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.
“I am 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, good-bye 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 flowers, 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
chimney-piece 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 to 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 you 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.
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