CHAPTER LXI.A DOUBT TROUBLES MAUBRAYI come now to some incidents, the relation of which partakes, I can’t deny, of the marvellous. I can, however, vouch for the literal truth of the narrative; so can William Maubray; so can my excellent friend Doctor Wagget; so also can my friend Doctor Drake, a shrewd and sceptical physician, all thoroughly cognizant of the facts. If, therefore, anything related in the course of the next two or three chapters should appear to you wholly incredible, I beg that you will not ascribe the prodigious character of the narrative to any moral laxities on the part of the writer.I believe William Maubray liked Vane Trevor very honestly, and that he was as capable of friendship as any man I have ever met with; but this I will aver, that he had not been so cheerful since poor Aunt Dinah’s death as for the remainder of the day on which he had heard the authentic report of his friend’s overthrow.Down to the town of Saxton, that evening, walked William, for in his comfortable moods he required human society, as he yearned for sympathy in his afflictions. He visited his hospitable friend, Doctor Drake, now in his pardonable elation on the occasion of his friend’s downfall, as he had done when writhing under the thunderbolts of poor Aunt Dinah.In this case, however, he could not disclose what lay nearest to his heart. It would not have done to commit poor Trevor’s little secret to Doctor Drake, nor yet to tell him how wildly in lovehewas, and how the events of this day had lighted up his hopes. In fact, Doctor Drake had long ceased to be the sort of doctor whom a gay fellow suffering from one of Cupid’s bow-shot wounds would have cared to consult, and William visited him on this occasion simply because he was elated, excited, and could not do without company of some sort.At about half-past nine o’clock Doctor Drake was called away to visit Mr. Thomas, the draper.“Gouty pain in the duodenum—there’sa man, now, wansh—a—kill himself. Heiskilling himself. Advice! You might as well advise that ub—bottle. You might, a bilious fellow—lithic acid—gouty—’sgouty a fellow, by Jove, Sir, as you’d like to see, and all I can do he wone ’rink his—his little—whatever it is, anyway but hot—hot Sir, and withsugar—sugar, and you know that’spoison, simple p—poison. You seeme, any li’l’ thing I take—sometimes a liddle she’y, sometimes a li’l’ ole Tom, or branle; I take itcole, without—quiteinnocent—ratherusefle—shlight impulse—all the organs—neveraffec’ thehead—never touch theliver—that’s the way, Sir; that’s how you come to livelong—lots o’ waw’r—cole waw’r, and just sprinkle over, that’s your sort, Sir, stick a’ that, Sir; cole, colewaw’r—lotso’ waw’r, Sir; never make too stiff, you know, an’ you may go on allnigh’—don’ go, you know, I mayn be half’n hour allnigh, Sir, an’ no harm done—noharm, Sir, ratherusefle.”By this time the doctor had got himself into his surtout, and selecting Mr. Thomas’s gouty cordials, ether and other bottles from his drawer, he set forth on his sanitary expedition, and the symposium ended.So William walked musingly homeward. What a tender melancholy over everything! What a heavenly night! What a good, honest, clever fellow, Doctor Drake was! By Jove, he had forgotten to ask for Miss Drake, who was no doubt in the drawing-room—a jolly old creature was Miss Drake! Should he go back and drink some of her tea? He halted and turned, not right about, but right face, and hesitated in the moonlight. No, it was too late—he forgot how late it was. But he’d go down specially to drink tea with Miss Drake another evening. And so, he resumed that delicious walk homewards.There was no use in denying it any longer to himself—none—he knew it—he felt it—hewasin love with Violet Darkwell—awfully in love! And as every lover is an egotist, and is disposed on the whole to think pretty well of himself; the hypothesis did cross his fancy frequently that the downfall of his friend Trevor was somehow connected with the fortunes of William Maubray. Was there—might there not be—did he not remember signs and tokens, such as none but lovers’ eyes can read or see, that seemed to indicate a preference; might there not be a preoccupation?What a charm in the enigmatic conditions of a lover’s happiness! How beautiful the castles in the air in which his habitation is! How she stands at the open portal, or leans from the casement in beautiful shadow, or golden light divine! How he reads his fate in air-drawn characters, in faintest signs, remembered looks, light words, a tone! How latent