Chapter IV

Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?

The plan on which Mr. Gresham had determined had been for some days forming in his mind. The concurrence of Miss Price was of no real importance to him, for his decisions were already made, before advice was asked; but he supposed a female opinion to be proper on such a subject, and he would have been glad also to secure female concurrence. Whether or no he had that concurrence he was uncertain, but be that as it might, _he_ had conducted himself with the propriety becoming the occasion, and was satisfied.

The very next morning, at an hour when a gentleman, he supposed, would most probably be found at home, he repaired to Audley Court. The old black towers shone before his eyes as he rode along, a dazzling sunshine imparting so much of beauty to their majestic and venerable forms, that he was positively agitated as he gazed. The attachment of Mr. Gresham to these old towers has been often dwelt upon; but in truth there was something really romantic in the fascination they exercised over his fancy. He longed for them as Haman longed for Mordecai’s bow, only that all _his_ sentiments were regulated with too much of order and propriety to allow of any excess.

Mr. Vavasour was at home, and Mr. Gresham was shown into the library.

While he awaited Everard’s coming his thoughts reverted to the late Mr. Vavasour, whom until this moment he had forgotten; and he framed in his mind an exceedingly well-expressed form of condolence, with which to begin the conversation; but Mr. Gresham was by no means devoid of kindness of feeling, and when Everard appeared, he felt at first sight that his formulary would, on this occasion, be ill applied. It was, therefore, suppressed, and having had no time to frame another beginning, he contented himself with a remark on the state of the atmosphere.

“Perhaps I ought to apologise to you, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, when they sat down, “for not having called upon you.” For since Mr. Gresham had thought it right to call upon him he felt that his omission had, perhaps, been considered ill-mannered. “I assure you I should have done so if I had called anywhere, but I have not as yet.”

“I perfectly understand. Let there be no ceremony between us, Mr. Vavasour. I am far, very far, from wishing for ceremony. I am, on the contrary, sincerely desirous that there should be a friendly, I might say a more than friendly relationship between us.”

He paused, looking both benign and dignified; and Everard coloured and was silent.

“In point of fact, Mr. Vavasour,--for honesty, I believe, is the best policy, and is certainly the most honourable mode of proceeding between gentlemen--my object and purpose in calling upon you this morning is to assure you of my friendly, and even more than friendly feelings towards you. I am aware that you may have cause to look upon me from another point of view. I have not forgotten a certain event which took place, certain conversations which occurred between us some months back, and my purpose this morning is to offer you some apology for my behaviour, and to make some explanations regarding my motives on that particular occasion.”

“It is perfectly needless, Mr. Gresham,” Everard said, interrupting him hastily. “I am very much obliged to you for wishing to make such explanations, but I assure you it is not necessary. I am certain your motives were good, and I have no desire to recur to what is past.”

“I must request you to hear me, Mr. Vavasour. I consider it due to you, and due also to myself, that you should consent to hear me. I believe you will agree with me that a daughter’s welfare is a father’s first duty. I feel the responsibility, I have always felt it, which Providence imposes on parents, and more especially on those in my position. I provided, therefore, for my daughter’s establishment in life, not only well and wisely so far as she was concerned, but I think you will do me the justice, Mr. Vavasour, to own, with both wisdom and generosity in respect to the husband of her, or rather of my choice.”

He paused for an assent, and Everard gave it.

“I do own it, Mr. Gresham.”

“Such being the case, it was certainly natural that I should feel dismay when I perceived that my designs were in danger of being upset ... even though by yourself, Mr. Vavasour. In the emotions of the moment, I may have expressed my feelings more warmly than was just, and if it were so, if I gave you pain, I most sincerely apologize for what I thought my duty commanded.”

“You did give me pain,” Everard replied after a moment’s thought; “but as you only spoke what you were anxious I should understand, I had no right to blame you. I will not say that for a time I felt no resentment, but believe me, it is long past, and I am sincerely sorry that you should have felt an apology necessary.”

“An honourable and candid man is never backward to own his failings, Mr. Vavasour. I am not ashamed to own that I was blind; all men are liable to error, and I among the rest. No human foresight I believe, could have anticipated the course which late events have taken. Had I been gifted with the power to penetrate into the secrets of futurity, believe me, my dear Mr. Vavasour, my conduct would have been altogether different.”

A deep flush crossed Everard’s face, but he made no answer.

“One thing more you must allow me to say. You must allow me to express my hearty, my entire concurrence in the decision made by your late father. The manner in which your name is now mentioned, the distinction which you now enjoy in the eyes of the world, convince me that he was gifted with that foresight in which I humbly acknowledge I am deficient, and engages me to extend to you _all_ those feelings which once I entertained towards your brother.”

