dinner Miss Merivale, with approbation. Could you write me down
+a few names? I read a good deal to my mother, and I am always glad to
+hear of something new; new and good that is to say.”
+
+“I shall be delighted, if Miss Gresham will give me a pencil and a bit
+of paper. What shall I write? What kind of book. What have you been
+reading of late.”
+
+“Nothing very new,” Everard said smiling. “I don’t know what you will
+think of me if I confess it was _Clarendon’s Rebellion_. It is a
+favorite book of my mother’s, and as I had never read it, it was like a
+romance to me; but it is done, and I should be glad of something a
+little less ancient now.”
+
+“Are you too wise for a novel?” she asked, after writing a few names.
+
+“Not at all.” There was a silence while she wrote, and considered, and
+wrote again; and before she had finished, Everard, with a slight glow on
+his cheek, said to Angela across the table, “Do you ever read _Camilla_
+now, Miss Gresham?”
+
+“No not lately,” she said hurriedly; too much startled by his suddenly
+and pointedly addressing her, to perceive the drift of his question.
+
+“Did you ever read it?” he said to Janet Merivale.
+
+“I have read it I am sure. Oh! yes, I remember it now very well. It is a
+pretty book. Camilla is charming, and Edgar--oh! Miss Gresham, if there
+were many Edgars in the world, I should not have given the opinion of
+mankind I lately did.”
+
+A strange remembrance was carrying Angela back to an olden time, and she
+could not make up her mind to speak. Her heart was beating so fast, she
+almost felt its throbbing must be heard.
+
+“Your opinion is the same then as Miss Gresham’s,” Everard said in a
+firm grave voice. “I remember she once expressed her admiration of
+Edgar’s character in much the same terms as yours, but in my opinion,
+Edgar failed in one of the first of virtues--_trust_. I do not call his
+love for Camilla perfect, or knowing what she was, he would have trusted
+her, however appearances might have seemed to condemn.”
+
+He did not look towards Angela, he spoke to Janet, but Angela felt the
+words thrill through her from head to foot.
+
+Janet’s quickness again perceived that such serious words must have
+meaning in them, but she answered readily, “I quite agree with you, but
+I am afraid the virtue is rare. We all give each other up at the very
+first rub. I am afraid I do so quite as much as my neighbours. I cannot
+have patience with appearances.”
+
+“If I were a preacher,” Everard said lightly, “I should preach on the
+subject, so strongly do I feel. But may I now look at your list? A
+thousand thanks for it,” he added, as he glanced over the paper. “Some
+of these I am sure we shall like.”
+
+A slight discussion ensued with Janet over the names, and he then looked
+at his watch, and went to ask Mr. Addison if he was ready to go. He came
+back to wish both the young ladies good night, and without further
+attempt to impress or catch Angela’s attention, went away.
+
+After a few minutes silence, Janet Merivale observed to Angela, “I think
+if I lived much in Mr. Vavasour’s society, I should considerably modify
+my opinion of human nature.”
+
+“I think you would,” Angela said, now perfectly composed and
+unembarrassed. “As to truth especially.”
+
+“Why, yes. His countenance is as clear as daylight. I liked what he
+said about trust,” she continued thoughtfully. “I felt it to rebuke me;
+for I know I am distrustful of good. I think I should trust him whatever
+might be his conduct, and what a blessed thing it is to feel entire
+dependence, even for a moment.”
+
+“Yes,” Angela replied, and a whole heart and life was in the
+monosyllable.
+
+Mr. Merivale said no more to Angela regarding Everard or her feelings,
+until the morning of his departure. He then gravely laid his hand on her
+arm, and beckoned her to follow him into a window, at a distance from
+the place where his niece and her aunt were standing.
+
+“You are happier, my dear child,” he then said looking into her eyes,
+“and you do not need words from me to reveal secrets or to explain
+mysteries.”
+
+“Oh! Mr. Merivale, what does it all mean?” she asked with anxious,
+earnest enquiry.
+
+He made no answer, but drew her towards him and kissed her forehead.
+“Forgive that from an old man, my child,” he said fondly. “I do not much
+think, Angela, I shall be very long in this world, but if it were right
+to make a prayer to Him, who knows best when to call us away, I should
+pray to live until ...” he paused.
+
+With tearful but enquiring eyes, she looked up in his face, silently
+asking him when.
+
+“Until that is accomplished, which for your welfare and happiness I
+alike desire. We must have patience, Angela. You and I both. And now God
+bless you.”
+
+He kissed her again, and went straight back to his niece, despatching
+Angela with his usual kind thoughtfulness to fetch her father, that she
+might hide the agitation his words had caused her from the piercing eyes
+of Janet Merivale.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+    Passive she heard, and in her labouring mind
+      Strove with the dark enigma, “Part! to part!”
+    Till having solved it by the beams that broke
+    From that clear soul on hers; struggling she spoke.
+              _King Arthur._
+
+
+The autumn slipped away, the winter came, and nothing worth recording
+took place. The relations between Everard and Angela continued exactly
+in the same state as they had been before that last evening’s
+occurrence. No looks, no words, no empressement, meetings few, and when
+meetings occurred, manners calm, kind, and friendly, but distant.
+
+One morning in December, Mr. Gresham entered the drawing-room, where
+Angela was engaged in reading to Miss Price, and observed that he was
+come for a few moments’ conversation. He then placed himself with his
+back to the fire, and looked at his daughter with a stare of unusual
+solemnity.
+
+“Be so good as to attend to me, my love,” he began. “I have something of
+importance to observe.”
+
+Angela’s heart beat with only too ready expectation, and she laid down
+her work and cast down her eyes.
+
+“I believe, Angela, you have been fully aware of all the purposes and
+motives which induced me to make choice of Mr. Vavasour for your
+husband. Motives, I must observe, of singular generosity towards him,
+and purposes which it would be unbecoming in me too highly to exalt.
+Suffice it to say, that the plan was laid with as much foresight and
+wisdom, as the motives which impelled me were beneficent. You have been,
+I say, fully aware of my feelings in this matter; and once for all, my
+love, I must assure you, that with _your_ conduct I have no fault to
+find. You have behaved with dutiful submission towards myself, and with
+perfect modesty towards Mr. Vavasour. I thank you for it, and assure you
+that it has been highly gratifying to my feelings.”
+
+He paused, and stood for a moment, the benign and grateful parent; then
+again assuming the character of the wise and watchful guardian, he
+proceeded.
+
+“It is now nearly eighteen months since Mr. Vavasour was entitled by his
+position to claim my notice. He is perfectly aware of my favourable
+intentions towards himself. None can accuse me of want of patience in
+my dealings with him. I have allowed for the natural influence of
+decorous sorrow; I have excused the resentment he may possibly have felt
+in the recollection of certain circumstances. I have allowed for every
+feeling which the most fastidious delicacy can have suggested. But in
+vain. It is now my intention, therefore, to resign my long cherished
+designs, and to dismiss the subject from my mind.”
+
+Angela turned first red, then pale, but she made no exclamation.
+
+“I wish you to understand me, my love. When I say that I dismiss the
+subject from my mind, my wish is of course to suggest to you the course
+I desire you to adopt. I request that you will banish from your
+affections every recollection of Mr. Vavasour, and prepare your mind to
+receive any future impressions it may be my will to recommend to you.”
+
+“I cannot,” Angela said faintly but firmly.
+
+“You made an observation, my love.”
+
+“I cannot,” she repeated.
+
+“I do not perfectly understand you. It is not, I believe, customary with
+a young female of delicacy to obtrude her affections on any man. Let me
+suggest to you, my love, that such sentiments are highly indecorous.”
+
+“He loved me once,” Angela said in the same low tone.
+
+“Certainly, my love. It was the conviction of his attachment which led
+me so quickly to adopt him in the place of his brother; which led me to
+anticipate that he would joyfully accept the transfer of my intentions.
+But man, my love, is liable to change, and it is evident that Mr.
+Vavasour, however estimable may be his character, is subject to the
+common caprices of humanity. I must, therefore, again urge upon you the
+necessity of banishing the expectations I have hitherto encouraged, and
+of displacing his image from your mind.”
+
+“I think he loves me still,” she said breathlessly.
+
+“Indeed! may I enquire on what grounds this conviction is formed? Have
+there been any secret tokens of remembrance? gifts, notes, looks, words,
+delicate suggestions of attachment? Let me beg of you, my love, to be
+open with me.”
+
+“None,” she replied, slowly shaking her head.
+
+“On what then, I again enquire, is your conviction formed?”
+
+“I feel it,” she replied. “That is all; and I think he would not let me
+feel it if it were false. I trust him.”
+
+Mr. Gresham looked much perplexed. He cleared his throat, took two or
+three turns about the room, and then resumed his place.
+
+“As I am anxious, my love, to banish this subject from our minds at once
+and for ever, I must relate to you an occurrence which took place last
+year, and which circumstances alone have hitherto led me to conceal.
+Anxious to secure your best welfare, and uncertain, whether Mr. Vavasour
+in his natural modesty, might fully understand the favorable change in
+my sentiments, I visited him about six weeks after our return hither,
+and made him a formal offer of your hand, not concealing from him ...
+giving him in short, every encouragement--I might even say more than
+this--which the delicacy of a parent would permit him to give. I regret
+to have to inform you that he entirely disclaimed any desire to ally
+himself with my house, and that, in terms it was impossible for me to
+misunderstand.”
+
+Angela became as pale as death. Shame, horror, doubt, and despair, for a
+moment took possession of her heart, and expressed themselves on her
+speaking countenance.
+
+“I am sorry, my love, to give you pain,” said Mr. Gresham with kindness,
+“but in such circumstances it is most fitting that the truth should be
+told. You are now possessed of all the facts of the case, and
+undoubtedly will readily acquiesce in my request, that the expectations
+which have hitherto occupied our minds should be banished. As to the
+future it yet remains to make such arrangements as may seem most
+desirable for your well-being.”
+
+There was a short silence, and then Angela looked up at her father with
+a steady countenance, and said gravely, “Papa, I trust him still.”
+
+Mr. Gresham, who had anticipated a totally different conclusion, looked
+what he felt, the picture of astonishment. “My love,” at last he mildly
+said, “allow me to remind you that romantic fancies are unbecoming in a
+young female of sense and delicacy. I had hoped that I had made this
+clear to your mind. Since I have failed, I must request you to allow me
+a few moments private conversation with your aunt, who will, I am
+convinced, join with me in endeavouring to dissuade you from a
+prepossession unbecoming to a modest young woman.”
+
+“It will be in vain, Papa,” Angela replied. “I have said it, I trust
+him, and until he is married to another, I _will_ trust him. For what
+cause he withholds the expression of his feelings I cannot guess, but my
+conviction is unalterable. He loved me once, and I believe he loves me
+still. Leave me in peace, Papa,” she continued rising from her seat,
+“and I think you will not be disappointed.” Mr. Gresham had taken his
+place opposite to Miss Price, previous to his entering on his purposed
+private conversation with her. Angela just paused to press her lips on
+his brow, a very unusual mark of submission and confidence, and hastened
+from the room.
+
+“Extremely singular,” observed Mr. Gresham to Miss Price. “May I ask you
+what opinion you have formed on this subject?”
+
+“I have long thought,” she gently replied, “that God has made them for
+each other.”
+
+“Ahem! Well, Miss Price, since such is your opinion, I bow to it, and
+reserving to myself the right to interfere, should any more advantageous
+alliance offer itself, I will consent for a few months longer to wait
+upon Mr. Vavasour’s pleasure. You must, however, allow me again to
+observe that I consider the case extremely singular.”
+
+“No doubt,” she agreed placidly, and so ended the conference.
+
+That afternoon, although it was a very stormy December afternoon, Mr.
+Gresham rode again to the top of the hill, to survey the fair scene,
+fair even in the raw winter’s day, and thought it fairer than ever
+because, seen through the hazy atmosphere, the limits of the two
+properties seemed to melt away into a boundless space. His chest heaved
+with renewed ardour as he gazed, and once again, flitting dreams, vague
+and uncertain ones, vanished, and left the old idol in undisputed sway.
+
+“Upon the whole, Angela,” he observed to his daughter that evening as he
+kissed her, “you may be right. The case is singular, but the worth of
+the object makes it desirable to wait, even though the hope be an
+uncertain one.”
+
+Her heart agreed, but she made no reply beyond a blush. She was not
+blind, she was not indifferent to the position, it might be the
+humiliating position in which she had placed herself; but she had in
+some respects a heroic spirit. She thought he had asked for trust, and
+she gave it with her whole heart. Moments of fluttering, of weakness, of
+doubt, of hopelessness, there were, there must have been, or she could
+not have been the wayward, changeful creature she was; but from every
+doubt, and every struggle, the trust arose again and again triumphant,
+and bore her along the months of silence and vacancy that followed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+     ... Mercy which had seem’d
+    A gift reserved to God, was mine to grant.
+    So love flowed on me from a thousand springs
+    And pour’d itself around me like a flood.
+              _The Eve of the Conquest._
+
+
+In the July of the following year a son was born to Hope and Robert.
+
+The event took place in obedience to Everard’s earnest request at Audley
+Court. Supposing this request to be made out of care and thought for
+Hope’s bodily comfort, and unwilling to refuse one to whom he owed so
+much, Robert acquiesced, but he wondered the request had ever been
+made, and he owned to Hope that he had never more reluctantly agreed to
+any petition. Since his marriage, his feelings in regard to the past,
+had acquired, perhaps naturally, a keenness they had not exhibited
+before. To Everard, however, no reluctance was shown; to Audley Court,
+Robert brought his wife, and there their child was born.
+
+On the evening of the day of his birth, Robert and Everard sat alone in
+the drawing-room, for Mrs. Vavasour, tearful, trembling, and excited,
+could not be torn from the cradle of the new-born child, and seemed
+about to lavish on Robert’s son, all that adoring love with which she
+had cherished him.
+
+Both brothers were thoughtful, and both, as once before they had done,
+armed themselves with books for the better indulgence of their
+thoughts.
+
+From his seat at a distance, Everard stealthily watched Robert. Robert’s
+excitable feelings had been much touched during the day, and the ardent
+and devoted affection he felt for his wife had been fully manifested.
+When his son was born, he had seemed for a time transported with joy,
+but now a shade of thought had gathered over his face, and more than
+once he pushed his hair from his brow, as if there was a weight he
+desired to remove. This thoughtful expression was no longer a rare one,
+and if to his uncommon beauty an added charm had been wanted, it was now
+given. The play of countenance was more varied, the softness more
+intense, the animation more sparkling.
+
+At last, Everard laid down his book on his knee, and said gravely, “I
+should think Robert it was a very responsible thing to feel _a
+father_.”
+
+“Yes, I suppose it is.” Robert spoke hastily, almost sharply; as if to
+have done with it.
+
+Everard took up his book and said no more. He was very sensitive,--for a
+man too sensitive--to a rebuff, yet it was not altogether wounded
+feelings which called a shadow to his brow.
+
+Robert looked at him two or three times uneasily, and then tossed down
+his own book and said, “Now for it, Everard. I did not feel quite up to
+a lecture just then, but I am ready now. Go on, you are quite right
+about fathers, and I shall be glad to hear what you have to say.”
+
+“But I am sure I am not prepared to speak,” Everard said laughing. “I
+have never turned my thoughts at all in the direction of a father’s
+duties.”
+
+“Then what did you mean to say?”
+
+“A thought that struck me, nothing more. I thought it must be a strange
+feeling to feel a father, to have a creature all one’s own, to guide and
+influence; that was all.”
+
+“Not quite all, Everard! you wished me to say _I_ felt it also!”
+
+Everard coloured, but then replied with a smile, “Yes, Robert, I believe
+that is the truth, since you will have it. I am sure I did not say it
+lecturingly, for what on earth have I to do with lecturing on a father’s
+feelings, but I think I hoped you would say ‘yes.’”
+
+“I can say thus much,” Robert replied, with feeling. “If with a wife
+like mine, and now a child dependent on me, I do not keep in the right
+way, I shall be the greatest villain on this earth. I hope, I trust, too
+great a villain for me to be, or indeed to have ever been. Are you
+satisfied?”
+
+Everard nodded his head and then asked carelessly, “Have you thought of
+the name, yet?”
+
+“No,” Robert replied, and so the conversation dropped.
+
+Hope’s recovery though satisfactory was slow. It was a good thing, the
+doctor observed to Robert, that she was brought into the country; and
+Robert repeated the observation to Everard, and thanked him for having
+insisted on it.
+
+“Come and look at the little creature to-day,” he added, as he stood
+with his brother on the stairs. “I hate babies, and I dare say you do,
+but this is rather different from babies in general; it has got on a
+smart cap to-day, and altogether, I must say, it is rather a pretty
+thing.”
+
+Robert’s pride in his little son was very great; though remembering his
+old antipathy to babies, he was half ashamed to shew it. He now
+conducted his brother into the room where it was lying. It had been laid
+down outside its bassinet and a young girl was watching it while the
+nurse was absent. Robert despatched the girl on a message, and said he
+would stay till she came back.
+
+The child was now nearly a month old, and in its fair innocent face as
+it slept, it was not difficult to see a likeness to its mother. It might
+have made a pretty picture to see the two tall men bending over the
+little cradle.
+
+“It is not so bad, is it, Everard?” Robert said, a touching expression
+of fatherly fondness shining in his handsome face.
+
+“I think it is very pretty,” was Everard’s reply; after a moment, he
+added gravely, “Robert, I think we must have a celebration of its birth.
+The first heir, you know.”
+
+“No, no,” Robert said, and a crimson flush overspread his cheeks. “No,
+no,” he added in a low voice. “No mockery, poor little thing.”
+
+The girl returned, and the brothers left the room; Robert walking fast
+as if to escape from Everard; but Everard pursued him.
+
+“Robert,” he said, as they entered the library together, “I meant what I
+said. Your child is the heir. You must not forbid me to celebrate his
+birth.”
+
+“Poor child,” Robert said with a painful smile, “a mockery of an heir.
+No,” he added, with some vehemence, “I will not consent to it.”
+
+“And why a mockery of an heir? Can you suppose I should mock your
+child?”
+
+Robert looked up in his brother’s grave face. “Everard,” he asked
+quickly, and with agitation, “what do you mean? You cannot intend to
+live single because of this, and if you have a son....”
+
+“He shall never suffer the torture his father has suffered,” Everard
+passionately said.
+
+There was a silence, and then Robert repeated, “I cannot consent to it.”
+
+“You must,” he replied, with that stubborn decision against which it was
+idle to rebel.
+
+“Tell me this,” Robert asked, impatiently, “don’t you mean to marry?”
+
+“Whether I marry or not,--which is an act that concerns only myself, and
+about which I do not wish to speak,--my decision is unalterably made;
+your child shall be the heir.”
+
+“You are determined to humble me,” Robert said, standing before the
+empty fire-place, and leaning his head against the marble.
+
+“Never, dear Robert; but only determined to fulfil what I am certain was
+my father’s will. Let us say no more, only tell me in one word that you
+consent to my wish.”
+
+As no dissent came, Everard left the room, and the subject was not
+raised again. Robert repeated nothing of what had passed even to his
+wife; and regarding the coming celebration, Everard only said to his
+mother that when Hope was well, and the child christened, he should give
+a dinner to the tenantry.
+
+“Will Robert like it?” she asked anxiously.
+
+“He consents,” was Everard’s reply, and she said no more. Yet there was
+a grave look in both brother’s faces that made her anxious she scarcely
+knew why.
+
+It was the middle of August before Everard could perform his
+intentions. As soon as he saw that Hope was well enough to hear the
+fatigue, he named the day, and then quietly made his preparations,
+saying little to any one. It was only two days before the festivities
+took place that his mother discovered how much was going to be done, and
+on discovering it, shewed some reluctance to be present. But Everard’s
+request was too earnest to allow of resistance, and at length she gave
+way.
+
+He then said, “I wrote this morning to invite Mr. and Miss Gresham, and
+they accept. Dear mother, you will not mind, will you? they are not
+strangers.”
+
+“No, Everard,” she replied, looking in his face enquiringly, “and I only
+wish they were somewhat less of strangers to us.”
+
+He coloured, but made no reply.
+
+In the middle of August the weather is generally fine, and it was fine
+now on the day for which fine weather was much required.
+
+It is not intended here to dwell on the festivities that took place. To
+one portion of them alone attention is requested.
+
+On a piece of lawn-like ground close to the house, a long table was
+spread, for the principal tenantry and tradespeople of the Vavasour
+family to receive their portion of good cheer on this day of rejoicing.
+They dined with much pleasure and comfort to themselves, and when dinner
+was over Everard requested them to remain seated, as he had a health to
+give.
+
+He had before sent to summon Hope and her child, his mother, and Mr. and
+Miss Gresham, and they now appeared on the lawn. Robert and Mr. Addison
+were already there.
+
+Hope instinctively placed herself by Robert and they stood a little
+apart. Mr. Gresham and Miss Price seated themselves, with Angela
+standing near them, in another place. Everard took his mother’s arm and
+drew her to a chair half hidden in the shade of a large tree. To please
+him and Robert, and because once more appearing in the world, she had
+this day laid aside her widow’s cap; and though the ravages which grief
+had made, were, now that she resumed her former self, very apparent,
+there was a touching beauty about her, which years and grief, though
+they changed, seemed to have no power to efface. The lines
+
+    Nor spring nor summer’s beauty has such grace
+    As I have seen in an autumnal face,
+
+might have been addressed to her, and so her sons felt as they looked at
+her.
+
+“Dear Mother,” Everard said, his voice slightly agitated, as he placed
+her in a chair. “Forgive me, if I speak of things that must give you
+pain to-day. It must be done.”
+
+She looked up at him and her lips quivered.
+
+“I know, dear Mother, you will feel it,” he continued, “but I _must_
+have you here and it _must_ be done. So forgive me.”
+
+She put her hand in his, and then leant back in the shade where he had
+placed her.
+
+Everard then walked to the head of the table, and in a few brief words,
+proposed the health of his nephew, Richard Vavasour.
+
+It was received with enthusiasm. Everard had long overcome the ill will
+of his tenantry, was loved, blest, and trusted in by all, but there was
+a soft place in every heart where Robert’s image lingered, and their
+love for him burst forth, in their reception of his infant son.
+
+“They are very kind, Everard,” Robert said, with a misty light shining
+in his eyes, “must I thank them?”
+
+Everard had retreated for a few seconds to where Robert stood, but now
+said, “No. I will do that.”
+
+And when the noise subsided he again stood at the table, and took off
+his hat.
+
+“I have taken upon myself,” he began with a smile, “to thank you all, in
+the name of one who cannot thank you for himself; and I assure you your
+welcome to him has given me a pleasure I shall not easily forget. There
+are others here who thank you for it also, but in some respects, my
+thanks are due to you more than theirs, for you have proved to me that I
+shall act rightly in a decision I have made. Will you all give me your
+attention for a few minutes while I speak of some events that are
+passed, but not I hope forgotten by any of you.”
+
+He paused, and the long line of eager eyes were fixed upon him, while a
+silence like the repose of a death chamber followed.
+
+“It is now more than two years,” he began again in a firm but solemn
+tone, “since it pleased God to take to Himself my dear father. You all
+know what followed that event. You all know for what cause I came to
+stand to you, in my brother’s stead. I say I believe you know it; but
+lest you should not all perfectly know, let me repeat it now. My father
+loved you all, and loved the honour and virtue of his house more than
+life or any earthly tie; and when he feared that one of his race, the
+one on whom his honours ought to have fallen, had left that path of
+strict integrity in which he and his fathers had trodden, he shewed what
+most he loved, by cutting off _him_ the dearest of all, from his
+natural rights; and placing _me_--in all but one respect, the love of
+him and his virtues, far inferior--in my brother’s place. He thought it
+his duty and it was done; but the effort broke his heart. You know the
+rest. I obeyed his will. I never had disobeyed him. I could not disobey
+his last request.” Everard paused again and drew a breath of relief as
+if a painful task was done; and then while the same breathless silence
+continued, proceeded.
+
+“You may think it is not for a brother to dwell on a brother’s errors;
+nor would they have been dwelt upon, were it not that they have since
+been so nobly redeemed, that to speak of them is to honour not to
+condemn. You, each and all of you, who know as I myself know how weak is
+human will, can do honour to him who breaks the bonds of temptation, and
+rises never to fall again. For this cause I ask of you all to honour my
+brother. The time has passed when my father’s will bound me. I have
+obeyed it as you all know; and had it been binding still, I would, cost
+what it might, still have obeyed it; but his will points me now to
+another course, and I fulfil it. I lay down the burden he laid upon me,
+never, _such is my unalterable determination_, to take it again; and I
+_know_ that I have his blessing on the act. I thank you all for having
+borne with me during these two years--with my ignorance, and with
+my--perhaps in your eyes--mistaken, sense of duty,--and I wish you all
+happiness under your rightful master. I give the health of Robert
+Vavasour.”
+
+Everard withdrew from the table. Trembling and tearful his mother rose
+to meet him, and came and laid her hand on his arm. They stood thus
+together while cheers springing from the inmost hearts of all present,
+rent the air--a noise of joy, emotion, and surprise that seemed as if
+it never could cease.
+
+When it did cease, Robert was unable to speak. Feelings, many and
+strange; old recollections, present emotions, and future hopes, overcame
+him; and he wept like a child. He touched his wife’s arm and murmured,
+“Speak for me, Hope.”
+
+She looked intently, first at him, and then at Everard, and then walked
+steadily with her child in her arms, to the head of the table. Gentle,
+modest, and retiring as she was, she made no opposition to his request;
+acceding to it, and complying with it for his sake, as simply as in the
+performance of her daily duties.
+
+A faint colour went and came on her pale cheek, and at the first words
+her voice was low; but it steadied as she went on, and the sweet tones
+were heard, clear and distinct, to the furthest end of the table.
+
+“My husband thanks you all; and so do I for him; and if indeed it must
+be as his brother says, be sure you shall not regret the change; for his
+prayer to God will be that he may follow in his and in his father’s
+steps, while life is given him.”
+
+She was moving from the table, when Mr. Addison, to whom Robert had just
+spoken, approached her, and after whispering something led her back.
+
+With a deepening glow, for this was an act not so much in Robert’s
+stead, as from herself, she said, “I give Mr. Everard Vavasour’s health.
+It is not for me to praise him. You all know what he is. May God bless
+him.”
+
+She drew back, and Mrs. Vavasour left Everard to hasten to her side.
+
+Everard stood for a moment alone; and as the noise of the shouting fell
+on his ear, that cheer which was for him,--a cheer the loudest and
+heartiest perhaps of all, for there is no spirit so dull that cannot
+feel sympathy with actions like his--a strange, an unexpected sensation
+for a single instant agitated his breast; it was in the remembrance that
+from those, for whom he had done so much, and into whose welfare he had
+so warmly entered, he had severed himself for ever.
+
+To escape from the unwelcome intruder he turned his head to where Angela
+stood, and saw her pale, trembling, breathless, watching him. He forgot
+himself, forgot spectators, and self-restraint, and approaching her with
+an _abandon_ of manner, utterly unlike his usual self, and with such a
+smile as never before perhaps had played on his lips, he said, “Have I
+done right, Angela?”
+
+The suddenness, the exciting circumstances of the day, this unexpected
+end to her long suspense, most of all that smile, and that look from
+his eyes, entirely overcame her. She turned deadly pale, and the next
+moment fell flat on the grass.
+
+Mr. Addison laid his hand on Everard’s arm, and seeing him hardly master
+of himself, drew him away, reminding him of the necessity of
+acknowledging the cordial reception of his health; he obeyed with a
+smile of thanks, while Mr. Gresham and Mrs. Vavasour raised Angela, and
+led her to the house.
+
+“The heat of the atmosphere,” Mr. Gresham observed, as they walked
+along.
+
+But Mrs. Vavasour knew better, and as she endeavoured to restore Angela
+to herself, she drew her caressingly towards her with a mother’s
+affection.
+
+“Well I never!” at length exclaimed Mrs. Allen, who with several of the
+other servants stood at a distance and contemplated the scene.
+
+“It’s the very thing I should have done myself,” said the young groom,
+“only I don’t think I should ever have thought of it.”
+
+“No, Thomas,” said Betsey, “that you wouldn’t, nor nobody wouldn’t but
+Mr. Everard. To think, poor dear, that he has had this in his mind all
+along!”
+
+“So we have got a new master again,” said Harrison, approaching the
+cluster of servants with an empty beer jug in his hand, “or I should
+rather say our old one back again. You were a little surprised, Mrs.
+Allen, I should imagine.”
+
+“Not more than you were, Mr. Harrison,” she replied, for Mrs. Allen
+always spoke her mind.
+
+“I’m not so very sure of that,” he said confidentially; “I’m pretty
+sharp, and when I heard of this celebration here, I said to myself a
+hundred times, that something would come of it. What do you say to the
+change, Roger?” turning to the old coachman. “Does it have your
+approbation?”
+
+“I say God bless them both,” replied the old man with a tear in his eye,
+“and He will bless them. Of that I am certain!”
+
+“Amen,” said Harrison in a hearty tone.
+
+“And Miss Gresham too, I hope, poor dear,” said Betsey softly. “She
+looks graver than she used to do, and I should like to see the old smile
+again.”
+
+“We’re hardly a match for her now,” observed Harrison, shaking his head
+with an air of wisdom. “Wealth likes to go to Wealth.”
+
+“Then it ought to be ashamed of itself,” said Betsey warmly, “and so I
+would tell Mr. Gresham to his face.”
+
+“And so would I,” said the young groom. “I would tell him that he may
+look the world over, before he’ll find as good as Mr. Everard. I would
+though he put me into the stocks for it.”
+
+“Mrs. Allen! you’ve wanted,” said a breathless boy running from the
+house to the group. “Missus wants the salverlattlely for Miss Gresham.”
+
+“Poor dear!” sighed Betsey as she accompanied Mrs. Allen on her way. “I
+don’t think it’s the salvolatile that will do her good.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+              Wait, my faith is large in Time
+    And that which shapes it to some perfect end.
+              TENNYSON.
+
+
+That night Everard and Robert fought out a great battle, but there never
+was an instant’s doubt as to how it would end. When Robert at last saw
+that his words were vain, he behaved like himself; with the same
+touching humility and winning grace receiving back his position, as he
+had shewn in submitting to its loss.
+
+There was only one countenance on which Everard looked with doubt. Of
+Hope’s approbation he was not certain. In every other face, high and
+low, rich and poor, (with the exception of Mr. Gresham’s,) he saw a full
+and heartfelt approval, and appreciation of what he had done.
+
+When fatigued with the excitement of the day, Hope early left the
+drawing-room to go to bed, Everard followed her.
+
+“Dear Hope forgive me,” he said, catching her hand, “I know I ought to
+have asked your advice in this matter, but I was afraid. I was afraid
+you would dissuade me. I could not run the chance, but now I must have
+your consent. Are you not contented?”
+
+“Quite now,” she replied after a moment’s thought. “At first, I will
+confess it was a shock. We are so happy now, Robert is so anxious, so
+careful, so good; I felt to shrink from the change; but you have done
+more than right, Everard, and such actions must bring blessings with
+them, and I am content.”
+
+“There is no fear for Robert, Hope; no more at least than such fear as
+there is for us all; we must have done with distrust, and look up to him
+with confidence and honor. I do from my heart. I am like the angels in
+Heaven,” he added with a sweet, touching smile. “There is nothing on
+earth to my mind so great and noble as repentance.”
+
+“And you have saved him. Dear, dear Everard, it has pleased God to make
+it all your work, and it will be your example that will guide him now.”
+And with tears of grateful affection, Hope took his hand in both hers,
+and kissed it. If there were anything to repay he was well repaid.
+
+“And now, Everard,” she asked looking up with a smile in his face, “may
+I ask, do you mean to be happy yourself?”
+
+He coloured, and shook his head doubtingly, but there was a light of
+hope in his eyes, and a brightness in his countenance which had not been
+there for many a day.
+
+He had borne two years of unavoidable suspense. He was not going to bear
+one moment that could be avoided, and without a word to any one, he was
+off to Underwood as soon as breakfast was over the following morning.
+
+It was nearly three years since he had taken his first walk on the same
+errand, but his feelings now were unlike what they had been then. Then
+it was youth’s first romance, vague, sweet, impassioned, and unreal; a
+dream, and like a dream it had been swept away. Now it was no more
+romance, no longer a dream, but a man’s tried and proved affection, and
+the hope for which he came to venture, was one which contained a life’s
+happiness. He _could_ live without her; he knew he could; for he had
+lived through months of doubt, and hourly expectation of her loss; but
+he who had felt them, knew what those hours had been, and knew what the
+future would he. He had cast his earthly hopes of joy upon her, and he
+felt as those feel who have cast that die.
+
+At first rapid to prevent thought; then slow and steady to weigh again
+all he had to say; so his steps came to Underwood, and he found himself
+in Mr. Gresham’s study.
+
+Mr. Gresham was writing, but he politely left his letter, welcomed
+Everard with formal kindness, and begged him to be seated.
