There stood a maiden near
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair
In gloss and hue the chestnut....
Then, wondering, asked her, “Are you from the Farm?”
TENNYSON--_The Brook._
In the garden of Audley Court, Robert Vavasour and Mr. Addison, (the
clergyman of the parish) awaited the coming of Hope and Everard. It was
an afternoon early in September.
Mr. Addison was about fifty, a grave and quiet man. Like his namesake,
the _Spectator_, he had been distinguished all his life by a “profound
silence;” but his silence had nothing repelling; it was, on the
contrary, an inviting silence, giving him admirable qualities as a
listener and adviser. Observant, kindly, serious, and thoughtful, he
made his way along his path of life--dropping as he could, and where he
could, his words of sympathy, warning, or wisdom. “That man has a
history,” many said who watched his serious eyes, and slight, grave
smile; but it was not so; that is, not according to the meaning of the
phrase. His history was but the history of man in general. Some early
hopes; some early wanderings; some disappointments; some pleasures; some
deeper joys and sorrows scattered here and there; through these he had
worked out experience in man’s nature; wisdom to warn and soothe;
patience with this world; and hope for a better.
He was seated now on a bit of terrace wall; observant as usual. His eyes
were on Robert, and there was interest in their gaze. He watched his
movements as he restlessly wandered to and fro. He was going from bed
to bed, from bush to bush, gathering flowers, at random, as it seemed,
yet evidently guided by some taste or fancy. He picked a bunch of the
prettiest the garden afforded; then paused; and after some examination
of the bunch, selected two. These he placed with care in his
button-hole; the rest in all their freshness and beauty were cast away,
some trampled under his foot.
“So will the good dispositions of his heart be thoughtlessly thrown
away.” Thus Mr. Addison silently mused, and there was a sigh in his
heart, though it made no sound. For he only, undazzled by the force and
charm of his penitence, saw the old nature, the old lack of principle,
apparent as ever within.
Robert now came towards him, swinging his cane and switching the bushes
as he walked along. His air was more thoughtful than usual; and once or
twice he looked at his chosen flowers with a kind of softness in his
gaze. Mr. Addison’s eyes fell on them also, and a thought, no new one,
passed through his mind. Why had his choice been made? The flowers were
a white carnation, without spot or stain, and a white rose with the
faintest and softest blush in the centre. Was there something in his
nature to which the purity of those flowers appealed? Were they emblems
of another love struggling with his worser qualities?
“Are you tired of waiting, Mr. Addison?” Robert said.
“No, where are the others?”
“My father called Hope to write a letter, and Everard is at his
toilette. He fell into a ditch when he was shooting, and did not think
himself smart enough for our company.”
“Were you not shooting, Robert?”
“Not to day. What do you think I have been doing to day?”
“I cannot guess.”
“Drawing a saint,” he said, with a slight flush on his cheek, “that is,
taking Hope’s picture.”
“And have you succeeded?”
“No! how should I?” he replied, in a peculiar tone, “I have not the
key.”
A silence succeeded; both remained thoughtful. Robert disturbed the
stones in the gravel-walk, dug them up, and trampled them in again. At
length he said, “I liked your sermon yesterday, Mr. Addison.”
“Did you listen to it, Robert?” Mr. Addison said, seriously; “that is
not usual, is it?”
“No, it is not; that I confess. I listened for a reason. That bit at the
beginning took my fancy; that picture of charity. It was a quaint bit,
and I thought like Hope. Did you think of her when you wrote it?”
“It was not mine--it was from Jeremy Taylor.”
“Did you think of her?” he repeated.
“No, but it is like her, as all pictures of heavenly charity must be.”
“People talk of the impossibility of perfection,” Robert began with some
vehemence, “but they talk stuff, or they have not seen Hope. Whoever of
us is so happy as to reach the kingdom of Heaven will find nothing there
in body or spirit more perfect than her.”
“I almost feel as you do, Robert. Do you like the picture of what we may
find there?”
Robert coloured a little, then with unwonted seriousness, though with
excitement, replied, “Is it not strange Mr. Addison, that those who see
virtue in a form so lovely, that they are compelled to worship and
adore; yet cannot yield to its influence, nor follow it.”
“It shows at least, dear Robert,” said his companion, with a grave
tenderness in his voice, “that the mind is heaven, though the flesh may
yet be earth. The day will come when both together will worship.”
“You think better of me than I deserve,” Robert said, with some passion.
