He spake of virtue; not the gods
More purely when they wish to charm
Pallas and Juno sitting by:
And with a sweeping of the arm,
And a lack lustre dead blue eye
Devolved his rounded periods.
TENNYSON.
Everard awoke the following morning with a resolute determination to
keep out of temptation, by avoiding Angela’s society. For this purpose
he remained in his room till after ten o’clock, and then, hearing Mr.
Gresham’s step, followed him down stairs to breakfast.
At the foot of the stairs Mr. Gresham turned and looked up, and seeing
Everard, waited until he joined him.
“It is my wish, Mr. Vavasour,” he then said, speaking more suddenly and
quickly than was his custom, “to say a few words to you in my private
room. I am fortunate in meeting you here. May I request you to be so
good as to give me the favour of your attention for a short time
immediately after breakfast. The shooting party wall not leave Underwood
until half-past eleven.”
Everard coloured but assented. He was surprised and troubled; conscience
pointed in one direction, and made him dread the interview.
“When I leave the room, Mr. Vavasour, perhaps you will be good enough to
follow me. I wish our conversation to be _private_,” with a marked
emphasis on the word, “nor do I wish it to incur observation.”
“I will take care,” Everard replied, quietly, and they went on together
into the breakfast room.
Angela blushed, as she shook hands with him; that which she had done on
the spur of the moment; that which her principles (_i.e._, that the
conventional etiquette of the world was nonsense,) had prompted her to
do, had, on reflection, agitated her. She feared Everard would think she
had been forward. She longed to see him again, that she might read the
impression she had made. His non-appearance had annoyed her; and his
countenance, which, in spite of all his efforts was grave and
pre-occupied when he did come, troubled her more.
Shaking off her embarrassment, however, and forcing herself to speak,
she said, laughing, “You are learning bad habits in this house, Mr.
Vavasour. I don’t think it was any unearthly hour this morning.”
“I think I am,” he replied with a grave smile, and as Mr. Gresham
observed at the moment that breakfast was ready, he turned away and
chose his place far from Angela’s seat.
Feelings quickly change. Angela had feared _his_ disapprobation. She now
imagined that he was in fear of her, and she was at peace again.
When Angela had left the breakfast room Mr. Gresham made a silent signal
to Everard, and left it by another door. In a minute, when, obedient to
his instructions, it could be done without observation, Everard
followed.
“Be so good as to be seated, Mr. Vavasour,” was Mr. Gresham’s request;
and Everard having taken a seat near the fire, Mr. Gresham placed
himself with his back towards it and prepared for his discourse.
“My object, Mr. Vavasour, in requesting you to give me your attention,
is in order to inform you of some circumstances regarding my daughter’s
prospects and position in life. They are circumstances of importance,
as indeed, all circumstances affecting a young lady in her position
must be.”
He paused a moment, and Everard replied, “I am, of course, Mr. Gresham,
ready to listen to anything you may wish to communicate, but excuse me
if I say that I cannot conceive what right I have to be informed of the
circumstances you mention.
“That will hereafter appear. Be so good, my dear Mr. Vavasour, as to
grant me your attention. My daughter is, as you are aware, my only
child; according to my present intention, she is also my sole heiress--I
say my present intention--for my life is not so far advanced but that I
remain liable to the common changes and chances of the world.
Circumstances might occur, differences might arise, which would afford
an inducement to change my intention. At present, however, it is my wish
that she should be my sole heiress, and few, perhaps, may hope to be
endowed with a more goodly dowry.”
He paused again, looked around him, glanced at the ornamented ceiling
and gaudy carpet, and, finally, threw open his coat and closed it again.
“All this I supposed,” Everard said, seeing an observation was expected,
“but again I must say that I cannot see how it affects me.”
He waved his hand to bespeak patience and began again. “Such being the
circumstances, it is natural that I should with grave consideration,
reflect on the future destination of my possessions. If I had desired
that my wealth should flow into full treasuries, if I had desired to
mingle my name and blood with the blood of noble families, I confess it
appears to me the desire would have been natural. If I had desired to
place a coronet on my daughter’s head, I confess, with her position and
outward accomplishments, I think the desire would have been justified.
