Chapter VII

There stood a maiden near
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair
In gloss and hue the chestnut....
Then, wondering, asked her, “Are you from the Farm?”
TENNYSON--_The Brook._

In the garden of Audley Court, Robert Vavasour and Mr. Addison, (the clergyman of the parish) awaited the coming of Hope and Everard. It was an afternoon early in September.

Mr. Addison was about fifty, a grave and quiet man. Like his namesake, the _Spectator_, he had been distinguished all his life by a “profound silence;” but his silence had nothing repelling; it was, on the contrary, an inviting silence, giving him admirable qualities as a listener and adviser. Observant, kindly, serious, and thoughtful, he made his way along his path of life--dropping as he could, and where he could, his words of sympathy, warning, or wisdom. “That man has a history,” many said who watched his serious eyes, and slight, grave smile; but it was not so; that is, not according to the meaning of the phrase. His history was but the history of man in general. Some early hopes; some early wanderings; some disappointments; some pleasures; some deeper joys and sorrows scattered here and there; through these he had worked out experience in man’s nature; wisdom to warn and soothe; patience with this world; and hope for a better.

He was seated now on a bit of terrace wall; observant as usual. His eyes were on Robert, and there was interest in their gaze. He watched his movements as he restlessly wandered to and fro. He was going from bed to bed, from bush to bush, gathering flowers, at random, as it seemed, yet evidently guided by some taste or fancy. He picked a bunch of the prettiest the garden afforded; then paused; and after some examination of the bunch, selected two. These he placed with care in his button-hole; the rest in all their freshness and beauty were cast away, some trampled under his foot.

“So will the good dispositions of his heart be thoughtlessly thrown away.” Thus Mr. Addison silently mused, and there was a sigh in his heart, though it made no sound. For he only, undazzled by the force and charm of his penitence, saw the old nature, the old lack of principle, apparent as ever within.

Robert now came towards him, swinging his cane and switching the bushes as he walked along. His air was more thoughtful than usual; and once or twice he looked at his chosen flowers with a kind of softness in his gaze. Mr. Addison’s eyes fell on them also, and a thought, no new one, passed through his mind. Why had his choice been made? The flowers were a white carnation, without spot or stain, and a white rose with the faintest and softest blush in the centre. Was there something in his nature to which the purity of those flowers appealed? Were they emblems of another love struggling with his worser qualities?

“Are you tired of waiting, Mr. Addison?” Robert said.

“No, where are the others?”

“My father called Hope to write a letter, and Everard is at his toilette. He fell into a ditch when he was shooting, and did not think himself smart enough for our company.”

“Were you not shooting, Robert?”

“Not to day. What do you think I have been doing to day?”

“I cannot guess.”

“Drawing a saint,” he said, with a slight flush on his cheek, “that is, taking Hope’s picture.”

“And have you succeeded?”

“No! how should I?” he replied, in a peculiar tone, “I have not the key.”

A silence succeeded; both remained thoughtful. Robert disturbed the stones in the gravel-walk, dug them up, and trampled them in again. At length he said, “I liked your sermon yesterday, Mr. Addison.”

“Did you listen to it, Robert?” Mr. Addison said, seriously; “that is not usual, is it?”

“No, it is not; that I confess. I listened for a reason. That bit at the beginning took my fancy; that picture of charity. It was a quaint bit, and I thought like Hope. Did you think of her when you wrote it?”

“It was not mine--it was from Jeremy Taylor.”

“Did you think of her?” he repeated.

“No, but it is like her, as all pictures of heavenly charity must be.”

“People talk of the impossibility of perfection,” Robert began with some vehemence, “but they talk stuff, or they have not seen Hope. Whoever of us is so happy as to reach the kingdom of Heaven will find nothing there in body or spirit more perfect than her.”

“I almost feel as you do, Robert. Do you like the picture of what we may find there?”

Robert coloured a little, then with unwonted seriousness, though with excitement, replied, “Is it not strange Mr. Addison, that those who see virtue in a form so lovely, that they are compelled to worship and adore; yet cannot yield to its influence, nor follow it.”

“It shows at least, dear Robert,” said his companion, with a grave tenderness in his voice, “that the mind is heaven, though the flesh may yet be earth. The day will come when both together will worship.”

