Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 324
Vane Trevor stood expecting an astounding revelation, but Aunt Dinah proceeded —
“And therefore as you are his friend — of course it’s nothing to me — I thought you might as well hear it, and if you chose to take that trouble, let him know,” said Miss Perfect.
He looked a little hard at Miss Perfect, and she as steadily on him.
“I will, certainly — that is, if you think I ought. But —— hope it won’t get me into a scrape with the people there.”
“I do think you ought,” said Miss Perfect.
“I — I suppose hell understand the reason?” suggested Vane Trevor, half interrogatively.
“If you say — I think, if you say — that I said I had reason to know” — and Aunt Dinah paused.
Vane Trevor, looking a little amazed, repeated —
I’m to say, you said you had reason to know?”
“Yes, and — and — I think he’ll understand — and if he should not, you may say — a — yes, you may, it has reached me through Henbane.”
“I beg pardon — through what?” said Vane Trevor, inclining his ear.
“Henbane,” said Miss Perfect very sharply.
“Henbane?”— ‘
“Yes.”
By Jove!” exclaimed Trevor.
A considerable silence ensued, during which a variety of uncomfortable misgivings respecting the state of Miss Perfect’s mind floated through his own. He concluded, however, that there was some language of symbols established between Miss Perfect and her nephew, in which Henbane stood for some refractory trustee, or rich old uncle.
So he said, more like himself —
“Well, I shan’t forget I’ll take care to Jet him know, and you may depend upon me.”
CHAPTER XXXIX.
VANE TREVOR OPENS HIS MIND.
AFTER a silence, Mr. Vane Trevor, whose thoughts were not quite abandoned to Henbane and his friend William Maubray, but had begun to flow in a more selfish channel, said —
“Miss Darkwell, I suppose, in the garden?”
“Violet’s gone for a few days to our friends, the Mainwarings, at their new Rectory; they seem to like it extremely.”
“Oh, do they? That’s delightful,” said Trevor, who looked very dismal. “And so Miss Darkwell is there?” Miss Perfect nodded.
“I’m — I’m very unlucky. I — I thought such a fine day, I — I might have induced you both to — to — there’s such a pretty drive to Wilton.”
“Yes — I know — I’m sure she’d have liked it of all things.”
“Do you really think so?” exclaimed the young man, inquiringly. “I wish — I wish very much I could — I could flatter myself.”
Aunt Dinah looked up, and at him earnestly but kindly, and said nothing, and so looked down again. There was encouragement in that look, and Trevor waxed eloquent. “I — I wish I could — I wish I dare — I — I think her so beautiful. I — I can’t express all I think, and I — there’s nothing I would not do to make her friends approve — a — a — in fact I should be so much obliged if I thought you would wish me well, and be my friend — and — and— “
And Vane Trevor, for want of anything distinct to add to all this, came to a pause.
And Miss Perfect, with a very honest surprise in her face, said:
“Am I to understand, Mr. Vane Trevor?” and she too came to a stop.
But with those magical words the floodgates of his eloquence were opened once more.
“Yes, I do. I do indeed. I mean to — to propose for Miss Darkwell, if — if I were sure that her friends liked the idea, and that I could think she really liked me. I came to-day with the intention of speaking to her.”
He was now standing erect, no longer leaning against the window shutter, and holding his walking-cane very hard in both hands, and impressing Miss Perfect with a conviction of his being thoroughly in earnest.
“I tell you frankly, Mr. Trevor,” said Aunt Dinah, a little flushed with a sympathetic excitement, and evidently much pleased, “I did not expect this. I had fancied that you were not a likely person to marry, and to say truth, I sometimes doubted whether I ought to have allowed your visits here so frequently, at least as you have made them for the last few weeks. Of course I can see nothing that is not desirable, in fact highly advantageous in the proposal you make. Am I at liberty to write to Sergeant Darkwell on the subject?”
“Oh! certainly — exactly what I should wish.”
“I’m very sure he will see it in the same light that I do. We all know the Trevors of Revington, the position they have always held; and though I detest the line they took in the great civil war, and think your poor father had no business helping to introduce machinery into this part of the world as he did, and I always said so, I yet can see the many amiable qualities of his son, and I have no doubt that you will make a kind and affectionate husband. I must, however, tell you candidly, that I have never spoken of you to Violet Darkwell as a — in fact, in any other light than that of an acquaintance, and I cannot throw any light upon her feelings. You can ascertain them best for yourself. My belief is, that a girl should be left quite free to accept or decline in such a case, and I know that her father thinks exactly as I do.”
“I may write to Miss Darkwell, do you think? I suppose I had better?”
“No? said Miss Perfect, with decision; “were I you I should much prefer speaking. Depend upon it, there’s more to be done by speaking. But as you are acquainted with her father, don’t you think you might write to him? Violet may return in three days, but will not, I think, quite so soon; and meanwhile you will have heard from him.”
“I think so. I’ll do it, certainly; and I — I feel that you’re my friend, Miss Perfect;” and he took her hand, and she took his very kindly.
“I’ve said my say; I highly approve, and I’m quite certain her father will also; he agrees with me on most points; he’s a very superior man.”
