Chapter IV

See where he sits, contemplative and fixed!
Pleasure and wonder in his features mixed;
His passions tamed, and all at his control,
How perfect the composure of his soul!
Complacency has breathed a gentle gale
O’er all his thoughts, and swell’d his easy sail.
COWPER.

We must now go backwards for a few years, to make acquaintance with, and follow, some new characters; until their history (within two months of Robert’s coming of age) becomes linked with those to whom we are already known.

Before a blazing fire, in a large drawing room in Portland Place, a gentleman stood alone.

It was seven o’clock; and he was awaiting the arrival of a number of guests invited to a dinner-party. The room was splendidly furnished. The massy frames of the mirrors seemed drooping under the weight of their magnificence; the stiff, rich damask of the furniture seemed to repel with scorn the idea of repose. One glance around the room proclaimed that the owner was rich, and that his riches were by no means distasteful to him.

It was the owner who stood warming himself on the hearth. He was a handsome man, and there was none of the vulgarity of his mansion in his air. His figure was tall; his features good, and though their natural expression was inanimate and pompous, the light of an intense self-complacency shone upon them from within, and gave them intelligence. In this self-complacency there was, however, no appearance of vanity or conceit; it was something so simple and truthful as to give almost an air of _bonhommie_ to his demeanour.

As was the outward, so was the inward man. Mr. Gresham was a banker, possessed of large and increasing riches; and to these riches his heart was given. But, in him, wealth was not a sordid passion. He could be generous and lavish; he could give in charity, or assist struggling merit. If he was without warmth, he had kindliness. But all he did proceeded from one source. He lived in the eyes of the world. To _show_ was his delight. As things _showed_, according to their degree of merit in that respect, so were they valued. This, perhaps, is no very uncommon quality; but there _was_ something uncommon in the open simplicity with which his views were avowed. He had no concealments about it. His opinions were, in his eyes, as wise as they were cherished; and with perfect truth he expressed them. Like Mr. Bye-Ends, in the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” he would have said, with unhesitating satisfaction, “I am always most zealous for religion when he goes in silver slippers; and love much to walk with him in the street, when the sun shines, and the people applaud him.” This truthfulness redeemed his character from common-place worldliness; for where an amused smile is caused scorn is disarmed.

He now stood and gazed around him with a satisfied air. The room was over-lighted, if that is possible; the masses of gilding shone like pure gold; every article of furniture was profusely ornamented; and every article, and every ornament, had a double being in the light of the numerous mirrors. He was satisfied: not a fault was to be found. The eyes of the world would own, not only his wealth, but, what was more precious, how lavishly he spent it.

The door opened, and a lady entered; a pretty young woman, of about six-and-twenty; but, though pretty, very unlike Mr. Gresham or his room. She was ill-dressed; walked ill; and seemed altogether ill at ease. This was Mrs. Gresham.

A slight frown contracted Mr. Gresham’s brow, as she made her approach. His wife was the one thing that disturbed his comfort. Not that he was an unkind husband--in his way he had a real affection for her--but she offended his taste. There was no show about her. Even her prettiness had no show. She made no use of it.

There had been a time when his riches had not seemed so secure a possession as of late they had been; a time when, without any worldly desires, so, at least, it seemed to him, it was his duty to secure certain sums, over which the chances of life would have no power. At that time he married the pretty daughter of a millionaire, who had but lately struggled up into the eyes of the world; and who was, therefore, not aware of all that those eyes would demand from his children. Mr. Gresham knew all the disadvantages under which his chosen one laboured. He knew she was uneducated; he saw that she had no grace or accomplishment. But she was young and pretty, simple and docile; whatever fancy he had was taken by her fresh beauty, and her grateful admiration of himself; and the rest he thought might be given. She only wanted an air, and a becoming sense of dignity to make her all he desired, and when once _his_ wife, that would be an easy acquisition.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may he, there are some natures on which even the best instructions will not tell. After nine years of married life, after instruction and example, notwithstanding a blind admiration of her husband’s superiority, and an intense desire to please him, Mrs. Gresham remained unchanged. Simple and docile, still, ungraceful and ill-dressed. Advancing years cultivated unconsciously the inner and moral being. She became more gentle, loving, truthful, and refined; but she could not, with her best endeavour, learn worldliness; she could not be a fine lady; she could not understand her own dignity, or learn to have one thought of herself; it was a bad job, and Mr. Gresham owned it. On that one point his complacency was vulnerable. Untired, however, and undismayed, he persisted in his instructions, and Mrs. Gresham in her endeavour to learn.

With a scrutinizing air he inspected her this day, as she advanced towards him. It was a first dinner party in a new house. All things shewed well. He expected his wife to do the same.