“You think better of me than I deserve,” Robert said, with some passion. “I admire, but I do not know that I even wish to imitate.”

“Cherish, then, the admiration as the best gift of God. To admire good is to be good, at least in a degree.”

A silence again followed. Robert still pursued his occupation of disordering and re-adjusting the stones in the walk.

Thought--some internal conflict, was evidently at work within. Mr. Addison guessed its nature--guessed it still more nearly, when he saw the light on his countenance when Hope appeared from the house. But he made no attempt to draw his feelings from him. There was that in his serious kindness which invited confidence, but he himself had a dread of confidences reposed before the time.

Hope was followed by Everard. Robert and Mr. Addison went forward to meet them.

A long walk was in prospect. Its object was to visit Underwood, the house and property lately purchased by Mr. Gresham.

By the road it was three or four miles from Audley Court, but across the two parks, which were united and separated by a little wood, a little stream, and a little bridge, not two. A maid of the house had been dangerously ill in the preceding week, and Mr. Addison had attended her. He wished to visit her on her recovery, and many ludicrous reports of the magnificence of the house and furniture having reached Audley Court, Robert, a being of universal curiosity, had expressed his intention of accompanying him.

“Now let us be off,” he said, shaking off his thoughtful mood without effort; “if Mr. Gresham should chance to be arrived, and we are caught prowling about, our guilt lies on Mr. Addison’s head. Mr. Addison, are you prepared to bear it?”

“The housekeeper assured me he was not expected till Wednesday; I think there is no fear.”

“After all, if we _are_ caught, what does it matter, we can but say ‘I hope I don’t intrude.’”

“We are the only people who have not seen Underwood,” Everard remarked, “so at least Stephens says. He went there yesterday, and is in such a frenzy of admiration, that I confess I am curious. I am sure he expects Mr. Gresham to arrive in a coach and six.”

“And so he will, I dare say,” said Robert, laughing, “or the Lord Mayor’s coach if he can get it. He is such a fool.”

“You have never seen his daughter, have you Robert?” enquired Hope.

“No, never. I have only seen Mr. Gresham twice. He invited me to dine with him, but I thought it would be a bore, and declined. She is very pretty I hear, and immensely rich I know. It is a fine opportunity for Everard. I thought of that as soon as ever I heard of her.”

“No thank you; no heiresses for me, I hate them.”

“That’s all nonsense, a bit of Vavasour pride. I have always had a conviction that you would marry an heiress; I bet you twenty pounds you do.”

“And I bet you twenty thousand I don’t,” with some unnecessary vehemence.

“I am too honourable to take it,” Robert replied, amused. “I foresee.... However, upon the whole, I agree with you in hating heiresses. Not because of what my father tells us about our forefathers, but from a feeling of my own, which is a better guide than the feelings of my ancestors. I don’t like a woman with money any better than I like a clever woman. Talents and money both put them too forward.”

“That is making yourself a lord of the creation indeed,” Everard said, laughing.

“Lords are better than ladies, are they not, Hope? Women were made for better things than to be clever.”

Before they reached Underwood, Robert endeavoured to shake the nerves of his companions, by picturing the awkwardness of their situation, should the new possessors have already taken possession of their abode.

Mr. Addison again assured him there was no fear; but as it happened, Robert’s anticipations were realized.

The shady paths of the wood emerged at once into the pleasure-grounds that skirted the inner garden; and before any precautions could be taken, Mr. Gresham and his curious visitors came face to face. He was walking down a broad gravel walk, about a quarter of a mile from the house, in apparent meditation or contemplation. His hands were joined under his coat-tails, his nose was uplifted, and an air of serene rapture sat upon his countenance.

The direction in which his eyes were turned, might have given his guests an opportunity to draw back unseen; but to escape, Robert had no desire. He made, indeed, movements and grimaces of consternation, which almost overset the gravity even of the grave people who accompanied him; but he stood his ground, and when the eyes came down from their upward flight, and Mr. Gresham became aware of the presence of strangers, he went forward with outward courteousness, though inward mirth, to explain the circumstances of the intrusion.

His reception was overwhelming in its politeness. Mr. Gresham would not hear of apology. He was happy in, he was grateful for, their coming. The advantage of associating with individuals bearing the name of Vavasour, had been his chief inducement in the purchase he had lately made. Anything that hastened that end was welcome to him. Intrusion was a word he could not permit; then, and always, he hoped Mr. Vavasour would make himself at home at Underwood.

