What will your kindred think?
ELIZ. What they will think?
What pleases them.
_The Saint’s Tragedy._
Angela Gresham arrived on the appointed day, but not quite in her own
person. When she had thrown off a cloak and bonnet, she came and stood,
with mirth dancing in her eye, by the side of her aunt’s couch.
The placid aunt looked at her with a gaze of fear and wonder, and gasped
out “My love!”
“How do you like me?” enquired Angela, kneeling down by her sofa, and
laughing at the amazed countenance.
“My dear child, what have you done to yourself?”
“This gown I am to give to a kitchen-maid, who is going to be married;
and my cap is for somebody else. I brought them to shew you.” Her gown
was of some dark material, very plainly made; and her luxuriant curls
were braided back beneath a neat cap of plain net, tied under her chin.
The disguise of her dress was complete, yet it was by no means a
disfigurement. The bright intelligence, and lovely colouring, were
perhaps the more striking under the simple attire.
“Oh! my love, but why is this?” with a groan.
“I will tell you, Aunt Jane, if you can listen to a story. There is a
poor young lady in London, who is very rich; twenty times a day, she is
told how rich she is. Everybody who comes near her knows she is rich,
and this poor young lady never can tell whether she is liked for
herself, or for her riches. Is not that a hard fate?”
“It is, my love,” replied Miss Price, with a gleam of intelligence, “but
she may be sure--”
“No, she cannot be sure; she is, on the contrary, very much afraid that
all the flattery she receives is given to her riches; and for once she
wishes to know what would be her fate, if she were poor. So I am come to
see your stranger in this dress. Do you mind?”
“I am almost afraid, my love, I do.”
“Then I am almost afraid I must do it whether you mind or not. So, dear
Aunt Jane”--and she kissed her, “it will be no use for you to say any
more.”
“If it were not a disguise, my love, I should not mind, but disguises
are dangerous things. I have often read of them: they are dangerous
things.”
“But this is no disguise. I am your niece, and if I lived with you, this
is the way in which I should dress; and, indeed, if I had my will, I
should dress in this way at all times. I am sick of ornaments. You see
there is no harm.”
“Your father, my love! I am afraid....”
“Oh! never mind that. What I am doing, I guess, will please Papa very
well.--He ... but there is a knock--now dear Aunt Jane, only remember
that you must not say who I am, nor call me by any name.”
“I never do, my love. There is no fear.”
Angela seized the hateful cat out of her aunt’s reluctant fingers, and
seated herself at a distance to work; but was scarcely seated before
disgust at the monstrosity of the sandy cat on an olive-green ground
made her jump up and restore it. A letter was then seized, which she
tore up into strips for matches, as a means of employing her fingers.
The small maid of the house opened the door, and announced “the
gentleman.” It seemed to be the fashion of the establishment to suppress
names in general.
Everard Vavasour entered the room, but paused at the door in some
annoyance. His kindness to Miss Price had been in simple obedience to a
kindly nature. Her apparently desolate position, though common enough,
had touched one unaccustomed to such phases of life. For Everard was by
no means adventurous in charity. Perhaps, to say the truth, his mind
over-engrossed with one sphere of duty--the withstanding the baits of
idleness and pleasure--was in some danger of becoming narrowed and
self-contracted. Be this as it may, he had no taste for adventures, and
felt annoyed and embarrassed at the sight of a visitor in the room.
After a second’s pause, however, he came forward without looking to the
right or the left, sat down in the chair Miss Price had ordered to be
placed for him, and enquired after her health.
She gave a favourable account, and then with gentleness and gratitude,
thanked him for his kindness past and present.
He cut her short with a quick “I assure you I am glad to come,” and
then, like one not quite at ease, began to descant upon the weather.
When this came to an end, Miss Price said, “My niece;--will you allow me
to introduce my niece?”
Angela blushed and bowed; and unable to restrain her smiles, cast down
her eyes, and tore up her paper into fragments.
Everard looked at her for the first time; and with a gaze of surprise
mingled with admiration. “Miss Price’s niece!” In that insipid faded
room, her freshness and brightness were singularly striking.
Still more embarrassed, however, at the introduction, and uncertain
whether it would be proper to address her or not, his conversation came
to a pause. Retired and studious habits prevent the acquisition of an
easy flow of discourse, and when there was nothing tangible to be said,
Everard was often in the awkward predicament of having nothing he could
say. On such occasions to pause and consider is fatal.
Miss Price relieved his embarrassment. “Those dreadful riots,” she said,
with placid interest, “I have thought of them so much; are they quite at
an end?”
“Yes, quite. When soldiers appear, a mob is soon brought to its senses,
or at least,” he added smiling, “to good behaviour.”
