CHAPTER IX.IN WHICH MISS VIOLET SAYS WHAT SHE THINKS OF MR. VANE TREVOR, AND IS VIOLET NO LONGER.“Now, I tell you,” continued William Maubray, and he glanced at Aunt Dinah; but she was reading, with her gold spectacles on, the second of a series of old letters, which she had in an old stamped leather box beside her, and had forgotten all else. “You really must tell me what you think of Vane Trevor?”Miss Vi fixed her glowing eyes full upon his for a moment, and then dropped them suddenly. His were full of their old, gentle, good-natured mirth.There was a little pause, and, suddenly looking up, she said rather petulantly:“Think of him? Why, I suppose I think what everyone else does. I think him handsome; I think him agreeable; I think he has an estate; I think he looks like a gentleman; and I think he is the only man who appears in this neighbourhood that is not in one way or other a bore. Shall I sing you a song?”And with heightened colour and bright eyes, this handsome girl sat down to the piano, which had a cracked and ancient voice, like the reedy thrum of a hurdy-gurdy, contrasting quaintly with her own mellow tones, and she sang—nothing to the purpose, nothing with a sly, allegoricsatire in it, but the first thing that came into her head—sweet and sad as a song of old times; and ancient Miss Perfect, for a verse or so, lowered her letter, and listened, smiling, with a little sigh; and William, listening also, fell into a brown study, as he looked on the pretty songstress, and her warblings mingled with his dreams.“Thank you, little Vi,” said he, rising with a sudden smile, and standing beside her as the music ceased. “Very pretty—very sweet.”“I am glad you like it, William,” she said, kindly.“William, again!” he repeated.“Well—yes.”“And why notWillie, as it used to be?” he persisted.“Because it sounds foolish, somehow. I’m sure you think so. I do.”It seemed to him as, with a sad smile, he looked at her, thinking over the words that sounded so like a farewell, so light and cruel, too, that there yet was wisdom—that precocious wisdom with which nature accomplishes the weaker sex—in her decision; and something of approval lighted up his sad smile, and he said, with a little nod:“I believe the young lady says wisely; yes, you are a wise little woman, and I submit.”Perhaps she was a little disappointed at his ready acquiescence; at all events she wound up with a loud chord on the piano, and, standing up, said:“Yes, it sounds foolish, and so, indeed, I think doesWilliam; and people can’t go on being children always, and talking nonsense; and you know we are no relations—at least that I know of—and I’ll call you—yes Iwill—Mr. Maubray. People may be just as friendly, and yet—and yet call one another by their right names. And now, Mr. Maubray, will you have some tea?”“No, thanks; no more tea to-night. I’m sure it has lost its flavour. It would not taste like tea.”“What’s the matter with the tea?” asked Miss Perfect, over the edge of her letter. “You don’t like your tea, William? Is not it strong enough?”“Quite; too much; almost bitter, and a little cold.”“Fancy, child,” said Aunt Dinah, who apprehended a new attack on her tea-chest, and hated waste. “I think it particularlygoodthis evening,” and she sipped a little in evidence of her liking, and once more relapsed into reading.“I can add water,” said Violet, touching the little ivory handle of the tea-urn with the tip of her finger, and not choosing to apprehend William’s allegory.“No, thank you, Vi—Violet, I mean—Miss Darkwell; indeed, I forgot. What shall I read to-night?” and he strode listlessly to the little bookcase, whose polished surface flashed pleasantly to the flicker of the wood fire. “‘Boswell’s Johnson,’ ‘Sir Charles Grandison,’ ‘Bishop Horsley’s Sermons,’ ‘Trimmer’s Works,’ ‘A Simple Story,’ ‘Watts’ Sacred Songs,’ ‘Rasselas,’ ‘Poems, by Alfred Tennyson.’”His quiet voice as he read the names on the backs of Aunt Dinah’s miscellaneous collection, sounded changed and older, ever so much, in Violet’s ear. All on a sudden for both, a part of their lives had been cut off, and a very pleasant time changed irrevocably to a retrospect.