+
+Without attending to the latter request, Everard said hurriedly, “I
+suppose, Mr. Gresham, you can guess why I am here.”
+
+“In this point,” he replied gravely, “you do but justice to my
+intellect. I confess, that I surmise what the purport of your visit is.
+In some other points, I confess my intellect is at fault. Be so good,
+Mr. Vavasour, as to be seated. We may have much to say,” and he waved
+his hand to a chair.
+
+Everard saw he must be patient, and he sat down and said, “What is it
+you do not understand, Mr. Gresham? Let me explain it. It is my wish and
+duty to be perfectly open with you.”
+
+“To say the truth, Mr. Vavasour, your conduct is an enigma to me. For
+what purpose deceive the world, and mislead the judgments of men, with a
+false assumption of position....”
+
+“Oh! Mr. Gresham,” Everard said coloring deeply, and interrupting him
+eagerly, “are you not unjust? Can you say that I assumed? Dare you say
+that I misled. Consider all that passed between us. My own conscience
+acquits me. Surely _you_ at least must acquit me also.”
+
+“Certainly, I allow that on one occasion you, as it now appears, very
+properly rejected my overtures. But why assume? for what purpose thus
+deceive the world? Who could have imagined a course of conduct so
+strange as yours? You must allow that towards _me_ at least, the
+assumption was most unjust.”
+
+“No, Mr. Gresham, I do not allow it. I never for one instant presumed on
+the false position in which I stood, to ask your favor. Unjust to _one_,
+to one only I have been; and her pardon I come now to seek.”
+
+“You never intended then to accept in reality your father’s will. Am I
+to understand you so, Mr. Vavasour? Allow me to say, I think the
+subterfuge unworthy a gentleman of ancient family, and whose character
+stands high in the eyes of the world.”
+
+“I did accept it,” Everard said seriously, “and had it been necessary, I
+would have accepted it for ever. Had my brother continued those evil
+courses which drew down my father’s displeasure, I would, I cannot tell
+even now whether rightly or wrongly, have accepted altogether the
+position he assigned me; but I trusted Robert, I knew he would be won
+back, and I waited. I resolved from the first, that in two years I would
+consider the point again; and I endeavoured to bear those two years of
+trial as best I could. My own conscience acquits me of any dishonest
+subterfuge. I wish that you could acquit me also.”
+
+“A man, my dear sir, a man with the feelings of a gentleman is not
+willing to be deceived. I was deceived, I confess; and had it not been
+for your honorable conduct, I might have become involved in engagements
+highly prejudicial to my interests. Of the intention to deceive, I
+acquit you, but the fact remains the same.”
+
+“I am sincerely sorry to have given you annoyance. I did my best to
+prevent it. But now, Mr. Gresham, will you let me come to that request
+which brought me here to day. I came once before, I am come again to ask
+the hand of your daughter. It is no idle fancy now. For three years my
+thoughts have never wandered from her.”
+
+“You must allow me to ask in return, my dear Mr. Vavasour, what you can
+offer befitting my daughter’s acceptance. Such questions even between
+gentlemen are necessary.” He spoke with a calm composure, into the
+meaning of which Everard could not penetrate.
+
+“Very little, Mr. Gresham,” he said coloring. “I assure you none can
+know better or feel more than I do, how very little likely it is you
+should choose me for a son-in-law. Nevertheless, I persist in my
+request. Trust her to me, and so far as man is concerned, she shall be
+happy; and that is the best thing.”
+
+“My dear sir, allow me to remind you that we are engaged on a matter of
+business. Tell me frankly what you can offer.”
+
+“I think I may say £500 a year. No more at present; but Mr. Gresham, it
+shall be more. I am going back to my own profession, and these years
+have not been years of idleness; I have never, even for one day ceased
+to study for the law; when the day was not long enough I took the night;
+and I think I am fitted to get on. I feel that I have the knowledge, and
+the power; and with hope, and an object before me, I think I shall
+succeed.”
+
+“Ahem! Let me now request you, Mr. Vavasour, to listen to me; for I too
+have something of importance to communicate. Let me beg of you to give
+me your attention.” He rose from his seat, and stood majestically on the
+hearthrug; summoning to his brows an expression of weighty thought. He
+then began an essay. The gifts of Providence, and man’s responsibility
+coming in for their usual share of discussion. He proceeded next to the
+shortsightedness of man, and the necessity of submission to
+disappointment in his most cherished schemes; then to the beauty of that
+energy, which could form--unsoured by failure--new schemes.
+
+The usual intense interest to know what would be the end of all,
+supported Everard through the disquisition with unflagging attention.
+When the general foundation was laid, Mr. Gresham then again said,
+“Ahem, let me request your particular attention,” and proceeded.
+
+“It is now some months since I observed to my daughter, that it was
+time for us to renounce our first intentions; that I perceived no signs
+in your behaviour of a desire to ally yourself with our house. I begged
+her to banish the subject from her mind, and to prepare herself to
+submit to any future scheme I might form. To this proposal she declined
+to acquiesce. With all due delicacy, I may under present circumstances
+inform you, that she expressed so full a trust in your attachment, as
+made her unable or unwilling to enter on further engagements at present.
+Her confidence was so assured that it animated me, and I again suffered
+myself to indulge in the hope of attaining my first desire. For several
+months past this confidence has, however, been on the decline, and a new
+object of ambition has presented itself to my mind. This has been buried
+in my own breast, for with the patience that becomes those who indulge
+in lofty dreams, I determined to return here unfettered, and to await
+your pleasure. On my return, I heard it idly rumoured that you were
+about to celebrate the birth of your brother’s son; such unnecessary
+honor offended me, and my mind became the more resolved on my new
+design. But I waited, Mr. Vavasour. I would not do you injustice, and I
+waited until I could discover your intentions from your own lips. You
+know the rest. I now know all, and I consider myself free. I believe I
+may say, no man has ever with more patience and generosity wished and
+waited to bestow his favors on the unthankful, than I have done. The
+time is now passed.” He drew himself up with a majesty impossible to
+pourtray.
+
+“Not unthankful,” Everard said warmly. “My dear Mr. Gresham, not
+unthankful. I have always felt the generous nature of your designs. But
+there was one gift you had to give so far beyond the others; there was
+no power to care for any but that.” He paused a moment, and as Mr.
+Gresham did not proceed, he asked with a steady voice but beating heart,
+“May I enquire? Do your new designs relate to the other gifts, or to
+Miss Gresham?”
+
+“They relate, my dear Mr. Vavasour, to myself. I have determined to have
+a son.”
+
+With a great effort Everard restrained a smile at this conclusion to his
+suspense; but the solemn gaze that was fastened upon him forced him to
+be grave also, and he calmly and cordially said, “I am very glad to hear
+it.”
+
+“You understand, therefore, that my daughter is no longer my heiress.”
+
+“If she does not object,--if she will consent to poverty with me, no
+piece of news ever made me happier in my life. Her riches I ever felt a
+burden too great for me to bear.”
+
+“As to poverty, Mr. Vavasour, I trust I shall allow no child of mine to
+suffer poverty. A proper arrangement can doubtless be made. Am I to
+understand, therefore, that after this disclosure, you persist in
+addressing her?”
+
+“May I see her?” was Everard’s reply. “Have I indeed, your consent at
+last?”
+
+“Extremely singular, Mr. Vavasour. I consider the case extremely
+singular. Certainly if your attachment is so entirely disinterested, I
+can offer no further objection. The rest is in my daughter’s hands.
+After speaking to her for a few moments, I will bring her to you to give
+her answer for herself. I wish you success.”
+
+Mr. Gresham entered the drawing-room where his daughter was sitting with
+Miss Price.
+
+He closed the door with an air of importance, and approaching her,
+kissed her brow with paternal dignity.
+
+Surprised at his manner, Angela hastily rose from her chair.
+
+“Be seated for a moment, my love. I require your attention for a few
+seconds. Mr. Everard Vavasour is in my study; on an errand, perhaps, not
+wholly unexpected by you.”
+
+Not unexpected; yet Angela became very pale, and looked with an intent
+and speaking gaze, in her father’s face.
+
+“My love,” he said kindly, “I will not keep you in suspense. I have told
+Mr. Vavasour that he shall receive his answer from yourself. But before
+your decision is formed, I am anxious to communicate to you a
+circumstance which possibly may influence your choice.” He made a pause,
+then gravely added, “I am about to take a wife to myself.”
+
+“Adelaide Vansittart!” Angela exclaimed, somewhat startled, yet when the
+announcement was made, feeling as if she had known it for years.
+
+“As my request for the honor of her hand has not yet been despatched, my
+love, your delicacy will perceive, that it is not for me, whatever my
+hopes may be, to speak further upon this subject, at present; but I will
+not conceal from you that she is the object of my choice.”
+
+“My dear Papa, I am very glad,” Angela said, rising and kissing him with
+tears, she hardly knew of what meaning, in her eyes. “I hope she will
+make you happier than I have done.”
+
+“Enough, my love, enough on that subject--but allow me to point out to
+you, that such being the case, it is possible, it is indeed most
+probable that you will not be my heiress.”
+
+“I never wished it,” she cried eagerly, “if Mr. Vavasour does not mind,
+I am too happy.”
+
+“A singular case certainly,” observed Mr. Gresham, contemplating her
+like a curiosity. “Two very remarkable young people. Well, then, my
+love, there is no need to delay. Be so good as to prepare yourself to
+follow me to my study, where you will find Mr. Vavasour awaiting you.”
+
+She did follow him after throwing her arms in trembling excitement round
+her aunt’s neck, and together they re-entered the study. Again, Mr.
+Gresham closed the door, and as on a former occasion intruded his
+presence on the interview; but this time both were too happy and too
+grateful to feel anger, and both silently waited what further he had to
+say. Angela with downcast eyes and a crimson cheek--Everard with _his_
+gaze fixed upon her.
+
+After closing the door, Mr. Gresham took his daughter’s hand, and led
+her up to Everard; he then spoke a few words on matrimony, the duties of
+fathers in disposing of their children, his own duty in particular, and
+his hope that the duty was now fulfilled.
+
+His voice became slightly agitated as he spoke, and still more so when
+at last he put her hand into Everard’s, with these words. “To you, Mr.
+Vavasour, my cares being over, I now consign my child, and from what I
+have learned of your character, it is my hope that I have no need to
+enjoin you to love and cherish her.”
+
+“No need,” Everard replied, in a low voice. “With God’s blessing she
+_shall_ be happy.”
+
+“To you, my love,” he continued, “I have only to observe that a wife’s
+best happiness is in submission to her husband; and I think, and in
+fact am assured, that the character of him whom you have chosen will
+enable you to submit without regret.”
+
+Tearful, but smiling, Angela raised her eyes to Everard’s face, and met
+that stedfast gaze of love and truth bent down upon her, which seemed to
+say, as it had ever said, that she had indeed built her house upon a
+rock. The storms of this world’s sorrows might assail them, death might
+part, but there was that foundation in their love which nothing could
+wash away.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+    But though the pleasures of the day were past,--
+    For lively pleasures are not formed to last,--
+    And though less vivid they became, less strong,
+    Through life they lived and were enjoyed as long;
+    So deep the impression of that happy day,
+    Nor time, nor cares, could wear it all away.
+              CRABBE.
+
+
+A supplementary chapter is rarely an interesting one. Interest lies less
+in broad facts than in details, and a narrative of dry facts is as
+unsubstantial and uninvigorating a repast as a dinner of dry bones.
+Some few words, however, may be needful here.
+
+The result for which Adelaide Vansittart had been toiling for several
+years (to do her justice, without any hope or wish of displacing Angela)
+was attained, and she became Mr. Gresham’s wife, enjoying to the
+uttermost that lavish wealth, and that “position,” which she had so long
+contemplated with envy. The attainment of their wishes is, however,
+sometimes, and to some characters, a benefit, and in the sun of
+satisfaction faults die away and virtues appear. So it was with her. She
+became less worldly, less frivolous, and less selfish; was pleased to do
+good, and if a fine lady, was a very estimable one. There was, indeed,
+in both hers and Mr. Gresham’s hearts, a certain hollowness and
+shallowness which could not perfectly be overcome; but even this
+suffered some change by and through the birth of a son, and through the
+anxieties of the very sincere affection they gave to him.
+
+Upon the whole, Mr. Gresham’s choice was good, and his marriage a happy
+one. If his wife did not actually love him she was very contented with
+him, consulted him on all points, and governed him absolutely.
+
+A happiness of another kind was that which reigned at Audley Court. To
+say that Robert never gave his wife a moment’s uneasiness, would be to
+say what human nature scarcely warrants, for there was that weakness and
+indolence in his disposition, which could not fail at times to be weary
+in well doing. There were, after his life became more free and
+unfettered, occasional returns of his old restlessness; there were days
+on which Hope felt a secret vague misgiving that all was not well, that
+longings for a more lawless life assailed him; but these were but
+passing clouds; perhaps to her loving eyes merciful clouds, lest she,
+even she, clinging too closely to the joys of this world, should lose
+the clearness of her gaze above. Robert was sincerely bent to do well,
+and sincerely humble in his distrust of himself, and sincerity and
+humility are man’s best guardian angels. With them he cannot wander far,
+or, if he wander, cannot fail to be brought back. So far from shrinking
+from advice or warning, he again and again implored Mr. Addison to watch
+over him; begging him even though he might at the time resent it, never
+to fail to speak, if he saw in him anything unworthy of his father’s
+heir and Everard’s brother.
+
+Between the two brothers unchanging confidence and affection subsisted.
+If Everard had once been neglected, if but a tranquil love was his
+portion, that time was for ever past. He had assumed, he had been
+forced to assume, his father’s place, and though the place had been left
+for ever, the reverend love he had won in it remained. If Everard spoke
+his words were law; if Everard came it was a gala day. Far more than he
+had ever hoped for, or desired, was poured overflowing, without measure,
+into his bosom, and he was happy.
+
+Happy, not elated; unconscious, unpresuming; stedfast himself, pitiful
+to others; strong, but not in his own strength; guided by the memory of
+his father dead, and the will of his Father above.
+
+Of his and Angela’s married life, one trifling circumstance only shall
+be recorded, and this not because an uncommon or an unexpected one, but
+simply as one of those every day instances, of how little youth and
+inexperience knows of its tastes and requirements.
+
+They began life on £2,000 a year, a sum amply sufficient for every
+comfort, and most luxuries, but a sum needing management, and certainly
+far removed from Mr. Gresham’s lavish wealth. Out of this income £200 a
+year was allotted to Angela. When her father mentioned the fact to her,
+she remonstrated against the sum as excessive, assuring him her tastes
+were very simple, and her needs few. He replied that it was befitting
+her position, and refused to attend to her request that an alteration
+should be made.
+
+Six months after her marriage, having been supplied in her trousseau
+with everything woman could desire, Everard one day observed to her that
+he thought she had a few bills, and it would be as well to collect them.
+She readily acquiesced, though at the same time she assured him they
+only amounted to a few pounds. The bills were collected, and the few
+pounds, when added together, amounted to something only a little less
+than her year’s income.
+
+With a countenance expressive of the utmost horror and dismay, Angela
+carried the sum total to her husband. He smiled, and furnished her with
+the money required without reproach or remonstrance, or, indeed, without
+much appearance of surprise.
+
+This was in March. In the Christmas following the bills had no need to
+be collected. They came in of themselves, and in considerable numbers.
+During the nine past months Angela had practised what she called rigid
+economy; nevertheless, when the accounts were made up, they stood to her
+income in nearly the same proportion as before.
+
+With a countenance of still greater dismay, and yet without much
+trepidation, the total was again carried to Everard; but this time the
+effect of her communication was different. Far from smiling, his
+countenance was grave and sad.
+
+“You are angry,” she cried, in sudden terror, for such a cloud had not
+shadowed his face since their marriage.
+
+“Angry, dearest,” he said, distressed at the word, “oh no, very far from
+angry; only fearful that I was wrong in allowing you to sacrifice so
+much as you did for me when you married me.”
+
+“You never shall say that again,” she said, with tears of passionate
+regret.
+
+And he never did. There was no need.
+
+Her life, her joy, seemed to hang upon his approving look. When she saw
+a shadow on his brow, she knew she had not done well, and she was not
+happy.
+
+Happy surely are those who have chosen for their earthly guardians,
+spirits tried, and stedfast and strong. Happy. And yet for them life’s
+trials are but begun. It is not moroseness, it is but wisdom to feel
+that for such, even in their very safety and happiness, the world has
+fierce temptations in store; not the snares of earthly vanity, but the
+more subtle snare of earthly idolatry.
+
+    Whatever passes as a cloud between
+    The mental eye of faith and things unseen,
+    Causing that brighter world to disappear
+    Or seem less lovely, and its hope less dear,
+    This is our world, our idol; though it bear
+    Affection’s impress, or devotion’s air.
+
+
+                                THE END.
+
+
+      London, Godfrey & Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Under the Especial Patronage of
+
+HER MAJESTY & H.R.H. THE PRINCE CONSORT.
+
+NOW READY, IN ONE VOLUME, ROYAL 8vo.,
+
+WITH THE ARMS BEAUTIFULLY ENGRAVED,
+
+_Handsomely Bound, with Gilt Edges_,
+
+LODGE’S PEERAGE
+
+AND
+
+BARONETAGE,
+
+For 1858.
+
+ARRANGED AND PRINTED FROM
+
+THE PERSONAL COMMUNICATIONS OF THE NOBILITY,
+
+AND CORRECTED THROUGHOUT TO THE PRESENT TIME.
+
+
+LODGE’S PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE is acknowledged to be the most complete,
+as well as the most elegant, work of the kind that has ever appeared. As
+an established and authentic authority on all questions respecting the
+family histories, honours, and connexions of the titled aristocracy, no
+work has ever stood so high. It is published under the especial
+patronage of Her Majesty, and His Royal Highness the Prince Consort, and
+is annually corrected throughout, from the personal communications of
+the Nobility. It is the only work of its class in which, _the type being
+kept constantly standing_, every correction is made in its proper place
+to the date of publication, an advantage which gives it supremacy over
+all its competitors. Independently of its full and authentic information
+respecting the existing Peers and Baronets of the realm, the most
+sedulous attention is given in its pages to the collateral branches of
+the various noble families, and the names of many thousand individuals
+are introduced, which do not appear in other records of the titled
+classes. Nothing can exceed the facility of its arrangements, or the
+beauty of its typography and binding, and for its authority, correctness
+and embellishments, the work is justly entitled to the high place it
+occupies on the tables of Her Majesty and the Nobility.
+
+
+LODGE’S PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE
+
+
+LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS.
+
+
+     Historical View of the Peerage.
+
+     Parliamentary Roll of the House of Lords.
+
+     English, Scotch, and Irish Peers, in their orders of Precedence.
+
+     Alphabetical List of Peers of Great Britain and the United Kingdom,
+     holding superior rank in the Scotch or Irish Peerage.
+
+     Alphabetical List of Scotch and Irish Peers, holding superior
+     titles in the Peerage of Great Britain and the United Kingdom.
+
+     A Collective List of Peers, in their order of Precedence.
+
+     Table of Precedency among Men.
+
+     Table of Precedency among Women.
+
+     The Queen and Royal Family.
+
+     The House of Saxe Coburg-Gotha.
+
+     Peers of the Blood Royal.
+
+     The Peerage, alphabetically arranged.
+
+     Families of such Extinct Peers as have left Widows or Issue.
+
+     Alphabetical List of the Surnames of all the Peers.
+
+     Account of the Archbishops and Bishops of England, Ireland, and the
+     Colonies.
+
+     The Baronetage, alphabetically arranged.
+
+     Alphabetical List of Surnames assumed by members of Noble Families.
+
+     Alphabetical List of the Second Titles of Peers, usually borne by
+     their Eldest Sons.
+
+     Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Dukes, Marquises, and Earls,
+     who, having married Commoners, retain the title of Lady before
+     their own Christian and their Husbands’ Surnames.
+
+     Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Viscounts and Barons, who,
+     having married Commoners, are styled Honourable Mrs; and, in case
+     of the husband being a Baronet or Knight, Honourable Lady.
+
+     Mottoes alphabetically arranged and translated.
+
+
+“A work which corrects all errors of former works. It is the production
+of a herald, we had almost said, by birth, but certainly, by profession
+and studies, Mr. Lodge, the Norroy King of Arms. It is a most useful
+publication.”--_Times._
+
+“Lodge’s Peerage must supersede all other works of the kind, for two
+reasons; first, it is on a better plan; and, secondly, it is better
+executed. We can safely pronounce it to be the readiest, the most
+useful, and exactest of modern works on the subject.”--_Spectator._
+
+“This work derives great value from the high authority of Mr. Lodge. The
+plan is excellent.”--_Literary Gazette._
+
+“This work should form a portion of every gentleman’s library. At all
+times, the information which it contains, derived from official sources
+exclusively at the command of the author, is of importance to most
+classes of the community; to the antiquary it must be invaluable, for
+implicit reliance may be placed on its contents.”--_Globe._
+
+“The production of Edmund Lodge, Esq., Norroy King of Arms, whose
+splendid Biography of Illustrious Personages stands an unrivalled
+specimen of historical literature, and magnificent illustration. Of Mr.
+Lodge’s talent for the task he has undertaken, we need only appeal to
+his former productions. It contains the exact state of the Peerage as it
+now exists, with all the Collateral Branches, their Children, with all
+the Marriages of the different individuals connected with each
+family.”--_John Bull._
+
+
+                    HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
+                      SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
+                 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET, LONDON.
+          TO BE HAD OF ALL BOOKSELLERS THROUGHOUT THE KINGDOM.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79390 ***
diff --git a/79390-h/79390-h.htm b/79390-h/79390-h.htm
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..82c06d6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/79390-h/79390-h.htm
@@ -0,0 +1,4814 @@
+
+<!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. 3 [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%;}
+.blockquott p{text-indent:-2%;margin-left:5%;}
+
+.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.i10     {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;}
+.poem span.i3     {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 6em; text-indent: -3em;}
+.poem span.i1     {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -3em;}
+.poem span.i15     {display: block; margin-left: 14em; 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 79390 ***</div>
+
+<hr class="full">
+
+<div class="figcenter">
+<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="339" height="550" alt="">
+</div>
+
+<p class="toc">
+<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>
+</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>
+&amp;c., &amp;c.</small><br><br><br><small>
+“Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.”&mdash;<span class="smcap">Dryden.</span></small>
+<br><br><br>
+IN THREE VOLUMES.<br>
+VOL. III.<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_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">When I look back and in myself behold<br></span>
+<span class="i0">The wandering ways that youth could not descry,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">And mark the fearful course that youth did hold,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">And melt in mind each step youth stray’d awry,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">My knees I bow and from my heart I call&mdash;<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! Lord forget these faults and follies all.<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Lord Vaux.</span><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> London season was over, and Mr. Gresham, full of high hopes, began
+to turn his thoughts towards Underwood. With that self-control and
+wisdom for which he was so remarkable, he had hitherto restrained<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2">{2}</a></span> his
+intense desire to be in the neighbourhood of Audley Court. He had argued
+thus. “Mr. Vavasour was much attached to his father. He may possibly
+suppose two or three months of seclusion to be a proper compliment to
+pay to his memory. He will do justice to my motives in withholding
+myself for a time, and will the more cordially meet my advances, when
+the season of mourning is at an end.”</p>
+
+<p>So arguing, he remained in London until the end of July; consoling
+himself for the inevitable delay, not only by his designs for the
+future, but by his admiration of his present self. The failure of his
+first plan had for a time humbled him; he had felt certainly humble in
+being compelled to inform Mrs. Vansittart that a scheme on which he had
+bestowed much thought had ended in smoke. But from this humiliation he
+drew many draughts of consolation&mdash;the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3">{3}</a></span> equanimity with which he had
+borne disappointment, the fertility of imagination which had composed a
+second plan equal to the first, and finally the moderation he shewed in
+calmly waiting the now certain fulfilment of his hopes&mdash;each and all of
+these were themes for daily contemplation, admiration, and gratitude.</p>
+
+<p>There was yet another plan which added to the adoration and wonder with
+which he contemplated his self at this present moment, a plan so formed
+out of self-conquest, paternal affection, and paternal wisdom, that when
+he considered it in all its bearings, he could have fallen down and
+worshipped the originator of the scheme. This plan was announced to
+Angela a few days before they left London.</p>
+
+<p>“Have you lately visited Miss Price, my love?” he inquired, as she was
+leaving the breakfast room.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4">{4}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“I saw her last week, Papa. I go to see her as often as I may.”</p>
+
+<p>“I believe, my love, her society gives you some pleasure.”</p>
+
+<p>“The very greatest,” Angela replied with warmth.</p>
+
+<p>“I have been considering, Angela, that there are occasions in the life
+of young females&mdash;occasions to which I need not do more than allude at
+present,&mdash;when a companion of their own sex is desirable; especially
+when that companion combines with other qualities something of a
+maternal character. Being at all times anxious, my love, to secure your
+best welfare, I have determined to send an invitation to Miss Price,
+requesting the ... the pleasure of her society during the next few weeks
+or months at Underwood, as the case may be; nay, the invitation is
+already despatched, and if it will give you satisfaction to enforce it
+in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5">{5}</a></span> person, the carriage, my love, is at your disposal.” He drew himself
+up and sat the model father studying the welfare of his daughter.</p>
+
+<p>Angela’s cheeks were dyed with crimson, and her eyes cast down as he
+spoke. No length of time, no power of habit, could accustom her to the
+matter-of-fact way in which he alluded to events, which caused to her so
+much anxiety and unrest. When she looked up, however, the impassive gaze
+she met told her how idle were all feelings of sensitiveness in her
+intercourse with her father, and banishing her shyness, she forced
+herself to express the delight she really felt in the intelligence he
+gave.</p>
+
+<p>Some might have wondered at the pleasure felt by Angela in her aunt’s
+society, but there was no cause for wonder. Though poor in intellect
+Miss Price was rich in sympathy; though she had nothing to give,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6">{6}</a></span> she
+had boundless powers of receiving and cherishing; and in this hard
+world, the givers of sympathy are not so many, that the very least can
+be other than an object of importance and affection.</p>
+
+<p>Her delight was so great, that in expressing her gratitude, Angela
+kissed her father. Such a heartfelt caress was not common for her to
+give or him to receive; and he would have been either surprised or
+gratified could the sense of the enormous merit of the act he had
+performed, have left room for any surprise in the gratitude it excited.
+He smiled benignly indeed, but it was the smile of conscious, modest
+merit, not of gratified affection.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Price accepted the invitation with all the humility and
+thankfulness Mr. Gresham had expected. She was indeed almost overwhelmed
+by <i>his</i> condescension, and the sense of her inferiority, and but for
+her affection<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7">{7}</a></span> for Angela, might have declined it through the dread of
+proving herself unworthy of his favours; but that affection bore her
+through her many fears, and armed her to meet her brother-in-law with
+tolerable composure.</p>
+
+<p>He behaved with his usual liberality on this occasion, and desired
+Angela to spare no expense in making her aunt a fit object for his eyes
+to rest upon; and although beauty cannot be given to a faded woman of
+sixty, Angela’s taste and efforts did so far succeed, that after a
+scrutinizing gaze he pronounced her “passable.” “She can never give
+importance to us, my love,” he remarked, “but I am happy to see that she
+is able to receive importance from us. A handsome dress, as I have often
+observed to you, makes up for most deficiencies in the eyes of the
+world.”</p>
+
+<p>It was the 1st of August, when Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8">{8}</a></span> Gresham and suite arrived at
+Underwood. The evening was lovely, the garden and surrounding country
+were in all the luxuriance of their summer beauty; and when Miss Price
+seated in one of the windows of the long drawing-room, inhaling the
+fresh and scented air, and feasting her eyes on the glowing masses of
+the flowers, she felt as if she had been caught up into Paradise.</p>
+
+<p>Tears of rapture fell fast from her eyes on her new silk dress, and her
+handkerchief moved rapidly from the latter to the former, her terror for
+the destruction of her gown in no degree assisting her in calming the
+overflowing of her emotions.</p>
+
+<p>“What is the matter, dear Aunt Jane?” Angela said, after watching her
+for some moments. “Is there anything that makes you unhappy to-night?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not unhappy, my love, but too happy. I never thought to breathe such
+air, or see<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9">{9}</a></span> such sights again, and I am thankful to you and your dear
+papa and to God. Kind friends make me weep, my love, but it is with joy
+not sorrow.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela stood in the window observing her in silence. “Such things never
+make me thankful,” she said at last. “I have no room to feel them. It is
+the mind, Aunt Jane, that makes happiness, not outward things.”</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps love, to you. My mind is not very strong, and things that
+others call little do give me pleasure. I like to look out on all these
+flowers, and think how good God is, and how beautiful His new world will
+be.”</p>
+
+<p>“It would be well then if all our minds were weak,” Angela replied. “I
+wish I could think such thoughts, but I can’t. I have too much to think
+of besides.”</p>
+
+<p>Miss Price dried her tears to look up in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10">{10}</a></span> her niece’s face. Something in
+the tone of her voice compelled her. “You do not look happy to-night, my
+love,” she then observed.</p>
+
+<p>Angela pulled another chair into the window and sat down, leaning her
+head on her hand, as it rested on the window sill. “I don’t know how I
+look or feel,” she said sadly. “No not happy, certainly.”</p>
+
+<p>“And why, dearest?”</p>
+
+<p>Angela burst into tears.</p>
+
+<p>“My love, my love,” cried her aunt much fluttered, “what is this?”</p>
+
+<p>“I hardly know,” she replied, driving her tears away. “In London one
+cannot think, but everything here looks so calm and pure ... it makes me
+feel ... oh! Aunt Jane, that I wish the earth would cover me.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is what your dear mother used to say,” observed Miss Price. “She
+used to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11">{11}</a></span> say that in London she thought of earth, but in the country of
+Heaven.”</p>
+
+<p>“She thought of Heaven everywhere,” Angela said, while softer tears fell
+down her cheeks, “and what I mean is not like what she felt. I am
+thinking only of earth now,” and she turned again to the window, gazing
+out intently on the distant woods.</p>
+
+<p>“In what direction is Audley Court, my love?”</p>
+
+<p>“There,” and Angela pointed with crimson cheeks, in the very direction
+in which she had been gazing.</p>
+
+<p>“Shall I some day see Mr. Vavasour?” was the next enquiry.</p>
+
+<p>“I cannot tell,” and Angela turned her eyes away, and again leant her
+head upon her hand.</p>
+
+<p>“I hope I shall, my love, it would be a great pleasure to me.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12">{12}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>No answer.</p>
+
+<p>“I have heard a good deal about Mr. Vavasour lately, love.”</p>
+
+<p>“<i>You</i>, Aunt Jane!” Angela, exclaimed, raising her eyes in excited
+surprise.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, love, it does seem strange, I know, but I have often observed that
+one does meet strangely in life. It was singular, love, that you should
+meet Mr. Vavasour at my house, and it is strange that I should have met
+a person who knew him.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, very,” she replied absently. “But what have you heard?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! so much good, my love, it was quite a pleasure to hear.” Angela
+turned her head away again, and listened in silence. “You know, dearest,
+we have lately got a new curate at Hampstead. A very pleasing young man,
+and particularly kind to me. Quite by chance, I found out that he was
+son<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13">{13}</a></span> to a friend or relation of that kind gentleman you have spoken of
+sometimes near Audley Court.”</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Addison?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes love; and a fortnight ago he went down to ask his advice on some
+business for his father, and he came back so full of Mr. Vavasour. He
+could talk of nothing else.”</p>
+
+<p>“Did he see him?” Angela asked without raising her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, my love. He saw him riding. Very grave and sad, he said, but
+handsome. <i>He</i> thought handsome, which I never did. But beauty is a
+matter of taste, and what we ought not to think of. Well, dearest, and
+he told me so much good of him. He says from what people say, he seems
+only to live to do good. That he seems to pass his time in finding out
+what he can do to help those about him; such a son, such a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14">{14}</a></span> brother, and
+such a father to his people; and they say, that young as he is, people
+seem to depend on him just as they did on his father, and in fact, that
+he is just like his father, so steady, and so good, only more gentle.