“You have nothing more I fear to tell.”
“I think,” he replied, colouring slightly, “you do not want my
services.”
“My niece, I am sure, will be happy to hear you. I beg your pardon; I
fear I am too troublesome, but it was a great treat.”
Everard hesitated, and while he hesitated, Angela raised her eyes, and
said, “Your reading was a great pleasure to my aunt. I hope you will not
deprive her of it, because I am here.” She spoke with an ease and grace
that astonished him beyond measure.
He acquiesced in the request; and though much inclined to laugh at the
novelty of his position, pulled a newspaper from his pocket. It had been
placed there for Miss Price’s special entertainment.
The account he read was of a fire in some country town, and several acts
of extraordinary heroism were related. He read with considerable spirit;
a kind of reading likely to strike the inert senses of one like Miss
Price. She listened with body and mind; and though her needle fell to
the ground, forebore to mention the fact.
Angela listened, too, until she forgot herself; fixing her sparkling,
speaking eyes on the reader. So fixed, Everard once surprised them; and
colouring, he knew not why, continued to read with a strange sensation.
When he had finished she burst out, “It does me good to hear of such
things; it proves that _all_ the world are not given up to selfishness.”
“Were you afraid that such was the case?” Everard asked, smiling and
amused.
“Sometimes I am.”
“I should be sorry to think so,” he said, and paused, hoping she would
speak again.
But Angela was now alarmed at her boldness, and twisting and untwisting
her matches, occupied herself in silence.
Everard withdrew his eyes, and listened for a few minutes to Miss
Price’s insipid remarks; but meanwhile his countenance gathered into
thought. He was thinking deeply. Something within him was warning him,
that this acquaintance had better be prosecuted no farther; the
curiosity, the pleasure he felt, were in themselves warnings; it
required little forethought to point out difficulties and dangers that
might ensue. Yet, on the other hand, there was the tempting plea of
kindness and charity to invite him on.
The strong integrity of his character brought him to a rapid decision,
and as soon as it was made, he put himself out of temptation by acting
upon it.
“I am very glad,” he said, suddenly rising and holding out his hand to
Miss Price, “to see you so much recovered; and I hope,” he added
smiling, “you will never need such service as mine again.”
“You are very kind, but,” and she held fast the hand he had given--“I
fear by the way you speak, this is your last visit--I know I should not
expect.... I beg your pardon I hardly know what I meant to say.”
“I shall not be able to call again at present, but I shall do so some
day; and when I do I hope I shall find you quite well. Good-bye.”
He stood for a moment doubtful, then went a few steps towards Angela,
and held out his hand. In his moment’s doubting he had decided that the
civility was uncalled for; but he instantly acted in opposition to his
decision.
If uncalled for, it was unexpected, and Angela blushed deeply as she
gave her hand, Everard could not but observe that she did, and again
with a strange sensation owned the impression that her beauty made.
“I think I am well out of this,” was his thought as he left the house,
but the “well out,” was most reluctantly accomplished.
A silence followed his departure. Angela sat grave and thoughtful, and
yet satisfied. Occupied with certain reflections of her own she did not
for a few minutes observe her aunt. When she did so she saw her wiping
away a few tears from her cheeks.
“My dearest Aunt Jane,” she said, going hastily towards her, “what is
the matter?”
“Nothing, my love, nothing of consequence. I felt a little disappointed
for a moment, but it is over now. I know I expected too much. I thought
I had got a new friend. Of course I was wrong. We ought not to presume.”
“Oh! Aunt Jane, Aunt Jane, what a brute I am. All this comes of my
selfishness. He will not come again because I am here. I am the cause of
your loss!”
“And if you are, my love, is it not my great happiness that it should be
so. Is a stranger like my own niece?”
“I almost wish that this visit had never been paid, and yet....” and she
blushed and smiled.
“Don’t wish it, my love, on my account. It is over now, and I am quite
thankful for the pleasure I have had, and some day may, perhaps, have
again.”
“I hope you will. Oh! Aunt Jane,” she said, suddenly, “don’t you
sometimes wish you could pull down with your own fingers the great
curtain that hangs before time and see what is behind it?”
“No, my love,” replied her Aunt, with simple philosophy, “trials come
soon enough, and blessings are better when they come and surprise us.”
“I am not sure, but no matter. Now good-bye. Did I tell you that Papa
has given me leave to come once or twice a week while you are ill. Will
that do as well as your stranger friend?”
“Oh! my love, every body is too kind to me, and I don’t know how to be
thankful enough.”
“Poor thing!” was the reflection of the niece full of life and hope,
clothed with health and wealth, and beauty, as she drove to her
luxurious home. “What a life to have to be thankful for; and yet I
_cannot_ be thankful for mine!”