Chapter II

A grace though melancholy, manly too,
Moulded his being: pensive, grave, serene,
O’er his habitual bearing and his mien,
Unceasing pain, by patience tempered, threw
A shade of sweet austerity.
HENRY TAYLOR.

Nine days of wonder is attached to most earthly surprises; but in these days, when time moves fast, nine days of wonder is as little to be expected as nine centuries. Nine hours for the most part exhaust exclamations, consternations, comments, and conjectures regarding any event, however weighty it be.

That the event, the surprise which had taken place at Audley Court, had survived not only through nine days but even nine weeks of wondering, and was yet unexhausted, arose partly from circumstances and partly from the singularly marked characters of the Vavasour family. The indignation which the disinheriting of Robert had caused, could not die away into the calm of indifference. The poor indeed in their toils and cares, and in the discovery that they had a master as good and kind as their late one, were shortly satisfied. Present pains and gains occupied their intellects, and if the matter was talked over at all, it was to say in simple truisms, that “all was for the best no doubt,” or “it was God’s will, and He knows better than we.” But with the richer portion of the neighbourhood it was different.

Though, owing to his long absences and other causes, not familiarly known, Robert was well known by sight and by reputation; and many a gay fancy had pictured the future at Audley Court under his auspices. Some rumours of his extravagances, and other careless habits, had mingled with the report of his marvellous charms, but, although the graver condemned, the very fact of the interest these rumours excited did but fasten more fixedly upon him the minds and fancies of all around. But while this was the case with Robert, Everard, on the contrary, was unthought of, and untalked of. That he was poor, and that he was not handsome; that he was grave in his demeanour, and correct in his conduct, these facts were known. They excited no interest, no speculations. He was nothing.

When, therefore, the change came, the announcement was like a thunderbolt in its fall, and like a thunderstorm was the fury of the tempest that succeeded. To feel for the wronged and fallen is the generous characteristic of English nature. In Englishmen and women the sense of justice is very keen, and every act of injustice is felt with the force of a personal insult. It was so here. Young and old were up in rebellion. Mr. Vavasour was indignantly condemned; for Robert, even tears of pity and sorrow fell. Every thought was turned on Audley Court, and he was most welcomed at home, who could bring the most authentic intelligence regarding its inhabitants.

When, after three weeks, Robert took his departure, this first frenzy died away. Such violent excitements cannot last, and when there was no more hope of hearing what he said, or how he looked, that portion of the subject began to be forgotten. But it was replaced by a new frenzy--hate of Everard. Each heart, each young heart especially, thought it a point of honour to hate him with all their power.

Everard had contemplated hate and misinterpretation as his portion when he made his decision, yet could he have known what things were said and thought of him, even by the young and gentle, possibly even _his_ motives could not have supported him under the trial. “Cold-blooded hypocrite” was by no means an uncommon phrase in which to denote him, and certainly by no means an uncommon form under which to summon him to the mind’s eye.

His doings were therefore watched and criticized through the jaundiced vision of prejudice; and yet, strange to say, from that cloud, even in three months he had emerged, and was winning his way in men’s good opinions. Justice owned that he had been hastily condemned, and justice became anxious to make atonement.

The first rumour that wrought a change in his favour, was when it was discovered,--as discovered things usually are,--and the news circulated about that he had paid all Robert’s debts. The sum was large, rumour doubled it, and in that case rumour did him a favour. It was then discovered that he was making retrenchments at Audley Court, and it could not but be owned that these retrenchments were not only kindly and judiciously made, but that he chose such points as must have been least pleasing to his natural taste; denying himself especially every luxury in that region, which most comes home to a man’s heart.

The tide of condemnation came to a stand still, then began slowly to move backwards. The poor began to tell of his kindness and forethought; men of business who chanced to have to do with him, spoke of his excellent sense and judgment; elderly gentlemen of his unpretending behaviour; and those who are less accustomed to reason than to be guided by their fancy and feelings, were affected and converted by his appearance.