And such, indeed, _was_ my desire; but man, Mr. Vavasour, is a finite
being; he cannot accomplish all his wishes. It becomes us to submit to
the ordinary dispensations of Providence, which rarely sees fit to give
all things into one hand. In a word I felt it my duty to make a choice
of good things, to select some and be content to part with others. I
chose, therefore, for my daughter’s future husband, one not
noble,--though in every country but ours he would be noble--not wealthy,
but of ancient lineage, of fair possessions, and endowed with all those
gifts and accomplishments which are calculated to attract the eyes of
the world.”
“You mean my brother,” Everard said, colouring slightly.
“We will speak further on that point. Be so good as to allow me to
proceed. Such being my feelings and desires, you may conceive, Mr.
Vavasour, that any disappointment in the plans I have cherished would be
painful to me. I am aware that you would not willingly thwart my
desires, I have too high a sense of your character, but I confess I
yesterday observed with pain, that is, some circumstances drew me to
observe, that you regarded my daughter--did her the honour to regard
her--with favour, and (be so obliging as to hear me, Mr. Vavasour) led
me to fear that my daughter might, through your efforts, be drawn to
regard you with favour;--you, Mr. Vavasour, endowed with many virtues,
but undistinguished in the world, of small fortune, and small prospect
of advancement; and this at the early age of seventeen, before the mind
or judgment is formed, or capable of a decision. You may imagine my
feelings.”
He raised his nose and placed his hands behind his coat-tails in
amazement and dismay.
With difficulty Everard heard him out. Pride, wounded feeling, and a
strange throb of pleasure, mingled their sensations in his breast, but
he mastered them and answered without excitement.
“I have listened to you patiently, Mr. Gresham, because you desired me
to do so, and because I acknowledge it is natural you should feel
anxious respecting your daughter’s happiness; but I must now tell you
that you have mistaken me. I confess, indeed, that I have not seen Miss
Gresham with indifference, it would be difficult to do it; if she were
poor, if she were a beggar--but no matter for that. As it is, I have had
no such view as you imagine. Not,” he continued, his colour rising, and
speaking with a proud dignity, “that I think money of such immense
worth, that nothing but rank and worldly goods are worthy to win it--I
should be ashamed of having so base a thought; but there is a natural
feeling in men’s minds that it needs _some_ worth, some weight of
character, or age, or tried industry, to win this world’s good things,
and I feel it myself as much as any. I knew that I was not one likely to
win your favour, and whatever may be hereafter, I felt I was too young
and undistinguished at present, to attempt to win it; and more than
this, I do not even wish to win it. I do not speak of the idle thoughts
and hopes that cross the mind without one’s will--but I speak of my
reason and conscience; they tell me that I ought not to wish, and it is
my desire to obey them; now I have said all I have to say, and I trust
you are satisfied.”
“Perfectly so, Mr. Vavasour, you have spoken extremely well. I perceive
that the opinion I formed of your character, and which disposed me to
place this confidence in you, was well grounded. Allow me to detain you
a few moments longer. This being satisfactorily settled, I leave the
future in the hands of Providence. I have done my part in choosing a
proper direction in which my great possessions may flow; and I think,
Mr. Vavasour, if you consider the subject, you will observe that I have
also chosen well regarding the advantages to your family. What your
father has toiled and spared to gain, I offer to him; and to your
brother I offer that lavish wealth which his disposition is peculiarly
formed to require. My plans have been laid out with forethought and
wisdom. I confess I cherish them, and I think I may say, have a right to
cherish them.”
Everard was silent. He did very forcibly see the worldly advantages; but
he could not, without pain, think of Angela as Robert’s wife; and though
he had no right to speak of so vague a thing as Robert’s attachment to
Hope, he would not give any opinion regarding the possibilities or
probabilities of such a marriage.
Mr. Gresham had expected a demonstration of admiration and gratitude,
and was disappointed; but he was human, and after a moment’s
observation, he reflected that Everard might feel some pain in the
scheme, even while its beauty was fully acknowledged. He was content,
therefore, to let his silence pass unnoticed.
