Chapter X

The sun shines in his fall brightness but the very
moment before he passes under a cloud.
SOUTH.

There was a large dinner party at Mr. Gresham’s on the third night after Mr. Vavasour’s funeral. He had been extremely shocked at Mr. Vavasour’s sudden death. Not that, according to his calculations, his life was a good one; not that he desired any more than he expected any great delay, before the old towers of Audley Court came into Robert’s possession, but he would certainly have preferred, could he have had a voice in the matter, that the death of Mr. Vavasour should have occurred at another time, and been arranged in another manner.

He would have preferred a short illness, some preparation for the inevitable event; more than all, he would have preferred that a thorough reconciliation with Robert should have taken place. His conscience was not perfectly easy as to his late behaviour, and, therefore, he felt aggrieved. He would have desired in one conversation to set forth his reasons to Mr. Vavasour, and to make known to him his generous designs regarding Robert and his family. The unexpected stroke of death before such explanations could be made, injured him in the tenderest point, and he felt equally wronged and distressed. He was also sorry for Robert. So much of heart and fancy as he had, Robert had touched, and he was certainly grieved for the blow he must have received.

Altogether, therefore, he was shocked; and as a mark both of his shock and of his respect, he closed his house to visitors, and retrained from going into society. But he found the week’s seclusion tedious; and on the day of the funeral, observing to Angela that he had done more than was customary in the eyes of the world, since the world was not aware of his connection with Mr. Vavasour, he desired her to write invitations to a number of persons, whose names he put into her hand.

Angela’s shock had been more deep and lasting than her father’s. At first her thoughts were for others. She thought with sorrow of the breaking up of that home whose happiness she had so often envied; she grieved with intense pity for him whose life she well knew was bound up with his father’s; and she was awed and solemnised by the sudden blow, with the overwhelming awe of the young and impressible. These impressions were followed by acuter sensations; selfish hopes and fears. Hopes that Robert would withdraw from his pursuit; fears lest his new position should subject her to a stronger pressure; a dread above all lest the length of time that had elapsed since her father’s acceptance of his proposal, should involve her in toils from which there would be no escape. Her determination did not waver, but the future was no place of peace or certainty to her distracted and excited thoughts.

“What is the matter with you, Angela?” enquired Miss Vansittart, one of the guests at the dinner party, when the ladies returned to the drawing-room. “Come, do talk to me. Mamma and Mrs. Broadhurst have plenty to say to each other, and I wish to make some serious enquiries.”

“What is the matter?” Angela replied coldly; for though Miss Vansittart was on most intimate terms in the house, she had never permitted her to be on intimate terms with her.

“Why the matter is that you look shockingly ill; and as you are not subject to vapours, I suppose there is good reason for it. You have looked moderately ill for two or three weeks, but supposing there to be some good cause shortly to be made known, I held my tongue. To-night, however, you look ill without any moderation, and as I cannot conceive in your circumstances what can make you ill, I wish to be enlightened. Don’t tell me, a headache. You never have headaches, or if you do, you don’t cry about them. Come now, what is the matter?”

“I am worried, I own,” replied Angela.

“But what about? young ladies have only two sources of worry--poverty, and love. As the first is quite out of the question it must be the second. So now tell me. Is some lover inconstant? No, in your position that can’t be. Is some lover forbidden? Come now, Angela, what is it?”

“A cause you would never guess. You may as well leave it alone Adelaide, for I am not going to tell.”

“How provoking you are! I wonder who is in your confidence. I wonder.... Oh! my goodness, Angela, what lovely lace!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Where did you get it? I am sure it is new.”

“Papa gave it to me last week on my birthday.”

“You lucky creature! Why, Angela, it is priceless. What would I not give for one yard of it!”

“I wish you had it all; I don’t care one straw about it.”