The last Mr. Vavasour, since increasing infirmities had taken from him his independance, had lived a secluded life, and was but seldom seen beyond the precincts of his own domain; but Everard, strong and active, and anxiously bent on mastering all facts important for the discharge of his new duties, was constantly to be met with walking or riding; and those who in their drives thus met with him, could not but own that there was nothing like triumph in his air. The “customary suit of black” was very plainly the livery of his mind; the most inexperienced, and the most prejudiced, felt alike touched and softened as they gazed.

Minds were thus in transition at the time of Mr. Gresham’s arrival; and as converts are ever zealous, and ever desirous to prove their changed opinions to be founded on truth, conversation turned on Everard with very ceaseless flow. Angela heard of all he had said during the last three months, and every word and every deed won her to esteem, and honour, and love him, a thousand fold more than before. But while she heard much--_him_ she saw not.

The day after his arrival, Mr. Gresham sent his cards to Audley Court. Cards from himself and his daughter to Mrs. Vavasour and Hope, and a single card to Everard. The meaning conveyed in Lord Burleigh’s famous shake of the head, was as nothing compared to what this card was intended to intimate. A volume might have been written on the sentiments it was designed to express. To put it shortly, its messages were seven in number. First it condoled with Everard on the late Mr. Vavasour’s death. Secondly, it intimated Mr. Gresham’s acceptance of Mr. Vavasour’s will. Thirdly, it conveyed _approval_ of the will, not mere acceptance, but approval. Fourthly, it proclaimed Mr. Gresham’s arrival. Fifthly, his haste and eagerness to claim Everard’s acquaintance. Sixthly, it showed his urbane desire to efface the past; and seventhly, it said as plainly as words could speak, that daughter and worldly goods were laid at his disposal.

Whether or not Everard understood the hidden language of the card must be doubtful. He saw it lying on the hall table, glanced at it, and passed on. In three or four days he sent cards in return, and no further notice was taken.

The meaning Mr. Gresham had affixed to his own card gave him power to understand the language of Everard’s; and after studying it and reading in it an expression of genuine satisfaction with all that he, Mr. Gresham, had intimated, and the announcement of an early intention of availing himself of the munificent and benevolent gifts awaiting him, he rested on his oars and was at peace.

When time, however, passed on and nothing was seen of Everard, he began to suspect that possibly the language of the card had _not_ been read aright, and he determined to take a further step.

“Angela, my love,” he said one morning, “have you visited Miss Linton yet?”

“No,” she replied, with a sudden deep blush. “I did not like to go to her.”

“Have you written to her on the subject of future intercourse?”

“No,” she replied again, and added with a murmur, “I did not dare.”

“I think, my love, she may have cause to complain of neglect on your part. Possibly in the present state of Mrs. Vavasour’s spirits, she may be unwilling to leave her for any length of time, but we need not stand on ceremony, and since you have means of conveyance always at your disposal, it may be most proper, most considerate on your part to pay that marked attention which is due to persons who have been in affliction. I should wish you to write her a note; intimating your desire to renew that intercourse, which was so fruitful in happiness during the past year.”

Angela remained silent with downcast eyes and a heightened colour.

“Do you not approve of my proposal, Miss Price?” he inquired, turning blandly to that lady. “I am aware that when the sentiments of young females are concerned, it is possible for a man to be mistaken; but I confess I am unable to perceive any want of proper etiquette in the opinion I express.”

“I think dear Angela had much better write,” was the reply, flutteringly given--for Mr. Gresham’s condescension always made her nervous--but perfectly decided in its import.

“I am happy to find my opinion coincides with yours,” he said, graciously, and as he left the room he repeated his commands to Angela to write the note in question. “My groom will call for it in the course of half an hour,” he added, and disappeared to escape from remonstrance.

Angela sat in profound thought, but of the feelings that agitated her said nothing to her aunt. She had been silent regarding the despondency, which for the last ten days had been stealing over her, and of the struggle with her pride in being the first to claim attention, she was equally uncommunicative. She once had thought that she should be perfectly happy could she have her aunt’s sympathy always at hand; but feelings change, and now that it was there always ready, always watchful, the desire to avail herself of it had departed. She was sad at heart and cared not to speak of her sadness.

The half-hour had very nearly elapsed before the letter was written. She then suddenly rose and obeyed her father’s wishes. Possibly Mr. Gresham would have been surprised had the note been laid before him, at the terms in which she made known her wish to see Hope.

