Chapter VI

The backward flower may yet be wooed to blow,
The dying flame may yet be set a glow,
The truant bird be lured, the fickle heart
Won back again by spell of love’s sweet art;
But thou, so kind, so constant, yet so cold,
What spell for thee shall all love’s store unfold?
_From Poems by E. Hinxman._

“Well, Angela,” cried Miss Vansittart, eagerly entering the drawing-room at Underwood, “what do you think? Mr. Gresham has proposed, and Mr. Vavasour has accepted.”

Angela was seated in a window of the room drawing. Miss Price was lying on the sofa. It was in the middle of August. Mr. Gresham (bringing Miss Price in his suite to be again a chaperone to his daughter “on certain delicate occasions,”) had returned to Underwood about ten days before, his mind as tenaciously bent on the acquisition of its idol as in the previous year. The Vansittart family were paying him a visit.

There was certainly nothing very attractive even to the most anxious heart, in the terms of Miss Vansittart’s announcement, but Angela’s inner life was too constantly agitated to allow her to hear it with calmness. A flush of astonishment strangely mingled with hope and anger, dyed her cheeks, and a startled light flashed in her eyes.

At the sight of her discomposure, Miss Vansittart laughed heartily, as heartily that is, as she thought it becoming in a young lady to laugh, and more heartily than she would have laughed had Mr. Gresham been in the room.

“Why, Angela,” she exclaimed, “what is the matter? You could not look more moved, if a proposal of marriage had been in question, instead of a simple proposal to dine.”

“You startled me,” Angela said coldly, and resumed her drawing without further inquiries.

“But why,” asked her companion eagerly. “What did you think I meant? Did you really, is it possible you could really suppose, that I was speaking of a matrimonial proposal. Is it possible?”

With an effort Angela drove away her annoyance and laughed. “If your father was my father, Adelaide,” she said, lightly, “you would sometimes feel as I do, _terrified_ at what he might think it right to do.”

“Terror!” said her tormentor. “I don’t think it was only terror I saw in your face.”

Angela made no reply. She was now herself again, guarded and prepared for Miss Vansittart’s questioning.

“Come, Angela,” she said, drawing a chair into the window. “Now I have found you alone or as good as alone,” glancing at Miss Price who was reading, and quite unmoved by what had passed, “do talk to me a little. I must tell you that I know all about you and Mr. Vavasour. My interest was excited about him last night, so I made it my business to drag it all out of your Papa in the course of that walk we took this morning. He has been telling me everything from beginning to end.”

“Then probably you know much more than I do,” was Angela’s cold reply.

“Perhaps,” with a little air of importance. “But still I know only the dry facts such as a man can tell; I want the comments which only a woman can make. Come, do be a good girl, and make a _confidante_ of me.”

“I will answer any question you please to ask,” Angela said. “But as I have nothing whatever to tell, you must excuse my making confidences.”

“You are very ungrateful, do you know,” said Miss Vansittart playfully. “You owe this dinner engagement entirely to me. After your Papa told me the dry facts this morning, I made him come in and write an invitation to dine and sleep for Saturday, on the spur of the moment. He consented, wrote it, desired the groom to wait for an answer, and the answer being favorable, allowed me to be the bearer of the good news to you at once. It came while we were playing at billiards, and I resigned my place to Mamma, and hastened to you.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh! you wretch, is that all you have to say after my efforts in your service?”

“As you could not possibly know, Adelaide, whether it would please me or not, I can only suppose you wish to see Mr. Vavasour himself.”

“There I will confess you are right; for though I am entirely of your Papa’s mind that the union of the two properties is motive sufficient to form the matrimonial project, still being somewhat younger than he is, and in its proper place somewhat more romantic, I allow that the outward man and manners are of importance. Now tell me--Is Mr. Vavasour handsome?”

“My aunt says not.”

“Do you, Miss Price,” said Miss Vansittart, startling her into attention. “Do you call Mr. Vavasour ugly? I am sorry for that.”