“My dear Marianne,” he exclaimed, in grave displeasure, “your gown is shabby! What is the cause?”

“Is it shabby?” she said, colouring with penitence and regret, “I thought it was pretty. I thought it would do.”

“Would do,” he repeated, in calm contempt. “Once more, Marianne, let me remind you that I choose to see you dressed as becomes your station. Look here,” and he drew her towards one of the long mirrors, “ask yourself--is such a dress as this becoming the mistress of these apartments? You might be my housekeeper--scarcely my governess--never my wife.”

He was quite right. Her dress was _not_ becoming her station. Though composed of silk--and perhaps good silk--it was faded, tumbled, tastelessly trimmed, and badly put on. The poor thing coloured crimson again. She did feel out of place--she owned it.

“I am very sorry,” she said gently, “I will order a new gown to-morrow.”

“Not one new gown: order many. It is a remarkable thing that while most men complain of the extravagance of their wives, I cannot get mine to dress with decency. If, as some husbands do, I ordered you to dress, and gave you no means of doing so, it might be a different question; but how is it with me? I say, go where you please, spend what you please, and command me. It is my pride and delight to put myself at your orders.” His countenance glowed with satisfaction at his boundless liberality.

“You are very kind,” his wife said, humbly and gratefully. “I wish I deserved it better.”

There was a knock at the door; a “Come in,” from Mr. Gresham; and a little girl, freeing herself from the hands of her nurse, bounded into the room.

“Come here, Angela,” said her father. But the child did not notice him. “Mamma, mamma, dear mamma!” she cried, and springing to her mother’s neck, clasped her arms about her, to the further detriment of the toilette.

“Come to me, Angela--come when I call you,” Mr. Gresham repeated.

“I choose to stay with mamma,” she replied wilfully, and retained her place.

“You must not, my darling,” her mother murmured in her ear. “Papa calls--to please me, go.”

After a little consideration, Angela obeyed. She approached her father, and stood coldly and quietly by his side.

“I want to look at you,” he said, twisting her round, and examining her dress. After a moment he added, with dissatisfaction, “You look after her dress no better than your own, Marianne. Let her have silk frocks, I am tired of this muslin. Every pauper can wear muslin.”

“Angela does not like silk,” observed his wife.

“Folly and nonsense, to talk of a child’s taste. What can she know of the matter? I beg I may be obeyed.”

“I won’t have silk. I don’t like it,” the little girl said, vehemently; “it rustles so, and it makes Margaret tiresome. She tells me to be still and to mind my frock, and I don’t like it. I don’t like to take care--”

“Quite right, my little girl,” cried her father, delighted, “why should you take care? Tell Margaret not to talk nonsense. Tell her you may spoil as many frocks as you please, and that I don’t want you to take care.”

“But may I, really?” and Angela looked for an answer to her mother.

“You may, indeed; you have my leave for it. You shall have new silk frocks, and you may spoil them all as fast as you please.”

“And you must give the old ones to Margaret’s poor little nieces,” suggested the kind mother--unconsciously dropping her balm into the poison of his words.

“Oh! mamma, may I indeed spoil my things as fast as I can? May I blow bubbles with my best frocks on; and may I dig a hole, and fill it with water; and may Margaret never tell me not to make a mess again? Oh! what fun it will be!” and she clapped her hands in rapture.

The trio were interrupted by the entrance of the first guest. It was a lady--and a fine one, with a languid voice. After paying due attention to her host and hostess, she called Angela to her side.

“Come here, my sweet child, and tell me what will be good fun.”

But Angela stood immoveable. She had strong tastes; and, at first sight, this lady displeased her.

“She is to have as many silk frocks as she pleases,” her father observed, taking her reluctant hand, and leading her, mute and rigid, to his guest.

“Dear, how nice,” said the lady, caressingly, “and what a lucky little mortal you are. My chicks will be so jealous; for they have but one or two silk frocks in a year.”

“But I hate silk frocks!” Angela burst out vehemently; “and I didn’t say it would be good fun to have them; and papa shouldn’t have said I did, because it was a story.”

Mr. Gresham laughed. His little girl’s ways did not displease him. She was not, indeed, what he intended her to be; but, at present, she fulfilled the object of life tolerably well; she attracted that is, her due degree of attention.

“Hush, my love,” said her gentle mother, drawing her back, and seating her beside her, “that is not the right way to speak;” but the soft stroke of her curls, and the gentle touch on her fair, fat shoulders, spoke no lesson of displeasure.

She sat quietly while the party assembled. She was a lovely and a taking child, with a Hebe countenance of health and animation; and many were the attentions and compliments she received. But she was as capricious as a spoiled beauty in her choice. This night the party was not to her taste, and she made no concealment of her feelings.