“I am sure I wish I had. Really, Angela, it provokes me to think how the good gifts of this world are wasted upon you. If I were in your position what would I not be and do. Beauty, riches, lovers--all that heart can wish; I have sleepless nights of envy when I think of it, and you, in the meanwhile, make no use of them at all. If I could but be in your position for one month--for one week--for one hour.”

“I give it all up to you, Adelaide. My position, as you call it, gives me no pleasure.”

“Would you then, truly and honestly, change with me if you could?”

“With you? No,” Angela said for the first time with warmth in her tone, “not for the whole world.”

“Ah! then you are not so indifferent as you pretend. Now I will tell you what I should do if I were in your place. First of all, I should _not_ marry. I dare say you are surprised, because I talk sometimes of lovers; but that has nothing to do with the question. I, in my place, should marry directly if I could, and mean to marry as soon as a proper person appears; but, in your position, I should not marry for years to come. Lovers of course I should have--that would be one of the pleasures; even my brother Alfred, though he is but _un petit poisson_, I should allow to swell my train; but marriage I should reserve till I had exhausted the pleasures of my first youth. Oh, Angela! my heart is ready to break with rage and envy when I think what I could be in your position--how gloriously dressed, how glittering with jewels, how envied, how admired--and you, you stupid creature, you make no use of it at all.”

Angela made no answer to this rhapsody. She was, in truth, so perfectly aware of what Miss Vansittart would say when the subject of her “position” came under discussion, and was so accustomed to these bursts of envy that she was in the habit of letting her mind wander as it pleased; and being at this moment much occupied with other thoughts, she had wandered so far as to be unable to give the proper signs of attention at the end.

Miss Vansittart was about to begin a new attack on perceiving her abstraction, when the entrance of the gentlemen diverted her attention.

Mr. Gresham walked in, swelling with pride and happiness. His dinner party had entirely restored his conscience to complacency, and in the near approach of the fulfilment of his wishes, he felt a satisfaction, an elation so all-pervading and rapturous, that it was impossible entirely to suppress its signs in the outward man. With something of a princely tread he crossed the room, making his bland and gracious addresses to all.

“I suppose you and your papa have had a difference of opinion, Angela,” whispered Miss Vansittart, “for while you have made yourself, if it were possible, ugly, he looks handsomer than ever.”

Mr. Gresham did not hear this complimentary speech, but he saw Miss Vansittart’s glance observing him, and came to pay his devoirs to her. She was a young lady after his own heart, such a one as he wished Angela to be, well dressed, well mannered, and accomplished; and though not handsome, making herself handsome by the energy of her mind and the fine taste of her dress. She lived to some purpose, as he often remarked to his daughter. He came up to her with a fade compliment on her attire; and she, well aware how to please and accommodate herself to men’s various minds, after smiling over the compliment, alluded to Angela’s lace, a topic she easily guessed would be acceptable, and said, “In me it is some merit to dress well, but in Angela it is none. Who would not look well in this?”

Mr. Gresham was highly gratified. He said he entirely agreed in her remarks, and was delighted to receive her approval of his choice. He had purchased the lace himself. It was not to be supposed that he had much taste in such matters, but he confessed that the pattern and the texture had appeared to him singularly beautiful, and although the price....

“Oh! Mr. Gresham, what is price to you?” interrupted Miss Vansittart laughingly; and once again she enlarged upon the beauty of the lace and the happiness of its possessor, until Mr. Gresham, in the expansive benevolence of the moment, requested her to allow him to make her happy by a gift of the very same nature.

Such a conclusion had not been entirely unexpected, certainly not undesired by his auditor, and after a few becoming hesitations and much flattering gratitude, the gift was accepted.

Elevated to a yet higher pinnacle of satisfaction by the influence of this new act of generosity, Mr. Gresham then betook himself to his favourite associate, Mrs. Vansittart, to make a report of what he had done, and to receive the fulsome flatteries in which he delighted.

After dwelling on the good fortune and gratitude of Adelaide, and on Mr. Gresham’s good fortune in being able to throw his royal gifts around him, Mrs. Vansittart then touched on the subject which had excited her curiosity as well as her daughter’s.

