“Papa seems always doubtful whether it is a good profession,” said Miss Violet, wisely, “though he has succeeded very well; but it’s sad, don’t you think, being so shut away from one’s friends as he is?”
“Well, for him I’m sure it is — in his case, I mean. I miss him I know, and so do you, I’m sur But my case would be very different. I’ve hardly a friend on earth to be cut off from. There’s he) and Doctor Sprague, and Doctor Wagget here, and there’s poor Winnie, and Tom — I can count them up you see, on the fingers of one hand — and I really don’t think I’ve another friend on earth; and some of these I could see still, and none I think would miss me, very much; and the best friends I believe, as Doctor Wagget says, are books, they never die, or what’s worse change; they are always the same, and won’t go away, and they speak to you as they used to do, and always show you the same faces as long as you have sight to look at them.”
“How sensible and amiable of Doctor Wagget to like his Johnson’s Dictionary so much better than his sister,” exclaimed Miss Vi, with a momentary flash of her old mood. “There’s certainly one thing about books, as you say, they never grow disagreeable; and if there— “she was growing to be sarcastic, but she reined in her fancy, and said sadly, instead, ‘‘About books I know very little — nothing; and about friends — you and I have lost the best friend we’ll ever know.”
And as she spoke “tears glimmered under her lashes, and she looked out of the window over the wooded slope towards Gilroyd, and after a little pause said in a gentle cheerful voice, with perhaps a little effort —
“How pretty it all looks to-day, the slanting sun — poor grannie used to like it so — and it is the sweetest light in the world, look!”
And William did look on the familiar landscape, faintly gilded in that aërial light, and looking still he said —
“You ought to come over some day with Miss Wagget, to see old Winnie.”
“I should like very much in a little time, but not now; it would be very sad. I was looking at it from a distance, yesterday, from where you see the ash tree there; you know that view; Gilroyd looks so pretty from it; but I could not go in yet. I feel as if I never could go into the house again.”
“And about friends,” she resumed, “I sometimes think one has more than one suspects. Of course you like them differently in degree and differently even in the — the kind of liking. I reckon little Psyche among my friends.”
“And the bird?” said William.
“Yes, the bullfinch,” said Miss Vi, firmly; and at this moment Miss Wagget entered the room with a great bouquet in her hand, and exclaimed —
“Isn’t this perfectly beautiful; it’s positively wonderful for this time of year; look at it, my dear, all from the conservatory. It’s a very nice taste. I wonder how he keeps it so beautifully, and very kind, I’m sure, to think of us; these are Revington flowers, Mr. Maubray. It is very kind of Mr. Trevor; you’ll arrange them, won’t you, dear?”
This was addressed to the young lady, and at the same time she held the bouquet towards William, to gaze on, and he stooped over and smelled at the flowers which were really odourless, in some confusion, and then turned his eyes on Violet, who blushed first a little, and then in a brilliant glow all over her face, and William looked down and smelled at the flowers again, and then he recollected it was time for him to go; so he bid Miss Wagget goodbye, and took his leave of Violet, whose large eyes, he thought, looked vexed, and on whose cheeks the fading scarlet still hovered; had he ever beheld her so handsome before, or with a sadder gaze? and he took her hand extended to him rather coldly, he fancied, and with a pale smile left the room, feeling as if he had just heard his sentence read. So he stood on the steps for a moment, bewildered, and answered good Doctor Wagget’s cheery salutation and pleasantry that issued from the study window, rather confusedly.
CHAPTER LIX.
VANE TREVOR SEES MISS VIOLET.
NEXT morning William was surprised by a visit from Vane Trevor.
“Just dropped in to see how you are, old fellow, this morning.”
“Very good of you,” rejoined William with ironical gravity.
“Well, but are you well — is there anything wrong?” inquired Vane, who was struck by his friend’s savage and distracted looks.