+And my young friend told me that he had business both nights he was down
+there, and had some law papers to copy, and sat up late, and there he
+saw the light in Mr. Vavasour’s room burn so brightly till near two in
+the morning. In the distance you know, love, and he told Mr.&mdash;&mdash;, (your
+friend, love) what he had observed&mdash;and he said, many people had noticed
+it; and he supposed he felt he had much to learn to make himself fit for
+his duties. But, my love, you are shedding tears. Why is this, dearest?”</p>
+
+<p>“At my unworthinesss,” she said sadly, while bitter tears did indeed
+fall down her cheeks.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15">{15}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“But you may be worthy, my love, may you not? We all may if we please.”</p>
+
+<p>“I suppose we may,” she replied more humbly than was her wont, and
+without further conference, rising from her seat and mounting on her
+chair, she sprang out into the garden, with an agility that astonished
+her aunt beyond measure, and wandered off to recover in solitude her
+disordered spirits.</p>
+
+<p>Angela was far from feeling the certainty regarding her future prospects
+which her father felt. There were moments, indeed, when her hopes were
+strong, that he who had loved her once would love her still; but there
+were others when hope utterly died away; and there were more when hope
+and fear tortured her with their alternations.</p>
+
+<p>This night was a desponding night. It was a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16">{16}</a></span> night on which she felt how
+unworthy she was of Everard’s recollection, and with equal force that
+life without him was utterly worthless in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>During the many months that had elapsed since their last meeting, his
+image had become somewhat misty and undefined to her eyes. First,
+through her pique at <i>his</i> conduct; then through the bewildering
+weakness and misery of her own; lastly, through the change in his
+circumstances. Unable to realize what he now was, how he thought,
+looked, and felt, neither did she realize how her heart had cast its all
+of happiness upon him. She knew that there was something which made her
+cold as ice to all efforts to win her favour; not only among those she
+scorned, but in the more varied society on which she had lately entered;
+but her life passed as an exciting dream, and to herself she was an
+enigma. Occasionally she saw<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17">{17}</a></span> in her secret imaginations, that could any
+man behave to her as she had done to Everard, she <i>never</i> would forgive
+it; and on such occasions the cold chill of hopelessness would follow,
+lest his thoughts should be like hers. But such reflections came but
+seldom. She was now “come out,” and the course of dissipation swept her
+along, and admiration and flattery beguiled, though they could not win
+her; and the voice of conscience, though not dumb, was faintly heard.</p>
+
+<p>But Underwood brought her a full awakening. Much poetry has been written
+on summer evenings, but nothing has ever yet expressed, as should and
+might be expressed, the strange calm charm of the first evening, when
+London, with its noise and cares and heat has been left behind. It is
+almost such a change as we may fancy the disembodied spirit feels when
+it passes out of the worl<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18">{18}</a></span>d’s pain and misery, and enters on its rest.
+How poor seem all the vain trifles that have occupied the fancy. How
+more than vain, how darkened with sin, the thoughts and imaginations of
+the heart. How the soul aches to reach some vision of real good, to
+grasp some true thing, to find some stay on which to rest its weariness
+henceforward and for ever.</p>
+
+<p>So Angela felt as she wandered in the stillness and beauty and purity of
+that first evening; the soft air fanning her brow; the tranquillity
+penetrating her heart; the inexpressible loveliness soothing all her
+senses, and yet quickening her to think.</p>
+
+<p>She became very good as she walked and talked with herself, very
+penitent, very humble, very desirous to make a step into a better life;
+and though it was but a mood, and though it was an earthly love only
+that was beckoning her onward, yet, undoubtedly,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19">{19}</a></span> even such moods are
+not valueless; for by whatever name the attraction be called, that must
+in its degree be good, which has led and is leading the soul to delight
+itself in good.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20">{20}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A grace though melancholy, manly too,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Moulded his being: pensive, grave, serene,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">O’er his habitual bearing and his mien,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Unceasing pain, by patience tempered, threw<br></span>
+<span class="i0">A shade of sweet austerity.<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Henry Taylor.</span><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Nine</span> days of wonder is attached to most earthly surprises; but in these
+days, when time moves fast, nine days of wonder is as little to be
+expected as nine centuries. Nine hours for the most part exhaust
+exclamations, consternations, comments, and conjectures regarding any
+event, however weighty it be.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21">{21}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>That the event, the surprise which had taken place at Audley Court, had
+survived not only through nine days but even nine weeks of wondering,
+and was yet unexhausted, arose partly from circumstances and partly from
+the singularly marked characters of the Vavasour family. The indignation
+which the disinheriting of Robert had caused, could not die away into
+the calm of indifference. The poor indeed in their toils and cares, and
+in the discovery that they had a master as good and kind as their late
+one, were shortly satisfied. Present pains and gains occupied their
+intellects, and if the matter was talked over at all, it was to say in
+simple truisms, that “all was for the best no doubt,” or “it was God’s
+will, and He knows better than we.” But with the richer portion of the
+neighbourhood it was different.</p>
+
+<p>Though, owing to his long absences and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22">{22}</a></span> other causes, not familiarly
+known, Robert was well known by sight and by reputation; and many a gay
+fancy had pictured the future at Audley Court under his auspices. Some
+rumours of his extravagances, and other careless habits, had mingled
+with the report of his marvellous charms, but, although the graver
+condemned, the very fact of the interest these rumours excited did but
+fasten more fixedly upon him the minds and fancies of all around. But
+while this was the case with Robert, Everard, on the contrary, was
+unthought of, and untalked of. That he was poor, and that he was not
+handsome; that he was grave in his demeanour, and correct in his
+conduct, these facts were known. They excited no interest, no
+speculations. He was nothing.</p>
+
+<p>When, therefore, the change came, the announcement was like a
+thunderbolt in its fall, and like a thunderstorm was the fury<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23">{23}</a></span> of the
+tempest that succeeded. To feel for the wronged and fallen is the
+generous characteristic of English nature. In Englishmen and women the
+sense of justice is very keen, and every act of injustice is felt with
+the force of a personal insult. It was so here. Young and old were up in
+rebellion. Mr. Vavasour was indignantly condemned; for Robert, even
+tears of pity and sorrow fell. Every thought was turned on Audley Court,
+and he was most welcomed at home, who could bring the most authentic
+intelligence regarding its inhabitants.</p>
+
+<p>When, after three weeks, Robert took his departure, this first frenzy
+died away. Such violent excitements cannot last, and when there was no
+more hope of hearing what he said, or how he looked, that portion of the
+subject began to be forgotten. But it was replaced by a new frenzy&mdash;hate
+of Everard.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24">{24}</a></span> Each heart, each young heart especially, thought it a point
+of honour to hate him with all their power.</p>
+
+<p>Everard had contemplated hate and misinterpretation as his portion when
+he made his decision, yet could he have known what things were said and
+thought of him, even by the young and gentle, possibly even <i>his</i>
+motives could not have supported him under the trial. “Cold-blooded
+hypocrite” was by no means an uncommon phrase in which to denote him,
+and certainly by no means an uncommon form under which to summon him to
+the mind’s eye.</p>
+
+<p>His doings were therefore watched and criticized through the jaundiced
+vision of prejudice; and yet, strange to say, from that cloud, even in
+three months he had emerged, and was winning his way in men’s good
+opinions. Justice owned that he had been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25">{25}</a></span> hastily condemned, and justice
+became anxious to make atonement.</p>
+
+<p>The first rumour that wrought a change in his favour, was when it was
+discovered,&mdash;as discovered things usually are,&mdash;and the news circulated
+about that he had paid all Robert’s debts. The sum was large, rumour
+doubled it, and in that case rumour did him a favour. It was then
+discovered that he was making retrenchments at Audley Court, and it
+could not but be owned that these retrenchments were not only kindly and
+judiciously made, but that he chose such points as must have been least
+pleasing to his natural taste; denying himself especially every luxury
+in that region, which most comes home to a man’s heart.</p>
+
+<p>The tide of condemnation came to a stand still, then began slowly to
+move backwards. The poor began to tell of his kindness and forethought;
+men of business who chanced<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26">{26}</a></span> to have to do with him, spoke of his
+excellent sense and judgment; elderly gentlemen of his unpretending
+behaviour; and those who are less accustomed to reason than to be guided
+by their fancy and feelings, were affected and converted by his
+appearance.</p>
+
+<p>The last Mr. Vavasour, since increasing infirmities had taken from him
+his independance, had lived a secluded life, and was but seldom seen
+beyond the precincts of his own domain; but Everard, strong and active,
+and anxiously bent on mastering all facts important for the discharge of
+his new duties, was constantly to be met with walking or riding; and
+those who in their drives thus met with him, could not but own that
+there was nothing like triumph in his air. The “customary suit of black”
+was very plainly the livery of his mind; the most inexperienced, and the
+most<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27">{27}</a></span> prejudiced, felt alike touched and softened as they gazed.</p>
+
+<p>Minds were thus in transition at the time of Mr. Gresham’s arrival; and
+as converts are ever zealous, and ever desirous to prove their changed
+opinions to be founded on truth, conversation turned on Everard with
+very ceaseless flow. Angela heard of all he had said during the last
+three months, and every word and every deed won her to esteem, and
+honour, and love him, a thousand fold more than before. But while she
+heard much&mdash;<i>him</i> she saw not.</p>
+
+<p>The day after his arrival, Mr. Gresham sent his cards to Audley Court.
+Cards from himself and his daughter to Mrs. Vavasour and Hope, and a
+single card to Everard. The meaning conveyed in Lord Burleigh’s famous
+shake of the head, was as nothing compared to what this card was
+intended to intimate. A volume might have been written<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28">{28}</a></span> on the
+sentiments it was designed to express. To put it shortly, its messages
+were seven in number. First it condoled with Everard on the late Mr.
+Vavasour’s death. Secondly, it intimated Mr. Gresham’s acceptance of Mr.
+Vavasour’s will. Thirdly, it conveyed <i>approval</i> of the will, not mere
+acceptance, but approval. Fourthly, it proclaimed Mr. Gresham’s arrival.
+Fifthly, his haste and eagerness to claim Everard’s acquaintance.
+Sixthly, it showed his urbane desire to efface the past; and seventhly,
+it said as plainly as words could speak, that daughter and worldly goods
+were laid at his disposal.</p>
+
+<p>Whether or not Everard understood the hidden language of the card must
+be doubtful. He saw it lying on the hall table, glanced at it, and
+passed on. In three or four days he sent cards in return, and no further
+notice was taken.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29">{29}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The meaning Mr. Gresham had affixed to his own card gave him power to
+understand the language of Everard’s; and after studying it and reading
+in it an expression of genuine satisfaction with all that he, Mr.
+Gresham, had intimated, and the announcement of an early intention of
+availing himself of the munificent and benevolent gifts awaiting him, he
+rested on his oars and was at peace.</p>
+
+<p>When time, however, passed on and nothing was seen of Everard, he began
+to suspect that possibly the language of the card had <i>not</i> been read
+aright, and he determined to take a further step.</p>
+
+<p>“Angela, my love,” he said one morning, “have you visited Miss Linton
+yet?”</p>
+
+<p>“No,” she replied, with a sudden deep blush. “I did not like to go to
+her.”</p>
+
+<p>“Have you written to her on the subject of future intercourse?”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30">{30}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“No,” she replied again, and added with a murmur, “I did not dare.”</p>
+
+<p>“I think, my love, she may have cause to complain of neglect on your
+part. Possibly in the present state of Mrs. Vavasour’s spirits, she may
+be unwilling to leave her for any length of time, but we need not stand
+on ceremony, and since you have means of conveyance always at your
+disposal, it may be most proper, most considerate on your part to pay
+that marked attention which is due to persons who have been in
+affliction. I should wish you to write her a note; intimating your
+desire to renew that intercourse, which was so fruitful in happiness
+during the past year.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela remained silent with downcast eyes and a heightened colour.</p>
+
+<p>“Do you not approve of my proposal, Miss Price?” he inquired, turning
+blandly to that lady. “I am aware that when the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31">{31}</a></span> sentiments of young
+females are concerned, it is possible for a man to be mistaken; but I
+confess I am unable to perceive any want of proper etiquette in the
+opinion I express.”</p>
+
+<p>“I think dear Angela had much better write,” was the reply, flutteringly
+given&mdash;for Mr. Gresham’s condescension always made her nervous&mdash;but
+perfectly decided in its import.</p>
+
+<p>“I am happy to find my opinion coincides with yours,” he said,
+graciously, and as he left the room he repeated his commands to Angela
+to write the note in question. “My groom will call for it in the course
+of half an hour,” he added, and disappeared to escape from remonstrance.</p>
+
+<p>Angela sat in profound thought, but of the feelings that agitated her
+said nothing to her aunt. She had been silent regarding the despondency,
+which for the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32">{32}</a></span> last ten days had been stealing over her, and of the
+struggle with her pride in being the first to claim attention, she was
+equally uncommunicative. She once had thought that she should be
+perfectly happy could she have her aunt’s sympathy always at hand; but
+feelings change, and now that it was there always ready, always
+watchful, the desire to avail herself of it had departed. She was sad at
+heart and cared not to speak of her sadness.</p>
+
+<p>The half-hour had very nearly elapsed before the letter was written. She
+then suddenly rose and obeyed her father’s wishes. Possibly Mr. Gresham
+would have been surprised had the note been laid before him, at the
+terms in which she made known her wish to see Hope.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+
+<p>
+
+“Dear Hope,<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>“Will you tell me all the truth. Do you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33">{33}</a></span> like to see me, or do you
+not? I know how unhappy you have been, and would not force myself
+on you for the world; but if you would like it I should like it
+too. I can go to you at any time.</p>
+
+<p class="r">
+“Yours, affectionately,<br>
+“<span class="smcap">Angela Gresham</span>.”<br>
+</p></div>
+
+<p>She gave her orders that the groom was <i>not</i> to wait for an answer; and
+he obeyed her. She did not choose to seem in haste to have her offer
+accepted.</p>
+
+<p>Hope’s seeming neglect of Angela was from no backwardness, or distaste
+to her society, but simply from uncertainty regarding Everard’s wishes
+on the subject. She had expected a visit as a thing of course, but as
+Angela did not come, and Everard said nothing, she was uncertain how to
+act. She asked the advice of her aunt; but Mrs. Vavasour had always been
+reserved with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34">{34}</a></span> Everard, and could not force herself to break the barrier
+now. Her advice was to seek the advice of Mr. Addison. Mr. Addison was
+out of health, and having been recommended to try the benefit of sea
+air, was at this moment absent. As an early return was expected, Hope,
+in obedience to her aunt’s suggestion, postponed a decision till he
+came.</p>
+
+<p>When Angela’s note was given to her, she went at once in search of
+Everard; and on finding him put it into his hand with the simple enquiry
+what he wished her to do.</p>
+
+<p>He coloured as he read it, but she could not decide what feelings caused
+the show of emotion, for, on returning it, he exclaimed with warmth and
+anxiety, “My dear Hope, surely you do not so mistake me as to think I
+have any wish to control your actions.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35">{35}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“No,” she replied, hesitatingly, “only in this case....”</p>
+
+<p>“Not in any case. If it will give you pleasure to see Miss Gresham, and
+I should think it would, pray follow your own wishes without any thought
+of me.”</p>
+
+<p>She looked at him, perplexed and anxious. His manner, though earnest as
+regarded her part in the concern, betrayed little as to what he felt for
+Angela; betrayed nothing in fact; it was as if he spoke of a common
+acquaintance. “Then I will ask her to come to-morrow afternoon,” she
+said, after a moment’s thought. “Will you send the note for me?”</p>
+
+<p>He acquiesced, and waited while she wrote. When it was done, he took it
+without any further comment and dispatched it.</p>
+
+<p>Angela paid her visit the following day alone. Although Miss Price had
+specially<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36">{36}</a></span> been invited to Underwood, that she might assist a young
+female on such an occasion as the present, she was forced to resign her
+office, owing to a severe sore throat. Mr. Gresham had counted on her
+chaperonage in this first visit to Everard’s house, and was mortified
+that the delicacy of his arrangements should be thus counteracted; but
+necessity, as he observed, knows no law of etiquette or otherwise, and
+Angela was permitted to go alone.</p>
+
+<p>To Angela her aunt’s presence or absence was a matter of utter
+indifference. She was far too much absorbed in other feelings to
+consider whether or not it was Everard’s house. The hope of meeting him
+and the dread of meeting him, occupied her imagination to the exclusion
+of every other thought, and caused an agitation so excessive, that when
+she did actually arrive, was shown into the library, and found herself
+in Hop<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37">{37}</a></span>e’s arms, she was unable to speak one word, and scarcely knew
+whether she was awake or asleep.</p>
+
+<p>That long library, quite unaltered, the scene of the strange interview
+with Everard, that day of rapturous happiness never to be
+forgotten&mdash;when she recovered her senses, it was to this that her fancy
+flew back, and she sat down, blushing over the recollections it excited.</p>
+
+<p>This long library was now Hope’s common sitting room. Mrs. Vavasour
+rarely left her own apartments, and Everard, shrinking from the
+dreariness of the house, had made it a request to Hope that she should
+sometimes be found there. It was not to be supposed that Hope should
+have the same vivid recollections of the room as Angela had, yet
+something of recollection did arrive, as she saw her agitated
+countenance, and she wondered with what feel<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38">{38}</a></span>ings her young companion
+found herself there again.</p>
+
+<p>They sat opposite to each other in silence; each uncertain what to say,
+and fearful to begin. It was Angela who spoke at last; as she looked at
+Hope, the remembrance of death, and the awe of death came over her, and
+her exclamation had no touch of selfish dreamings in it.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! Hope,” she said, sadly, “how changed you are.”</p>
+
+<p>Hope was surprised, and a faint streak of colour flitted over her cheek.
+She had been thinking of Angela, and not of all the changes at Audley
+Court. “Yes, there has been a great change,” she replied, after a
+moment.</p>
+
+<p>“And <i>you</i> are changed in the change. Dear Hope, have you been so very
+unhappy?”</p>
+
+<p>Hope did not immediately answer. An<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39">{39}</a></span>gela’s question made her think of
+herself, a thing that rarely happened. “I think I am changed,” she said
+at last. “I used to think, it was in my ignorance, that I did not mind
+sorrow, that it was my place to comfort, and that if I could have power
+to do that, I should not dread the sight of grief. But now....”</p>
+
+<p>“Now what, dear Hope?” said Angela, anxiously.</p>
+
+<p>“Now I know that sorrow is the punishment of sin, and must have
+bitterness;” and as she spoke a tear fell from her eye.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! how you must have suffered,” Angela exclaimed, and she felt a kind
+of shame at her own trials, as she looked in Hope’s face.</p>
+
+<p>“I was not thinking of myself,” was Hope’s reply, “but of all I have
+seen and still see. It is not that I am unhappy myself, but I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40">{40}</a></span> long to
+do more to put grief away, and have not the power. It is <i>here</i>; and I
+find now that God must comfort, for man cannot.”</p>
+
+<p>“Are they all so unhappy?” Angela asked, after a moment, in a low voice.</p>
+
+<p>“My poor aunt; you can fancy what that is Angela. She has lost all that
+occupied her; and she is not as some are, calm and strong in their
+grief. She is very good, but is miserable. She never murmurs, but I can
+see the struggle to submit almost breaking her heart. I had often
+thought of such sorrow as hers, but now I <i>know</i> what it is.”</p>
+
+<p>“And Mr. Vavasour,” Angela asked, after another pause, in a still lower
+tone. “Is he too miserable?”</p>
+
+<p>“Do you mean Robert or Everard, Angela?” And Hope turned her slow
+enquiring eyes on her companion.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41">{41}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“I mean Mr. Robert Vavasour,” she said faintly, averting her eyes with a
+deep blush of shame from the gaze that was upon her.</p>
+
+<p>“Robert is happier than Everard,” Hope replied, after a moment’s
+thought. “He is trying to wash out the past, and that gives him a bright
+hope before him. I think Robert is happier than he ever was, for I
+think,&mdash;I try not to expect too much, but I think”&mdash;she paused and
+clasped her hands together, and added&mdash;“that God has granted him
+repentance.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela sat silent and sighed. Hope’s anxiety for Robert’s welfare,
+showed her in true colours what her conduct had been during that mad
+time when right and wrong seemed obliterated in her mind. Shame pressed
+heavily upon her. It would have been a relief to confess it all, but she
+did not dare. She never had approached such sub<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42">{42}</a></span>jects with Hope, less
+than ever she dared approach them now.</p>
+
+<p>After a short silence, during which she hoped but vainly, that Hope
+would speak of Everard, Angela inquired after Mr. Addison, and expressed
+her disappointment at finding him absent. She told Hope of her desire to
+begin to make herself useful, and to lead a better life than she had
+done, and said how much she needed advice and help; and this subject was
+more easily talked over than others, and the hour of her stay passed
+rapidly away. The clock struck five, and she looked up with regret.</p>
+
+<p>“I told the carriage to come round at five,” she said, “for we have got
+a dinner to-night, and I must be home early,” and when those words were
+said she suddenly remembered the visit was past, and Everard had not
+been seen.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43">{43}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The thought had scarcely passed through her mind when he appeared. He
+came slowly in from the further end of the library and her heart had
+time almost to break with its beating before he reached her. Unable to
+articulate one word then she half rose and shook hands with him, and sat
+hurriedly down again.</p>
+
+<p>At first it was Everard’s mere presence that overcame her, but, as he
+stood before her, it was himself, his changed self, that affected her.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Price’s friend had called him handsome, and such an expression
+regarding him was no longer without truth. Thought and sorrow had so
+softened and refined his features that they in themselves were almost
+toned into beauty; and even had it not been so, there was an expression
+in his countenance, in his air and manner, so subdued, so melancholy,
+and so gentle, even strangers might have been affected by it.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44">{44}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>In that first instant she forgot herself, and tears of pity and love for
+<i>him</i> sprang into her eyes; but when he addressed her, thoughts of her
+own self returned; and she was chilled into composure by his voice.</p>
+
+<p>No <i>empressement</i>, no embarrassment; some restraint, perhaps&mdash;but a
+grave, kind quietness, such as under any circumstances he, in his
+position, would have shown to his cousin’s guest.</p>
+
+<p>“I must do my errand,” he said, “though I hope it will not hurry you
+away. The carriage was waiting at the door as I came in, and they were
+coming to summon you. I said I would tell you it was ready.”</p>
+
+<p>“Thank you. I must go directly,” Angela said, and she got up with a
+strange feeling of mingled sadness and relief.</p>
+
+<p>As she wished Hope good-bye, she paused<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45">{45}</a></span> to make arrangements about
+another visit, and Everard walked first to the window and then out of
+the room.</p>
+
+<p>When Angela turned round he was gone. She pulled down her veil and
+hurried away with bitterness in her heart. “He hates me,” she thought,
+and before she reached the door, tears at once of passion and sorrow
+were in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>But by the side of the carriage he stood awaiting her; and then in very
+shame she could have flown from him, and hid her agitation from his
+sight.</p>
+
+<p>The same manner, however, gravely, calmly, kind, in an instant composed
+her again. A faint glow on his cheek was the only sign he gave of being
+in any way moved at her presence.</p>
+
+<p>He stopped her as she was getting into the carriage and asked, “How do
+you think Hope looks?”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46">{46}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Very much changed,” Angela said hurriedly.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” he agreed, with a sadness that made her reproach herself for her
+hasty words, “But do you think her looking <i>ill</i>?”</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps not really ill,” she said, desirous to relieve his mind, “but
+thinner than she used to be. She does not <i>seem</i> ill.”</p>
+
+<p>“Her life is very lonely, and if you can come and see her, I think it
+would do her good. I am <i>sure</i> she will be glad to have you come.” He
+spoke anxiously, but it was only for Hope’s sake.</p>
+
+<p>“I will certainly,” Angela replied, and as he said no more, she entered
+the carriage.</p>
+
+<p>He then approached again and asked, “I hear Miss Price is at Underwood.
+Is that true?”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47">{47}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Angela replied that it was; and anxiously waited for what would follow.</p>
+
+<p>“Will you remember me to her?” This was all that came.</p>
+
+<p>Angela bowed her head, and so they parted.</p>
+
+<p>She went on her way shedding bitter tears, and he re-entered the house.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham, whose anxiety regarding the effects of the visit was too
+great to be restrained, came with much politeness to assist his daughter
+from the carriage.</p>
+
+<p>“Did you see Mr. Vavasour, my love?” he enquired.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, Papa.”</p>
+
+<p>“I hope he is in good health.”</p>
+
+<p>“He seemed so,” she replied wearily; “he did not say.”</p>
+
+<p>“You gave him my compliments of course, my love, and expressed my wish
+to see him here.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48">{48}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“No,” and she shook her head. “I said very little.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ahem!” and for a moment Mr. Gresham came to a stand still. He then
+remembered the delicacy of the female character and added, “That was as
+it should be, my love. No young woman is forward to encourage the visits
+of the other sex. But no doubt he understood from your manner that you
+would receive him with pleasure. Did he express any wish, with regard to
+... to <i>our</i> society?”</p>
+
+<p>“He asked me to go sometimes and see Hope,” Angela replied, feeling that
+by that answer she should for the time at least relieve herself from the
+torment of his questionings.</p>
+
+<p>“That is well; you have my permission to avail yourself of the
+invitation,” and drawing himself up to a princely air, he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49">{49}</a></span> accompanied
+his daughter across the hall, and then allowed her to depart.</p>
+
+<p>She entered the drawing-room, kissed her aunt, as she lay on the sofa,
+said she hoped she was better, and then sat down at the window and
+looked out in silence.</p>
+
+<p>Time passed and she made no change in her position. At last Miss Price
+spoke. “Your father was here a short time ago, my love, and said he
+wished you to be in good time to-night. I think a Bishop dines here and
+you must be ready.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela came towards her with a smile, and said, “Oh! yes I will be ready
+for the Bishop; it is only half-past six, and <i>he</i> will not care how I
+am dressed I suppose.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, love, I suppose not; but your father likes you to look nice.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela, however, now sat down by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50">{50}</a></span> sofa, and made no haste to prepare
+herself for the Bishop.</p>
+
+<p>“Did you see Mr. Vavasour, my love?” enquired her aunt at length.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, Aunt Jane, I did see him.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, love.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well Aunt Jane.”</p>
+
+<p>“You know what I would say, dearest. Did you have a happy meeting?”</p>
+
+<p>“A <i>happy</i> meeting!” she repeated scornfully. “No not exactly happy.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, dearest, I expressed myself ill,&mdash;of course not happy, but I
+hope....”</p>
+
+<p>“If you wish to know all at once, Aunt Jane, I will tell you. He hates
+me;” and though tears trembled in her eyes, she drove them back with a
+look of indignant pride.</p>
+
+<p>“I hardly think so love; indeed I feel sure he does not.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51">{51}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Why?” and Angela looked in her face as if her fate was to be read
+there.</p>
+
+<p>“Because he loved you once so very truly. I saw him, dearest, once after
+your father refused him. He told me not to tell that he came, and I
+promised; so I never did; but he loved you very truly. I could see that;
+though I don’t understand such things much, I could see <i>that</i>.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, then he did,” and Angela sighed and suffered the tears to fall
+from her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>“And once, love, he told me, that he was not changeable, and I think I
+should say the same from his look; he does not look inconstant.”</p>
+
+<p>“Inconstant!” Angela exclaimed indignantly, “it is not inconstancy to
+change from a worthless object. If he <i>has</i> changed I do not blame him.
+If he <i>could</i> have behaved as I have done, I should care for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52">{52}</a></span> him no
+more, and would <i>that</i> be inconstancy?”</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps not, love. I do not well understand these things. But I fancy
+he loves you still.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela shook her head, and yet was comforted.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53">{53}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You give me praise for what I do;<br></span>
+<span class="i0">You blame me for what’s left undone;<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Alas! how little is pierced through,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">How little known of the lost and won<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Under the Sun.<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Barry Cornwall.</span><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Angela</span> continued to visit Hope; but not as she had done the year before,
+with the freedom of eager friendship, regardless of times and seasons;
+she could not bring herself to that. Her visits were matters of in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54">{54}</a></span>tense
+thought. They occupied her entirely in the intervening days; her whole
+desire was to be at Audley Court, and see what one other visit would
+bring forth; and yet she restrained herself with an iron rule, and made
+her visits few and far between. If Everard had ceased to love her, he
+should learn to respect her. This was the thought that animated her to
+self-controul.</p>
+
+<p>The second and the third visit to Hope passed without any further
+meeting. Miss Price, now restored to health, accompanied Angela, and sat
+patiently by while her young companions talked. She could be no
+restraint to any one, and though on the first visit, Angela had been
+indifferent as to her chaperonage, she now felt protection in her
+company.</p>
+
+<p>As she and Miss Price were re-entering the carriage after the fourth
+visit, Everard<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55">{55}</a></span> and Mr. Addison appeared in the court yard together.
+Everard hastened forward, and after shaking hands with Angela, turned
+with much kindness to speak to Miss Price who was already seated. Angela
+fancied she had learned a great deal of proper pride and self-restraint
+during the last month, and yet when she suddenly found herself in his
+society again, all she had learned seemed to fail her. She thought his
+greeting to herself so cold, while to her aunt it was warm and kind, and
+tears no effort could hide sprang into her eyes. It was better Mr.
+Addison should see them than Everard, and she went to meet him as he
+more slowly walked up the court; but when she met him, she could think
+of nothing to say to explain her eagerness.</p>
+
+<p>He, however, had something to say to her, or else discovered something
+at the moment, and he kept her in conversation for a few<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56">{56}</a></span> minutes; it
+was only when she was quite composed, that he led the way back to the
+carriage.</p>
+
+<p>Everard assisted her into it, and though there was still the same want
+of what is easiest expressed by the word <i>empressement</i>, in his manner
+there was a smile, as he said, “You have done a good deed, Miss Gresham,
+in bringing Miss Price here. Fresh air has given her ten new years of
+life.”</p>
+
+<p>“I think so too,” Angela replied, more naturally, cheered in spite of
+herself by his smile; “but it was Papa’s good deed, not mine.”</p>
+
+<p>He smiled again, but said no more; nor made any effort to detain them.
+He and Mr. Addison drew back, and the carriage drove away.</p>
+
+<p>Everard went into the house to fetch some paper for which they had
+returned home, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57">{57}</a></span> then he and Mr. Addison pursued their way.</p>
+
+<p>“Everard,” Mr. Addison began, after they had walked for some time in
+silence, “will you allow me to say a word to you on a subject ... you
+may guess, perhaps, to what I allude.”</p>
+
+<p>Everard coloured deeply, but he made no answer either of acquiescence or
+denial.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Addison glanced at him, and observed with a slight smile, “I will
+suppose that silence gives consent. May I ask you then, do you not
+intend to call at Underwood?”</p>
+
+<p>“No,” he replied gravely, “this year is and shall be sacred. I do not
+intend, I do not wish to enter upon any society, or to mix in any
+pleasures this year. If my own feeling did not forbid it, I could not
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58">{58}</a></span>look at my mother and do otherwise, but as it is ... it is my own wish
+also.”</p>
+
+<p>“I understand Everard, and love your intention. I am not one, that you
+know well, who would sweep away the influences of sorrow before their
+work is done. There is, indeed, a danger of becoming morbid in the
+indulgence of sad memories ... but that is not to the purpose now. What
+I wished to say was, that I think from many circumstances Underwood
+might be an exception. I think....”</p>
+
+<p>“Forgive me Mr. Addison,” Everard said, in a tone not exactly asking
+forgiveness, “but there are subjects on which advice is more than
+useless. This is one.”</p>
+
+<p>“Forgive <i>me</i>, Everard,” he replied gravely and quickly, “I did not mean
+to be intrusive.”</p>
+
+<p>“You think me impatient,” Everard said, colouring, though he smiled,
+“and perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59">{59}</a></span> I am. I didn’t mean, however, to be ill tempered; I only
+wish to remind you of a very certain truth. Advice in matters of
+practice is useful, but in matters of feeling not so. No man can tell
+what another man feels; unless, therefore, he makes confession advice is
+useless to him.”</p>
+
+<p>“And would confession be impossible?”</p>
+
+<p>“Impossible,” he replied with emphasis.</p>
+
+<p>“Then I will not annoy you with useless advice; only this one word, my
+conscience forces me to say. Do not cherish resentment for actions which
+I do believe might more justly be excused and pardoned; and do not
+needlessly wound the feelings of those who think kindly of you.”</p>
+
+<p>Everard’s cheek and brow were crimson, and he did not reply till the
+momentary passion, whatever it was, was past. He then said very gravely,
+“Thank you for advising<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60">{60}</a></span> me; and do not think me obstinate if I repeat
+that it is difficult to advise on matters such as these. I am not
+ungrateful for your kind thoughts for my happiness; but I must judge for
+myself. I think, perhaps,” he added after a moment’s thought, “that you
+mistake me, but no matter.”</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Addison said no more. He was quite of Everard’s mind regarding the
+usefulness of advice, if advice is not desired; and though pity for
+Angela had drawn him to speak his word of warning, he was content,
+having done so, to let the matter rest.</p>
+
+<p>After another short silence he began again, and in a less grave tone.
+“You say advice in matters of practice is useful. Will you take my
+advice on a practical subject. You work too hard. I wish you to take
+more rest.”</p>
+
+<p>He might have known that no man is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61">{61}</a></span> amenable, where his health is
+concerned, and he did know it; nevertheless, he thought it right to
+speak.</p>
+
+<p>Everard’s only answer was a short laugh, and “I beg your pardon Mr.
