Chapter VIII

A figure like Aurora, flushed with joy.
HENRY TAYLOR.

A silent and a loving woman is a gift of the Lord, and there is
nothing so much worth as a well instructed mind.

_Book of Ecclesiasticus._

Mr. Gresham paid his visit to Audley Court on the following day. He looked about him with eager curiosity, as he drew near. It was the scene and sphere of the day-dreams he had been lately building, and had it come short of his expectations, great disappointment must have ensued.

But disappointment was not in store. It is true that the narrow income of the Vavasours was apparent both in the keeping and the furnishing of their abode; there was a large sphere for improvement, but this was no objection to Mr. Gresham. He, in common with most people, loved to create; and certainly did not think with dissatisfaction of the show which his future labours would make in the eyes of the world. With something of joy and pride, therefore, he marked the inferiority in general style and polish to his own Underwood; while, at the same time, his senses were excited and impressed by the antique grandeur of the building and the magnificent trees that formed the avenue to the house. The old towers especially caught his fancy, and as he pictured the hour when he should stand in a paternal relation to their majesty, his soul became almost too his; for the feeble confines of his body.

He was received by Mr. Vavasour with the grave and courteous grace that belonged to him; he too was calculated to impress the imagination, and though a speculation as to the probable short term of his life, had occupied Mr. Gresham while he drove along, it vanished in the presence of his stately and venerable age.

Somewhat awed, however, by the same stateliness, he dexterously presented his daughter to Mr. Vavasour, and devoted himself to his less awful wife. The arrangement answered well. Mrs. Vavasour was gracious in manner and easy to entertain; and Mr. Vavasour had an old man’s love for youth and beauty, and a grave nature’s pleasure in gaiety of spirit.

When the visit came to a conclusion Mr. Vavasour made a request that Angela might remain, promising that his niece and his sons should escort her home. Angela’s eyes sparkled with delight. Mr. Gresham equally gratified gave his ready acquiescence. The request seemed to bring certainty to his desires, and as he looked back from the carriage on the old, dark towers, no doubt of his future relationship troubled the sweetness of his dreams.

Angela was quite as much impressed by the appearance of Audley Court as her father was. _Her_ peculiar taste was gratified as much as his; for the glitter of gold was absent; the fashionable ornaments of the day had failed to penetrate the old abode; and the handsome frames of the pictures and mirrors were sober with age. The house being as it was, these things were not unsuitable; though there was simplicity, there was freshness, and though a lack of ornament, no lack of comfort; yet, undoubtedly, a luxurious taste would have found much to criticise.

When Hope, at Angela’s request, had conducted her to every part of the rambling building, they entered the garden together, and walking quietly, began to converse. The dissimilarity of the young companions was very striking.

“I am quite sorry to have been here,” Angela said, looking about her. “I was so pleased with Underwood yesterday, and now I think nothing of it. How much prettier this is.”

“One is old, the other is new. Both are pretty in their way,” Hope replied. “Why compare?”

“I always compare. I cannot help it; and what falls short of what it should be, I utterly condemn.”

“But so many things are pretty in themselves. It seems a pity not to like them for their own sakes.”

“But I only wish to like what is best,” Angela said, with decision. “If one likes everything that is a little pretty, one’s taste becomes poor and false. I only wish to like what is _very_ good.”

Hope was silent. She was not fond of argument; and unless some point on which she felt strongly was touched, unable to cope with others in arguing. Not so Angela. Her mind was full of thought, and where she could hope to meet with novelty of opinion, her unexpressed sentiment was “Let me not burst in ignorance.”

“I like to do the same with _characters_,” she began again. “I know what I think good, and I know what I like. By comparing and comparing, I hope at last I shall find something perfect, or almost perfect, and then I shall be happy.”

“I would so much rather not compare,” Hope now said, with more interest in her voice. “There is so much that is good in every character, that I think we should appreciate it when we find it,--not without wishing for, more certainly, but still liking what there is.”

“Do you think there is much good to be found?” Angela asked doubtingly. “I find very little.”

“I am sure there is.”

“Where? I look and look, but I cannot find it. I think you are good, and Mr. Addison and I should think Mr. Everard Vavasour was good; but I cannot say I think goodness is a common thing.”