“I admire, but I do not know that I even wish to imitate.”
“Cherish, then, the admiration as the best gift of God. To admire good
is to be good, at least in a degree.”
A silence again followed. Robert still pursued his occupation of
disordering and re-adjusting the stones in the walk.
Thought--some internal conflict, was evidently at work within. Mr.
Addison guessed its nature--guessed it still more nearly, when he saw
the light on his countenance when Hope appeared from the house. But he
made no attempt to draw his feelings from him. There was that in his
serious kindness which invited confidence, but he himself had a dread of
confidences reposed before the time.
Hope was followed by Everard. Robert and Mr. Addison went forward to
meet them.
A long walk was in prospect. Its object was to visit Underwood, the
house and property lately purchased by Mr. Gresham.
By the road it was three or four miles from Audley Court, but across the
two parks, which were united and separated by a little wood, a little
stream, and a little bridge, not two. A maid of the house had been
dangerously ill in the preceding week, and Mr. Addison had attended her.
He wished to visit her on her recovery, and many ludicrous reports of
the magnificence of the house and furniture having reached Audley Court,
Robert, a being of universal curiosity, had expressed his intention of
accompanying him.
“Now let us be off,” he said, shaking off his thoughtful mood without
effort; “if Mr. Gresham should chance to be arrived, and we are caught
prowling about, our guilt lies on Mr. Addison’s head. Mr. Addison, are
you prepared to bear it?”
“The housekeeper assured me he was not expected till Wednesday; I think
there is no fear.”
“After all, if we _are_ caught, what does it matter, we can but say ‘I
hope I don’t intrude.’”
“We are the only people who have not seen Underwood,” Everard remarked,
“so at least Stephens says. He went there yesterday, and is in such a
frenzy of admiration, that I confess I am curious. I am sure he expects
Mr. Gresham to arrive in a coach and six.”
“And so he will, I dare say,” said Robert, laughing, “or the Lord
Mayor’s coach if he can get it. He is such a fool.”
“You have never seen his daughter, have you Robert?” enquired Hope.
“No, never. I have only seen Mr. Gresham twice. He invited me to dine
with him, but I thought it would be a bore, and declined. She is very
pretty I hear, and immensely rich I know. It is a fine opportunity for
Everard. I thought of that as soon as ever I heard of her.”
“No thank you; no heiresses for me, I hate them.”
“That’s all nonsense, a bit of Vavasour pride. I have always had a
conviction that you would marry an heiress; I bet you twenty pounds you
do.”
“And I bet you twenty thousand I don’t,” with some unnecessary
vehemence.
“I am too honourable to take it,” Robert replied, amused. “I foresee....
However, upon the whole, I agree with you in hating heiresses. Not
because of what my father tells us about our forefathers, but from a
feeling of my own, which is a better guide than the feelings of my
ancestors. I don’t like a woman with money any better than I like a
clever woman. Talents and money both put them too forward.”
“That is making yourself a lord of the creation indeed,” Everard said,
laughing.
“Lords are better than ladies, are they not, Hope? Women were made for
better things than to be clever.”
Before they reached Underwood, Robert endeavoured to shake the nerves of
his companions, by picturing the awkwardness of their situation, should
the new possessors have already taken possession of their abode.
Mr. Addison again assured him there was no fear; but as it happened,
Robert’s anticipations were realized.
The shady paths of the wood emerged at once into the pleasure-grounds
that skirted the inner garden; and before any precautions could be
taken, Mr. Gresham and his curious visitors came face to face. He was
walking down a broad gravel walk, about a quarter of a mile from the
house, in apparent meditation or contemplation. His hands were joined
under his coat-tails, his nose was uplifted, and an air of serene
rapture sat upon his countenance.
The direction in which his eyes were turned, might have given his guests
an opportunity to draw back unseen; but to escape, Robert had no desire.
He made, indeed, movements and grimaces of consternation, which almost
overset the gravity even of the grave people who accompanied him; but
he stood his ground, and when the eyes came down from their upward
flight, and Mr. Gresham became aware of the presence of strangers, he
went forward with outward courteousness, though inward mirth, to explain
the circumstances of the intrusion.
His reception was overwhelming in its politeness. Mr. Gresham would not
hear of apology. He was happy in, he was grateful for, their coming. The
advantage of associating with individuals bearing the name of Vavasour,
had been his chief inducement in the purchase he had lately made.