“Now Mr. Gresham, do tell us what is going on. Angela looks just as young ladies look when a certain important event is on the eve of fulfilment; and judging from _your_ looks I am sure it may be gathered that the event, whatever it is, will draw forth all our congratulations. I hope I am not indiscreet in making such remarks, for you know that your interest is as dear to me as my own.”

“By no means indiscreet,” he replied graciously, “and he assured that when time and circumstances permit me to speak, you will be the first, the very first to whom I shall hasten, for the congratulations you have in store.”

“Now indeed my curiosity is excited,” she continued smilingly, after this avowal, “you have actually confessed that some great event is impending. I will not be indiscreet, but you must excuse some excitement on such a subject. For what shall we prepare? Is it a duke, or a marquis, or an earl? nothing lower than an earl I am certain--or is it a prince? We know you may take what you please, you have but to stretch out your hand and coronets are scattered at your feet.”

Mr. Gresham bowed with some gravity. The thought of his moderation was not without annoyance. He was half ashamed of the wisdom with which he had controlled his desires, and restrained his power of choice. But after one moment’s consideration, the advantages of the choice he had made resumed their sway--the personal charms of Robert, the ancient family, the enormous territories which the union of the two proprietors would unite.... No, he did not repent, he was proud of his moderate and modest desires. Feeling it incumbent upon him, however, to explain his motives beforehand, he began to lay the principles on which he acted in a general way before his companion. His thoughts took their usual didactic form; he pointed out that it did not appear to be the design of Providence, that man should be possessed of every object of his desire, and spoke with feeling of the sacrifices it was needful for all, even for such as he to make,--thinking as he did so of the pressure he had been forced to apply to his conscience.

His harangue was lengthy and tedious, but the total impossibility of discovering its drift, bore Mrs. Vavasour to the end. To the very last word she expected light to dawn. When it concluded, however, as driftless as it began, she turned away her head to swallow two yawns which curiosity alone had hitherto held in check; when this relief was obtained she turned to him again, and with a countenance of renewed interest observed that his sentiments were very just, his philosophy much to be commended, with other expressions of a like flattering nature.

Such commendation encouraged him to lay before her some further views on the general government of the world, and he was opening his discourse by a remark on the necessity of considering all matters, however small, in a broad and enlarged, and in fact a philosophical view, when _he_ was interrupted, and Mrs. Vansittart relieved, by the approach of the groom of the chambers, who informed Mr. Gresham that Mr. Robinson, his solicitor, was waiting below, and wished to have five minutes conversation with him in private.

A message from Robert he immediately suggested to himself, or, perhaps, a summons to Audley Court; and his chest heaved with joyful anticipations.

Desiring that Mr. Robinson should be shown into his study, he turned to Mrs. Vansittart to make his apologies for the interruption, and but for his own eagerness to be gone, would have opened a new discourse on the duties and the responsibilities of fathers, proprietors, and possibly, man in general. Being in haste, however, his words though polite and urbane, were short and to the purpose.

“No apologies, Mr. Gresham, I beg,” said his smiling companion, always ready with her appropriate flattery. “We all know that ‘uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’ Pray go and transact your necessary business, and we your subjects must reconcile ourselves to your absence as we can.”

He bowed, smiled, elevated his nose under the consciousness of the important matters that did devolve upon his head, and regally left the room, a slight bow embracing and apologizing to the whole circle of his company.

His return after the space of about twenty minutes was of another nature. In vain “Richard strove to be himself.” In vain he endeavoured to cast his bland and condescending glances around him. His nature was in truth too true and simple to be able to act a part. He showed his elation of heart in his own greatness and prosperity, and now in signs as little to be mistaken, disappointment sat upon his brow.

Of what had passed, however, he said nothing. He entered into conversation on the state of the atmosphere with a quiet old gentleman, and from the safe position by his side cast side-long glances at the clock. Sidelong, yet evident; bidding all discerning observers take notice that he wished them to begone.

