The gifts of genius were not thine,
Proudly before the world to shine;
And none Remember Thee
Save me.
MRS. NORTON.
About a fortnight after Mr. Gresham’s arrival in the country, a formal
invitation was sent to Audley Court, requesting that the whole, or any
part of the Vavasour family would pay a week’s visit at Underwood.
This fortnight, although there has been nothing of event to record, had
been a fortnight full of life and full of excitement. To Angela and
Everard, it had been like waking up in a new existence.
_Her_ enjoyment had many sources. The free country life, the novelty of
all she saw, the amusement she derived from the society of companions
suited to her taste--all these things conspired to excite and delight;
all conspired to make her days pass as in a dream of enchantment; and
when, added to this, the dawning light of romance threw its golden hue
over her days, no wonder that she felt like a bird loosened from a chain
and cage, and set free in Paradise.
To Everard, the novelty in some respects was not so great, but there
_was_ a dangerous novelty in Angela’s society against which he was not
proof. She _liked_ him. The mere fact that he was liked by one so
winning and so lovely, was a novelty which bewildered and excited him.
She liked him, and showed that she did so; in no strange ways; in ways
common enough for most men to see, but new to him. She sympathised in
his tastes, agreed with his opinions, cared to hear his feelings and
thoughts expressed; would not suffer him to be unnoticed, talked to him
with the same apparent pleasure, that she did to Robert--not so much
perhaps, nor so freely, but with a something in her manner, that she had
not to him; a kind of deference to which he was little accustomed. He
had not yet begun to think about it, but he knew how quick the days
passed, how bright was the autumn, how he dreaded the thoughts of his
return to London, and escaped from it, as from a bad dream; how he could
hardly sleep at night, for longing that the morning would come. These
were dangerous symptoms in one of Everard’s controlled and restrained
nature; and vaguely he knew it; though too vaguely to acknowledge it in
words.
Hope brought Mr. Gresham’s invitation to her cousins, as they sat one
morning reading the newspapers in the library. “My uncle desired me to
bring it,” she said. “He cannot go, of course, but he begs you will do
as you please. I think he wishes you to go.”
Robert took the note. It was couched in pompous language, but was almost
servile in its anticipations of pleasure, should the honour of
acceptance be conferred. “Formal old prig,” he said laughing, “I would
not disappoint him for the world. I am sure my anticipations of pleasure
are quite equal to his. Yes, I will go. What do you say, Everard?”
“Not for a week. I will go for a day or two.”
“No, a week would be too much, even of his sweet society. Well, Hope,
tell my father we accept for a day or two; and you, do you mean to go
with us?”
“I? oh! no, Robert.”
“And why, oh! no, in that decisive tone? Would there be anything
strange if you went?”
“I think there would,” she said, with a slight smile.
“But why? Are you never to come out of the shade? Are you to be for ever
a flower wasting your sweetness on the desert air?
“I don’t wish to go,” she replied quickly. “I am not made for such
things. I would go if my uncle wished it, but he says I may do as I
please.”
“So you shall, and it is best as it is. I am glad you are satisfied to
stay at home, for that is where I like you to be. I don’t covet to see
you in the thick of festivities, though, perhaps, I am a selfish brute
to say so. Well, Hope, give our messages to my father; tell him I accept
with pleasure, and Everard with rapture.” He gave a mischievous wink at
his brother, but Everard either did not, or did not choose to see.
Hope left the room.
“Philosophers tell us as a remarkable fact,” Robert observed, after a
moment, “that no two people are exactly alike. Now that fact does not
seem to me remarkable in the least; but a thing that does surprise me
is, how two people of the same species, same rank, same education, same
age, can be so absolutely and entirely different as Hope and Miss
Gresham. As far as I can see, they have no property in common, except
that both are human.”
“Do you dislike Miss Gresham?” Everard asked.
“Dislike! I never said anything about liking. I like her. She is not my
favourite style of woman, but she is a kind I tolerate very well. But
what makes you so hot and peppery to-day? Why take up her cudgels so
fast?”
“I am quite cool,” Everard said, smiling, “though if you choose to make
me hot, I know it is no use for me to say so.”
“If you had not been so warm, I was going to ask you which of the two
species of woman I mentioned, you would choose, if you must choose, for
your wife?”
“As both are out of my reach, why should I think?” Everard said,
colouring unconsciously.
“Why are both out of your reach?”
“You had better not ask that, Robert,” he said, good-humouredly, “if you
do I shall tell you. Miss Gresham is an heiress, and heiresses are not
for me, nor I for heiresses; the other you may guess.”
“Well, but now supposing Miss Gresham was not an heiress,” persisted
Robert, “and that you....”
“We may suppose anything, and I don’t care for suppositions,” Everard
said, with some impatience, and then added, laughing, “It is very bad
manners, Robert, to ask questions. Dr. Johnson says so.”
“In some people, perhaps, not in others. I consider it my bounden duty
to make these and other inquiries, and when it is my duty of course I
do not shrink. Duty first, manners second. However, for the present my
duty is done, so you may go back to your law reports if you please.”
Angela drove to Audley Court to endeavour to alter Hope’s resolution,
but was unsuccessful; neither did she find the co-operation she had
expected on the part of any of its inhabitants.
As she returned to the carriage after her vain efforts, Robert appeared
in the courtyard.
He came to the carriage-door, and she told him her errand and its ill
success.
“I am glad,” he said.
“Are you?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Why?”
“It is very well for _us_ to care for the pomps and vanities of the
world,” he replied, gravely enough, “because it is our nature--but it is
a pleasure to see a head into which they have never entered, and I
should be sorry to have it troubled with them.”
“You are not very complimentary, Mr. Vavasour,” Angela said, laughing.
“Well, I will be complimentary now then,” he replied: “I should not have
said what I did, if I had not a very good opinion of you.”
“That is really a _good_ compliment,” she said, smiling, “and now I go
away quite satisfied. Good-bye!”
“That is a good girl,” Robert said to himself, as he returned to the
house; “considering the weight of gold she bears, a very good girl. A
man might have many less dainty dishes set before him. It is rather a
singular thing, and shows the moderation of my nature, that I feel no
desire to avail myself of what I might have if I pleased. Units, tens,
hundreds, thousands, laid at my feet, and as calm as an old philosopher,
I avert my eyes and allow them to be picked up by whosoever pleases.
For once, my respected forefathers, I think I am a credit to you. Hope,
where are you?”
She came flying towards him at the sound of his voice.
“I want a button, Hope, and a needle, and a thread, and then I want your
assistance to put the button on my sleeve. For the loss of a button I am
come home in a very depressed state of mind. Such is man!”
He watched her with a fond, sweet expression of countenance, as her
quick fingers accomplished the task he set her. To judge by his
countenance, it seemed as if he had feelings within that would not be
restrained; but when she had done he only said, quietly and gaily,
“Thanks, my fair angel, I like to have you waiting upon me. Get your
bonnet, and let us have a walk.”
* * * * *
The two brothers arrived late at Underwood, and Mr. Gresham, who was as
elaborate in his toilette as in his speeches, was obliged to relinquish
his purpose of receiving them on their first arrival, in the hall.
He stood, however, at the door of the drawing-room to await their
entrance there, and give his welcome in due form. A large party were
assembled. One gentleman, Mr. Merivale (the old friend of Angela’s
childhood), from London; the rest gathered from different parts of the
country. Almost all were unknown to the brothers, for Mr. Vavasour’s
secluded life, and the long absences of his sons, had in a great degree
prevented them from mixing in the society of a very populous district.