“Ugly, my love, no indeed,” replied Miss Price much distressed. “I believe, I did once say that to my taste he was not handsome; his nose is large, and his eyebrows very marked--but he is pleasing, decidedly pleasing.”

“And what do you say, Angela?”

“Oh! pleasing, decidedly pleasing,” she replied carelessly.

“Well, I see I must judge for myself. He comes on Saturday. I told you that, Angela, did I not? to dine, but not to sleep; and I can tell you, that since you refuse to confide in me, you must be prepared to be watched with the eyes of a lynx. I have no doubt that _I_ shall discover what is the mystery.”

“What mystery?” Angela said impatiently provoked out of her coolness.

“What mystery? why, my dear Angela, the very inexplicable mystery of why, seeing he is now in a position to be accepted, he does not repeat his former unwelcome proposal.”

“If you put it in that light, I think what you call the mystery is very easily explained. Some men are not particularly fond of being accepted for their position, and some women would scorn them if they were.”

“Yes some, but not you, Angela,” she replied mischievously. “You would e’en take him, although he has the misfortune to have a fine property saddled upon him.”

“What makes you take so much interest in Mr. Vavasour?” Angela asked, evading any reply to this accusation.

“That Mr. Selwyn with whom you sent me in to dinner last night. He talked of very little except Mr. Vavasour, and as I had nothing better to hear from him, I allowed him and even encouraged him to speak. You know, Angela, men say, that a woman never praises a woman. Now I have happened to remark, that except very young men, a man never praises a man; and therefore when a man does praise a man, I always suppose there is good reason.”

“And Mr. Selwyn praised Mr. Vavasour?” Angela asked with as small a show of interest as she could possibly put on.

“He did indeed, he even excited _my_ prosaic mind. He told me that a year ago he in common with many others, positively hated him for stepping as he did into his brother’s place, but that somehow or other, he has so won the good opinion of his neighbours, that there is not one who does not love him. He says, he mixes in society a good deal now, as much as he can without leaving his mother alone, and that his manners and conversation are so agreeable, so kind, and so sensible, that ... in short, I suppose, Angela, that if Mr. Selwyn has any daughters, they are your rivals; and perhaps a great many others besides. I did not like to ask the question point blank, but I beat delicately about the bush, and I found, that Mr. Vavasour is not looked upon as a marrying man, but that if he were, he would have no great difficulty in finding a wife.”

“I should think not,” Angela said composedly. “When a person’s character is very high, and there is nothing in other ways to repel, I think the difficulty must be _not_ to like them.”

“That is your opinion, is it, Angela? And you think love is guided by character? Well, my view of the world differs from yours; and I should say, upon the whole, that my experience is more to be trusted. However, I must tell you one thing more that Mr. Selwyn said. He found a fault. Are you interested? Do you care to know what it is? Have you any fears for Mr. Vavasour’s character?” and she fixed her mischievous eyes on Angela’s face.

“Not much fear for his character,” she said, with a very slight glow on her cheek, “but I should certainly like to hear what the fault is.”

“To tell you the truth, it was the fault that most took my fancy. Not that I myself admire it; I quite agree with Mr. Selwyn, and with your papa, who joined in the conversation, that it is a great fault; but still it is not a very common one, and therefore it took my attention. The world is full of people, worthy and unworthy, who try to make much of themselves. To be blameably backward is less common, and though a fault, is not an offensive one. When I hear of a young man in Mr. Vavasour’s position, being too modest to take his proper place in the world, I think it a very great pity, and so I shall tell him if I have an opportunity; but it excites my interest.”

“Yes,” Angela replied, with the same quietness of manner with which she had pursued the conversation.

Miss Vansittart here gave a slight and affected yawn, as if to do away with the impression of having been really interested in the conversation, and began to admire the embroidery of Angela’s collar, and the fineness of her muslin gown. This was a common change in her ways and manners. She had more in her than she quite liked to have, or knew what to do with, and after any unusual shew of interest, retraced her steps to worldliness or frivolity, as the practice of some serious duty she had set before her eyes.