There was a pause, and Everard rose. “One moment, Mr. Vavasour. I have
two requests to make. One is that the plans I have unfolded to you in
this conversation may remain absolutely private. I have intrusted them
to you alone.”
“Of course I consider this conversation private,” was Everard’s reply.
“You may depend on my discretion.”
“My second, Mr. Vavasour, is regarding your conduct to my daughter. You
will meet her again this evening. May I request that while there is
nothing in your manner that seeks her favour, there may also be no
withdrawing of common attentions, no constraint, no avoidance. I do not
wish to have her interest, or curiosity, or attention, in any way
excited. You will perceive at once my object in this request.”
“It may be difficult,” Everard said, gravely, “and I can make no
promise, but I think you may trust me. I mean to do my best; not so much
because you ask it, as because my own sense of what is right tells me
that under the circumstances this will be the proper course of conduct.
Forgive me if I express myself too plainly. I desire of course to obey
your wishes, but I could not promise to do so, unless my judgment
approved them.”
“Of course, of course, Mr. Vavasour. I ask no more, and now permit me to
thank you for your kind manner in listening to me, and to express my
interest now and henceforward in your welfare. I see the keepers
approaching. I wish you a good day’s sport.”
Everard left the room; and, without trusting himself to think, joined
his brother and the rest of the party, who were now assembling in the
hall.
In the course of the day Mr. Gresham recounted to Mr. Merivale what had
passed with Everard, taking the opportunity to lay before him at the
same moment his plans for Angela.
Mr. Merivale was a person who thought matters generally righted
themselves, and that there were few occasions in life where remonstrance
and interference were useful. He saw all the worldliness of the plan,
and from his own observation of Robert, did not see any great
appearance of its success. If it did succeed, he saw good qualities
enough to give him hope for Angela’s happiness; and to make the marriage
a sufficiently desirable one. His opinion was, however, that Everard was
not only preferred at the moment, but would continue to be so; and if
this should be the case, he thought what Mr. Gresham had done the best
thing that could happen. Both were too young for any present
arrangements, and he thought a true and wise attachment likely to be of
infinite service to Angela’s character.
These were his motives for saying little against Mr. Gresham’s plans,
beyond a warning that he had better enquire more fully into Robert’s
character and habits. On one point, however, he spoke warmly, and this
was to advise greater confidence towards Angela. He wished Mr. Gresham
to mention to her that her manner to Everard had not pleased him, and,
in short, to make known his feelings regarding over intimacy with him.
“If you omit this,” he said, “Angela may observe constraint and
avoidance in his manner, may misread it, and may be led to some overt
acts unbecoming her position, and much to be deprecated.”
“I should hope,” Mr. Gresham replied, “that the essential modesty
belonging to a young female will in itself prevent such an evil.”
“That Angela is essentially modest,” Mr. Merivale said with some
earnestness, “I am certain; but her feelings are quick, her character
self-willed; and from the manner in which she has been brought up she
has an undue scorn for the small yet just proprieties of her age and
circumstances. Believe me confidence will win her confidence; but
underplots will fail in mastering her.”
“I differ with you entirely. If I once speak to Angela on this subject,
our two wills become definite things. If I let it pass, as Mr. Everard
Vavasour has assured me it shall pass, the slight preference I have
observed with pain and displeasure will be dissipated. A young woman, a
young lady, should have no will and no thoughts on such subjects. The
delicacy of the female character forbids it. To place her advantageously
and properly in life is the duty of her natural guardian, one happily
who is fully alive to all the requirements and responsibilities of his
position, and to his will she must assent.”
“Well, Gresham, as Solomon says, ‘the lot is cast into the lap, but the
whole disposing is of the Lord.’ I hope you will be satisfied, and
Angela have a worthy husband, and I am content.”