“Dear Hope,

“Will you tell me all the truth. Do you like to see me, or do you
not? I know how unhappy you have been, and would not force myself
on you for the world; but if you would like it I should like it
too. I can go to you at any time.

“Yours, affectionately,
“ANGELA GRESHAM.”

She gave her orders that the groom was _not_ to wait for an answer; and he obeyed her. She did not choose to seem in haste to have her offer accepted.

Hope’s seeming neglect of Angela was from no backwardness, or distaste to her society, but simply from uncertainty regarding Everard’s wishes on the subject. She had expected a visit as a thing of course, but as Angela did not come, and Everard said nothing, she was uncertain how to act. She asked the advice of her aunt; but Mrs. Vavasour had always been reserved with Everard, and could not force herself to break the barrier now. Her advice was to seek the advice of Mr. Addison. Mr. Addison was out of health, and having been recommended to try the benefit of sea air, was at this moment absent. As an early return was expected, Hope, in obedience to her aunt’s suggestion, postponed a decision till he came.

When Angela’s note was given to her, she went at once in search of Everard; and on finding him put it into his hand with the simple enquiry what he wished her to do.

He coloured as he read it, but she could not decide what feelings caused the show of emotion, for, on returning it, he exclaimed with warmth and anxiety, “My dear Hope, surely you do not so mistake me as to think I have any wish to control your actions.”

“No,” she replied, hesitatingly, “only in this case....”

“Not in any case. If it will give you pleasure to see Miss Gresham, and I should think it would, pray follow your own wishes without any thought of me.”

She looked at him, perplexed and anxious. His manner, though earnest as regarded her part in the concern, betrayed little as to what he felt for Angela; betrayed nothing in fact; it was as if he spoke of a common acquaintance. “Then I will ask her to come to-morrow afternoon,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “Will you send the note for me?”

He acquiesced, and waited while she wrote. When it was done, he took it without any further comment and dispatched it.

Angela paid her visit the following day alone. Although Miss Price had specially been invited to Underwood, that she might assist a young female on such an occasion as the present, she was forced to resign her office, owing to a severe sore throat. Mr. Gresham had counted on her chaperonage in this first visit to Everard’s house, and was mortified that the delicacy of his arrangements should be thus counteracted; but necessity, as he observed, knows no law of etiquette or otherwise, and Angela was permitted to go alone.

To Angela her aunt’s presence or absence was a matter of utter indifference. She was far too much absorbed in other feelings to consider whether or not it was Everard’s house. The hope of meeting him and the dread of meeting him, occupied her imagination to the exclusion of every other thought, and caused an agitation so excessive, that when she did actually arrive, was shown into the library, and found herself in Hope’s arms, she was unable to speak one word, and scarcely knew whether she was awake or asleep.

That long library, quite unaltered, the scene of the strange interview with Everard, that day of rapturous happiness never to be forgotten--when she recovered her senses, it was to this that her fancy flew back, and she sat down, blushing over the recollections it excited.

This long library was now Hope’s common sitting room. Mrs. Vavasour rarely left her own apartments, and Everard, shrinking from the dreariness of the house, had made it a request to Hope that she should sometimes be found there. It was not to be supposed that Hope should have the same vivid recollections of the room as Angela had, yet something of recollection did arrive, as she saw her agitated countenance, and she wondered with what feelings her young companion found herself there again.

They sat opposite to each other in silence; each uncertain what to say, and fearful to begin. It was Angela who spoke at last; as she looked at Hope, the remembrance of death, and the awe of death came over her, and her exclamation had no touch of selfish dreamings in it.

“Oh! Hope,” she said, sadly, “how changed you are.”

Hope was surprised, and a faint streak of colour flitted over her cheek. She had been thinking of Angela, and not of all the changes at Audley Court. “Yes, there has been a great change,” she replied, after a moment.

“And _you_ are changed in the change. Dear Hope, have you been so very unhappy?”

Hope did not immediately answer. Angela’s question made her think of herself, a thing that rarely happened. “I think I am changed,” she said at last. “I used to think, it was in my ignorance, that I did not mind sorrow, that it was my place to comfort, and that if I could have power to do that, I should not dread the sight of grief. But now....”