Vane Trevor, there and then, with Aunt Dinah’s concurrence, wrote his letter to Mr. Sergeant Darkwell; and then he walked with Aunt Dinah in the garden, talking incessantly of Violet, and it must be added, very much pleased with Miss Perfect’s evident satisfaction and elation; and he remained to dinner, a situation which two months ago would have appeared the most ludicrous and dismal in nature, and he gabbled of his lady love, asking questions and starting plans of all sorts.
And time flew so in this tête-à-tête, that they were surprised by the entrance of the household with the Bible and Prayer-book; and Mr. Vane Trevor, though not a particularly sober-minded youth, could not avoid accepting the rôle of the absent William Maubray, and officiated, much to the edification of the maids, in whose eyes the owner of Revington was a very high personage indeed; and “the chapter” for that evening delighted and overawed them, and they could hardly believe their eyes that the great squire of Revington was pent up with them in that small drawingroom, and kneeling and saying “amen,” and repeating the Lord’s Prayer after Miss Perfect, “as mild and humble” as one of themselves.
When he got home to Revington, not being able to tranquillise his mind, he vented his excitement upon the two letters which I have mentioned as having reached the family of Kincton, at the breakfast-table.
“Read that, Clara, my dear,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, with a funereal nod and in a cautious undertone.
Miss Clara read the letter, and when she came to the passage which related that poor old Sir Richard Maubray had had a second and much severer paralytic stroke, and was now in articulo, she raised her eyes for a moment to her mother’s and both for a moment looked with a solemn shrewdness into the other’s; Miss Clara dropped hers again to the letter, and then stole a momentary glance at William, who looked as if he were very ill.
As a mm who receives a letter announcing that judgment is marked, and bailiffs on his track, will hide away the awful crumpled note in his pocket, and try to beguile his friends by a pallid smile, and a vague and incoherent attempt to join in the conversation, so William strove to seem quite unconcerned, and the more he tried the more conscious was he of his failure.
CHAPTER XL.
MRS. KINCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH WILLIAM.
IN fact William Maubray had received a conceited and exulting letter from Trevor, written in the expansion of his triumph once more as the Lord of Revington, the representative of the historic Trevors, the man of traditions and prestige, before whom the world bowed down and displayed its treasures, and who being restored to reason and self-estimation by his conversation with Miss Perfect, knew well what a prize he was — what a sacrifice he was making, and yet bore and gave away all with a splendid magnanimity.
So, as he says, “It is all virtually settled. I have talked fully with Miss Perfect, a very intelligent and superior woman, who looks upon the situation just as I could wish; and I have written announcing my intentions to her father, and under such auspices, and with the evidence I hope I have, of not being quite indifferent where I most wished to please, I almost venture to ask for your congratulations,” &c.
“He is quite right, it is all over; she likes him, I saw that long ago; I fancied she would have been a little harder to please; they fall in love with any fellow that’s tall, and pink, and white, and dresses absurdly, and talks like a fool, provided he has motiey — money — d — money!”
Such were the mutterings of William Maubray, as he leaned dismally on the window of the schoolroom, and looked out upon the sear and thinning foliage of the late autumn.
“This is very important — this about unfortunate Sir Richard; his son will succeed immediately; but he seems a good deal, indeed very much agitated; however, it’s a great point in his favour otherwise.” So said Mrs. Kincton Knox to her daughter, so soon as being alone together they could safely talk over the missives of the breakfast table.
“I rather think he has been summoned to the dying man, and he’ll go — he must — and we shall never see more of him,” said Miss Clara, with superb indifference.
“Yes, of course, it may have been, I was going to say so,” said her mother, who, however, had not seen that view. “I’ll make him come out and walk up and down the terrace with me a little, poor young man.”
“You’ll do him no good by that,” said the young lady, with a sneer.
“We’ll see that, Miss Kincton Knox; at all events, it will do no good sitting here, and sneering into the fire; please sit a little away and raise the hand screen, unless you really wish to ruin your complexion.”
“It can’t be of the least importance to anyone whether I do or not, certainly not to me” said the young lady, who, however, took her advice peevishly.
“You are one of those conceited young persons; pray allow me to speak, I’m your mother, and have a right I hope to speak in this house — who fancy that no one can see anything but they — I’m not disposed to flatter you; I never did flatter you; but I think the young man (her voice was lowered here) likes you — I do. I’m sure he does. It can’t possibly be for my sake that he likes coming every evening to read all that stuff for us. You make no allowance for the position he is in, his father dying, in the very crisis of a painful domestic quarrel; it must be most uncomfortable; and then he’s here in a position which precludes his littering any sentiments except such as should be found on the lips of a resident teacher. I’ve frequently observed him on the point of speaking in his real character, and chilled in a moment by the recollection of the apparent distance between us; but I think I know something of countenance, and tones, and those indications of feeling, which are more and more significant than words.”
Miss Clara made no sign by look, word or motion; and after a little pause her mamma went on sturdily.
