Chapter III

You give me praise for what I do;
You blame me for what’s left undone;
Alas! how little is pierced through,
How little known of the lost and won
Under the Sun.
BARRY CORNWALL.

Angela continued to visit Hope; but not as she had done the year before, with the freedom of eager friendship, regardless of times and seasons; she could not bring herself to that. Her visits were matters of intense thought. They occupied her entirely in the intervening days; her whole desire was to be at Audley Court, and see what one other visit would bring forth; and yet she restrained herself with an iron rule, and made her visits few and far between. If Everard had ceased to love her, he should learn to respect her. This was the thought that animated her to self-controul.

The second and the third visit to Hope passed without any further meeting. Miss Price, now restored to health, accompanied Angela, and sat patiently by while her young companions talked. She could be no restraint to any one, and though on the first visit, Angela had been indifferent as to her chaperonage, she now felt protection in her company.

As she and Miss Price were re-entering the carriage after the fourth visit, Everard and Mr. Addison appeared in the court yard together. Everard hastened forward, and after shaking hands with Angela, turned with much kindness to speak to Miss Price who was already seated. Angela fancied she had learned a great deal of proper pride and self-restraint during the last month, and yet when she suddenly found herself in his society again, all she had learned seemed to fail her. She thought his greeting to herself so cold, while to her aunt it was warm and kind, and tears no effort could hide sprang into her eyes. It was better Mr. Addison should see them than Everard, and she went to meet him as he more slowly walked up the court; but when she met him, she could think of nothing to say to explain her eagerness.

He, however, had something to say to her, or else discovered something at the moment, and he kept her in conversation for a few minutes; it was only when she was quite composed, that he led the way back to the carriage.

Everard assisted her into it, and though there was still the same want of what is easiest expressed by the word _empressement_, in his manner there was a smile, as he said, “You have done a good deed, Miss Gresham, in bringing Miss Price here. Fresh air has given her ten new years of life.”

“I think so too,” Angela replied, more naturally, cheered in spite of herself by his smile; “but it was Papa’s good deed, not mine.”

He smiled again, but said no more; nor made any effort to detain them. He and Mr. Addison drew back, and the carriage drove away.

Everard went into the house to fetch some paper for which they had returned home, and then he and Mr. Addison pursued their way.

“Everard,” Mr. Addison began, after they had walked for some time in silence, “will you allow me to say a word to you on a subject ... you may guess, perhaps, to what I allude.”

Everard coloured deeply, but he made no answer either of acquiescence or denial.

Mr. Addison glanced at him, and observed with a slight smile, “I will suppose that silence gives consent. May I ask you then, do you not intend to call at Underwood?”

“No,” he replied gravely, “this year is and shall be sacred. I do not intend, I do not wish to enter upon any society, or to mix in any pleasures this year. If my own feeling did not forbid it, I could not look at my mother and do otherwise, but as it is ... it is my own wish also.”

“I understand Everard, and love your intention. I am not one, that you know well, who would sweep away the influences of sorrow before their work is done. There is, indeed, a danger of becoming morbid in the indulgence of sad memories ... but that is not to the purpose now. What I wished to say was, that I think from many circumstances Underwood might be an exception. I think....”

“Forgive me Mr. Addison,” Everard said, in a tone not exactly asking forgiveness, “but there are subjects on which advice is more than useless. This is one.”

“Forgive _me_, Everard,” he replied gravely and quickly, “I did not mean to be intrusive.”

“You think me impatient,” Everard said, colouring, though he smiled, “and perhaps I am. I didn’t mean, however, to be ill tempered; I only wish to remind you of a very certain truth. Advice in matters of practice is useful, but in matters of feeling not so. No man can tell what another man feels; unless, therefore, he makes confession advice is useless to him.”

“And would confession be impossible?”

“Impossible,” he replied with emphasis.

“Then I will not annoy you with useless advice; only this one word, my conscience forces me to say. Do not cherish resentment for actions which I do believe might more justly be excused and pardoned; and do not needlessly wound the feelings of those who think kindly of you.”

