Chapter XIV

Thrill me not
With words that, in their agony, suggest
A hope too ravishing.
ION. _A Tragedy._

Before Robert’s departure he had voluntarily promised to return for Christmas. It was two years since he had passed a Christmas at home; and he was well aware of the joy his presence would give. At the end of November, in a letter dated three weeks before, from some port in the Mediterranean, he spoke of his intention as unaltered. But Christmas came, and no Robert came with it. Night and day, Mrs. Vavasour and Hope caught in the wintry winds that swept round the house heralds of Robert’s approach; but they were empty sounds.

Christmas came and past without a word. What each one felt, each one knew; but nothing was said. Mr. Vavasour waited with something of a new-born patience, as if unwilling to distrust again. Mrs. Vavasour assumed a cheerfulness she did not feel, lest her husband should suspect she had a fear. Hope trembled, and was still.

She had had her terrors. She had them still. Over the far future a star of hope ever shone, but darkness hung around the future that was near. She had a fear that a valley as of the shadow of death had to be passed through; and silently she strengthened herself to walk through it with him without dismay. No joyous visions entered into this her first love.

Though Robert did not come, Everard came as usual. His greeting was as his departure had been, calm. The same kindly and approving looks and words; the same absence of that eager joy which marks the return of the house’s idol. Perhaps in the disappointment regarding Robert, his greeting was more calm than usual; or perchance it was only his fancy that called it so.

He came back graver than he went, but more resolved. A few words of approbation in one of his father’s letters regarding his conduct to Angela, a few words expressive of perfect trust in his truth and honour, had given him the spur he wanted. His father’s views were so exactly the views of his own sober mind, his distaste to any courting of Mr. Gresham so instinctively shared, that though distant hopes might haunt his imagination, Everard was very firmly resolved against any further weakness in the present.

At the church door on Christmas day he and Angela met again. Mr. Vavasour was leaning on Everard’s arm. Angela’s veil was down. There could be little to excite or satisfy the imagination. Yet Everard, through her veil, saw Angela’s heightened colour, and Angela felt the gravity of his looks; and both entered the church full of earthly care. Everard struggling with a sudden revival of old weakness, Angela escaping from the present into pictures of future meetings; questioning the meaning of his grave face, and planning means of discovering the secrets of his soul.

On both, Mr. Addison’s text fell warningly and startlingly--“Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God,”--for the world’s sorrows, of which he began to speak, were not like to their troubles, and the message of comfort he brought had little force at that moment to them. Everard roused himself with a sigh, and a conscious furtive smile; Angela said in her heart how bad she must be, and she wished she was better, and then ... dreamed again.

At the church door they met a second time, and the two families crossed the church-yard and went for a few steps down the lane together; but Everard had again given his arm to his father, and there was not even the appearance of a wish to escape. Mr. Gresham addressed Everard with the utmost politeness; inquired after his health, his journey, and the state of the atmosphere in London; but of a desire to see more of him said nothing. So they met and so they parted. After months of dreaming this was their meeting. Angela went home weary and discontented with the world. Not so weary, however, but that before evening she had recovered her sanguine temper, and was full of restless desires for the morrow.

Many morrows came and went, however, and brought no meetings more satisfactory than this. She saw Everard constantly, but for more than a moment rarely saw him. No restrictions were placed upon her movements. During the early winter she had been in the habit of visiting Hope frequently, and she was allowed the same freedom now. Mr. Gresham appeared to ignore the possibility of danger from her intercourse at Audley Court. This implicit trust in his honour bound and strengthened Everard as nothing else could have done. It gave him pain, but it was an appeal he could not resist. With all his powers he endeavoured to meet his cousin’s guest with indifference, neither to avoid nor to seek her. Possibly, nay, probably, his duty was overdone. Such things always are. Possibly, nay, certainly, Angela’s mind was but the more stedfastly bent on endeavouring to discover the truth through the barrier of his indifference.

One morning, it was within a few days of Everard’s return to London, Angela drove over early to spend some hours with Hope. This early visit was at Hope’s request, and Hope’s request had been made on a suggestion from Mr. Addison. Watching Angela with silent but observing eyes, seeing the good of her disposition and the evils also, her precocious scorn of the world’s ways, and her unreal and childish view of its actual ways and troubles, he thought that some knowledge of life in another sphere of thought, some sight of the unromantic ills of the poor, by bringing reality, might bring good to her character. It was in the morning that Hope usually attended to the sick and the suffering whom Mr. Addison placed under her special care, and her invitation to Angela was in the hope of persuading her to accompany her.

To Hope, Angela’s feelings were very visible. A month or two before, it would not have been so; but experience teaches! Strangely different as were Hope’s views of love, still her feelings for Robert, the new form of her feelings had opened a door in her soul hitherto closed. In some sort, these new feelings dragged her down to earth; but only superficially speaking. There is nothing heavenly in narrowness of vision: the gaze upward from a ravine may be more concentrated, than from a plain; but it does not therefore, go nearer to Heaven; the wider field, the larger experience; the more embracing love is that which brings man nearer to an angel’s life. Knowledge and observation, and experience, to natures like Hope’s, bring suffering with them, for the dragging down is pain; but it brings increased strength for their mission on earth, and in the end wings the soul on fresher wings upwards. She was more fitted now to do good to Angela. She had a perception of mental trials and common temptations, before unknown; and with the knowledge, as it ever was with her, came sympathy and desire to help.

