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.