Chapter I

My affections
Are then most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.

THE TEMPEST.

It was with some shame that Everard confessed to his father the following morning what he had done. His own heart was not dissatisfied; he knew his excuse--but this could not be told. “The temptation was too great for me,” were his words, “and I gave way.”

“And what is your purpose now?” was the cold question, not without bitterness in it. Mr. Vavasour had expected more self-controul; he remembered _his_ twelve years of concealment, and with shame and disappointment thought of his son’s weakness.

“I have disappointed you father, I know,” Everard said, colouring.

“You have, Everard. But you will disappoint me no more,” added his father kindly. “My trust is in you, and you must not fail.”

Everard sighed. “I will not,” he replied, but the tones were less resolute than was common. His heart was stirred with strange and soft emotions, and his stoic self was not a pleasing object in his eyes.

“And what is your purpose now, Everard?” This time the question was more gently and pityingly asked. Mr. Vavasour could well imagine what his son felt. It was by no means stoicism that he admired or desired. It was but conquest.

“I can do but one thing, can I father? I must go and confess what I said to Mr. Gresham, and then ... I think ...” he added, a tumult of blood rushing to his brow, “ask for hope.”

Mr. Vavasour seemed lost in thought.

“Father,” Everard said, approaching him, the look of thought and care on his father’s face giving him sorrow, sharp and keen, “you may trust me. I will do nothing your son should not do, nothing an honourable nature should not. Father,” he continued with a warmth strangely different to the gravity of his usual manner, “do you not know that happiness would be nothing, that even to win _her_ would be nothing if I disappointed you.”

“Thank you, my boy--I believe it,” Mr. Vavasour replied, shading his eyes with his hand; as if the expression of warm affection, even while it warmed and animated him, brought pain to his reserved nature. “It was not doubt of you that kept me silent, Everard. It was this. Are you strong enough to endure hope? Consider well.”

It seemed a strange question to Everard, who felt that to be _allowed_ to hope, would he in itself life and joy. He made no answer. Mr. Vavasour continued.

“You do not understand me, Everard. Hear what such hope is from one who has had experience. If any be allowed by Mr. Gresham it is probable it will be a distant only and secret one. Such hope is not what poets paint. It is a care eating into the soul. It is a hope doomed to live without food; fretted by jealousy, consumed with fear, and in the end, after long nourishing, after being cherished until it is a part of life, it may be crushed in a moment of time. I say again consider well before you undertake to bear it. It requires more strength than you can guess.”

“_You_ bore it, father?”

“Yes, Everard, I did. It was crowned with success, and its reward has been happiness. Had it been crushed it would have been death.”

He looked in Everard’s face, and saw how ineffectual were his words. No man, however true he may afterwards find it, will receive such advice from another’s experience.

“I see that I speak to the winds,” he said with a faint smile, “and so I believe it would have been with me. Well, my boy, go, and God bless you.”

When he left his father’s room, Everard bent his steps without further thought to Underwood. He was in a strange, unwonted state of mind. Very vague, yet very bright, intangible, yet very sweet, were the visions and the feelings that stirred and animated him. It was as if a veil had suddenly been lifted from the face of the earth, and without watching its growth, a full harvest of beauty had been revealed. To many, to most, this state of feeling comes gradually; many hopes and fears, many foreshadowings before the reality; but to Everard, to feel himself loved and chosen, to allow himself to think of, and grasp the thought, was so new, that it was like plunging into another world, and waking up another man. All the fretting sorrows of childhood, boyhood, manhood; all the convictions that none loved, or ever would love and care for him as they did for Robert, vanished like the cold snow of winter. The thought gave elasticity to his steps, dignity to his movements, light, warmth, and beauty to his face.

He walked fast; stayed not to consider, even when he reached Underwood; the hope that animated him, made him equal to all encounters; and it was not till he stood in Mr. Gresham’s presence, and the solemn calm of his eyes fell upon him, that he awoke from his dreamings, and found himself in the atmosphere of common life.

His mood of madness fell from him like a cloak; what romance could survive beneath that glassy stare.

Everard sighed; felt and owned his folly, and then, with his usual straightforward manner, proceeded to unfold his business.

“I am come to make a confession and a request, Mr. Gresham. I will not detain you long.”