“Yes, I ought, at my time of life, and having been I may say a good deal admired in my day, and married., and not quite as I might have been perhaps, but still pretty well. I ought to know something more of such matters than my daughter, I think, and I can’t be mistaken. I don’t say passion, I say a liking — a fancy, and that there is I’ll stake my life. If you only take the trouble to think you’ll see. I hold it quite impossible that a young man should be as he is, alone for several weeks in a country-house with a person, I will say, of your advantages and attractions without some such feeling, im — possible.”
Miss Kincton Knox looked indolently on her fair image in the mirror at the further end of the room.
“In those rides he and Howard have taken with you, II — venture to say he has said things which I should have understood had I been by.”
“I told you he never said anything — anything particular — anything he might not have said to anyone else,” said the young lady, wearily. “He is evidently very shy, I allow.”
“Very I extremely shy,” acquiesced her mamma, eagerly; “and when all these things are considered, I don’t think in the time you could possibly have expected more.”
“I never expected anything,” said Miss Clara, with another weary sneer.
“Didn’t you? then I did,” answered the matron.
Miss Clara simply yawned.
“You are in one of your unfortunate tempers. Don’t you think, Miss Kincton Knox, even on the supposition that he is about leaving our house, that you may as well command your spirit of opposition and ill temper, which has uniformly defeated every endeavour of mine to — be of use to you, and here you are at eight-and-twenty.” The young lady looked round alarmed, but there was no listener, “and you seem to have learned nothing?
“I’ll write all round the country, and tell the people I’m eight-and-twenty or thirty, for anything I know, if you have no objection. I don’t see any harm it can do; telling truth perhaps mayn’t do one much good: but if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned this at all events, that there’s absolutely no good in the other course.”
“I don’t know what you mean by courses. No one I hope has been committing any fraud in this house. If you please to tell people you are thirty, which is perfectly contrary to fact, you must only take the consequences. Your miserable temper, Clara, has been the ruin of you, and when I’m in my grave you’ll repent it.”
Sc saying she left the room, and coming down in a few minutes in a black velvet garment, trimmed with ermine, and with a muff of the same judicial fur, she repaired to the schoolroom, where, much to William’s relief, she graciously begged a holiday for Howard, and then asked William with, at the end of her invitation, a great smile, which plainly said, “I know you can hardly believe your ears but it’s true notwithstanding,” to lend an old woman his arm in a walk up and down the terrace.
William was of course at her service, though the honour was one which at that moment was almost oppressive.
CHAPTER XLI.
HOW THEY TALKED.
AFTER a few turns, and some little talk, Mrs. Kincton Knox said: —
“I’m afraid, Mr. Herbert, like most of us, young as you are, you have your troubles. You will excuse an old woman, old enough to be your mother, and who likes you, who really feels a very deep interest in you, for saying so. I wish — I wish, in fact, there was A little more confidence, but all in good time. I said you were — you were — it’s perhaps impertinent of me to say I observed it, but my motive is not curiosity, nor, you will believe, unkind. I did see you were distressed this morning by the letter that reached you. I trust there was no illness, nor— “
“No, nothing — that is which I had not — which was not,” he replied. “Nothing very unexpected.”
“For if there was any necessity, any wish to leave Kincton for a little, I should offer my poor services as a substitute with your pupil, if you would trust him to me.”
Although her graciousness was oppressive, and her playfulness awful, there were welcome signs of sympathy in this speech, and William Maubray greeted them with something like confidence, and, said he “It’s awfully kind of you, Mrs. Kincton Knox, to think about me. I — I don’t know exactly what to say, except that I am very grateful, and — and it’s quite true, I’ve had a great deal of vexation and suffering — a kind of quarrel — a very bad quarrel, indeed, at home, as I call it, and — and some other things.”
“Other things! — no doubt. There is one trouble to which the young are exposed, and from which old people are quite exempt. The course of true love, you know, as our great moralist says, never did run smooth.”
Her prominent eyes were fixed with an awful archness upon Maubray, and conscious as he was, he blushed and paled under her gaze, and was dumb. “My maxim in all such cases is, never despair. When a young man is endowed, like you, with good looks, and refinement. You see I am talking to you almost as I would to a son, that darling boy of mine is such a link, and one grows so soon to know a guest, and those delightful evenings, and I think — I think, Mr. Herbert, —— can see a little with my old eyes, and I’ve divined your secret.”
“I may — that is, I think it may have been — a fancy, just. I don’t know,” said William, very much put out “But I know. You may be perfectly certain you are in love, if you aint quite certain that you are not. Trust an old woman who has seen something of life — that is, of human nature,” insisted Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“I — I don’t know, I did not know it myself until, I think, within the last few days. I dare say I’m a great fool. I’m sure I am, in fact, and I ought not to have allowed — but I really did not know.” He suspected that Trevor had told all he knew of his story, and that the women, with the sagacity of their sex had divined the rest.
“You see, Mr. Herbert, I have not guessed amiss. When I see a young person very much dejected and distrait., I at: once suspect a romance; and now let me say a word of comfort, derived from observation. As I said before — I’ve known such things happen — never despair There is a spark of romance in our sex as well as in yours. I think I may be of use to you. I dare say things are not quite so desperate as they appear. But do trust me — do be frank.”
