THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION
“I—I really would be so _very_ much obliged if you would,” resumed
Trevor. “Do now, _pray_—tell me _any_one 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—I 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
_any_thing—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—I’m—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 Trevors, the Vanes, and the historic fame
of Revington, “I—I don’t quite see—I think I—I—I _do_ think I have a
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.
Good-bye.”
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 and 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—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
good-humoured 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.”
“Certainly no _worse_,” said William, very truly, shaking his hand
cordially.
“And I’ll be off to-day. I’ll go to the opera, or something to-night.
I’ve been too long shut up; a fellow grows rusty, you know, in this
tiresome corner. I wish some fool of a fellow would take a lease of it.
Good-bye, old fellow; you must come up to town and see me when I’m
settled, mind.”
And so they parted.
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