Angela was too lavishly supplied with the means of adorning herself to take much interest in her dress, and while her companion admired, her thoughts went far away.

There was nothing new in their track. The same hope, the same fear, the same despondency, had occupied her mind for many months, and were occupying them still. She returned unchanged. “The strength of love is constancy,” and certainly hers day by day gathered strength, and engraved itself with iron in her soul. This was not altogether a conscious virtue, or a willing one. There had been many moments during the weary, yet exciting months she had passed, when she had said she would wait no more. There had been moments, when her heart sickening with hope deferred, and pining to be loved and cherished, had resolved--among the many who only waited the softening of a glance to come forward,--to make a new and happier choice.

But little did these resolutions avail her. It is the happiness, and yet the trial of attachments like hers, that they cannot be shaken. Sympathies are broken, fancies change, charms are dispelled; but the chain that binds to the rock of a lofty character no wind or storm can break, so long as the rock itself is fast and sure. Inconstant natures may, indeed, be weary of reverencing, as they grow weary of all things else in earth and in Heaven; but better natures are not fickle ones--and in these the love that is built on reverence is as immoveable as the stars in the sky. Angela struggled with her passion only to find that it grasped her with a might beyond her power to overcome.

So she returned to Underwood, and so entered again upon her life of exciting expectation.

On the Sunday after her return, she had twice seen Everard in church; but there had been no meeting outside. In the morning _she_ had been late, and in the afternoon _he_ was so; and on both occasions he had remained with his mother--who was still unwilling to encounter the gaze of strangers--when the service was over. Whether this was a pain to him or no, she could not tell. Their pews were on different sides of the church; and though she had fancied that his eyes followed her down the aisle, she could not he sure.

“I am glad I shall see Mr. Vavasour,” broke in the placid voice of her aunt, about half-an-hour after Miss Vansittart left the room, “I shall be happy to meet him again.”

Angela started from her meditations, and went to her and kissed her. She did feel sanguine at this early acceptance of her father’s invitation, and thus her heart expressed itself.

“You will be happy too, love?”

“I cannot tell,” Angela said, and sighed, and sat down again to her drawing.

* * * * *

Mr. Gresham stood at the drawing-room door to receive Everard, much in the same manner as he had received Robert two years before; and with something of the same pomp he would have conducted him around the room; but Everard escaped from him. Leaving Mr. Addison, with whom he came, to hear the conclusion of Mr. Gresham’s speeches, he went quickly across the room to Angela, and having as quickly shaken hands with her, retreated to the background, where Miss Price sat, and placed himself by her side. It was all so easily and rapidly done, that Angela’s heart had scarcely begun to bound, and her cheek to flush, before the meeting was over. How over she could not tell; but she was so far relieved as to be convinced that even Miss Vansittart’s curious eyes had seen nothing to satisfy them; and she resolved that this first meeting safely over, nothing to gratify them _should_ be exhibited during the remainder of the evening.

Mr. Gresham was disappointed in being unable to make a hero of Everard. He could not appreciate a character that did not love to walk in the eyes of the world; and he gave a sigh to Robert.

Mr. Selwyn’s complaint regarding Everard’s manners and habits, was the common complaint of the neighbourhood. Perhaps it is the case in all countries--in England it certainly is so great a pleasure to admire, and either privately or publicly to make a hero, that in the same degree as arrogance offends, over-diffidence displeases. It is a disappointment to a very good trait in human nature, and human nature is angry. And yet, on the other hand, it was this very simplicity and modesty of nature which had won for Everard the regard in which he was now held. It might disappoint, but it attracted--it might be condemned with the lips, but the inner heart approved; and, though with reluctance, it was some times confessed, that in his peculiar position even over-diffidence, perhaps, was fitting.

Unwilling to be thwarted in all his efforts to do honor to his guest, Mr. Gresham, when dinner was announced, approached Everard, and desired him aloud to take his daughter in to dinner. Having made his arrangements, he then gave his own arm to Mrs. Vansittart, and departed.

