Chapter X

Wait, my faith is large in Time
And that which shapes it to some perfect end.
TENNYSON.

That night Everard and Robert fought out a great battle, but there never was an instant’s doubt as to how it would end. When Robert at last saw that his words were vain, he behaved like himself; with the same touching humility and winning grace receiving back his position, as he had shewn in submitting to its loss.

There was only one countenance on which Everard looked with doubt. Of Hope’s approbation he was not certain. In every other face, high and low, rich and poor, (with the exception of Mr. Gresham’s,) he saw a full and heartfelt approval, and appreciation of what he had done.

When fatigued with the excitement of the day, Hope early left the drawing-room to go to bed, Everard followed her.

“Dear Hope forgive me,” he said, catching her hand, “I know I ought to have asked your advice in this matter, but I was afraid. I was afraid you would dissuade me. I could not run the chance, but now I must have your consent. Are you not contented?”

“Quite now,” she replied after a moment’s thought. “At first, I will confess it was a shock. We are so happy now, Robert is so anxious, so careful, so good; I felt to shrink from the change; but you have done more than right, Everard, and such actions must bring blessings with them, and I am content.”

“There is no fear for Robert, Hope; no more at least than such fear as there is for us all; we must have done with distrust, and look up to him with confidence and honor. I do from my heart. I am like the angels in Heaven,” he added with a sweet, touching smile. “There is nothing on earth to my mind so great and noble as repentance.”

“And you have saved him. Dear, dear Everard, it has pleased God to make it all your work, and it will be your example that will guide him now.” And with tears of grateful affection, Hope took his hand in both hers, and kissed it. If there were anything to repay he was well repaid.

“And now, Everard,” she asked looking up with a smile in his face, “may I ask, do you mean to be happy yourself?”

He coloured, and shook his head doubtingly, but there was a light of hope in his eyes, and a brightness in his countenance which had not been there for many a day.

He had borne two years of unavoidable suspense. He was not going to bear one moment that could be avoided, and without a word to any one, he was off to Underwood as soon as breakfast was over the following morning.

It was nearly three years since he had taken his first walk on the same errand, but his feelings now were unlike what they had been then. Then it was youth’s first romance, vague, sweet, impassioned, and unreal; a dream, and like a dream it had been swept away. Now it was no more romance, no longer a dream, but a man’s tried and proved affection, and the hope for which he came to venture, was one which contained a life’s happiness. He _could_ live without her; he knew he could; for he had lived through months of doubt, and hourly expectation of her loss; but he who had felt them, knew what those hours had been, and knew what the future would he. He had cast his earthly hopes of joy upon her, and he felt as those feel who have cast that die.

At first rapid to prevent thought; then slow and steady to weigh again all he had to say; so his steps came to Underwood, and he found himself in Mr. Gresham’s study.

Mr. Gresham was writing, but he politely left his letter, welcomed Everard with formal kindness, and begged him to be seated.

Without attending to the latter request, Everard said hurriedly, “I suppose, Mr. Gresham, you can guess why I am here.”

“In this point,” he replied gravely, “you do but justice to my intellect. I confess, that I surmise what the purport of your visit is. In some other points, I confess my intellect is at fault. Be so good, Mr. Vavasour, as to be seated. We may have much to say,” and he waved his hand to a chair.

Everard saw he must be patient, and he sat down and said, “What is it you do not understand, Mr. Gresham? Let me explain it. It is my wish and duty to be perfectly open with you.”

“To say the truth, Mr. Vavasour, your conduct is an enigma to me. For what purpose deceive the world, and mislead the judgments of men, with a false assumption of position....”

“Oh! Mr. Gresham,” Everard said coloring deeply, and interrupting him eagerly, “are you not unjust? Can you say that I assumed? Dare you say that I misled. Consider all that passed between us. My own conscience acquits me. Surely _you_ at least must acquit me also.”

“Certainly, I allow that on one occasion you, as it now appears, very properly rejected my overtures. But why assume? for what purpose thus deceive the world? Who could have imagined a course of conduct so strange as yours? You must allow that towards _me_ at least, the assumption was most unjust.”

“No, Mr. Gresham, I do not allow it. I never for one instant presumed on the false position in which I stood, to ask your favor. Unjust to _one_, to one only I have been; and her pardon I come now to seek.”