With bland politeness Mr. Gresham assured him his time was at his disposal, and, having so said, he awaited a further communication.

“In a conversation we once had, I gave you my promise to do my best.... I promised to avoid as far as possible any expression of my feeling for Miss Gresham. I know you have trusted to my promise; I felt the trust, and thank you for it, though at the same time, it made the trial to my self-control severe. I wish I could tell you that your trust had been merited. It was so till yesterday, but yesterday I failed. If I tell you that the temptation was strong, it is what all men say, and all men feel when they fail. It excuses me in my own eyes, but it may not do so in yours. All I can do is to confess to you what has passed, and to say that I am sorry if what I have done gives you pain.

“You have then, I understand, made a proposal to my daughter for her hand.”

“No, indeed, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said colouring; “I have not done so. I have told her only, that while your wishes remain as they are, I dare not meet her; dare not, because I cannot depend upon myself. I have _asked_ nothing; but what I said was certainly a failure in the trust you reposed in me, and therefore I come to confess it.”

Mr. Gresham looked up to the ceiling and reflected. When he spoke it was graciously, and his countenance had resumed its complacency.

“Upon the whole, Mr. Vavasour, I am satisfied with you, and thank you for the honourable manner in which you have conducted yourself. I am not altogether displeased at what has taken place. It is perhaps as well that matters should be brought to an issue. I shall now speak to my daughter on this subject, express to her my decided opinion, lay before her those reasonable objections which cannot fail to convince her, and the affair is at rest for ever. Allow me once more to thank you, Mr. Vavasour; and permit me to offer you some refreshment.”

“No, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, feeling how vain had been his hope, how improbable hope should be allowed, yet resolved to ask it. “You must let me say one thing more. My feelings are not changed since the day I spoke to you; I still think that some worth should win this world’s goods. I do not care for the goods, and with all my heart I wish they did not exist; but since they do, and she whom I love and must love is possessed of them, I allow that something more than I yet possess, is necessary to win them, I am not going to make any proposal to Miss Gresham; I am not going to ask any promise on your part or on hers, I would not wish to bind her or you; but I do ask you to give me a hope that if, at some future time, by my character or my intellect, or in other ways, I have proved myself more worthy of her love, you will not altogether condemn me as you do now.”

The solemn, reasonable answer came in forcible contrast to Everard’s words--“My dear Mr. Vavasour, I am distressed beyond measure that you should have permitted yourself to look upon my daughter in such a light; you must allow me to remind you, however, that the fault is your own. I had conceived that I had made my wishes and intentions sufficiently explicit. I can hardly imagine that a repetition of our former conversation is necessary. If you will take the trouble to recall what I then said, I believe you will save me the pain of giving a more decided negative to your unexpected and undesirable request. I am sorry, Mr. Vavasour, if I give you pain, but on such subjects, indeed in all matters, the old proverb holds good--‘Honesty is the best policy.’ And now let this subject be at rest for ever; this painful conversation need not be prolonged. Permit me to offer you some refreshment. I should wish you to present my best respects to your father; of his acquiescence in my views, I have no doubt.”

Everard stood irresolute; and when, as a means of marking the termination of the interview, Mr. Gresham made a third offer of refreshment, he could scarcely refrain from an angry reply. But, notwithstanding the utter extinguishment of hope, which the manner of the latter produced, it was not of himself that Everard was thinking. His irresolution was caused by his sense of what was due to Angela. To assure and encourage him, she had made a movement forward; she had done for him what he could never repay; it would be baseness on his part to allow himself to be dismissed thus. After thus thinking for a second, he spoke:

“Of course, Mr. Gresham, I have nothing to do but to acquiesce in your decision, and submit to it as I can. Before this matter is ended, however, I must entreat you to let me see Miss Gresham. It is due to my honour to allow it, and I think it is due to her. You will find it can do no harm; trust me, I will say nothing you can disapprove.”

Mr. Gresham stroked his chin three times, then gave a courteous reply: “In all possible things, Mr. Vavasour, I am more than willing to gratify one who bears your name. I do perfectly trust you, and will fetch my daughter.” He left the room as he ceased.

Everard’s heart beat with an excitement which was like joy. Restraint, be it self-imposed or otherwise, is a heavy burthen, and even for one moment to cast off his chains in Angela’s presence, was a thought of rapture to him.

