Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu, page 315
“Well, you know,” said William, who thought that Trevor had spoken with extraordinary good sense, “there’s no such hurry. Fellows wait, as you say, and look about them: and it’s a very serious thing, by Jove! here we are at the gate; and I’ve had a very pleasant evening — jolly! I did not think two fellows, by them selves, could be so jolly, and that capital claret!” Poor William was no great judge, nor, for that matter, indeed, was his great friend, Mr. Trevor, who, however, knew its price, and laying his hand on William’s arm, said— “Well, old fellow, I’m glad — I really am — you enjoyed yourself; and I hope when next you come, you’ll have another glass or two with me. There’s one thing I say about wine, be it what it may — hang it, let it be real, and get it from a good house; and give my respects to the ladies — don’t forget; and when you come again, we must have more croquet. Let the balls and mallets stay where they are, you know, till then; and God bless you, Maubray, old boy, and if I can give you a lift, you know, any way, tell me, and I dare say my solicitor can give you a lift when you get to the bar. Sends out a lot of briefs, you know. I’ll speak to him, if you wish.”
“A good time before that,” laughed William. “Many thanks, though; I suppose I shall turn up in a few weeks again, and I’m beginning to take to the croquet rather, and we can have lots of play; but, by Jove! I’m keeping you all night — goodbye.”
So they shook hands, each thinking more highly of the other. I’m afraid our mutual estimates are seldom metaphysically justifiable.
“Well,” thought Trevor, as he smoked his way up hill to the house, “no one can say I have not spoken plain enough. I should not like to have to give up that little acquaintance. It’s an awfully slow part of the world. And now they know everything. If the old woman was thinking about anything, this will put it quite out of her head; and I can be careful, poor little thing! It would be a devil of a thing if she did grow to like me.”
And with a lazy smile he let himself in, and had a little sherry and water, and Bell’s Life in the drawing room.
William Maubray experienced an unaccountable expansion of spirits and sympathies, as he strode along the pathway that debouches close upon the gate of Gilroyd Hall. Everything looked so beautiful, and so interesting, and so serene. He loitered for a moment to gaze on the moon: and recollecting how late it was he rang at the bell fiercely, hoping to find Violet Darkwell still in the drawingroom.
“Well, Tom, my aunt in the drawingroom?” said William, as he confided his coat and hat to that faithful domestic.
“Ay, Sir, she be.”
“And Miss Darkwell?”
“Gone up wi’ Mrs. Winnie some time.”
“Oh, that’s all right, nothing like early sleep for young heads, Tom: it’s rather late,” said William Maubray, disappointed, in a cheerful tone.
So he opened the door, and found Aunt Dinah, in the drawingroom.
CHAPTER XVIII.
SUPPER.
“ELIHU BUNG” was open upon the table, also the Bible; and in the latter volume, it is but fair to say, she had been reading as William rang the bell. With her pleasant smile of welcome Miss Perfect greeted him.
“Now, sit down, William, and warm yourself at the fire — you are very cold, I dare say.”
“Oh, no: it’s quite a summer night.”
“And, Thomas, tell Mrs. Podgers to send up something for Master William’s supper.”
Vainly William protested he could eat nothing; but Mrs. Podgers had been kept out of her bed — an allusion which was meant to make him feel, too, his late return — for the express purpose of broiling the bones with which he was to refresh himself; and Aunt Dinah, who had the military qualities strong within her, ordered Tom to obey her promptly.
“Well, dear William, how did you like your dinner? Everything very nice, I dare say. Had he anyone to meet you?”
“No, quite alone; everything very good and very pleasant — a very jolly evening, and Trevor very chatty chiefly about himself, of course.”
Aunt Dinah looked at him with expectation, and William, who understood her, was not one of those agreeable persons who love to tantalise their neighbours, and force them to put their questions broadly.
“Violet has gone to bed?” said William.
“Oh, yes, some time.”
