Chapter XI

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.”