With demure gravity Robert thanked him, and then begged to be allowed to introduce his companions. “This is Mr. Addison,” he said, “the clergyman of this parish; and though as a clergyman he ought to have known better, I feel it my duty to say that he was the guilty cause of our indiscretion to-day.”

“I hope,” said Mr. Gresham, blandly and bowing low, “that I shall profit by your future instructions as much as I have profited by those given to my young friend to-day.”

Mr. Addison only bowed. He had nothing to say.

“This,” continued Robert, “is my cousin Hope Linton, and this is my brother Everard.”

“I look forward, Miss Linton, with satisfaction to the advantage my daughter will inevitably derive from your society.” This was the speech that accompanied the bow to Hope--to Everard it was:--“I anticipate nothing but pleasure from the hope of adding another of the name of Vavasour to my list of friends.”

Having made his guests duly welcome, he invited them to return with him to the house. His address was to Robert. Robert was evidently the object of his idolatry. Robert, however, referred it to Hope; and Mr. Gresham was then profuse in his apologies for the omission of which he had been guilty.

Hope’s consent was given in few words.--She had no feeling of her own on the subject; no shyness, no fear of intrusion. She looked into Robert’s face, and saw he was desirous to go on, and was content.

Mr. Gresham led the way, attended by Robert and Mr. Addison. Everard and Hope followed. Mr. Gresham explained, as they walked along, the cause of his unexpected arrival.

“I was threatened on Saturday with a cold in my head; I have a particular objection to a cold in my head. My medical adviser recommended change of air. I left London, therefore, with my daughter, and slept at a remarkably excellent inn about forty miles from here. And there,” bowing to Mr. Addison, “I made a point of passing Sunday, and attending Divine service.”

“I hope your cold is better, Mr. Gresham,” Robert asked.

“A complete cure. There is something very refreshing in the air of the country. We arrived here this afternoon; and I confess I already feel satisfaction in my late purchase, and promise myself much pleasure from my abode here, not the least part of which will be derived from my acquaintance with you, Mr. Vavasour, and your family.”

Underwood was, as has been already said, the picture of a “country seat.” It was a square, white, stone house, with two long lower wings. There was no especial charm about the place, but it was bright and fresh; and as the garden was full of flowers, and the park was prettily wooded, it had a certain degree of attraction.

Mr. Gresham evidently admired it exceedingly, and as they entered the house, observed, _en passant_, that there were four-and-twenty windows from wing to wing, which he believed was a large number. “How many windows were there at Audley Court?”

“I never counted,” Robert said, with assumed interest, “but I will as soon as ever I go home. I am sure, however, there are not four-and-twenty.”

“No,” observed Mr. Addison, with a desire to make himself agreeable also.

“Ah!” said Mr. Gresham, “I was told it was a large number.”

He led his guests into the drawing-room, and for a moment, put his hands under his coat-tails, and elevated his nose, while he observed the effects of the _coup d’œil_.

It was a long and very handsome room, magnificently, though tastelessly furnished; every slab and table glittering with _ormolu_, like Howell and James’.

“What a very fine room!” Robert said, never at a loss to express what was expected of him, but giving a side glance to Hope and Everard.

“It usurps to itself, you see, a large portion of those said windows,” Mr. Gresham observed, jestingly.

“You must have bought up all the silk and satin in England to make the curtains,” Robert replied.

Mr. Gresham smiled, and then said he would call his daughter. “Pray, Miss Linton, be seated. Gentlemen all, I hope you will make yourselves at home.”

“Say something witty, Everard, that I may relieve myself by a good laugh,” was Robert’s request.

“You are too bad,” was Everard’s reply. “He cannot be such a fool as not to see you are laughing.”

“I never made an acquaintance which gave me half as much pleasure as I anticipate from this one; what do you expect the daughter to be?”

“Something very fine,” said Everard, “there is no doubt about that! Here they come.”

There certainly was no doubt about the fineness. Angela’s silk flounces rustled, and her chains and bracelets rattled as she came in; but it was not her fineness, it was her beauty that struck every eye. She held her bonnet in her hand, and her luxuriant auburn curls fell about her face and shoulders. An air of shyness and diffidence, curiously mixed with mirth and expectation, gave a charm even greater than usual to her appearance, and a brighter colouring to her cheeks.