Everard’s cheek and brow were crimson, and he did not reply till the momentary passion, whatever it was, was past. He then said very gravely, “Thank you for advising me; and do not think me obstinate if I repeat that it is difficult to advise on matters such as these. I am not ungrateful for your kind thoughts for my happiness; but I must judge for myself. I think, perhaps,” he added after a moment’s thought, “that you mistake me, but no matter.”

Mr. Addison said no more. He was quite of Everard’s mind regarding the usefulness of advice, if advice is not desired; and though pity for Angela had drawn him to speak his word of warning, he was content, having done so, to let the matter rest.

After another short silence he began again, and in a less grave tone. “You say advice in matters of practice is useful. Will you take my advice on a practical subject. You work too hard. I wish you to take more rest.”

He might have known that no man is amenable, where his health is concerned, and he did know it; nevertheless, he thought it right to speak.

Everard’s only answer was a short laugh, and “I beg your pardon Mr. Addison, but really I am not a baby.”

“A baby can be taken care of; but you are a wilful man, and therefore I speak. Work as you please all day long, but rest at night. Do you know, Everard, there are many comments on your open window and late vigils.”

“People are very busy I must say,” he replied colouring, and with very unaccountable irritation.

“Perhaps, we all are. Perhaps if it were another man you yourself would make the same comments on his habits; and if you saw one who had once been remarkable for strength look pale and wearied, you would perhaps say to him as I do to you--‘Take more rest, and do not waste so precious a gift as health.’”

“It is not sleep I want,” Everard said, and he did look at the moment as if there was a weight upon him more than he could bear.

“Not alone, perhaps,” replied his old friend kindly, “but still, Everard, mortal men do want sleep, even the best of them; you are up early in the morning, and there is time enough for work in the day. Be advised and rest at night.”

“I will shut my window,” he said lightly, “reluctantly enough I own, and so hide myself from curious eyes, but I cannot promise that there will be any other change. I am very ignorant, Mr. Addison, and the day is not enough for my work. In practical knowledge I must learn what I can. My strong body was surely given me for some purpose. There is nothing to fear for my health.”

His companion said no more, and Everard continued. “Pray give me some other advice, for I would not have you think me obstinate. Except on these two points I think you will not find me so.”

“Except on _these_,” Mr. Addison said, with a slight smile, “that is what we all say. But do not think I mean to reproach you, Everard. I do not even wish you to take my advice if your conscience and reason counsel otherwise. You have taken to yourself, I do believe, higher assistance, and your views may be better and wiser than mine. Be assured so long as I live, I shall warn when I see cause, leaving it to you to be guided by my voice or not as you think fit.”

“Dear Mr. Addison,” Everard said, almost passionately, “I will take your advice now, and always if I could, as if it were _my father’s_, but at this time I cannot.”

“Do not distress yourself,” was the reply, tenderly given. “I fully trust your motives, and for the rest we each work out our own experience, and so become our own best guides. Let us speak of these things no more.”

On the morning after Angela’s last visit to Audley Court, Mr. Gresham, who always conducted his interviews with much pomp, wrote a note to Miss Price, begging her to let him find her alone in the drawing-room at half-past eleven o’clock.

Miss Price, no manœuvrer, was plunged into difficulties by this message, and spent an hour of torture, watching Angela’s movements about the room, without being able to devise any expedient to get rid of her. Mr. Gresham relieved her by appearing before the appointed time; he requested his his daughter to make a copy of a paper he put into her hands, and observed that it would be most carefully done in her own room. She obeyed and left the room without suspicion, and Mr. Gresham then placed himself opposite to Miss Price and began.

“You will excuse me for being a few moments before the hour I specified. I am somewhat engaged this morning. My wish and desire is to have a short conversation with you regarding your niece and my daughter, believing that her welfare is a matter of interest to you.”

“Dear Angela, yes,” said her aunt, nervously.