This rapture was of short duration. Mr. Gresham returned with Angela, and to the consternation of both, closed the door, and resumed his place at the fire.

There was no triumph in his look, nothing of curiosity, nothing of ill will; he remained because it did not occur to him to leave them to themselves. It was possible an opportunity might arise of expressing to both together his sentiments, and thus of bringing the untoward attachment to a more satisfactory conclusion. This could not be lost. In public, many years before, the business of his own proposal had been transacted; in public, therefore, his daughter could surely reject a suitor.

Angela entered boldly enough. She was resolved, once for all, to let Everard know the esteem she felt for his character; and though there was nothing unmaidenly in her air, it was self-possessed and dignified. He might not be appreciated or accepted by her father, but he should know that he was appreciated by her. But this loftiness gave way to the disconcerting circumstances in which she found herself. Beneath her father’s stare, and Everard’s earnest gaze, her colour rose and her eyelids drooped, and no bashful young girl of sixteen could have stood more timidly and shrinkingly before her lover.

Indignant at having brought her into so awkward a situation, Everard frowned, and advancing hurriedly towards her, determined to put an end to the interview at once. “Forgive me for having brought you here,” he said quickly, “it was not _thus_ I had hoped to speak; but it matters little. What I have to say needs no concealment. It is but this. If I had been allowed to love you, I would have loved you with my whole heart. If I had been allowed to hope, no length of time should have wearied or daunted me. I would have _made_ myself worthy of you. Since this cannot be, I am bound to submit, and I will not give you the pain of listening to regrets for what is inevitable. God bless you, and may he who is so happy as to win you, love you as I would have done.”

He grasped her hand, and then simply bowing to Mr. Gresham, walked rapidly to the door. But there Mr. Gresham arrested him. “One moment, if you please, Mr. Vavasour.”

Everard returned with hope springing up in his heart. Angela remained with her eyes bent to the ground, her colour coming and going, her hands pressed together. There were words within, only by force kept down; words of passion; passionate in their feelings for Everard; passionate in resistance to her father. One thing alone restrained them, the dread of Everard; of losing his esteem; of offending him who was so strong in his sense of duty; of seeming unmaidenly in his eyes. Her attitude was not submissive, yet it looked like it; to her father certainly; perhaps, also to Everard.

Thus they stood to hear the address of Mr. Gresham. It was elaborate, and his two breathless hearers could not from the beginning discern what the end would be. It opened like an essay. He spoke of the bountiful gifts of Providence, and man’s responsibility; of the bountiful gifts profusely showered upon _him_, and _his_ responsibility for them. The words were true, and, because he felt what he said, even though elaborate, impressive. He then touched upon moral duties, the responsibility of fathers, the importance of marriage in the life of a young female, the dangers of a bad choice, and then the especial importance of a right choice in his case and his daughter’s. Having laid his principles on a good and strong foundation he then proceeded to apply them. “I believe, Mr. Vavasour, I have more than once expressed to you my esteem for many parts of your character. You will not, therefore, I hope, accuse me of prejudice or unkindliness if I state further that I do not consider you fitted to fill that position which I wish, which I think it proper and becoming for my son to fill. There are outward talents and accomplishments, graces of mind, and manner, and body, more precious in the eyes of the world, because more distinguishing, than the commoner possessions of estimable moral qualities. I should consider myself deficient in my duty to my daughter, and to my own position, if I made no account of these graces, and I think it best to tell you frankly that in these I consider you deficient.” His eye for a moment swept over Everard’s outward man, and he then proceeded. “When to these deficiencies we add the want of any honourable position in the world, I think, in common fairness, you must allow that I do but my simple duty in opposing your wishes. Forgive me for being explicit. I am very far from desiring to inflict pain.”