“You never intended then to accept in reality your father’s will. Am I to understand you so, Mr. Vavasour? Allow me to say, I think the subterfuge unworthy a gentleman of ancient family, and whose character stands high in the eyes of the world.”

“I did accept it,” Everard said seriously, “and had it been necessary, I would have accepted it for ever. Had my brother continued those evil courses which drew down my father’s displeasure, I would, I cannot tell even now whether rightly or wrongly, have accepted altogether the position he assigned me; but I trusted Robert, I knew he would be won back, and I waited. I resolved from the first, that in two years I would consider the point again; and I endeavoured to bear those two years of trial as best I could. My own conscience acquits me of any dishonest subterfuge. I wish that you could acquit me also.”

“A man, my dear sir, a man with the feelings of a gentleman is not willing to be deceived. I was deceived, I confess; and had it not been for your honorable conduct, I might have become involved in engagements highly prejudicial to my interests. Of the intention to deceive, I acquit you, but the fact remains the same.”

“I am sincerely sorry to have given you annoyance. I did my best to prevent it. But now, Mr. Gresham, will you let me come to that request which brought me here to day. I came once before, I am come again to ask the hand of your daughter. It is no idle fancy now. For three years my thoughts have never wandered from her.”

“You must allow me to ask in return, my dear Mr. Vavasour, what you can offer befitting my daughter’s acceptance. Such questions even between gentlemen are necessary.” He spoke with a calm composure, into the meaning of which Everard could not penetrate.

“Very little, Mr. Gresham,” he said coloring. “I assure you none can know better or feel more than I do, how very little likely it is you should choose me for a son-in-law. Nevertheless, I persist in my request. Trust her to me, and so far as man is concerned, she shall be happy; and that is the best thing.”

“My dear sir, allow me to remind you that we are engaged on a matter of business. Tell me frankly what you can offer.”

“I think I may say £500 a year. No more at present; but Mr. Gresham, it shall be more. I am going back to my own profession, and these years have not been years of idleness; I have never, even for one day ceased to study for the law; when the day was not long enough I took the night; and I think I am fitted to get on. I feel that I have the knowledge, and the power; and with hope, and an object before me, I think I shall succeed.”

“Ahem! Let me now request you, Mr. Vavasour, to listen to me; for I too have something of importance to communicate. Let me beg of you to give me your attention.” He rose from his seat, and stood majestically on the hearthrug; summoning to his brows an expression of weighty thought. He then began an essay. The gifts of Providence, and man’s responsibility coming in for their usual share of discussion. He proceeded next to the shortsightedness of man, and the necessity of submission to disappointment in his most cherished schemes; then to the beauty of that energy, which could form--unsoured by failure--new schemes.

The usual intense interest to know what would be the end of all, supported Everard through the disquisition with unflagging attention. When the general foundation was laid, Mr. Gresham then again said, “Ahem, let me request your particular attention,” and proceeded.

“It is now some months since I observed to my daughter, that it was time for us to renounce our first intentions; that I perceived no signs in your behaviour of a desire to ally yourself with our house. I begged her to banish the subject from her mind, and to prepare herself to submit to any future scheme I might form. To this proposal she declined to acquiesce. With all due delicacy, I may under present circumstances inform you, that she expressed so full a trust in your attachment, as made her unable or unwilling to enter on further engagements at present. Her confidence was so assured that it animated me, and I again suffered myself to indulge in the hope of attaining my first desire. For several months past this confidence has, however, been on the decline, and a new object of ambition has presented itself to my mind. This has been buried in my own breast, for with the patience that becomes those who indulge in lofty dreams, I determined to return here unfettered, and to await your pleasure. On my return, I heard it idly rumoured that you were about to celebrate the birth of your brother’s son; such unnecessary honor offended me, and my mind became the more resolved on my new design. But I waited, Mr. Vavasour. I would not do you injustice, and I waited until I could discover your intentions from your own lips. You know the rest. I now know all, and I consider myself free. I believe I may say, no man has ever with more patience and generosity wished and waited to bestow his favors on the unthankful, than I have done. The time is now passed.” He drew himself up with a majesty impossible to pourtray.

“Not unthankful,” Everard said warmly. “My dear Mr. Gresham, not unthankful. I have always felt the generous nature of your designs. But there was one gift you had to give so far beyond the others; there was no power to care for any but that.” He paused a moment, and as Mr. Gresham did not proceed, he asked with a steady voice but beating heart, “May I enquire? Do your new designs relate to the other gifts, or to Miss Gresham?”