A bright color glowed for a moment on the cheeks of both Everard and Angela, but he obeyed Mr. Gresham’s commands without hesitation, and came to her side at once. Not so Angela. Not coldly, yet with dignity, she stood up on his approach, and with ease and self-possession said, “No, I think it will be better for you to take Miss Vansittart,” and making a slight introduction, she drew back.

Again he colored, but obeyed with the same perfect obedience.

“Will you take me, Mr. Addison?” Angela asked, having previously mortally offended a youth, by sending him in to dinner with Miss Price, and she placed herself at the table well satisfied with what she had done.

But the satisfaction did not last very long. From her end of the table she could not help observing what passed at the other end; and the easy conversation which was kept up between Everard and Miss Vansittart, annoyed her. She observed, and justly, that he was changed. Having been forced into notice, all that was awkward in his manners had worn away, and he was able to bear his part in common society without effort or pain. His countenance, when in repose, was still singularly grave; but being no longer permitted to be silent, the gravity was not so striking. He was changed, as life and society changes all men; and in his case there was no doubt that the change was an improvement. But Angela could not, and would not, own it; a feeling of jealousy and annoyance crept over her, and after some struggle, the mind’s feelings came forth in words.

“Mr. Vavasour, I see, has quite recovered his spirits,” she observed to Mr. Addison.

“In a degree,” he replied, “not entirely. Even yet, I sometimes accuse him of moroseness.”

“I don’t see much of it,” she said quickly.

He glanced at her, but said no more.

“I hear he mixes a great deal in society,” she began again, after another somewhat angry gaze down the table.

“Not a very great deal; what he does is chiefly for his mother’s sake. She will not see any one herself, and he thinks it necessary therefore, for her good and her happiness, to have some new things to tell her. He leaves her unwillingly, but he thinks occasional absences make diversity in her life; and he is right.”

“Yes, I dare say. I was not disapproving, I assure you, Mr. Addison. I was only remarking on the fact as a new one. He strikes me as being very much changed.”

“You will not think so when you see more of him. I see him most days, and I see no change. Except ...” he added, after a moment, “that he changes as we all ought to change--he improves.”

“Oh, yes, so I hear,” she replied; but she was not in the mood to think of any changes with pleasure, and her tone was not cordial.

“I think _you_ are changed, Miss Gresham,” Mr. Addison said, looking at her after a short silence.

“Am I? How?”

“You are graver and quieter; _older_,” he added, with a smile.

“And is it a good change?” Angela asked, smiling also.

“Yes, I think so,” he replied, kindly.

“Do you _really_ think I am growing better? I should be very glad;” and there was real anxiety in her voice.

“Yes, I think so,” he repeated.

“I wonder why you think so. What have I done; I feel so very far from being better myself.”

He looked round to see if any one was listening, and then said quietly, “You used to give me much pain by your wandering eyes at church, you do so no longer. That is one good change.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, colouring deeply.

“I remember you told me once. Yes I have tried to change that. But perhaps....” She stopped, and sighed, and said no more; but meant perhaps to say, that the inner eyes were wandering still.

They continued to talk during the remainder of dinner; not so unceasingly, however, as to prevent Angela from perceiving the flow of discourse between Everard and Miss Vansittart. Not even in the early days of their acquaintance had Everard been thus conversible with her.

On returning to the drawing-room, Miss Vansittart approached her with her hands joined together and said, “My dear Angela, I must really beg your pardon! I am afraid you will never forgive me.”

“For what?” Angela said, forcing a smile, but uneasy in heart.

“I will tell you. Quite inadvertently I am afraid I have deprived you of Mr. Vavasour’s society this evening. In the course of dinner I asked your Papa if he would let me play at whist to-night--you know I have before now begged him to let me join his party, and he has refused, thinking I did it out of civility--well he agreed at last; and then quite without thought I asked Mr. Vavasour if he would be my partner; to my utter dismay, he said yes. I am really sorry, Angela, but I could not help it.”