meanings hover in all she says, or sings, or looks, or does; and how imagination is enthralled by the mystery, and he never tires of exploring, and guessing, and wondering, and sighing. Those deep reserves and natural wiles of girls are given to interest us others,with those sweet doubts and trembling hopes that constitute the suspense and excitement of romance.William Maubray sat himself down in a delightful melancholy, in his great chair by the drawing-room fire, and ordered tea, and told old Winnie that she must come and have a cup, and keep him company; and so she did very gladly, and William made her talk a great deal about poor Aunt Dinah, and this retrospect went on with a stream of marginal anecdote about Miss Violet, to every syllable of which, though maundered over in honest Winnie’s harum-scarum prose, he listened breathlessly, as to the far-off music of angels. And when all was told out, led her back artfully, and heard the story bit by bit again, and listened to her topsy-turvy praises of Violet in a delightful dream, and would have kept her up all night narrating, but honest Homer nodded at last, and William was fain to let the muse take flight to her crib.Then, leaning back in his chair, he mused alone, revolving sweet and bitter fancies, thinking how well Sergeant Darkwell thought of him, how near Violet still was, what easy access to the Rectory, how sure he was of the old people’s good word, how miserable he should be, what a failure his life without her. How she had refused Vane Trevor—refused Revington. Was that a mere motiveless freak? Was there no special augury inhisfavour discernible in it? He had the Bar before him now—could not Sergeant Darkwell bring him forward, put him in the way of business? He was not afraid of his work—he liked it. Anything—everything, for sake of her. Besides, he was no longer penniless. He could make a settlement now. Thanks to poor dear Aunt Dinah, Gilroyd was his. Aunt Dinah!And here the thought of her odd threatenings and prohibition crossed his brain. Five years! Nonsense!Madness!Thatwould never do. Five years before so young a man, looks like fifty. In a lover’s chronicle it is an age. Quite impracticable. He would lay the case before Sergeant Darkwell and Doctor Wagget. He well knew howthey, conscientious, good, clear-headed men, would treat it. But, alas! it troubled him—it vexed him. The menace was in his ear—a shadow stood by him. There were memoranda in his desk, and poor Aunt Dinah’s last letter. He would read them over. He had fancied very likely that she meant more—and moreseriously, than a reperusal would support. So eagerly he opened his desk, and got out these momentous papers.
CHAPTER LXI.
A DOUBT TROUBLES MAUBRAY
A DOUBT TROUBLES MAUBRAY
A DOUBT TROUBLES MAUBRAY
I come now to some incidents, the relation of which partakes, I can’t deny, of the marvellous. I can, however, vouch for the literal truth of the narrative; so can William Maubray; so can my excellent friend Doctor Wagget; so also can my friend Doctor Drake, a shrewd and sceptical physician, all thoroughly cognizant of the facts. If, therefore, anything related in the course of the next two or three chapters should appear to you wholly incredible, I beg that you will not ascribe the prodigious character of the narrative to any moral laxities on the part of the writer.
I believe William Maubray liked Vane Trevor very honestly, and that he was as capable of friendship as any man I have ever met with; but this I will aver, that he had not been so cheerful since poor Aunt Dinah’s death as for the remainder of the day on which he had heard the authentic report of his friend’s overthrow.
Down to the town of Saxton, that evening, walked William, for in his comfortable moods he required human society, as he yearned for sympathy in his afflictions. He visited his hospitable friend, Doctor Drake, now in his pardonable elation on the occasion of his friend’s downfall, as he had done when writhing under the thunderbolts of poor Aunt Dinah.
In this case, however, he could not disclose what lay nearest to his heart. It would not have done to commit poor Trevor’s little secret to Doctor Drake, nor yet to tell him how wildly in lovehewas, and how the events of this day had lighted up his hopes. In fact, Doctor Drake had long ceased to be the sort of doctor whom a gay fellow suffering from one of Cupid’s bow-shot wounds would have cared to consult, and William visited him on this occasion simply because he was elated, excited, and could not do without company of some sort.