Anything that hastened that end was welcome to him. Intrusion was a word
he could not permit; then, and always, he hoped Mr. Vavasour would make
himself at home at Underwood.
With demure gravity Robert thanked him, and then begged to be allowed to
introduce his companions. “This is Mr. Addison,” he said, “the clergyman
of this parish; and though as a clergyman he ought to have known
better, I feel it my duty to say that he was the guilty cause of our
indiscretion to-day.”
“I hope,” said Mr. Gresham, blandly and bowing low, “that I shall profit
by your future instructions as much as I have profited by those given to
my young friend to-day.”
Mr. Addison only bowed. He had nothing to say.
“This,” continued Robert, “is my cousin Hope Linton, and this is my
brother Everard.”
“I look forward, Miss Linton, with satisfaction to the advantage my
daughter will inevitably derive from your society.” This was the speech
that accompanied the bow to Hope--to Everard it was:--“I anticipate
nothing but pleasure from the hope of adding another of the name of
Vavasour to my list of friends.”
Having made his guests duly welcome, he invited them to return with him
to the house. His address was to Robert. Robert was evidently the
object of his idolatry. Robert, however, referred it to Hope; and Mr.
Gresham was then profuse in his apologies for the omission of which he
had been guilty.
Hope’s consent was given in few words.--She had no feeling of her own on
the subject; no shyness, no fear of intrusion. She looked into Robert’s
face, and saw he was desirous to go on, and was content.
Mr. Gresham led the way, attended by Robert and Mr. Addison. Everard and
Hope followed. Mr. Gresham explained, as they walked along, the cause of
his unexpected arrival.
“I was threatened on Saturday with a cold in my head; I have a
particular objection to a cold in my head. My medical adviser
recommended change of air. I left London, therefore, with my daughter,
and slept at a remarkably excellent inn about forty miles from here. And
there,” bowing to Mr. Addison, “I made a point of passing Sunday, and
attending Divine service.”
“I hope your cold is better, Mr. Gresham,” Robert asked.
“A complete cure. There is something very refreshing in the air of the
country. We arrived here this afternoon; and I confess I already feel
satisfaction in my late purchase, and promise myself much pleasure from
my abode here, not the least part of which will be derived from my
acquaintance with you, Mr. Vavasour, and your family.”
Underwood was, as has been already said, the picture of a “country
seat.” It was a square, white, stone house, with two long lower wings.
There was no especial charm about the place, but it was bright and
fresh; and as the garden was full of flowers, and the park was prettily
wooded, it had a certain degree of attraction.
Mr. Gresham evidently admired it exceedingly, and as they entered the
house, observed, _en passant_, that there were four-and-twenty windows
from wing to wing, which he believed was a large number. “How many
windows were there at Audley Court?”
“I never counted,” Robert said, with assumed interest, “but I will as
soon as ever I go home. I am sure, however, there are not
four-and-twenty.”
“No,” observed Mr. Addison, with a desire to make himself agreeable
also.
“Ah!” said Mr. Gresham, “I was told it was a large number.”
He led his guests into the drawing-room, and for a moment, put his hands
under his coat-tails, and elevated his nose, while he observed the
effects of the _coup d’œil_.
It was a long and very handsome room, magnificently, though tastelessly
furnished; every slab and table glittering with _ormolu_, like Howell
and James’.
“What a very fine room!” Robert said, never at a loss to express what
was expected of him, but giving a side glance to Hope and Everard.
“It usurps to itself, you see, a large portion of those said windows,”
Mr. Gresham observed, jestingly.
“You must have bought up all the silk and satin in England to make the
curtains,” Robert replied.
Mr. Gresham smiled, and then said he would call his daughter. “Pray,
Miss Linton, be seated. Gentlemen all, I hope you will make yourselves
at home.”
“Say something witty, Everard, that I may relieve myself by a good
laugh,” was Robert’s request.
“You are too bad,” was Everard’s reply. “He cannot be such a fool as not
to see you are laughing.”
“I never made an acquaintance which gave me half as much pleasure as I
anticipate from this one; what do you expect the daughter to be?”
“Something very fine,” said Everard, “there is no doubt about that! Here
they come.”
There certainly was no doubt about the fineness. Angela’s silk flounces
rustled, and her chains and bracelets rattled as she came in; but it was
not her fineness, it was her beauty that struck every eye. She held her
bonnet in her hand, and her luxuriant auburn curls fell about her face
and shoulders. An air of shyness and diffidence, curiously mixed with
mirth and expectation, gave a charm even greater than usual to her
appearance, and a brighter colouring to her cheeks.