She acted on Mr. Addison’s suggestion at once. The attempt was not, however, successful; in this first essay, at least, it was not so, and that from two causes:--the first cause, that Angela went to the work, her heart smarting and bitter with disappointment, too recent to leave her much power to consider the troubles of others. On their way to the village, they overtook Everard strolling along with his dog. He was evidently in no haste, and Angela thought common civility must force him to join them. He seemed to think so himself, for he did walk with them to the outskirts of the village; but there, instead of accompanying them further, he stopped, said he should call on Mr. Addison, and with a quick “good-bye,” went off in another direction.

A second cause of ill-success in interesting her in the poor was, from the ill doings of the poor themselves. When she found the poverty of one family proceeding from the fact, that the husband was an habitual drunkard; the sorrow of another, from the transportation of a son; when she found in another house, the illness of a young girl proceeding from a beating given her by her mother, and that beating caused by frantic rage at the girl’s vain and thoughtless conduct; her indignation and abhorrence knew no bounds. Little perfect as she was herself she had yet to learn that man is frail, and that the bitterest sorrows are those that sin brings with them.

As they returned homewards, she expressed, in no measured terms, her condemnation of the wickedness of the poor, and her astonishment that one so good as Hope could by her presence countenance guilt.

Hope, accustomed to the mixture of good and ill, and so hating sin that she would have gone into a furnace could she have dragged a sinner out, was yet unable to cope with Angela in argument; that charity which would do all things to save some, does not bear argument: it is the mission of some, not of all, perhaps only of those whose holiness is too deep-seated a quality to fear contamination.

“I will shew you some verses Everard copied for me the other day,” at last she said. “They will say better than I can do, what my feeling about human nature is.”

This speech silenced Angela; partly satisfied her, partly sent her mind from her indignation against the poor, to her own troubles.

On re-entering the house, they found luncheon ready. There was a place for Everard, but he did not come. Mrs. Vavasour saw Angela’s wandering eyes, and casually, but kindly, observed that Everard was very little of a luncheon eater. That might be a fact, Angela thought, but it did not make it less clear that he could have been at home if he had pleased.

Immediately after luncheon, Angela’s carriage drove to the door; but a violent storm came on, and it was sent away for an hour. She then reminded Hope of her promise to show her Everard’s verses; and together they proceeded to Hope’s sitting room.

It was a pretty cheerful room in one of the towers--pretty, but simple--in all its arrangements, betokening that the spirit which presided over it, was neither a lover of beauty nor intellect, nor luxury, but of something more earnest than any of these.

Hope brought her manuscript book, and was about to shew Angela the verses to which she had alluded, when a knock at the door summoned her to Mr. Vavasour, who wished her to copy a letter before post-time. She left Angela alone to look over her book at her pleasure.

The study of Hope’s character in the selection of prose and verse before her, would in some moods have interested her; but disappointed and restless, she could at this moment only give her mind to that which concerned herself. The hand-writing of Everard did concern her; and over that she meditated, endeavouring to trace his qualities in the bold, upright hand; until, as she listlessly read the verses, their sentiments caught her attention, expressing as they did Hope’s epitome of Christian charity. The poem was by Emily Taylor; these were among the stanzas:--

There is an evil and a good
In every soul unknown to thee--
A darker or a brighter mood
Than aught thine eye can ever see.
Words, actions, faintly mark the whole
That lies within a living soul.

Perhaps thy sterner mind condemns
Some brother mind that, reasoning less,
The tide of error slowly stems
In pain, in fear, in weariness;
Thou call’st him weak--he may be so--
What made him weak, thou canst not know.

Perhaps thy spirit’s calm repose
No evil dream hath come to spoil;
A firm, resistless front it shews
Amidst the passions’ fiercest broil;
’Tis well!--enjoy and bless thy lot,
Still pitying him who shares it not!

Touched and softened she lingered over them. To feel real charity was very soothing, and, for the moment, the new feeling absorbed her. She was reading the poem intently for the third time when another knock disturbed her. Before she could say “Come in,”--for, like a brother, Everard waited for no answer to his announcement of himself--the door opened, and he hastily entered.

When he saw the occupant of the room he stood still, and a flush of crimson changed the whole character of his face. For a moment they gazed at each other in embarrassed silence. It was the first time they had been alone since that evening whose memory pursued Angela with ceaseless torment. If he did not remember this she did.

He was the first to recover himself, and to speak. “I beg your pardon,” he said, quickly; “I came to speak to Hope.”

“Hope is gone to Mr. Vavasour,” Angela said, composedly; her heart was bounding with expectation, but she was determined to behave with dignity and propriety. “She has been gone some minutes; I think she will be back directly.”

