And as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt his new fledged offspring to the skies.
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay;
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
GOLDSMITH.
To fits of despondence the best of men are subject. Of all failures, and
the very word failure has a sinking of the heart in it, the failure of
an attempt to recover the erring is, and from all that depends on it,
must be, the most bitter. Who can ever be satisfied that their efforts
have been strong enough, their arguments forcible enough, their words,
words in season. Failure is often an appointed trial, a trial sent from
Heaven; but man cannot know when such is the case, and the best and
humblest are the least able to take to themselves that thought for
consolation.
Perplexed, desponding, and troubled in spirit, Mr. Addison slowly paced
along the streets. He had failed, entirely failed, and from the future
that lay before those he loved so much, his very soul shrank backward.
Death, and misery, and separations, and strange unnatural troubles,
cutting at the root of all domestic peace.
It was not till he had walked a considerable way, unconscious where he
went, that he thought of Angela. Of what her feelings might be, of the
present trials that might be assailing _her_. The thought came like a
flash of light. It was a something yet to be done, and action is
cheering.
He turned his steps towards Portland Place, walking slowly, and
meditating as he went. He was not one lightly to interfere in a
family’s concerns. In his eyes his appointed office was, to be ever
ready to advise and help, but not so forward, as to stand before or
between the natural and holy links which the ties of nature bind. He did
not, therefore, feel at liberty to enter uninvited with Angela, on the
question of her marriage with Robert, nor to excite, if it did not
already exist, opposition on the subject between the father and
daughter.
But it appeared to him as more than possible, that she might be in need
of help, in need of a guide in thinking rightly, of support in acting
justly. As he considered her character the probability of this view of
the subject increased in strength. He remembered how, in spite of all
her independence and strength of opinion, circumstances ever appeared to
sway her to their will; how incapable she seemed of bettering her
condition, or of improving the tone of the society in which she lived;
how weak she was in action when her actions were compared with her
words. No one who studied Angela’s character could have failed to
perceive this inconsistency and peculiarity; and as Mr. Addison now
recalled a thousand trifles in which her slavery to circumstances and
her impulsive yielding to excitement had been revealed; he began to
blame his dilatoriness in considering her share in these transactions;
and to be visited with strange terror, lest she should be driven by the
mere pressure of a moment, into a marriage with one brother, while her
heart was all another’s.
The terror of this thought, when once fully realised, quickened his
steps, and led him agitated and eager to Mr. Gresham’s door.
His first enquiry was for Mr. Gresham; he had sufficient confidence in
the truthfulness of Mr. Gresham’s disposition, to entertain a hope of
making an impression, even on him; but Mr. Gresham was out. Miss
Gresham was at home, and he was admitted at once.
He was shewn into one of the large drawing-rooms, and there sat down to
wait. His mind was too much pre-occupied to notice, far less to admire
the splendour that was about him, and Mr. Gresham would have been as
much astonished as displeased, had he seen him seat himself without a
glance around.
It was not long before Angela joined him, but there was nothing of her
usual haste and eagerness in her air. She entered slowly, and her
greeting was not without formality. He looked in her face, and saw it
changed. The varied play and animation of her countenance, was for the
moment at least gone, and was replaced by a gravity too little suited to
her features to sit naturally or pleasantly upon them. It was plain she
was acting a part, but wherefore he could not imagine.
“I did not know you were in London, Mr. Addison,” she began, as she
seated herself. “When did you come?”
“Only yesterday; and I go back, a part of the way, at least to-day. I
would not go without an attempt to see you. I am glad to find you at
home.”
“Thank you for coming. I am very seldom out, for I have no where I care
to go to. How are they all at Audley Court? I have not heard from Hope
for ages; nor written to her, to say the truth. How is she?”
Hope’s name was spoken without embarrassment. It was evident, that to
her, at least, Hope appeared in no other light, than as Robert’s devoted
sister.
“I left her well,” he replied, gravely, yet relieved by her
unconsciousness on that point.
“I suppose she is as good, and doing as much good as ever. Oh! how good
she is!” and Angela suddenly lost her formal manner and sighed like her
own self.
“She is indeed,” he replied, anxious to follow her lead, and to win her
to converse without restraint. “She has a very peculiar character. She
always reminds me of the words of the old writer, Fuller, about Lady
Jane Grey. ‘She had the innocency of childhood, the beauty of youth, the
solidity of middle, the gravity of old age, and all at eighteen.’”