“They relate, my dear Mr. Vavasour, to myself. I have determined to have a son.”

With a great effort Everard restrained a smile at this conclusion to his suspense; but the solemn gaze that was fastened upon him forced him to be grave also, and he calmly and cordially said, “I am very glad to hear it.”

“You understand, therefore, that my daughter is no longer my heiress.”

“If she does not object,--if she will consent to poverty with me, no piece of news ever made me happier in my life. Her riches I ever felt a burden too great for me to bear.”

“As to poverty, Mr. Vavasour, I trust I shall allow no child of mine to suffer poverty. A proper arrangement can doubtless be made. Am I to understand, therefore, that after this disclosure, you persist in addressing her?”

“May I see her?” was Everard’s reply. “Have I indeed, your consent at last?”

“Extremely singular, Mr. Vavasour. I consider the case extremely singular. Certainly if your attachment is so entirely disinterested, I can offer no further objection. The rest is in my daughter’s hands. After speaking to her for a few moments, I will bring her to you to give her answer for herself. I wish you success.”

Mr. Gresham entered the drawing-room where his daughter was sitting with Miss Price.

He closed the door with an air of importance, and approaching her, kissed her brow with paternal dignity.

Surprised at his manner, Angela hastily rose from her chair.

“Be seated for a moment, my love. I require your attention for a few seconds. Mr. Everard Vavasour is in my study; on an errand, perhaps, not wholly unexpected by you.”

Not unexpected; yet Angela became very pale, and looked with an intent and speaking gaze, in her father’s face.

“My love,” he said kindly, “I will not keep you in suspense. I have told Mr. Vavasour that he shall receive his answer from yourself. But before your decision is formed, I am anxious to communicate to you a circumstance which possibly may influence your choice.” He made a pause, then gravely added, “I am about to take a wife to myself.”

“Adelaide Vansittart!” Angela exclaimed, somewhat startled, yet when the announcement was made, feeling as if she had known it for years.

“As my request for the honor of her hand has not yet been despatched, my love, your delicacy will perceive, that it is not for me, whatever my hopes may be, to speak further upon this subject, at present; but I will not conceal from you that she is the object of my choice.”

“My dear Papa, I am very glad,” Angela said, rising and kissing him with tears, she hardly knew of what meaning, in her eyes. “I hope she will make you happier than I have done.”

“Enough, my love, enough on that subject--but allow me to point out to you, that such being the case, it is possible, it is indeed most probable that you will not be my heiress.”

“I never wished it,” she cried eagerly, “if Mr. Vavasour does not mind, I am too happy.”

“A singular case certainly,” observed Mr. Gresham, contemplating her like a curiosity. “Two very remarkable young people. Well, then, my love, there is no need to delay. Be so good as to prepare yourself to follow me to my study, where you will find Mr. Vavasour awaiting you.”

She did follow him after throwing her arms in trembling excitement round her aunt’s neck, and together they re-entered the study. Again, Mr. Gresham closed the door, and as on a former occasion intruded his presence on the interview; but this time both were too happy and too grateful to feel anger, and both silently waited what further he had to say. Angela with downcast eyes and a crimson cheek--Everard with _his_ gaze fixed upon her.

After closing the door, Mr. Gresham took his daughter’s hand, and led her up to Everard; he then spoke a few words on matrimony, the duties of fathers in disposing of their children, his own duty in particular, and his hope that the duty was now fulfilled.

His voice became slightly agitated as he spoke, and still more so when at last he put her hand into Everard’s, with these words. “To you, Mr. Vavasour, my cares being over, I now consign my child, and from what I have learned of your character, it is my hope that I have no need to enjoin you to love and cherish her.”

“No need,” Everard replied, in a low voice. “With God’s blessing she _shall_ be happy.”

“To you, my love,” he continued, “I have only to observe that a wife’s best happiness is in submission to her husband; and I think, and in fact am assured, that the character of him whom you have chosen will enable you to submit without regret.”

Tearful, but smiling, Angela raised her eyes to Everard’s face, and met that stedfast gaze of love and truth bent down upon her, which seemed to say, as it had ever said, that she had indeed built her house upon a rock. The storms of this world’s sorrows might assail them, death might part, but there was that foundation in their love which nothing could wash away.