Angela’s heart died within her. This, then, was to be the end of that meeting, from which she had hoped so much. She turned pale with disappointment, but seeing four curious eyes eagerly watching her face, she controlled herself enough to say indifferently, “If it pleases you and him, you are quite welcome. For myself I hate the very sight of whist, but that I suppose is a matter of taste.”

“You seemed to be getting on famously with Mr. Vavasour, Adelaide,” said her mother. “I was quite afraid Mr. Gresham would be jealous.”

“Oh, no fear of that,” Adelaide replied, with a slight affected laugh, “he knew what I was doing. He told me to make much of Mr. Vavasour, and I was only obeying orders.”

Angela had now recovered herself, and sitting down and inviting the others to sit down also, she said, composedly, “What did you talk about, Adelaide? I should have thought no two people on earth could have had so little in common.”

“What has that to do with conversation?” was Miss Vansittart’s reply. “Society would be very tame if there was nothing but agreement.”

“I don’t want agreement; but to talk pleasantly people must more or less see things from the same point of view. Now, I should say, you and Mr. Vavasour might have been born in different planets.”

“I should think we were, and that he was born in the planet Mars, for instance; but let people come from whence they may, I will find means to make them talk to me. But however, Mr. Vavasour and I _had_ a subject in common, and we did great justice to it.”

“And what was that?” asked Mrs. Vansittart. Miss Vansittart bowed to Angela with a peculiar smile.

“Me!” cried Angela, indignantly. “I should be much obliged to you, then, not to talk about me.”

“I am very sorry, but I really cannot oblige you. I talk of you very often. You are quite one of my subjects. I admire you, and blame you, and envy you, just as the circumstances suggest, and you would rob me of one of my greatest pleasures if you set an embargo on my lips.”

“And what line did you take to-night?” asked her mother smiling.

“I began by admiring, of course, and then I asked him the question point blank whether he did not admire also. You know, Angela, I had no reason to hold my tongue. And what do you think he said?”

Angela’s heart beat, but she only quietly said, “Very little, I should guess.”

“Well, he did not make an oration, certainly; but he answered readily,--no blushing or stammering, as I had expected, ‘Yes, very much.’ So then I went on to my next subject--envy; and on that I dilated at some length. But here we did not agree so well; in fact, to say the truth, I think he looked on my views as very worldly. When I observed that I could conceive nothing earthly so happy as your position, he said gravely, ‘that he did not think great riches were an advantage to a woman, but much more a trial.’”

Angela blushed, but remained silent.

Miss Price, who generally slumbered by fits and starts during the evening, here softly murmured, “It is all as God ordains,” a sentiment which was very commonly in her mouth, and which during her half slumbers, she sometimes applied with less opportuneness than at this moment.

“Very true, Miss Price,” said Miss Vansittart good-humouredly, “and I hope you will not think me wrong if I say I wish it had been ordained for me. I do not agree with Mr. Vavasour at all, and so I told him; and I took that opportunity to give him a piece of advice which I had been treasuring in my mind for some days, namely, that he, in his position, ought not to keep himself so backward. I told him position was not given to be hid under a bushel.”

“What did he say?” Angela asked eagerly, forgetting how little interest she desired to shew on the subject.

“He did not much like my advice, I think. He tried to change the subject again and again, but it is one on which I feel strongly, and so I persisted, and delivered myself of a great many wise sentiments. He said, at last, he was very much obliged to me, and he hoped he should profit by my advice; but it was not serious, and I am very much afraid I made no impression.”

“Young men are apt to be perverse,” said Mrs. Vansittart, vacantly, as she looked over her rings and bracelets, and wondered why the gentlemen sat so long after dinner.

“How prettily you are dressed to-night, Angela,” observed Miss Vansittart, changing her manner. “I made that remark to Mr. Vavasour; and he looked at you and said ‘yes, he liked white;’ so now you know his taste, if you did not before, which I suspect you did. What did you give for that silk, and where did you have it made?”

“I know nothing about it,” Angela said, impatiently. “I have told you a hundred times that I know no more about my dress than the man in the moon. Papa told me to bring six new gowns into the country, and I obeyed, though I thought it was shocking waste. I told my maid to go and order them, and this is one.”

