Chapter X

From time to time
Henceforth I felt, although I met them not,
The visitation of those serious eyes.
_Eve of the Conquest._

Everard came down early the following morning, earlier, that is, than the breakfast hour of the house. Finding the breakfast room empty, and being told by the servants that he was half an hour too soon, he went out for a walk. When he returned, he was observed by Angela from the breakfast room window, and she opened the window to invite him to come in. She and Mr. Merivale were there alone. Mr. Merivale was reading his letters.

“You have been out to shame us, I suppose,” she said laughing, “but it is only just ten o’clock.”

“I went out because I came down too soon,” he said, smiling; “like the man in the moon. I had no other reason.”

“But you do think our hours very late?”

“Indeed I do not. Mine are earlier, but that does not make yours late.”

“I won’t ask you at what o’clock you _get up_, for I feel sure that it is at some unearthly hour; but at what o’clock do you come down at Audley Court?”

“At half-past eight.”

“And do you all breakfast then? Does poor Mr. Vavasour? I don’t think he can like it much; your brother I mean.”

“No; we don’t breakfast till nine. Robert is very good. He does not much like it, but he is not often late.”

“Then what takes place at half-past eight?”

“My father reads prayers.”

“Oh!” Angela said, gravely; then, smiling, “Why did you not say that before?”

“I had no need, had I?”

“Now, Mr. Vavasour, for once you don’t speak quite the truth. You did not choose to say it, because you thought it would be a reproach to a house where there were no prayers.”

“I will not be positive. It may have been so; but I really do not think it was.”

“Is it common to have family prayers? I beg your pardon,” she said, suddenly, “for asking so many questions. I believe I never speak without a question; but my ignorance of the ways of the world is such that I am forced to do it. I hope to improve. Is it common?”

“I fancy it is,” Everard said, after a moment’s thought. “I should suppose it is; but I know very little of the interior arrangements of houses in general.”

“Do you think it a right custom?”

“It seems, I think, a good and natural one.”

“I will release you now,” she said, laughing. “I know I must be a bore; but my ignorance is my excuse.”

“I shall be most happy to answer any questions,” Everard said, smiling also; “but if they are about the ways of the world, perhaps I am not much wiser than you are.”

“Did you hear me, Mr. Merivale?” Angela said, approaching him. “Did you think me a bore?”

“Rather, my dear child,” he said, looking up from his letter; “I could not understand a word I read.”

Nevertheless, with a glance, half amused, half anxious, he had been watching her from behind his letter.

The rest of the party (with the exception of Robert), consisting of Mr. Gresham and two or three gentlemen, now entered the room, and all proceeded to breakfast.

Nothing could be more pompously urbane than Mr. Gresham was to all; but his eyes were on the door, and he was evidently ill at ease in daring to eat before Robert appeared. Once or twice he apologised to himself for doing so; and the only special notice he took of Everard was to make the same apology to him. He had some good shooting, which was the avowed purpose for which the party had been formed; but nothing was allowed to be settled on the subject, or even debated, until Robert came. “It was all in Mr. Vavasour’s hands.” This reduced every inquirer to silence.

When Robert did appear, at the very end of breakfast, the superabundant attentions of the preceding evening were resumed. He went forward to meet him, overpowered his apologies for his lateness, by his (Mr. Gresham’s) apologies for his rudeness, and made amends for the latter by supplying Robert’s wants, with a hospitality and ostentation five times as great as that he had shown to his other guests.

Robert accepted it all with careless ease and good humour; neither rejecting the attentions of his host nor glorying in them. It was impossible to be angry with _him_, and yet though he escaped, there was a rising wrath and rebellion in Angela’s mind, which boded future strife in the house.

As she left the breakfast room she overheard a young man say to Everard, “I am sure I wish I was an elder son, don’t you?”

She slackened her steps to catch Everard’s reply. It was given with more truth than politeness, so far, at least, as the young gentleman was concerned. “Unless we wish for other qualities at the same time, perhaps the matter of birth would be no great advantage to us.”

Angela smiled to herself as she walked on, but the observation of the young man, though she owned it was ill bred, added to the irritation of her mind.

In the course of the morning Mr. Merivale entered the drawing-room. He found Angela seated at a table, with a large Prayer-book before her. His quick observation immediately guessed the nature of her occupation, but without discovering this, he approached her and asked, “What are you about now, Angela?”

