William and his pupil were walking down the thick fir wood that lies on the slope between Kincton and the Old London road, when just at a curve in the path, within twenty yards, whom should he come upon suddenly in this darksome by-way but Mr. Vane Trevor. They both stopped short.
“By Jove! Maubray?” exclaimed Trevor, after a pause, and he cackled one of his agreeable laughs.
“Did not expect to see you here, Trevor,” replied William, looking on the whole rather dismally surprised.
“Why, what are you afraid of, old Maubray? I’m not going to do you any harm, upon my honour,” and he laughed again, approaching his friend, who likewise advanced to meet him smiling, with rather an effort. “Very glad to see you, and I’ve a lot to tell you,” said he. “I don’t mean any nonsense, but really serious things.”
“All well at home?” asked William, eagerly.
“Oh, dear, yes, quite well — all flourishing. It is not — it’s nothing unpleasant, you know, only I mean something — it’s of importance to me, by Jove! and to, I fancy, other people also; and I see you’re puzzled. Can we get rid of that little wretch for a minute or two?” and he glanced at Howard Seymour Knox, to whom, he just remembered, he had not yet spoken.
“And how do you do, Howard, my boy? Flourishing, I see. Would you like to have a shot with my revolver? I left it at the gamekeeper’s down there. Weil, give them this card, and they’ll give it to you — and we’ll try and shoot a rabbit — eh?”
Away went Master Howard, and Trevor said —
“And do tell me, what are you doing here, of all places in the world?”
“I’m a resident tutor — neither more nor less,” said William Maubray, with a bitter gaiety.
“You mean you’ve come here to Kincton to teach that little cur — I hope you lick him a trifle?” inquired Trevor, “Yes; but I don’t lick him, and in fact the situation —— that’s the right word, isn’t it? — is very, what’s the word? We get on quietly, and they’re all very civil to me, and it’s very good of a swell like you to talk so to a poor devil of a pedagogue.”
“Come Maubray, none of your chaff. I knew by your aunt’s manner there was a screw loose somewhere — something about a living, wasn’t there?”
It was plain, however, that Trevor was thinking of something that concerned him more nearly than William Maubray’s squabble with his aunt.
“It’s a long story,” said William; “she wants me to go into the Church, and I won’t, and so there’s a quarrel, and that’s all.”
“And the supplies stopped?” exclaimed Trevor.
“Well, I think she would not stop them; she is very generous — but I could not, you know, it’s time I should do something: and I’m here — Doctor Sprague thought it right — under the name of Herbert. They know it’s an assumed name — we took care to tell them that — so there’s no trick, you know, and please don’t say my name’s Maubray, it would half break my aunt’s heart.”
“Secret as the tomb, Herbert, I’ll remember, and — and I hope that nasty little dog won’t be coming back in a minute — it’s a good way though — and, by Jove! it’s very comical, though, and almost providential this, meeting you here, for I did want a friend to talk a bit to, awfully, and you know, Maubray, I really have always looked on you in the light of a friend.”
There was a consciousness of the honour which such a distinction conferred in the tone in which this was spoken, and William, in the cynical irony which, in this interview, he had used with Trevor, interposed with —
“A humble friend, and very much flattered.”
“You’re no such thing, upon my honour, and I think you’re joking. But I really do regard you as a friend, and I want to tell you no end of things, that I really think will surprise you.”
William Maubray looked in Trevor’s face, gravely and dubiously, and said he, with the air of a man of the world, “Well, I should like to hear — and any advice I can offer, it is not of any great value I fear, is quite at your service.”
“Let’s sit down here,” said Trevor, and side by side they seated themselves on a rustic seat, and in the golden shade of the firs and pines, Vane Trevor began to open his case to William.
CHAPTER XXXII.
A CONFIDENCE.
“I DON’T know what you’ll think of it after all I’ve said, but I’m going to marry your cousin, Violet Darkwell,” said Vane Trevor, after a little pause, and with a kind of effort, and a rather deprecatory smile.