He dilated into his largest proportions as he made this delicate insinuation of his generous designs, and then paused for an acknowledgment. But no acknowledgment came. There was a still deeper glow on Everard’s countenance, but he said not one word.

Mr. Gresham was not a physiognomist; he never saw anything that was not as clear as daylight. The disturbance, however--whatever it might mean--on the face of his companion, _was_ clear; and observing it, he felt no doubt that it proceeded from diffidence, and uncertainty as to how far the delicate insinuation was to be understood. He, in short, like other men who are entirely pre-occupied with one idea, and excited by the expression of it, lost in the warmth of the moment, the perception of the limits to which he might safely go. He gathered himself up to express his meaning with more perspicuity, and in so doing, in some degree forgot the decorum he prized so highly.

“I had hoped, Mr. Vavasour, that I had spoken so as to be understood. If I have not done so, if I have seemed to you reserved and obscure in my allusions, you must excuse me, on the grounds of that regard which is due to the laws of common society. But believe me, I consider such laws of lesser importance than the serious interests on which our minds are centered; and for your encouragement and welfare, as well as for my own gratification, I am willing to sacrifice them, and to speak more explicitly. Allow me, therefore, to assure you, my dear Mr. Vavasour, that should it at any time, I speak of no time in particular, but should it at any time be your wish or desire to renew an application you once tendered to me, you will find my acceptance, not only willing, but waiting your orders; and should any scruple regarding my daughter, should any fears regarding her feelings cause you to hesitate, I believe I may....”

But here Everard rose from his seat, and in much agitation interrupted him. “You must excuse me, Mr. Gresham, but I cannot suffer this to proceed. I have listened too long. I do sincerely thank you for the kindness of feeling you express towards me, although,” and here his already flushed cheek deepened in its crimson hue, and a bitterness he seemed unable to suppress gave intensity to his voice, “I fear that it is to my position alone that I am indebted for the change. I can say no more, nor would I willingly discuss this matter further.”

“Am I to understand then, Mr. Vavasour,” Mr. Gresham enquired, not indeed that he really thought the question necessary, but thinking it both politic and dignified to put it, “that you decline to avail yourself of the favourable intentions I have expressed towards you.”

There was a moment’s pause; and Everard’s face, which during the interview had been flushed and heated, became very pale. He answered, however, and his answer, though low, was unfaltering--“I do!”

Mr. Gresham was so startled at this reply--in common speech was so taken aback by it--that he relieved himself by a forcible exclamation of astonishment, and an uplifting of his hands.

Everard said no other word, although there was a something in his compressed lips that seemed to say, violence alone restrained him from speech.

After a few moments’ indecision, Mr. Gresham recovered his composure, and rising, with an imperial dignity of manner for which he certainly might be pardoned, bowed to Everard, and said “I wish you good morning, Mr. Vavasour, and you must allow me to apologize for having taken up your time with communications so indifferent to you;” and with another freezing salutation he was leaving the room when Everard arrested him.

“You must not leave me in anger, Mr. Gresham,” he said, with little of _indifference_ in his voice; “I wish I could express how far, how very far I am from intending to show disrespect to you, much more to Miss Gresham, ...” he stopt abruptly, for his voice became unsteady, then began again. “If it were possible I would ask you to forget the painful circumstances of this conversation, and to allow me to remain, what indeed I must ever be....”

“What, sir, should you desire to be?” Mr. Gresham asked, with stately coldness.

“A friend, and a very grateful one,” Everard said, with emotion, and he held out his hand.

Mr. Gresham was softened, but the offence to his dignity could not be so easily forgotten. He did shake hands; but it was a languid, inexpressive shake; and merely repeating his “good morning,” he took his departure.

Everard closed the door after him, and then stood gazing out into the garden in a vacancy of thought that seemed to have no sense of time about it; and so remained until Hope’s entrance aroused him.

“Are you ill, Everard?” she enquired, looking at him.

“Ill, my dear Hope! why should I be ill?”

“You look so.”

“I have had a visit from Mr. Gresham, which has given me some pain,” he said gravely; “but it is over now,” and he sighed profoundly, as if thus to sweep away from his memory the recollection of what had passed.

Mr. Gresham went on his way. While in Everard’s presence, offended majesty had been the paramount sensation in his mind; but when alone, disappointment, the disappointment of his dearly cherished hopes, overcame his sense of dignity; and to efface disappointment he would have been contented to sacrifice a considerable portion of his dignity.