“I wish to have family prayers in the house,” she replied with dignity, “and I am making out a proper selection. I wish to have them to-morrow morning, or I would wait till I could see Mr. Addison, and ask him to choose for me.”

“And who is to read, my love?”

“I mean to read myself; that is, if papa refuses, which I know he will.”

“_You!_”

“Yes. You seem surprised. Is there anything extraordinary in my doing it?”

“A little, I think. Don’t do it, my dear child, if you will take my advice. It is an office not very consistent with your age, and giddiness, and other things.”

“I don’t see that,” she said. “I know I am not very good, but if we wait till we are perfect before we do anything that is right, I don’t see that we ever can improve. I think it right to have prayers in a house, and if I can I will have them. I dare say I shall be frightened at first, but I don’t care for that.”

“Now, my dear child, listen to me,” said Mr. Merivale, with difficulty restraining a smile. “I am the very last person to say a word against your zeal; but do not be in such haste. Let all things be done decently and in order. Do not while all your servants are busy and hurried begin such a thing. Let them know you are thinking about it; give them time to consider it, and consider it yourself, and then take some quiet time to begin. Trust me, I am giving you good advice.”

“I don’t think you are,” she said eagerly; “one should act rightly while one feels the spirit to do it. I never do a thing if I let the right time go by.”

“It requires principle, certainly; but, believe me, hasty things are dangerous things. Besides, there is another reason: if you do this thing suddenly, what will Mr. Everard Vavasour think? It strikes me he will think you pay a very undue regard to his opinion.”

“I don’t care,” she said, though her blood mounting to her temples, somewhat contradicted her words, “I am glad he should see on the contrary that some regard is paid to his opinion in this house. I like what he said, and I am not ashamed to shew it.”

“Poor little thing,” he said, suddenly patting her shoulders, “you had better take care of yourself.”

She did not notice his observation, but resumed her inspection of the Prayer-book.

A moment afterwards Mr. Gresham entered the room, and as if to shew herself entirely unmoved by Mr. Merivale’s arguments, she immediately made her request to her father.

He placed himself before the fire, and after a moment’s reflection observed, “This requires consideration. If it is a proper thing it shall be done, though at some inconvenience. Is it a common appendage of a country house?”

“I don’t know,” Angela said, “but I know that in some houses it is done. Mr. Vavasour reads prayers at Audley Court.”

“Indeed!” Mr. Gresham asked eagerly. “Has Mr. Vavasour been speaking on the subject? His opinion is of importance.”

“Mr. _Everard_ Vavasour told me so,” Angela said with emphasis.

“Oh!” was Mr. Gresham’s reply. “Mr. Everard Vavasour’s opinion is another thing; deserving of consideration certainly, but, comparatively speaking, of less moment.”

“I don’t see that,” Angela said warmly and with a deep blush.

“Nor I,” said Mr. Merivale.

Mr. Gresham looked from one to the other with too much surprise in his countenance to leave room for an expression of displeasure. He was one of those who with difficulty are brought to see that which they do not wish to see; and though there was something in Angela’s look which might have made him uneasy for his cherished plans, he did not appear to be conscious of it.

Without resuming the subject, he in a moment observed to Mr. Merivale, “That Mr. Vavasour is a very pleasing young man; a very fine young man.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Merivale, “they both are.”

“I spoke of the eldest. He is, I should say, the first young man of his day. Accomplished, amiable in manner, striking in appearance, and, if I mistake not, formed to have the eyes of the world upon him.”

“I like both,” persisted Mr. Merivale, “but I am not certain that I do not like the youngest best.”

“It would be rather singular,” Mr. Gresham said, contemptuously elevating his nose, “to prefer the younger to the elder.”

Angela’s heart was bursting to speak, but she refrained. Her cheek, however, was again crimson.

Mr. Gresham looked at her with a stare of observation, through a countenance totally unmoved. After a short silence he left his place, and, approaching the table, asked what she was doing.

She told him.

“You need not trouble yourself,” he said coldly. “I will attend to the subject myself. If I find that family prayers are a common appendage of country houses, I will undertake the duty in proper time. Meanwhile, I beg that my affairs may not be canvassed with those who can have no concern with them. Merivale, do you choose to walk with me?”