“Yes, that is exactly like her,” Angela said smiling. She then relapsed
into thought, and after a little reflection, added, “It is something so
far beyond the goodness of common people, that I feel it is no use for a
common person to try to be like her.”
“I am sorry you say so, her character may be unlike ours, but her
goodness, though we may not attain to it, is only what we all should
_try_ to attain.”
“_We!_” Angela said, with something of scorn, “you may be as good as
you please, Mr. Addison, I cannot.”
“Why?” he asked with interest.
“Because I cannot,” she replied, with momentary passion, and then drew
herself up, and was silent.
“I think you mistake,” he said gravely, “no temptation ever assails us
but there is a way of escape.”
She gave him a quick glance, but only shook her head, and said no more.
“Have you read any of the books I gave you?” he asked, after a short
silence, and asked it in a quiet friendly way, anxious only to make her
feel he _was_ a friend.
“Yes I have, indeed,” she replied readily, “I have never forgotten what
you advised me. I read a little bit every day, and I like it. That one
right thing I do.”
“That is good,” he said, with a slight kind smile; then, after a
moment’s consideration, added, “And do you try to follow the advice
given you! To read is good, but it will not be good unless we try to
practise what we know.”
“And that I do not,” she replied sadly.
“But why, Miss Gresham? I only say _try_. Dear Miss Gresham, surely you
try?”
“No, I do not. I have given up trying. Things may go just as they
please. I shall try to be good no more.”
“That is a fearful thing to say,” he said, with a seriousness that
startled her.
Tears came into her eyes, and she added quickly, “Perhaps I do not quite
mean that. I only mean that I am very bad now, and that I see no hope of
ever being better.”
“You seem unhappy,” he asked kindly.
“Not very happy, certainly, but it does not matter. I never was happy,
and I see I never shall be--but it does not matter. Nothing matters in
this world, I think.”
“I differ from you there, Miss Gresham. I am an old man, and you are
young, and I can tell you from experience that a long life of sorrow is
a trying thing. No habit makes it bearable, and nothing but the grace of
God can lead a man safely through its temptations and its pains.” He
spoke solemnly, alarmed at the mood in which he found her.
“I suppose you are right,” she replied, the tears that had sprung into
her eyes falling on her cheeks, “but one grows reckless.”
“Reckless--from what?” He had intended not to question, but the
circumstances forced the enquiry from him.
“No matter. I cannot tell you.”
After this answer, she again drew herself up, and remained silent. So
did Mr. Addison. When next he spoke it was to get up, and wish her
good-bye. “I must leave you now,” he said, with his grave kindness, “for
I have not much time to spare for visits to-day. Only, dear Miss
Gresham, before I go, let me remind you that if ever you are in want of
help or advice you will find a willing friend and adviser in me; and
remember also that man is responsible for all his actions, and for none
more so than for going into temptation with his eyes open. Now
good-bye,” and he held out his hand to her.
She did not take it. “Did you come up to London to see me?” she asked
with sudden agitation.
“No. My _business_ was with another.”
“With whom?”
“With Robert Vavasour,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation.
“You know then that he is in London? You have seen him?”
“Yes,” he said, sadly, “we all know now of his return.”
Angela paused a moment, then averting her eyes, while a torrent of blood
crimsoned her cheeks, and even the very tips of her fingers, asked,
“Have you heard anything about me?”
“Certainly, rumours have reached me that concern you.”
“And what--what do you think of me?”
“Nay, Miss Gresham,” he replied, “it is not for me to judge of this
matter. Your own heart only can decide whether such a step is justified
or not.”
“I don’t know what justified means,” she said, agitatedly. “There is no
help. Did I not truly say that it was in vain for me to hope to be
better than I am. Things must take their chance. I have no power to
fight against them.”
“You speak as if you were the sport of the winds. Forgive me for saying
so, but it is a childish form of speech. We are all free. You are free
in this matter, as in every other, if you will.”