At about half-past nine o’clock Doctor Drake was called away to visit Mr. Thomas, the draper.
“Gouty pain in the duodenum—there’sa man, now, wansh—a—kill himself. Heiskilling himself. Advice! You might as well advise that ub—bottle. You might, a bilious fellow—lithic acid—gouty—’sgouty a fellow, by Jove, Sir, as you’d like to see, and all I can do he wone ’rink his—his little—whatever it is, anyway but hot—hot Sir, and withsugar—sugar, and you know that’spoison, simple p—poison. You seeme, any li’l’ thing I take—sometimes a liddle she’y, sometimes a li’l’ ole Tom, or branle; I take itcole, without—quiteinnocent—ratherusefle—shlight impulse—all the organs—neveraffec’ thehead—never touch theliver—that’s the way, Sir; that’s how you come to livelong—lots o’ waw’r—cole waw’r, and just sprinkle over, that’s your sort, Sir, stick a’ that, Sir; cole, colewaw’r—lotso’ waw’r, Sir; never make too stiff, you know, an’ you may go on allnigh’—don’ go, you know, I mayn be half’n hour allnigh, Sir, an’ no harm done—noharm, Sir, ratherusefle.”
By this time the doctor had got himself into his surtout, and selecting Mr. Thomas’s gouty cordials, ether and other bottles from his drawer, he set forth on his sanitary expedition, and the symposium ended.
So William walked musingly homeward. What a tender melancholy over everything! What a heavenly night! What a good, honest, clever fellow, Doctor Drake was! By Jove, he had forgotten to ask for Miss Drake, who was no doubt in the drawing-room—a jolly old creature was Miss Drake! Should he go back and drink some of her tea? He halted and turned, not right about, but right face, and hesitated in the moonlight. No, it was too late—he forgot how late it was. But he’d go down specially to drink tea with Miss Drake another evening. And so, he resumed that delicious walk homewards.
There was no use in denying it any longer to himself—none—he knew it—he felt it—hewasin love with Violet Darkwell—awfully in love! And as every lover is an egotist, and is disposed on the whole to think pretty well of himself; the hypothesis did cross his fancy frequently that the downfall of his friend Trevor was somehow connected with the fortunes of William Maubray. Was there—might there not be—did he not remember signs and tokens, such as none but lovers’ eyes can read or see, that seemed to indicate a preference; might there not be a preoccupation?
What a charm in the enigmatic conditions of a lover’s happiness! How beautiful the castles in the air in which his habitation is! How she stands at the open portal, or leans from the casement in beautiful shadow, or golden light divine! How he reads his fate in air-drawn characters, in faintest signs, remembered looks, light words, a tone! How latent meanings hover in all she says, or sings, or looks, or does; and how imagination is enthralled by the mystery, and he never tires of exploring, and guessing, and wondering, and sighing. Those deep reserves and natural wiles of girls are given to interest us others,with those sweet doubts and trembling hopes that constitute the suspense and excitement of romance.
William Maubray sat himself down in a delightful melancholy, in his great chair by the drawing-room fire, and ordered tea, and told old Winnie that she must come and have a cup, and keep him company; and so she did very gladly, and William made her talk a great deal about poor Aunt Dinah, and this retrospect went on with a stream of marginal anecdote about Miss Violet, to every syllable of which, though maundered over in honest Winnie’s harum-scarum prose, he listened breathlessly, as to the far-off music of angels. And when all was told out, led her back artfully, and heard the story bit by bit again, and listened to her topsy-turvy praises of Violet in a delightful dream, and would have kept her up all night narrating, but honest Homer nodded at last, and William was fain to let the muse take flight to her crib.
Then, leaning back in his chair, he mused alone, revolving sweet and bitter fancies, thinking how well Sergeant Darkwell thought of him, how near Violet still was, what easy access to the Rectory, how sure he was of the old people’s good word, how miserable he should be, what a failure his life without her. How she had refused Vane Trevor—refused Revington. Was that a mere motiveless freak? