VANE TREVOR AT THE GATE OF GILROYD
Next morning, at breakfast, as usual, the post-bag brought its store of
letters and news, and Mrs. Kincton Knox dispensed its contents in her
usual magisterial manner. There were two addressed in Vane Trevor’s
handwriting; one to the tutor, which the matron recognised as she sent
it round to him in Howard’s hand, the other to herself.
“Pray, no ceremony with us,” said the lady of the house, with a gorgeous
complacency; “read your letter here, Mr. Herbert: we are all opening
ours, you see.”
So William Maubray, with an odd little flutter at his heart, opened the
letter, which he knew would speak of those of whom it agitated him to
think.
It was dated from Revington, whither, with a sort of home sickness new
to him, Trevor had returned almost directly after his visit to Kincton.
Vane Trevor had, without intending it, left, perhaps, on Maubray’s mind
an impression, that a little more had occurred than the progress of the
drama could actually show. He had not yet committed himself irrevocably;
but he had quite made up his mind to take the decisive step, and only
awaited the opportunity.
The day after his arrival he joined the Gilroyd ladies as they left the
Rectory, where—for the great law of change and succession is at work
continually and everywhere—the Mainwarings were no more, and good old
Doctor Wagget was now installed, and beginning to unpack and get his
books into their shelves, and he and old Miss Wagget were still nodding,
and kissing their hands, and smiling genially on the door-steps on their
departing visitors.
Just here Vane Trevor lighted upon them. How lovely Miss Violet Darkwell
looked! Was not that a blush, or only the rosy shadow under her bonnet?
“A blush, by Jove!” thought Vane Trevor, and he felt as elated as, a few
weeks before, he would have been had he got a peerage.
So they stopped in a little group on the road under the parsonage trees;
and, the usual greeting accomplished, the young man accompanied them on
their way toward Gilroyd, and said he—
“I looked in the other day, on my way back from Lowton, on my cousins,
the Kincton Knoxes, at Kincton, you know, and, by Jove! I met—_who_ do
you think?”
“I haven’t an idea,” replied Miss Darkwell, to whom he had chiefly
addressed himself.
“Anne Dowlass, I dare say, my roguish, runaway little girl,” suggested
Miss Perfect, inquisitively.
“Oh, no! not a girl,” answered Trevor.
“Well, it was the Bishop of Shovel-on-Headley,” said she firmly.
“No; by Jove! I don’t think you’d guess in half an hour. Upon my honour!
He! he! he! Well, what do you think of Maubray?”
“William?” repeated Miss Perfect, faintly, and in a tone such as would
indicate sudden pain.
“Yes, by Jove! the very man, upon my honour—as large as life. He’s⸺”
Suddenly, Vane Trevor recollected that he was not to divulge the secret
of his being there in the office of tutor.
“Well, he’s—_what_ is he doing?” urged Aunt Dinah.
“He’s—he’s staying there; and, upon my honour—you won’t tell, I know,
but, upon my honour—the old lady, and—he! he! he!—the young one are
both—I give you my honour—in _love_ with him!”
And Trevor laughed shrilly.
“But, I really aint joking—I’m quite serious, I do assure you. The old
woman told me, in so many words almost, that Clara’s in love with
him—awfully in love, by Jove!”
Trevor’s narrative was told in screams of laughter.
“And, you know, she’s really, awfully pretty: a stunning girl she was a
year or two ago; and—you know that kind of thing could not be—both in
the same house—and the girl in love with him—and nothing come of it.
It’s a case, I assure you; and it will be a match, as sure as I’m
walking beside you.”
“H’m!” ejaculated Aunt Dinah, with a quick little nod and closed lips,
looking straight before her.
“How pretty that light is, breaking on the woods; how splendid the
colours;” said Miss Darkwell.
“Yes—well! It really _is_ now, _jolly_!” responded Vane Trevor; and he
would have made a pretty little speech on that text; but the presence of
Miss Perfect, of course, put that out of the question.
Miss Perfect was silent during nearly all the rest of the walk; and the
conversation remained to the young people, and Vane Trevor was as
tenderly outspoken as a lunatic in his case dare be under restraint and
observation.
They had reached the poplars, only a stone’s throw from the gate of
Gilroyd, when Miss Perfect asked abruptly, “How was the young man
looking?”
Vane Trevor had just ended a description of old Puttles, the keeper of
the “Garter,” whom he had seen removed in a _drunken_ apoplexy to the
hospital yesterday; and Aunt Dinah’s question for a moment puzzled him,
but he quickly recovered the thread of the by-gone allusion.
“Oh! Maubray? I beg pardon. Maubray was looking very well, I think: a
little like a hero in love, of course, you know, but very well. He was
just going to lunch with the ladies when I left, and looked precious
hungry, I can tell you. I don’t think you need trouble yourself about
Maubray, Miss Perfect, I assure you you needn’t, for he’s taking very
good care of himself _every_ way, by Jove.”
“I _don’t_ trouble myself,” said Aunt Dinah, rather sternly,
interrupting Trevor’s agreeable cackle. “He has quite broken with me, as
I already informed you—_quite_, and I don’t care who knows it. I shall
never interfere with him or his concerns more. He shall never enter that
gate, or see my face more; that’s no great privation, of course; but I
don’t wish his death or destruction, little as he deserves of me, and
that’s the reason I asked how he looked; and, having heard, I don’t
desire to hear more about him, or to mention his name again.”
And Miss Perfect stared on Vane Trevor with a grim decision, which the
young man was a little puzzled how to receive, and, with the gold head
of his cane to his lip, looked up at a cloud, with a rueful and rather
vacant countenance, intended to express something of a tragic sympathy.
He walked with them to the pretty porch; but Aunt Dinah was still absent
and grim, and bid him good-bye, and shook hands at the door, without
asking him in; and though he seemed to linger a little, there was
nothing for it, but to take his departure, rather vexed.
That evening was silent and listless at Gilroyd, and though Miss Perfect
left the parlour early, I think there was a _séance_, for, as she lay in
her bed, Violet heard signs of life in the study beneath her, and Miss
Perfect was very thoughtful, and old Winnie Dobbs very sleepy, all next
day.
It was odd, now that Vane Trevor had come to set his heart upon marrying
Violet Darkwell, that his confidence in his claims, which he would have
thought it simple lunacy to question a few weeks ago, began to waver. He
began to think how that gentlemanlike Mr. Sergeant Darkwell, with the
bright and thoughtful face, who was, no doubt, ambitious, would regard
the rental and estate of Revington with those onerous charges upon it;
how Miss Perfect, with her whims and fancies, and positive temper, might
view the whole thing; and, lastly, whether he was quite so certain of
the young lady’s “inclinations,” as the old novels have it, as he felt a
little time before: and so he lay awake in an agitation of modesty,
quite new to him.
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