Angela awaited the evening with impatience. Fancy is ever busy, and the
human mind ever prone to anxiety; the ease produced by her morning’s
conviction survived only half the day; and during the remaining hours
she relapsed into her former fears. When the evening came the first
disappointment was in Everard’s late appearance. He entered with Robert
only a minute or two before dinner; Robert confessed that for his part
sleep had overtaken him; but the night before, Everard had not waited
for an escort. Her second disappointment was more bitter. As the
gentlemen left the dining-room, Everard said to Mr. Gresham, that if a
fourth was wanted he should be happy to play at whist. Mr. Gresham
understood him, accepted with quick and gratified politeness, and before
Angela had considered the evening begun, she saw him summoned by her
father and seated at the whist table for the night.
“How people can play at whist,” she said to Robert, unable to restrain
some expression of her feelings, “is a marvel to me. Do you like it?”
“Very much when I am in the mood. I am afraid too much sometimes; but I
don’t like to trifle my play away. I am like Elia’s aunt in the Essays
of Elia; I consider it a serious matter. Did you ever read the Essay I
mean? It is one of the best pieces of writing in the world;” and as
Angela had not read it, and as he had observed the book in question,
then a new book, to be on the table, he took it and read it for her
entertainment.
Mr. Gresham, from his whist table, complacent and elated, contemplated
them with unmeasured delight.
Desirous, as he had promised, to do his best, and to avoid the
appearance of avoidance, Everard came down somewhat earlier the
following morning, first ascertaining, however, that Mr. Merivale was
before him. Angela was pleased, but had no power to enter into
conversation, for Mr. Merivale, much to her annoyance, occupied the
short interval before breakfast, by reading aloud a letter he had
received from Italy. Of the annoyance he caused Mr. Merivale was
perfectly aware, but he fancied he read Everard’s design, and gave him
his assistance.
There was no shooting this day, and shortly after breakfast the
brothers went into the drawing-room to wish Angela good-bye. Mr.
Merivale was with her, still engaged with letters or papers. Angela was
reading.
She laid down her book when they appeared, and Robert, ever curious,
took it up.
“Camilla!” he said; “are you wading through Camilla?”
“If by wading,” was Angela’s warm reply, “you mean doing something
difficult and heavy, no, I am not wading, but I am reading it, that is,
I am _re_-reading it, for I finished it yesterday, and am looking at it
again.”
“Is it possible! and my mind was filled with thankfulness when, having
once begun and feeling myself in duty bound to proceed, I found myself
at the end.”
“I dare say your opinion is very wise and good, Mr. Vavasour,” Angela
said, “but I don’t mean to be scoffed out of mine. I like it.”
“And you are right,” Mr. Merivale observed; “there is a great deal of
trash in the book, and a great deal that is overdone, but there are many
good and natural characters, and whenever that is the case, a book is
worth reading, and worth liking.”
“That is easily done,” Robert said. “I could do it myself. If that is
all that is required to make a book worth reading, nothing is so easy.”
“I doubt it,” said Mr. Merivale. “Not _your_ powers, Mr. Vavasour, no
doubt they are equal to anything, but I doubt the easiness of portraying
natural characters.”
“It is all done by receipt,” Robert insisted. “Take your characters--any
will do, the commoner the better--get them into a mess, no matter what,
one hears of a hundred avoidable ones every day--then get them out
again, and the story is done.”
“Very good. I shall expect your work with interest, Mr. Vavasour.”
“And so shall I,” Angela said, laughing, “but till it comes, I must be
satisfied with such as Camilla. I hope you like it? Have you ever read
it?” she added, turning quickly to Everard.
“Yes, my mother advised me to read it the other day, and I did.”
“And are you on my side?”
“Part of it amused me very much. Camilla’s character I thought extremely
well done and very pretty.”
“Oh, I don’t care about Camilla,” Angela cried, with quickness. “Edgar
is what I like, and it is for the sake of Edgar that I am going to read
the book again.”
“Edgar was a prig,” Robert observed.
“No,” Everard said, “not at least my idea of a prig; but I don’t like
him. I think he behaved very badly.”
“Edgar badly. How?” Angela said, eagerly.
“I think he failed in the very first of duties, confidence and trust. I
was sometimes so provoked I could have thrown the book out of window.”
“If you mean towards Camilla--how could he trust her? As far as
appearances went, she did seem to behave most strangely.”