An old gentleman watched her with amusement, and having seen her repulse with disdain the caresses of three good-looking young gentlemen and as many young ladies, who concealed their inward merits under overmuch outward airs and graces, approached her to try his chance.

“May I kiss you?” he said, stooping towards her, “I should rather like it.”

“Margaret does not like _everybody_ to kiss me,” she said, loftily, “but _you_ may;” and she put up her blooming cheek to receive his caress.

“You are very kind to me,” he said, seating himself by her side, with a smile, “and now will you tell me why you are kinder to me than to those young gentlemen yonder?”

“Because I like you best,” she said readily.

“That is being very good-natured; particularly, as you don’t know anything about me. Do you know it makes me such a vain old man, that I must ask you the reason why?”

“I like mamma twenty times better than papa,” was Angela’s not very pertinent answer.

“Oh!” he observed, not quite certain how this confidence should be received. “But I was not talking about your papa and mamma. I was talking about number one. Why do you like me? Is it because I have got a bald head, and an old coat, and no gloves, and a face all smothered in wrinkles,” and he screwed up his features into a ridiculous caricature of age.

“Yes, yes!” Angela cried with delight, “that is why I like you best.”

“Then I need not do so any more, to please young ladies;” and he drew down his nose and forehead till the wrinkled skin looked like a pavement.

Angela screamed, and clapped her hands; but seeing that she was noticed, and that one of the good-looking young gentlemen was moving towards her, she drew herself up, and became as cold and demure as a moment before she had been animated and gay.

The old man smiled at her youthful airs, and fell into a reverie.

In the dining-room he managed to place himself by Mrs. Gresham’s side. He had an interest in the family, and some sleeping interest in the banking-house to which Mr. Gresham belonged; but ill health kept him generally abroad.

“I have been talking to that little lady of yours,” he observed; when she relaxed her painful endeavours to play the lady of the house to a stranger at her side.

With cordiality and gratitude she turned to him at once. “I saw you and Angela making acquaintance; it was very kind of you. I am afraid she was not very good to-night; but we must not expect too much. She is so young.”

“She was quite good enough for me,” he said, emphatically. “I am not fond of over sweet sugar-plums. She is the kind of animal--I beg her pardon--that I like to have to do with; full of life and character. What is her name?”

“Angela. She was called so after Mr. Gresham’s grandmother, who was, I believe, a very beautiful woman.”

“She is badly named. There is nothing of the angel about her.”

“You must not judge of her by to-night,” Mrs. Gresham said, with anxiety, “indeed you must not. She was a little annoyed before you came, and she did not quite recover herself; but she is a good child in general; indeed she is!”

“My dear Madam,” he said, with an impatient smile, “I can see that; a good child in her way, but no angel, nor would I wish to have her so. I hope some time to find the angels good company; but while I am a human being, human beings suit best with my infirmities. Miss Angela is a human being, and one which I fancy may some day give you a good deal of trouble.”

The fond and simple mother again began her protestations and apologies; but they were received as if they were not heard.

“I don’t know if you find it so,” he continued, in a thoughtful tone, “but some people set me thinking. I cannot help picturing what their life and trials may be; that little lady of yours, for instance. As I watched her, my fancy went on into future days, days when questions of marrying and giving in marriage may arise. There will be trouble, I guess. She has a will of her own, and a rarer acquisition, opinions of her own: and in some cases this is not very convenient.”

“Angela may be a little wilful, perhaps,” said her mother, “but she is so affectionate and so generous, that it is always a pleasure to her to give up her will for those she loves.”

“That’s something--cultivate that; your little girl’s safeguard will be in teaching her to love wisely and well. She needs education, let me tell you; not book-learning, but something to guide her good, wild heart. You must give her an anchor to rest upon; that life’s trials may soften, not break her spirit.”

“We all have our trials,” observed Mrs. Gresham, quietly, “please God, Angela may not have a large share.”

“Amen, with all my heart. She is a taking little thing, and though I shall not probably live to see it, will be a lovely and interesting woman. If I held the thread of her destiny, I would spin her a full yarn without a knot or tangle in it. But after all this might not be for her good; and so we must be content to leave her in wiser hands than ours, for her pilgrimage through this sweet yet weary world.” Perceiving that his conversation was little better than Greek to his simple hostess, the old man here paused, and the subject was changed.

Angela Gresham grew up.

Mr. Gresham was certainly unfortunate in the soil committed to his care and husbandry. He scattered his good seed as laboriously and unceasingly on the heart of his daughter as he had done on that of his wife, but with even less success. Mrs. Gresham received, and cherished the seed, and it was no fault of hers that it withered and died. Angela, like the hard and beaten wayside, stubbornly rejected it.