“I think ‘Tennyson.’ What do you?” he asked, turning a smile that seemed faded now, but kindly as ever, upon her.As the old name was gone, and the new intolerable, he compounded by calling her by none; and she, likewise, in her answer.“Oh! yes, Tennyson, Tennyson, by all means; that is, if Miss Perfect wishes.”“Yes—oh! to be sure; but haven’t you read it before?” acquiesced Miss Perfect.William smiled at Violet, and said to Miss Dinah, “I think—and don’t you?”—this was to Vi, parenthetically, “that poetry is never heard fairly on a first reading. It resembles music—you must know it a little to enjoy it.”“That’s just what I think,” said Violet, eagerly.“Very good, young people,” said my aunt, with a little toss of her head. “For my part, I think there’s but one Book will bear repeated reading, and that is the Bible.”“Not even ‘Elihu Bung?’” suggested William.“There—read your poetry,” said Miss Perfect. “I shan’t interrupt; I’m reading these, looking back for the date of a family event.”This was an exercise not unfrequently imposed on her by Henbane, who now and then made a slip in such matters, and thus perplexed and troubled Aunt Dinah, who had sometimes her secret misgivings about his accuracy and morality.“What shall I read?” asked William in a lower tone.“Anything, ‘Mariana,’” she answered.“The ‘Moated Grange,’” repeated William, and smiled. “‘The poetry of monotony.’ I could fancy, if a few pleasant faces were gone, this Gilroyd Hall, much as I like it, very like the Moated Grange.”And without more preface he read that exquisite little poem through, and then leaned back in his chair, the book open upon the table; pretty Violet sat opposite, working at her crochet, in a reverie, as was he as he gazed on her.“Where did she learn all that? How much wiser theyare than we. What a jolly assIwas at seventeen, and all the fellows. What fools—weren’t they?—in things like that; and by Jove! she’s quite right, I could not go onVi-ing her all my days, just because when she was a child she used to be here. They are certainly awfully wise in that sort of thing. Pretty head she has—busy, busy—quite a little world within it now, I dare say. What a wonder of wonders, that little casket! Pretty hair, awfully pretty; and the shape of her head, so pretty; yet the oval reminds me, right or wrong, of a serpent’s head; but she has nothing of that in her, only the wisdom; yes, the wisdom, and, perhaps, the fascination. She’ll make some fellow’s heart sore yet; she’ll make some great match, I dare say; but that’s a long way off, eight years; yes, she’ll be twenty-four then; time enough before her.”“Is there any cricket for to-morrow?” asked Vi on a sudden.“No match. I’m going up to look at Revington. Trevor said he’d call for me early—eleven o’clock—forme, mind; and you know I begin to feel an interest in Revington.”“Oh! it’s very pretty, great old timber,” she said, “and a handsome place, and a good estate—three thousand a year, only it owes some money. What an ambitious, audacious person I must be. I’m certain you think so, because it is quite plain I covet my neighbour’s house, and his ox, and his ass, and everything that is his; and coveting, Dr. Mainwaring tells us, is the fountain-head of all iniquity, for how could a person so poor as I ever obtain all these fine things without fraud and chicanery?”Miss Violet was talking a little recklessly and angrily, but she looked unusually handsome, her colour was sobeautiful, and there was so strange a fire in her vexed eyes. What was the meaning of this half-suppressed scorn, and who its real object? How enigmatical they grow so soon as the summer hours of fascination, and of passion with its disguises and sorrows, in all their transient glow and beauty, approach—the season of hope, of triumph, and of aching hearts.
CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH MISS VIOLET SAYS WHAT SHE THINKS OF MR. VANE TREVOR, AND IS VIOLET NO LONGER.