“Oh?” exclaimed William Maubray, cheerily, and with a smile. But the smile was wan, and the voice sounded ever so far away.
“There’s no use, Maubray, in a fellow’s resisting his destiny; and there’s an old saying, you know, about marriages being made in heaven. By Jove! when it comes to a certain point with a fellow, it’s all over; no good struggling, and he may as well accomplish his — his destiny — by Jove, with a good grace. And — and I know, Maubray, you’ll be glad to hear, and — and I really believe it’s the best, and wisest thing I could have done — don’t you think so?”
“I’m sure of that,” said William, in the same tone, with the same smile. Everyone says it’s better to marry, when a fellow can afford it; but I did not think you had a notion; that is for ever so long; and then some great lady.”
“No more I had,” answered Trevor. “By Jove! a month ago you weren’t a more unlikely man; but how can I help it? You never were spooney on a girl in all your life, and of course you can’t tell; but you’ve no idea how impossible it is for a fellow, when once he comes to be really in — in love — to — to make himself happy, and be content to lose her. I can’t, I know.”
“No, of course,” answered William, with the same smile and an involuntary sigh.
“And then, you know, money and that sort of thing, it’s all very fine, all very good in a wife; but by Jove! there’s more than you think in — in fascination and beauty and manner, and that sort of thing. There’s Sir John Sludgeleigh — old family, capital fellow — he chose to marry a woman from some of those cotton mill places, with no end of money, and by Jove, I think he has been ashamed to show ever since; you never saw such a brute. He’s ashamed of her, and they say he’d give his right hand had he never set eyes on her. I can quite understand, of course, a fellow that has not a guinea left: but, by Jove, if you saw her, you could not conceive such a thing. And there’s old Lord Ricketts, he married quite a nobody. Sweetly pretty, to be sure, but out of a boarding school, and so clever, you know, but no money, and no family, and he so awfully dipt; and she set herself to work and looked after everything, awfully clever, and at this moment the estate does not owe a guinea, and she found it with a hundred and twenty thousand pounds mortgage over it; and when he married her everyone said it was all up, and his ruin certain, and by Jove it was that marriage that saved him.”
“Very curious!” said William, dismally.
“To be sure it is; there’s no subject, I tell you, there’s so much nonsense talked about as marriage: if a woman brings you a fortune or connexion, by Jove, she’ll make you pay for it. I could tell you half a dozen who have been simply ruined by making what all the world thought wonderfully good marriages.”
“I dare say,” said William, in a dream.
“And then about family and connexion, really the thing, when you examine it, there’s wonderfully little in it; the good blood of England isn’t in the peerage at all, it is really, as a rule, all in the landed gentry. Now, look at us, for example; I give you leave to search the peerage through, and you’ll not find four houses — I don’t speak of titles, but families — older than we. Except four, there is not one as old. And really, if people are nice, and quite well bred, what more do you want?”
“Oh, nothing,” sighed William.
“And do you know, I’ve rather a prejudice against barristers, I mean as being generally an awfully low, vulgar set; and I assure you, I know I may say whatever I think to you; but I, when I was thinking about all this thing, you kno
w, I could not get the idea out of my head. I knew her father was a barrister, and he was always turning up in my mind; you know the sort of thing, as — as a sort of fellow one could not like.”
“But he’s a particularly gentlemanlike man,” broke in William, to whom Sergeant Darkwell had always been very kind.
“Oh! you need not tell me, for I walked with him home to Gilroyd, last Sunday, from church. I did not know who he was — stupid of me not to guess — and you can’t think what an agreeable — really nice fellow.”
“I know him; he has been always very kind to me, and very encouraging about the bar,” said Maubray.
“Yes,” interrupted Trevor, “and they say, certain to rise, and very high too. Chancery, you know, and that — and — and such a really gentlemanlike fellow, might be anything, and so — and so clever, I’m sure.”