+Addison, but really I am not a baby.”</p>
+
+<p>“A baby can be taken care of; but you are a wilful man, and therefore I
+speak. Work as you please all day long, but rest at night. Do you know,
+Everard, there are many comments on your open window and late vigils.”</p>
+
+<p>“People are very busy I must say,” he replied colouring, and with very
+unaccountable irritation.</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps, we all are. Perhaps if it were another man you yourself would
+make the same comments on his habits; and if you saw one who had once
+been remarkable for strength look pale and wearied, you would perhaps
+say to him as I do to you&mdash;‘Take<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62">{62}</a></span> more rest, and do not waste so
+precious a gift as health.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p>
+
+<p>“It is not sleep I want,” Everard said, and he did look at the moment as
+if there was a weight upon him more than he could bear.</p>
+
+<p>“Not alone, perhaps,” replied his old friend kindly, “but still,
+Everard, mortal men do want sleep, even the best of them; you are up
+early in the morning, and there is time enough for work in the day. Be
+advised and rest at night.”</p>
+
+<p>“I will shut my window,” he said lightly, “reluctantly enough I own, and
+so hide myself from curious eyes, but I cannot promise that there will
+be any other change. I am very ignorant, Mr. Addison, and the day is not
+enough for my work. In practical knowledge I must learn what I can. My
+strong body was surely given me for some<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63">{63}</a></span> purpose. There is nothing to
+fear for my health.”</p>
+
+<p>His companion said no more, and Everard continued. “Pray give me some
+other advice, for I would not have you think me obstinate. Except on
+these two points I think you will not find me so.”</p>
+
+<p>“Except on <i>these</i>,” Mr. Addison said, with a slight smile, “that is
+what we all say. But do not think I mean to reproach you, Everard. I do
+not even wish you to take my advice if your conscience and reason
+counsel otherwise. You have taken to yourself, I do believe, higher
+assistance, and your views may be better and wiser than mine. Be assured
+so long as I live, I shall warn when I see cause, leaving it to you to
+be guided by my voice or not as you think fit.”</p>
+
+<p>“Dear Mr. Addison,” Everard said, almost passionately, “I will take your
+advice now,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64">{64}</a></span> and always if I could, as if it were <i>my father’s</i>, but at
+this time I cannot.”</p>
+
+<p>“Do not distress yourself,” was the reply, tenderly given. “I fully
+trust your motives, and for the rest we each work out our own
+experience, and so become our own best guides. Let us speak of these
+things no more.”</p>
+
+<p>On the morning after Angela’s last visit to Audley Court, Mr. Gresham,
+who always conducted his interviews with much pomp, wrote a note to Miss
+Price, begging her to let him find her alone in the drawing-room at
+half-past eleven o’clock.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Price, no manœuvrer, was plunged into difficulties by this message,
+and spent an hour of torture, watching Angela’s movements about the
+room, without being able to devise any expedient to get rid of her. Mr.
+Gresham relieved her by appearing before the appointed time; he
+requested his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65">{65}</a></span> his daughter to make a copy of a paper he put into her
+hands, and observed that it would be most carefully done in her own
+room. She obeyed and left the room without suspicion, and Mr. Gresham
+then placed himself opposite to Miss Price and began.</p>
+
+<p>“You will excuse me for being a few moments before the hour I specified.
+I am somewhat engaged this morning. My wish and desire is to have a
+short conversation with you regarding your niece and my daughter,
+believing that her welfare is a matter of interest to you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Dear Angela, yes,” said her aunt, nervously.</p>
+
+<p>“Will you be so good, Miss Price, as to inform me what sentiments you
+suppose Mr. Vavasour to entertain for Angela. You may remember that in
+our first interview, I put you in possession of my views and opinions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66">{66}</a></span>
+on this subject, and requested you to give such support to my daughter,
+as a young female may naturally require in circumstances of delicacy.
+You have, I believe, according to my wish, accompanied her in her visits
+to Audley Court, and though I have hitherto refrained from making
+inquiries, I have, I confess, been anticipating some disclosure on your
+part. I must now request you to be explicit. Do not let me hurry you;”
+as he could not but observe the flutter of spirits into which he cast
+her, “though engaged, I have always leisure for the proper duties that
+devolve upon me.”</p>
+
+<p>“I have seen Mr. Vavasour only once,” she replied, when she had
+collected her senses, “and then only for a very short time.”</p>
+
+<p>“Am I to understand then, that in my daughter’s frequent visits to
+Audley Court,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67">{67}</a></span> Miss Linton has been the sole attraction, or do you
+intend to convey, that Mr. Vavasour has no intention of renewing his
+addresses to us. Pray, Miss Price, be explicit.”</p>
+
+<p>“I do not know anything,” she said humbly. “I fancy he loves dear
+Angela, but it may be my fancy only. He certainly loved her once, and I
+should not suppose him to be one lightly given to change.”</p>
+
+<p>“I must beg you, my dear Miss Price, to be more explicit. Consider the
+importance of the subject on which we are engaged. Collect your mind,
+and exercise your judgment, and endeavour to answer me a few simple
+questions. I do not speak of the past. No wise man makes account of the
+past. Our business is with the present. Endeavour now to collect your
+senses, and tell me.... There are certain delicate attentions, trifles,
+yet on particular<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68">{68}</a></span> occasions not to be undervalued, by which those whom
+in common parlance we denominate lovers, are accustomed to insinuate
+their attachment to the object preferred. Can you recall any exhibition
+of such delicate attentions in the time, be it long or short, during
+which Mr. Vavasour was in my daughter’s company. I believe I make myself
+understood. Be so good as to answer me explicitly.”</p>
+
+<p>“He was very kind to me,” she replied, endeavouring to collect herself
+according to his desire, anxious to gratify him, yet too truthful to
+compose a narrative for the occasion. “Particularly kind. He spoke to me
+more than to dear Angela. Mr. Addison was present, and Angela conversed
+with him. The time was short.”</p>
+
+<p>“You can recall, then, no such attentions as I have pointed out. Is it
+possible that his manner denoted no gratification in her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69">{69}</a></span> presence? Have
+you no reason to suppose him to be attached to her?”</p>
+
+<p>“He put her into the carriage, and he spoke to her once, and his smile
+was very sweet. He has a sweet smile, and to her I should say it was
+particularly sweet.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Gresham. “Pray, proceed, Miss Price.”</p>
+
+<p>“I fancy that he loves her, but I cannot say, he appeared to wish to
+detain us. I should say he is not happy, for his countenance is very
+sad, but, indeed, the time was short, and I myself was fluttered, and
+... I am sorry I can answer you no better. I will endeavour to be more
+watchful in future.”</p>
+
+<p>“Pray compose yourself,” he said, waving his hand graciously. “I think,
+from the observations you have made, that the opinion I have formed is a
+correct one. I suppose him to be attached to my daughter, but to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70">{70}</a></span> be
+withheld, by&mdash;what shall we say, false motives of delicacy from making a
+second offer. You are aware, I believe, that his first offer was
+declined; properly declined; yet it is possible, declined in terms more
+forcible than was wise or polite considering (although the present state
+of things no human foresight could, as it appears to me, have foreseen).
+I am, therefore, disposed to apologize to him for any improper degree of
+warmth I may have shown, and to give him such encouragement as may be
+applicable to the occasion. Do you concur with me, that such a
+condescension may be desirable.”</p>
+
+<p>“I hardly know,” Miss Price began with a faint glow on her face; however
+small her intellect, too much of a woman to admire such a mode of
+proceeding. “Would dear Angela be willing ... I fear....”</p>
+
+<p>“Fear nothing,” he said, interrupting her.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71">{71}</a></span> “If motives of delicacy
+alone forbid it, be assured a daughter’s delicacy is ever safe in a
+father’s hands. I confess, I think it possible such an acknowledgment
+may be due from me to him. I confess, I think it more than possible,
+that after the manner in which I once considered it my duty to address
+him, I should personally assure him of the change in my sentiments. You
+may be assured, Miss Price, that my actions will ever be ordered with
+all proper attention to female decorum and modesty.”</p>
+
+<p>“You know best,” she said gently. “There is no doubt he was wounded by
+your words.”</p>
+
+<p>“Exactly,” and he waved his head gracefully, and rose from his seat. “I
+have to thank you for the attention with which you have heard me, and
+for your concurrence in my sentiments, and I must also request, that,
+what we have confidentially communicated to each other, may remain
+confidential.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72">{72}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>He bowed slightly, and left the room, decorum and modesty, and paternal
+care and affection, fluttering about him as he went.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73">{73}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a><br><br>
+<small>Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?</small></h2>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> plan on which Mr. Gresham had determined had been for some days
+forming in his mind. The concurrence of Miss Price was of no real
+importance to him, for his decisions were already made, before advice
+was asked; but he supposed a female opinion to be proper on such a
+subject, and he would have been glad also to secure female concurrence.
+Whether or no he had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74">{74}</a></span> that concurrence he was uncertain, but be that as
+it might, <i>he</i> had conducted himself with the propriety becoming the
+occasion, and was satisfied.</p>
+
+<p>The very next morning, at an hour when a gentleman, he supposed, would
+most probably be found at home, he repaired to Audley Court. The old
+black towers shone before his eyes as he rode along, a dazzling sunshine
+imparting so much of beauty to their majestic and venerable forms, that
+he was positively agitated as he gazed. The attachment of Mr. Gresham to
+these old towers has been often dwelt upon; but in truth there was
+something really romantic in the fascination they exercised over his
+fancy. He longed for them as Haman longed for Mordecai’s bow, only that
+all <i>his</i> sentiments were regulated with too much of order and propriety
+to allow of any excess.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75">{75}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Mr. Vavasour was at home, and Mr. Gresham was shown into the library.</p>
+
+<p>While he awaited Everard’s coming his thoughts reverted to the late Mr.
+Vavasour, whom until this moment he had forgotten; and he framed in his
+mind an exceedingly well-expressed form of condolence, with which to
+begin the conversation; but Mr. Gresham was by no means devoid of
+kindness of feeling, and when Everard appeared, he felt at first sight
+that his formulary would, on this occasion, be ill applied. It was,
+therefore, suppressed, and having had no time to frame another
+beginning, he contented himself with a remark on the state of the
+atmosphere.</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps I ought to apologise to you, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, when
+they sat down, “for not having called upon you.” For since Mr. Gresham
+had thought it right to call upon him he felt that his omission<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76">{76}</a></span> had,
+perhaps, been considered ill-mannered. “I assure you I should have done
+so if I had called anywhere, but I have not as yet.”</p>
+
+<p>“I perfectly understand. Let there be no ceremony between us, Mr.
+Vavasour. I am far, very far, from wishing for ceremony. I am, on the
+contrary, sincerely desirous that there should be a friendly, I might
+say a more than friendly relationship between us.”</p>
+
+<p>He paused, looking both benign and dignified; and Everard coloured and
+was silent.</p>
+
+<p>“In point of fact, Mr. Vavasour,&mdash;for honesty, I believe, is the best
+policy, and is certainly the most honourable mode of proceeding between
+gentlemen&mdash;my object and purpose in calling upon you this morning is to
+assure you of my friendly, and even more than friendly feelings towards
+you. I am<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77">{77}</a></span> aware that you may have cause to look upon me from another
+point of view. I have not forgotten a certain event which took place,
+certain conversations which occurred between us some months back, and my
+purpose this morning is to offer you some apology for my behaviour, and
+to make some explanations regarding my motives on that particular
+occasion.”</p>
+
+<p>“It is perfectly needless, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, interrupting him
+hastily. “I am very much obliged to you for wishing to make such
+explanations, but I assure you it is not necessary. I am certain your
+motives were good, and I have no desire to recur to what is past.”</p>
+
+<p>“I must request you to hear me, Mr. Vavasour. I consider it due to you,
+and due also to myself, that you should consent to hear me. I believe
+you will agree with me that a daughter’s welfare is a father’s first<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78">{78}</a></span>
+duty. I feel the responsibility, I have always felt it, which Providence
+imposes on parents, and more especially on those in my position. I
+provided, therefore, for my daughter’s establishment in life, not only
+well and wisely so far as she was concerned, but I think you will do me
+the justice, Mr. Vavasour, to own, with both wisdom and generosity in
+respect to the husband of her, or rather of my choice.”</p>
+
+<p>He paused for an assent, and Everard gave it.</p>
+
+<p>“I do own it, Mr. Gresham.”</p>
+
+<p>“Such being the case, it was certainly natural that I should feel dismay
+when I perceived that my designs were in danger of being upset ... even
+though by yourself, Mr. Vavasour. In the emotions of the moment, I may
+have expressed my feelings more warmly than was just, and if it were so,
+if I gave you pain, I most sincerely<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79">{79}</a></span> apologize for what I thought my
+duty commanded.”</p>
+
+<p>“You did give me pain,” Everard replied after a moment’s thought; “but
+as you only spoke what you were anxious I should understand, I had no
+right to blame you. I will not say that for a time I felt no resentment,
+but believe me, it is long past, and I am sincerely sorry that you
+should have felt an apology necessary.”</p>
+
+<p>“An honourable and candid man is never backward to own his failings, Mr.
+Vavasour. I am not ashamed to own that I was blind; all men are liable
+to error, and I among the rest. No human foresight I believe, could have
+anticipated the course which late events have taken. Had I been gifted
+with the power to penetrate into the secrets of futurity, believe me, my
+dear Mr. Vavasour, my conduct would have been altogether different.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80">{80}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>A deep flush crossed Everard’s face, but he made no answer.</p>
+
+<p>“One thing more you must allow me to say. You must allow me to express
+my hearty, my entire concurrence in the decision made by your late
+father. The manner in which your name is now mentioned, the distinction
+which you now enjoy in the eyes of the world, convince me that he was
+gifted with that foresight in which I humbly acknowledge I am deficient,
+and engages me to extend to you <i>all</i> those feelings which once I
+entertained towards your brother.”</p>
+
+<p>He dilated into his largest proportions as he made this delicate
+insinuation of his generous designs, and then paused for an
+acknowledgment. But no acknowledgment came. There was a still deeper
+glow on Everard’s countenance, but he said not one word.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81">{81}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham was not a physiognomist; he never saw anything that was not
+as clear as daylight. The disturbance, however&mdash;whatever it might
+mean&mdash;on the face of his companion, <i>was</i> clear; and observing it, he
+felt no doubt that it proceeded from diffidence, and uncertainty as to
+how far the delicate insinuation was to be understood. He, in short,
+like other men who are entirely pre-occupied with one idea, and excited
+by the expression of it, lost in the warmth of the moment, the
+perception of the limits to which he might safely go. He gathered
+himself up to express his meaning with more perspicuity, and in so
+doing, in some degree forgot the decorum he prized so highly.</p>
+
+<p>“I had hoped, Mr. Vavasour, that I had spoken so as to be understood. If
+I have not done so, if I have seemed to you reserved and obscure in my
+allusions, you must excuse me, on the grounds of that regard which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82">{82}</a></span> is
+due to the laws of common society. But believe me, I consider such laws
+of lesser importance than the serious interests on which our minds are
+centered; and for your encouragement and welfare, as well as for my own
+gratification, I am willing to sacrifice them, and to speak more
+explicitly. Allow me, therefore, to assure you, my dear Mr. Vavasour,
+that should it at any time, I speak of no time in particular, but should
+it at any time be your wish or desire to renew an application you once
+tendered to me, you will find my acceptance, not only willing, but
+waiting your orders; and should any scruple regarding my daughter,
+should any fears regarding her feelings cause you to hesitate, I believe
+I may....”</p>
+
+<p>But here Everard rose from his seat, and in much agitation interrupted
+him. “You must excuse me, Mr. Gresham, but I cannot suffer this to
+proceed. I have listened too<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83">{83}</a></span> long. I do sincerely thank you for the
+kindness of feeling you express towards me, although,” and here his
+already flushed cheek deepened in its crimson hue, and a bitterness he
+seemed unable to suppress gave intensity to his voice, “I fear that it
+is to my position alone that I am indebted for the change. I can say no
+more, nor would I willingly discuss this matter further.”</p>
+
+<p>“Am I to understand then, Mr. Vavasour,” Mr. Gresham enquired, not
+indeed that he really thought the question necessary, but thinking it
+both politic and dignified to put it, “that you decline to avail
+yourself of the favourable intentions I have expressed towards you.”</p>
+
+<p>There was a moment’s pause; and Everard’s face, which during the
+interview had been flushed and heated, became very pale. He answered,
+however, and his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84">{84}</a></span> answer, though low, was unfaltering&mdash;“I do!”</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham was so startled at this reply&mdash;in common speech was so taken
+aback by it&mdash;that he relieved himself by a forcible exclamation of
+astonishment, and an uplifting of his hands.</p>
+
+<p>Everard said no other word, although there was a something in his
+compressed lips that seemed to say, violence alone restrained him from
+speech.</p>
+
+<p>After a few moments’ indecision, Mr. Gresham recovered his composure,
+and rising, with an imperial dignity of manner for which he certainly
+might be pardoned, bowed to Everard, and said “I wish you good morning,
+Mr. Vavasour, and you must allow me to apologize for having taken up
+your time with communications so indifferent to you;” and with another
+freezing salutation he was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85">{85}</a></span> leaving the room when Everard arrested him.</p>
+
+<p>“You must not leave me in anger, Mr. Gresham,” he said, with little of
+<i>indifference</i> in his voice; “I wish I could express how far, how very
+far I am from intending to show disrespect to you, much more to Miss
+Gresham, ...” he stopt abruptly, for his voice became unsteady, then
+began again. “If it were possible I would ask you to forget the painful
+circumstances of this conversation, and to allow me to remain, what
+indeed I must ever be....”</p>
+
+<p>“What, sir, should you desire to be?” Mr. Gresham asked, with stately
+coldness.</p>
+
+<p>“A friend, and a very grateful one,” Everard said, with emotion, and he
+held out his hand.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham was softened, but the offence to his dignity could not be so
+easily forgotten. He did shake hands; but it was a languid, inexpressive
+shake; and merely re<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86">{86}</a></span>peating his “good morning,” he took his departure.</p>
+
+<p>Everard closed the door after him, and then stood gazing out into the
+garden in a vacancy of thought that seemed to have no sense of time
+about it; and so remained until Hope’s entrance aroused him.</p>
+
+<p>“Are you ill, Everard?” she enquired, looking at him.</p>
+
+<p>“Ill, my dear Hope! why should I be ill?”</p>
+
+<p>“You look so.”</p>
+
+<p>“I have had a visit from Mr. Gresham, which has given me some pain,” he
+said gravely; “but it is over now,” and he sighed profoundly, as if thus
+to sweep away from his memory the recollection of what had passed.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham went on his way. While in Everard’s presence, offended
+majesty had been the paramount sensation in his mind; but when alone,
+disappointment, the dis<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87">{87}</a></span>appointment of his dearly cherished hopes,
+overcame his sense of dignity; and to efface disappointment he would
+have been contented to sacrifice a considerable portion of his dignity.</p>
+
+<p>Insensibly he guided his horse’s head to the hill mentioned in the
+Introduction to this tale, in order to gaze once more on the glories he
+had prepared for the Vavasours and himself. It was a fair vision; but
+not for its natural beauty was it now, or had it ever been visited by
+Mr. Gresham. There he had often stood, with a swelling heart, gazing
+over the fertile and extensive valley, and repeating, “I am monarch of
+all I survey,” till tears almost, of pride and thankfulness, had filled
+his eyes. It was on the wide extent, brought by his forethought and care
+under the sway of one ruler, that his eyes delighted to rest; creation’s
+beauties re-created by his hand.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88">{88}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>In an altered mood he stood there now. Bitter mortification, fallen
+pride, insulted benevolence, and the sting of ingratitude, all these
+together caused his heart actually to smart with sorrow. For a time the
+very powers of his mind were prostrated by his disappointment, and it
+was not till they recovered their tone that comfort dawned upon him. He
+came at length, in the shape of a wise saying springing up from the
+stores of his memory, “The race is not always to the swift, nor the
+battle to the strong; but time and chance happen to all men.” If Solomon
+in his glory had had experience of this truth, he, Mr. Gresham, must not
+be astonished if his schemes were unattended with success. This idea
+soothed his mortification; and, endeavouring to compose himself by a
+noble submission to the inevitable lot of mortals, he took a solemn
+farewell of his idol, and left it at the top of the hill.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89">{89}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>That is, he supposed he did; but before he reached the bottom of the
+hill, strange to say, he found his idol accompanying him home. How it
+was, that having solemnly forsworn it as the companion of his thoughts,
+he permitted it to cling to him, cannot be explained unless by the fact
+that such partings between men and their idols are of daily occurrence;
+but certain it is that before he reached Underwood it was not only
+whispering within, but was again absolutely tyrannizing over him, and
+luring him on to fresh schemes in the future. It had begun to renew its
+reign from the moment when he resolved to say nothing to Miss Price or
+to Angela of what had occurred. After that wise decision he proceeded to
+meditate in a manner which may be shortly embodied in these few
+reflections.</p>
+
+<p>“The future is ever uncertain. It becomes a man to hope the best. Great
+de<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90">{90}</a></span>signs are not realized at once; and the noble spirit is not crushed
+by one, nor by two repulses. Man is a being of complicated structure;
+nor can man’s passions be played upon like a harpsichord. To touch the
+proper chord requires a degree of wisdom and experience not perfectly
+bestowed on any mortal being.”</p>
+
+<p>Having reflected in the general, he then proceeded to reflect
+practically.</p>
+
+<p>“The future is uncertain. My plan is wisely and beautifully designed;
+and my daughter’s attractions are generally allowed to be great. Wisdom
+plans, but practice crowns. Men are punctilious. It is possible Mr.
+Vavasour may quarrel with my openness; or, he may consider that thoughts
+of matrimonial engagements are unsuited to a house of mourning; or he
+may be a man of delicacy and may consider it an offence to delicacy,
+that a young lady should<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91">{91}</a></span> be engaged to two brothers in the course of a
+few months, or.....”</p>
+
+<p>Among his many thoughts as on a former occasion, he found comforters
+enough, and thus it happened that shortly after the mortification he had
+endured, he was building on the future as certainly as ever.</p>
+
+<p>The sense of his wisdom in thus retaining hope was confirmed shortly
+afterwards.</p>
+
+<p>About ten days after his visit to Audley Court, Everard returned it, and
+Mr. Gresham was at home. <i>He</i> was stately, and Everard grave, but there
+was perfect politeness on both sides.</p>
+
+<p>When the visit was over, Mr. Gresham, not without dignity, asked if he
+chose to pay his respects to Miss Price, with whom he understood he was
+on terms of intimacy.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92">{92}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Though it might have been guessed from Everard’s countenance, that the
+visit was far from being desired, he, as if unwilling in any way to be
+guilty of further disrespect, consented to it, and was conducted by Mr.
+Gresham to the drawing-room.</p>
+
+<p>It was a great mortification to the father to find his attractive
+daughter absent, and during the ten minutes of Everard’s stay, his eye
+was perpetually on the door; but dignity and decorum did not permit him
+on this occasion to mention or to summon her.</p>
+
+<p>After ten minutes, which passed like so many hours, so utterly unsuited
+were the three companions to each other, Everard rose with evident
+relief, and went away; and four minutes after his departure, Angela
+looked in at the window with her bonnet on.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93">{93}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“You have just missed Mr. Vavasour, my love,” said Miss Price, quietly,
+even with all her love and sympathy unable to conceive the feelings her
+words could excite in her niece. “He has been sitting with your father
+and me for a few minutes.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela stood leaning on the window sill in silence, so astonished was
+she at the news.</p>
+
+<p>“Why did he come?” at last she inquired.</p>
+
+<p>“To call, my love, I suppose; he was as usual particularly kind, but
+exceedingly grave. Perhaps, love, because you were absent, but I cannot
+tell.”</p>
+
+<p>She walked away without asking more questions. It seemed perverse to
+have waited, hoped, longed, for this visit for months of weary waiting,
+and when it took place to be five minutes too late.</p>
+
+<p>It was about this time that Angela began<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94">{94}</a></span> to look upon herself as doomed
+for her faults and follies, to a life of disappointment; nor did the
+events, or rather non-events of the autumn, brighten this not very
+cheerful view of things. She never met Everard again. See him, she did
+often; sometimes at a distance, sometimes near enough for a bow or a
+smile or word; hear of him she did unceasingly, for all delighted to do
+him honour, now that their hate was passed by; but meet him she never
+did. He called again late in the year,&mdash;shortly before they left
+Underwood for a round of visits,&mdash;and at an hour when on every day but
+this, she had been at home, and on this day was only prevented from
+being at home by an accident to her carriage; and this last mischance
+filled her cup to the brim.</p>
+
+<p>Though she had ceased to bewail her fate to her aunt, it cost her many,
+bitter, secret, silent tears; and much she mused on life and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95">{95}</a></span> its
+strange ways, and much on the folly which had estranged the only being
+whose love for her, had been for herself, and not her position. Robert’s
+confession had deepened tenfold her distrust of the motives of those who
+approached her, and suspicion threw its cloud over her already clouded
+thoughts. She was in short in a very gloomy frame of mind, and though
+she owned she deserved all she suffered, she with her strong
+capabilities for happiness, could not bring herself to acquiesce calmly
+in such a state of things.</p>
+
+<p>Having met with other small disappointments in her endeavours to make
+some poor people happy, she took advantage of these discouragements, to
+ask Mr. Addison his opinion generally on the use of disappointments to
+human nature. It was on the occasion of his last visit before she left
+Underwood.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96">{96}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Reading a good deal more of her mind than she thought she exhibited, he
+replied seriously&mdash;“I suppose they may be good for all, but for some
+characters I think they have a very special and particular use.”</p>
+
+<p>“For whom?” she asked.</p>
+
+<p>“For those I think whose natural dispositions lead them too earnestly to
+desire a Paradise on earth.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then for me,” she said, “I confess I do not like to be thwarted, and I
+do pine to be happy.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then for you,” he said with a slight kind smile. “But dear Miss Gresham
+remember this. The disappointments will do nothing, will only irritate
+the temper unless they are received humbly and borne patiently. They can
+do no good in themselves.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am afraid they only irritate me,” she said with humility; “they make
+me feel<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97">{97}</a></span> bitter and sour to all the world. I suppose I may be wrong, but
+I <i>think</i> if I were happy I should be different. I think happiness makes
+me much more amiable and kind.”</p>
+
+<p>“There is no doubt it does,” he said quickly; “to feel happy and to feel
+good are almost the same things; whereas to have the mind fretted with
+many cares is almost to feel wicked.”</p>
+
+<p>“Exactly,” she cried eagerly; “then surely it would be better not to be
+fretted.”</p>
+
+<p>“It would indeed; and that is just what I wish you to understand we
+should never be. There are many thoughts should help us to this. Not to
+speak now of more serious ones, that we suffer far, far less than we
+deserve; that every trial is sent to do us good, and bring us good,
+perhaps on earth, certainly in heaven; and then again, that it is but
+for a moment, and will pass<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98">{98}</a></span> away, ‘even on earth that it will pass
+away.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p>
+
+<p>She looked at him very earnestly as if to discover whether he had
+meaning in his last words, but she could not trace any special thought
+in his grave, kind face.</p>
+
+<p>“One must be very good to feel all that,” she replied, after a moment.</p>
+
+<p>“But difficulty never disheartens a sincere person. You must try and
+feel it, my dear Miss Gresham.”</p>
+
+<p>“I will try,” she replied. But her thoughts were evidently wandering,
+and after a pause of consideration, she said, blushing slightly, but
+speaking composedly and steadily, “Talking of good people, I am going to
+ask what you will perhaps think a strange question. I have often wished
+to ask it. Do you call Mr. Vavasour a religious man? Good&mdash;I know he is,
+because everybody speaks of his goodness, but is he religious? You must<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99">{99}</a></span>
+not think I ask from levity, or because I would rather talk of my
+neighbour’s faults than my own.”</p>
+
+<p>“What distinction do you draw between a good and a religious man?” he
+asked with a slight smile.</p>
+
+<p>“A good man I can suppose to make mistakes,” she said quickly, “but not
+a religious man.”</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps you expect too much even of a religious man,” he replied,
+smiling again; “but however, in a degree your distinction is just, for a
+commonly good man walks in his own strength, but a religious man in the
+strength of God.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well!” she asked eagerly.</p>
+
+<p>“In that sense I certainly do consider Mr. Vavasour to be a religious
+man. That he has all the feelings some might require for the term, I
+will not, because I cannot, assert; but I do believe that he frames his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100">{100}</a></span>
+life as in the sight of God, and that from his duty so seen, cost him
+what it may, he will not swerve. That his decisions are always right I
+would not undertake to be sure. Why do you ask?” he enquired looking at
+her fixedly.</p>
+
+<p>“Only because I wish to know,” she replied gravely. A moment after she
+added, “Thank you for so patiently answering my questions. I think you
+are right about disappointments, and I will try what I can do to bear
+them better. I have a good many trials in that way, I really do think,”
+and a tear shone in her eye, “I wish I could take them more cheerfully.”</p>
+
+<p>“I think you have,” he said kindly. “God grant you may improve and not
+waste them.”</p>
+
+<p>He saw a wistful look in her face, as if she would have won from him
+some expression of hope to carry away with her, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101">{101}</a></span> he was too truly
+wise to speak only for pity’s sake. What would happen to her or Everard
+before another eight months had flown by what foresight could picture?</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102">{102}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">Yet fall<br></span>
+<span class="i0">What will, or can, Love makes amends for all.<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">C. Hervey.</span><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was after Mr. Gresham’s departure, and the last day of the year, that
+the young groom once before-mentioned among the servants at Audley Court
+stood up in his place at dinner, and announced to his fellow servants
+this piece of intelligence: “that the time was come for him to inform
+them<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103">{103}</a></span> that he had made up his mind to call Mr. Everard his master, and
+to give him his due.”</p>
+
+<p>The announcement was received with “Hear, hear,” from Harrison the
+butler, and a thump on the table and “well done,” from old Roger. And
+the two audible expressions of satisfaction, only conveyed the
+sentiments of the rest. Everard had already won from his servants an
+honour almost equal to that given to his father; but so long as the
+young groom stood out in dignified obstinence, a dread of being looked
+on as time-servers had withheld them from any strong expressions of
+regard.</p>
+
+<p>When the first buzz of satisfaction died away, Harrison, somewhat
+formally, begged to know the reasons on which Thomas grounded his change
+of opinion.</p>
+
+<p>“I said to myself, I’d see,” was the reply, “and I have see’d. I said I
+would be in no<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104">{104}</a></span> hurry, and I hav’nt been in no hurry. I said, I would do
+it if it was just, and now I say it is just; and I’ll tell you the
+reason why. I said to myself, if Mr. Everard goes and marries that young
+lady over there, and makes a great lord of himself, with ever so many
+millions of gold, and tries to cut out poor Mr. Robert every way, then
+I’ll have nothing to say to him, nor call him Mr. Vavasour, not if I’m
+put in the stocks for it; and I wouldn’t. But now I see what I see, and
+I know what I know, and I see no love of money in him, and so I say it’s
+just to give him his due, and I’ll do it if all the world goes against
+me.”</p>
+
+<p>“Hear, hear,” said Harrison again.</p>
+
+<p>“That’s true, Thomas,” replied Betsey, “but I do wish Mr. Everard was
+married, poor dear! that I do. He wants comforting. Miss Linton is fond
+of him now, and does as much good as she can, poor dear,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105">{105}</a></span> but neither
+she nor my poor missus have eyes for him, where Mr. Robert’s in the way;
+and I think he feels it. That’s what I think.”</p>
+
+<p>“All in good time, Betsey,” said Harrison solemnly; “the poet says, the
+funeral bake-meats are no fit ornaments to furnish out the marriage
+table.”</p>
+
+<p>“No sure,” she replied sadly.</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Gresham’s uncommon fond of Mr. Everard, our Mr. Vavasour,”
+observed Roger with great simplicity.</p>
+
+<p>This speech was received with a shout of laughter from most of the
+servants, and with “oh, fie Roger!” from Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Vavasour’s
+maid.</p>
+
+<p>“Why, there’s no harm,” he said, looking round bewildered. “Bless her
+pretty face, I see it as plain as I see my wig in this pewter plate
+here.”</p>
+
+<p>“Poor dear!” exclaimed Betsey with a sigh.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106">{106}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Be that as it may,” said the young groom, “it’s no business of ours.
+Mr. Everard, or Mr. Vavasour, as I mean to call him from henceforth,
+won’t have anything to say to her, beyond what a neighbourly gentleman
+should. And that’s what shows he has an honourable mind; and that he
+don’t mean to cut poor Mr. Robert out. I know his thoughts as well as I
+know my own; and that’s what I should do in his place, and so I’ll give
+him his due from henceforward, let who will go against it. And so here’s
+his health and a happy new year to him.”</p>
+
+<p>The toast was drunk with enthusiasm, and could the echoes of the country
+voices have been carried to Everard’s ears, they might have cheered a
+heart which stood in need of cheering; for Christmas had brought Robert
+back, and with his return, had returned all the most painful feelings
+attending Everard’s new position.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107">{107}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Robert came for a visit of three weeks.</p>
+
+<p>He was well in health, and though, perhaps, in a degree more thoughtful
+than he had ever seemed in his life before, he still was the same
+Robert, with his wonderful charm and animation, casting gladness about
+him, none knew how, without effort, as without consciousness. To his
+mother he was loving as ever, and to cheer her seemed the one object on
+which he was bent. By his endeavours Mrs. Vavasour was won to smile
+occasionally, and to take some interest in what was passing around her.