Miss Vansittart put up her hands to her eyes and Mrs. Vansittart said, “I remember when you were quite a little thing, Angela, finding you one night very angry about wearing silk frocks. Some poet says, I believe, that the boy is father to the man. I am sure in your case the girl is mother to the woman.”

“I think I remember,” Angela said laughing, “that was the first night I ever saw Mr. Merivale. Do you know that he is coming over. We expect him here in about three weeks.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” said Mrs. Vansittart! “He is too great a stranger to us all. But here come the gentlemen at last!” and as she spoke Mr. Gresham and his suite entered the room.

Poor Angela was destined to new disappointment. Had Everard intended to approach her he could not have done so, for the mortally offended youth, thinking no small things of himself, and determined to make amends for the tedium of the dinner hour, took a chair, placed it in front of Angela, and cut her off from the room; and she, too conscious of her intense desire to escape from him to allow it to appear, was forced to endure with patience.

Everard was first seized by the button, while an old gentleman expounded in his ears his views on foreign politics; he was freed from this grasp after a time by Mr. Gresham, who brought a request from Mrs. Vansittart, that she might be allowed to make his acquaintance. She looked on all young men in Everard’s circumstances under two aspects; first as valuable in themselves, and secondly, as valuable in respect to her three daughters; and she laid herself out to make herself agreeable to him.

Angela watched, and could she have seen one weary glance directed towards herself would have been content; but no glance came. She did not think he looked interested or amused, but there was no appearance of a wish to escape, and languidly and restlessly she endeavoured to attend to her own companion.

Then came a move; and hope once more arose; but it was only to the whist table, which,--in a desire to show his gratitude to Miss Vansittart for her interest in his favourite recreation--Mr. Gresham caused to be set out at an earlier hour than usual.

Everard was summoned; and no longer fearful of her motives being read too plainly, Angela freed herself from the youth who had poisoned her evening, and sitting down by her aunt, indulged her troubled thoughts in silence.

From this comparative peace she was aroused by an order from Mr. Gresham to entertain them with music; she obeyed and was followed to the piano-forte by the youth, and by Mr. Alfred Vansittart, a young gentleman who for several years had been carrying on a mild courtship, insipid but constant, never daunted, but never elated into hope.

Though improved and improving outwardly and inwardly; though softened in manner, and to a considerable degree disciplined in mind, Angela was still very far from a saint either in gentleness or patience. Mortified and disappointed she could not refrain from venting a part of her irritation on her two pertinacious admirers, and first by obtuseness to their speeches, and then by rebuffs to their polite attentions, she endeavoured to soothe herself, and weary them. Of the ill temper in which she was indulging she was totally unconscious, until, a considerable time having elapsed in mingled concord and discord, sweet sounds of music and irritation of temper, she suddenly perceived that she had a third auditor. Behind Alfred Vansittart Everard was standing and watching her.

She felt her cheeks glow, and unable to bear her prominent position, she closed her music book, pushed back her chair, and said with a laugh that she had played enough and could play no more.

The young men remonstrated, re-opened the book, and sorted her music in search of fresh pieces; and while they thus occupied themselves, Everard came round to her.

“I am going now,” he said, “Mrs. Vansittart has taken my place. My mother likes to sit up for me, and I don’t wish to be late. I have something to ask you before I go. You saw Hope in London, did you not?”

“Once. Only once. She only arrived just before we left London.”

“Did she make a request to you?”

“Yes,” Angela said blushing a little, “but....”

“I hope you will be so kind as to attend to it,” he said earnestly; “Hope told me she should ask you to come and see my mother, and I cannot help enforcing her request myself. It will be a kindness, a real charity if you will; for since Hope went, my mother is too much alone.”

“Do you think she will see me?”

“I am almost sure she will, if you can make the attempt.”

“Then I will.”

