SUPPER
“Elihu Bung” was open upon the table, also the Bible; and in the latter
volume, it is but fair to say, she had been reading as William rang the
bell. With her pleasant smile of welcome Miss Perfect greeted him.
“Now, sit down, William, and warm yourself at the fire—you are very
cold, I dare say.”
“Oh, no: it’s quite a summer night.”
“And, Thomas, tell Mrs. Podgers to send up something for Master
William’s supper.”
Vainly William protested he could eat nothing; but Mrs. Podgers had been
kept out of her bed—an allusion which was meant to make him feel, too,
his late return—for the express purpose of broiling the bones with which
he was to refresh himself; and Aunt Dinah, who had the military
qualities strong within her, ordered Tom to obey her promptly.
“Well, dear William, how did you like your dinner? Everything very nice,
I dare say. Had he anyone to meet you?”
“No, quite alone; everything very good and very pleasant—a very jolly
evening, and Trevor very chatty, chiefly about himself, of course.”
Aunt Dinah looked at him with expectation, and William, who understood
her, was not one of those agreeable persons who love to tantalise their
neighbours, and force them to put their questions broadly.
“Violet has gone to bed?” said William.
“Oh, yes, some time.”
“Yes, so Tom said,” pursued William. “Well, I’ve no great news about
Trevor’s suit; in fact, I’m quite certain there’s nothing in it.”
Aunt Dinah’s countenance fell.
“And why?” she enquired.
“He mentioned her. He admires her—he thinks her very pretty, and all
that,” said William.
“I should think so,” interposed Miss Perfect, with the scorn of one who
hears that Queen Anne is dead.
“But he made quite a long speech, at the same time—I mean in
continuation—and there’s nothing—nothing _serious_—nothing
whatever—nothing on earth in it,” concluded he.
“But what did he say? Come, try and remember. You are young, and don’t
know how reserved, and how hypocritical—all lovers are; they affect
indifference often merely to conceal their feelings.”
“I hope she does not like him,” began William.
“I’m very sure she doesn’t,” interpolated Aunt Dinah rapidly; “no girl
likes a man till she first knows that he likes her.”
“Because he took care to make it perfectly clear that he could not think
of marrying her,” added William.
“Upon my life,” exclaimed the old lady briskly, “remarkably civil! To
invite her cousin to dinner in order to entertain him with such an
uncalled-for impertinence. And what did you say, pray?”
“He did not mention her, you see, in connection with all this,” said
William.
“Oh! pooh! then I dare say there’s nothing in it,” exclaimed Aunt Dinah,
vigorously grasping at this straw.
“Oh! But there is, I assure you. He made a long speech about his
circumstances,” commenced William.
“Well, surely he can afford to keep a wife,” interrupted Dinah, again.
“And the upshot of it was just this—that he could not afford to marry
without money—a lot of money and rank.”
“Money and rank! Pretty well for a young coxcomb like Mr. Vane Trevor,
upon my word.”
This was perhaps a little inconsistent, for Aunt Dinah had of late been
in the habit of speaking very highly of the young gentleman.
“Yes, I assure you, and he said it all in a very pointed way. It was,
you see, a kind of explanation of his position, and although there was
nothing—no actual connecting of it at all with Violet’s name, you know
he couldn’t do that; yet there was no mistaking what he meant.”
Aunt Dinah looked with compressed lips on a verse of the Bible which lay
open before her.
“Well, and what did he mean?” she resumed defiantly. “That he can’t
marry Violet! And pray who ever asked him? I, for one, never encouraged
him, and I can answer for Violet. And _you_ always thought it would be a
very disadvantageous thing for her, so young, and so extremely
beautiful, as she unquestionably is; and I really don’t know anyone here
who has the smallest reason to look foolish on the occasion.”
“Well, I thought I’d tell you,” said William, “tell you what he said, I
mean.”
“Of course—quite right!” exclaimed she.
“And there could be _no_ mistake as to his intention. I know there
isn’t, and really, as it is so, I thought it rather honourable his being
so explicit. Don’t you?” said William.
“That’s as it may be,” said Aunt Dinah, oracularly shutting the Bible,
and “Elihu Bung,” and putting that volume on the top of the other.
“Young people nowadays are fuller a great deal of duplicity and
worldliness than old people used to be in my time. That’s my opinion,
and home goes his croquet in the morning. I’ve no notion of his coming
about here, with his simpering airs and graces, getting my child, I may
call her, talked about and sneered at.”
“But,” said William, who instinctively saw humiliation in anything that
savoured of resentment, “don’t you think any haste like that might
connect in his view with what he said to me this evening?”
“At seven o’clock to-morrow morning, that’s precisely what I wish!”
exclaimed Aunt Dinah.
At this moment Tom entered with the bones and other good things, and
William, with the accommodating appetite of youth, on second thought
accepted and honoured the repast.
“And, Thomas, mind at seven o’clock to-morrow morning, let Billy
Willocks bring over those great hammers, and wooden balls, and iron
things; they’re horribly in the way in the hall, with my compliments, to
Revington, to Mr. Trevor, and don’t fail. He’ll say—Billy Willocks—that
they were forgotten at Gilroyd. At seven o’clock, mind, with Miss
Perfect’s compliments.”
“I’m very glad, on the whole,” said Miss Perfect, after about a minute
had elapsed, “that that matter is quite off my mind.”
William, who was eating his broiled drumstick, with diligence and in a
genial mood, was agreeably abstracted, and made no effort to keep the
conversation alive.
“He talks very grandly, no doubt, of his family. But he’ll hardly
venture his high and mighty airs with you or me. The Maubrays are older
than the Trevors; and, for my part, I would not change the name of
Perfect with anyone in England. We are Athelstanes, and took the name of
Perfect in the civil wars, as I’ve told you. As to family, William, you
could not stand higher. You have, thank God, splendid talents, and, as I
am satisfied, excellent—indeed, magnificent prospects. Do you see much
of your Cousin Winston at Cambridge?”
“Nothing,” said William, who was, it must be confessed, a little
surprised at his aunt’s glowing testimony to his genius, and
particularly to “his prospects,” which he knew to be of a dismal
character, and he conjectured that a supernatural light had been thrown
upon both by Henbane.
“Do you mean to say that Winston Maubray has not sought you out or
showed you any kindness?”
“I don’t need his kindness, thank goodness. He could not be, in fact, of
the least use to me; and I think he’s ashamed of me rather.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Aunt Dinah, with scorn.
“I spoke to him but once in my life—when Sir Richard came to Cambridge,
and he and Winston called on Dr. Sprague, who presented me to my uncle,”
and William laughed.
“Well?”
“Well, he gave me two fingers to shake, and that sort of thing, and he
said, ‘Winston, here’s your cousin,’ and just took my hand, with a sort
of slight bow.”
“A bow! Well—a first cousin, and a _bow_!”
“Yes, and he pretended not to know me next day at cricket. I wish he was
anywhere else, or that no one knew we were connected.”
“Well, never mind. They’ll be of use—of immense use to you. I’ll tell
you how,” said Aunt Dinah, nodding resolutely to William.
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