“With all my heart,” he said, and followed him from the room, leaving Angela with a mind in which rebellion was beginning to be harboured. The feelings that animated her were partly generous, partly romantic, and partly wilful; but the generous motives were so predominant, they were in their nature so right and true, that she scarcely acknowledged the second, and entirely disregarded the third. Her taste and heart alike revolted from this courting of Robert, and she proudly determined that she would show a spirit animated by other feelings.

In this temper of mind she awaited the evening.

Another party had been invited, and the second evening was in many respects a repetition of the first. During dinner Angela sat again between her father and Robert, and as Mr. Gresham listened to and joined in their animated conversation, he banished every dawning uneasiness regarding the success of his scheme. Angela and Robert did indeed get on exceedingly well together. Both, of course, perceived, one with internal chafing, the other with internal merriment, Mr. Gresham’s designs, but both were very willing to be pleased and amused, whensoever and howsoever they could. When therefore Robert, in the beginning of the evening, was again pompously conducted to Angela’s side, she received him without any show of annoyance, and he accepted his position without reluctance.

Waiting until they were engaged in a full flow of discourse, Mr. Gresham, having performed his duty as a father, proceeded to amuse himself. Whist was the supreme and solemn diversion of his life. Even at whist he still was Mr. Gresham; even his play was in the eyes of the world, but certainly he was less guarded, less conscious of his enormous responsibilities when engaged in that employment, than on any other occasions of his life. This evening the whist table was formed early, and he sat down to play in serene majesty, at peace with himself, his daughter, and all the world.

“Are you really going back to Audley Court to-morrow?” Angela said to Robert shortly after they had been left to themselves.

“Yes, we must go. We shall only be a week or ten days more at home, and we don’t like to leave my father for a longer time. That is Everard does not, and I think he is right.”

“And you go after breakfast to-morrow--that is you go out shooting, and don’t come back any more?”

“I believe that is the plan.”

“Then I must go and speak to your brother now. I have got something to ask him.”

“Have you,” Robert said, laughing, “what is it? May I be a partaker of the secret?”

“It is not a secret, it is something about my aunt, to whom your brother was very good-natured in London. I will tell you another time what it is, if you care to know, but I must seize my opportunity, or perhaps I shall not have one again. Will you let me go by.”

He moved his chair, and watched her for a minute as she crossed over to Everard, amused alike by her ways and by Everard’s face when he was summoned. He was much too quick not to see that they were what he called “a little taken,” and the idea afforded him infinite entertainment.

“Mr. Vavasour!” Angela said, slightly raising her voice to attract Everard’s attention, as she seated herself on a sofa near him.

He was talking to, or rather listening to a prosy gentleman; but thus called upon, he could not but leave him in the midst of his prose.

He came to her. “I wish you would sit down for a minute,” she said, assuming in her manner something of the same ease and dignity she had assumed on the previous evening. “I have got something I wish to say?”

He looked startled, as Robert had observed. These conversations tried his self command too severely to be agreeable to him. He could do nothing, however, but obey.

“What I want to say is this,” she began. “I have an impression on my mind that you must think I do not tell quite the truth, and I do not like you to think it.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Everard said, smiling.

“When we spoke of plots and disguises the other day, I know by my looks I acknowledged I had done something of the kind, and yet I denied it. I know you must think I did not speak the truth, but I had not courage to explain myself. The fact is, I do not call it a disguise. I will tell you how it was. My aunt told me of a Mr. Vavasour’s kindness to her. I knew that a Mr. Vavasour lived near the place which my father had lately bought. I dare say it was a foolish fancy, but I thought I should like to see him before we came here, and yet not exactly in my own person. I dressed myself, therefore, as my aunt’s niece ought to dress. There is the history.”

“I am very much obliged to you for explaining it,” Everard said. “It is quite plain and very natural.”

“And what do you say now?” she asked, playfully. “Do you condemn all plots and disguises, even such a very little thing as that?”

“If you ask me,” he replied, “I must say what I think. I do not like them.”

“You think I was very wrong then?”

“Very wrong, oh no, that is a strong expression. But why, Miss Gresham, ask my opinion? It cannot matter. I have an objection to such things. I think them mischievous, dangerous things, but I do not wish to be forced to say so.”

“There could be no great mischief or danger there.”

“There might,” he said, quickly.