“Yes, so Tom said,” pursued William. “Well, I’ve no great news about Trevor’s suit; in fact, I’m quite certain there’s nothing in it.”
Aunt Dinah’s countenance fell.
“And why?” she enquired.
“He mentioned her. He admires her — he thinks her very pretty, and all that,” said William.
“I should think so,” interposed Miss Perfect, with the scorn of one who hears that Queen Anne is dead.
“But he made quite a long speech, at the same time — I mean in continuation — and there’s nothing — nothing serious — nothing whatever — nothing on earth in it,” concluded he.
“But what did he say? Come, try and remember. You are young, and don’t know how reserved, and how hypocritical — all lovers are; they affect indifference often merely to conceal their feelings.”
“I hope she does not like him,” began William.
“I’m very sure she doesn’t,” interpolated Aunt Dinah rapidly; “no girl likes a man till she first knows that he likes her.”
“Because he took care to make it perfectly clear that he could not think of marrying her,” added William.
“Upon my life,” exclaimed the old lady briskly, “remarkably civil! To invite her cousin to dinner in order to entertain him with such an uncalled-for impertinence. And what did you say, pray?”
“He did not mention her, you see, in connection with all this,” said William.
“Oh! pooh! then I dare say there’s nothing in it.” exclaimed Aunt Dinah, vigorously grasping at this straw.
“Oh! But there is, I assure you. He made a long speech about his circumstances,” commenced William.
“Well, surely he can afford to keep a wife,” interrupted Dinah, again.
“And the upshot of it was just this — that he could not afford to marry without money — a lot of money and rank.”
“Money and rank! Pretty well for a young coxcomb like Mr. Vane Trevor, upon my word.”
This was perhaps a little inconsistent, for Aunt Dinah had of late been in the habit of speaking very highly of the young gentleman.
“Yes, I assure you, and he said it all in a very pointed way. It was, you see, a kind of explanation of his position, and although there was nothing — no actual connecting of it at all with Violet’s name, you know he couldn’t do that; yet there was no mistaking what he meant.”
Aunt Dinah looked with compressed lips on a verse of the Bible which lay open before her.
“Well, and what did he mean?” she resumed defiantly. “That he can’t marry Violet! And pray who ever asked him? I, for one, never encouraged him, and I can answer for Violet. And you always thought it would be a very disadvantageous thing for her, so young, and so extremely beautiful, as she unquestionably is; and I really don’t know anyone here who has the smallest reason to look foolish on the occasion.”
“Well, I thought I’d tell you,” said William, “tell you what he said, I mean.”
“Of course — quite right!” exclaimed she.
“And there could be no mistake as to his intention.
I know there isn’t, and really, as it is so, I thought it rather honourable his being so explicit. Don’t you?” said William.
“That’s as it may be,” said Aunt Dinah, oracularly shutting the Bible, and “Elihu Bung,” and putting that volume on the top of the other; “young people nowadays are fuller a great deal of duplicity and worldliness, than old people used to be in my time. That’s my opinion, and home goes his croquet in the morning. I’ve no notion of his coming about here, with his simpering airs and graces, getting my child, I may call her, talked about and sneered at.”
“But,” said William, who instinctively saw humiliation in anything that savoured of resentment, “don’t you think any haste like that might connect in his view with what he said to me this evening?”
“At seven o’clock tomorrow morning, that’s precisely what I wish,” exclaimed Aunt Dinah.
At this moment Tom entered with the bones and other good things, and William, with the accommodating appetite of youth, on second thoughts accepted and honoured the repast.
“And, Thomas, mind at seven o’clock tomorrow morning, let Billy Willocks bring over those great hammers, and wooden balls, and iron things; they’re horribly in the way in the hall, with my compliments, to Revington, to Mr. Trevor, and don’t fail. He’ll say — Billy Willocks — that they were forgotten at Gilroyd. At seven o’clock, mind, with Miss Perfect’s compliments.”
“I’m very glad, on the whole,” said Miss Perfect, after about a minute had elapsed, “that that matter is quite off my mind.”