“I am not free,” she said, passionately, “and when you know all you will
say so. Let me tell you how it stands. Mr. Vavasour came here some weeks
ago _in secret_. He told me it was in secret, and I agreed to let it be
so. There was my first folly; but my life is so weary, so dull, so cold,
so joyless, and at that time I was so miserable, so without hope, that I
could not give up the pleasure of having him come, for it was a pleasure
in its way. And then he came and came again, and again, and it made me
happier, and I never thought why he came; and then at last I did see why
he came, and _then_ I know I ought to have drawn back, and shown him
that I did not wish for _that_; but I did not do what I ought, I never
do. I don’t know what came over me, I don’t know how I could behave as I
did; but though I saw, and though I did not, and never could, care for
him, I went on in the same way, and told him all my griefs, and let him
amuse me as before. And so it went on; and now he has spoken to papa,
and papa has spoken to me, and it is all settled between them. I told
papa what I felt. I told him it must not, should not, ought not to be;
but he answers me I should have thought of that before; and I should;
he is right there. And so it is over now. Yesterday I was mad, but
to-day I have given up speaking, and given up caring. Let them do with
me as they please. When one is miserable it matters very little what
happens, and I submit.” She paused in her hurried narrative, and looked
up in his face. It was the intent grave gaze that was fastened on her
that drew her to gaze in return. As she met his looks she sat down and
buried her face in her hands. “I know what you mean,” she said, in a
broken voice, “but that is all past. Papa says with his consent it
never, never shall be, and I know,” and there was a moment’s proud
bitterness in her speech, “that without his consent it will not even be
desired; and so life is altogether miserable, and I hardly care what
becomes of me.”
“But after all you have said,” Mr. Addison at length replied in a voice
so calm and grave, that it awed her into stillness, “a right and a
wrong way remains. You may have been wrong in the past, you may be
miserable in the present, but such considerations are not serious enough
to affect the solemnity of your present decision. If there is nothing in
your heart or conscience to forbid this union, do not think I would urge
you to oppose your father’s wishes; but if there is, let nothing, not
even obedience to him, tempt you to consent to it.”
“There is,” she murmured.
“If it be so, then, dear Miss Gresham, pause and consider. Marriage is a
solemn thing, dare not to trifle with it. Think of the moment when you
will stand to take your vows in the presence of God; vows which may lead
you, and not you only, into temptations, unguessed, unknown, above your
strength to bear.”
“Oh! Mr. Addison, what must you think of me?” Angela exclaimed, bending
her head over the table and bursting into tears.
“Not very harshly,” he said, gently touching her bright hair with his
hand, “only as one weak and tempted, and too much blinded by
disappointment and excitement, to remember that for all these things God
will bring you into judgment. But you are awake now,” he added.
“Yes; yes; I see it all too terribly clear. I have, indeed, been mad.
Oh! Mr. Addison, will you save me? Will you say to my father what you
have said to me? Will you?--can you?”
“I could, and I would,” he replied, kindly, “if I thought it right. If
you were as some are, too weak to save yourself, I would try to save
you. But you know you have strength if you choose to exert it; and
considering all things, considering how you have up to this moment
acted, it seems most just, most fitting, most dutiful to your father
that you should now act for yourself. Take courage. Speak to him, not
with childish impetuosity, but with the thought and the principle a
woman and a responsible being should have. I think he will hear you. If
not, if you have difficulties, then write to me. I must hasten back
to-day to Audley Court, for I left them all in much trouble, but a word
from you will bring me up again; and remember that it is not my wish
only, but my bounden duty to help you.”
“I will try,” she said, humbly. “I don’t know what comes over me. I am
mad sometimes, I believe. I ought to have a guide always.”
“It might, perhaps, be good for you, for you are young, and too much
carried about with blasts of passion. But you have a guide, and not a
silent one I know, in your own good conscience. Try to still other
voices, and to hearken to it. And now farewell, and God bless you. Act
rightly this time, dear Miss Gresham, and it will bring a blessing on
all your days. I do not mean an earthly blessing,” he added gravely, as
he saw a flash of light sweep over her face, “That must be as it pleases
God to grant, but the better blessing of a truer and purer heart, and
judgment for the future.”
“I will try,” she again repeated, and he left her.
She remained where he parted from her in deep thought; and so sat, her
head in her hands, for the chief part of the afternoon. Her thoughts
were deeper, sadder, humbler than they had ever been in her life before.