+That which Hope and Everard had utterly failed to do, Robert did in one
+week.</p>
+
+<p>In one respect, however, Robert’s efforts failed like the others; and
+that was in his attempt to win her from her seclusion. On his first
+arrival he had implored her to come amongst them for his sake, in terms
+so fond and endearing, that it seemed strange his adoring mother should
+withstand him; but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108">{108}</a></span> she did withstand. She wept bitterly in refusing his
+request, but no consent was won.</p>
+
+<p>It gave him pain at first, on her account it gave him more pain
+afterwards, for before the three weeks had expired he saw plainly why it
+was she hid herself from their eyes. Her intercourse with Everard was
+constant and kindly, but it was cold. To her <i>he</i> devoted time and
+thought, and care and affection, but he could make no progress in
+healing the wound his advancement had caused. His excellence of nature
+she had always owned, she owned it now and trusted to it; but that very
+excellence had injured her darling, and she could not love it. She was a
+poor unhappy woman, who found that that passion she had cherished with
+too much idolatry, had become her tormentor.</p>
+
+<p>To his position in the house Robert accommodated himself apparently
+without pain, certainly without effort; but he perceived<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109">{109}</a></span> that that
+which he could, his mother could not do. She could not see Everard
+master and Robert nothing. He saw this plainly, and he saw that Everard
+understood it also; and he could well imagine that a part of that
+gravity which unceasingly sate upon his brow, was caused by his mother’s
+conduct.</p>
+
+<p>He attempted no change until the conclusion of his visit, but the day
+before his departure he made it a last request to Mrs. Vavasour that she
+would leave her rooms, and give her children the happiness of living
+with them once more. “I ask it, Mother,” he concluded, “for Everard’s
+sake.”</p>
+
+<p>“I cannot,” she said, quickly. “Do not ask it yet, dear Robert. I will
+do it when I can.”</p>
+
+<p>“If not for Everard’s sake, Mother, I ask it for mine. I don’t know how
+<i>you</i> bear it, but it is to <i>me</i> a perpetual grief to see<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110">{110}</a></span> his face. You
+surely see he looks unhappy.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, perhaps,” she allowed, “but there are many reasons for that. You
+know there are reasons for that....” She stopt with tears raining from
+her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, Mother,” Robert said, tenderly, “I know; I know there are many
+causes, but still there is a something beyond these, and I think you
+cause it. Dear Mother, how you used to scold me, if I hurt a worm, or a
+poor little tortured bird, and does it now give you no pain to torture
+your own son.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! Robert,” she exclaimed, “what would you have me do?”</p>
+
+<p>“I would have you love and honour him, Mother, by every means in your
+power, and be proud of having such a son; for if ever a man has
+sacrificed happiness to his duty, I think Everard has. Do you suppose
+it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111">{111}</a></span> was not torture to him to take my place as he did; but could he do
+otherwise? I ask you, Mother, could he have done otherwise? And dear
+Mother,” he continued, winding his arms round her, “I want you to own
+more than this. I want you to own that my father was right, for has he
+not set over his people a son like himself, and has he not, so far as
+man can yet see, saved me from destruction. If I had been rich and idle,
+I am very sure, even with my best resolutions, there was no hope for me.
+Dear Mother, if Everard has saved me, will you not give him your
+blessing for that?”</p>
+
+<p>She did consent. She could not but have consented; but Robert’s words
+told both ways; for the more his generous nature shone out the more she
+felt the injury he had received; and though with her body she did
+endeavour to do Everard honour, she could not force the feelings of her
+heart. <i>They</i> held out against her hus<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112">{112}</a></span>band’s will, strong and
+rebellious, and while they rebelled she could not but be miserable.</p>
+
+<p>When Robert spoke of himself as saved from destruction, it was not that
+he seemed in any way confident of his persistence in well doing. There
+had been one occasion on which disappointment had been bitterly felt.
+When on Christmas-day Everard and his mother and Hope knelt at the
+altar, Robert was absent. He had left the Church with a flushed cheek
+and reluctant step; but though reluctant still had left it.</p>
+
+<p>Not reproaching, not urging, Mr. Addison simply asked him the reason
+why.</p>
+
+<p>“Because I am not sure I am in a fit state,” he replied, gravely.</p>
+
+<p>“I think you are, dear Robert, as far as man can judge. Are you not
+leading a new life, and sincerely purposing to continue to lead it?”</p>
+
+<p>“I am not sure,” he said, in the same<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113">{113}</a></span> tone. “I am not at all sure of my
+sincerity, or else I would do what I know I ought.”</p>
+
+<p>On an inquiry from Mr. Addison as to his meaning, he said, “he must have
+more time. What he had hitherto done had been from remorse, and now that
+that was beginning to lose its power, he was not at all sure of
+himself.”</p>
+
+<p>In this he persisted; he was evidently really distrustful, and his
+distrust left some anxiety in Mr. Addison’s mind.</p>
+
+<p>After his departure, Everard inquired one day of Mr. Addison, if he was
+not perfectly happy about him.</p>
+
+<p>“Happy, yes, Everard,” was the reply, “very happy at what has been done.
+But we must have patience.”</p>
+
+<p>Everard looked annoyed. Very young people do not much like that word
+patience.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114">{114}</a></span> To them it implies more of care than hope.</p>
+
+<p>“You are angry because I do not speak with perfect confidence,” Mr.
+Addison said with a slight smile, “but, Everard, there is no wisdom in
+over-confidence. I only fear as Robert fears himself, because time has
+not sufficiently proved his strength.”</p>
+
+<p>“I can conceive of no reason but one,” Everard said, with some
+vehemence, “for having a single fear; and in that <i>I</i> think Robert was
+right. I do not like people to be over rash in such solemn things. In
+every way he seems to me perfect.”</p>
+
+<p>“You make more of the word fear, Everard, than I intend,” Mr. Addison
+said kindly; “all I feel is, that poor Robert’s nature is very weak, and
+his temptations unusually strong ones. One day’s temptation,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115">{115}</a></span> while his
+principles and habits are new, might mislead him again. For him and for
+ourselves it is always wisest to face the truth. It has not been
+uncommon for one in his position to be disheartened by the very
+confidence and over expectations of his friends.”</p>
+
+<p>Everard said no more, but after a short pause proceeded to speak on a
+subject which occupied much of his thoughts, and which, perhaps, was the
+cause of his annoyance, in the qualified opinion of Mr. Addison. This
+subject was the relations of Robert and Hope.</p>
+
+<p>To Hope alone his return had brought no increase of <i>personal</i>
+happiness, but rather the reverse. During his last stay, with whatever
+difficulty it was accomplished, he had managed to keep up the old
+intimacy; but on this occasion the tie was altogether broken; and though
+forced to be constantly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116">{116}</a></span> in her society, reserve and constraint had
+grown up between them. No more confidence from Robert, no more help, no
+more advice from Hope.</p>
+
+<p>Everard watched them both intently, and he could see what Hope evidently
+could not see, that Robert’s thoughts were seldom absent from her; and
+he put his own interpretation on his brother’s constraint.</p>
+
+<p>It was on this subject that he now spoke to Mr. Addison, and asked his
+advice as to whether or no he might write to Robert and say what he
+felt.</p>
+
+<p>“No, Everard, wait,” was Mr. Addison’s earnest reply. “Do not be over
+hasty. Reformation is of slow growth, not in the outward, perhaps, but
+in the inward man. Robert has been during the past months under the
+influence of excited feelings. Excitement dies; wait and see whether
+refor<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117">{117}</a></span>mation grows when excitement is past. I see I give you pain. You
+are in too much haste to make others happy; but wait. It is a hard
+lesson, perhaps, but a wise man must learn it.”</p>
+
+<p>Everard smiled, and said, “I will take your advice to-day; reluctantly,
+I confess, but I will take it.”</p>
+
+<p>And he did wait.</p>
+
+<p>But when Easter brought Robert a second time, not only unchanged, but
+with all the best and highest parts of his nature shining in his face
+and flowing forth in his life and conversation, Everard felt that he
+read him most truly who trusted him most entirely; and that it was more
+for his welfare to help him on to happiness, than to leave him longer to
+struggle alone.</p>
+
+<p>One morning in May he said to Hope as she was leaving the
+breakfast-room, “I want to speak to you, Hope. I have some letters<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118">{118}</a></span> I
+want you to read. Shall I find you in the library about twelve?” There
+was seriousness more than usual in his manner.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! Everard,” she cried turning back, “not about Robert?”</p>
+
+<p>“Are you distrustful, Hope?” he said reproachfully, “I did not expect
+that from you.”</p>
+
+<p>A flush of regret flitted over her cheek, but she did not justify
+herself.</p>
+
+<p>“It <i>is</i> about Robert,” he continued quickly. “I want your.... your
+assistance and advice. Nothing I hope that will distress you.” And he
+left the room without saying more.</p>
+
+<p>When he returned he had a number of letters in his hand. He found her
+awaiting him with evident anxiety, but as evidently without any
+suspicion of what he had to say. He came and stood by the fire with the
+letters in his hand, and said, “Last year, Hope, I believe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119">{119}</a></span> you were of
+my opinion, when there was a question about my mother’s going to live
+with Robert. I think you agreed with me that it was best at that time,
+that he should try his strength alone.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes I certainly did,” she said, “and I think, Everard, that time has
+proved you were right.”</p>
+
+<p>“I hope there is no doubt about that, dear Hope. But <i>now</i> things are
+different. It seems to me now a very great question whether Robert would
+not be better with a home. It is on that subject I want your advice.” He
+paused and looked at her. “What do you think, Hope?”</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps you are right again,” she said after a little thought. “I had
+been so happy to see him as he is, that I had not begun to consider
+about a change. But I did hear him say the other day that he was
+sometimes dreary of an evening, an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120">{120}</a></span> yet did not feel to care for Mr.
+Perceval’s company.”</p>
+
+<p>“So did I, Hope; that made me think a great deal about it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Has Aunt Joan decided? Have you talked to her, Everard?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, but I do not think she will go.” He paused again, then looking at
+her with a furtive smile,” he said, “Will you go to him, Hope?”</p>
+
+<p>“Me,” she cried turning deadly pale and clasping her hands together.
+“Oh! Everard.”</p>
+
+<p>“My dearest Hope,” he said, stooping towards her tenderly, “have I
+startled you? I did not mean to do it; but there it is; will you be
+Robert’s wife? He dares not ask you himself, and so I must do it. And
+Hope,” he continued seriously, laying his hand on hers, “remember that I
+have been made your guardian, and trust me that I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121">{121}</a></span> would ask nothing but
+what your own father and my father, could they have been here to act for
+you, would have approved. There,” he added quickly, for he saw her
+agitation was very great, “read these, and I will come back again
+presently,” and he hastily left the room and left her to herself.</p>
+
+<p>The correspondence was arranged according to their dates. The first
+letter was from Everard to Robert, asking his opinion as to the
+desireableness of his having a home in London. He told him plainly the
+reasons which had made him oppose it the year before, dwelling
+especially on that reason which regarded Hope. He said he had fancied
+that Robert was not at his ease in her presence, and that he had thought
+it most right to save Hope from the pain of altered circumstances as far
+as was possible. But now he concluded, he no longer felt the same, and
+he would be glad to know Robert’s wishes.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122">{122}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The style of the correspondence was according to the usual manner of the
+two brothers very simple and concise, not a word more than was
+necessary.</p>
+
+<p>Robert in his answer thanked Everard, but said he preferred that no
+change should be made. Not he said that there were not times when he
+longed to have a home, but the reasons against it were stronger than his
+wishes. “These reasons are chiefly two,” he concluded. “First, I am
+quite as sure as ever that my mother would be miserable cooped up in
+London; and secondly, I really cannot undertake to live constantly with
+Hope, as I used to do. I know that I must not think of marriage for some
+years to come, and therefore, I had better not be tempted to think of
+it. You perhaps may think me very weak, but some people cannot help
+saying what is in their minds, and I find it hard work as it is.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123">{123}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Everard’s answer to this was to say, that he supposed he understood that
+Robert alluded to money matters, when he said he could not marry, and he
+was anxious to show him, that provided he could be content to begin
+moderately, he thought that question might he satisfactorily arranged.
+He then reminded him, that Hope had been left to his guardianship, and
+asked him if he could doubt, that in the event of her marriage with any
+other person, his father would not have provided for her like his own
+daughter. He therefore proposed, he said, to give her £10,000, which,
+with what Robert had, would enable them to begin with £1000 a year, or
+rather more. Would Robert be content with this? he asked.</p>
+
+<p>A very serious reply was returned, thanking Everard for his care and
+interest, but reminding him of his father’s constantly ex<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124">{124}</a></span>pressed desire
+that the property should never be weakened by over charges.</p>
+
+<p>“I know that I, who have done so much to charge it, have no right to
+speak on this point, but I must remind you of it, lest your desire for
+my happiness should tempt you to forget.” This was the conclusion of the
+letter.</p>
+
+<p>There was yet another answer from Everard, laying before Robert a full
+statement of the present condition of the property. This statement
+showed the care and judgment which Everard had exhibited in the
+management, for it proved, that, notwithstanding the new charges, the
+condition was hopeful and flourishing. He directed his attention
+especially to one fact, which he said, enabled him with a clear
+conscience to make new charges. This was the paying off an old mortgage
+at a very high rate of interest by a sum borrowed at a lesser<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125">{125}</a></span> rate. As
+the mortgage was large, this had made a considerable difference in the
+yearly receipts.</p>
+
+<p>Robert now changed his ground, and wrote a somewhat passionate and
+excited letter on the subject of his unworthiness of Hope. “That she
+loves me,” he said, “I will not even pretend to doubt. I know that angel
+cannot change, but that she would marry me, I do very much doubt, and
+still more do I doubt my right to ask it. I do not speak of how I have
+treated her, for I do believe she would forgive that as she forgives
+everything; but think of my past life and hers, and ask yourself if it
+is fit that two such contrasts should be joined together. I dare not
+think of it, and am inclined to wonder, that you, her guardian, should
+propose it, especially, as whatever I may <i>intend</i>, promise and vow I
+dare not.”</p>
+
+<p>There was more, and forcibly put, and by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126">{126}</a></span> the dates of the letters it
+was evident that Everard had not replied to it in haste. There was
+nearly a week between them. This was the reply, when it came.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+
+<p>
+
+“My dear Robert,<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>“For many days I have been thinking of your letter. You put my duty
+towards Hope, in a stronger light than I had yet considered it, and
+I would not answer till I had thought it over in every point of
+view. I am sure I do not wonder at your feelings, and though it is
+hardly for me to say so to you, I can assure you, it is not because
+I think lightly of your objections, that I still hold to my wishes.
+But there are other points of view in which the case may be
+considered. The past is your own consideration, the future is what
+I have to do with, and for that I do trust you. One who has behaved
+as you have done to me, shows<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127">{127}</a></span> a nature too noble and generous not
+to be safely trusted with the care and happiness, even of one like
+Hope. So far, therefore, as my consent is needed, you have it.</p>
+
+<p>“Not for worlds, however, would I press you further, and if you
+feel you cannot undertake the trust, this shall be the last I will
+say on the subject. I shall be disappointed, but that is not a
+matter of importance. Shall you think of coming down and talking to
+her?</p>
+
+<p class="r">
+“Always, dear Robert,<br>
+“Yours affectionately,<br>
+“<span class="smcap">Everard Vavasour</span>.”<br>
+</p></div>
+
+<p>There was a pause of four days more, and then this answer.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+
+<p>
+
+“My dear Everard,<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>“If you can trust me, that is more to the purpose than my own
+feelings.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128">{128}</a></span> You would not unless you saw good reason, and that gives
+me confidence. I put myself in your hands. Speak for me to Hope.
+Tell her I dare not ask it&mdash;tell her what I feel when I think of
+her as my wife. Yet tell her that with her love and prayers I do
+trust I may yet be more worthy of her. You must tell me how she
+looks. If she can bear to think of it, I will come and speak for
+myself.</p>
+
+<p class="r">
+“Yours affectionately,<br>
+“<span class="smcap">Robert Vavasour</span>.”<br>
+</p></div>
+
+<p>So ended the correspondence.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Hope was still sitting with the letters in her hand when Everard
+returned, and as she did not seem to observe him, he took a book and sat
+down at a distance in silence.</p>
+
+<p>It was some time longer before a slight<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129">{129}</a></span> movement roused her to a sense
+of her abstraction. When he saw she observed him, he got up and went
+towards her.</p>
+
+<p>“Have you considered, dear Hope?” he enquired, not with a smile, for he
+saw that grave thoughts had occupied her, and were now painted on her
+pale cheek.</p>
+
+<p>She looked up in his face with an expression of confidence that touched
+him to the heart.</p>
+
+<p>“Like Robert, dear Everard,” she said, “I put myself in your hands. I
+trust you when I could not dare to trust myself,” and she put both her
+hands in his as she said the words.</p>
+
+<p>“I think you may trust me,” he said, stooping and kissing her brow, with
+a something fatherly in his manner, that sat upon him<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130">{130}</a></span> with singular
+grace. “We all may be mistaken, but I do believe that Robert is now
+worthy of your love. If I did not, no thought for his happiness could
+have led me to wish for this marriage. Your happiness was too sacred a
+trust. Dear Hope, are you happy now?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, too happy,” she said, and tears shone in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>“Then all is well, and God bless you, for you have made <i>me</i> happy!” and
+his face did look for the moment as if the weight of care that oppressed
+it, was lifted and gone.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>As the course of this love now ran smoothly it needs but a few more
+words. The marriage took place in the following month of June. Before
+that time Everard went with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131">{131}</a></span> Robert to London to make some arrangements,
+and to find a house. A small, but pretty one was chosen near the Green
+Park. Its cost was beyond what was justified by Robert’s circumstances,
+but Everard insisted on supplying the <i>unjustified</i> part of the sum,
+and, as was now felt by all, when Everard insisted he had his way. His
+argument was that Hope was unaccustomed to London and must have fresh
+air; and to this Robert submitted.</p>
+
+<p>“I submit,” he said, laughing, “because I can’t help it, and because I
+think it gives you pleasure, and because....” He paused and looked into
+his brother’s face to see if he might venture. He certainly saw no
+invitation to venture, yet he proceeded, “because I hope you will soon
+have so much money, you will not know what to do with it.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132">{132}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>There was no answer to this, it had only the effect of restoring the
+grave look which was beginning to be shaken off.</p>
+
+<p>The marriage was celebrated with great privacy. This was partly in order
+to induce Mrs. Vavasour to attend, and partly according to a well known
+opinion of Robert’s. “I don’t like to see a woman stared at,” he had
+often said, “on her wedding day more than any other day, and my wife
+never shall,” and he kept his word. Nevertheless, he requested Hope to
+dress herself with as much care as if there were to be a thousand
+spectators, and she in whose eyes everything was sanctified that could
+give pleasure to him, woke up her slumbering taste and did her utmost to
+gratify him.</p>
+
+<p>When she came down in her bridal dress before they set off for the
+church,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133">{133}</a></span> he seemed to feel what she was, almost beyond what he had ever
+felt before, and stood gazing at her in a kind of transport, as serious
+as it was full of love and admiration. “My dear Hope,” he said at last,
+with sadness in his voice, “how you make me ashamed. What have I ever
+done that I should have an angel to bear me company?”</p>
+
+<p>Everard and his mother stood at the door to see them take their
+departure, when&mdash;after the ceremony was over, and they had returned to
+Audley Court for Hope to change her dress,&mdash;they set out on their way.</p>
+
+<p>Hope’s last word was to Everard. She came to him and put her hand in
+his, looking with grateful affection into his face. “It is to you we owe
+it all, dear Everard,” she said in her sweet tremulous voice. “You have
+saved him, and made me happy. God bless you for it.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134">{134}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>And Robert’s voice murmured something of the same import as he shook his
+hand, and followed her.</p>
+
+<p>Everard’s heart swelled and tears were in his eyes. He stood watching
+them in deep thought.</p>
+
+<p>When the last sound of the wheels was heard, he was roused by a hand
+laid gently on his arm. He turned round. His mother was there looking up
+at him, with such a look of love as had often been Robert’s portion but
+never his, till this moment. She smiled almost playfully and said, “Can
+you be content, Everard, with an old mother for your company.”</p>
+
+<p>More than a thousand repentant protestations were contained in those
+simple words; Everard was loved at last, and he felt it. He kissed her
+with an emotion which, in its warmth and freedom, reacted upon her, and
+the chains of many years’ binding, fell off and left them free.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135">{135}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Robert’s marriage had had the effect of rousing Mrs. Vavasour from the
+cloud in which her grief had wrapt her. The thought of the new home of
+her darling had won her to look into that future over which so dark a
+mist had been brooding, and she found there hope and comfort. Once
+aroused she saw her duties more clearly, the shadow fell away, and she
+found strength for what yet was left in life for her to do. And when the
+shadow departed she saw Everard as he was. She saw what Hope and Robert
+felt towards him, the trust they reposed in him, the reverence with
+which they regarded him; no longer unwilling she allowed them to speak,
+and they told her of all his ways, and all his acts of generous
+kindness; of the affection he was winning from his people, of the regard
+and estimation of all&mdash;she heard and pondered it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136">{136}</a></span> in her heart, and thus
+a change came.</p>
+
+<p>It seemed a strange thing to Everard, that that action, which had cost
+him such agony of spirit, which in its beginning had seemed to produce
+only hate, should in the end win for him the thing his soul longed for
+with feverish longing. He who had been nothing was now all. <i>The</i> one on
+whom all seemed to hang for affection, help, and guidance, the one on
+whom warm words of grateful love were for ever falling, making his heart
+beat and his eyes dim with tears. It was very strange to him, and being
+more inclined to humility than to pride, he felt humbled in the
+possession of the blessing, which, when absent, he had almost thought he
+deserved.</p>
+
+<p>But though a strange thing in Everard’s eyes, it is no uncommon thing in
+the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137">{137}</a></span> ways of the world. The rough path of a hard duty, or that which
+looks like a duty to sincere eyes, sometimes becomes strangely smooth,
+when the steps are steadfastly set to walk along it; and many a low
+valley long despised in men’s eyes, becoming fertile through the dews of
+Heaven, draws to itself the gaze which it seemed unwilling to meet, and
+in due time is exalted.</p>
+
+<p>As Everard and his mother re-entered her sitting-room after Robert’s
+departure, she again laid her hand on his arm, and said,</p>
+
+<p>“Dear Everard, do you never mean to be as happy as Robert is?”</p>
+
+<p>And, again, a shadow fell over his face, and he said, “The future is a
+dark place, Mother, who can tell what is hid in it.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138">{138}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Do not some make it darker than it need be?” she asked again.</p>
+
+<p>He silently shook his head, and the subject dropped.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139">{139}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The backward flower may yet be wooed to blow,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">The dying flame may yet be set a glow,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">The truant bird be lured, the fickle heart<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Won back again by spell of love’s sweet art;<br></span>
+<span class="i0">But thou, so kind, so constant, yet so cold,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">What spell for thee shall all love’s store unfold?<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>From Poems by E. Hinxman.</i><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Well</span>, Angela,” cried Miss Vansittart, eagerly entering the drawing-room
+at Underwood, “what do you think? Mr. Gresham has proposed, and Mr.
+Vavasour has accepted.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela was seated in a window of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140">{140}</a></span> room drawing. Miss Price was lying
+on the sofa. It was in the middle of August. Mr. Gresham (bringing Miss
+Price in his suite to be again a chaperone to his daughter “on certain
+delicate occasions,”) had returned to Underwood about ten days before,
+his mind as tenaciously bent on the acquisition of its idol as in the
+previous year. The Vansittart family were paying him a visit.</p>
+
+<p>There was certainly nothing very attractive even to the most anxious
+heart, in the terms of Miss Vansittart’s announcement, but Angela’s
+inner life was too constantly agitated to allow her to hear it with
+calmness. A flush of astonishment strangely mingled with hope and anger,
+dyed her cheeks, and a startled light flashed in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>At the sight of her discomposure, Miss Vansittart laughed heartily, as
+heartily<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141">{141}</a></span> that is, as she thought it becoming in a young lady to laugh,
+and more heartily than she would have laughed had Mr. Gresham been in
+the room.</p>
+
+<p>“Why, Angela,” she exclaimed, “what is the matter? You could not look
+more moved, if a proposal of marriage had been in question, instead of a
+simple proposal to dine.”</p>
+
+<p>“You startled me,” Angela said coldly, and resumed her drawing without
+further inquiries.</p>
+
+<p>“But why,” asked her companion eagerly. “What did you think I meant? Did
+you really, is it possible you could really suppose, that I was speaking
+of a matrimonial proposal. Is it possible?”</p>
+
+<p>With an effort Angela drove away her annoyance and laughed. “If your
+father was my father, Adelaide,” she said, lightly, “you would sometimes
+feel as I do, <i>terri<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142">{142}</a></span>fied</i> at what he might think it right to do.”</p>
+
+<p>“Terror!” said her tormentor. “I don’t think it was only terror I saw in
+your face.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela made no reply. She was now herself again, guarded and prepared
+for Miss Vansittart’s questioning.</p>
+
+<p>“Come, Angela,” she said, drawing a chair into the window. “Now I have
+found you alone or as good as alone,” glancing at Miss Price who was
+reading, and quite unmoved by what had passed, “do talk to me a little.
+I must tell you that I know all about you and Mr. Vavasour. My interest
+was excited about him last night, so I made it my business to drag it
+all out of your Papa in the course of that walk we took this morning. He
+has been telling me everything from beginning to end.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143">{143}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Then probably you know much more than I do,” was Angela’s cold reply.</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps,” with a little air of importance. “But still I know only the
+dry facts such as a man can tell; I want the comments which only a woman
+can make. Come, do be a good girl, and make a <i>confidante</i> of me.”</p>
+
+<p>“I will answer any question you please to ask,” Angela said. “But as I
+have nothing whatever to tell, you must excuse my making confidences.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are very ungrateful, do you know,” said Miss Vansittart playfully.
+“You owe this dinner engagement entirely to me. After your Papa told me
+the dry facts this morning, I made him come in and write an invitation
+to dine and sleep for Saturday, on the spur of the moment. He consented,
+wrote it, desired the groom to wait for an answer, and the answer being
+favorable,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144">{144}</a></span> allowed me to be the bearer of the good news to you at once.
+It came while we were playing at billiards, and I resigned my place to
+Mamma, and hastened to you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Thank you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! you wretch, is that all you have to say after my efforts in your
+service?”</p>
+
+<p>“As you could not possibly know, Adelaide, whether it would please me or
+not, I can only suppose you wish to see Mr. Vavasour himself.”</p>
+
+<p>“There I will confess you are right; for though I am entirely of your
+Papa’s mind that the union of the two properties is motive sufficient to
+form the matrimonial project, still being somewhat younger than he is,
+and in its proper place somewhat more romantic, I allow that the outward
+man and manners are of importance. Now tell me&mdash;Is Mr. Vavasour
+handsome?”</p>
+
+<p>“My aunt says not.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145">{145}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Do you, Miss Price,” said Miss Vansittart, startling her into
+attention. “Do you call Mr. Vavasour ugly? I am sorry for that.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ugly, my love, no indeed,” replied Miss Price much distressed. “I
+believe, I did once say that to my taste he was not handsome; his nose
+is large, and his eyebrows very marked&mdash;but he is pleasing, decidedly
+pleasing.”</p>
+
+<p>“And what do you say, Angela?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! pleasing, decidedly pleasing,” she replied carelessly.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, I see I must judge for myself. He comes on Saturday. I told you
+that, Angela, did I not? to dine, but not to sleep; and I can tell you,
+that since you refuse to confide in me, you must be prepared to be
+watched with the eyes of a lynx. I have no doubt that <i>I</i> shall discover
+what is the mystery.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146">{146}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“What mystery?” Angela said impatiently provoked out of her coolness.</p>
+
+<p>“What mystery? why, my dear Angela, the very inexplicable mystery of
+why, seeing he is now in a position to be accepted, he does not repeat
+his former unwelcome proposal.”</p>
+
+<p>“If you put it in that light, I think what you call the mystery is very
+easily explained. Some men are not particularly fond of being accepted
+for their position, and some women would scorn them if they were.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes some, but not you, Angela,” she replied mischievously. “You would
+e’en take him, although he has the misfortune to have a fine property
+saddled upon him.”</p>
+
+<p>“What makes you take so much interest in Mr. Vavasour?” Angela asked,
+evading any reply to this accusation.</p>
+
+<p>“That Mr. Selwyn with whom you sent me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147">{147}</a></span> in to dinner last night. He
+talked of very little except Mr. Vavasour, and as I had nothing better
+to hear from him, I allowed him and even encouraged him to speak. You
+know, Angela, men say, that a woman never praises a woman. Now I have
+happened to remark, that except very young men, a man never praises a
+man; and therefore when a man does praise a man, I always suppose there
+is good reason.”</p>
+
+<p>“And Mr. Selwyn praised Mr. Vavasour?” Angela asked with as small a show
+of interest as she could possibly put on.</p>
+
+<p>“He did indeed, he even excited <i>my</i> prosaic mind. He told me that a
+year ago he in common with many others, positively hated him for
+stepping as he did into his brother’s place, but that somehow or other,
+he has so won the good opinion of his neighbours, that there is not one
+who does not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148">{148}</a></span> love him. He says, he mixes in society a good deal now, as
+much as he can without leaving his mother alone, and that his manners
+and conversation are so agreeable, so kind, and so sensible, that ... in
+short, I suppose, Angela, that if Mr. Selwyn has any daughters, they are
+your rivals; and perhaps a great many others besides. I did not like to
+ask the question point blank, but I beat delicately about the bush, and
+I found, that Mr. Vavasour is not looked upon as a marrying man, but
+that if he were, he would have no great difficulty in finding a wife.”</p>
+
+<p>“I should think not,” Angela said composedly. “When a person’s character
+is very high, and there is nothing in other ways to repel, I think the
+difficulty must be <i>not</i> to like them.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is your opinion, is it, Angela? And you think love is guided by
+character?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149">{149}</a></span> Well, my view of the world differs from yours; and I should
+say, upon the whole, that my experience is more to be trusted. However,
+I must tell you one thing more that Mr. Selwyn said. He found a fault.
+Are you interested? Do you care to know what it is? Have you any fears
+for Mr. Vavasour’s character?” and she fixed her mischievous eyes on
+Angela’s face.</p>
+
+<p>“Not much fear for his character,” she said, with a very slight glow on
+her cheek, “but I should certainly like to hear what the fault is.”</p>
+
+<p>“To tell you the truth, it was the fault that most took my fancy. Not
+that I myself admire it; I quite agree with Mr. Selwyn, and with your
+papa, who joined in the conversation, that it is a great fault; but
+still it is not a very common one, and therefore it took my attention.
+The world is full of people, worthy and unworthy, who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150">{150}</a></span> try to make much
+of themselves. To be blameably backward is less common, and though a
+fault, is not an offensive one. When I hear of a young man in Mr.
+Vavasour’s position, being too modest to take his proper place in the
+world, I think it a very great pity, and so I shall tell him if I have
+an opportunity; but it excites my interest.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” Angela replied, with the same quietness of manner with which she
+had pursued the conversation.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Vansittart here gave a slight and affected yawn, as if to do away
+with the impression of having been really interested in the
+conversation, and began to admire the embroidery of Angela’s collar, and
+the fineness of her muslin gown. This was a common change in her ways
+and manners. She had more in her than she quite liked to have, or knew
+what to do with, and after<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151">{151}</a></span> any unusual shew of interest, retraced her
+steps to worldliness or frivolity, as the practice of some serious duty
+she had set before her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>Angela was too lavishly supplied with the means of adorning herself to
+take much interest in her dress, and while her companion admired, her
+thoughts went far away.</p>
+
+<p>There was nothing new in their track. The same hope, the same fear, the
+same despondency, had occupied her mind for many months, and were
+occupying them still. She returned unchanged. “The strength of love is
+constancy,” and certainly hers day by day gathered strength, and
+engraved itself with iron in her soul. This was not altogether a
+conscious virtue, or a willing one. There had been many moments during
+the weary, yet exciting months she had passed, when she had said she
+would wait no more. There had been moments, when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152">{152}</a></span> her heart sickening
+with hope deferred, and pining to be loved and cherished, had
+resolved&mdash;among the many who only waited the softening of a glance to
+come forward,&mdash;to make a new and happier choice.</p>
+
+<p>But little did these resolutions avail her. It is the happiness, and yet
+the trial of attachments like hers, that they cannot be shaken.