Mr. Gresham had an ideal in his head: and to this ideal his daughter was to be formed. She was to be polished in manner, easy in conversation--a well-bred, well-dressed, showy and accomplished woman. To attain this object, no expense was spared. The all-importance of the world’s opinion was held up unceasingly to her view; and father, mother, and teachers, all united in their endeavours, to season her impressible mind with vain-glory and self-conceit.

But all in vain. To learn, indeed, Angela submitted with a good grace, for she had an inquiring and intelligent mind; but she learned for the pleasure of learning, and rebelliously refused to exhibit, or even to make the best of her attainments. With quick intuition, she perceived her father’s love for the world’s estimation: and she early took the world to her utter scorn. Her father cared for the world’s words--she held all opinions in contempt.

There is always something noble in the eyes that look right through the shows of things, and are unsatisfied till the reality is found; but scorn of the world’s ways, when held as a principle, is unsafe. A very host of rebellious and bitter thoughts Angela cherished in her breast, and in her scorn of show, many a wise restraint was cast away.

If left to herself, and to her father’s influence, she might possibly have grown up, in spite of a truthful and virtuous nature, an unpleasing woman; but there was a counter influence at work, not the less powerful that it was unconscious.

Mrs. Gresham did her best, employed the full purpose of her mind to act with her husband, and ruin her daughter. Conscious of her own deficiencies, she contemplated with admiration those outward graces her husband approved, and assisted in all his attempts to turn a natural character into an artificial one. This was what she endeavoured to do; but the unconscious influence, be it good or bad, is the active one. Soft as the falling of the dew on a tender herb, fell the influence of the mother’s unworldly nature on the daughter’s impressible mind. Too simple for systems, too unreflective for principles, Mrs. Gresham could not teach didactically, even the first elements of religious knowledge; but there is a natural religion of the heart which nothing can conceal; and humility, charity, and reverence flowed with never-ceasing flow from her thoughts, words, and actions.

In early days this influence was apparently without effect. Angela was a rebellious child; and her self-willed spirit startled her father and grieved her mother. To the latter, indeed, she was gentle, and though not submissive, loving; but her father she did not love; his ways she thwarted and opposed; and many a tear Mrs. Gresham shed in secret, as the clash of opposing characters brought discord into her home. But then came a time of bitter trial; and with trial, reflection and remembrance. Mrs. Gresham died--the only being Angela loved. It seemed a hard deprivation; it seemed a loss as severe to her well-being, as to her happiness. Influenced only by love, stubborn to restraint, the loss of love seemed a loss irreparable. So man argues. So it seemed wise to argue; but this was not the only case in which man’s arguments prove fallacious. Some influence more in death or absence than in presence; it was so with Mrs. Gresham. The dead mother guided where the living could not. _Alive_, Angela with her superior cleverness was the victor in every argument; _dead_, her mother’s least remembered word vanquished her. _Alive_, example failed; the gentle submission of the wife to the husband irritated the daughter’s soul; _dead_, Angela recalled, only to love that gentleness; and perforce was drawn to imitate. _Alive_, Mrs. Gresham was no bond between the father and daughter; _dead_, she became so: for each in their measure mourned her, and in that sympathy found a kindred nature. Mr. Gresham loved his wife as much as he loved anybody, and grieved for her as much as he could grieve. It was not great, but in its measure it was sincere grief. He comforted himself by the splendour of her funeral; but the gaudy trappings of woe were not all show. A sad heart heat beneath. Angela’s grief was wild, ardent, undisciplined; it was the loss of all to her; she was disposed to think that none grieved, none could mourn but her; but when, with a real tear in his eye, and a real tremble in his voice, her father told her to take her mother’s place, she owned the reality of his sorrow, and a link, slight indeed, yet still a link, was knit between them.

Angela was fifteen when her mother died. From that time her character grew in various directions. Like a tree that has lost its leader, her branches fell luxuriantly, but irregularly--producing a kind of picturesqueness on the whole, yet being not the less irregular. Something she lost in strength, much she gained in amiableness; self-will was still dominant, but it was no longer sole lord. She wished to please herself, and scorned most opinions but her own; but she also wished to be like her mother; she wished to be, for her sake, a tolerable daughter to her father; she wished also passionately, yet vaguely, to be good, and to follow her mother on the path to heaven. These opposing wishes, this strife of good principles, with faults and caprices, made her a mass of inconsistencies--and inconsistency is childish. She was sometimes like a woman, and sometimes a foolish child. More childish at sixteen than at ten, because more inconsistent.