William, who was eating his broiled drumstick, with diligence and in a genial mood, was agreeably abstracted, and made no effort to keep the conversation alive.
“He talks very grandly, no doubt, of his family. But he’ll hardly venture his high and mighty airs with you or me. The Maubrays are older than the Trevors; and, for my part, I would not change the name of Perfect with any in England. We are Athelstanes, and took the name of Perfect in the civil wars, as I’ve told you. As to family, William, you could not stand higher. You have, thank God, splendid talents, and, as I am satisfied, excellent — indeed, magnificent prospects. Do you see much of your Cousin Winston at Cambridge?”
“Nothing,” said William, who was, it must be confessed, a little surprised at his aunt’s glowing testimony to his genius, and particularly to “his prospects,” which he knew to be of a dismal character, and he conjectured that a supernatural light had been thrown upon both by Henbane.
“Do you mean to say that Winston Maubray has not sought you out or showed you any kindness?”
“I don’t need his kindness, thank goodness. He could not be, in fact, of the least use to me; and I think he’s ashamed of me rather.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Aunt Dinah, with scorn.
“I spoke to him but once in my life — when Sir Richard came to Cambridge, and he and Winston called on Dr. Sprague, who presented me to my uncle,” and William laughed.
“Well?”
“Well, he gave me two fingers to shake, and that sort of thing, and he said, ‘ Winston, here’s your cousin,’ and just took my hand, with a sort of slight bow.”
“A bow! Well — a first cousin, and a bow!”
“Yes, and he pretended not to know me next day at cricket. I wish he was anywhere else, or that no one knew we were connected.”
“Well, never mind. They’ll be of use — of immense use to you. I’ll tell you how,” said Aunt Dinah, nodding resolutely to William.
CHAPTER XIX.
DEBATE.
“I’D rather work my own way, auntie. It would be intolerable to owe them anything,” said! William Maubray.
“I don’t say Winston, but Sir Richard — he can be of the most immense use to you, and without placing you or me under the slightest obligation.”
This seemed one of Aunt Dinah’s paradoxes, or of her scampish table’s promises, and made a commensurate impression on William’s mind.
“You saw Doctor Wagget here yesterday?”
“I know — yes — the old clergyman, isn’t he, who paid you a visit?”
“Just so: he is a very old friend — very — and thinks it a most desirable arrangement.”
“What arrangement?”
“You shall see,” interrupted Aunt Dinah. “One moment’s patience. I must first show you — a paper to read.” She walked over to a little japanned cabinet, and as she fumbled at the lock, continued, “And when you — when you have read it — you — ah! that’s it — when you have read it, I’ll tell you exactly what I mean.”
So saying she presented a large official-looking envelope to William, who found that it contained a letter and a paper, headed “Extract from the will and testament of the late Sir Nathaniel Maubray, of Queen’s Maubray, bearing date — , and proved, &c., on — , 1831.”
The letter was simply a courteous attorney’s intimation that he enclosed herewith a copy, extract of the will, &c., as requested, together with a note of the expenses.
The extract was to the following effect:
“And I bequeath to my said son Richard the advowson of, and right of perpetual presentation to the living and vicarage of St. Maudlen of Caudley, otherwise Maudlin, in the diocese of Shovel-on-Headley, now absolutely vested in me, and to his heirs for ever, but upon the following conditions — namely, that if there be a kinsman, not being a son or stepson, of my said son or of his heir, &c., in possession, then, provided the said kinsman shall bear the name of Maubray, his father’s name having been Maubray, and provided the said kinsman shall be in holy orders at the time of the said living becoming vacant, and shall be a good and religious man, and a proper person to be the incumbent of the said living, he shall appoint and nominate the said kinsman; and if there be two or more kinsmen so qualified, then him that is nearest of kin; and if there be two of equal consanguinity, then the elder of them; and if they be of the same age, then either, at the election of the bishop.”