IN WHICH MISS VIOLET SAYS WHAT SHE THINKS OF MR. VANE TREVOR, AND IS VIOLET NO LONGER.
IN WHICH MISS VIOLET SAYS WHAT SHE THINKS OF MR. VANE TREVOR, AND IS VIOLET NO LONGER.
“Now, I tell you,” continued William Maubray, and he glanced at Aunt Dinah; but she was reading, with her gold spectacles on, the second of a series of old letters, which she had in an old stamped leather box beside her, and had forgotten all else. “You really must tell me what you think of Vane Trevor?”
Miss Vi fixed her glowing eyes full upon his for a moment, and then dropped them suddenly. His were full of their old, gentle, good-natured mirth.
There was a little pause, and, suddenly looking up, she said rather petulantly:
“Think of him? Why, I suppose I think what everyone else does. I think him handsome; I think him agreeable; I think he has an estate; I think he looks like a gentleman; and I think he is the only man who appears in this neighbourhood that is not in one way or other a bore. Shall I sing you a song?”
And with heightened colour and bright eyes, this handsome girl sat down to the piano, which had a cracked and ancient voice, like the reedy thrum of a hurdy-gurdy, contrasting quaintly with her own mellow tones, and she sang—nothing to the purpose, nothing with a sly, allegoricsatire in it, but the first thing that came into her head—sweet and sad as a song of old times; and ancient Miss Perfect, for a verse or so, lowered her letter, and listened, smiling, with a little sigh; and William, listening also, fell into a brown study, as he looked on the pretty songstress, and her warblings mingled with his dreams.
“Thank you, little Vi,” said he, rising with a sudden smile, and standing beside her as the music ceased. “Very pretty—very sweet.”
“I am glad you like it, William,” she said, kindly.
“William, again!” he repeated.
“Well—yes.”
“And why notWillie, as it used to be?” he persisted.
“Because it sounds foolish, somehow. I’m sure you think so. I do.”
It seemed to him as, with a sad smile, he looked at her, thinking over the words that sounded so like a farewell, so light and cruel, too, that there yet was wisdom—that precocious wisdom with which nature accomplishes the weaker sex—in her decision; and something of approval lighted up his sad smile, and he said, with a little nod:
“I believe the young lady says wisely; yes, you are a wise little woman, and I submit.”
Perhaps she was a little disappointed at his ready acquiescence; at all events she wound up with a loud chord on the piano, and, standing up, said:
“Yes, it sounds foolish, and so, indeed, I think doesWilliam; and people can’t go on being children always, and talking nonsense; and you know we are no relations—at least that I know of—and I’ll call you—yes Iwill—Mr. Maubray. People may be just as friendly, and yet—and yet call one another by their right names. And now, Mr. Maubray, will you have some tea?”
“No, thanks; no more tea to-night. I’m sure it has lost its flavour. It would not taste like tea.”
“What’s the matter with the tea?” asked Miss Perfect, over the edge of her letter. “You don’t like your tea, William? Is not it strong enough?”
“Quite; too much; almost bitter, and a little cold.”
“Fancy, child,” said Aunt Dinah, who apprehended a new attack on her tea-chest, and hated waste. “I think it particularlygoodthis evening,” and she sipped a little in evidence of her liking, and once more relapsed into reading.
“I can add water,” said Violet, touching the little ivory handle of the tea-urn with the tip of her finger, and not choosing to apprehend William’s allegory.
“No, thank you, Vi—Violet, I mean—Miss Darkwell; indeed, I forgot. What shall I read to-night?” and he strode listlessly to the little bookcase, whose polished surface flashed pleasantly to the flicker of the wood fire. “‘Boswell’s Johnson,’ ‘Sir Charles Grandison,’ ‘Bishop Horsley’s Sermons,’ ‘Trimmer’s Works,’ ‘A Simple Story,’ ‘Watts’ Sacred Songs,’ ‘Rasselas,’ ‘Poems, by Alfred Tennyson.’”