Mr. Gresham wished to be a good neighbour; he liked society, for society
brought upon him the eyes of the world, but it was on the score of duty
that he framed his plan of life. “The riches that Providence bestows,”
he observed, on this evening, to Mr. Merivale, “are not to be hid under
a bushel. If I have been blessed with a more than common share of good
things, it is but just and right that I should display them. I feel that
many eyes are upon me, and I must make it my endeavour to act according
to the station in which I have been placed.” A slight elevation of the
head betrayed how lofty that station was in his own estimation.
“Very good,” was Mr. Merivale’s calm answer to the oration which has
here been considerably abridged in its proportions.
As soon as Robert appeared, Mr. Gresham welcomed him with flattering
attention, and then with Everard in his suite conducted him in a kind of
royal progress round the room. “Mr. Vavasour and his brother,” this was
his mode of introduction. Nor did his attention end here. Desiring him
to take Angela to dinner, and to place her at his left side, he
continued his favours without intermission. Thoughts, lips, and eyes
were all alike devoted to Robert. He could scarcely attend with common
politeness to a dull lady on his right side, and in his desire that
Robert should eat of the best, could scarcely spare time to satisfy the
cravings of his own nature. To make a lion is not a work of difficulty.
Had Robert been possessed of few personal claims to distinction, the
notice of his host would have won for him the notice of the guests; but
in truth Robert’s pretensions were so incontrovertible that no attention
appeared to surpass his claims, and very willingly Mr. Gresham’s guests
did homage to the idol he set up.
Robert was no coxcomb and no fool. He laughed in his heart, but to only
a few people notice is distasteful, and it certainly was not distasteful
to him. He was excited by it, exerted himself to please, and won by his
own powers, the regard which at first had been won for him.
Everard’s fate was naturally very different. He sat at the other end of
the table, between two dull gentlemen, silent and unnoticed. Except as
Robert’s brother, Mr. Gresham had bestowed no attention upon him; and
Mr. Gresham’s guests for the most part followed his lead. Even the dull
men that sat by his side stretched forward to catch Robert’s gay words,
and wished themselves nearer to the sphere in which he moved.
In the evening the distinction between the two brothers was made yet
more apparent. With something of the same royal honour as before
described, Mr. Gresham conducted Robert from the dining to the
drawing-room, and then to Angela’s side. Angela was good-naturedly
endeavouring to entertain the good but dull lady who was her companion,
but not being supremely gifted with patience, felt and looked, exhausted
with her efforts.
“Will you help?” she whispered to Robert as he stood beside her. He
laughed, but with ready good humour agreed, and drawing a chair close to
Angela and her guest, sat himself down to the task of entertainment. To
be entertaining was rarely an effort to him: his observation was so
quick, his sense of humour so keen, his forms of expression so
original; but this evening, excited and pleased by the pleasure he so
evidently gave, he surpassed himself. The other guests were drawn to the
centre of attraction.
Some joined in the conversation; some assisted it by their unfailing
laugh. Some stood with open eyes and ears. Grateful to Robert, excited
and amused, Angela listened, talked, and laughed, with all her powers.
On the outskirts of the crowd Everard stood in a reverie. Almost all
were strange to him; none thought of, none heeded him. He was
unaccustomed to notice, and certainly had not expected it; but suddenly
his mind became aware, as it never had been before, of the extraordinary
difference between Robert and himself; the difference in charm, in
position, in hopes and promises of fortune. Till now, except perhaps as
regarded his mother, he had never felt jealous; he had always
acknowledged Robert’s superiority as a thing of course, a fact so plain
and established that it was not worth a thought, but this night the
conviction of that superiority brought a pang so sharp, a stir of envy
so bitter and tumultuous, that he himself was startled by it.
“What is the matter with me?” he asked himself, with a feeling of hate
and abhorrence. His eyes looked inwards, keenly and resolutely, and the
answer was given.
It was the answer to this question that had plunged Everard into his
reverie. No sooner was he aware of the state of his feelings, than he
began to fight and argue with them, to say to himself that vain word in
such cases--“Folly.” The fight, the struggle was depicted on his
countenance; it was always grave when in repose, but this night it was
stern.