“Nothing — I’m quite well; what could go wrong with a fellow so magnificently provided for? The Lord of Gilroyd, with such lots of small talk, and fine friends, and lavender gloves, and clothes cut so exquisitely in the fashion,” and William laughed rather horribly.
“Well, I admit you might get better traps, and if you like decent clothes why the devil don’t you?”
Trevor could perceive that the whole of William’s ironical sally was inspired by envy of him, and was gratified accordingly; and thought within himself, “Your shy, gawky, ill-dressed men always hate a jolly fellow with a good coat to his back just because the women know the difference, and I wonder where poor Maubray has been trying his arts and fascinations; he has been awfully shut up, that’s clear,” so thought Vane Trevor, as he added aloud —
“If you’re going to London, as you say, I’ll give you a note with pleasure to my man, if you like the sort of things he makes,” said Trevor; “but I give you notice he won’t do his best unless you seem to take an interest, you know.”
“Thanks — no,” laughed William, a little fiercely, “the tailor might do his office, but I should still want too many essentials. Where would be the good of that sort of thing without the rest, and I never could go the whole animal — the whole brute, and if I could I would not You may smile— “
“I am not smiling.”
“But I swear to you I wouldn’t.”
“Oh, you’re very well,” said Trevor, encouragingly. “Quiet man. What good could that sort of thing do you at the bar, for instance? And when you’re Lord Chancellor with your peerage and your fortune up in London, I shall be still plain Trevor of Revington down here, vegetating, by Jove!”
“I’ll never be that, but I may do some good — a little perhaps. Enough to interest me in life, and that’s all I want,” said William, who was fiercely resolved on celibacy.
“lam going over to see the people at the Rectory — jolly old fellow old Wagget is; and I thought I’d just look in on you. You’re not for a walk, are you?”
“No, thanks,” said William very shortly, and added. “I’m sorry I can’t, but I’ve letters this morning, and must be ready for the post.”
“Well, goodbye then,” said Trevor, and shook hands like a man going a long journey; and William glanced in his eyes, and saw what he was about, and thought, He’ll be sure to see her this morning.”
So William took leave of him, and stood for a while in a troubled brown study on the steps, with a great weight at his heart, and after a while recollecting himself he said, “Pish! Pshaw!” and lifting his head defiantly, he strode into the parlour, and sat himself down grimly to write, but could not get on; and took a walk instead in the direction of the London railway, with his back to the Rectory and to Revington.
Our friend Vane Trevor had made up his mind to see Miss Darkwell this day, and speak, and in fact arrange everything; and as usual the crisis being upon him his confidence in himself and his surroundings began to wane and he experienced the qualms of doubt, and the shiver of suspense. So, as there was usually between the prison and the gallows-tree a point at which the gentleman on the hurdle drew up and partook of a glass of something comfortable, Mr. Vane Trevor halted on his way at Gilroyd and had his word or two, and shake of the hand with William Maubray, and went on.
On he went looking much as usual, except for a little pallor, but feeling strange sensations at his heart, and now and then rehearsing his speech, and more and more agitated inwardly as he drew near the door of the Rectory.
It was early, but Miss Wagget and Miss Darkwell were at home, and Vane Trevor, wondering whether an opportunity would occur, crossed the hall and was announced.
Miss Darkwell was sitting near a window copying music and he went over and shook hands, and felt very oddly; and after a word or two, she looked down again and resumed her work. Old Miss Wagget led the conversation, and begun with a speech on her flowery and was eloquent in admiration and acknowledgments. Now, poor Miss Perfect had told Miss Wagget the whole story of the Revington courtship, and the rector’s sister had quite taken Aunt Dinah’s view of the case, and agreed that it was better the subject should be opened by the suitor himself; and, willing to make the opportunity desired at once, and dreaded, she recollected, on a sudden, that she had a word to say to her brother before he went out, and, with apologies, left the room and shut the door.
Miss Violet raised her eyes and looked after her a little anxiously, as if she would have liked to stop her. I think the young lady guessed pretty well what was in Vane Trevor’s mind; but there was no averting the scene now, and she went on writing in a bar of crotchets in the treble, but placed the minim wrong in the bass.