She was, as many are, in the habit of laying the burden of her
aberrations from the right way, on her _circumstances_. It is a pleasant
way of relieving the conscience, and so satisfactory a solution of men’s
frailties, that when once the flattering unction is applied, the eyes
willingly and obediently close to the fact that the seat of error is not
outward but within. But this reasoning does not do where the conscience
is really touched; and as in shame and terror Angela contemplated the
step she had been about to take, she was, for the time at least, most
truly humbled in her own eyes.
When Mr. Gresham entered the room she rose up and went to meet him, and
with all the quietness and seriousness Mr. Addison could have desired,
said, “I have made up my mind, papa, and I will not marry Mr. Vavasour.”
Mr. Gresham was startled, certainly startled at the abruptness of this
declaration; but he had long noted down in his mind as a fact to be
remembered, that the caprices of the female character were unfathomable;
and he was, therefore, after a moment prepared to deal with them
patiently.
“You must excuse me, my love,” he replied mildly, “if I decline to enter
into a fresh discussion of the subject. It was discussed yesterday; and
I am too well aware of the changeableness of the disposition of young
women to be willing to waste the time that might be better employed, in
a prolonged examination of a question that is settled. Believe me, my
love, all has been arranged for the best, for _your_ welfare, and _my_
happiness.” He slightly waved his hand as a conclusion to the speech,
and was about to turn away, when Angela spoke again.
“I have not changed, papa; I told you yesterday, that I could not do it
with a good conscience; I told you that I did not and could never love
Mr. Vavasour. You cannot say I have changed. I only submitted when I
could argue no more. But now, after deep thought, I find I cannot
submit. I should be miserable and guilty if I did. I do not love him,
and I will not marry him.”
“Pardon me, my love, you are mistaken in this matter; I have watched
you, as your natural guardian should, and I have seen with pleasure,
with singular pleasure, the interest you take in Mr. Vavasour’s society.
Trust me, I am better able to act in this business than a young
inexperienced woman like yourself. I am fully satisfied that I have
ensured your happiness, and I shall act accordingly.”
“If you will not hear me or believe me, Papa,” Angela exclaimed more
excitedly, “it must be to Mr. Vavasour that I must explain myself. He
will, he _shall_ understand.”
“Be it so, my love,” said Mr. Gresham blandly, feeling convinced of the
irresistable power of Robert’s persuasions. “Allow me to remark,
however, that you appear to me to forget the delicacy of the female
character in your tone and manners on this occasion. I mentioned to you
what was likely to occur, that you might be prepared to express yourself
in the proper manner; but it is not usual, I believe, for a young woman
to give her mind to such subjects before the decisive moment has
arrived. Banish, therefore, my love, such idle fancies from your mind,
and occupy yourself with the natural and elegant occupations becoming to
young ladies of your age and position.”
Angela’s heart swelled with anger and disdain, but she made no further
remark. Her look was intended to convey her inflexible resolution; but
Mr. Gresham’s eyes were impervious to looks. He walked to the door, then
turned back to observe.
“Mr. Addison called and asked for me to-day, I understand. I regret that
I was out. I am anxious to shew every civility in my power to the
friends of the Vavasour family. Did you see him, my love?”
“Yes,” she said colouring, “he paid me a long visit.”
“What was his object in London?”
“He told me he came to see Mr. Vavasour.”
“Indeed!” with a strong expression of surprise. “He is aware ...
ahem!... I hope he left the elder Mr. Vavasour in good health.”
“He said he left them all in much trouble. He did not say why--but I
guess it was from what they had heard about Mr. Robert Vavasour.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Gresham repeated, and an uncomfortable sensation for the
first time agitated his breast. Wrapt in his own objects, and in the
thought and pride of the generous designs he entertained towards the
Vavasour family, he had really and truly forgotten all that Robert’s
parents might be supposed to feel on the occasion.
He swallowed down a something he did not quite understand, a touch of
perturbation and self reproach that was neither common nor comfortable,
with effort, and was obliged to dive deep into his mind before he found
a moral aphorism suited to offer consolation in the emergency. At length
two truisms presented themselves, and were accepted. First,
“Circumstances command all men,” and Secondly, “No great object is ever
attained without a sacrifice.” These truths were effectual in driving
away the annoyance of the moment. He thought of the sacrifice he was
making, in thus submitting to circumstances, the last he would have
chosen in which to accomplish his designs, and the pang of self reproach
was followed by a feeling of a totally opposite nature.
“I regret to hear it,” he therefore replied with much politeness, and,
smoothing his brow, left the room.