Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
GRAY.
“The gentleman.”
So Mrs. Price’s little maid announced Everard, a few days after his
return to London.
Miss Price had not completely recovered from her accident, and was still
lying faded in looks on her faded sofa. A sermon book and a piece of
work were on her lap, but she had dozed over both, and in her doze
Everard’s knock escaped unheard. The present piece of work was intended
to give the impression of a heap of shells on the sand, and the hues of
the various colours were very faithfully depicted. It was her own
special choice, and she looked upon it as an exquisite thing.
“Good morning, Mr. Vavasour,” she exclaimed, half rising, and extremely
nervous and fluttered in manner; not that she owned to having been
caught dozing, but she perceived that the salmon-coloured shawl had
fallen from her feet, and her sense of propriety was shocked in
consequence.
“I am afraid I startled you,” he said, kindly.
“Oh, no, by no means, that is to say,” as with a dexterous manœuvre she
caught the shawl and threw it over her shoes, “I certainly did not
expect a visitor this afternoon. And you least of any. I thought you
were in the country.”
“I left Audley Court last Friday. I should have called before if I had
been able. I thought you would like to hear the news.”
“Thank you, you are too kind. I hardly know how to express how kind I
take your visit. It is not every person, not every young man who would
take such trouble. I assure you I feel it.”
“You need not thank me, Miss Price, for I am very glad to come,” Everard
said, quickly, “besides, I promised Miss Gresham I would call.”
“Ah! dear Angela, she is always thoughtful. I hope you left her and her
father well in health.”
“More than well,” said Everard, smiling, “you cannot think how well and
happy they are.”
“I hear from my niece occasionally, and I gathered from her letters that
she was pleased with the country. I often think it must be a pleasant
thing to see the fields and the flowers. When I was young I thought
little of the blessing, but now I feel as if it would make me young
again. I sometimes see them in my dreams.”
“I hope you will see them in reality some day,” he said, kindly, touched
by the dreary ideas her words presented. “I am sure Miss Gresham, when
she is a little older, and has more liberty, will procure the pleasure
for you.”
“When she is married you mean.”
“Yes,” with a slight change of colour.
“Perhaps it is best not to think of such things. The future is not in
our power. I try not to think of it. I try to be thankful as I am.”
“I am sure that is being very wise; but I don’t know that it is an easy
example to follow, or that I should like to follow it if it were easy.”
“Perhaps not. You are like dear Angela in that, she always wishes to
know, and I tell her, better not. We might see a great deal of trial in
the future. God is very merciful. He hides it from us.”
Everard looked at her, coloured and made no answer.
“And you left dear Angela well?”
“Yes well and ... beautiful,” he added after a moment with a smile.
“She is pretty, certainly, and when she is happy, her smile is very
sweet. I think she is happy. I told you that I heard from her
occasionally, and when she wrote she _said_ she was happy. She would
write often if her father allowed it, but he thinks correspondence is
dangerous for young ladies, and perhaps he is right; young ladies are
not always wise.”
“I think she might write to you without danger,” Everard said laughing;
“you would only teach her what is good, I am sure.”
“I hope that is true. Still her father does not know; and besides, I am
not very wise. I mean,” and she assumed an air of some dignity, “that I
do not live much in the world, and I am not much in the habit of
meeting with young ladies, and I might not perfectly understand. In fact
it is best as it is, I sit and think of her, and pray she may be kept
from evil, and may be happy when God pleases.”
A pause followed. Though Everard’s call had been made only in obedience
to Angela’s request, he had certainly felt strangely anxious about the
visit; as if something, he could not tell what, would be discovered or
betrayed. He now smiled at the folly of his expectations, and in his
meditations on the subject, forgot to make himself agreeable.
“Are you come to town for the winter season, Mr. Vavasour?” enquired
Miss Price, after a silence of some moments.
“Hardly winter yet; but yes, I am come to stay till Christmas, or near
it. There is a great deal of knowledge which has to be got into my dull
brains, and the sooner it is done the better. I am going to study very
hard.”
“You will be a great man I hope, Mr. Vavasour.”
“I wish I could hope I should for my father’s sake. He would like it.
For myself, I do not care about greatness, except that....” He stopped
and coloured, and then was going to explain away his exception, when the
placid answer showed him there was no need to think curious eyes were
upon him.
“That is like dear Angela. She says she does not care about greatness
and riches; but I tell her she does not know. Young people know very
little what they like, or what they wish; especially gay young people
like Angela. Life is so very different to what they think.”
“Yes,” Everard replied gravely.
“I suppose we none of us quite know what we like till we have tried it.
I don’t mean to say dear Angela is more giddy than most people; but she
has strong fancies, and she thinks they will last, and perhaps she does
not know. We none of us do know. Man is very changeable. Not that I
should think you were, Mr. Vavasour. I should say you were strong, only
that we don’t know till we try.”
“No, I do not think I am changeable,” he said in the same grave voice,
“but you are right, we do not know.”
Her common places were not common places to him. She had forced on his
mind a thought which had not been very present before. That fancy for
him which Angela had shewn was probably but the caprice of a day. He had
no right to build upon it.
It was not a pleasant, but it was a useful reflection; and assisted him
in his struggle to banish the vain and flattering illusions, which were
but too ready to flit before his fancy.
In the course of the autumn Miss Price added this postcript to her
letter to Angela.
“I omitted to tell you, my love, that I had a visit from your friend Mr.
Vavasour. He was particularly kind, but I know, dearest, I had you to
thank for the visit, for he told me so. I have not seen him since, but
he said he would call some day, so I know he will. He has been
exceedingly kind. I happened to mention that I was fond of flowers; I
don’t know how it came out, but I did. I am sure, my love, you will
believe I did not mean to ask for favours; but he has twice sent me a
bunch of violets, so sweet and so fresh, it made me feel happy to smell
them. I long to see him that I may thank him; but I know I must wait
patiently.”
Why Miss Price put this into a postcript it might have been hard to say,
being, as it was, the only thing approaching to interest in her prosy
letter. She certainly did not intend to fix Angela’s mind the more
intently on her communication, for she had not, as yet, opened her
intellect to receive the knowledge or suspicion of her attachment; but,
though unintended, such was naturally the result. It would, at any
rate, have excited interest. So communicated, Angela saw in it mysteries
without end. It served her for many days of happy thought.
While Everard, in London, did his best to forget Angela, she, in the
country, did her best to impress his image on her mind. Though the
process is different the end attained is usually the same.