There was a silence, during which the little French clock over the chimneypiece ticked very loud, and Miss Wagget’s lapdog yawned and chose a new place on the hearthrug, and the young lady was looking more closely at her music, and, though with a little blush, very gravely industrious. Trevor looked through the window, and down at the dog, and round the room, and up at the clock, but for the life of him he could not think of anything to say. The silence was growing insupportable, and at last he stood up smiling the best he could, and drew near the window where Violet was sitting, and tapped his chin with his cane, and said: —
“Music — a ha! — copying music! — I — I — a — I used copy music pretty well; they said I did it uncommonly well; but I used to make those pops round like the copperplate, you know; you make them oval. They have a bookful of my copying at Kincton. They said — Clara did — they could read it just like print — and — and I wish von could give me some employment that way — I really wish you would. I’m afraid you find it awfully slow — don’t you?”
“No — thanks; no, indeed — I’m very much obliged though, but I rather like it; I don’t think it tiresome work at all.”
“I — I should so like — and I was so glad to hear from Miss Wagget that you thought the flowers pretty — yesterday, I mean. These are beginning to look a little seedy — aren’t they? I’ll send over more to-day — I only wish, Miss Darkwell, I knew your pet flowers, that I might send a lot of them — I — I assure you I do.”
Miss Darkwell here looked closer at her work, and drew two parallel lines connecting the stems of her semiquavers very nicely.
CHAPTER LX.
THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION.
“I-I REALLY would be so very much obliged if you would,” resumed Trevor. “Do now, pray — tell me anyone, you like particularly!”
“I like all flowers so well,” said Miss Violet, compelled to speak, “that I could hardly choose a favourite — at least, without thinking a great deal; and I should feel then as if I had slighted the rest.”
“And awfully jealous I’m sure they’d be — I should — T know I should, indeed — I should, indeed. If I — if you — if I were a flower — I mean, the — the ugliest flower in the garden, by Jove, and that you preferred — a — a anything — I — I think I’d almost wither away — I — I swear to you I do — I’d tear my leaves out — I would, indeed — and — and — I’m in earnest, I assure you — I am indeed, Miss Darkwell — I’m — I’m awfully in love with you — I’m — Psn — I’ve been waiting this long time to tell you. I wrote to your father for leave to speak to you — and poor Miss Perfect also — I — she was very kind; and I’ve come to — to say — that — that I hope you can like me enough — that if a life of the greatest devotion to your happiness — and — and the greatest devotion to your happiness,” — he was trying here a bit of the speech he had prepared, but it would not come back, and so he shook himself free of it, and went on: “I’ll — I’ll try always — to make you happy — I will, indeed — and you shall do just as you please — and there’s no one — I don’t care what her birth or rank, I should be prouder to see in the — the — as — as mistress of Revington than you; and I — I hope — I — I hope very much you can like me enough to give me some encouragement to — to — hope.”
And Miss Darkwell answered very low:
“I — I’m so sorry, Mr. Trevor — I’m very sorry; but I couldn’t — I can’t, indeed, say anything but — but just how sorry I am, and how much obliged for your liking me — and — it could not be.” And Miss Violet Darkwell, with a very beautiful and bright colour, and eyes that looked darker than ever, stood up to go.
“I — pray don’t — I — I’m sure you misunderstood me — I think I could — I — do pray — just a minute,” said Vane Trevor, awfully confounded.
Miss Darkwell waited where she stood, looking down upon the carpet.
I — I don’t want you to answer me now; I — I’d rather you didn’t. I — I — you’ll not answer me for a week. I — I’d rather you thought it over just a little — pray.”
“It would make no difference, I assure you, Mr. Trevor. It would merely prolong what is very painful to me. It is very kind of you to think so well of me, and I’m very much obliged; but I think I’ll go.” And she extended her hand to take leave, and was on the point of going.