“I cannot see it; and though I too like truth, I think you are severe. What harm have I done or could I do?”

“I cannot very well explain myself,” he said, hastily. “I ought, I believe, to beg your pardon for giving my opinion so freely, but when a person is asked....”

“When a person asks questions as I do,” Angela said, playfully, “she will be answered. And now I have got a favour to ask. Will you grant it?”

“I will when I know what I have to grant.”

“I knew you would say that,” she replied, laughing. “All I want to ask is, whether you will be so kind when you go back to London as to visit my aunt again?”

“I will, certainly,” he replied.

“Do not suppose that I am not well aware that I am asking a favour. My poor aunt is very tedious except to those who love her as I do. I know this very well; but your visits were so great a pleasure to her, and her life is so dreary, that I cannot help asking you to do this kindness--a kindness to me as well as to her.”

“I assure you I did not find my visits tedious,” he said, with warmth. “I am obliged to study very hard and live with many very dry people. I found it rather a pleasure than otherwise to be able to be kind to her, and to be received with kindness. Perhaps you will not understand what I mean, but it was something so new and different, that it refreshed me.”

“Then why did you so very quickly give up the pleasure?”

He coloured slightly. “Not because I found it tedious, but because I thought it was time.”

“She thought you were tired of her,” persisted Angela, “and her feelings, poor thing, were hurt. She never expects attentions, but she feels the want of them all the same.”

“I am very sorry,” he said, with great earnestness. “My reason was very different; I had supposed her to be alone; when I found it was otherwise I thought it was wiser and better to bring my visits to an end.”

His voice had a hurried tone, and when he had done there was a moment’s pause; then Angela bent forward, and with something of a queenly air, calm and steady, though with great meaning, asked, “And for what reason _wiser_?”

He looked suddenly up at her and coloured deeply, and in the moment of temptation, forgetting his late resolutions, allowed his eyes to flash with a fire that shortly told a long tale. Angela met his gaze, drew back, and coloured still more deeply than he did. She had provoked that look, but now was abashed at having provoked it. He drew back also.

Neither spoke, and a very awkward silence followed. It was still more awkwardly broken.

Mr. Gresham rose from his whist table, came to the spot where Angela sat, and coldly said, “You will oblige me by going to the pianoforte. We all enjoy music, and I do not know why a young lady is taught to play with much pains and expense, if she cannot entertain her friends.”

His interference restored Angela’s self possession, and as coldly she replied, “I shall be very happy to play; I will go this instant.”

Mr. Gresham returned with a stately air to his seat. Angela rose from hers, and paused for a moment at the table. She then said, with something of the constraint of shyness in her manner, “Then I may depend on your promise, Mr. Vavasour, and tell my aunt that you will be kind enough to visit her again.”

“I will certainly,” he replied, rising from his chair, but not looking at her. His whole air and manner were changed.

Angela went slowly and uneasily to the pianoforte. He did not follow even with his eyes, but joined himself to a group of gentlemen, who were talking over country news and business, and stood there silent and pre-occupied. He was miserable--as miserable as a conscientious man who has broken a resolution conscientiously made, as a man who hopes he is strong and finds himself weak,--can be. What Angela felt or meant he could not guess, but for himself he was convinced that he had taken undue advantage of her kindliness. What Mr. Gresham meant he understood well.

After Angela had left the drawing-room, and the whist party was broken up, Mr. Gresham came to make his request to Robert that he would prolong his visit for another day. He had a party whom he wished him to meet; he had depended on his remaining; he was, in short, very pressing.

Robert, easy, good-natured, and well amused, was inclined to give way. “I will stay,” he replied, “if Everard will; but if he thinks we had better go then I am afraid I must refuse.”

Everard was standing at a little distance. Mr. Gresham turned to him. “Yes, I think we had better go,” he said, quickly.

With great civility, with more attention than he had yet shown him, Mr. Gresham begged him to relent, and pressed his request with overmuch pressing.

A man is ashamed to refuse a trifling favour when it is asked with earnestness, and Everard gave way. Hardly had he done so, however, before he longed to recall his consent, feeling that the trifle was no trifle to him.

Mr. Gresham was profuse in his thanks, and so gracious in his manner, that Everard went to bed perplexed and bewildered. Strange hopes, vague dreams flitted about his pillow, and tormented him with their pertinacity. Resist them as he might they came again.