He had certainly been explicit, and beneath that explicitness Everard quailed. The sensitive cannot help being sensitive. They may conceal the pain that words inflict, but the words strike deep. They are born vulnerable and vulnerable they remain. Robert would have heard Mr. Gresham’s discourse with pure amusement: any one, strong in self-respect, would have heard it unmoved. But Everard had no confidence in his powers to please, and his sensitive spirit was stung. One glance of hasty and mortified scrutiny he cast upon his own self, and beneath that glance his muscular frame became clownish in his eyes, and his large features monstrous. He felt as if indeed his presumption had been intolerable; his hope of having inspired affection idle; and in that instant yielding to the promptings of temper, of pride, of vanity, all which qualities lie more or less hid in sensitiveness, even in the sensitiveness of the humble; he took his resolution, and spoke with proud bitterness his farewell. “You have, indeed, Mr. Gresham, made your meaning clear, and whatever pain it gives, I thank you for it. You may depend upon it, you will never need to trouble yourself with such explanations again. You have heard the last of this, and I can only say I beg your pardon for having taken up so much of your time. Good morning.” And with a loftiness whose grace Mr. Gresham might have admired, he bowed to him and Angela, and left the room.

His speech, his movements had been so rapid, that Angela had not time to interfere. In very shame of her father’s speech she had still lower drooped her head and averted her burning cheek; and while she stood breathless for his answer, determined to speak, yet struggling to restrain any indecorous burst of feeling, the whole scene was at an end. The curtain had fallen on the drama, and the door of repentance was closed.

Express herself, however, she did. “It is I who am not worthy of him,” she cried, in a voice tremulous with passion. “If he could feel my unworthiness as I do, he would have no regret in giving me up.”

Mr. Gresham was in a slight degree agitated. He saw he had given pain in the performance of his duty, and was truly sorry for it. He unbuttoned a button of his waistcoat, to allow his feelings to escape before he spoke, and when he spoke it was mildly and with kindness. “Young women, my love, are bad judges in such matters. The world at seventeen presents a different appearance to that which it presents to experienced eyes. It becomes those who have experience to watch for those who have not. The day will come, no distant day, when you will thank me for what I have done.”

“_Never_,” cried Angela, with vehemence. “Mr. Everard Vavasour has won my esteem as much as my love, and that never disappoints. He may not have outward shows, though I see nothing wanting; but he has a high and noble nature, and nothing we could give him would bear comparison with what he would have given me.”

“So, my love, you think at this moment,” resumed her father with placid wisdom. “It is the common sentiment of young ladies. The first caprice in their eyes involves the happiness of life. But I who have been endowed with some wisdom and experience in worldly matters, am happily aware of the evanescent nature of youthful romance. I am sincerely sorry, my love, to have been forced to give you even so much annoyance; but I repeat it, at a future day you will thank me for having preserved you from the effects of a hasty and ill-judged attachment.”

Angela vouchsafed no further answer. Mr. Gresham’s calm common places had always exercised a singular influence over her; binding her down with far greater force than violence could have done. To argue with him, to vent her passion with him, was like fighting with smooth marble. When he approached her and kissed her brow, partly in real kindness, partly as a proper termination to the interview, she submitted, and received in silence his wise admonition to banish the painful subject from her remembrance. A very lofty step and dignified air as she quitted the room, was all of opposition she could show to his will, and that was entirely lost upon him.

It was well for Angela that her attachment _was_ founded on esteem. It was well that the fear of lowering herself in the eyes of him who loved her, acted as a check upon her impulses. The present state of her mind was not one in which she could well say “Lead me not into temptation,” for she would indeed have desired to be tempted by Everard to forsake all those shows of things which stood between her and him, for his sake. Such undisciplined tempers, such impatient affections, are and must ever be wrong, and in saner moments even in the eyes of the tempted themselves, revolting; yet, in Angela’s case, and perhaps in many cases, there is in them a generosity, a scorn of worldliness, which misleads the eyes, and blinds the judgment; and evil is done in a seeming excess of a noble quality.

Upon the whole, however, Angela was happy. She was assured of that which she had desired; she had ground for suffering her thoughts to fix, where without her will they choose to roam; she had not wasted her regard in a dream of ashes, and the perplexities that accompanied her early attachment were not very insurmountable to the romantic fancy of seventeen.

This romantic fancy had abundant play in dreaming out the next few months in novel like manner. She in London, and Everard in London. It seemed next to impossible they should not meet. That he should give her up, that he should not sometimes be lingering about her door, was not to be imagined, and in fancy she sometimes drew such vivid pictures of sudden meeting, that her heart would beat with all the strength of reality. These dreamings occupied her mind, and when hope is young and bright, are enough to occupy it.

“Qui a l’espoir du bien, a déjà le bien de l’espoir.”