Thrill me not
With words that, in their agony, suggest
A hope too ravishing.
ION. _A Tragedy._
Before Robert’s departure he had voluntarily promised to return for
Christmas. It was two years since he had passed a Christmas at home; and
he was well aware of the joy his presence would give. At the end of
November, in a letter dated three weeks before, from some port in the
Mediterranean, he spoke of his intention as unaltered. But Christmas
came, and no Robert came with it. Night and day, Mrs. Vavasour and Hope
caught in the wintry winds that swept round the house heralds of
Robert’s approach; but they were empty sounds.
Christmas came and past without a word. What each one felt, each one
knew; but nothing was said. Mr. Vavasour waited with something of a
new-born patience, as if unwilling to distrust again. Mrs. Vavasour
assumed a cheerfulness she did not feel, lest her husband should suspect
she had a fear. Hope trembled, and was still.
She had had her terrors. She had them still. Over the far future a star
of hope ever shone, but darkness hung around the future that was near.
She had a fear that a valley as of the shadow of death had to be passed
through; and silently she strengthened herself to walk through it with
him without dismay. No joyous visions entered into this her first love.
Though Robert did not come, Everard came as usual. His greeting was as
his departure had been, calm. The same kindly and approving looks and
words; the same absence of that eager joy which marks the return of the
house’s idol. Perhaps in the disappointment regarding Robert, his
greeting was more calm than usual; or perchance it was only his fancy
that called it so.
He came back graver than he went, but more resolved. A few words of
approbation in one of his father’s letters regarding his conduct to
Angela, a few words expressive of perfect trust in his truth and honour,
had given him the spur he wanted. His father’s views were so exactly the
views of his own sober mind, his distaste to any courting of Mr. Gresham
so instinctively shared, that though distant hopes might haunt his
imagination, Everard was very firmly resolved against any further
weakness in the present.
At the church door on Christmas day he and Angela met again. Mr.
Vavasour was leaning on Everard’s arm. Angela’s veil was down. There
could be little to excite or satisfy the imagination. Yet Everard,
through her veil, saw Angela’s heightened colour, and Angela felt the
gravity of his looks; and both entered the church full of earthly care.
Everard struggling with a sudden revival of old weakness, Angela
escaping from the present into pictures of future meetings; questioning
the meaning of his grave face, and planning means of discovering the
secrets of his soul.
On both, Mr. Addison’s text fell warningly and startlingly--“Comfort ye,
comfort ye, my people, saith your God,”--for the world’s sorrows, of
which he began to speak, were not like to their troubles, and the
message of comfort he brought had little force at that moment to them.
Everard roused himself with a sigh, and a conscious furtive smile;
Angela said in her heart how bad she must be, and she wished she was
better, and then ... dreamed again.
At the church door they met a second time, and the two families crossed
the church-yard and went for a few steps down the lane together; but
Everard had again given his arm to his father, and there was not even
the appearance of a wish to escape. Mr. Gresham addressed Everard with
the utmost politeness; inquired after his health, his journey, and the
state of the atmosphere in London; but of a desire to see more of him
said nothing. So they met and so they parted. After months of dreaming
this was their meeting. Angela went home weary and discontented with the
world. Not so weary, however, but that before evening she had recovered
her sanguine temper, and was full of restless desires for the morrow.
Many morrows came and went, however, and brought no meetings more
satisfactory than this. She saw Everard constantly, but for more than a
moment rarely saw him. No restrictions were placed upon her movements.
During the early winter she had been in the habit of visiting Hope
frequently, and she was allowed the same freedom now. Mr. Gresham
appeared to ignore the possibility of danger from her intercourse at
Audley Court. This implicit trust in his honour bound and strengthened
Everard as nothing else could have done. It gave him pain, but it was an
appeal he could not resist. With all his powers he endeavoured to meet
his cousin’s guest with indifference, neither to avoid nor to seek her.
Possibly, nay, probably, his duty was overdone. Such things always are.
Possibly, nay, certainly, Angela’s mind was but the more stedfastly bent
on endeavouring to discover the truth through the barrier of his
indifference.
One morning, it was within a few days of Everard’s return to London,
Angela drove over early to spend some hours with Hope. This early visit
was at Hope’s request, and Hope’s request had been made on a suggestion
from Mr. Addison. Watching Angela with silent but observing eyes, seeing
the good of her disposition and the evils also, her precocious scorn of
the world’s ways, and her unreal and childish view of its actual ways
and troubles, he thought that some knowledge of life in another sphere
of thought, some sight of the unromantic ills of the poor, by bringing
reality, might bring good to her character. It was in the morning that
Hope usually attended to the sick and the suffering whom Mr. Addison
placed under her special care, and her invitation to Angela was in the
hope of persuading her to accompany her.