His quiet voice as he read the names on the backs of Aunt Dinah’s miscellaneous collection, sounded changed and older, ever so much, in Violet’s ear. All on a sudden for both, a part of their lives had been cut off, and a very pleasant time changed irrevocably to a retrospect.
“I think ‘Tennyson.’ What do you?” he asked, turning a smile that seemed faded now, but kindly as ever, upon her.
As the old name was gone, and the new intolerable, he compounded by calling her by none; and she, likewise, in her answer.
“Oh! yes, Tennyson, Tennyson, by all means; that is, if Miss Perfect wishes.”
“Yes—oh! to be sure; but haven’t you read it before?” acquiesced Miss Perfect.
William smiled at Violet, and said to Miss Dinah, “I think—and don’t you?”—this was to Vi, parenthetically, “that poetry is never heard fairly on a first reading. It resembles music—you must know it a little to enjoy it.”
“That’s just what I think,” said Violet, eagerly.
“Very good, young people,” said my aunt, with a little toss of her head. “For my part, I think there’s but one Book will bear repeated reading, and that is the Bible.”
“Not even ‘Elihu Bung?’” suggested William.
“There—read your poetry,” said Miss Perfect. “I shan’t interrupt; I’m reading these, looking back for the date of a family event.”
This was an exercise not unfrequently imposed on her by Henbane, who now and then made a slip in such matters, and thus perplexed and troubled Aunt Dinah, who had sometimes her secret misgivings about his accuracy and morality.
“What shall I read?” asked William in a lower tone.
“Anything, ‘Mariana,’” she answered.
“The ‘Moated Grange,’” repeated William, and smiled. “‘The poetry of monotony.’ I could fancy, if a few pleasant faces were gone, this Gilroyd Hall, much as I like it, very like the Moated Grange.”
And without more preface he read that exquisite little poem through, and then leaned back in his chair, the book open upon the table; pretty Violet sat opposite, working at her crochet, in a reverie, as was he as he gazed on her.
“Where did she learn all that? How much wiser theyare than we. What a jolly assIwas at seventeen, and all the fellows. What fools—weren’t they?—in things like that; and by Jove! she’s quite right, I could not go onVi-ing her all my days, just because when she was a child she used to be here. They are certainly awfully wise in that sort of thing. Pretty head she has—busy, busy—quite a little world within it now, I dare say. What a wonder of wonders, that little casket! Pretty hair, awfully pretty; and the shape of her head, so pretty; yet the oval reminds me, right or wrong, of a serpent’s head; but she has nothing of that in her, only the wisdom; yes, the wisdom, and, perhaps, the fascination. She’ll make some fellow’s heart sore yet; she’ll make some great match, I dare say; but that’s a long way off, eight years; yes, she’ll be twenty-four then; time enough before her.”
“Is there any cricket for to-morrow?” asked Vi on a sudden.
“No match. I’m going up to look at Revington. Trevor said he’d call for me early—eleven o’clock—forme, mind; and you know I begin to feel an interest in Revington.”
“Oh! it’s very pretty, great old timber,” she said, “and a handsome place, and a good estate—three thousand a year, only it owes some money. What an ambitious, audacious person I must be. I’m certain you think so, because it is quite plain I covet my neighbour’s house, and his ox, and his ass, and everything that is his; and coveting, Dr. Mainwaring tells us, is the fountain-head of all iniquity, for how could a person so poor as I ever obtain all these fine things without fraud and chicanery?”
Miss Violet was talking a little recklessly and angrily, but she looked unusually handsome, her colour was sobeautiful, and there was so strange a fire in her vexed eyes. What was the meaning of this half-suppressed scorn, and who its real object? How enigmatical they grow so soon as the summer hours of fascination, and of passion with its disguises and sorrows, in all their transient glow and beauty, approach—the season of hope, of triumph, and of aching hearts.