“My daughter, Miss Linton, Mr. Vavasour,” and then waving his hand around, he carelessly named Everard and Mr. Addison.

Angela blushed more deeply. She hardly raised her eyes as she returned the bows of each, and as if to make her escape, hurried to Hope, and smiling held out her hand.

There was nothing conventional in Hope’s manners. It would not have occurred to her to say she feared they had taken Miss Gresham by surprise, or any other polite phrase, but pleased with the frank cordiality of Angela’s manner, she said simply, “I am glad to make acquaintance with you.”

Angela sat down beside her, and began hurriedly to talk. She did not dare look up. What she had so lightly done, alarmed her now by the thought of its boldness.

Everard, meanwhile, had seen her with a sudden throb of pleasure. Her face had been the first which had much impressed his youthful fancy; and being the first, the impression was not even after two months entirely effaced. Yet, after the first instant of recognition, her air and general appearance was so totally different to the vision of his memory, that he laughed at himself for the moment’s folly. The process of remembering and laughing was, however, repeated a second time. Again, a third time, he examined her with puzzled curiosity; and again the half recognition was on the point of changing to derision, when Angela looked up and met his scrutinizing gaze. She blushed deeply, and immediately cast down her eyes; and this time the likeness to a former recollected movement was so exact, that he suddenly moved towards her and exclaimed--“Surely I have seen you before?”

“Yes,” she said, instantly regaining her self possession. “I was not certain that you remembered me.”

“I did,” he said, doubtingly, “and yet I did not. Even now I am puzzled. How is it?” And he looked at her with perplexity.

It is conscience that makes a coward. An answer to his perplexity was not difficult; but Angela’s conscience gave her a panic, and instead of replying, she blushed, looked annoyed, and made Everard, ever backward and sensitive, fearful that he had been presuming.

He stood by her in silence for a moment, then said, with constraint, and because he thought he ought to speak, “I hope Miss Price is better.”

Mr. Gresham was engaged with Robert, but at this name he turned round. “Are you acquainted with Miss Price?” he asked of Everard, with cold surprise.

“Yes, papa,” Angela said, with a quickness that relieved Everard from the fear of having given offence. “Mr. Vavasour was very kind to my aunt. I met him one day at her house.”

“Indeed,” he said, with uneasy politeness, “I am happy to hear Miss Price keeps such good company.”

Miss Price was his wife’s half sister, the daughter of her mother, not of her father, born many years before Mrs. Gresham. She was poor, and without grace or charm to attract the eyes of the world. Mr. Gresham had thought it right, and his bounden duty, therefore, to ignore as far as possible the relationship; and it was only since his wife’s death that his softened feelings had permitted Angela to keep up a slight acquaintance with her.

Now that he had been discovered, however, with a poor relation, he thought it best to put a good face on the matter, and Miss Price was the cause of his bestowing some attention on Everard.

“Miss Price,” he said, in a jesting tone, and in a slight degree elevating his nose, “does not trouble herself to keep exactly the society most suited to her station. In consequence, we meet but seldom. She is, however, an estimable person, and charitable, I understand, beyond due bounds.”

“I did not know Miss Price was connected with you till this moment,” Everard replied. “She seems very good, and I was glad to be of service to her.”

“I am sure she must have been duly sensible of the honour of your attentions; and I wonder she did not think it worth while to communicate the matter to me. I think also my daughter might have spoken on the subject; but better late than never, and I am happy in having this opportunity of offering you my thanks in person.”

His chest heaved with the pride of virtue in thus taking the obligation to Miss Price upon himself; and having done his duty, he returned to Robert.

Angela had listened tranquilly to the conversation until her father’s last observation. When he named _her_, she blushed, and turning quickly to Hope, began to talk to her. Everard saw the change, and could not help wondering what the cause might be.

The next movement of Mr. Gresham was to offer to show his guests the house; and having performed this office with a truthful and genuine delight in the _newness_ and magnificence of all he exhibited, he then gave them his company into the garden and a part of the way homewards.