There was a pause. Angela waited. She would not be forward; she would be ready, but not bold; she waited, her countenance, perhaps, very speaking, but her lips still. The pause was broken by Everard’s slowly advancing; making her heart beat till it almost broke. But it was a needless agitation. He approached only to place a letter on the table, and, speaking in quiet tones, begged her to give it to Hope, and to tell her Mr. Addison wished for an early answer. Having delivered his message, he retraced his steps, merely bowing his head and observing, “I will not disturb you,” as he left the room.

Tears of passion and resentment sprang to Angela’s eyes, and would have fallen in a torrent if they had not suddenly been arrested by pride. “He does not, cannot care for me,” she said, with bitterness of tongue, “and if he does not care, why should I? I do not mean to waste my life on a feeling that he despises.”

She walked impetuously to the window and threw it open; the sharp air braced and cooled her, and having stilled her agitation, and calmed her countenance, she sat down again to await Hope’s return. As she resumed her seat, a vision flashed before her eyes--Everard’s startled gaze and flushed cheek when he saw her alone--and she involuntarily said, “Was _that_ indifference?” With the words her resentful mood passed by; conviction, absolute conviction, took its place, that it was her hated gold which made him afraid, and strange venturous thoughts presented themselves to her mind.

“Uncle Richard thinks you had better go, Angela,” Hope said, as she entered. “The sky looks so black he is afraid it will be a stormy evening.”

“I think so too,” Angela said, in a hasty manner, restless to be doing something. “Let us go down stairs. Oh! I forgot. Mr. Everard Vavasour brought that letter for you, and begged you to send Mr. Addison an answer.”

Hope looked at her, and saw her disturbed countenance; but, except by increased kindness in her own manner, did not appear to notice it. They went down together to the hall door, where the carriage was now waiting. The afternoon was piercingly cold, and on seeing the very slight preparations for a cold drive which Angela had made, Hope remonstrated, and insisted on going to Mrs. Vavasour to borrow a fur cloak and other necessaries.

There was a short cut to Mrs. Vavasour’s rooms through the upper part of the library, and her uncle having recommended Angela’s speedy departure, Hope opened the library door and hastened through. Angela followed her.

By the library fire Everard was sitting, reading the newspapers. He was accustomed to the servants passing through with coals, and when the door opened he did not look round.

Hope went on her errand, but Angela paused. A strange impulse seized her.

With a step like lightning, as noiseless and rapid, she glided down the room and suddenly stood by Everard’s side. It was in the very same place where Hope had heard Robert’s words of love.

Everard sprang up with a startled “Miss Gresham!” and wonder and even dismay on his countenance, but, nothing daunted, Angela held her ground. Her manner was hurried, but was far from deficient in the dignity she knew so well how to assume, and which certainly in some degree qualified the strange things she did.

“Seeing you at leisure, Mr. Vavasour, I am come to ask you why you avoid me as you do. We used to be good friends. Have I done anything to offend you?”

“Offend!” he cried, in involuntary excitement. But the passionate sound of his voice startled him into recollection; and feeling only the absolute necessity of self command, he suddenly became cold.

His hurried exclamation had not had time to assure and encourage her before he added, and in a manner as involuntarily grave and measured as that had been passionate, “Miss Gresham ought to know that she may give pain and pleasure, but cannot offend.”

It is difficult for those who with violence restrain their feelings to hit the due medium. They can be hot or cold. They cannot be temperate. Very cold and grave were Everard’s words, and coldly they fell upon Angela’s impetuous spirit. She felt reproved, rebuked; and the impulse that had blindly led her ceasing to act, she stood humbled in her own sight and before him. Her colour went and came, her fingers trembled, and the conviction of being despised, made her incapable of raising her eyes to his face.

But these galling sensations were quickly put to flight.

In an altered voice whose tones were music to her ears, Everard abruptly said, “I am going to confess what I know I ought not; but you have rightly judged me. I _have_ avoided you. I must; because I am a fool and cannot trust myself in your presence. I did not presume to think my conduct needed explanation; but if it does, if you care to know why I dare not come near you, your father’s wishes, his most natural wishes, must explain it. And now forgive me and forget what I have said.”

“Forget!” she said, softly.

Everard sighed and turned away his head; and in that sigh gasped down a temptation that was almost too strong for him. “Yes, forgive me,” he said, hurriedly, “for I am saying what I should not. I have been warned, and I have promised, and I have no right to speak of what I feel.” And perfectly conscious that if he were not to speak he must be gone, he merely grasped her hand for an instant, and _was_ gone before another word could be said.

Angela stood in a trance of happiness for a second, then glided away likewise.

Hope had passed through the room, and was now awaiting her with a cloak. Angela blushed deeply as she met the intent enquiring gaze of her young companion, but she said not a word. Silently kissing her, she jumped into the carriage and drove away.

END OF VOL. I.

London, Godfrey & Delany, Printers, 3, Savoy Street, Strand.

To be had at all the Libraries, in 2 Vols.,

THE YOUNG LORD.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

“THE TWO BROTHERS,” “THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,” &c.

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