“But really, Miss Darkwell,” said Mr. Trevor, who began to feel a little insulted, and to remember the Trevois, the Vanes, and the historic fame of Revington, ‘I — I don t quite see — I think I — I — I do think I have right to — to some explanation.”
There’s nothing to explain; I’ve said everything,” said Miss Vi very quietly.
“That’s very easy, of course, to say; but I — I don’t think it’s using a fellow quite— “
“Did I ever lead you to think I thought otherwise?” exclaimed Miss Violet with a grave but fearless glance.
There was a pause. Trevor was angry, and looked it. At last he said —
“I did not say that — but — but I know — I know I’m not a mere nobody here. The Trevors of Revington are pretty well known, and they have always married in — in a certain rank; and I think when I’ve spoken to you as I have done, I might have expected something more than a simple no, and — and I think, if you did not appear to like me — at all events there was nothing to make me think you didn’t, and that’s why I say I think I’ve a right to ask for an explanation?”
“You can have no right to make me say one word more than I please. I’ve said all I mean to say — more than I need have said — and I won’t say more,” said Miss Violet Darkwell, with eyes that glowed indignantly, for there was an implied contrast in the lordly marriages of the Trevors with his own tender of his hand to the young lady which fired her pride.
Before he recovered she had reached the door, and with her fingers upon the handle she paused, and returned just a step or two, and said, extending her hand —
“And I think we might part a little more kindly, for you have no cause to blame me, and when you think a little you’ll say so yourself. Goodbye.”
Trevor did not well know how he shook hands with her. But she was gone. It was all over.
Grief — rage — disappointment — something like insult! He could not say that he had been insulted. But Revington was. The Trevors were. What a resource in such states of mind — denied to us men — are tears. Good furious weeping — the thunder and the rain — and then the air refreshed and the sky serene.
Mr. Vane Trevor felt as if he had been drinking too much brandy and water, and had been beaten heavily about the head; he was confounded and heated, and half blind. He walked very fast, and did not think where he was going until he stopped close to the gate of Gilroyd.
He went in, and rang the bell at the hall-door, which stood open. William came into the hall.
“Come in, Trevor,” said he. He had taken his walk of a couple of miles, and was more serene.
“No. Come out an
d have a walk with me, will you?” answered Vane.
“Where?” asked William.
Anywhere. Wherever you like — here among the trees.”
“I don’t care if I do,” said William, who saw that in Trevor’s countenance which excited his curiosity; and out he came with his wideawake on, and Trevor walked beside him, looking very luridly on the ground, and marching very fast. William walked beside him, quietly waiting till the oracle should speak.
At last, wheeling round by the trunk of a huge old chestnut, he came suddenly to a full stop, and confronted his companion.
“Well, that’s off my mind; all over; the best thing I dare say could happen to me, and I think she’s a bit of a — I think she has a temper of her own. I didn’t like any more shilly-shally, you know, in that undecided way, and I thought I might as well tell you that it’s all off, and that I’m very pleased it is. She’s very pretty, and all that; but hang it, there are other things, and it never would have done. I have not much of a temper of my own, I believe” (Trevor was really a goodhumoured fellow, but chose to charge himself with this little failing for the occasion), “and I could not get on with that kind of thing. It wouldn’t have done — it couldn’t — I thought I’d just come and tell you; and I think I’ll run up to town; they want me to go to Kincton, but it’s too slow; and — and Revington’s such a wilderness. I wish some one would take it. I don’t want to marry for ever so long. I don’t know what put it in my head.”
Mr. Vane Trevor resumed his walk at a slower pace, and he whistled a low and contemplative air, looking down on the grass with his hands in his pocket, and then he said again —
“I thought I’d just come down and tell you; and you’re not to mention it, you know — not to that fellow Drake, or anyone, mind — not that I much care, but it would not do to be talked about, and you won’t I know, thanks, and the Waggets are honourable people, they won’t talk either, I suppose; and — and I depend on you; and — and you know you and I are friends all the same.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 332