A figure like Aurora, flushed with joy.
HENRY TAYLOR.
A silent and a loving woman is a gift of the Lord, and there is
nothing so much worth as a well instructed mind.
_Book of Ecclesiasticus._
Mr. Gresham paid his visit to Audley Court on the following day. He
looked about him with eager curiosity, as he drew near. It was the scene
and sphere of the day-dreams he had been lately building, and had it
come short of his expectations, great disappointment must have ensued.
But disappointment was not in store. It is true that the narrow income
of the Vavasours was apparent both in the keeping and the furnishing of
their abode; there was a large sphere for improvement, but this was no
objection to Mr. Gresham. He, in common with most people, loved to
create; and certainly did not think with dissatisfaction of the show
which his future labours would make in the eyes of the world. With
something of joy and pride, therefore, he marked the inferiority in
general style and polish to his own Underwood; while, at the same time,
his senses were excited and impressed by the antique grandeur of the
building and the magnificent trees that formed the avenue to the house.
The old towers especially caught his fancy, and as he pictured the hour
when he should stand in a paternal relation to their majesty, his soul
became almost too his; for the feeble confines of his body.
He was received by Mr. Vavasour with the grave and courteous grace that
belonged to him; he too was calculated to impress the imagination, and
though a speculation as to the probable short term of his life, had
occupied Mr. Gresham while he drove along, it vanished in the presence
of his stately and venerable age.
Somewhat awed, however, by the same stateliness, he dexterously
presented his daughter to Mr. Vavasour, and devoted himself to his less
awful wife. The arrangement answered well. Mrs. Vavasour was gracious in
manner and easy to entertain; and Mr. Vavasour had an old man’s love for
youth and beauty, and a grave nature’s pleasure in gaiety of spirit.
When the visit came to a conclusion Mr. Vavasour made a request that
Angela might remain, promising that his niece and his sons should escort
her home. Angela’s eyes sparkled with delight. Mr. Gresham equally
gratified gave his ready acquiescence. The request seemed to bring
certainty to his desires, and as he looked back from the carriage on
the old, dark towers, no doubt of his future relationship troubled the
sweetness of his dreams.
Angela was quite as much impressed by the appearance of Audley Court as
her father was. _Her_ peculiar taste was gratified as much as his; for
the glitter of gold was absent; the fashionable ornaments of the day had
failed to penetrate the old abode; and the handsome frames of the
pictures and mirrors were sober with age. The house being as it was,
these things were not unsuitable; though there was simplicity, there was
freshness, and though a lack of ornament, no lack of comfort; yet,
undoubtedly, a luxurious taste would have found much to criticise.
When Hope, at Angela’s request, had conducted her to every part of the
rambling building, they entered the garden together, and walking
quietly, began to converse. The dissimilarity of the young companions
was very striking.
“I am quite sorry to have been here,” Angela said, looking about her.
“I was so pleased with Underwood yesterday, and now I think nothing of
it. How much prettier this is.”
“One is old, the other is new. Both are pretty in their way,” Hope
replied. “Why compare?”
“I always compare. I cannot help it; and what falls short of what it
should be, I utterly condemn.”
“But so many things are pretty in themselves. It seems a pity not to
like them for their own sakes.”
“But I only wish to like what is best,” Angela said, with decision. “If
one likes everything that is a little pretty, one’s taste becomes poor
and false. I only wish to like what is _very_ good.”
Hope was silent. She was not fond of argument; and unless some point on
which she felt strongly was touched, unable to cope with others in
arguing. Not so Angela. Her mind was full of thought, and where she
could hope to meet with novelty of opinion, her unexpressed sentiment
was “Let me not burst in ignorance.”
“I like to do the same with _characters_,” she began again. “I know what
I think good, and I know what I like. By comparing and comparing, I hope
at last I shall find something perfect, or almost perfect, and then I
shall be happy.”
“I would so much rather not compare,” Hope now said, with more interest
in her voice. “There is so much that is good in every character, that I
think we should appreciate it when we find it,--not without wishing for,
more certainly, but still liking what there is.”
“Do you think there is much good to be found?” Angela asked doubtingly.
“I find very little.”
“I am sure there is.”
“Where? I look and look, but I cannot find it. I think you are good, and
Mr. Addison and I should think Mr. Everard Vavasour was good; but I
cannot say I think goodness is a common thing.”