Mr. Merivale was the only person who had not gathered about Robert’s
charmed circle. He was an old friend, a privileged guest; one who did as
he pleased, without fear of questionings. He liked to read the
newspapers of an evening--and come what might he did read them.
While he read, he watched. An acute observer, a student of human nature,
and one especially interested in the fate of Angela, he watched the two
brothers with interest and attention. The countenance of Everard
attracted him. He had once or twice across the table, addressed him
during dinner; and his unpretendingness of manner and intelligent
answers had pleased him. The feelings now depicted on his face
interested him still more. Suddenly laying down the newspaper, he rose
and approached him.
“After all, Mr. Vavasour,” he said, rather abruptly entering on the
conversation, “it is manners make the man.”
“I believe it is, indeed,” Everard said, smiling, “but what has brought
you to this sudden decision?”
“I will tell you why I say it just now;--I was prepared this evening to
hate your brother. I always am, when I hear a name more often than I
think a name should be pronounced. That was before I saw him. When you
came in to-night, I was prepared to hate him more. I always am, when
attention, which I consider superabundant, is paid to a person. But
after all this preparation, he has disarmed me. There is a charm about
him which I cannot resist.”
“All who know Robert feel the same,” Everard said, with warmth.
“That is a brotherly speech; but from my own sensations, I have no doubt
it is true. Now the fact is, I have a good right to hate him; and when I
tell you the circumstances, I think you will allow it. I have not been
in England for five years. I arrive, and being an old friend of Mr.
Gresham and his daughter, I pursue them down here. I come, expecting to
be made much of. I arrive, and the very first day my nose is put out of
joint by a young new friend; I am thought no more of than an old shoe.
You will own this is enough to fill me with hatred and all
uncharitableness.”
“Most certainly,” Everard said, laughing.
“So conscious was I that such ought to be the proper state of my
feelings, that it was with surprise I found myself totally untouched by
bad passions. ‘How is this?’ I asked myself; and the answer I received
was the observation with which I addressed you. Manners make the man.
There is no feeling indignation where honours are borne as your brother
bears them. He deserves them well.”
“I believe I was making much the same reflection,” Everard replied; “and
to say the truth, I am afraid I was indulging in some envy of the
qualities you speak of.”
“That is a thing of course,” said his companion. “So was I. We would not
deprive him of what sits so well upon him, but if we could, we would
all, have those, or any qualities, which command attention, still more
admiration, still more love.”
“I suppose so,” Everard said, gravely.
“These are new acquaintances of yours, Mr. Vavasour, I believe?”
He acquiesced.
“I have not seen Miss Gresham for five years. My chief purpose in
coming to England was to see her again. I left her a child. I wished to
see what she was as a woman.”
“You must be satisfied I think,” Everard said, smiling.
“Why, yes, upon the whole. She is not so pretty as I thought she
promised to be; but in other ways she is improved.”
“You must have expected a good deal if you are disappointed,” Everard
said, with more warmth than he was conscious of.
“She was a beautiful child. I suppose the child haunts my dreams and
makes me less satisfied with the woman. The eyes and complexion are
perfect, but I could have wished the nose and mouth were more
classical.”
“That is being very critical,” Everard said, amused.
“Yes; but like Iago, I am nothing if not critical. I am, however,
satisfied on the whole, and the mental improvement is more than I looked
for.”
Everard was not aware that the critical eyes had been watching him
during this conversation. Mr. Merivale was a dangerous person. When bent
on observation, it was hard to elude him.
At this moment the party broke up. The lady who came from a distance was
taking her departure, and Mr. Gresham, too much absorbed in Robert, to
have hitherto attended to his own pleasures, was making up a whist
table. Mr. Merivale was in request for this purpose.