There was a short silence, and then Everard said, “I believe I am very troublesome, but would it be possible to you to name the day. The reason I ask this is, that I may be at home when you come. If I tell my mother of your visit beforehand, it will make her nervous, but I think if I tell her you are _there_, she will be very willing to meet you. It is only for the first time.”

“I am afraid I cannot go while the Vansittarts are here,” Angela said after a moment’s thought. “Will this day week do? I think I could manage it then, at about half-past three.”

“Thank you. That will do perfectly. You see I presume on your kindness. Mr. Addison says,” he added with a slight smile, “that you are anxious to do good. I am sure this is an opportunity.”

Though nothing could be more unlike a lover’s than his manner, it was so quiet, unembarrassed, and friendly, that Angela forgot for a moment all discomforts, and took courage to say softly, “Shall I find her very much changed.”

“Yes, I fear so,” he replied sadly. “Sorrow, such as she has suffered, leaves deep traces behind it.” His own countenance saddened as he spoke, and Angela did not dare to say more.

A moment afterwards he held out his hand, shook hers, and was gone as quickly as he had made his entrance into the room.

Angela could not analyze what she felt. When she did attempt to go over what had passed, to consider his looks and words, she believed his wish and intention was to return to a friendly intercourse, to show her how much he desired to be on friendly terms, but also to show that he had no other thoughts. For a time she felt that this was all she desired. If she could be friends with him, life must be happy; but alas! this conclusion did not suffice for more than a few hours. It soothed her sleep that night, but she woke up to other hopes in the morning.

The Vansittarts left Underwood on the Saturday following, leaving, as Mr. Gresham observed to Angela, a great blank behind them. She did not agree, but she did not express her feelings. Among the many points in which she was improved, not the least was patience with her father. She could not submit her mind and opinions to his, and indeed it was little desirable she should, but she no longer made her home a battle scene between two opinions, and her home was the happier in consequence.

With a beaming smile Mr. Gresham received the news she now imparted to him, that she was going to see Mrs. Vavasour, and though he refrained from comment, it was evident that once again he looked upon his hopes as on the eve of fulfilment.

Attended by her aunt Angela drove to Audley Court and found Everard awaiting her. He assisted her from the carriage, and took her himself to his mother’s room; walking by her side in silence indeed, yet treating her with that quiet friendliness which could not do otherwise than set her at her ease in his presence. At the door he begged her to wait while he gained his mother’s consent for her entrance, and then with a smile of encouragement, for he saw she was fluttering with the nervousness of this pause, made way for her to go in alone.

When she returned to the carriage she found him talking to Miss Price. He came forward to meet her, and holding out his hand, said warmly, “Thank you again and again. You have done a great kindness.”

With a swelling heart and glowing cheeks, Angela re-entered the carriage, and it was only when they had driven away that she became conscious there had been nothing in his manner to encourage her aching heart.

He had been very grateful for his mother’s sake, but he had made no use of the opportunity her visit gave him to renew his acquaintance with _her_. He had been silent when they were alone, and had made not even a momentary effort to retain her.

“How did you find Mrs. Vavasour, my love?” placidly inquired Miss Price, after a quarter of an hour of silence.

The inquiry broke the thread of Angela’s selfish reflections, and she sadly answered, “Changed, very much changed. Her hair which had not a thread of grey is quite white, and the beautiful color she used to have in her cheeks is gone. Oh! Aunt Jane,” she continued, almost passionately. “I sometimes think it would be better to live as you and I do, without having any one to care very much for, than to care, and then to lose it. It makes life too dreadful to think of.”

“No, my love,” said her Aunt, emphatically, “it is good for those indeed to whom God appoints it, but it would be a thankless thing to turn from the blessing for fear of the pain. He who gives the happiness can also give the power to bear its loss.”

Angela sighed and from her heart, as she always did when forms of goodness and submission, that seemed to her unattainable, were placed before her eyes. Yet the question was not set at rest. Mrs. Vavasour’s altered countenance haunted her for many days, and she tormented herself with inquiries, whether it were not better to be a stoic, than to care so much for what this life contains.

It was a very useless question in her case, since no efforts could have made a stoic of her.