There was a slight flush on Hope’s cheek, perhaps of pain, in the
selection or the omission of a name. It was perceived but not understood
by her companion.
“Do you think me wrong for speaking as I do?” Angela asked, anxiously.
“I don’t mean anything very wrong. I only mean that I think people’s
motives very mean, low, and mercenary, and I scorn them, and I can’t
help it. Do you never scorn?”
“I don’t think I do. I am too sorry for people, to scorn them.”
“But are you sorry for bad people? I am sorry for good people in
distress, but I cannot care for bad ones. I am not good myself, that I
know very well; but I must say that vice, and wickedness, and meanness,
I utterly abhor.”
“What is _really_ bad I do not speak of, of course,” Hope said, after a
little thought, “but most, I think, have good souls, tried and tempted
with many temptations; and,” she continued with an earnestness that was
almost passionate, “to save a good soul from its temptations, I would
die if I might.”
Angela looked at her young companion with reverence and surprise. “I
like what you say,” she said, “though I cannot feel it. How is it that
you, who are so good, are so kind, while I, who am bad, am bitter and
harsh?”
“People are different,” Hope said, smiling. “I could not be harsh if I
tried. I am not good, because of that.”
On their return to the garden, they met Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour coming to
meet them. Mr. Vavasour was anxious about Angela’s return home, and said
his sons were later than he expected. They all strolled together towards
the gate that opened into the park; and sons, keepers, dogs, and game
shortly appeared.
Not perceiving the group in the garden, Robert and Everard walked
slowly. “They are tired,” Angela said. “What will they say to the
engagement you have made for them?”
“My sons are never tired,” Mr. Vavasour said, with something of pride in
the hardy spirits he had nurtured.
“Or if they are,” Mrs. Vavasour added, “I hope they have enough of an
old-fashioned thing called chivalry, to forget it in this service.”
She looked with a kind glance of admiration at Angela. The half implied
compliment, expectation, curiosity, the novelty of all she saw, lit up
Angela’s countenance, and it was bright and sparkling as it met the
first glances of the two young men.
“She is uncommonly pretty, I must say, Everard,” was Robert’s remark, as
he hurried on.
He approached her with the fearless manner of one accustomed to please.
Everard with something more like the chivalry of which his mother
spoke.
“I have made an engagement for you, my boys,” said Mr. Vavasour. “Miss
Gresham remained here this afternoon under a promise on my part, that
you would conduct her safely home.”
“Miss Gresham has only to command us, and we will obey,” said Robert. “I
speak in Sir Charles Grandison’s style for both Everard and myself.”
“Then, if Miss Gresham has no objection to your present style of dress,
it is growing late, and you had better be gone.”
From Angela’s answer, it appeared that though she had often read of a
shooting dress, she had never seen it, or any other accompaniments of
shooting before; for in those days, a shooting dress was not the common
dress of man.
The specimen this confession of ignorance afforded of her London
education, gave Robert much amusement. Though acquainted with almost all
kinds of good and bad society, and possessed of what is called
knowledge of the world, there was yet alive in him something of a
school-boy’s nature; ready to spring up whenever freedom from dangerous
excitements left him at leisure to be himself. He found, therefore, a
boy’s gratification in playing upon Angela’s simplicity, in astonishing
her with marvellous tales, and drawing from her, her general notions of
life; notions chiefly formed from books, and not the best; for London
and Brighton had been almost the sole spheres for her observation.
Angela was little accustomed to be amused. She was too lately grown up
to have been able to effect a change at home; and as like clings to
like, the society at Mr. Gresham’s house was in average liveliness not
much above himself. Robert’s conversation was to her “like a play;” and
the more her merriment acknowledged his powers, the more animated did he
become.
In the course of his anecdotes, he gave her a graphic and ludicrous
account of the adventures of a friend of his who had one night assumed
the disguise of a ballad singer in the streets of London. Excited by her
amusement at what he related, he was proceeding to narrate the history
of a disguise, planned and to be executed by himself, of a more serious
description than the first.
“But this,” he interrupted himself, “did not come off, to my great and
everlasting regret. I was dissuaded by the grave judge, Mr. Everard
Vavasour, and gave up my own opinion in humble submission to his.”
“I hate plots and disguises,” Everard said, quickly.