To Hope, Angela’s feelings were very visible. A month or two before, it
would not have been so; but experience teaches! Strangely different as
were Hope’s views of love, still her feelings for Robert, the new form
of her feelings had opened a door in her soul hitherto closed. In some
sort, these new feelings dragged her down to earth; but only
superficially speaking. There is nothing heavenly in narrowness of
vision: the gaze upward from a ravine may be more concentrated, than
from a plain; but it does not therefore, go nearer to Heaven; the wider
field, the larger experience; the more embracing love is that which
brings man nearer to an angel’s life. Knowledge and observation, and
experience, to natures like Hope’s, bring suffering with them, for the
dragging down is pain; but it brings increased strength for their
mission on earth, and in the end wings the soul on fresher wings
upwards. She was more fitted now to do good to Angela. She had a
perception of mental trials and common temptations, before unknown; and
with the knowledge, as it ever was with her, came sympathy and desire to
help.
She acted on Mr. Addison’s suggestion at once. The attempt was not,
however, successful; in this first essay, at least, it was not so, and
that from two causes:--the first cause, that Angela went to the work,
her heart smarting and bitter with disappointment, too recent to leave
her much power to consider the troubles of others. On their way to the
village, they overtook Everard strolling along with his dog. He was
evidently in no haste, and Angela thought common civility must force him
to join them. He seemed to think so himself, for he did walk with them
to the outskirts of the village; but there, instead of accompanying them
further, he stopped, said he should call on Mr. Addison, and with a
quick “good-bye,” went off in another direction.
A second cause of ill-success in interesting her in the poor was, from
the ill doings of the poor themselves. When she found the poverty of one
family proceeding from the fact, that the husband was an habitual
drunkard; the sorrow of another, from the transportation of a son; when
she found in another house, the illness of a young girl proceeding from
a beating given her by her mother, and that beating caused by frantic
rage at the girl’s vain and thoughtless conduct; her indignation and
abhorrence knew no bounds. Little perfect as she was herself she had yet
to learn that man is frail, and that the bitterest sorrows are those
that sin brings with them.
As they returned homewards, she expressed, in no measured terms, her
condemnation of the wickedness of the poor, and her astonishment that
one so good as Hope could by her presence countenance guilt.
Hope, accustomed to the mixture of good and ill, and so hating sin that
she would have gone into a furnace could she have dragged a sinner out,
was yet unable to cope with Angela in argument; that charity which would
do all things to save some, does not bear argument: it is the mission of
some, not of all, perhaps only of those whose holiness is too
deep-seated a quality to fear contamination.
“I will shew you some verses Everard copied for me the other day,” at
last she said. “They will say better than I can do, what my feeling
about human nature is.”
This speech silenced Angela; partly satisfied her, partly sent her mind
from her indignation against the poor, to her own troubles.
On re-entering the house, they found luncheon ready. There was a place
for Everard, but he did not come. Mrs. Vavasour saw Angela’s wandering
eyes, and casually, but kindly, observed that Everard was very little of
a luncheon eater. That might be a fact, Angela thought, but it did not
make it less clear that he could have been at home if he had pleased.
Immediately after luncheon, Angela’s carriage drove to the door; but a
violent storm came on, and it was sent away for an hour. She then
reminded Hope of her promise to show her Everard’s verses; and together
they proceeded to Hope’s sitting room.
It was a pretty cheerful room in one of the towers--pretty, but
simple--in all its arrangements, betokening that the spirit which
presided over it, was neither a lover of beauty nor intellect, nor
luxury, but of something more earnest than any of these.
Hope brought her manuscript book, and was about to shew Angela the
verses to which she had alluded, when a knock at the door summoned her
to Mr. Vavasour, who wished her to copy a letter before post-time. She
left Angela alone to look over her book at her pleasure.
The study of Hope’s character in the selection of prose and verse before
her, would in some moods have interested her; but disappointed and
restless, she could at this moment only give her mind to that which
concerned herself. The hand-writing of Everard did concern her; and over
that she meditated, endeavouring to trace his qualities in the bold,
upright hand; until, as she listlessly read the verses, their sentiments
caught her attention, expressing as they did Hope’s epitome of
Christian charity. The poem was by Emily Taylor; these were among the
stanzas:--
There is an evil and a good
In every soul unknown to thee--
A darker or a brighter mood
Than aught thine eye can ever see.
