THE PIPING BULLFINCH
Next Sunday Mr. Vane Trevor, after church, happened to be carried in one
of the converging currents of decently-dressed Christianity into the
main channel through the porch, almost side by side with the two Gilroyd
ladies then emerging.
Mr. Vane Trevor, in pursuance of his prudent resolve, would have avoided
this meeting. But so it was. In the crowded church porch, out of which
the congregation emerges so slowly, with a sort of decent crush, almost
pressed inconveniently against good Miss Perfect, the young gentleman
found himself, and in a becoming manner, with a chastened simper,
inquiring after their health, and making the proper remarks about the
weather.
Aunt Dinah received these attentions very drily; but Miss Vi, in such an
arch, becoming little shell-like bonnet, looked perfectly lovely; and to
do her justice, was just as friendly as usual.
It was no contrivance of his, the meeting with this bewitching little
bonnet where he did. How could he help the strange little thrill with
which he found himself so near—and was it in human nature, or even in
good manners, to deny himself a very little walk, perhaps only to the
church-yard gate, beside Miss Violet Darkwell?
“How is my friend Maubray?” inquired Trevor of Miss Perfect, whom he
found himself next.
“I really don’t know—I have not heard—I suppose he is very well,” she
answered, with an icy severity that rather surprised the young man, who
had heard nothing of the quarrel.
“I must write. I ought to have asked him when he meant to return. I am
so anxious for an excuse to renew our croquet on the lawn at Gilroyd.”
This little speech was accompanied with a look which Violet could hardly
mistake.
“I don’t think it likely,” said Miss Perfect, in the same dry tone.
“Any time within the next three weeks, the weather will answer
charmingly,” continued Trevor, addressing Miss Darkwell.
“But I rather think Miss Darkwell will have to make her papa a little
visit. He’s to return on the eighteenth, you remember, my dear; and he
says, you know, you are to meet him at Richmond.”
So said Aunt Dinah, who had no notion of this kind of trifling.
Trevor again saw the vision of a lean, vulgar, hard-voiced barrister,
trudging beside him with a stoop, and a seedy black frock-coat; and for
a minute was silent. But he looked across at pretty Miss Vi, so
naturally elegant, and in another moment the barrister had melted into
air, and he saw only that beautiful nymph.
“I want to look at old Lady Maubray’s monument round the east end, here,
of the church. You would not dislike, dear, to come—only a step. I must
have any repairs done that may be needed. Good-morning, Mr. Trevor.”
But Mr. Trevor begged leave to be of the party, knowing exactly where
the monument stood.
There is a vein of love-making with which a country church-yard somehow
harmonises very tenderly. Among the grass-grown graves the pretty small
feet, stepping lightly and reverently, the hues and outlines of beauty
and young life; the gay faces shadowed with a passing sadness—nothing
ghastly, nothing desolate—only a sentiment of the solemn and the
melancholy, and underlying that tender sadness, the trembling fountains
of life and gladness, the pulses of youth and hope.
“Yes; very, very much neglected,” said Miss Perfect. “We can do nothing
with that marble, of course,” she observed, nodding toward the arched
cornice at top, which time and weather had sadly worn and furrowed. “It
was her wish, my dear father often told me; she _would_ have it outside,
not in the church; but the rails, and this masonry—we must have that set
to rights—_yes_.”
And so, stepping lightly among weeds and long grass, and by humble
headstones and time-worn tombs, they came forth under the shadow of the
tall elms by the church-yard gate, and again Miss Perfect intimated a
farewell to Trevor, who, however, said he would go home by the stile—a
path which would lead him by the gate of Gilroyd; and before he had
quite reached that, he had begun to make quite a favourable impression
once more on the old lady; insomuch that, in her forgetfulness, she
asked him at the gate of Gilroyd to come in, which very readily he did;
and the little party sat down together in the drawing-room of Gilroyd,
and chatted in a very kindly and agreeable way; and Vane Trevor, who,
like Aunt Dinah, was a connoisseur in birds, persuaded her to accept a
bullfinch, which he would send her next morning in a new sort of cage,
which had just come out.
He waited in vain, however, for one of those little momentary absences,
which, at other times, had left him and Violet alone. Miss Perfect,
though mollified, sat him out very determinedly. So, at last, having
paid a very long visit, Mr. Vane Trevor could decently prolong it no
further, and he went away with an unsatisfactory and disappointed
feeling, not quite reasonable, considering the inflexible rule he had
imposed upon himself in the matter of Gilroyd Hall and its inhabitants.
“Maubray has told her all I said,” thought Vane Trevor, as he pursued
the solitary path along the uplands of Revington. “The old woman—what a
bore she is—was quite plainly vexed at first; but that jolly little
creature—Violet—Violet, it _is_ a pretty name—she was exactly as usual.
By Jove! I thought _she’d_ have been a bit vexed; but she’s an angel,”
he dreamed on, disappointed. “I don’t think she can have even begun to
care for me the least bit in the world—I really _don’t_.” He was looking
down on the path, his hands in his pockets, and his cane under his arm;
and he kicked a little stone out of his way at the emphatic word, rather
fiercely. “And so much the better; there’s no need of all that caution.
Stuff! they know quite well I’ve no idea of marrying; and what more? And
there’s no danger of her, for she is plainly quite content with those
terms, and does not care for me—now, that’s all right.”
It is not always easy to analyse one’s own motives; but, beneath that
satisfaction, there was very considerable soreness, and something like a
resolution to make her like him, in spite of her coldness. The pretty,
little, impertinent, cold, bewitching gipsy. It was so absurd. She did
not seem the least flattered by the distinction of his admiration.
Next morning, after breakfast, he drove down in his dog-cart, instead of
sending the bird as he had proposed. There were some ingenious
contrivances in this model cage which required explanation. The oddest
thing about the present was that the piping bullfinch sang two of
Violet’s favourite airs. Trevor had no small difficulty, and a diffuse
correspondence, in his search for one so particularly accomplished.
When in the drawing-room at Gilroyd, he waved a feather before its eyes,
and the little songster displayed his acquirements. Trevor stole a
glance at Miss Vi; but she looked perfectly innocent, and smiled with a
provoking simplicity on the bird. Miss Perfect was, however, charmed,
and fancied she knew the airs, but was, honestly, a little uncertain.
“It is really too good of you, Mr. Trevor,” she exclaimed.
“On the contrary, I’m much obliged by your accepting the charge. I’m a
sort of wandering Arab, you know, and I shall be making the tour of my
friends’ country houses; so poor little Pipe would have been very
lonely, perhaps neglected; and I should very likely have had a letter
some day announcing his death, and that, for fifty reasons, would have
half broken my heart;” whereat he laughed a little, for Aunt Dinah, and
glanced one very meaning and tender ogle on Miss Violet.
“Well, Mr. Trevor, disguise it how you may, you are very good-natured,”
said Miss Perfect, much pleased with her new pet; “and I’m very much
obliged.”
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