Insensibly he guided his horse’s head to the hill mentioned in the Introduction to this tale, in order to gaze once more on the glories he had prepared for the Vavasours and himself. It was a fair vision; but not for its natural beauty was it now, or had it ever been visited by Mr. Gresham. There he had often stood, with a swelling heart, gazing over the fertile and extensive valley, and repeating, “I am monarch of all I survey,” till tears almost, of pride and thankfulness, had filled his eyes. It was on the wide extent, brought by his forethought and care under the sway of one ruler, that his eyes delighted to rest; creation’s beauties re-created by his hand.

In an altered mood he stood there now. Bitter mortification, fallen pride, insulted benevolence, and the sting of ingratitude, all these together caused his heart actually to smart with sorrow. For a time the very powers of his mind were prostrated by his disappointment, and it was not till they recovered their tone that comfort dawned upon him. He came at length, in the shape of a wise saying springing up from the stores of his memory, “The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; but time and chance happen to all men.” If Solomon in his glory had had experience of this truth, he, Mr. Gresham, must not be astonished if his schemes were unattended with success. This idea soothed his mortification; and, endeavouring to compose himself by a noble submission to the inevitable lot of mortals, he took a solemn farewell of his idol, and left it at the top of the hill.

That is, he supposed he did; but before he reached the bottom of the hill, strange to say, he found his idol accompanying him home. How it was, that having solemnly forsworn it as the companion of his thoughts, he permitted it to cling to him, cannot be explained unless by the fact that such partings between men and their idols are of daily occurrence; but certain it is that before he reached Underwood it was not only whispering within, but was again absolutely tyrannizing over him, and luring him on to fresh schemes in the future. It had begun to renew its reign from the moment when he resolved to say nothing to Miss Price or to Angela of what had occurred. After that wise decision he proceeded to meditate in a manner which may be shortly embodied in these few reflections.

“The future is ever uncertain. It becomes a man to hope the best. Great designs are not realized at once; and the noble spirit is not crushed by one, nor by two repulses. Man is a being of complicated structure; nor can man’s passions be played upon like a harpsichord. To touch the proper chord requires a degree of wisdom and experience not perfectly bestowed on any mortal being.”

Having reflected in the general, he then proceeded to reflect practically.

“The future is uncertain. My plan is wisely and beautifully designed; and my daughter’s attractions are generally allowed to be great. Wisdom plans, but practice crowns. Men are punctilious. It is possible Mr. Vavasour may quarrel with my openness; or, he may consider that thoughts of matrimonial engagements are unsuited to a house of mourning; or he may be a man of delicacy and may consider it an offence to delicacy, that a young lady should be engaged to two brothers in the course of a few months, or.....”

Among his many thoughts as on a former occasion, he found comforters enough, and thus it happened that shortly after the mortification he had endured, he was building on the future as certainly as ever.

The sense of his wisdom in thus retaining hope was confirmed shortly afterwards.

About ten days after his visit to Audley Court, Everard returned it, and Mr. Gresham was at home. _He_ was stately, and Everard grave, but there was perfect politeness on both sides.

When the visit was over, Mr. Gresham, not without dignity, asked if he chose to pay his respects to Miss Price, with whom he understood he was on terms of intimacy.

Though it might have been guessed from Everard’s countenance, that the visit was far from being desired, he, as if unwilling in any way to be guilty of further disrespect, consented to it, and was conducted by Mr. Gresham to the drawing-room.

It was a great mortification to the father to find his attractive daughter absent, and during the ten minutes of Everard’s stay, his eye was perpetually on the door; but dignity and decorum did not permit him on this occasion to mention or to summon her.

After ten minutes, which passed like so many hours, so utterly unsuited were the three companions to each other, Everard rose with evident relief, and went away; and four minutes after his departure, Angela looked in at the window with her bonnet on.

“You have just missed Mr. Vavasour, my love,” said Miss Price, quietly, even with all her love and sympathy unable to conceive the feelings her words could excite in her niece. “He has been sitting with your father and me for a few minutes.”

Angela stood leaning on the window sill in silence, so astonished was she at the news.

“Why did he come?” at last she inquired.

“To call, my love, I suppose; he was as usual particularly kind, but exceedingly grave. Perhaps, love, because you were absent, but I cannot tell.”

She walked away without asking more questions. It seemed perverse to have waited, hoped, longed, for this visit for months of weary waiting, and when it took place to be five minutes too late.