+Sympathies are broken, fancies change, charms are dispelled; but the
+chain that binds to the rock of a lofty character no wind or storm can
+break, so long as the rock itself is fast and sure. Inconstant natures
+may, indeed, be weary of reverencing, as they grow weary of all things
+else in earth and in Heaven; but better natures are not fickle ones&mdash;and
+in these the love that is built on reverence is as immoveable as the
+stars in the sky. Angela struggled with her passion only to find that it
+grasped her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153">{153}</a></span> with a might beyond her power to overcome.</p>
+
+<p>So she returned to Underwood, and so entered again upon her life of
+exciting expectation.</p>
+
+<p>On the Sunday after her return, she had twice seen Everard in church;
+but there had been no meeting outside. In the morning <i>she</i> had been
+late, and in the afternoon <i>he</i> was so; and on both occasions he had
+remained with his mother&mdash;who was still unwilling to encounter the gaze
+of strangers&mdash;when the service was over. Whether this was a pain to him
+or no, she could not tell. Their pews were on different sides of the
+church; and though she had fancied that his eyes followed her down the
+aisle, she could not he sure.</p>
+
+<p>“I am glad I shall see Mr. Vavasour,” broke in the placid voice of her
+aunt,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154">{154}</a></span> about half-an-hour after Miss Vansittart left the room, “I shall
+be happy to meet him again.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela started from her meditations, and went to her and kissed her. She
+did feel sanguine at this early acceptance of her father’s invitation,
+and thus her heart expressed itself.</p>
+
+<p>“You will be happy too, love?”</p>
+
+<p>“I cannot tell,” Angela said, and sighed, and sat down again to her
+drawing.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb">
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham stood at the drawing-room door to receive Everard, much in
+the same manner as he had received Robert two years before; and with
+something of the same pomp he would have conducted him around the room;
+but Everard escaped from him. Leaving Mr. Addison, with whom he came, to
+hear the conclusion of Mr. Gresham’s speeches, he went quickly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155">{155}</a></span> across
+the room to Angela, and having as quickly shaken hands with her,
+retreated to the background, where Miss Price sat, and placed himself by
+her side. It was all so easily and rapidly done, that Angela’s heart had
+scarcely begun to bound, and her cheek to flush, before the meeting was
+over. How over she could not tell; but she was so far relieved as to be
+convinced that even Miss Vansittart’s curious eyes had seen nothing to
+satisfy them; and she resolved that this first meeting safely over,
+nothing to gratify them <i>should</i> be exhibited during the remainder of
+the evening.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham was disappointed in being unable to make a hero of Everard.
+He could not appreciate a character that did not love to walk in the
+eyes of the world; and he gave a sigh to Robert.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Selwyn’s complaint regarding Ever<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156">{156}</a></span>ard’s manners and habits, was the
+common complaint of the neighbourhood. Perhaps it is the case in all
+countries&mdash;in England it certainly is so great a pleasure to admire, and
+either privately or publicly to make a hero, that in the same degree as
+arrogance offends, over-diffidence displeases. It is a disappointment to
+a very good trait in human nature, and human nature is angry. And yet,
+on the other hand, it was this very simplicity and modesty of nature
+which had won for Everard the regard in which he was now held. It might
+disappoint, but it attracted&mdash;it might be condemned with the lips, but
+the inner heart approved; and, though with reluctance, it was some times
+confessed, that in his peculiar position even over-diffidence, perhaps,
+was fitting.</p>
+
+<p>Unwilling to be thwarted in all his efforts to do honor to his guest,
+Mr. Gresham,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157">{157}</a></span> when dinner was announced, approached Everard, and desired
+him aloud to take his daughter in to dinner. Having made his
+arrangements, he then gave his own arm to Mrs. Vansittart, and departed.</p>
+
+<p>A bright color glowed for a moment on the cheeks of both Everard and
+Angela, but he obeyed Mr. Gresham’s commands without hesitation, and
+came to her side at once. Not so Angela. Not coldly, yet with dignity,
+she stood up on his approach, and with ease and self-possession said,
+“No, I think it will be better for you to take Miss Vansittart,” and
+making a slight introduction, she drew back.</p>
+
+<p>Again he colored, but obeyed with the same perfect obedience.</p>
+
+<p>“Will you take me, Mr. Addison?” Angela asked, having previously
+mortally offended a youth, by sending him in to dinner with Miss Price,
+and she placed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158">{158}</a></span> herself at the table well satisfied with what she had
+done.</p>
+
+<p>But the satisfaction did not last very long. From her end of the table
+she could not help observing what passed at the other end; and the easy
+conversation which was kept up between Everard and Miss Vansittart,
+annoyed her. She observed, and justly, that he was changed. Having been
+forced into notice, all that was awkward in his manners had worn away,
+and he was able to bear his part in common society without effort or
+pain. His countenance, when in repose, was still singularly grave; but
+being no longer permitted to be silent, the gravity was not so striking.
+He was changed, as life and society changes all men; and in his case
+there was no doubt that the change was an improvement. But Angela could
+not, and would not, own it; a feeling of jealousy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159">{159}</a></span> and annoyance crept
+over her, and after some struggle, the mind’s feelings came forth in
+words.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Vavasour, I see, has quite recovered his spirits,” she observed to
+Mr. Addison.</p>
+
+<p>“In a degree,” he replied, “not entirely. Even yet, I sometimes accuse
+him of moroseness.”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t see much of it,” she said quickly.</p>
+
+<p>He glanced at her, but said no more.</p>
+
+<p>“I hear he mixes a great deal in society,” she began again, after
+another somewhat angry gaze down the table.</p>
+
+<p>“Not a very great deal; what he does is chiefly for his mother’s sake.
+She will not see any one herself, and he thinks it necessary therefore,
+for her good and her happiness, to have some new things to tell her. He
+leaves her unwillingly, but he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160">{160}</a></span> thinks occasional absences make
+diversity in her life; and he is right.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I dare say. I was not disapproving, I assure you, Mr. Addison. I
+was only remarking on the fact as a new one. He strikes me as being very
+much changed.”</p>
+
+<p>“You will not think so when you see more of him. I see him most days,
+and I see no change. Except ...” he added, after a moment, “that he
+changes as we all ought to change&mdash;he improves.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes, so I hear,” she replied; but she was not in the mood to think
+of any changes with pleasure, and her tone was not cordial.</p>
+
+<p>“I think <i>you</i> are changed, Miss Gresham,” Mr. Addison said, looking at
+her after a short silence.</p>
+
+<p>“Am I? How?”</p>
+
+<p>“You are graver and quieter; <i>older</i>,” he added, with a smile.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161">{161}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“And is it a good change?” Angela asked, smiling also.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I think so,” he replied, kindly.</p>
+
+<p>“Do you <i>really</i> think I am growing better? I should be very glad;” and
+there was real anxiety in her voice.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I think so,” he repeated.</p>
+
+<p>“I wonder why you think so. What have I done; I feel so very far from
+being better myself.”</p>
+
+<p>He looked round to see if any one was listening, and then said quietly,
+“You used to give me much pain by your wandering eyes at church, you do
+so no longer. That is one good change.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah!” she exclaimed, colouring deeply.</p>
+
+<p>“I remember you told me once. Yes I have tried to change that. But
+perhaps....” She stopped, and sighed, and said no more; but meant
+perhaps to say, that the inner eyes were wandering still.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162">{162}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>They continued to talk during the remainder of dinner; not so
+unceasingly, however, as to prevent Angela from perceiving the flow of
+discourse between Everard and Miss Vansittart. Not even in the early
+days of their acquaintance had Everard been thus conversible with her.</p>
+
+<p>On returning to the drawing-room, Miss Vansittart approached her with
+her hands joined together and said, “My dear Angela, I must really beg
+your pardon! I am afraid you will never forgive me.”</p>
+
+<p>“For what?” Angela said, forcing a smile, but uneasy in heart.</p>
+
+<p>“I will tell you. Quite inadvertently I am afraid I have deprived you of
+Mr. Vavasour’s society this evening. In the course of dinner I asked
+your Papa if he would let me play at whist to-night&mdash;you know I have
+before now begged him to let<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163">{163}</a></span> me join his party, and he has refused,
+thinking I did it out of civility&mdash;well he agreed at last; and then
+quite without thought I asked Mr. Vavasour if he would be my partner; to
+my utter dismay, he said yes. I am really sorry, Angela, but I could not
+help it.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela’s heart died within her. This, then, was to be the end of that
+meeting, from which she had hoped so much. She turned pale with
+disappointment, but seeing four curious eyes eagerly watching her face,
+she controlled herself enough to say indifferently, “If it pleases you
+and him, you are quite welcome. For myself I hate the very sight of
+whist, but that I suppose is a matter of taste.”</p>
+
+<p>“You seemed to be getting on famously with Mr. Vavasour, Adelaide,” said
+her mother. “I was quite afraid Mr. Gresham would be jealous.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164">{164}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Oh, no fear of that,” Adelaide replied, with a slight affected laugh,
+“he knew what I was doing. He told me to make much of Mr. Vavasour, and
+I was only obeying orders.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela had now recovered herself, and sitting down and inviting the
+others to sit down also, she said, composedly, “What did you talk about,
+Adelaide? I should have thought no two people on earth could have had so
+little in common.”</p>
+
+<p>“What has that to do with conversation?” was Miss Vansittart’s reply.
+“Society would be very tame if there was nothing but agreement.”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t want agreement; but to talk pleasantly people must more or less
+see things from the same point of view. Now, I should say, you and Mr.
+Vavasour might have been born in different planets.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165">{165}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“I should think we were, and that he was born in the planet Mars, for
+instance; but let people come from whence they may, I will find means to
+make them talk to me. But however, Mr. Vavasour and I <i>had</i> a subject in
+common, and we did great justice to it.”</p>
+
+<p>“And what was that?” asked Mrs. Vansittart. Miss Vansittart bowed to
+Angela with a peculiar smile.</p>
+
+<p>“Me!” cried Angela, indignantly. “I should be much obliged to you, then,
+not to talk about me.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am very sorry, but I really cannot oblige you. I talk of you very
+often. You are quite one of my subjects. I admire you, and blame you,
+and envy you, just as the circumstances suggest, and you would rob me of
+one of my greatest pleasures if you set an embargo on my lips.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166">{166}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“And what line did you take to-night?” asked her mother smiling.</p>
+
+<p>“I began by admiring, of course, and then I asked him the question point
+blank whether he did not admire also. You know, Angela, I had no reason
+to hold my tongue. And what do you think he said?”</p>
+
+<p>Angela’s heart beat, but she only quietly said, “Very little, I should
+guess.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, he did not make an oration, certainly; but he answered
+readily,&mdash;no blushing or stammering, as I had expected, ‘Yes, very
+much.’ So then I went on to my next subject&mdash;envy; and on that I dilated
+at some length. But here we did not agree so well; in fact, to say the
+truth, I think he looked on my views as very worldly. When I observed
+that I could conceive nothing earthly so happy as your position, he said
+gravely, ‘that he did not think great riches were an ad<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167">{167}</a></span>vantage to a
+woman, but much more a trial.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p>
+
+<p>Angela blushed, but remained silent.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Price, who generally slumbered by fits and starts during the
+evening, here softly murmured, “It is all as God ordains,” a sentiment
+which was very commonly in her mouth, and which during her half
+slumbers, she sometimes applied with less opportuneness than at this
+moment.</p>
+
+<p>“Very true, Miss Price,” said Miss Vansittart good-humouredly, “and I
+hope you will not think me wrong if I say I wish it had been ordained
+for me. I do not agree with Mr. Vavasour at all, and so I told him; and
+I took that opportunity to give him a piece of advice which I had been
+treasuring in my mind for some days, namely, that he, in his position,
+ought not to keep himself so backward. I told him position was not given
+to be hid under a bushel.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168">{168}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“What did he say?” Angela asked eagerly, forgetting how little interest
+she desired to shew on the subject.</p>
+
+<p>“He did not much like my advice, I think. He tried to change the subject
+again and again, but it is one on which I feel strongly, and so I
+persisted, and delivered myself of a great many wise sentiments. He
+said, at last, he was very much obliged to me, and he hoped he should
+profit by my advice; but it was not serious, and I am very much afraid I
+made no impression.”</p>
+
+<p>“Young men are apt to be perverse,” said Mrs. Vansittart, vacantly, as
+she looked over her rings and bracelets, and wondered why the gentlemen
+sat so long after dinner.</p>
+
+<p>“How prettily you are dressed to-night, Angela,” observed Miss
+Vansittart, changing her manner. “I made that remark to Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169">{169}</a></span> Vavasour;
+and he looked at you and said ‘yes, he liked white;’ so now you know his
+taste, if you did not before, which I suspect you did. What did you give
+for that silk, and where did you have it made?”</p>
+
+<p>“I know nothing about it,” Angela said, impatiently. “I have told you a
+hundred times that I know no more about my dress than the man in the
+moon. Papa told me to bring six new gowns into the country, and I
+obeyed, though I thought it was shocking waste. I told my maid to go and
+order them, and this is one.”</p>
+
+<p>Miss Vansittart put up her hands to her eyes and Mrs. Vansittart said,
+“I remember when you were quite a little thing, Angela, finding you one
+night very angry about wearing silk frocks. Some poet says, I believe,
+that the boy is father to the man. I am sure in your case the girl is
+mother to the woman.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170">{170}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“I think I remember,” Angela said laughing, “that was the first night I
+ever saw Mr. Merivale. Do you know that he is coming over. We expect him
+here in about three weeks.”</p>
+
+<p>“I rejoice to hear it,” said Mrs. Vansittart! “He is too great a
+stranger to us all. But here come the gentlemen at last!” and as she
+spoke Mr. Gresham and his suite entered the room.</p>
+
+<p>Poor Angela was destined to new disappointment. Had Everard intended to
+approach her he could not have done so, for the mortally offended youth,
+thinking no small things of himself, and determined to make amends for
+the tedium of the dinner hour, took a chair, placed it in front of
+Angela, and cut her off from the room; and she, too conscious of her
+intense desire to escape from him to allow it to ap<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171">{171}</a></span>pear, was forced to
+endure with patience.</p>
+
+<p>Everard was first seized by the button, while an old gentleman expounded
+in his ears his views on foreign politics; he was freed from this grasp
+after a time by Mr. Gresham, who brought a request from Mrs. Vansittart,
+that she might be allowed to make his acquaintance. She looked on all
+young men in Everard’s circumstances under two aspects; first as
+valuable in themselves, and secondly, as valuable in respect to her
+three daughters; and she laid herself out to make herself agreeable to
+him.</p>
+
+<p>Angela watched, and could she have seen one weary glance directed
+towards herself would have been content; but no glance came. She did not
+think he looked interested or amused, but there was no appearance of a
+wish to escape, and languidly and restlessly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172">{172}</a></span> she endeavoured to attend
+to her own companion.</p>
+
+<p>Then came a move; and hope once more arose; but it was only to the whist
+table, which,&mdash;in a desire to show his gratitude to Miss Vansittart for
+her interest in his favourite recreation&mdash;Mr. Gresham caused to be set
+out at an earlier hour than usual.</p>
+
+<p>Everard was summoned; and no longer fearful of her motives being read
+too plainly, Angela freed herself from the youth who had poisoned her
+evening, and sitting down by her aunt, indulged her troubled thoughts in
+silence.</p>
+
+<p>From this comparative peace she was aroused by an order from Mr. Gresham
+to entertain them with music; she obeyed and was followed to the
+piano-forte by the youth, and by Mr. Alfred Vansittart, a young
+gentleman who for several years had been carrying<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173">{173}</a></span> on a mild courtship,
+insipid but constant, never daunted, but never elated into hope.</p>
+
+<p>Though improved and improving outwardly and inwardly; though softened in
+manner, and to a considerable degree disciplined in mind, Angela was
+still very far from a saint either in gentleness or patience. Mortified
+and disappointed she could not refrain from venting a part of her
+irritation on her two pertinacious admirers, and first by obtuseness to
+their speeches, and then by rebuffs to their polite attentions, she
+endeavoured to soothe herself, and weary them. Of the ill temper in
+which she was indulging she was totally unconscious, until, a
+considerable time having elapsed in mingled concord and discord, sweet
+sounds of music and irritation of temper, she suddenly perceived that
+she had a third auditor. Behind Alfred Van<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174">{174}</a></span>sittart Everard was standing
+and watching her.</p>
+
+<p>She felt her cheeks glow, and unable to bear her prominent position, she
+closed her music book, pushed back her chair, and said with a laugh that
+she had played enough and could play no more.</p>
+
+<p>The young men remonstrated, re-opened the book, and sorted her music in
+search of fresh pieces; and while they thus occupied themselves, Everard
+came round to her.</p>
+
+<p>“I am going now,” he said, “Mrs. Vansittart has taken my place. My
+mother likes to sit up for me, and I don’t wish to be late. I have
+something to ask you before I go. You saw Hope in London, did you not?”</p>
+
+<p>“Once. Only once. She only arrived just before we left London.”</p>
+
+<p>“Did she make a request to you?”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175">{175}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” Angela said blushing a little, “but....”</p>
+
+<p>“I hope you will be so kind as to attend to it,” he said earnestly;
+“Hope told me she should ask you to come and see my mother, and I cannot
+help enforcing her request myself. It will be a kindness, a real charity
+if you will; for since Hope went, my mother is too much alone.”</p>
+
+<p>“Do you think she will see me?”</p>
+
+<p>“I am almost sure she will, if you can make the attempt.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then I will.”</p>
+
+<p>There was a short silence, and then Everard said, “I believe I am very
+troublesome, but would it be possible to you to name the day. The reason
+I ask this is, that I may be at home when you come. If I tell my mother
+of your visit beforehand, it will make her nervous, but I think if I
+tell her you are <i>there</i>, she will be very wil<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176">{176}</a></span>ling to meet you. It is
+only for the first time.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am afraid I cannot go while the Vansittarts are here,” Angela said
+after a moment’s thought. “Will this day week do? I think I could manage
+it then, at about half-past three.”</p>
+
+<p>“Thank you. That will do perfectly. You see I presume on your kindness.
+Mr. Addison says,” he added with a slight smile, “that you are anxious
+to do good. I am sure this is an opportunity.”</p>
+
+<p>Though nothing could be more unlike a lover’s than his manner, it was so
+quiet, unembarrassed, and friendly, that Angela forgot for a moment all
+discomforts, and took courage to say softly, “Shall I find her very much
+changed.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I fear so,” he replied sadly. “Sorrow, such as she has suffered,
+leaves deep traces behind it.” His own countenance<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177">{177}</a></span> saddened as he
+spoke, and Angela did not dare to say more.</p>
+
+<p>A moment afterwards he held out his hand, shook hers, and was gone as
+quickly as he had made his entrance into the room.</p>
+
+<p>Angela could not analyze what she felt. When she did attempt to go over
+what had passed, to consider his looks and words, she believed his wish
+and intention was to return to a friendly intercourse, to show her how
+much he desired to be on friendly terms, but also to show that he had no
+other thoughts. For a time she felt that this was all she desired. If
+she could be friends with him, life must be happy; but alas! this
+conclusion did not suffice for more than a few hours. It soothed her
+sleep that night, but she woke up to other hopes in the morning.</p>
+
+<p>The Vansittarts left Underwood on the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178">{178}</a></span> Saturday following, leaving, as
+Mr. Gresham observed to Angela, a great blank behind them. She did not
+agree, but she did not express her feelings. Among the many points in
+which she was improved, not the least was patience with her father. She
+could not submit her mind and opinions to his, and indeed it was little
+desirable she should, but she no longer made her home a battle scene
+between two opinions, and her home was the happier in consequence.</p>
+
+<p>With a beaming smile Mr. Gresham received the news she now imparted to
+him, that she was going to see Mrs. Vavasour, and though he refrained
+from comment, it was evident that once again he looked upon his hopes as
+on the eve of fulfilment.</p>
+
+<p>Attended by her aunt Angela drove to Audley Court and found Everard
+awaiting her. He assisted her from the carriage, and took her himself to
+his mother’s room; walking by her side in silence indeed, yet<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179">{179}</a></span> treating
+her with that quiet friendliness which could not do otherwise than set
+her at her ease in his presence. At the door he begged her to wait while
+he gained his mother’s consent for her entrance, and then with a smile
+of encouragement, for he saw she was fluttering with the nervousness of
+this pause, made way for her to go in alone.</p>
+
+<p>When she returned to the carriage she found him talking to Miss Price.
+He came forward to meet her, and holding out his hand, said warmly,
+“Thank you again and again. You have done a great kindness.”</p>
+
+<p>With a swelling heart and glowing cheeks, Angela re-entered the
+carriage, and it was only when they had driven away that she became
+conscious there had been nothing in his manner to encourage her aching
+heart.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180">{180}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>He had been very grateful for his mother’s sake, but he had made no use
+of the opportunity her visit gave him to renew his acquaintance with
+<i>her</i>. He had been silent when they were alone, and had made not even a
+momentary effort to retain her.</p>
+
+<p>“How did you find Mrs. Vavasour, my love?” placidly inquired Miss Price,
+after a quarter of an hour of silence.</p>
+
+<p>The inquiry broke the thread of Angela’s selfish reflections, and she
+sadly answered, “Changed, very much changed. Her hair which had not a
+thread of grey is quite white, and the beautiful color she used to have
+in her cheeks is gone. Oh! Aunt Jane,” she continued, almost
+passionately. “I sometimes think it would be better to live as you and I
+do, without having any one to care very much for, than to care, and then
+to lose it. It makes life too dreadful to think of.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181">{181}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“No, my love,” said her Aunt, emphatically, “it is good for those indeed
+to whom God appoints it, but it would be a thankless thing to turn from
+the blessing for fear of the pain. He who gives the happiness can also
+give the power to bear its loss.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela sighed and from her heart, as she always did when forms of
+goodness and submission, that seemed to her unattainable, were placed
+before her eyes. Yet the question was not set at rest. Mrs. Vavasour’s
+altered countenance haunted her for many days, and she tormented herself
+with inquiries, whether it were not better to be a stoic, than to care
+so much for what this life contains.</p>
+
+<p>It was a very useless question in her case, since no efforts could have
+made a stoic of her.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182">{182}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hope can disperse the thickest clouds of night<br></span>
+<span class="i0">That fear hath overspread the soul withal;<br></span>
+<span class="i0">And make the darkest shadows shine as bright<br></span>
+<span class="i0">As the Sunbeams spread on a silver wall.<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">C. Hervey.</span><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Well</span>, my dear child,” said Mr. Merivale, “how are you?”</p>
+
+<p>This enquiry was made the morning after his arrival, when he chanced to
+be left with Angela alone.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Merivale’s visit took place about a month after the departure of the
+Vansittarts, and perhaps it will be as much to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183">{183}</a></span> the weariness of the
+reader to hear, as it was to the depression of Angela to know, that the
+hopes excited in the last chapter had faded during that month into
+nothingness. She saw no more of Everard. When she went to Audley Court
+he was absent, and on the occasion of his single call at Underwood, Mr.
+Gresham was not at home. Since no good reason now prevented him from
+seeking her society, it was plain that the will was not there, and hope
+deferred was beginning to cast its deadly chill upon her heart.</p>
+
+<p>“Quite well,” she replied carelessly to Mr. Merivale’s inquiry.</p>
+
+<p>“I am very glad to hear that. I like a healthy woman.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then I am sure you must like me,” Angela said, laughing at his dry
+manner. “My health is something quite incomprehensible.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184">{184}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“You speak as if you were a little disposed to quarrel with your health.
+Have you any strong desire to be in a dying state?”</p>
+
+<p>“I am very thankful for my health of course,” she replied, gravely; “but
+I cannot feel as my aunt wishes me to feel, that health is everything.
+It is very possible to be uncomfortable in mind even though one’s health
+does happen to be good.”</p>
+
+<p>“Very possible, indeed, my love. Health of course is a thing to be very
+thankful for, and if you had such a pitiful body as mine, you would feel
+it more; but still health is not as you say everything, and we should be
+but poor creatures if it were. It is difficult to be happy and ill, but
+it is not at all difficult to be unhappy and well.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! what a pleasure it is to be understood,” cried Angela warmly. “How
+glad I am to see you again.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185">{185}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Is that your grief then, my poor child; the not being understood.”</p>
+
+<p>“I did not say I had any grief, did I?” she said perversely, longing for
+him to question her, and yet dreading it.</p>
+
+<p>“No&mdash;but I have eyes and I can see, and I have intellect, and I can
+gather. You are not happy, are you?”</p>
+
+<p>“I suppose I am quite as happy as most people. Books say, you know, that
+no one is quite happy in this world.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah! Angela, but you and I never were satisfied with what books say. We
+see that some people are happy. And when they are not, we like to know
+the reason why.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela laughed but did not seem at all the more disposed to make
+confidences.</p>
+
+<p>“Get your work, my dear child, and let us have a talk. I have come all
+the way from Italy for the sole purpose of having a talk with you, and
+after that you cannot be so un<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186">{186}</a></span>gracious as to refuse. Get your work and
+let us make the most of having the room to ourselves.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela obeyed.</p>
+
+<p>“What is that?” he enquired, looking at the piece of work she unfolded.</p>
+
+<p>“A very small baby’s shirt,” she replied, smiling.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh; and what is that for?”</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Addison told me it would be good for my restless mind to work for
+the poor; and I do most things Mr. Addison advises.”</p>
+
+<p>“So should I if he were my spiritual pastor and master. He looks wise. I
+should like to know more of him. Get your father to ask him to dinner
+for me.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes, certainly; I am sure he will be glad.”</p>
+
+<p>“There was another person I took a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187">{187}</a></span> fancy to when last I was here&mdash;the
+second Mr. Vavasour. How is he?”</p>
+
+<p>“Of course, Mr. Merivale,” Angela replied, without raising her eyes,
+“you know his history.”</p>
+
+<p>“His having his brother’s property&mdash;yes; your father wrote me word of
+that. How does he bear his honors?”</p>
+
+<p>“You can see for yourself. I believe he dines here on Thursday.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am glad of that. I like to see people who have been placed in
+difficult circumstances. I look them through and through, and find out
+all their secrets.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is pleasant, certainly.”</p>
+
+<p>“Do you know, Angela, when last I was here I fancied that young man was
+in love with you. Is all that gone off?”</p>
+
+<p>“How can I tell,” she answered impatiently; “I suppose you know that
+papa refused him once.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188">{188}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Why, yes, I heard that; but I confess I thought better of him than to
+expect he would be satisfied with such a rebuff. But the world is not
+what it was. In my youth people had more spirit, more feeling, more
+honor than now-a-days.”</p>
+
+<p>“As to that,” Angela cried, her temper and her cheeks alike flaming high
+in his defence, “the way in which he was treated excuses him from any
+want of spirit or truth, if he <i>has</i> changed. I do not know that it
+would not have been want of spirit to persist. <i>I</i> would not have
+persisted if I had been treated as he has been.”</p>
+
+<p>“You mean <i>your</i> behaviour. Well, my dear child, I agree with you there.
+It was a bad business. And yet I think if I had been in the young
+gentleman’s place, even that would not have daunted me. I should have
+thought you very weak;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189">{189}</a></span> but, knowing you as I do, not unfaithful.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, never,” she cried, passionately.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Merivale rose from his chair, and coming towards her, patted her
+head. “Poor little thing,” he said, kindly, “that was what I thought.
+Then how is it&mdash;has he forgotten you?”</p>
+
+<p>“I cannot tell,” she replied, drooping her head over her work, ashamed
+of her admission, yet unable to recall it. “Oh! Mr. Merivale, you must
+not scorn me.”</p>
+
+<p>“Scorn! Angela, and why should I scorn?”</p>
+
+<p>“I scorn myself. I scorn every woman who gives her love to those who
+don’t prize it.”</p>
+
+<p>“And yet though you scorn you are constant. Is that it, my dear child?”</p>
+
+<p>“If it is to be constant,” she said, with a kind of <i>abandon</i> in her
+tone, “to have no<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190">{190}</a></span> other thought by day or night&mdash;to care for no
+pleasant thing&mdash;to look forward to no future hope&mdash;to find myself at my
+age joyless, and hopeless, and all because of.... Oh! how you will scorn
+me,” she continued, arresting her excited words. “I have tried not to be
+constant, but the more I try the worse it is. There now you have made me
+speak, and now you know what I am.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, but you have told me nothing I did not see. Don’t be afraid, my
+dear child, you need not mind an old friend who was once a constant
+fool, with far less reason than you have. Well, I will see this Mr.
+Vavasour.”</p>
+
+<p>“See him,” and Angela almost screamed with terror. “Mr. Merivale, what
+would you do?”</p>
+
+<p>“Poor little fool,” he said, fondly. “I would do nothing, you may be
+sure. You are far too precious to be forced on any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191">{191}</a></span> man. I meant see
+with my eyes. Look him through and through, and when I have found out
+his secrets ...” he paused.</p>
+
+<p>“What!” Angela exclaimed, anxiously.</p>
+
+<p>“I shall keep them to myself. Don’t expect to hear anything from me.
+What I discover by dint of the intellect God has blessed me with, I
+consider as sacred as if it were revealed to me by confession. You may
+trust me. My mind is like the depths of the sea, strewed with treasures
+in the shape of secrets, never to be revealed; yours is among them, and
+so will his be.”</p>
+
+<p>“If there be one.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, yes, if there be one; and now in good time here comes my niece and
+your aunt. Very unsuitable companions. Your aunt is as mild as a dove,
+but Janet has nothing dovelike about her. I wish she had. I like a soft
+woman, even when she has as little intellect as your aunt.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192">{192}</a></span> Well,
+Janet,” addressing himself to a young lady of eight or nine and twenty,
+black eyed and black haired, and looking as sharp as a needle. “What
+have you been doing with yourself?”</p>
+
+<p>“Making acquaintance,” she replied. “I am never comfortable in a place
+till I have made acquaintance; are you Miss Gresham? I don’t mean with
+persons but things. Now, I know my way about, I know how to get to my
+room in the shortest time, I know the names of the pictures, and how to
+find a book when I want it; in short, thanks to Miss Price’s kindness, I
+am comfortable, which I was not till this moment.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am sorry for that,” said Angela, laughing. “I could have made you so
+last night, if I had but known.”</p>
+
+<p>“One is prepared for one night’s discomfort,” she replied, in the same
+tone. “Are we welcome here?” And she looked about<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193">{193}</a></span> her with bright keen
+eyes like her uncle’s; only, as he said, without softness in them. “You
+and my uncle seemed to be in deep talk.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” and Angela blushed a little. “Mr. Merivale is a good talker and a
+kind one.”</p>
+
+<p>“Too kind. That is his fault. If he would but see the world as it is, I
+should think much more highly of him. Is it not so?” she said, putting
+her hand playfully on his shoulder. “Don’t you own that good nature
+blinds your eyes.”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t attempt to compete with you, certainly,” he said, drily, “but
+it may be, because it pleases me better to find virtues than faults.”</p>
+
+<p>“But it <i>should</i> please you only to find what exists, and you know
+faults are more plentiful than virtues,” and Janet Merivale set herself
+down to argue, an occupation in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194">{194}</a></span> which she delighted, and in which also
+she excelled, for she had quick and original thoughts, and a temper that
+could not he ruffled.</p>
+
+<p>Everard had been for the third time invited to dine at Underwood, and
+for the second time had accepted the invitation. New expectation for
+Angela and new disappointment. An old lord from a distance had, somewhat
+to his surprise, also accepted Mr. Gresham’s invitation to dine on the
+same evening, and even the desire to do honor to Everard had been forced
+to give way to his claims. Angela went into dinner with the old lord,
+and had the mortification of seeing Everard as conversible with Janet
+Merivale as he had been with Miss Vansittart, and judging from
+appearances, more really amused and interested in her conversation. She
+thought she at last understood him. He now received from many that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195">{195}</a></span>
+notice, which once had been the charm that won him to think of <i>her</i>; he
+was looking about in the world, and saw many worthy of his affection,
+and she was nothing. It was a very bitter thought, and very bitter on
+that evening was her frame of mind.</p>
+
+<p>A slight hope rose again when the gentlemen returned to the
+drawing-room. Mr. Gresham was talking to the old lord and Everard was
+left at peace, and for a moment she fancied he looked as if he were
+coming towards her. If it were so his purpose was arrested. He was
+called by Mr. Gresham to join <i>his</i> conference, and the old lord&mdash;who
+had told Angela at dinner that he was anxious to gain Mr. Vavasour’s
+co-operation in some plan of benevolent intention,&mdash;laid hold of him,
+drew some papers from his pocket, and finally led him out of the room to
+a smaller adjoining one, where<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196">{196}</a></span> a discussion and examination could be
+carried on more at leisure.</p>
+
+<p>Disappointment, disappointment. It was but a slight addition to the many
+her latter life had afforded, but it seemed so cruel a one, that tears
+of pity for herself came into her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>She looked up fearful of being observed, and met the kind, compassionate
+glance of Mr. Merivale. Kind as it was, however, his watchfulness vexed
+her, and her vexation on that account roused her spirit, and made her
+determine to be a slave to her feelings no more. She got up, and to give
+time to her eyes to forget their tears, busied herself in fetching and
+preparing some work, and then sitting down at a table where Janet
+Merivale was seated, entered with interest into her conversation.</p>
+
+<p>She was a talker and a good one, and several persons were standing about
+her.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197">{197}</a></span> When Angela sat down she was praising a novel that had just come
+out. She turned to Angela with an eager inquiry as to whether she had
+read it.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, there it is,” Angela said, pointing to a book on another table,
+“but I did not like it at all. It made me wretched.”</p>
+
+<p>“Wretched, but why? There are no romantic sorrows in it; that is why I
+like it. We have novels more than enough with romantic sorrows, but this
+is clever, it is like life.”</p>
+
+<p>“That is, it thinks it is,” replied Angela, “but if it <i>were</i>, the world
+would be as unbearable as the book. Does it please you to think society
+as false and heartless as that book describes.”</p>
+
+<p>“Everything pleases me that is <i>real</i>. Of course I should be glad that
+the world was better than it is, but since it is not, I like to see it
+as it is. Romantic pictures of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198">{198}</a></span> world, with heroes and heroines in
+them, are no better than fairy tales. Give me truth, however severe.”</p>
+
+<p>“I thought <i>I</i> was severe upon the world,” Angela said, laughing, “but
+now I find I am very mild. I plainly say that if the world is such a
+place as that book makes it appear, I would rather die at once and be
+out of it.”</p>
+
+<p>“And if Miss Gresham dies, I will die too,” said the mortally offended
+youth, with a small attempt at a complimentary badinage.</p>
+
+<p>“But Miss Gresham does not mean to die,” said another gentleman, “for
+she knows the book’s picture is false, and so do I. It has chosen to
+depict certain classes of people, and the worst specimens of each class.