Angela suddenly withdrew her eager eyes and blushed rosy red. Not that
she owned to a disguise. She denied it; but conscience, quick and true,
made its confession upon her cheek.
All her companions saw her change of countenance. Everard, with some
surprise, but without notice. Robert was less discreet.
“Miss Gresham,” he said playfully, “what a guilty face! While I have
been entertaining you to the best of my powers, I believe you might have
been entertaining me, with the history of one of those very plots and
disguises Everard condemns.”
“Indeed I could not,” she said, hastily; but blushed more deeply as she
spoke.
She was very uncomfortable. What must Everard think? After a moment’s
reflection, however, she remembered that appearances were nothing, if a
person was really innocent; and shaking off her embarrassment, she
observed, boldly, “I think such things must be very amusing.”
“If done well, and with spirit they are,” Robert said. “My friend, the
ballad singer, says, he never had better fun in his life. The danger is
when they are undertaken by people who are not up to it; and then
nothing can be more flat and unprofitable.”
They walked on a few steps; then Angela’s uneasy mind asked this
question. “Why do you condemn all disguises, Mr. Vavasour?”
Everard coloured at this expression of interest in his opinions, but
answered, resolutely, “_Condemn_ is a severe word. I only spoke of my
own feelings. I hate all tricks and disguises. If they are complicated
it is difficult to keep to the truth, and I hate falsehood. Besides,
they are generally mischievous and sometimes dangerous.”
“There, Miss Gresham,” Robert said, laughing. “Now if your conscience
confesses that you have been guilty of putting on a disguise, Everard
has pronounced your doom without mercy.”
“I have not,” she said, with decision and displeasure. “I don’t confess
it.”
Robert had too much tact to press the matter farther, but Angela was
uncomfortable; in her discomfort became grave, and conversation flagged.
When they reached the borders of the wood, she stopped and insisted on
her companions hurrying homewards, as the sun was sinking fast.
All demurred, for the engagement had been to see her home. “You must,”
she said, playfully and peremptorily, “or I shall think you cannot trust
me.”
“I am afraid I cannot,” Robert said, with a mischievous look which he
could not resist.
“Let us go, Robert,” Hope said, struck by the appearance of annoyance on
Angela’s countenance.
Everard saw it too and with perplexity. In vain he told himself he had
no business with the matter. He felt a singular desire to penetrate the
mystery.
The progress to Underwood had been slow. It was now really growing late;
and after parting with Angela, Everard, who was famous for his quick
walking, hurried home. The hours at Audley Court were early, and Mr.
Vavasour encouraged punctuality, not so much for its own sake, as for
the exercise it gave to an unselfish and respectful tone of feeling. His
sons, Robert as well as Everard, in this respect endeavoured to please
him; and it was Robert who now despatched Everard to give notice they
should be in time.
“I have been wondering, Hope,” Robert said, as they walked on alone,
“how it is that Miss Gresham finds me so witty and wise, and all my wit
and wisdom is lost on you.”
“Oh, Robert,” she cried, eagerly, “don’t say so. I like to listen to
you.”
“But you never laugh.”
“I can’t laugh,” she replied. “Something prevents it.”
“Who or what prevents it? I want to know.”
“I can’t tell,” she replied, after a moment’s thought. “I only know what
I feel.”
“I wish I could see into that mysterious mind of yours, Hope,” Robert
said, smiling, “I believe I should find curious things there.”
“Do you wish me to laugh more?” Hope asked, suddenly fixing her anxious
eyes upon him.
“I; what, wish you to be anything but what you are. No, indeed, my
dearest.” He spoke with warmth, then quickly smiling again. “But I
should like to dive deep down into your mind and search out all your
most secret thoughts and feelings. I wish I had the power. Should you
mind, Hope, if I had.” He fixed a smiling but yet a keen and anxious
gaze upon her face.
“No, Robert, I don’t think I should,” she replied, meeting his gaze with
a look of confiding innocence.
A shade of disappointment crossed his brow, but it was driven away, and
with something of thought and seriousness he said, “That is a strange
and happy thing to say. I wish I could say it. I wish I could offer you
to let your eyes dive into my mind, but I can’t, I am afraid. And yet,”
he added, “I would rather have yours than any others. I should grieve
for what you might find there, but I should not fear.”