Words, actions, faintly mark the whole
That lies within a living soul.
Perhaps thy sterner mind condemns
Some brother mind that, reasoning less,
The tide of error slowly stems
In pain, in fear, in weariness;
Thou call’st him weak--he may be so--
What made him weak, thou canst not know.
Perhaps thy spirit’s calm repose
No evil dream hath come to spoil;
A firm, resistless front it shews
Amidst the passions’ fiercest broil;
’Tis well!--enjoy and bless thy lot,
Still pitying him who shares it not!
Touched and softened she lingered over them. To feel real charity was
very soothing, and, for the moment, the new feeling absorbed her. She
was reading the poem intently for the third time when another knock
disturbed her. Before she could say “Come in,”--for, like a brother,
Everard waited for no answer to his announcement of himself--the door
opened, and he hastily entered.
When he saw the occupant of the room he stood still, and a flush of
crimson changed the whole character of his face. For a moment they gazed
at each other in embarrassed silence. It was the first time they had
been alone since that evening whose memory pursued Angela with ceaseless
torment. If he did not remember this she did.
He was the first to recover himself, and to speak. “I beg your pardon,”
he said, quickly; “I came to speak to Hope.”
“Hope is gone to Mr. Vavasour,” Angela said, composedly; her heart was
bounding with expectation, but she was determined to behave with dignity
and propriety. “She has been gone some minutes; I think she will be back
directly.”
There was a pause. Angela waited. She would not be forward; she would be
ready, but not bold; she waited, her countenance, perhaps, very
speaking, but her lips still. The pause was broken by Everard’s slowly
advancing; making her heart beat till it almost broke. But it was a
needless agitation. He approached only to place a letter on the table,
and, speaking in quiet tones, begged her to give it to Hope, and to tell
her Mr. Addison wished for an early answer. Having delivered his
message, he retraced his steps, merely bowing his head and observing, “I
will not disturb you,” as he left the room.
Tears of passion and resentment sprang to Angela’s eyes, and would have
fallen in a torrent if they had not suddenly been arrested by pride. “He
does not, cannot care for me,” she said, with bitterness of tongue, “and
if he does not care, why should I? I do not mean to waste my life on a
feeling that he despises.”
She walked impetuously to the window and threw it open; the sharp air
braced and cooled her, and having stilled her agitation, and calmed her
countenance, she sat down again to await Hope’s return. As she resumed
her seat, a vision flashed before her eyes--Everard’s startled gaze and
flushed cheek when he saw her alone--and she involuntarily said, “Was
_that_ indifference?” With the words her resentful mood passed by;
conviction, absolute conviction, took its place, that it was her hated
gold which made him afraid, and strange venturous thoughts presented
themselves to her mind.
“Uncle Richard thinks you had better go, Angela,” Hope said, as she
entered. “The sky looks so black he is afraid it will be a stormy
evening.”
“I think so too,” Angela said, in a hasty manner, restless to be doing
something. “Let us go down stairs. Oh! I forgot. Mr. Everard Vavasour
brought that letter for you, and begged you to send Mr. Addison an
answer.”
Hope looked at her, and saw her disturbed countenance; but, except by
increased kindness in her own manner, did not appear to notice it. They
went down together to the hall door, where the carriage was now waiting.
The afternoon was piercingly cold, and on seeing the very slight
preparations for a cold drive which Angela had made, Hope remonstrated,
and insisted on going to Mrs. Vavasour to borrow a fur cloak and other
necessaries.
There was a short cut to Mrs. Vavasour’s rooms through the upper part of
the library, and her uncle having recommended Angela’s speedy departure,
Hope opened the library door and hastened through. Angela followed her.
By the library fire Everard was sitting, reading the newspapers. He was
accustomed to the servants passing through with coals, and when the
door opened he did not look round.
Hope went on her errand, but Angela paused. A strange impulse seized
her.
With a step like lightning, as noiseless and rapid, she glided down the
room and suddenly stood by Everard’s side. It was in the very same place
where Hope had heard Robert’s words of love.
Everard sprang up with a startled “Miss Gresham!” and wonder and even
dismay on his countenance, but, nothing daunted, Angela held her ground.
Her manner was hurried, but was far from deficient in the dignity she
knew so well how to assume, and which certainly in some degree qualified
the strange things she did.