There was a slight flush on Hope’s cheek, perhaps of pain, in the selection or the omission of a name. It was perceived but not understood by her companion.

“Do you think me wrong for speaking as I do?” Angela asked, anxiously. “I don’t mean anything very wrong. I only mean that I think people’s motives very mean, low, and mercenary, and I scorn them, and I can’t help it. Do you never scorn?”

“I don’t think I do. I am too sorry for people, to scorn them.”

“But are you sorry for bad people? I am sorry for good people in distress, but I cannot care for bad ones. I am not good myself, that I know very well; but I must say that vice, and wickedness, and meanness, I utterly abhor.”

“What is _really_ bad I do not speak of, of course,” Hope said, after a little thought, “but most, I think, have good souls, tried and tempted with many temptations; and,” she continued with an earnestness that was almost passionate, “to save a good soul from its temptations, I would die if I might.”

Angela looked at her young companion with reverence and surprise. “I like what you say,” she said, “though I cannot feel it. How is it that you, who are so good, are so kind, while I, who am bad, am bitter and harsh?”

“People are different,” Hope said, smiling. “I could not be harsh if I tried. I am not good, because of that.”

On their return to the garden, they met Mr. and Mrs. Vavasour coming to meet them. Mr. Vavasour was anxious about Angela’s return home, and said his sons were later than he expected. They all strolled together towards the gate that opened into the park; and sons, keepers, dogs, and game shortly appeared.

Not perceiving the group in the garden, Robert and Everard walked slowly. “They are tired,” Angela said. “What will they say to the engagement you have made for them?”

“My sons are never tired,” Mr. Vavasour said, with something of pride in the hardy spirits he had nurtured.

“Or if they are,” Mrs. Vavasour added, “I hope they have enough of an old-fashioned thing called chivalry, to forget it in this service.”

She looked with a kind glance of admiration at Angela. The half implied compliment, expectation, curiosity, the novelty of all she saw, lit up Angela’s countenance, and it was bright and sparkling as it met the first glances of the two young men.

“She is uncommonly pretty, I must say, Everard,” was Robert’s remark, as he hurried on.

He approached her with the fearless manner of one accustomed to please. Everard with something more like the chivalry of which his mother spoke.

“I have made an engagement for you, my boys,” said Mr. Vavasour. “Miss Gresham remained here this afternoon under a promise on my part, that you would conduct her safely home.”

“Miss Gresham has only to command us, and we will obey,” said Robert. “I speak in Sir Charles Grandison’s style for both Everard and myself.”

“Then, if Miss Gresham has no objection to your present style of dress, it is growing late, and you had better be gone.”

From Angela’s answer, it appeared that though she had often read of a shooting dress, she had never seen it, or any other accompaniments of shooting before; for in those days, a shooting dress was not the common dress of man.

The specimen this confession of ignorance afforded of her London education, gave Robert much amusement. Though acquainted with almost all kinds of good and bad society, and possessed of what is called knowledge of the world, there was yet alive in him something of a school-boy’s nature; ready to spring up whenever freedom from dangerous excitements left him at leisure to be himself. He found, therefore, a boy’s gratification in playing upon Angela’s simplicity, in astonishing her with marvellous tales, and drawing from her, her general notions of life; notions chiefly formed from books, and not the best; for London and Brighton had been almost the sole spheres for her observation.

Angela was little accustomed to be amused. She was too lately grown up to have been able to effect a change at home; and as like clings to like, the society at Mr. Gresham’s house was in average liveliness not much above himself. Robert’s conversation was to her “like a play;” and the more her merriment acknowledged his powers, the more animated did he become.

In the course of his anecdotes, he gave her a graphic and ludicrous account of the adventures of a friend of his who had one night assumed the disguise of a ballad singer in the streets of London. Excited by her amusement at what he related, he was proceeding to narrate the history of a disguise, planned and to be executed by himself, of a more serious description than the first.

“But this,” he interrupted himself, “did not come off, to my great and everlasting regret. I was dissuaded by the grave judge, Mr. Everard Vavasour, and gave up my own opinion in humble submission to his.”

