LOVE AT SIGHT.
While Violet walked slowly homewards to the cheerless lodging in that
dingy street near the Waterloo-road, a mail-phaeton dashed up to
Mrs. Trevor’s pretty villa, and Sir Harold Ivry alighted.
It was the fashionable hour for paving and receiving visits; so the
widow and her favourite daughter were seated in the drawing-room,
dressed exquisitely, prepared to fascinate any eligible marrying man
who might fall in their way, for which favoured being the delights of
social afternoon tea were specially reserved.
Anastasia was seated close to the window, pretending to be occupied
by some fashionable Berlin-wool work; but she watched the phaeton as
it drew up to the door.
“Mamma!” she exclaimed, “it is Sir Harold!”
“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Trevor, in triumphant tones. “Then you see last
night’s party was not an unsuccessful affair after all. The Baronet
must be smitten, or he would never be in such a hurry to call. I
shall see you mistress of that splendid place in the North, my love,
depend upon it.”
“That’s just like you, mamma!” exclaimed the petted Anastasia,
impatiently; “you always fancy that everything is going to happen
just as you want it. I’m sure Sir Harold took no more notice of me
last night than if I were the plainest gawky that ever emerged from a
third-rate boarding-school. And I daresay he has only come to-day in
the hope of seeing _that_ Miss Westford.”
“What!” shrieked Mrs. Trevor, almost hysterically. “You don’t mean
to tell me that Sir Harold would presume to come to my house for
the purpose of paying his addresses to your governess! Nonsense,
Anastasia, you are really too absurd.”
No more could be said, for the Baronet was announced, and the two
ladies turned to receive him with their brightest smiles.
“My dear Sir Harold, how very kind of you to call to-day!” exclaimed
the widow.
“Your party was so charming, Mrs. Trevor, that I really could not
delay coming to tell you how thoroughly I enjoyed myself, and to
express a hope that neither you nor your daughters were fatigued
by your exertions in our behalf,” answered the young man. “How
magnificently Miss Trevor sang!” he added, bowing to Anastasia; “and
Miss Theodosia; and that other young lady, Miss Westford--what a
lovely voice she has!”
Anastasia crimsoned with anger. The Baronet did not even attempt to
conceal his admiration of Violet. Mrs. Trevor’s indignation knew no
bounds, and yet she contrived to smile sweetly at the Baronet.
_Nil desperandum_ is the motto of every manœuvring mother; and
Mrs. Trevor was by no means disposed to abandon her hopes at the
first disappointment. Even though Sir Harold admired the penniless
governess, a little clever management and an unlimited amount of
flattery might change the current of his fancies, and bring him to
the feet of Anastasia.
This is what Mrs. Trevor thought; and this hope inspired her with
heroic courage.
The Baronet talked of general subjects for some little time. He
discussed the operas, the picture galleries, the botanical fêtes,
the delights of a Sunday afternoon at the “Zoo,” the Toxophilite
Society’s field-days in the neighbouring park, and the movements
of the Royal Family, in the most conventional strain of polite
commonplace; but Mrs. Trevor could see that he talked at random,
and that he was thinking of other subjects than those in which he
pretended to be interested. At last he broke out suddenly, without
any reference to his previous conversation:
“What a charming girl that Miss Westford is! I never saw any one I so
much admired. She is so lovely, so modest, so completely unconscious
of her own beauty! She is really the most bewitching creature I ever
beheld; and O, my dear Mrs. Trevor, if you wish to render me your
grateful and devoted slave, pray introduce me to that charming girl’s
family! I want so much to know them, that I may have the opportunity
of seeing more of her.”
“Sir Harold, I really am at a loss to----”
“O, pray do not misunderstand me, my dear Mrs. Trevor. You surely
cannot think that I should feel any less respect for that sweet
girl, because I find her in a dependent position--going away from a
party on foot, and all that kind of thing. No, Mrs. Trevor, I am not
the man to be influenced by any consideration of that sort. I am no
aristocrat, as you and all the world know very well indeed. My father
won his position by sheer hard work, and there’s a blundering old
wheelbarrow kept in a lumber room at Ivry Place, which my grandfather
used to wheel when he was a navvy, and helped to make the Slopsall
Canal down in our county. So, you see, it wouldn’t do for me to
give myself airs. I am rich, independent, and can afford to marry
the woman I love, if I am only so happy as to win her regard. Under
these circumstances, Mrs. Trevor, I am sure you will believe me when
I declare the honourable nature of my intentions with regard to Miss
Westford; and I know you are just the kind of warm-hearted woman to
be fond of that feminine amusement called match-making. You’ll not
refuse to introduce me to her family, will you now?”
