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.