“I hate plots and disguises,” Everard said, quickly.

Angela suddenly withdrew her eager eyes and blushed rosy red. Not that she owned to a disguise. She denied it; but conscience, quick and true, made its confession upon her cheek.

All her companions saw her change of countenance. Everard, with some surprise, but without notice. Robert was less discreet.

“Miss Gresham,” he said playfully, “what a guilty face! While I have been entertaining you to the best of my powers, I believe you might have been entertaining me, with the history of one of those very plots and disguises Everard condemns.”

“Indeed I could not,” she said, hastily; but blushed more deeply as she spoke.

She was very uncomfortable. What must Everard think? After a moment’s reflection, however, she remembered that appearances were nothing, if a person was really innocent; and shaking off her embarrassment, she observed, boldly, “I think such things must be very amusing.”

“If done well, and with spirit they are,” Robert said. “My friend, the ballad singer, says, he never had better fun in his life. The danger is when they are undertaken by people who are not up to it; and then nothing can be more flat and unprofitable.”

They walked on a few steps; then Angela’s uneasy mind asked this question. “Why do you condemn all disguises, Mr. Vavasour?”

Everard coloured at this expression of interest in his opinions, but answered, resolutely, “_Condemn_ is a severe word. I only spoke of my own feelings. I hate all tricks and disguises. If they are complicated it is difficult to keep to the truth, and I hate falsehood. Besides, they are generally mischievous and sometimes dangerous.”

“There, Miss Gresham,” Robert said, laughing. “Now if your conscience confesses that you have been guilty of putting on a disguise, Everard has pronounced your doom without mercy.”

“I have not,” she said, with decision and displeasure. “I don’t confess it.”

Robert had too much tact to press the matter farther, but Angela was uncomfortable; in her discomfort became grave, and conversation flagged.

When they reached the borders of the wood, she stopped and insisted on her companions hurrying homewards, as the sun was sinking fast.

All demurred, for the engagement had been to see her home. “You must,” she said, playfully and peremptorily, “or I shall think you cannot trust me.”

“I am afraid I cannot,” Robert said, with a mischievous look which he could not resist.

“Let us go, Robert,” Hope said, struck by the appearance of annoyance on Angela’s countenance.

Everard saw it too and with perplexity. In vain he told himself he had no business with the matter. He felt a singular desire to penetrate the mystery.

The progress to Underwood had been slow. It was now really growing late; and after parting with Angela, Everard, who was famous for his quick walking, hurried home. The hours at Audley Court were early, and Mr. Vavasour encouraged punctuality, not so much for its own sake, as for the exercise it gave to an unselfish and respectful tone of feeling. His sons, Robert as well as Everard, in this respect endeavoured to please him; and it was Robert who now despatched Everard to give notice they should be in time.

“I have been wondering, Hope,” Robert said, as they walked on alone, “how it is that Miss Gresham finds me so witty and wise, and all my wit and wisdom is lost on you.”

“Oh, Robert,” she cried, eagerly, “don’t say so. I like to listen to you.”

“But you never laugh.”

“I can’t laugh,” she replied. “Something prevents it.”

“Who or what prevents it? I want to know.”

“I can’t tell,” she replied, after a moment’s thought. “I only know what I feel.”

“I wish I could see into that mysterious mind of yours, Hope,” Robert said, smiling, “I believe I should find curious things there.”

“Do you wish me to laugh more?” Hope asked, suddenly fixing her anxious eyes upon him.

“I; what, wish you to be anything but what you are. No, indeed, my dearest.” He spoke with warmth, then quickly smiling again. “But I should like to dive deep down into your mind and search out all your most secret thoughts and feelings. I wish I had the power. Should you mind, Hope, if I had.” He fixed a smiling but yet a keen and anxious gaze upon her face.

“No, Robert, I don’t think I should,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a look of confiding innocence.

A shade of disappointment crossed his brow, but it was driven away, and with something of thought and seriousness he said, “That is a strange and happy thing to say. I wish I could say it. I wish I could offer you to let your eyes dive into my mind, but I can’t, I am afraid. And yet,” he added, “I would rather have yours than any others. I should grieve for what you might find there, but I should not fear.”