It was about this time that Angela began to look upon herself as doomed for her faults and follies, to a life of disappointment; nor did the events, or rather non-events of the autumn, brighten this not very cheerful view of things. She never met Everard again. See him, she did often; sometimes at a distance, sometimes near enough for a bow or a smile or word; hear of him she did unceasingly, for all delighted to do him honour, now that their hate was passed by; but meet him she never did. He called again late in the year,--shortly before they left Underwood for a round of visits,--and at an hour when on every day but this, she had been at home, and on this day was only prevented from being at home by an accident to her carriage; and this last mischance filled her cup to the brim.

Though she had ceased to bewail her fate to her aunt, it cost her many, bitter, secret, silent tears; and much she mused on life and its strange ways, and much on the folly which had estranged the only being whose love for her, had been for herself, and not her position. Robert’s confession had deepened tenfold her distrust of the motives of those who approached her, and suspicion threw its cloud over her already clouded thoughts. She was in short in a very gloomy frame of mind, and though she owned she deserved all she suffered, she with her strong capabilities for happiness, could not bring herself to acquiesce calmly in such a state of things.

Having met with other small disappointments in her endeavours to make some poor people happy, she took advantage of these discouragements, to ask Mr. Addison his opinion generally on the use of disappointments to human nature. It was on the occasion of his last visit before she left Underwood.

Reading a good deal more of her mind than she thought she exhibited, he replied seriously--“I suppose they may be good for all, but for some characters I think they have a very special and particular use.”

“For whom?” she asked.

“For those I think whose natural dispositions lead them too earnestly to desire a Paradise on earth.”

“Then for me,” she said, “I confess I do not like to be thwarted, and I do pine to be happy.”

“Then for you,” he said with a slight kind smile. “But dear Miss Gresham remember this. The disappointments will do nothing, will only irritate the temper unless they are received humbly and borne patiently. They can do no good in themselves.”

“I am afraid they only irritate me,” she said with humility; “they make me feel bitter and sour to all the world. I suppose I may be wrong, but I _think_ if I were happy I should be different. I think happiness makes me much more amiable and kind.”

“There is no doubt it does,” he said quickly; “to feel happy and to feel good are almost the same things; whereas to have the mind fretted with many cares is almost to feel wicked.”

“Exactly,” she cried eagerly; “then surely it would be better not to be fretted.”

“It would indeed; and that is just what I wish you to understand we should never be. There are many thoughts should help us to this. Not to speak now of more serious ones, that we suffer far, far less than we deserve; that every trial is sent to do us good, and bring us good, perhaps on earth, certainly in heaven; and then again, that it is but for a moment, and will pass away, ‘even on earth that it will pass away.’”

She looked at him very earnestly as if to discover whether he had meaning in his last words, but she could not trace any special thought in his grave, kind face.

“One must be very good to feel all that,” she replied, after a moment.

“But difficulty never disheartens a sincere person. You must try and feel it, my dear Miss Gresham.”

“I will try,” she replied. But her thoughts were evidently wandering, and after a pause of consideration, she said, blushing slightly, but speaking composedly and steadily, “Talking of good people, I am going to ask what you will perhaps think a strange question. I have often wished to ask it. Do you call Mr. Vavasour a religious man? Good--I know he is, because everybody speaks of his goodness, but is he religious? You must not think I ask from levity, or because I would rather talk of my neighbour’s faults than my own.”

“What distinction do you draw between a good and a religious man?” he asked with a slight smile.

“A good man I can suppose to make mistakes,” she said quickly, “but not a religious man.”

“Perhaps you expect too much even of a religious man,” he replied, smiling again; “but however, in a degree your distinction is just, for a commonly good man walks in his own strength, but a religious man in the strength of God.”

“Well!” she asked eagerly.

“In that sense I certainly do consider Mr. Vavasour to be a religious man. That he has all the feelings some might require for the term, I will not, because I cannot, assert; but I do believe that he frames his life as in the sight of God, and that from his duty so seen, cost him what it may, he will not swerve. That his decisions are always right I would not undertake to be sure. Why do you ask?” he enquired looking at her fixedly.

“Only because I wish to know,” she replied gravely. A moment after she added, “Thank you for so patiently answering my questions. I think you are right about disappointments, and I will try what I can do to bear them better. I have a good many trials in that way, I really do think,” and a tear shone in her eye, “I wish I could take them more cheerfully.”

“I think you have,” he said kindly. “God grant you may improve and not waste them.”

He saw a wistful look in her face, as if she would have won from him some expression of hope to carry away with her, but he was too truly wise to speak only for pity’s sake. What would happen to her or Everard before another eight months had flown by what foresight could picture?