A DOUBT TROUBLES MAUBRAY
I come now to some incidents, the relation of which partakes, I can’t
deny, of the marvellous. I can, however, vouch for the literal truth of
the narrative; so can William Maubray; so can my excellent friend Doctor
Wagget; so also can my friend Doctor Drake, a shrewd and sceptical
physician, all thoroughly cognizant of the facts. If, therefore,
anything related in the course of the next two or three chapters should
appear to you wholly incredible, I beg that you will not ascribe the
prodigious character of the narrative to any moral laxities on the part
of the writer.
I believe William Maubray liked Vane Trevor very honestly, and that he
was as capable of friendship as any man I have ever met with; but this I
will aver, that he had not been so cheerful since poor Aunt Dinah’s
death as for the remainder of the day on which he had heard the
authentic report of his friend’s overthrow.
Down to the town of Saxton, that evening, walked William, for in his
comfortable moods he required human society, as he yearned for sympathy
in his afflictions. He visited his hospitable friend, Doctor Drake, now
in his pardonable elation on the occasion of his friend’s downfall, as
he had done when writhing under the thunderbolts of poor Aunt Dinah.
In this case, however, he could not disclose what lay nearest to his
heart. It would not have done to commit poor Trevor’s little secret to
Doctor Drake, nor yet to tell him how wildly in love _he_ was, and how
the events of this day had lighted up his hopes. In fact, Doctor Drake
had long ceased to be the sort of doctor whom a gay fellow suffering
from one of Cupid’s bow-shot wounds would have cared to consult, and
William visited him on this occasion simply because he was elated,
excited, and could not do without company of some sort.
At about half-past nine o’clock Doctor Drake was called away to visit
Mr. Thomas, the draper.
“Gouty pain in the duodenum—_there’s_ a man, now, wansh—a—kill himself.
He _is_ killing himself. Advice! You might as well advise that
ub—bottle. You might, a bilious fellow—lithic acid—gouty—’sgouty a
fellow, by Jove, Sir, as you’d like to see, and all I can do he wone
’rink his—his little—whatever it is, anyway but hot—hot Sir, and with
_sugar_—sugar, and you know that’s _poison_, simple p—poison. You see
_me_, any li’l’ thing I take—sometimes a liddle she’y, sometimes a li’l’
ole Tom, or branle; I take it _cole_, with_out_—_quite_ innocent—rather
_use_fle—shlight impulse—all the organs—_never_ affec’ the _head_—never
touch the _liver_—that’s the way, Sir; that’s how you come to live
_long_—lots o’ waw’r—cole waw’r, and just sprinkle over, that’s your
sort, Sir, stick a’ that, Sir; cole, cole _waw’r_—_lots_ o’ waw’r, Sir;
never make too stiff, you know, an’ you may go on all _nigh’_—don’ go,
you know, I mayn be half’n hour all _nigh_, Sir, an’ no harm done—_no_
harm, Sir, rather _use_fle.”
By this time the doctor had got himself into his surtout, and selecting
Mr. Thomas’s gouty cordials, ether and other bottles from his drawer, he
set forth on his sanitary expedition, and the symposium ended.
So William walked musingly homeward. What a tender melancholy over
everything! What a heavenly night! What a good, honest, clever fellow,
Doctor Drake was! By Jove, he had forgotten to ask for Miss Drake, who
was no doubt in the drawing-room—a jolly old creature was Miss Drake!
Should he go back and drink some of her tea? He halted and turned, not
right about, but right face, and hesitated in the moonlight. No, it was
too late—he forgot how late it was. But he’d go down specially to drink
tea with Miss Drake another evening. And so, he resumed that delicious
walk homewards.
There was no use in denying it any longer to himself—none—he knew it—he
felt it—he _was_ in love with Violet Darkwell—awfully in love! And as
every lover is an egotist, and is disposed on the whole to think pretty
well of himself; the hypothesis did cross his fancy frequently that the
downfall of his friend Trevor was somehow connected with the fortunes of
William Maubray. Was there—might there not be—did he not remember signs
and tokens, such as none but lovers’ eyes can read or see, that seemed
to indicate a preference; might there not be a preoccupation?
What a charm in the enigmatic conditions of a lover’s happiness! How
beautiful the castles in the air in which his habitation is! How she
stands at the open portal, or leans from the casement in beautiful
shadow, or golden light divine! How he reads his fate in air-drawn
characters, in faintest signs, remembered looks, light words, a tone!
How latent meanings hover in all she says, or sings, or looks, or does;
and how imagination is enthralled by the mystery, and he never tires of
exploring, and guessing, and wondering, and sighing. Those deep reserves
and natural wiles of girls are given to interest us others, with those
sweet doubts and trembling hopes that constitute the suspense and
excitement of romance.
William Maubray sat himself down in a delightful melancholy, in his
great chair by the drawing-room fire, and ordered tea, and told old
Winnie that she must come and have a cup, and keep him company; and so
she did very gladly, and William made her talk a great deal about poor
Aunt Dinah, and this retrospect went on with a stream of marginal
anecdote about Miss Violet, to every syllable of which, though maundered
over in honest Winnie’s harum-scarum prose, he listened breathlessly, as
to the far-off music of angels. And when all was told out, led her back
artfully, and heard the story bit by bit again, and listened to her
topsy-turvy praises of Violet in a delightful dream, and would have kept
her up all night narrating, but honest Homer nodded at last, and William
was fain to let the muse take flight to her crib.
Then, leaning back in his chair, he mused alone, revolving sweet and
bitter fancies, thinking how well Sergeant Darkwell thought of him, how
near Violet still was, what easy access to the Rectory, how sure he was
of the old people’s good word, how miserable he should be, what a
failure his life without her. How she had refused Vane Trevor—refused
Revington. Was that a mere motiveless freak? Was there no special augury
in _his_ favour discernible in it? He had the Bar before him now—could
not Sergeant Darkwell bring him forward, put him in the way of business?
He was not afraid of his work—he liked it. Anything—everything, for sake
of her. Besides, he was no longer penniless. He could make a settlement
now. Thanks to poor dear Aunt Dinah, Gilroyd was his. Aunt Dinah!
And here the thought of her odd threatenings and prohibition crossed his
brain. Five years! Nonsense! Madness! _That_ would never do. Five years
before so young a man, looks like fifty. In a lover’s chronicle it is an
age. Quite impracticable. He would lay the case before Sergeant Darkwell
and Doctor Wagget. He well knew how _they_, conscientious, good,
clear-headed men, would treat it. But, alas! it troubled him—it vexed
him. The menace was in his ear—a shadow stood by him. There were
memoranda in his desk, and poor Aunt Dinah’s last letter. He would read
them over. He had fancied very likely that she meant more—and more
_seriously_, than a reperusal would support. So eagerly he opened his
desk, and got out these momentous papers.
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