+Now we all know that there are false and heartless people in the world,
+but happily also we do know some few with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199">{199}</a></span> feeling, and some few that
+are true. And if each of us is happy enough to know a few, the sum total
+will not be insignificant.”</p>
+
+<p>“But I deny the fact,” said Janet Merivale, eagerly. “I know hardly any
+one that <i>I</i> call true; and other virtues are just as rare. Now, Miss
+Gresham, let us question you. I think you are true, and I think my uncle
+is true, but I know no one else of whom I could speak as decidedly; no
+one who would not say a false or an equivocating thing if the temptation
+were strong. Do you know a true person? Give me an example. I like
+examples. General facts are nothing.”</p>
+
+<p>“I could give several,” Angela said, “but I don’t mean to do it. If I
+pick out a few I might seem to impute falseness to others. I am happy to
+say I do know many people on whose truth I entirely depend.”</p>
+
+<p>“We must take your word of course,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200">{200}</a></span> Miss Gresham, and be content,” cried
+Janet, “although we might throw a doubt on nameless individuals; but let
+us go on to other virtues. What do you think of natural affection? Do
+you think the world shines in that particular. What remark does one hear
+on all sides at a London party. ‘Look at so and so! <i>how</i> indecent! her
+sister only died a month ago;’ or ‘Lady So and So out again! Is it
+possible! I heard she was heartbroken for the loss of her son.’ Is it
+not true?” she cried, appealing all round. “Am I saying what is false?”</p>
+
+<p>“No,” said several laughing, “I am afraid not.”</p>
+
+<p>“Only that the very remarks seem to contradict you. We only remark on
+what is <i>un</i>common,” Angela said.</p>
+
+<p>“I doubt the fact, but I will be generous and give you the benefit of
+the doubt. But let me proceed. Do you admire the virtue<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201">{201}</a></span> of constancy. I
+do. I am not romantic, but I do admire constancy. Well, what do you say
+to that as a common virtue?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! as to constancy,” Angela said, bitterly, all the disappointments
+and mortifications of months kindling in her mind into one outburst of
+indignant feeling. “I give up to you at once. We read of constancy in
+those romantic books you talk of, but as to real life, I very much doubt
+if it is to be found.”</p>
+
+<p>A something indescribable, for it was not a sound made her suddenly turn
+her head. Everard and the old lord stood at a little distance behind
+her. The light was bright, and though at a distance she could see that
+Everard’s eyes were intently fixed upon her, and that his cheek was
+pale.</p>
+
+<p>She turned back her head, shame and regret dyeing her face with crimson.
+It was all the work of an instant.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202">{202}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Janet Merivale was far too quick not to see that something had ruffled
+the surface of the life before her, but she had also perfect tact, and
+she continued without a pause; “Very well, then there is nothing more to
+be said on that score; let us proceed to some other question. What do
+you say to kindness and goodnature? Do you think we are to our
+neighbours’ faults a little blind? and to their virtues very kind?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, Janet,” said her uncle coming up to the table, possibly with the
+intention of giving Angela more time to recover herself. “Nobody can
+accuse us of that; especially after they have heard us this evening.”</p>
+
+<p>“You had no business to listen to me,” she said with playful good
+humour, “but you have only proved the truth of what I said. Are you to
+my faults a little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203">{203}</a></span> blind? Have you done your best to hide them?”</p>
+
+<p>The conversation proceeded merrily, and after a time Angela recovered
+herself enough to join in it; but her very heart was trembling and
+vibrating with emotion. What had he thought of her? What could he think?</p>
+
+<p>Later in the evening, when Mr. Gresham had made up his whist party, and
+Mr. Merivale and Mr. Addison were engaged in conversation, Everard, who
+had been listening to them for a time, slowly left them, and sat down
+opposite to Angela by Janet Merivale’s side.</p>
+
+<p>If he had been discomposed, he was so no longer, and he addressed
+himself to Janet with ease and quietness. “You were mentioning several
+books at dinner Miss Merivale, with approbation. Could you write me down
+a few names? I read a good deal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204">{204}</a></span> to my mother, and I am always glad to
+hear of something new; new and good that is to say.”</p>
+
+<p>“I shall be delighted, if Miss Gresham will give me a pencil and a bit
+of paper. What shall I write? What kind of book. What have you been
+reading of late.”</p>
+
+<p>“Nothing very new,” Everard said smiling. “I don’t know what you will
+think of me if I confess it was <i>Clarendon’s Rebellion</i>. It is a
+favorite book of my mother’s, and as I had never read it, it was like a
+romance to me; but it is done, and I should be glad of something a
+little less ancient now.”</p>
+
+<p>“Are you too wise for a novel?” she asked, after writing a few names.</p>
+
+<p>“Not at all.” There was a silence while she wrote, and considered, and
+wrote again; and before she had finished, Everard, with a slight glow on
+his cheek, said to Angela<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205">{205}</a></span> across the table, “Do you ever read <i>Camilla</i>
+now, Miss Gresham?”</p>
+
+<p>“No not lately,” she said hurriedly; too much startled by his suddenly
+and pointedly addressing her, to perceive the drift of his question.</p>
+
+<p>“Did you ever read it?” he said to Janet Merivale.</p>
+
+<p>“I have read it I am sure. Oh! yes, I remember it now very well. It is a
+pretty book. Camilla is charming, and Edgar&mdash;oh! Miss Gresham, if there
+were many Edgars in the world, I should not have given the opinion of
+mankind I lately did.”</p>
+
+<p>A strange remembrance was carrying Angela back to an olden time, and she
+could not make up her mind to speak. Her heart was beating so fast, she
+almost felt its throbbing must be heard.</p>
+
+<p>“Your opinion is the same then as Miss<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206">{206}</a></span> Gresham’s,” Everard said in a
+firm grave voice. “I remember she once expressed her admiration of
+Edgar’s character in much the same terms as yours, but in my opinion,
+Edgar failed in one of the first of virtues&mdash;<i>trust</i>. I do not call his
+love for Camilla perfect, or knowing what she was, he would have trusted
+her, however appearances might have seemed to condemn.”</p>
+
+<p>He did not look towards Angela, he spoke to Janet, but Angela felt the
+words thrill through her from head to foot.</p>
+
+<p>Janet’s quickness again perceived that such serious words must have
+meaning in them, but she answered readily, “I quite agree with you, but
+I am afraid the virtue is rare. We all give each other up at the very
+first rub. I am afraid I do so quite as much as my neighbours. I cannot
+have patience with appearances.”</p>
+
+<p>“If I were a preacher,” Everard said<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207">{207}</a></span> lightly, “I should preach on the
+subject, so strongly do I feel. But may I now look at your list? A
+thousand thanks for it,” he added, as he glanced over the paper. “Some
+of these I am sure we shall like.”</p>
+
+<p>A slight discussion ensued with Janet over the names, and he then looked
+at his watch, and went to ask Mr. Addison if he was ready to go. He came
+back to wish both the young ladies good night, and without further
+attempt to impress or catch Angela’s attention, went away.</p>
+
+<p>After a few minutes silence, Janet Merivale observed to Angela, “I think
+if I lived much in Mr. Vavasour’s society, I should considerably modify
+my opinion of human nature.”</p>
+
+<p>“I think you would,” Angela said, now perfectly composed and
+unembarrassed. “As to truth especially.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, yes. His countenance is as clear<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208">{208}</a></span> as daylight. I liked what he
+said about trust,” she continued thoughtfully. “I felt it to rebuke me;
+for I know I am distrustful of good. I think I should trust him whatever
+might be his conduct, and what a blessed thing it is to feel entire
+dependence, even for a moment.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” Angela replied, and a whole heart and life was in the
+monosyllable.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Merivale said no more to Angela regarding Everard or her feelings,
+until the morning of his departure. He then gravely laid his hand on her
+arm, and beckoned her to follow him into a window, at a distance from
+the place where his niece and her aunt were standing.</p>
+
+<p>“You are happier, my dear child,” he then said looking into her eyes,
+“and you do not need words from me to reveal secrets or to explain
+mysteries.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! Mr. Merivale, what does it all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209">{209}</a></span> mean?” she asked with anxious,
+earnest enquiry.</p>
+
+<p>He made no answer, but drew her towards him and kissed her forehead.
+“Forgive that from an old man, my child,” he said fondly. “I do not much
+think, Angela, I shall be very long in this world, but if it were right
+to make a prayer to Him, who knows best when to call us away, I should
+pray to live until ...” he paused.</p>
+
+<p>With tearful but enquiring eyes, she looked up in his face, silently
+asking him when.</p>
+
+<p>“Until that is accomplished, which for your welfare and happiness I
+alike desire. We must have patience, Angela. You and I both. And now God
+bless you.”</p>
+
+<p>He kissed her again, and went straight back to his niece, despatching
+Angela with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210">{210}</a></span> his usual kind thoughtfulness to fetch her father, that she
+might hide the agitation his words had caused her from the piercing eyes
+of Janet Merivale.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211">{211}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Passive she heard, and in her labouring mind<br></span>
+<span class="i2">Strove with the dark enigma, “Part! to part!”<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Till having solved it by the beams that broke<br></span>
+<span class="i0">From that clear soul on hers; struggling she spoke.<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>King Arthur.</i><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> autumn slipped away, the winter came, and nothing worth recording
+took place. The relations between Everard and Angela continued exactly
+in the same state as they had been before that last evening’s
+occurrence. No looks, no words, no empressement, meetings few, and when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212">{212}</a></span>
+meetings occurred, manners calm, kind, and friendly, but distant.</p>
+
+<p>One morning in December, Mr. Gresham entered the drawing-room, where
+Angela was engaged in reading to Miss Price, and observed that he was
+come for a few moments’ conversation. He then placed himself with his
+back to the fire, and looked at his daughter with a stare of unusual
+solemnity.</p>
+
+<p>“Be so good as to attend to me, my love,” he began. “I have something of
+importance to observe.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela’s heart beat with only too ready expectation, and she laid down
+her work and cast down her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>“I believe, Angela, you have been fully aware of all the purposes and
+motives which induced me to make choice of Mr. Vavasour for your
+husband. Motives, I must observe, of singular generosity towards him,
+and pur<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213">{213}</a></span>poses which it would be unbecoming in me too highly to exalt.
+Suffice it to say, that the plan was laid with as much foresight and
+wisdom, as the motives which impelled me were beneficent. You have been,
+I say, fully aware of my feelings in this matter; and once for all, my
+love, I must assure you, that with <i>your</i> conduct I have no fault to
+find. You have behaved with dutiful submission towards myself, and with
+perfect modesty towards Mr. Vavasour. I thank you for it, and assure you
+that it has been highly gratifying to my feelings.”</p>
+
+<p>He paused, and stood for a moment, the benign and grateful parent; then
+again assuming the character of the wise and watchful guardian, he
+proceeded.</p>
+
+<p>“It is now nearly eighteen months since Mr. Vavasour was entitled by his
+position to claim my notice. He is perfectly aware of my favourable
+intentions towards him<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214">{214}</a></span>self. None can accuse me of want of patience in
+my dealings with him. I have allowed for the natural influence of
+decorous sorrow; I have excused the resentment he may possibly have felt
+in the recollection of certain circumstances. I have allowed for every
+feeling which the most fastidious delicacy can have suggested. But in
+vain. It is now my intention, therefore, to resign my long cherished
+designs, and to dismiss the subject from my mind.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela turned first red, then pale, but she made no exclamation.</p>
+
+<p>“I wish you to understand me, my love. When I say that I dismiss the
+subject from my mind, my wish is of course to suggest to you the course
+I desire you to adopt. I request that you will banish from your
+affections every recollection of Mr. Vavasour, and prepare your mind to
+receive any future impressions it may be my will to recommend to you.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215">{215}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“I cannot,” Angela said faintly but firmly.</p>
+
+<p>“You made an observation, my love.”</p>
+
+<p>“I cannot,” she repeated.</p>
+
+<p>“I do not perfectly understand you. It is not, I believe, customary with
+a young female of delicacy to obtrude her affections on any man. Let me
+suggest to you, my love, that such sentiments are highly indecorous.”</p>
+
+<p>“He loved me once,” Angela said in the same low tone.</p>
+
+<p>“Certainly, my love. It was the conviction of his attachment which led
+me so quickly to adopt him in the place of his brother; which led me to
+anticipate that he would joyfully accept the transfer of my intentions.
+But man, my love, is liable to change, and it is evident that Mr.
+Vavasour, however estimable may be his character, is subject to the
+common caprices of humanity. I must, therefore, again urge upon you the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216">{216}</a></span>
+necessity of banishing the expectations I have hitherto encouraged, and
+of displacing his image from your mind.”</p>
+
+<p>“I think he loves me still,” she said breathlessly.</p>
+
+<p>“Indeed! may I enquire on what grounds this conviction is formed? Have
+there been any secret tokens of remembrance? gifts, notes, looks, words,
+delicate suggestions of attachment? Let me beg of you, my love, to be
+open with me.”</p>
+
+<p>“None,” she replied, slowly shaking her head.</p>
+
+<p>“On what then, I again enquire, is your conviction formed?”</p>
+
+<p>“I feel it,” she replied. “That is all; and I think he would not let me
+feel it if it were false. I trust him.”</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham looked much perplexed. He cleared his throat, took two or
+three turns about the room, and then resumed his place.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217">{217}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“As I am anxious, my love, to banish this subject from our minds at once
+and for ever, I must relate to you an occurrence which took place last
+year, and which circumstances alone have hitherto led me to conceal.
+Anxious to secure your best welfare, and uncertain, whether Mr. Vavasour
+in his natural modesty, might fully understand the favorable change in
+my sentiments, I visited him about six weeks after our return hither,
+and made him a formal offer of your hand, not concealing from him ...
+giving him in short, every encouragement&mdash;I might even say more than
+this&mdash;which the delicacy of a parent would permit him to give. I regret
+to have to inform you that he entirely disclaimed any desire to ally
+himself with my house, and that, in terms it was impossible for me to
+misunderstand.”</p>
+
+<p>Angela became as pale as death. Shame, horror, doubt, and despair, for a
+moment<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218">{218}</a></span> took possession of her heart, and expressed themselves on her
+speaking countenance.</p>
+
+<p>“I am sorry, my love, to give you pain,” said Mr. Gresham with kindness,
+“but in such circumstances it is most fitting that the truth should be
+told. You are now possessed of all the facts of the case, and
+undoubtedly will readily acquiesce in my request, that the expectations
+which have hitherto occupied our minds should be banished. As to the
+future it yet remains to make such arrangements as may seem most
+desirable for your well-being.”</p>
+
+<p>There was a short silence, and then Angela looked up at her father with
+a steady countenance, and said gravely, “Papa, I trust him still.”</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham, who had anticipated a totally different conclusion, looked
+what he felt, the picture of astonishment. “My love,” at last he mildly
+said, “allow me to remind<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219">{219}</a></span> you that romantic fancies are unbecoming in a
+young female of sense and delicacy. I had hoped that I had made this
+clear to your mind. Since I have failed, I must request you to allow me
+a few moments private conversation with your aunt, who will, I am
+convinced, join with me in endeavouring to dissuade you from a
+prepossession unbecoming to a modest young woman.”</p>
+
+<p>“It will be in vain, Papa,” Angela replied. “I have said it, I trust
+him, and until he is married to another, I <i>will</i> trust him. For what
+cause he withholds the expression of his feelings I cannot guess, but my
+conviction is unalterable. He loved me once, and I believe he loves me
+still. Leave me in peace, Papa,” she continued rising from her seat,
+“and I think you will not be disappointed.” Mr. Gresham had taken his
+place opposite to Miss Price, previous to his entering on his purposed
+private conversation<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220">{220}</a></span> with her. Angela just paused to press her lips on
+his brow, a very unusual mark of submission and confidence, and hastened
+from the room.</p>
+
+<p>“Extremely singular,” observed Mr. Gresham to Miss Price. “May I ask you
+what opinion you have formed on this subject?”</p>
+
+<p>“I have long thought,” she gently replied, “that God has made them for
+each other.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ahem! Well, Miss Price, since such is your opinion, I bow to it, and
+reserving to myself the right to interfere, should any more advantageous
+alliance offer itself, I will consent for a few months longer to wait
+upon Mr. Vavasour’s pleasure. You must, however, allow me again to
+observe that I consider the case extremely singular.”</p>
+
+<p>“No doubt,” she agreed placidly, and so ended the conference.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221">{221}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>That afternoon, although it was a very stormy December afternoon, Mr.
+Gresham rode again to the top of the hill, to survey the fair scene,
+fair even in the raw winter’s day, and thought it fairer than ever
+because, seen through the hazy atmosphere, the limits of the two
+properties seemed to melt away into a boundless space. His chest heaved
+with renewed ardour as he gazed, and once again, flitting dreams, vague
+and uncertain ones, vanished, and left the old idol in undisputed sway.</p>
+
+<p>“Upon the whole, Angela,” he observed to his daughter that evening as he
+kissed her, “you may be right. The case is singular, but the worth of
+the object makes it desirable to wait, even though the hope be an
+uncertain one.”</p>
+
+<p>Her heart agreed, but she made no reply beyond a blush. She was not
+blind, she was not indifferent to the position, it might<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222">{222}</a></span> be the
+humiliating position in which she had placed herself; but she had in
+some respects a heroic spirit. She thought he had asked for trust, and
+she gave it with her whole heart. Moments of fluttering, of weakness, of
+doubt, of hopelessness, there were, there must have been, or she could
+not have been the wayward, changeful creature she was; but from every
+doubt, and every struggle, the trust arose again and again triumphant,
+and bore her along the months of silence and vacancy that followed.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223">{223}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">... Mercy which had seem’d<br></span>
+<span class="i0">A gift reserved to God, was mine to grant.<br></span>
+<span class="i0">So love flowed on me from a thousand springs<br></span>
+<span class="i0">And pour’d itself around me like a flood.<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>The Eve of the Conquest.</i><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the July of the following year a son was born to Hope and Robert.</p>
+
+<p>The event took place in obedience to Everard’s earnest request at Audley
+Court. Supposing this request to be made out of care and thought for
+Hope’s bodily comfort, and unwilling to refuse one to whom he owed so
+much, Robert acquiesced, but he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224">{224}</a></span> wondered the request had ever been
+made, and he owned to Hope that he had never more reluctantly agreed to
+any petition. Since his marriage, his feelings in regard to the past,
+had acquired, perhaps naturally, a keenness they had not exhibited
+before. To Everard, however, no reluctance was shown; to Audley Court,
+Robert brought his wife, and there their child was born.</p>
+
+<p>On the evening of the day of his birth, Robert and Everard sat alone in
+the drawing-room, for Mrs. Vavasour, tearful, trembling, and excited,
+could not be torn from the cradle of the new-born child, and seemed
+about to lavish on Robert’s son, all that adoring love with which she
+had cherished him.</p>
+
+<p>Both brothers were thoughtful, and both, as once before they had done,
+armed themselves with books for the better indulgence of their
+thoughts.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225">{225}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>From his seat at a distance, Everard stealthily watched Robert. Robert’s
+excitable feelings had been much touched during the day, and the ardent
+and devoted affection he felt for his wife had been fully manifested.
+When his son was born, he had seemed for a time transported with joy,
+but now a shade of thought had gathered over his face, and more than
+once he pushed his hair from his brow, as if there was a weight he
+desired to remove. This thoughtful expression was no longer a rare one,
+and if to his uncommon beauty an added charm had been wanted, it was now
+given. The play of countenance was more varied, the softness more
+intense, the animation more sparkling.</p>
+
+<p>At last, Everard laid down his book on his knee, and said gravely, “I
+should think Robert it was a very responsible thing to feel <i>a
+father</i>.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226">{226}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I suppose it is.” Robert spoke hastily, almost sharply; as if to
+have done with it.</p>
+
+<p>Everard took up his book and said no more. He was very sensitive,&mdash;for a
+man too sensitive&mdash;to a rebuff, yet it was not altogether wounded
+feelings which called a shadow to his brow.</p>
+
+<p>Robert looked at him two or three times uneasily, and then tossed down
+his own book and said, “Now for it, Everard. I did not feel quite up to
+a lecture just then, but I am ready now. Go on, you are quite right
+about fathers, and I shall be glad to hear what you have to say.”</p>
+
+<p>“But I am sure I am not prepared to speak,” Everard said laughing. “I
+have never turned my thoughts at all in the direction of a father’s
+duties.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then what did you mean to say?”</p>
+
+<p>“A thought that struck me, nothing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227">{227}</a></span> more. I thought it must be a strange
+feeling to feel a father, to have a creature all one’s own, to guide and
+influence; that was all.”</p>
+
+<p>“Not quite all, Everard! you wished me to say <i>I</i> felt it also!”</p>
+
+<p>Everard coloured, but then replied with a smile, “Yes, Robert, I believe
+that is the truth, since you will have it. I am sure I did not say it
+lecturingly, for what on earth have I to do with lecturing on a father’s
+feelings, but I think I hoped you would say ‘yes.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p>
+
+<p>“I can say thus much,” Robert replied, with feeling. “If with a wife
+like mine, and now a child dependent on me, I do not keep in the right
+way, I shall be the greatest villain on this earth. I hope, I trust, too
+great a villain for me to be, or indeed to have ever been. Are you
+satisfied?”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228">{228}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Everard nodded his head and then asked carelessly, “Have you thought of
+the name, yet?”</p>
+
+<p>“No,” Robert replied, and so the conversation dropped.</p>
+
+<p>Hope’s recovery though satisfactory was slow. It was a good thing, the
+doctor observed to Robert, that she was brought into the country; and
+Robert repeated the observation to Everard, and thanked him for having
+insisted on it.</p>
+
+<p>“Come and look at the little creature to-day,” he added, as he stood
+with his brother on the stairs. “I hate babies, and I dare say you do,
+but this is rather different from babies in general; it has got on a
+smart cap to-day, and altogether, I must say, it is rather a pretty
+thing.”</p>
+
+<p>Robert’s pride in his little son was very great; though remembering his
+old antipathy to babies, he was half ashamed to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229">{229}</a></span> shew it. He now
+conducted his brother into the room where it was lying. It had been laid
+down outside its bassinet and a young girl was watching it while the
+nurse was absent. Robert despatched the girl on a message, and said he
+would stay till she came back.</p>
+
+<p>The child was now nearly a month old, and in its fair innocent face as
+it slept, it was not difficult to see a likeness to its mother. It might
+have made a pretty picture to see the two tall men bending over the
+little cradle.</p>
+
+<p>“It is not so bad, is it, Everard?” Robert said, a touching expression
+of fatherly fondness shining in his handsome face.</p>
+
+<p>“I think it is very pretty,” was Everard’s reply; after a moment, he
+added gravely, “Robert, I think we must have a celebration of its birth.
+The first heir, you know.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230">{230}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“No, no,” Robert said, and a crimson flush overspread his cheeks. “No,
+no,” he added in a low voice. “No mockery, poor little thing.”</p>
+
+<p>The girl returned, and the brothers left the room; Robert walking fast
+as if to escape from Everard; but Everard pursued him.</p>
+
+<p>“Robert,” he said, as they entered the library together, “I meant what I
+said. Your child is the heir. You must not forbid me to celebrate his
+birth.”</p>
+
+<p>“Poor child,” Robert said with a painful smile, “a mockery of an heir.
+No,” he added, with some vehemence, “I will not consent to it.”</p>
+
+<p>“And why a mockery of an heir? Can you suppose I should mock your
+child?”</p>
+
+<p>Robert looked up in his brother’s grave face. “Everard,” he asked
+quickly, and with agitation, “what do you mean?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231">{231}</a></span> You cannot intend to
+live single because of this, and if you have a son....”</p>
+
+<p>“He shall never suffer the torture his father has suffered,” Everard
+passionately said.</p>
+
+<p>There was a silence, and then Robert repeated, “I cannot consent to it.”</p>
+
+<p>“You must,” he replied, with that stubborn decision against which it was
+idle to rebel.</p>
+
+<p>“Tell me this,” Robert asked, impatiently, “don’t you mean to marry?”</p>
+
+<p>“Whether I marry or not,&mdash;which is an act that concerns only myself, and
+about which I do not wish to speak,&mdash;my decision is unalterably made;
+your child shall be the heir.”</p>
+
+<p>“You are determined to humble me,” Robert said, standing before the
+empty fire-place, and leaning his head against the marble.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232">{232}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Never, dear Robert; but only determined to fulfil what I am certain was
+my father’s will. Let us say no more, only tell me in one word that you
+consent to my wish.”</p>
+
+<p>As no dissent came, Everard left the room, and the subject was not
+raised again. Robert repeated nothing of what had passed even to his
+wife; and regarding the coming celebration, Everard only said to his
+mother that when Hope was well, and the child christened, he should give
+a dinner to the tenantry.</p>
+
+<p>“Will Robert like it?” she asked anxiously.</p>
+
+<p>“He consents,” was Everard’s reply, and she said no more. Yet there was
+a grave look in both brother’s faces that made her anxious she scarcely
+knew why.</p>
+
+<p>It was the middle of August before<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233">{233}</a></span> Everard could perform his
+intentions. As soon as he saw that Hope was well enough to hear the
+fatigue, he named the day, and then quietly made his preparations,
+saying little to any one. It was only two days before the festivities
+took place that his mother discovered how much was going to be done, and
+on discovering it, shewed some reluctance to be present. But Everard’s
+request was too earnest to allow of resistance, and at length she gave
+way.</p>
+
+<p>He then said, “I wrote this morning to invite Mr. and Miss Gresham, and
+they accept. Dear mother, you will not mind, will you? they are not
+strangers.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, Everard,” she replied, looking in his face enquiringly, “and I only
+wish they were somewhat less of strangers to us.”</p>
+
+<p>He coloured, but made no reply.</p>
+
+<p>In the middle of August the weather is generally fine, and it was fine
+now on the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234">{234}</a></span> day for which fine weather was much required.</p>
+
+<p>It is not intended here to dwell on the festivities that took place. To
+one portion of them alone attention is requested.</p>
+
+<p>On a piece of lawn-like ground close to the house, a long table was
+spread, for the principal tenantry and tradespeople of the Vavasour
+family to receive their portion of good cheer on this day of rejoicing.
+They dined with much pleasure and comfort to themselves, and when dinner
+was over Everard requested them to remain seated, as he had a health to
+give.</p>
+
+<p>He had before sent to summon Hope and her child, his mother, and Mr. and
+Miss Gresham, and they now appeared on the lawn. Robert and Mr. Addison
+were already there.</p>
+
+<p>Hope instinctively placed herself by Robert and they stood a little
+apart.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235">{235}</a></span> Mr. Gresham and Miss Price seated themselves, with Angela
+standing near them, in another place. Everard took his mother’s arm and
+drew her to a chair half hidden in the shade of a large tree. To please
+him and Robert, and because once more appearing in the world, she had
+this day laid aside her widow’s cap; and though the ravages which grief
+had made, were, now that she resumed her former self, very apparent,
+there was a touching beauty about her, which years and grief, though
+they changed, seemed to have no power to efface. The lines</p>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor spring nor summer’s beauty has such grace<br></span>
+<span class="i0">As I have seen in an autumnal face,<br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind">might have been addressed to her, and so her sons felt as they looked at
+her.</p>
+
+<p>“Dear Mother,” Everard said, his voice slightly agitated, as he placed
+her in a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236">{236}</a></span> chair. “Forgive me, if I speak of things that must give you
+pain to-day. It must be done.”</p>
+
+<p>She looked up at him and her lips quivered.</p>
+
+<p>“I know, dear Mother, you will feel it,” he continued, “but I <i>must</i>
+have you here and it <i>must</i> be done. So forgive me.”</p>
+
+<p>She put her hand in his, and then leant back in the shade where he had
+placed her.</p>
+
+<p>Everard then walked to the head of the table, and in a few brief words,
+proposed the health of his nephew, Richard Vavasour.</p>
+
+<p>It was received with enthusiasm. Everard had long overcome the ill will
+of his tenantry, was loved, blest, and trusted in by all, but there was
+a soft place in every heart where Robert’s image lingered, and their
+love for him burst forth, in their reception of his infant son.</p>
+
+<p>“They are very kind, Everard,” Robert<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237">{237}</a></span> said, with a misty light shining
+in his eyes, “must I thank them?”</p>
+
+<p>Everard had retreated for a few seconds to where Robert stood, but now
+said, “No. I will do that.”</p>
+
+<p>And when the noise subsided he again stood at the table, and took off
+his hat.</p>
+
+<p>“I have taken upon myself,” he began with a smile, “to thank you all, in
+the name of one who cannot thank you for himself; and I assure you your
+welcome to him has given me a pleasure I shall not easily forget. There
+are others here who thank you for it also, but in some respects, my
+thanks are due to you more than theirs, for you have proved to me that I
+shall act rightly in a decision I have made. Will you all give me your
+attention for a few minutes while I speak of some events that are
+passed, but not I hope forgotten by any of you.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238">{238}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>He paused, and the long line of eager eyes were fixed upon him, while a
+silence like the repose of a death chamber followed.</p>
+
+<p>“It is now more than two years,” he began again in a firm but solemn
+tone, “since it pleased God to take to Himself my dear father. You all
+know what followed that event. You all know for what cause I came to
+stand to you, in my brother’s stead. I say I believe you know it; but
+lest you should not all perfectly know, let me repeat it now. My father
+loved you all, and loved the honour and virtue of his house more than
+life or any earthly tie; and when he feared that one of his race, the
+one on whom his honours ought to have fallen, had left that path of
+strict integrity in which he and his fathers had trodden, he shewed what
+most he loved, by cutting off <i>him</i> the dearest of all, from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239">{239}</a></span> his
+natural rights; and placing <i>me</i>&mdash;in all but one respect, the love of
+him and his virtues, far inferior&mdash;in my brother’s place. He thought it
+his duty and it was done; but the effort broke his heart. You know the
+rest. I obeyed his will. I never had disobeyed him. I could not disobey
+his last request.” Everard paused again and drew a breath of relief as
+if a painful task was done; and then while the same breathless silence
+continued, proceeded.</p>
+
+<p>“You may think it is not for a brother to dwell on a brother’s errors;
+nor would they have been dwelt upon, were it not that they have since
+been so nobly redeemed, that to speak of them is to honour not to
+condemn. You, each and all of you, who know as I myself know how weak is
+human will, can do honour to him who breaks the bonds of temptation, and
+rises never to fall again. For this cause I ask of you all to honour<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240">{240}</a></span> my
+brother. The time has passed when my father’s will bound me. I have
+obeyed it as you all know; and had it been binding still, I would, cost
+what it might, still have obeyed it; but his will points me now to
+another course, and I fulfil it. I lay down the burden he laid upon me,
+never, <i>such is my unalterable determination</i>, to take it again; and I
+<i>know</i> that I have his blessing on the act. I thank you all for having
+borne with me during these two years&mdash;with my ignorance, and with
+my&mdash;perhaps in your eyes&mdash;mistaken, sense of duty,&mdash;and I wish you all
+happiness under your rightful master. I give the health of Robert
+Vavasour.”</p>
+
+<p>Everard withdrew from the table. Trembling and tearful his mother rose
+to meet him, and came and laid her hand on his arm. They stood thus
+together while cheers springing from the inmost hearts of all present,
+rent the air&mdash;a noise of joy, emo<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241">{241}</a></span>tion, and surprise that seemed as if
+it never could cease.</p>
+
+<p>When it did cease, Robert was unable to speak. Feelings, many and
+strange; old recollections, present emotions, and future hopes, overcame
+him; and he wept like a child. He touched his wife’s arm and murmured,
+“Speak for me, Hope.”</p>
+
+<p>She looked intently, first at him, and then at Everard, and then walked
+steadily with her child in her arms, to the head of the table. Gentle,
+modest, and retiring as she was, she made no opposition to his request;
+acceding to it, and complying with it for his sake, as simply as in the
+performance of her daily duties.</p>
+
+<p>A faint colour went and came on her pale cheek, and at the first words
+her voice was low; but it steadied as she went on, and the sweet tones
+were heard, clear and distinct, to the furthest end of the table.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242">{242}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“My husband thanks you all; and so do I for him; and if indeed it must
+be as his brother says, be sure you shall not regret the change; for his
+prayer to God will be that he may follow in his and in his father’s
+steps, while life is given him.”</p>
+
+<p>She was moving from the table, when Mr. Addison, to whom Robert had just
+spoken, approached her, and after whispering something led her back.</p>
+
+<p>With a deepening glow, for this was an act not so much in Robert’s
+stead, as from herself, she said, “I give Mr. Everard Vavasour’s health.