“Come down to draw the settlements,” thought William, with a pang. But he could not somehow say it There are events to which you can submit, but the details of which you shrink from. Here was for William, in some sort, a death. A familiar face gone. The rest was the undertaker’s business. The stretching and shrouding, and screwing down, he had rather not hear of.
“You are going to tell the people here?” said William Maubray, not knowing well what to say.
“Tell them here, at Kincton! Not if I know it Why, I know pretty well, for fifty reasons, how they’ll receive it. Oh! no, I’ll just send them the prettiest little bit of a note in a week or two, when everything is quite settled, and I’ll not mind seeing them again for some time, I can tell you. Here’s this little wretch coming again. Well, Howard, have you got the revolver?” Master Howard’s face was swollen with tears and fury.
“No, they wouldn’t give it me. You knew right well they would not, without mamma told ‘em. I wish mamma was hanged; I do; she’s always a plaguing every one; her and that great brute, Clara.”
This explosion seemed to divert Mr. Trevor extremely; but William was, of course, obliged to rebuke his pupil.
“If you say that again, Master Howard, I’ll tell your mamma.”
“I don’t care.”
“Very well, Sir.”
“I say, come with me,” said Trevor. “We’ll ask mamma about the pistol, and I shall be here again in half an hour.”
“Very well, do so, and just remember, though I don’t much care,” said Maubray, in an under tone, “they don’t know my name here.”
“All right,” said Trevor; “I shan’t forget,” and he and his interesting companion took their departure, leaving William to his meditations.
“So! going to be married — little Vi — pretty little Vi — little Vi, that used to climb up at the back of my chair. I’ll try and remember her always the same little wayward, beautiful darling. I’ve seen my last of her, at least for a long time, a very long time, and Gilroyd — I’ll never see it again.”
And thoughts, vague and sad, came swelling up the stormy channels of his heart, breaking wildly and mournfully one over the other, and poor William Maubray, in his solitude, wept some bitter tears.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE LADIES MAKE INQUISITION.
ON the steps Vane Trevor was encountered by Mr. Kincton Knox, in his drab gaiters and portly white waistcoat, and white hat, and smiling in guileless hospitality, with both hands extended. “Very good, Vane, my dear boy — very happy — now we’ve got you, we’ll keep you three weeks at least. You must not be running away as usual. We’ll not let you off this time, mind.”
Vane knew that the hospitable exuberances of the worthy gentleman were liable to be overruled by another power, and did not combat the hospitable seizure, as vigorously as if there had been no appeal. But he chatted a while with the old gentleman, and promised to walk down and see the plantations, and the new road with him. By a sort of silent compromise, this outdoor department was abandoned to Mr. Kincton Know who seldom invaded the interior administration of the empire, and in justice, it must be alleged that the empress seldom interfered directly with the “woods and forests “ and contented herself with now and then lifting up her fine eyes, and mittened hands, as she surveyed his operations from the window in a resigned horror, and wondered how Mr, Kincton Knox could satisfy his conscience in wasting money the way he did!
She had learned, however, that his walks, trees, and roads, were points on which he might be raised to battle; and as she knew there was little harm in the pursuit, and really little, if anything done, more than was needed, and as some one must look after it, she conceded the point without any systematic resistance, and confined herself to the sort of silent protest I have mentioned.
While Vane Trevor lingered for a few minutes with the old gentleman, Master Howard Seymour Knox, who was as little accustomed to wait as Louis XIV., stumped into the drawingroom, to demand an order upon the gamekeeper’s wife for Vane Trevor’s revolver.
“Vane Trevor come?” exclaimed Clara.
“I want a note,” cried Howard.
“We shall hear all about the quarrel,” observed the old lady emphatically, and with a mysterious nod, to her daughter.
“I won’t be kept here all day,” cried Master Howard, with a stamp.
“Well, wait a moment,” cried Clara, “and you shall have the other box of bonbons. I’ll ring and send Brooks; but you’ve to tell me where Vane Trevor is.”