“Yes, perhaps, but that is what I mean; we are not to be led by what
_seems_ in such cases. When we have formed on just grounds a good
opinion of a person’s character, we ought to trust them. Many persons,”
he added, with some warmth, “may be compelled by circumstances to act
strangely; but if we have good reason to think well of their character,
we ought to trust them, however appearances may be against them.”
“So I think,” said Robert, “though I believe Everard you have the Bible
against you. As Strafford said, ‘Put not your trust in princes, nor in
any child of man.’”
“I know one’s trust might sometimes fail,” Everard replied, “but I will
stand to my opinion. I will trust, and I hope to be trusted.”
Chance words, opinions expressed by chance, sometimes make an
impression which words spoken for the purpose of impressing fail to do.
This opinion of Everard’s sank deep into Angela’s mind. It remained
buried, and perhaps forgotten, but in an after time revived again.
When the conversation on this point dropt, Robert said he had appointed
Hope to meet them, and it was time to be gone; both wished Angela
good-bye, and departed accordingly.
She was taken by surprise at their sudden departure, and not till they
were gone remembered that since those strange words of hers she had had
no opportunity of speaking to Everard, or even of judging by his
countenance and manner what he thought of her. She took up “Camilla,”
and sat pondering over it, not on Camilla’s affairs but her own. Why had
she not offered to walk with them? what could have been more natural.
Why was Mr. Merivale always in the way? Yet again, if she had seen
Everard what could she have said? She could not recur to what had
passed. How grave he had looked when he wished her good bye! She wished
she could see into his mind. No doubt, however, she should shortly see
him again, and with this last thought, after many cogitations, she
smoothed her ruffled brow and began to read in earnest.
Mr. Merivale had been watching her; when he saw the knitted brow relaxed
he rose and said,
“If I were not so crazy a concern in point of health, I think I should
ask your father to board and lodge me. Italy is a long way off when
one’s eyes have business in England.”
“I wish you would come and live with us,” Angela said cordially; “I
should like it of all things.”
“Should you, my dear child?” he said, looking towards her with a
scrutinizing air.
“I don’t mean to say,” she said, blushing a little, “that you don’t
sometimes worry me. I am not very fond of being looked at in that
curious way, and I don’t quite agree with your views and opinions, but I
should be ungrateful indeed if it did not give me greater pleasure than
almost anything in the world to have you here, and even to have you find
fault with me.”
“You want watching, Angela; you are here alone, a very young, very
excitable, and I may as well say what you know, a very pretty woman.
Your manners ought to be guarded, sober, and discreet, instead of
yielding, as you do, to every impulse. A guardian would be a good thing
for you; a sensible woman guardian especially; but there is a still
better thing, and that is, that you should be a guard upon yourself. I
believe a woman’s own refined and regulated mind is always her safest
guard.”
“If you will give me my rules to go by,” she said, “I am sure I will do
my very best to follow them; but how is it possible to be always
weighing every word and every action. I know I sometimes do what I am
sorry for afterwards, but at the moment it seems so right. Besides, Mr.
Merivale, don’t think I mean to argue with you, I only say what I
think--I think the world is too much tied up with rules; not good rules,
but mere society rules--rules that leave what is good alone, and take
notice only of what is showy. I will do my best I promise you, to do
what is _right_, but I _will not_ be tied up with rules that I scorn and
despise.”
He looked at her with a smile that said how plainly he read what was
passing in her mind. He did not, however, intrude upon it, but only
observed, “I partly agree with you, but remember this--a young woman is
not the proper person to set herself against the world’s common
opinions. Her view may in itself be the right one, but it becomes wrong
when held by one whose proper character is to be modest, sober, gentle,
and discreet. A woman who braves the world, may amuse, but is rarely
respected. Now I have done. I hate lecturing, but I could not leave you
without giving you a piece of my mind.”
“And though I seem so rebellious, I thank you a thousand times. I will
really try to be discreet, but sometimes I think the world is a vile
world, and that my mission is to reform it. How I hate gold and silver.”
“Little fool,” he said, “how little you know what you hate.”