+It is not for me to praise him. You all know what he is. May God bless
+him.”</p>
+
+<p>She drew back, and Mrs. Vavasour left Everard to hasten to her side.</p>
+
+<p>Everard stood for a moment alone; and as the noise of the shouting fell
+on his ear, that cheer which was for him,&mdash;a cheer the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243">{243}</a></span> loudest and
+heartiest perhaps of all, for there is no spirit so dull that cannot
+feel sympathy with actions like his&mdash;a strange, an unexpected sensation
+for a single instant agitated his breast; it was in the remembrance that
+from those, for whom he had done so much, and into whose welfare he had
+so warmly entered, he had severed himself for ever.</p>
+
+<p>To escape from the unwelcome intruder he turned his head to where Angela
+stood, and saw her pale, trembling, breathless, watching him. He forgot
+himself, forgot spectators, and self-restraint, and approaching her with
+an <i>abandon</i> of manner, utterly unlike his usual self, and with such a
+smile as never before perhaps had played on his lips, he said, “Have I
+done right, Angela?”</p>
+
+<p>The suddenness, the exciting circumstances of the day, this unexpected
+end to her long suspense, most of all that smile,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244">{244}</a></span> and that look from
+his eyes, entirely overcame her. She turned deadly pale, and the next
+moment fell flat on the grass.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Addison laid his hand on Everard’s arm, and seeing him hardly master
+of himself, drew him away, reminding him of the necessity of
+acknowledging the cordial reception of his health; he obeyed with a
+smile of thanks, while Mr. Gresham and Mrs. Vavasour raised Angela, and
+led her to the house.</p>
+
+<p>“The heat of the atmosphere,” Mr. Gresham observed, as they walked
+along.</p>
+
+<p>But Mrs. Vavasour knew better, and as she endeavoured to restore Angela
+to herself, she drew her caressingly towards her with a mother’s
+affection.</p>
+
+<p>“Well I never!” at length exclaimed Mrs. Allen, who with several of the
+other servants stood at a distance and contemplated the scene.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245">{245}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“It’s the very thing I should have done myself,” said the young groom,
+“only I don’t think I should ever have thought of it.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, Thomas,” said Betsey, “that you wouldn’t, nor nobody wouldn’t but
+Mr. Everard. To think, poor dear, that he has had this in his mind all
+along!”</p>
+
+<p>“So we have got a new master again,” said Harrison, approaching the
+cluster of servants with an empty beer jug in his hand, “or I should
+rather say our old one back again. You were a little surprised, Mrs.
+Allen, I should imagine.”</p>
+
+<p>“Not more than you were, Mr. Harrison,” she replied, for Mrs. Allen
+always spoke her mind.</p>
+
+<p>“I’m not so very sure of that,” he said confidentially; “I’m pretty
+sharp, and when I heard of this celebration here, I said to myself a
+hundred times, that something would come of it. What do you say to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246">{246}</a></span> the
+change, Roger?” turning to the old coachman. “Does it have your
+approbation?”</p>
+
+<p>“I say God bless them both,” replied the old man with a tear in his eye,
+“and He will bless them. Of that I am certain!”</p>
+
+<p>“Amen,” said Harrison in a hearty tone.</p>
+
+<p>“And Miss Gresham too, I hope, poor dear,” said Betsey softly. “She
+looks graver than she used to do, and I should like to see the old smile
+again.”</p>
+
+<p>“We’re hardly a match for her now,” observed Harrison, shaking his head
+with an air of wisdom. “Wealth likes to go to Wealth.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then it ought to be ashamed of itself,” said Betsey warmly, “and so I
+would tell Mr. Gresham to his face.”</p>
+
+<p>“And so would I,” said the young groom. “I would tell him that he may
+look the world over, before he’ll find as good as Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247">{247}</a></span> Everard. I would
+though he put me into the stocks for it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Mrs. Allen! you’ve wanted,” said a breathless boy running from the
+house to the group. “Missus wants the salverlattlely for Miss Gresham.”</p>
+
+<p>“Poor dear!” sighed Betsey as she accompanied Mrs. Allen on her way. “I
+don’t think it’s the salvolatile that will do her good.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248">{248}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">Wait, my faith is large in Time<br></span>
+<span class="i0">And that which shapes it to some perfect end.<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Tennyson.</span><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> night Everard and Robert fought out a great battle, but there never
+was an instant’s doubt as to how it would end. When Robert at last saw
+that his words were vain, he behaved like himself; with the same
+touching humility and winning grace receiving back his position, as he
+had shewn in submitting to its loss.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249">{249}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>There was only one countenance on which Everard looked with doubt. Of
+Hope’s approbation he was not certain. In every other face, high and
+low, rich and poor, (with the exception of Mr. Gresham’s,) he saw a full
+and heartfelt approval, and appreciation of what he had done.</p>
+
+<p>When fatigued with the excitement of the day, Hope early left the
+drawing-room to go to bed, Everard followed her.</p>
+
+<p>“Dear Hope forgive me,” he said, catching her hand, “I know I ought to
+have asked your advice in this matter, but I was afraid. I was afraid
+you would dissuade me. I could not run the chance, but now I must have
+your consent. Are you not contented?”</p>
+
+<p>“Quite now,” she replied after a moment’s thought. “At first, I will
+confess it was a shock. We are so happy now, Robert is so anxious, so
+careful, so good; I felt to shrink<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250">{250}</a></span> from the change; but you have done
+more than right, Everard, and such actions must bring blessings with
+them, and I am content.”</p>
+
+<p>“There is no fear for Robert, Hope; no more at least than such fear as
+there is for us all; we must have done with distrust, and look up to him
+with confidence and honor. I do from my heart. I am like the angels in
+Heaven,” he added with a sweet, touching smile. “There is nothing on
+earth to my mind so great and noble as repentance.”</p>
+
+<p>“And you have saved him. Dear, dear Everard, it has pleased God to make
+it all your work, and it will be your example that will guide him now.”
+And with tears of grateful affection, Hope took his hand in both hers,
+and kissed it. If there were anything to repay he was well repaid.</p>
+
+<p>“And now, Everard,” she asked looking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251">{251}</a></span> up with a smile in his face, “may
+I ask, do you mean to be happy yourself?”</p>
+
+<p>He coloured, and shook his head doubtingly, but there was a light of
+hope in his eyes, and a brightness in his countenance which had not been
+there for many a day.</p>
+
+<p>He had borne two years of unavoidable suspense. He was not going to bear
+one moment that could be avoided, and without a word to any one, he was
+off to Underwood as soon as breakfast was over the following morning.</p>
+
+<p>It was nearly three years since he had taken his first walk on the same
+errand, but his feelings now were unlike what they had been then. Then
+it was youth’s first romance, vague, sweet, impassioned, and unreal; a
+dream, and like a dream it had been swept away. Now it was no more
+romance, no longer a dream, but a man’s tried and proved affection, and
+the hope for which he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252">{252}</a></span> came to venture, was one which contained a life’s
+happiness. He <i>could</i> live without her; he knew he could; for he had
+lived through months of doubt, and hourly expectation of her loss; but
+he who had felt them, knew what those hours had been, and knew what the
+future would he. He had cast his earthly hopes of joy upon her, and he
+felt as those feel who have cast that die.</p>
+
+<p>At first rapid to prevent thought; then slow and steady to weigh again
+all he had to say; so his steps came to Underwood, and he found himself
+in Mr. Gresham’s study.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham was writing, but he politely left his letter, welcomed
+Everard with formal kindness, and begged him to be seated.</p>
+
+<p>Without attending to the latter request, Everard said hurriedly, “I
+suppose, Mr. Gresham, you can guess why I am here.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253">{253}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“In this point,” he replied gravely, “you do but justice to my
+intellect. I confess, that I surmise what the purport of your visit is.
+In some other points, I confess my intellect is at fault. Be so good,
+Mr. Vavasour, as to be seated. We may have much to say,” and he waved
+his hand to a chair.</p>
+
+<p>Everard saw he must be patient, and he sat down and said, “What is it
+you do not understand, Mr. Gresham? Let me explain it. It is my wish and
+duty to be perfectly open with you.”</p>
+
+<p>“To say the truth, Mr. Vavasour, your conduct is an enigma to me. For
+what purpose deceive the world, and mislead the judgments of men, with a
+false assumption of position....”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh! Mr. Gresham,” Everard said coloring deeply, and interrupting him
+eagerly, “are you not unjust? Can you say that I assumed? Dare you say
+that I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254">{254}</a></span> misled. Consider all that passed between us. My own conscience
+acquits me. Surely <i>you</i> at least must acquit me also.”</p>
+
+<p>“Certainly, I allow that on one occasion you, as it now appears, very
+properly rejected my overtures. But why assume? for what purpose thus
+deceive the world? Who could have imagined a course of conduct so
+strange as yours? You must allow that towards <i>me</i> at least, the
+assumption was most unjust.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, Mr. Gresham, I do not allow it. I never for one instant presumed on
+the false position in which I stood, to ask your favor. Unjust to <i>one</i>,
+to one only I have been; and her pardon I come now to seek.”</p>
+
+<p>“You never intended then to accept in reality your father’s will. Am I
+to understand you so, Mr. Vavasour? Allow me to say, I think the
+subterfuge unworthy a gentleman of ancient family, and whose character
+stands high in the eyes of the world.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255">{255}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“I did accept it,” Everard said seriously, “and had it been necessary, I
+would have accepted it for ever. Had my brother continued those evil
+courses which drew down my father’s displeasure, I would, I cannot tell
+even now whether rightly or wrongly, have accepted altogether the
+position he assigned me; but I trusted Robert, I knew he would be won
+back, and I waited. I resolved from the first, that in two years I would
+consider the point again; and I endeavoured to bear those two years of
+trial as best I could. My own conscience acquits me of any dishonest
+subterfuge. I wish that you could acquit me also.”</p>
+
+<p>“A man, my dear sir, a man with the feelings of a gentleman is not
+willing to be deceived. I was deceived, I confess; and had it not been
+for your honorable conduct, I might have become involved in engagements
+highly prejudicial to my interests. Of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256">{256}</a></span> intention to deceive, I
+acquit you, but the fact remains the same.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am sincerely sorry to have given you annoyance. I did my best to
+prevent it. But now, Mr. Gresham, will you let me come to that request
+which brought me here to day. I came once before, I am come again to ask
+the hand of your daughter. It is no idle fancy now. For three years my
+thoughts have never wandered from her.”</p>
+
+<p>“You must allow me to ask in return, my dear Mr. Vavasour, what you can
+offer befitting my daughter’s acceptance. Such questions even between
+gentlemen are necessary.” He spoke with a calm composure, into the
+meaning of which Everard could not penetrate.</p>
+
+<p>“Very little, Mr. Gresham,” he said coloring. “I assure you none can
+know better or feel more than I do, how very little likely it is you
+should choose me for a son-in-law.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257">{257}</a></span> Nevertheless, I persist in my
+request. Trust her to me, and so far as man is concerned, she shall be
+happy; and that is the best thing.”</p>
+
+<p>“My dear sir, allow me to remind you that we are engaged on a matter of
+business. Tell me frankly what you can offer.”</p>
+
+<p>“I think I may say £500 a year. No more at present; but Mr. Gresham, it
+shall be more. I am going back to my own profession, and these years
+have not been years of idleness; I have never, even for one day ceased
+to study for the law; when the day was not long enough I took the night;
+and I think I am fitted to get on. I feel that I have the knowledge, and
+the power; and with hope, and an object before me, I think I shall
+succeed.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ahem! Let me now request you, Mr. Vavasour, to listen to me; for I too
+have something of importance to communicate.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258">{258}</a></span> Let me beg of you to give
+me your attention.” He rose from his seat, and stood majestically on the
+hearthrug; summoning to his brows an expression of weighty thought. He
+then began an essay. The gifts of Providence, and man’s responsibility
+coming in for their usual share of discussion. He proceeded next to the
+shortsightedness of man, and the necessity of submission to
+disappointment in his most cherished schemes; then to the beauty of that
+energy, which could form&mdash;unsoured by failure&mdash;new schemes.</p>
+
+<p>The usual intense interest to know what would be the end of all,
+supported Everard through the disquisition with unflagging attention.
+When the general foundation was laid, Mr. Gresham then again said,
+“Ahem, let me request your particular attention,” and proceeded.</p>
+
+<p>“It is now some months since I observed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259">{259}</a></span> to my daughter, that it was
+time for us to renounce our first intentions; that I perceived no signs
+in your behaviour of a desire to ally yourself with our house. I begged
+her to banish the subject from her mind, and to prepare herself to
+submit to any future scheme I might form. To this proposal she declined
+to acquiesce. With all due delicacy, I may under present circumstances
+inform you, that she expressed so full a trust in your attachment, as
+made her unable or unwilling to enter on further engagements at present.
+Her confidence was so assured that it animated me, and I again suffered
+myself to indulge in the hope of attaining my first desire. For several
+months past this confidence has, however, been on the decline, and a new
+object of ambition has presented itself to my mind. This has been buried
+in my own breast, for with the patience that becomes those who indulge<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260">{260}</a></span>
+in lofty dreams, I determined to return here unfettered, and to await
+your pleasure. On my return, I heard it idly rumoured that you were
+about to celebrate the birth of your brother’s son; such unnecessary
+honor offended me, and my mind became the more resolved on my new
+design. But I waited, Mr. Vavasour. I would not do you injustice, and I
+waited until I could discover your intentions from your own lips. You
+know the rest. I now know all, and I consider myself free. I believe I
+may say, no man has ever with more patience and generosity wished and
+waited to bestow his favors on the unthankful, than I have done. The
+time is now passed.” He drew himself up with a majesty impossible to
+pourtray.</p>
+
+<p>“Not unthankful,” Everard said warmly. “My dear Mr. Gresham, not
+unthankful. I have always felt the generous nature of your designs. But
+there was one gift you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261">{261}</a></span> had to give so far beyond the others; there was
+no power to care for any but that.” He paused a moment, and as Mr.
+Gresham did not proceed, he asked with a steady voice but beating heart,
+“May I enquire? Do your new designs relate to the other gifts, or to
+Miss Gresham?”</p>
+
+<p>“They relate, my dear Mr. Vavasour, to myself. I have determined to have
+a son.”</p>
+
+<p>With a great effort Everard restrained a smile at this conclusion to his
+suspense; but the solemn gaze that was fastened upon him forced him to
+be grave also, and he calmly and cordially said, “I am very glad to hear
+it.”</p>
+
+<p>“You understand, therefore, that my daughter is no longer my heiress.”</p>
+
+<p>“If she does not object,&mdash;if she will consent to poverty with me, no
+piece of news ever made me happier in my life. Her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262">{262}</a></span> riches I ever felt a
+burden too great for me to bear.”</p>
+
+<p>“As to poverty, Mr. Vavasour, I trust I shall allow no child of mine to
+suffer poverty. A proper arrangement can doubtless be made. Am I to
+understand, therefore, that after this disclosure, you persist in
+addressing her?”</p>
+
+<p>“May I see her?” was Everard’s reply. “Have I indeed, your consent at
+last?”</p>
+
+<p>“Extremely singular, Mr. Vavasour. I consider the case extremely
+singular. Certainly if your attachment is so entirely disinterested, I
+can offer no further objection. The rest is in my daughter’s hands.
+After speaking to her for a few moments, I will bring her to you to give
+her answer for herself. I wish you success.”</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Gresham entered the drawing-room where his daughter was sitting with
+Miss Price.</p>
+
+<p>He closed the door with an air of impor<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263">{263}</a></span>tance, and approaching her,
+kissed her brow with paternal dignity.</p>
+
+<p>Surprised at his manner, Angela hastily rose from her chair.</p>
+
+<p>“Be seated for a moment, my love. I require your attention for a few
+seconds. Mr. Everard Vavasour is in my study; on an errand, perhaps, not
+wholly unexpected by you.”</p>
+
+<p>Not unexpected; yet Angela became very pale, and looked with an intent
+and speaking gaze, in her father’s face.</p>
+
+<p>“My love,” he said kindly, “I will not keep you in suspense. I have told
+Mr. Vavasour that he shall receive his answer from yourself. But before
+your decision is formed, I am anxious to communicate to you a
+circumstance which possibly may influence your choice.” He made a pause,
+then gravely added, “I am about to take a wife to myself.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264">{264}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“Adelaide Vansittart!” Angela exclaimed, somewhat startled, yet when the
+announcement was made, feeling as if she had known it for years.</p>
+
+<p>“As my request for the honor of her hand has not yet been despatched, my
+love, your delicacy will perceive, that it is not for me, whatever my
+hopes may be, to speak further upon this subject, at present; but I will
+not conceal from you that she is the object of my choice.”</p>
+
+<p>“My dear Papa, I am very glad,” Angela said, rising and kissing him with
+tears, she hardly knew of what meaning, in her eyes. “I hope she will
+make you happier than I have done.”</p>
+
+<p>“Enough, my love, enough on that subject&mdash;but allow me to point out to
+you, that such being the case, it is possible, it is indeed most
+probable that you will not be my heiress.”</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265">{265}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>“I never wished it,” she cried eagerly, “if Mr. Vavasour does not mind,
+I am too happy.”</p>
+
+<p>“A singular case certainly,” observed Mr. Gresham, contemplating her
+like a curiosity. “Two very remarkable young people. Well, then, my
+love, there is no need to delay. Be so good as to prepare yourself to
+follow me to my study, where you will find Mr. Vavasour awaiting you.”</p>
+
+<p>She did follow him after throwing her arms in trembling excitement round
+her aunt’s neck, and together they re-entered the study. Again, Mr.
+Gresham closed the door, and as on a former occasion intruded his
+presence on the interview; but this time both were too happy and too
+grateful to feel anger, and both silently waited what further he had to
+say. Angela with downcast eyes and a crimson cheek&mdash;Everard with <i>his</i>
+gaze fixed upon her.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266">{266}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>After closing the door, Mr. Gresham took his daughter’s hand, and led
+her up to Everard; he then spoke a few words on matrimony, the duties of
+fathers in disposing of their children, his own duty in particular, and
+his hope that the duty was now fulfilled.</p>
+
+<p>His voice became slightly agitated as he spoke, and still more so when
+at last he put her hand into Everard’s, with these words. “To you, Mr.
+Vavasour, my cares being over, I now consign my child, and from what I
+have learned of your character, it is my hope that I have no need to
+enjoin you to love and cherish her.”</p>
+
+<p>“No need,” Everard replied, in a low voice. “With God’s blessing she
+<i>shall</i> be happy.”</p>
+
+<p>“To you, my love,” he continued, “I have only to observe that a wife’s
+best happiness is in submission to her husband;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267">{267}</a></span> and I think, and in
+fact am assured, that the character of him whom you have chosen will
+enable you to submit without regret.”</p>
+
+<p>Tearful, but smiling, Angela raised her eyes to Everard’s face, and met
+that stedfast gaze of love and truth bent down upon her, which seemed to
+say, as it had ever said, that she had indeed built her house upon a
+rock. The storms of this world’s sorrows might assail them, death might
+part, but there was that foundation in their love which nothing could
+wash away.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268">{268}</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></h2>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But though the pleasures of the day were past,&mdash;<br></span>
+<span class="i0">For lively pleasures are not formed to last,&mdash;<br></span>
+<span class="i0">And though less vivid they became, less strong,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Through life they lived and were enjoyed as long;<br></span>
+<span class="i0">So deep the impression of that happy day,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor time, nor cares, could wear it all away.<br></span>
+<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Crabbe.</span><br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">A supplementary</span> chapter is rarely an interesting one. Interest lies less
+in broad facts than in details, and a narrative of dry facts is as
+unsubstantial and uninvigorating a repast as a dinner of dry<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269">{269}</a></span> bones.
+Some few words, however, may be needful here.</p>
+
+<p>The result for which Adelaide Vansittart had been toiling for several
+years (to do her justice, without any hope or wish of displacing Angela)
+was attained, and she became Mr. Gresham’s wife, enjoying to the
+uttermost that lavish wealth, and that “position,” which she had so long
+contemplated with envy. The attainment of their wishes is, however,
+sometimes, and to some characters, a benefit, and in the sun of
+satisfaction faults die away and virtues appear. So it was with her. She
+became less worldly, less frivolous, and less selfish; was pleased to do
+good, and if a fine lady, was a very estimable one. There was, indeed,
+in both hers and Mr. Gresham’s hearts, a certain hollowness and
+shallowness which could not perfectly be overcome; but even this
+suffered some change<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270">{270}</a></span> by and through the birth of a son, and through the
+anxieties of the very sincere affection they gave to him.</p>
+
+<p>Upon the whole, Mr. Gresham’s choice was good, and his marriage a happy
+one. If his wife did not actually love him she was very contented with
+him, consulted him on all points, and governed him absolutely.</p>
+
+<p>A happiness of another kind was that which reigned at Audley Court. To
+say that Robert never gave his wife a moment’s uneasiness, would be to
+say what human nature scarcely warrants, for there was that weakness and
+indolence in his disposition, which could not fail at times to be weary
+in well doing. There were, after his life became more free and
+unfettered, occasional returns of his old restlessness; there were days
+on which Hope felt a secret vague misgiving that all was not well, that
+longings for a more lawless life assailed him;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271">{271}</a></span> but these were but
+passing clouds; perhaps to her loving eyes merciful clouds, lest she,
+even she, clinging too closely to the joys of this world, should lose
+the clearness of her gaze above. Robert was sincerely bent to do well,
+and sincerely humble in his distrust of himself, and sincerity and
+humility are man’s best guardian angels. With them he cannot wander far,
+or, if he wander, cannot fail to be brought back. So far from shrinking
+from advice or warning, he again and again implored Mr. Addison to watch
+over him; begging him even though he might at the time resent it, never
+to fail to speak, if he saw in him anything unworthy of his father’s
+heir and Everard’s brother.</p>
+
+<p>Between the two brothers unchanging confidence and affection subsisted.
+If Everard had once been neglected, if but a tranquil love was his
+portion, that time<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272">{272}</a></span> was for ever past. He had assumed, he had been
+forced to assume, his father’s place, and though the place had been left
+for ever, the reverend love he had won in it remained. If Everard spoke
+his words were law; if Everard came it was a gala day. Far more than he
+had ever hoped for, or desired, was poured overflowing, without measure,
+into his bosom, and he was happy.</p>
+
+<p>Happy, not elated; unconscious, unpresuming; stedfast himself, pitiful
+to others; strong, but not in his own strength; guided by the memory of
+his father dead, and the will of his Father above.</p>
+
+<p>Of his and Angela’s married life, one trifling circumstance only shall
+be recorded, and this not because an uncommon or an unexpected one, but
+simply as one of those every day instances, of how little youth and
+inexperience knows of its tastes and requirements.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273">{273}</a></span></p>
+
+<p>They began life on £2,000 a year, a sum amply sufficient for every
+comfort, and most luxuries, but a sum needing management, and certainly
+far removed from Mr. Gresham’s lavish wealth. Out of this income £200 a
+year was allotted to Angela. When her father mentioned the fact to her,
+she remonstrated against the sum as excessive, assuring him her tastes
+were very simple, and her needs few. He replied that it was befitting
+her position, and refused to attend to her request that an alteration
+should be made.</p>
+
+<p>Six months after her marriage, having been supplied in her trousseau
+with everything woman could desire, Everard one day observed to her that
+he thought she had a few bills, and it would be as well to collect them.
+She readily acquiesced, though at the same time she assured him they
+only amounted to a few pounds. The bills were<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274">{274}</a></span> collected, and the few
+pounds, when added together, amounted to something only a little less
+than her year’s income.</p>
+
+<p>With a countenance expressive of the utmost horror and dismay, Angela
+carried the sum total to her husband. He smiled, and furnished her with
+the money required without reproach or remonstrance, or, indeed, without
+much appearance of surprise.</p>
+
+<p>This was in March. In the Christmas following the bills had no need to
+be collected. They came in of themselves, and in considerable numbers.
+During the nine past months Angela had practised what she called rigid
+economy; nevertheless, when the accounts were made up, they stood to her
+income in nearly the same proportion as before.</p>
+
+<p>With a countenance of still greater dismay, and yet without much
+trepidation, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275">{275}</a></span> total was again carried to Everard; but this time the
+effect of her communication was different. Far from smiling, his
+countenance was grave and sad.</p>
+
+<p>“You are angry,” she cried, in sudden terror, for such a cloud had not
+shadowed his face since their marriage.</p>
+
+<p>“Angry, dearest,” he said, distressed at the word, “oh no, very far from
+angry; only fearful that I was wrong in allowing you to sacrifice so
+much as you did for me when you married me.”</p>
+
+<p>“You never shall say that again,” she said, with tears of passionate
+regret.</p>
+
+<p>And he never did. There was no need.</p>
+
+<p>Her life, her joy, seemed to hang upon his approving look. When she saw
+a shadow on his brow, she knew she had not done well, and she was not
+happy.</p>
+
+<p>Happy surely are those who have chosen for their earthly guardians,
+spirits tried, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276">{276}</a></span> stedfast and strong. Happy. And yet for them life’s
+trials are but begun. It is not moroseness, it is but wisdom to feel
+that for such, even in their very safety and happiness, the world has
+fierce temptations in store; not the snares of earthly vanity, but the
+more subtle snare of earthly idolatry.</p>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whatever passes as a cloud between<br></span>
+<span class="i0">The mental eye of faith and things unseen,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Causing that brighter world to disappear<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Or seem less lovely, and its hope less dear,<br></span>
+<span class="i0">This is our world, our idol; though it bear<br></span>
+<span class="i0">Affection’s impress, or devotion’s air.<br></span>
+</div></div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="fint">THE END.<br><br>
+<small>London, Godfrey &amp; Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand.</small></p>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<img src="images/i_advert.png"
+width="250"
+height="85"
+alt="Under the Especial Patronage of">
+</p>
+
+<p class="c">HER MAJESTY &amp; H.R.H. THE PRINCE CONSORT.</p>
+
+<p class="c">NOW READY, IN ONE VOLUME, ROYAL 8vo.,</p>
+
+<p class="c">WITH THE ARMS BEAUTIFULLY ENGRAVED,</p>
+
+<p class="c"><i>Handsomely Bound, with Gilt Edges</i>,</p>
+
+<p class="c">LODGE’S PEERAGE</p>
+
+<p class="c">AND</p>
+
+<p class="c">BARONETAGE,</p>
+
+<p class="c">For 1858.</p>
+
+<p class="c">ARRANGED AND PRINTED FROM</p>
+
+<p class="c">THE PERSONAL COMMUNICATIONS OF THE NOBILITY,</p>
+
+<p class="c">AND CORRECTED THROUGHOUT TO THE PRESENT TIME.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Lodge’s Peerage and Baronetage</span> is acknowledged to be the most complete,
+as well as the most elegant, work of the kind that has ever appeared. As
+an established and authentic authority on all questions respecting the
+family histories, honours, and connexions of the titled aristocracy, no
+work has ever stood so high. It is published under the especial
+patronage of Her Majesty, and His Royal Highness the Prince Consort, and
+is annually corrected throughout, from the personal communications of
+the Nobility. It is the only work of its class in which, <i>the type being
+kept constantly standing</i>, every correction is made in its proper place
+to the date of publication, an advantage which gives it supremacy over
+all its competitors. Independently of its full and authentic information
+respecting the existing Peers and Baronets of the realm, the most
+sedulous attention is given in its pages to the collateral branches of
+the various noble families, and the names of many thousand individuals
+are introduced, which do not appear in other records of the titled
+classes. Nothing can exceed the facility of its arrangements, or the
+beauty of its typography and binding, and for its authority, correctness
+and embellishments, the work is justly entitled to the high place it
+occupies on the tables of Her Majesty and the Nobility.</p>
+
+<p class="c">LODGE’S PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE</p>
+
+<p class="c">LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquott">
+
+<p>Historical View of the Peerage.</p>
+
+<p>Parliamentary Roll of the House of Lords.</p>
+
+<p>English, Scotch, and Irish Peers, in their orders of Precedence.</p>
+
+<p>Alphabetical List of Peers of Great Britain and the United Kingdom,
+holding superior rank in the Scotch or Irish Peerage.</p>
+
+<p>Alphabetical List of Scotch and Irish Peers, holding superior
+titles in the Peerage of Great Britain and the United Kingdom.</p>
+
+<p>A Collective List of Peers, in their order of Precedence.</p>
+
+<p>Table of Precedency among Men.</p>
+
+<p>Table of Precedency among Women.</p>
+
+<p>The Queen and Royal Family.</p>
+
+<p>The House of Saxe Coburg-Gotha.</p>
+
+<p>Peers of the Blood Royal.</p>
+
+<p>The Peerage, alphabetically arranged.</p>
+
+<p>Families of such Extinct Peers as have left Widows or Issue.</p>
+
+<p>Alphabetical List of the Surnames of all the Peers.</p>
+
+<p>Account of the Archbishops and Bishops of England, Ireland, and the
+Colonies.</p>
+
+<p>The Baronetage, alphabetically arranged.</p>
+
+<p>Alphabetical List of Surnames assumed by members of Noble Families.</p>
+
+<p>Alphabetical List of the Second Titles of Peers, usually borne by
+their Eldest Sons.</p>
+
+<p>Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Dukes, Marquises, and Earls,
+who, having married Commoners, retain the title of Lady before
+their own Christian and their Husbands’ Surnames.</p>
+
+<p>Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Viscounts and Barons, who,
+having married Commoners, are styled Honourable Mrs; and, in case
+of the husband being a Baronet or Knight, Honourable Lady.</p>
+
+<p>Mottoes alphabetically arranged and translated.</p></div>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p>“A work which corrects all errors of former works. It is the production
+of a herald, we had almost said, by birth, but certainly, by profession
+and studies, Mr. Lodge, the Norroy King of Arms. It is a most useful
+publication.”&mdash;<i>Times.</i></p>
+
+<p>“Lodge’s Peerage must supersede all other works of the kind, for two
+reasons; first, it is on a better plan; and, secondly, it is better
+executed. We can safely pronounce it to be the readiest, the most
+useful, and exactest of modern works on the subject.”&mdash;<i>Spectator.</i></p>
+
+<p>“This work derives great value from the high authority of Mr. Lodge. The
+plan is excellent.”&mdash;<i>Literary Gazette.</i></p>
+
+<p>“This work should form a portion of every gentleman’s library. At all
+times, the information which it contains, derived from official sources
+exclusively at the command of the author, is of importance to most
+classes of the community; to the antiquary it must be invaluable, for
+implicit reliance may be placed on its contents.”&mdash;<i>Globe.</i></p>
+
+<p>“The production of Edmund Lodge, Esq., Norroy King of Arms, whose
+splendid Biography of Illustrious Personages stands an unrivalled
+specimen of historical literature, and magnificent illustration. Of Mr.
+Lodge’s talent for the task he has undertaken, we need only appeal to
+his former productions. It contains the exact state of the Peerage as it
+now exists, with all the Collateral Branches, their Children, with all
+the Marriages of the different individuals connected with each
+family.”&mdash;<i>John Bull.</i></p>
+
+<p class="fint">
+HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,<br>
+SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,<br>
+13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET, LONDON.<br>
+TO BE HAD OF ALL BOOKSELLERS THROUGHOUT THE KINGDOM.<br>
+</p>
+
+<hr class="full">
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79390 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
diff --git a/79390-h/images/cover.jpg b/79390-h/images/cover.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ec0c8fc
--- /dev/null
+++ b/79390-h/images/cover.jpg
diff --git a/79390-h/images/i_advert.jpg b/79390-h/images/i_advert.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f186182
--- /dev/null
+++ b/79390-h/images/i_advert.jpg
diff --git a/79390-h/images/i_advert.png b/79390-h/images/i_advert.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..8a0a9af
--- /dev/null
+++ b/79390-h/images/i_advert.png
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. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..3567bf4
--- /dev/null
+++ b/README.md
@@ -0,0 +1 @@
+[Project Gutenberg](https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook [#79390](https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79390)