In the garden, Mr. Addison, who had been to pay his purposed visit, rejoined them. During his absence, Robert having been Mr. Gresham’s special property, Everard and Hope had, through their peregrinations, been accompanied by Angela; but though Everard and Angela were already on easy terms, no recurrence had been made to their former meeting. Everard wondered at her silence on the subject, but could not a second time obtrude remarks which evidently were not desired.

When the wood was reached, at the entrance of which Mr. Gresham had first met his guests, he suffered them to take leave of him. His parting speeches were as polite and almost as elaborate as his greetings had been. Yet with some persons to be elaborate is no proof of insincerity; it is the habitual tone and form of their feelings, and so it was with Mr. Gresham.

As he proceeded home with his daughter, he enlarged on the gratification he had experienced during the visit. “Those are charming young people, Angela; I hope you are as much prepossessed in their favour as I am?”

“Yes, I like them all,” she replied, with warmth.

“I am glad to hear it. It is my wish that you should cultivate their society in every way they will permit. I understand from Mr. Vavasour, that he and his brother remain in this neighbourhood for three weeks. It is a fortunate circumstance, and I wish you to avail yourself of this opportunity for forming an acquaintance with them. The Vavasours are a remarkably old family--highly connected, and much esteemed by the world. I feel pride and pleasure in my neighbourhood to Audley Court, and I shall do so in any connexion I may hereafter make with the family. But of this enough. I shall show my respect to the elder Mr. Vavasour by calling on him to-morrow: though in point of etiquette I believe he ought to be the first to wait on me.”

If, with something of dread, Angela had awaited the expression of her father’s sentiments, she now with hopeful heedlessness cast all fear aside. The appearance of two Mr. Vavasours had indeed deranged many a pre-conceived idea; and a very decided leaning towards one, not diminished by her father’s apparent leaning to the other, had made her expect and fear a more clearly expressed admonition regarding a future connection. Since it was not given, she was herself willing to leave the future in uncertainty.

The remainder of the party walked home together, until Mr. Addison’s way diverged from the path to Audley Court. When they separated, and he wished his young companions good-bye, Everard said he would walk with him homewards.

“I am glad of this new acquaintance,” was Mr. Addison’s remark as they went on together, “and chiefly on Robert’s account. I have sometimes feared the uniformity of life at Audley Court might be too monotonous for one of his lively disposition.”

“I suppose a lively disposition makes its own life,” Everard said, “for certainly Robert does not appear to feel it dull. There are, however, other causes for that. Loved and appreciated as Robert is, it would be strange if he were not happy.”

“He seems to be well aware of the beauty of Miss Linton, both in person and character.”

“Yes,” Everard said, with a smile.

“Do you not feel, as I do, that her influence will prevail. She will give him her soul, and her good spirit will bring all the chaos of his nature into order.”

“I have not, I never had a doubt of it. It is not within the bounds of possibility that any one who loves what Hope is, can have anything but the best of natures within him.”

“I am glad of this acquaintance also on your account, Everard;” Mr. Addison continued, pursuing the train of his own thoughts. “It pleased me to see you to-day. You were not quite yourself.”

“How you watch, Mr. Addison!” Everard said, colouring. “What have I done to-day unlike myself?”

“You were less grave than is common to you in society, and I was glad to observe it. You study too hard, Everard, to be able to do without recreation. The mind becomes hard and tough; it needs unbending.”

“What do you think of Miss Gresham?” Everard enquired, after a moment’s thought.

“She has a very sweet countenance; one that promises truth, and ingenuousness, and many virtues. She is somewhat undisciplined, I should suppose, in mind, as in manner, but life soon softens and tames. She seems disposed to be friendly with you, Everard. I am glad of it. I know no recreation so likely to be useful to you as the society of an amiable young woman. It is refining both outwardly and within. Your habit is to keep yourself too much aloof.”

Everard coloured again. He had an inward warning that the society of a young woman would _not_ be useful to him in the present case; and as he walked home alone, he questioned himself with some seriousness. Self-examination, though honest, is not however always useful. It can deal well with an acknowledged feeling, or a strong one, but there are in the mind, fancies, shoots, and bubbles of feeling, which examination disperses like the sun the mist. When Everard came to question the pleasure he had felt and was anticipating from Angela’s society, the vague dangers seemed to fade away. There was nothing which on examination portended more than pleasure; and having very honestly examined himself and been satisfied, he cast away the burthen of thought, and went resolvedly into the chances of the future.