“No I won’t, till I get the bonbons.”
Miss Clara was on the point of bursting forth into invective, but being curious, she did not choose a rupture, and only said, “And why not, pray?”
“Because you cheated me of the shilling you promised me the same way, and I told all the servants, and they all said you were a beast.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Sir.”
“You do, right well,” he replied; “you asked me to tell you all about the tutor, and when I did you said it was not worth a farthing, and you would not give the shilling you promised; that was cheating; you cheat!”
“Do you hear him, mamma?”
“Howard, my dear! what’s all this? Tut, tut!” exclaimed Mrs Kincton Knox.
The arrival of the bonbons, however, did more to reestablish peaceful relations; and the boy, who was anxious to get away, delivered his news as rapidly as he could.
“Yes, Vane Trevor’s come. When I and Herbert were in the long larch walk he met us, and they seemed very glad to meet.”
“Ah! Like people who knew one another before? “ asked Miss Clara, eagerly, in tones little above a whisper.
“Yes, and Vane called Herbert, Maubray — yes he did.”
“Maubray? Are you quite sure of that?” demanded the elder lady, peering into his face and forgetting her dignity in the intensity of her curiosity.
“Yes, that I am, quite sure,” replied the boy wagging his head, and then spinning himself round on his heel.
“Be quiet, Sir,” hissed Miss Clara, clutching him by the arm; “answer me, — now do be a good boy and we’ll let you away in a minute. How do you remember the name was Maubray, and not some other name like Maubray?” —
“Because I remember Sir Richard Maubray that you and mamma’s always talking about.”
“We’re not always talking about him,” said Clara.
‘No, Sir, we’re not” repeated the matron, severely.
“I’ll tell you no more, if your both so cross. I won’t? retorted Master Howard, as distinctly as the bonbons would allow him.
“Well, well, will you have done, and answer my question? Did he call him Maubray often?” repeated Clara.
“Yes — no. He did, though — he called him Maubray twice. I’m sure of that.”
Mother and daughter exchanged glances at this point, and Mrs. Kincton made a very slow little bow with compressed lips, and her dark eyes steadily fixed on her daughter, and then there was a little “h’m!”
“And they seemed to know one another before?” said Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“Yes, I told you that before.”
&nbs
p; “And glad to meet?” she continued.
“Yes, that is, Vane. I don’t think Herbert was.”
Again the ladies interchanged a meaning glance.
“Where is Vane Trevor now?” inquired the elder lady, gathering up her majestic manner again.
“He was talking to the governor at the hall-door.”
“Oh! then we shall see him in a moment,” said Mrs, Kincton Knox.
“Mind now, Howard, you’re not to say one word to Mr. Herbert or to Vane Trevor about your telling us anything,” added Miss Clara.
“Aint I though? I just will, both of them, my man, unless you pay me my shilling,” replied Master Howard.
“Mamma, do you hear him?” exclaimed Miss Clara in a piteous fury.
“What do you mean, Sir?” interposed his mamma vigorously, for she was nearly as much frightened as the young lady.
“I mean I’ll tell them; yes I will, I’m going,” and he skipped with a horrid grimace, and his thumb to his nose, toward the door.
“Come back, Sir; how dare you?” almost screamed Miss Clara.
“Here, Sir, take your shilling,” cried Mrs. Kincton Knox, with a stamp on the floor and flashing eye, fumbling hurriedly at her purse to produce the coin in question “There it is, Sir, and remember?
Whether the oracular “remember” was a menace on an entreaty I know not; but the young gentleman fixed the coin in his eye after the manner of an eyeglass, and with some horrid skips and a grin of triumph at Miss Clara, he made his exit.
“Where can he learn those vile, low tricks?” exclaimed Miss Clara. “I don’t believe there is another such boy in England. He’ll disgrace us, you’ll find, and he’ll kill me, I know.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 321