No words can describe Mrs. Trevor’s rage and mortification as she
listened to this speech. Here was the wealthy Baronet, whom she
had intended to win as a husband for her own daughter, utterly
indifferent to Anastasia’s charms, and ready to throw himself at the
feet of a friendless orphan girl, whom he had only seen once in his
life. The fashionable widow was past-mistress of all the hypocrisies
of polished society. She contrived, therefore, to conceal her
aggravation, and looked at Sir Harold with a countenance expressive
only of the most profound sympathy.
“My dear Sir Harold,” she exclaimed, with a long-drawn sigh, “I pity
you--I do indeed pity you. Nothing could be more charming than the
sentiments which you so eloquently express. I only regret that they
should be wasted upon an unworthy object.”
“An unworthy object, Mrs. Trevor!” cried the Baronet; “what do you
mean?”
“I have only this morning dismissed Miss Westford from my employment
as an unfit associate for my dear children.”
Annabella Trevor gave a little shiver of horror as she spoke. The
Baronet turned pale, and the widow saw that her poisoned arrow had
gone home to its mark.
“You dismissed her!” exclaimed Sir Harold. “An unfit associate! But
how?”
“_That_ I decline to tell you,” answered Mrs. Trevor, with supreme
dignity. “There are secrets which no honourable woman can ever bring
herself to reveal. I will not sully my lips by repeating what has
passed between Miss Westford and myself. It is enough for you to know
that she was dismissed from this house--and in disgrace.”
“But the nature of that disgrace, Mrs. Trevor?” asked the Baronet, in
an almost imploring tone.
“_That_, I must repeat, I decline to tell you; and I must beg you,
as a gentleman, not to press the question,” answered the lady with
dignity. “Surely, Sir Harold, you cannot doubt my word?”
“Doubt you, Mrs. Trevor! O, no, no. What motive could you possibly
have for blighting the fair fame of this poor girl? I _cannot_ doubt
you. But the blow is very bitter to me. A few days ago, I should
have ridiculed the mere idea of love at first sight; and yet I
believe, upon my word, that I am as deeply attached to Miss Westford
as if I had known her for half a lifetime. And to discover that she
is unworthy of an honest man’s regard! O, Mrs. Trevor, you cannot
imagine how cruelly I feel this disappointment!”
In his almost boyish candour, the Baronet made no attempt to conceal
the state of his feelings. Anastasia looked at him with mingled
contempt and anger. She had always envied and disliked Violet
Westford for her superior beauty; but now she hated her with as
fierce a hatred as ever raged in a woman’s breast.
Sir Harold Ivry rose to take leave.
“I fear I have made a fool of myself, and that you must really
despise me, ladies,” he said, blushing crimson, as he remembered the
emotion he had betrayed; “but I am a spoiled child of fortune, and I
am not used to disappointment--and I am the worst possible hand at
keeping a secret. Forgive me for having bored you with my affairs.
Good morning.”
He shook hands with both the ladies, and was about to leave; but Mrs.
Trevor was not inclined to let him escape so easily.
“You will dine with us to-morrow evening, I hope, Sir Harold, and
escort us to Covent Garden, where my dear friend Lady Mordaunt has
given me her box. Pray don’t say you are engaged elsewhere. Anastasia
knows you are an excellent musical critic, and wants to hear your
opinion of the new opera.”
The young man hesitated for some moments, but at last accepted the
invitation.
He did not do so from any regard for Mrs. Trevor or her daughter,
but because he still cherished the hope that from them he should
discover the truth about Violet Westford. He left the house very
much depressed and disheartened by what he had heard, and ashamed of
his impetuous devotion, now that he had been told that its object
was base and unworthy. He had been accustomed to find life the
pleasantest, easiest kind of affair, like a royal progress by special
train, with a saloon-carriage fitted by Jackson and Graham to repose
in, and all the stations draped with red cloth and festooned with
garlands in honour of the favoured traveller. To-day, for the first
time, he discovered that there is happiness which wealth cannot
purchase, and his disappointment was even keener than that of the
young spendthrift, who wanted a box for the opera on one of Jenny
Lind’s field-nights, and offered a hundred pounds for the object of
his desire, only to be told that it was impossible of attainment
even at that price; whereupon he left Mr. Mitchell’s shop, murmuring
dolefully, “By Jove, there’s something that money won’t buy!”