“My daughter, Miss Linton, Mr. Vavasour,” and then waving his hand
around, he carelessly named Everard and Mr. Addison.
Angela blushed more deeply. She hardly raised her eyes as she returned
the bows of each, and as if to make her escape, hurried to Hope, and
smiling held out her hand.
There was nothing conventional in Hope’s manners. It would not have
occurred to her to say she feared they had taken Miss Gresham by
surprise, or any other polite phrase, but pleased with the frank
cordiality of Angela’s manner, she said simply, “I am glad to make
acquaintance with you.”
Angela sat down beside her, and began hurriedly to talk. She did not
dare look up. What she had so lightly done, alarmed her now by the
thought of its boldness.
Everard, meanwhile, had seen her with a sudden throb of pleasure. Her
face had been the first which had much impressed his youthful fancy; and
being the first, the impression was not even after two months entirely
effaced. Yet, after the first instant of recognition, her air and
general appearance was so totally different to the vision of his memory,
that he laughed at himself for the moment’s folly. The process of
remembering and laughing was, however, repeated a second time. Again, a
third time, he examined her with puzzled curiosity; and again the half
recognition was on the point of changing to derision, when Angela looked
up and met his scrutinizing gaze. She blushed deeply, and immediately
cast down her eyes; and this time the likeness to a former recollected
movement was so exact, that he suddenly moved towards her and
exclaimed--“Surely I have seen you before?”
“Yes,” she said, instantly regaining her self possession. “I was not
certain that you remembered me.”
“I did,” he said, doubtingly, “and yet I did not. Even now I am puzzled.
How is it?” And he looked at her with perplexity.
It is conscience that makes a coward. An answer to his perplexity was
not difficult; but Angela’s conscience gave her a panic, and instead of
replying, she blushed, looked annoyed, and made Everard, ever backward
and sensitive, fearful that he had been presuming.
He stood by her in silence for a moment, then said, with constraint,
and because he thought he ought to speak, “I hope Miss Price is better.”
Mr. Gresham was engaged with Robert, but at this name he turned round.
“Are you acquainted with Miss Price?” he asked of Everard, with cold
surprise.
“Yes, papa,” Angela said, with a quickness that relieved Everard from
the fear of having given offence. “Mr. Vavasour was very kind to my
aunt. I met him one day at her house.”
“Indeed,” he said, with uneasy politeness, “I am happy to hear Miss
Price keeps such good company.”
Miss Price was his wife’s half sister, the daughter of her mother, not
of her father, born many years before Mrs. Gresham. She was poor, and
without grace or charm to attract the eyes of the world. Mr. Gresham had
thought it right, and his bounden duty, therefore, to ignore as far as
possible the relationship; and it was only since his wife’s death that
his softened feelings had permitted Angela to keep up a slight
acquaintance with her.
Now that he had been discovered, however, with a poor relation, he
thought it best to put a good face on the matter, and Miss Price was the
cause of his bestowing some attention on Everard.
“Miss Price,” he said, in a jesting tone, and in a slight degree
elevating his nose, “does not trouble herself to keep exactly the
society most suited to her station. In consequence, we meet but seldom.
She is, however, an estimable person, and charitable, I understand,
beyond due bounds.”
“I did not know Miss Price was connected with you till this moment,”
Everard replied. “She seems very good, and I was glad to be of service
to her.”
“I am sure she must have been duly sensible of the honour of your
attentions; and I wonder she did not think it worth while to communicate
the matter to me. I think also my daughter might have spoken on the
subject; but better late than never, and I am happy in having this
opportunity of offering you my thanks in person.”
His chest heaved with the pride of virtue in thus taking the obligation
to Miss Price upon himself; and having done his duty, he returned to
Robert.
Angela had listened tranquilly to the conversation until her father’s
last observation. When he named _her_, she blushed, and turning quickly
to Hope, began to talk to her. Everard saw the change, and could not
help wondering what the cause might be.
The next movement of Mr. Gresham was to offer to show his guests the
house; and having performed this office with a truthful and genuine
delight in the _newness_ and magnificence of all he exhibited, he then
gave them his company into the garden and a part of the way homewards.
In the garden, Mr. Addison, who had been to pay his purposed visit,
rejoined them. During his absence, Robert having been Mr. Gresham’s
special property, Everard and Hope had, through their peregrinations,
been accompanied by Angela; but though Everard and Angela were already
on easy terms, no recurrence had been made to their former meeting.