“Seeing you at leisure, Mr. Vavasour, I am come to ask you why you avoid
me as you do. We used to be good friends. Have I done anything to offend
you?”
“Offend!” he cried, in involuntary excitement. But the passionate sound
of his voice startled him into recollection; and feeling only the
absolute necessity of self command, he suddenly became cold.
His hurried exclamation had not had time to assure and encourage her
before he added, and in a manner as involuntarily grave and measured as
that had been passionate, “Miss Gresham ought to know that she may give
pain and pleasure, but cannot offend.”
It is difficult for those who with violence restrain their feelings to
hit the due medium. They can be hot or cold. They cannot be temperate.
Very cold and grave were Everard’s words, and coldly they fell upon
Angela’s impetuous spirit. She felt reproved, rebuked; and the impulse
that had blindly led her ceasing to act, she stood humbled in her own
sight and before him. Her colour went and came, her fingers trembled,
and the conviction of being despised, made her incapable of raising her
eyes to his face.
But these galling sensations were quickly put to flight.
In an altered voice whose tones were music to her ears, Everard abruptly
said, “I am going to confess what I know I ought not; but you have
rightly judged me. I _have_ avoided you. I must; because I am a fool and
cannot trust myself in your presence. I did not presume to think my
conduct needed explanation; but if it does, if you care to know why I
dare not come near you, your father’s wishes, his most natural wishes,
must explain it. And now forgive me and forget what I have said.”
“Forget!” she said, softly.
Everard sighed and turned away his head; and in that sigh gasped down a
temptation that was almost too strong for him. “Yes, forgive me,” he
said, hurriedly, “for I am saying what I should not. I have been warned,
and I have promised, and I have no right to speak of what I feel.” And
perfectly conscious that if he were not to speak he must be gone, he
merely grasped her hand for an instant, and _was_ gone before another
word could be said.
Angela stood in a trance of happiness for a second, then glided away
likewise.
Hope had passed through the room, and was now awaiting her with a cloak.
Angela blushed deeply as she met the intent enquiring gaze of her young
companion, but she said not a word. Silently kissing her, she jumped
into the carriage and drove away.
END OF VOL. I.
London, Godfrey & Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand.
To be had at all the Libraries, in 2 Vols.,
THE YOUNG LORD.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE TWO BROTHERS,” “THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,” &c.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
“This novel, by Lady Emily Ponsonby, is interesting as a story, and
still more to be commended for the tone of high principle with which it
is pervaded, and the profitable lessons it inculcates.”--_Literary
Gazette._
“No novel was ever written in a better spirit, and few with a better
development, both of story and character.”--_Morning Chronicle._
“The reputation Lady Emily Ponsonby acquired by her ‘Discipline of
Life,’ is more than maintained in her ‘Young Lord,’ which can scarcely
be surpassed even by her own well balanced mind. It is a high-toned and
interesting novel.”--_Messenger._
“‘The Young Lord’ is a beautiful story, clearly and truthfully told,
natural as well as interesting; the writing is excellent. A vein of pure
poetry and romance runs through the tale--in that respect raising it far
above the prosaic fictions of the admirable Jane Austen.”--_Globe._
“Lady Emily Ponsonby has established herself as one of the most
accomplished writers of the day, and in the ‘Young Lord’ she has given
us one of the best, if not _the_ best of the novels of the season. The
interest never flags.”--_Sunday Times._
“A very beautiful and affecting story.”--_Observer._
“This book pre-eminently belongs to the higher class of works. It is
adapted to the taste of the superior in feeling, as much as the
intelligent in intellect. All must acknowledge the purity of its
motives, the genuineness of its expression of feeling, and the force of
its arguments.”--_Sun._
“‘The Young Lord,’ by Lady Emily Ponsonby, must be considered as one of
the most successful novels of the season. It is almost impossible to lay
down the work after its perusal has been commenced.”--_Daily News._
“‘The Young Lord,’ from the practised pen of Lady Emily Ponsonby, is as
instructive as it is amusing. The merit of ‘The Young Lord’ lies in its
completeness and finish. The various persons are clearly conceived in
the writer’s mind, and distinctly wrought out to the reader. The
incidents are so planned to display the qualities and affect the fate of
the persons, and written with such eloquent strength, if it may not be
called power, that the attraction is as great as with stories of deeper
passion. A serious sense of duty and goodness pervades the whole,
influencing the tone of the narrative, and inducing judicious
reflections without sermonizing.”--_Spectator._
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, SUCCESSORS TO HENRY
COLBURN, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.