Then there was a provision that in case there were no such kinsman, the Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral of Dawdle-cum-Drone should elect a cleric, being of the said diocese, but not of the said chapter, or of kin to anyone of the said chapter; and that the said Richard or his heir, should nominate the person so elected. And it was also conditioned that his son Richard should procure, if practicable, a private Act of Parliament to make these conditions permanent “He must have been a precious odd old fellow, my granduncle, observed William, as he sheathed the document again in the envelope.
“A conscientious man, anxious — with due regard to his family — to secure a good incumbent, and to prevent simony. The living is fifteen hundred a year, and there is this fact about it, that out of the seven last incumbents, three were made bishops. Three!”
“That’s a great many,” said William, with a yawn.
‘‘And you’ll make the fourth,” said Aunt Dinah, spiritedly, and took a pinch of her famous snuff.
“I?” repeated William, not quite believing his ears.
“I am going to the bar.”
“Into the Church you mean, dear William.”
“But,” remonstrated William, “but, I assure you, I, without a feeling of fitness in fact, I could not think of it.”
“Into the Church, Sir.” Aunt Dinah rose up, and as it were, mounted guard over him, as she sternly spoke these words.
William looked rather puzzled, and very much annoyed.
“Into — the — Church!” she repeated, with a terrible deliberation.
“My dear aunt,” William began.
“Yes, the Church. Listen to me. I have reason to know you’ll be a bishop. Now mind, William, I’ll hear no nonsense on this subject. Henbane! Is that what, you mutter?”
“Well, speak out. What of Henbane? Suppose I have been favoured with a communication; suppose I have tried to learn by that most beautiful and innocent communion, something of the expediency of the course I proposed, and have succeeded. What then?”
William did not answer the challenge, and after a brief pause she continued —
“Come, come, my dear William, you know your poor old aunt loves you; you have been her first, and very nearly her only object, and you won’t begin to vex her now, and after all to break her heart about nothing.”
“But I assure you,” William began.
“A moment’s patience,” broke in Aunt Dinah, “you won’t let me speak. Of course you may argue till doomsday, if you keep all the talk to yourself. I say, William, there are not six peers in England can show as good blood as you, and I’ll not hear of your being shut up in a beggarly garret in Westminster Hall, or the Temple, or wherever it is they put the — the paltry young barristers, when you might and must have a bishopric if you choose it, and marry a peer’s daughter. And choose what you will, I choose that, and into the Church you go; yes, into the Church, the Church, Sir, the Church! and that’s enough, I hope.”
William was stunned and looked helplessly at his aunt, whom he loved very much. But the idea of going into the Church, the image of his old friend Dykes, turned into a demure curate as he had seen him three weeks ago. The form of stout Doctor Dalrymple, with his pimples and shovel hat, and a general sense of simony and blasphemy came sickenly over him; his likings, his conscience, his fears, his whole nature rose up against it in one abhorrent protest, and he said, very pale and in the voice of a sick man, gently placing his hand upon his aunt’s arm, and looking with entreating eyes into hers:
“My dear aunt, to go into the Church without any kind of suitability, is a tremendous thing, for mere gain, a dreadful kind of sin. I know I’m quite unfit. I could not.”
William did not know for how many years his aunt had been brooding over this one idea, how she had lived in this air-built castle, and what a crash of hopes and darkness of despair was in its downfall. But if he had, he could not help it. Down it must go. Orders were not for him. Deacon, priest, or bishop, William Maubray never could be.
Miss Perfect stared at him with pallid face.
“I tell you what, William,” she exclaimed, “you had better think twice — you had better— “
“I have thought — indeed I have — for Doctor Sprague suggested the Church as a profession long ago; but I can’t. I’m not fit.”
“You had better grow fit, then, and give up your sins, Sir, and save both your soul and your prospects. It can be nothing but wickedness that prevents your taking orders — holy orders. Mercy on us! A blasphemy and a sin to take holy orders! What sort of state can you be in?”
