SOME SMALL EVENTS AND PLANS
William Maubray heard from Trevor, who affected boisterous spirits and
the intensest enjoyment of his town life, though there was not a great
deal doing just then to amuse anybody. He had been thinking of running
over to Paris to the Sourburys, who had asked him to join their party,
but thought he must go first to Kincton for a week or two, as the ladies
insisted on a sort of promise he had made, and would not let him off. He
hinted, moreover, that there was a perfectly charming Lady Louisa
Sourbury, of whom he spoke in a rapture; and possibly all this, and a
great deal more in the same vein, was intended to reach the ear of Miss
Violet Darkwell, who was to learn that “there are maidens in Scotland
more lovely by far, who would gladly,” &c., &c., and also, that young
Lochinvar was treading his measures and drinking his cups of wine with
remarkable hilarity, notwithstanding the little scene which had taken
place.
But Vane Trevor was not a topic which William would have cared to
introduce, and it was in relation to quite other subjects that he was
always thinking of Violet Darkwell.
“So,” said the old rector, walking into the hall at Gilroyd, shaking his
head, and smiling as he spoke, “We’ve found you out—the merry devil of
Edmonton—hey? I don’t know when I was so puzzled. It was really—a-ha!—a
most perplexing problem—and—and Doctor Drake has been our Matthew
Hopkins, our witch-finder, and a capital one he has proved. I dare say,
between ourselves,” continued the rector, in a low tone, like a man
making a concession, “that several cases of apparently well
authenticated apparitions are explicable—eh?—upon that supposition;”
and, indeed, good Doctor Wagget devoted time and research to this
inquiry, and has written already to two publishers on the subject of his
volume, called “The Debatable Land;” and when, last summer, I passed a
week at the Rectory, my admirable friend read to me his introduction, in
which he says, “If apparitions _be_ permitted, they are no more
supernatural than water-spouts and other phenomena of rare occurrence,
but, _ipso facto_, _natural_. In any case a Christian man, in presence
of a disembodied spirit, should be no more disquieted than in that of an
embodied one, _i.e._, a human being under its mortal conditions.”
And the only subject on which I ever heard of his showing any real
impatience is that of his night-watch in the study at Gilroyd, as slily
described by Doctor Drake, who does not deny that he was himself
confoundedly frightened by William Maubray’s first appearance, and
insinuates a good deal about the rector, which the rector, with a
dignified emphasis, declares to be “unmeaning travesty.”
In the meantime, Mr. Sergeant Darkwell made a flying visit to the
Rectory, and Maubray had a long walk and a talk with him. I do not think
that a certain shyness, very hard to get over where ages differ so
considerably, permitted the young man to say that which most pressed for
utterance; but he certainly did talk very fully about the “bar,” and its
chances, and William quite made up his mind to make his bow before the
world in the picturesque long robe and whalebone wig, which everyone of
taste admires.
But the sergeant, who remained in that part of the world but for a day,
when he donned his coif, and spread his sable wings for flight towards
the great forensic rookery, whither instinct and necessity called him,
carried away his beautiful daughter with him, and the sun of Saxton,
Gilroyd, and all the world around was darkened.
In a matter like love, affording so illimitable a supply of that
beautiful vaporous material of which the finest castles in the air are
built, and upon which every match-maker—and—and what person worthy to
live is _not_ a match-maker?—speculates in a spirit of the most
agreeable suspense and the most harmless gambling, it would be hard if
the architects of such chateaux, and the “backers” of such and such
events, were never in their incessant labours to light up a prophetic
combination. Miss Wagget was a freemason of the order of the “Castle in
the Air.”
Her magical trowel was always glittering in the sun, and her busy square
never done adjusting this or that block of sunset cloud. She had, some
little time since, laid the foundations in the firmament of such a
structure for the use and occupation of William Maubray and Violet
Darkwell; and she was now running it up at a rate which might have made
sober architects stare. The structure was even solidifying, according to
the nebulous theory of astronomers.
And this good lady used, in her charity, to read for William in his
almost daily visits to the Rectory, all such passages in Violet’s
letters as she fancied would specially interest him.
Her love for the old scenes spoke very clearly in all these letters.
But—and young ladies can perhaps say whether this was a good sign or a
bad one—she never once mentioned William Maubray; no, no more than if
such a person did not exist, although certainly she asked vaguely after
the neighbours, and I venture to think that in her replies, Miss Wagget
selected those whom she thought most likely to interest her
correspondent.
All this time good Miss Wagget wrote constantly to remind the barrister
in London of his promise to allow Violet to return to the Rectory for
another little visit. It was so long delayed that William grew not only
melancholy, but anxious. What might not be going on in London?
Were there no richer fellows than he, none more—more—what should he
say?—more that style of man who is acceptable in feminine eyes?
Was not Violet peerless, go where she might? Could such a treasure
remain long unsought? and if sought, alas! who could foresee the event?
And here he was alone, at Gilroyd, well knowing that distance, silence,
absence, are sure at last to kill the most vigorous passion; and how
could a mere fancy, of the flimsiest texture—such as his best hopes
could only claim, by way of interest in her heart or in her head—survive
these agencies of decay and death?
“Next week I think I shall run up to town. I must arrange about
attending an equity draughtsman’s. I’m determined, Sir, to learn my
business thoroughly,” said William.
“Right, Sir! I applaud you,” replied the rector, to whom this was
addressed. “I see you mean work, and are resolved to master your craft.
It’s a noble profession. I had an uncle at it who, everybody said, would
have done wonders, but he died of small-pox in the Temple, before he had
held a brief, I believe, though he had been some years called; but it
would have come. _Macte Virtute._ I may live to see you charge a jury,
Sir.”
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