Everard wondered at her silence on the subject, but could not a second
time obtrude remarks which evidently were not desired.
When the wood was reached, at the entrance of which Mr. Gresham had
first met his guests, he suffered them to take leave of him. His parting
speeches were as polite and almost as elaborate as his greetings had
been. Yet with some persons to be elaborate is no proof of insincerity;
it is the habitual tone and form of their feelings, and so it was with
Mr. Gresham.
As he proceeded home with his daughter, he enlarged on the gratification
he had experienced during the visit. “Those are charming young people,
Angela; I hope you are as much prepossessed in their favour as I am?”
“Yes, I like them all,” she replied, with warmth.
“I am glad to hear it. It is my wish that you should cultivate their
society in every way they will permit. I understand from Mr. Vavasour,
that he and his brother remain in this neighbourhood for three weeks. It
is a fortunate circumstance, and I wish you to avail yourself of this
opportunity for forming an acquaintance with them. The Vavasours are a
remarkably old family--highly connected, and much esteemed by the world.
I feel pride and pleasure in my neighbourhood to Audley Court, and I
shall do so in any connexion I may hereafter make with the family. But
of this enough. I shall show my respect to the elder Mr. Vavasour by
calling on him to-morrow: though in point of etiquette I believe he
ought to be the first to wait on me.”
If, with something of dread, Angela had awaited the expression of her
father’s sentiments, she now with hopeful heedlessness cast all fear
aside. The appearance of two Mr. Vavasours had indeed deranged many a
pre-conceived idea; and a very decided leaning towards one, not
diminished by her father’s apparent leaning to the other, had made her
expect and fear a more clearly expressed admonition regarding a future
connection. Since it was not given, she was herself willing to leave the
future in uncertainty.
The remainder of the party walked home together, until Mr. Addison’s way
diverged from the path to Audley Court. When they separated, and he
wished his young companions good-bye, Everard said he would walk with
him homewards.
“I am glad of this new acquaintance,” was Mr. Addison’s remark as they
went on together, “and chiefly on Robert’s account. I have sometimes
feared the uniformity of life at Audley Court might be too monotonous
for one of his lively disposition.”
“I suppose a lively disposition makes its own life,” Everard said, “for
certainly Robert does not appear to feel it dull. There are, however,
other causes for that. Loved and appreciated as Robert is, it would be
strange if he were not happy.”
“He seems to be well aware of the beauty of Miss Linton, both in person
and character.”
“Yes,” Everard said, with a smile.
“Do you not feel, as I do, that her influence will prevail. She will
give him her soul, and her good spirit will bring all the chaos of his
nature into order.”
“I have not, I never had a doubt of it. It is not within the bounds of
possibility that any one who loves what Hope is, can have anything but
the best of natures within him.”
“I am glad of this acquaintance also on your account, Everard;” Mr.
Addison continued, pursuing the train of his own thoughts. “It pleased
me to see you to-day. You were not quite yourself.”
“How you watch, Mr. Addison!” Everard said, colouring. “What have I done
to-day unlike myself?”
“You were less grave than is common to you in society, and I was glad to
observe it. You study too hard, Everard, to be able to do without
recreation. The mind becomes hard and tough; it needs unbending.”
“What do you think of Miss Gresham?” Everard enquired, after a moment’s
thought.
“She has a very sweet countenance; one that promises truth, and
ingenuousness, and many virtues. She is somewhat undisciplined, I should
suppose, in mind, as in manner, but life soon softens and tames. She
seems disposed to be friendly with you, Everard. I am glad of it. I know
no recreation so likely to be useful to you as the society of an amiable
young woman. It is refining both outwardly and within. Your habit is to
keep yourself too much aloof.”
Everard coloured again. He had an inward warning that the society of a
young woman would _not_ be useful to him in the present case; and as he
walked home alone, he questioned himself with some seriousness.
Self-examination, though honest, is not however always useful. It can
deal well with an acknowledged feeling, or a strong one, but there are
in the mind, fancies, shoots, and bubbles of feeling, which examination
disperses like the sun the mist. When Everard came to question the
pleasure he had felt and was anticipating from Angela’s society, the
vague dangers seemed to fade away. There was nothing which on
examination portended more than pleasure; and having very honestly
examined himself and been satisfied, he cast away the burthen of
thought, and went resolvedly into the chances of the future.