“Now what, dear Hope?” said Angela, anxiously.

“Now I know that sorrow is the punishment of sin, and must have bitterness;” and as she spoke a tear fell from her eye.

“Oh! how you must have suffered,” Angela exclaimed, and she felt a kind of shame at her own trials, as she looked in Hope’s face.

“I was not thinking of myself,” was Hope’s reply, “but of all I have seen and still see. It is not that I am unhappy myself, but I long to do more to put grief away, and have not the power. It is _here_; and I find now that God must comfort, for man cannot.”

“Are they all so unhappy?” Angela asked, after a moment, in a low voice.

“My poor aunt; you can fancy what that is Angela. She has lost all that occupied her; and she is not as some are, calm and strong in their grief. She is very good, but is miserable. She never murmurs, but I can see the struggle to submit almost breaking her heart. I had often thought of such sorrow as hers, but now I _know_ what it is.”

“And Mr. Vavasour,” Angela asked, after another pause, in a still lower tone. “Is he too miserable?”

“Do you mean Robert or Everard, Angela?” And Hope turned her slow enquiring eyes on her companion.

“I mean Mr. Robert Vavasour,” she said faintly, averting her eyes with a deep blush of shame from the gaze that was upon her.

“Robert is happier than Everard,” Hope replied, after a moment’s thought. “He is trying to wash out the past, and that gives him a bright hope before him. I think Robert is happier than he ever was, for I think,--I try not to expect too much, but I think”--she paused and clasped her hands together, and added--“that God has granted him repentance.”

Angela sat silent and sighed. Hope’s anxiety for Robert’s welfare, showed her in true colours what her conduct had been during that mad time when right and wrong seemed obliterated in her mind. Shame pressed heavily upon her. It would have been a relief to confess it all, but she did not dare. She never had approached such subjects with Hope, less than ever she dared approach them now.

After a short silence, during which she hoped but vainly, that Hope would speak of Everard, Angela inquired after Mr. Addison, and expressed her disappointment at finding him absent. She told Hope of her desire to begin to make herself useful, and to lead a better life than she had done, and said how much she needed advice and help; and this subject was more easily talked over than others, and the hour of her stay passed rapidly away. The clock struck five, and she looked up with regret.

“I told the carriage to come round at five,” she said, “for we have got a dinner to-night, and I must be home early,” and when those words were said she suddenly remembered the visit was past, and Everard had not been seen.

The thought had scarcely passed through her mind when he appeared. He came slowly in from the further end of the library and her heart had time almost to break with its beating before he reached her. Unable to articulate one word then she half rose and shook hands with him, and sat hurriedly down again.

At first it was Everard’s mere presence that overcame her, but, as he stood before her, it was himself, his changed self, that affected her.

Miss Price’s friend had called him handsome, and such an expression regarding him was no longer without truth. Thought and sorrow had so softened and refined his features that they in themselves were almost toned into beauty; and even had it not been so, there was an expression in his countenance, in his air and manner, so subdued, so melancholy, and so gentle, even strangers might have been affected by it.

In that first instant she forgot herself, and tears of pity and love for _him_ sprang into her eyes; but when he addressed her, thoughts of her own self returned; and she was chilled into composure by his voice.

No _empressement_, no embarrassment; some restraint, perhaps--but a grave, kind quietness, such as under any circumstances he, in his position, would have shown to his cousin’s guest.

“I must do my errand,” he said, “though I hope it will not hurry you away. The carriage was waiting at the door as I came in, and they were coming to summon you. I said I would tell you it was ready.”

“Thank you. I must go directly,” Angela said, and she got up with a strange feeling of mingled sadness and relief.

As she wished Hope good-bye, she paused to make arrangements about another visit, and Everard walked first to the window and then out of the room.

When Angela turned round he was gone. She pulled down her veil and hurried away with bitterness in her heart. “He hates me,” she thought, and before she reached the door, tears at once of passion and sorrow were in her eyes.

But by the side of the carriage he stood awaiting her; and then in very shame she could have flown from him, and hid her agitation from his sight.