“Will you be so good, Miss Price, as to inform me what sentiments you suppose Mr. Vavasour to entertain for Angela. You may remember that in our first interview, I put you in possession of my views and opinions on this subject, and requested you to give such support to my daughter, as a young female may naturally require in circumstances of delicacy. You have, I believe, according to my wish, accompanied her in her visits to Audley Court, and though I have hitherto refrained from making inquiries, I have, I confess, been anticipating some disclosure on your part. I must now request you to be explicit. Do not let me hurry you;” as he could not but observe the flutter of spirits into which he cast her, “though engaged, I have always leisure for the proper duties that devolve upon me.”

“I have seen Mr. Vavasour only once,” she replied, when she had collected her senses, “and then only for a very short time.”

“Am I to understand then, that in my daughter’s frequent visits to Audley Court, Miss Linton has been the sole attraction, or do you intend to convey, that Mr. Vavasour has no intention of renewing his addresses to us. Pray, Miss Price, be explicit.”

“I do not know anything,” she said humbly. “I fancy he loves dear Angela, but it may be my fancy only. He certainly loved her once, and I should not suppose him to be one lightly given to change.”

“I must beg you, my dear Miss Price, to be more explicit. Consider the importance of the subject on which we are engaged. Collect your mind, and exercise your judgment, and endeavour to answer me a few simple questions. I do not speak of the past. No wise man makes account of the past. Our business is with the present. Endeavour now to collect your senses, and tell me.... There are certain delicate attentions, trifles, yet on particular occasions not to be undervalued, by which those whom in common parlance we denominate lovers, are accustomed to insinuate their attachment to the object preferred. Can you recall any exhibition of such delicate attentions in the time, be it long or short, during which Mr. Vavasour was in my daughter’s company. I believe I make myself understood. Be so good as to answer me explicitly.”

“He was very kind to me,” she replied, endeavouring to collect herself according to his desire, anxious to gratify him, yet too truthful to compose a narrative for the occasion. “Particularly kind. He spoke to me more than to dear Angela. Mr. Addison was present, and Angela conversed with him. The time was short.”

“You can recall, then, no such attentions as I have pointed out. Is it possible that his manner denoted no gratification in her presence? Have you no reason to suppose him to be attached to her?”

“He put her into the carriage, and he spoke to her once, and his smile was very sweet. He has a sweet smile, and to her I should say it was particularly sweet.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Gresham. “Pray, proceed, Miss Price.”

“I fancy that he loves her, but I cannot say, he appeared to wish to detain us. I should say he is not happy, for his countenance is very sad, but, indeed, the time was short, and I myself was fluttered, and ... I am sorry I can answer you no better. I will endeavour to be more watchful in future.”

“Pray compose yourself,” he said, waving his hand graciously. “I think, from the observations you have made, that the opinion I have formed is a correct one. I suppose him to be attached to my daughter, but to be withheld, by--what shall we say, false motives of delicacy from making a second offer. You are aware, I believe, that his first offer was declined; properly declined; yet it is possible, declined in terms more forcible than was wise or polite considering (although the present state of things no human foresight could, as it appears to me, have foreseen). I am, therefore, disposed to apologize to him for any improper degree of warmth I may have shown, and to give him such encouragement as may be applicable to the occasion. Do you concur with me, that such a condescension may be desirable.”

“I hardly know,” Miss Price began with a faint glow on her face; however small her intellect, too much of a woman to admire such a mode of proceeding. “Would dear Angela be willing ... I fear....”

“Fear nothing,” he said, interrupting her. “If motives of delicacy alone forbid it, be assured a daughter’s delicacy is ever safe in a father’s hands. I confess, I think it possible such an acknowledgment may be due from me to him. I confess, I think it more than possible, that after the manner in which I once considered it my duty to address him, I should personally assure him of the change in my sentiments. You may be assured, Miss Price, that my actions will ever be ordered with all proper attention to female decorum and modesty.”

“You know best,” she said gently. “There is no doubt he was wounded by your words.”

“Exactly,” and he waved his head gracefully, and rose from his seat. “I have to thank you for the attention with which you have heard me, and for your concurrence in my sentiments, and I must also request, that, what we have confidentially communicated to each other, may remain confidential.”

He bowed slightly, and left the room, decorum and modesty, and paternal care and affection, fluttering about him as he went.