Everard stood where he left him, and took up for a moment the newspaper
that Mr. Merivale had laid down. He was glancing over it, when he was
startled by Angela’s voice. She had left her place, and had taken a seat
on the sofa, near the table at which he stood.
“I am afraid I interrupt you, Mr. Vavasour,” she said, in a voice
peculiarly sweet and winning. “Is there anything very interesting in
that newspaper?”
“Not much,” he said, smiling, and laying it down.
“I am come to ask you,” she continued, “a strange thing, but you must
remember that I am in two characters in this house. I am a young lady,
and, therefore, bound to be very discreet; but I am also the lady of the
house, and bound to see that all my guests are amused and happy. I want
to know if there is anything the matter with you to-night, and why you
are so grave.” Her manner was peculiar. It was more than kind, and yet
at the same time had a grace and dignity which became the character she
wished to assume.
“Am I grave?” he said, unconscious that his outward man had so betrayed
his inward thoughts.
“Yes, grave all the evening, but lately more than grave.”
“I believe I always am grim-looking,” he said, smiling, “but I am not
really so grim as I look.”
“I see you do not like my questions,” she said, “and I dare say I am
impertinent; but what I wished to say was this, I feared you might think
that you were neglected while others were made much of; and I wished to
tell you it was not so, though it might seem so. You must remember,” she
added, quickly, as if in explanation of her rising colour, “that it is
my duty as mistress of this house to see that all are happy, that is as
far as may be; and so you must excuse my impertinence.”
Lord Byron says--
“It is in vain that we would coldly gaze
On those that smile on us. The heart must
Leap kindly back to kindness.”
If not always true, it certainly is so in a case like Everard’s, where
such kindness was rarely expressed towards him, and where already he was
far from coldly gazing. He was deeply touched. But he was now on his
guard, awakened to his danger, and determined to resist it. His answer
was little expressive of what he really felt.
“You have imposed very severe duties on your position,” he said,
smiling, “and I think a short practise will tell you, you must give them
up. For myself, thank you a thousand times. I assure you, I was not so
vain as to suppose myself neglected.”
He fancied, but he thought it must be fancy, that she looked hurt at his
answer. She was silent for a moment; then suddenly said, laughing, and
in another tone, “That is a new phase of vanity, is it not, to suppose
itself neglected? I thought vanity supposed itself to be observed.”
“I think vanity is to suppose itself of importance at all,” he replied,
“and quite as often complains of neglect, as it takes to itself praise.”
“Well, perhaps. And now good night. Do you think, as mistress of the
house, I need sit up till that whist party breaks up? I am rather tired
of laughing, and I should be glad to go. What do you say, Mr.
Vavasour?” turning to Robert, who passed at the moment.
“Put the question,” he said, “and I will give an answer in a moment, be
the point what it may; but I am like Nebuchadnezzar’s poor ill-used
sages. I cannot give an answer, without knowing what the question is.”
Angela laughed and explained.
“Go to bed by all means,” he replied, “though it is extremely uncivil of
me to say so. I hate rules and laws; and especially on this point. Let
all men go to bed when they are inclined, and we shall have an end of
that worst of evils, a face convulsed with yawns. Good night. Pray go to
bed.”
“It is a pity she is an heiress, is it not, Everard?” he said archly, as
she left them; but without waiting for observation or answer, went on to
the whist table. Everard again took up the newspaper, but not to read.
His mind was severely struggling with new and strange feelings. Folly,
idle dreams, he again called them, and was determined to crush them at
once, and for ever. The arguments with which he animated his rebellious
will, were drawn from the source, which animated all his endeavours to
do his duty. What would his father say, if he yielded to his first
temptation? A temptation to dream his life away, to set before himself
an illusive hope, to escape from the more toilsome life laid out for
him. He imagined his father’s face of pain, if he should hear that he,
Everard, was courting the favour of the heiress, and the imagination was
for the moment at least all powerful. With a sigh, he blew away the vain
fancies that were bewildering him, and returned to himself.