Mrs. Vansittart was complying enough to act upon the hint, and by the bustle of her departure to force the same conviction upon the less discerning of the guests. Devoured with internal curiosity, but outwardly as placid as if they neither saw nor felt anything of the kind, she and Adelaide took leave, and in ten minutes the father and daughter were alone.

Angela had seen, in common with the rest of the company, the change in her father’s manner; and nothing but that strange self-restraint which society teaches, could have home her through the minutes that followed his re-entrance. Even as it was, her heart beat so violently, and her colour varied so rapidly, that it drew upon her not only the attention of Miss Vansittart, but also of the young gentleman who was entertaining her with some platitudes; into whose bosom her agitated reception of his words, introduced for the first time the idea of making a venture for the beautiful heiress.

When the company was gone, she seated herself on the sofa, in breathless anxiety, but in silence, and so awaited a communication from her father. Nor did he keep her waiting long.

“I have been summoned, Angela,” he began, standing before the fireplace, and fixing his stare upon her, “to a private audience with Mr. Robinson. He came on a matter of importance. He has been dining, it appears, with Mr. Low, the late Mr. Vavasour’s adviser and solicitor, and from him he has received a private and confidential communication of a most extraordinary and unforeseen event; an event I may say which no human care and foresight could possibly have foreseen. He naturally and dutifully, supposing it to be a matter of interest to me, hastened hither with the intelligence. I cannot blame myself, for as I before stated, human foresight is bounded, and man can but use such powers as have been committed to him. I acted for the best, I acted with all the consideration, the forethought, the discretion, that man can bring to bear upon any scheme, or plan, or desire he may form, I acted under a full sense of my responsibility, and yet----” here he waved his hands, as much as to say if he had failed, he washed his hands of it. “I believe, my love,” he resumed, “I have not yet informed you of the nature of this most _unforeseen_ circumstance, unforeseen and unfortunate indeed, as when I tell you what has occurred, I believe you will agree with me in denominating it. It is my painful duty to declare that the late Mr. Vavasour has thought proper to disinherit his eldest son, and to leave all his possessions to the younger,--to Mr. Everard Vavasour in short.”

Notwithstanding the beatings of her heart Angela never moved, neither did her eyes once wander from her father’s face during his long discourse, but as he concluded she started up with a smothered exclamation of dismay, and a look of misery so intense, that even Mr. Gresham’s unperceiving eyes perceived it. He made a step towards her, and it was well he did so, for the movement brought him just in time to catch her as she fell senseless, and to save her head from a blow against an ornamental table near which she fell.

To recover a fainting girl was a new office for Mr. Gresham; and having placed her upright on the sofa, and held under her nose a bottle, snatched from the table, of costly but strong perfume, strong and overpowering enough to have made a giant faint, he began to perceive that his efforts were not successful, and rang the bell for her maid.

“Miss Gresham is overtired to-night,” he said when she appeared, “the party was large and the rooms close. She had better remain here until she has recovered herself,” and supposing he had deceived the undeceivable lady who waited on Angela, he kissed his daughter, and betook himself to uncomfortable reflections in his own room.

Three sources of comfort at length dawned upon him, and made him, after all his troubles, sleep almost as peaceably as usual.

The first sprung from the possibility of Everard’s refusing to profit by his father’s will. The second from the certainty that should he accept it, and could Mr. Gresham free himself from his engagement to Robert, there was Everard waiting to receive his daughter as a bride. The third topic of consolation arose from his own attachment to Robert in his personal capacity. If the worst came to the worst, still Robert was Robert, with all those charms and graces which rivet the eyes of the world. To receive comfort from this source required a strong effort, and nothing but Robert’s fascination could have inspired it. Still, if all else failed, there _was_ consolation here, and having thus in the multitude of his consolers found hope, he retired with composure and dignity to bed.