The same manner, however, gravely, calmly, kind, in an instant composed her again. A faint glow on his cheek was the only sign he gave of being in any way moved at her presence.

He stopped her as she was getting into the carriage and asked, “How do you think Hope looks?”

“Very much changed,” Angela said hurriedly.

“Yes,” he agreed, with a sadness that made her reproach herself for her hasty words, “But do you think her looking _ill_?”

“Perhaps not really ill,” she said, desirous to relieve his mind, “but thinner than she used to be. She does not _seem_ ill.”

“Her life is very lonely, and if you can come and see her, I think it would do her good. I am _sure_ she will be glad to have you come.” He spoke anxiously, but it was only for Hope’s sake.

“I will certainly,” Angela replied, and as he said no more, she entered the carriage.

He then approached again and asked, “I hear Miss Price is at Underwood. Is that true?”

Angela replied that it was; and anxiously waited for what would follow.

“Will you remember me to her?” This was all that came.

Angela bowed her head, and so they parted.

She went on her way shedding bitter tears, and he re-entered the house.

Mr. Gresham, whose anxiety regarding the effects of the visit was too great to be restrained, came with much politeness to assist his daughter from the carriage.

“Did you see Mr. Vavasour, my love?” he enquired.

“Yes, Papa.”

“I hope he is in good health.”

“He seemed so,” she replied wearily; “he did not say.”

“You gave him my compliments of course, my love, and expressed my wish to see him here.”

“No,” and she shook her head. “I said very little.”

“Ahem!” and for a moment Mr. Gresham came to a stand still. He then remembered the delicacy of the female character and added, “That was as it should be, my love. No young woman is forward to encourage the visits of the other sex. But no doubt he understood from your manner that you would receive him with pleasure. Did he express any wish, with regard to ... to _our_ society?”

“He asked me to go sometimes and see Hope,” Angela replied, feeling that by that answer she should for the time at least relieve herself from the torment of his questionings.

“That is well; you have my permission to avail yourself of the invitation,” and drawing himself up to a princely air, he accompanied his daughter across the hall, and then allowed her to depart.

She entered the drawing-room, kissed her aunt, as she lay on the sofa, said she hoped she was better, and then sat down at the window and looked out in silence.

Time passed and she made no change in her position. At last Miss Price spoke. “Your father was here a short time ago, my love, and said he wished you to be in good time to-night. I think a Bishop dines here and you must be ready.”

Angela came towards her with a smile, and said, “Oh! yes I will be ready for the Bishop; it is only half-past six, and _he_ will not care how I am dressed I suppose.”

“No, love, I suppose not; but your father likes you to look nice.”

Angela, however, now sat down by the sofa, and made no haste to prepare herself for the Bishop.

“Did you see Mr. Vavasour, my love?” enquired her aunt at length.

“Yes, Aunt Jane, I did see him.”

“Well, love.”

“Well Aunt Jane.”

“You know what I would say, dearest. Did you have a happy meeting?”

“A _happy_ meeting!” she repeated scornfully. “No not exactly happy.”

“No, dearest, I expressed myself ill,--of course not happy, but I hope....”

“If you wish to know all at once, Aunt Jane, I will tell you. He hates me;” and though tears trembled in her eyes, she drove them back with a look of indignant pride.

“I hardly think so love; indeed I feel sure he does not.”

“Why?” and Angela looked in her face as if her fate was to be read there.

“Because he loved you once so very truly. I saw him, dearest, once after your father refused him. He told me not to tell that he came, and I promised; so I never did; but he loved you very truly. I could see that; though I don’t understand such things much, I could see _that_.”

“Yes, then he did,” and Angela sighed and suffered the tears to fall from her eyes.

“And once, love, he told me, that he was not changeable, and I think I should say the same from his look; he does not look inconstant.”

“Inconstant!” Angela exclaimed indignantly, “it is not inconstancy to change from a worthless object. If he _has_ changed I do not blame him. If he _could_ have behaved as I have done, I should care for him no more, and would _that_ be inconstancy?”

“Perhaps not, love. I do not well understand these things. But I fancy he loves you still.”

Angela shook her head, and yet was comforted.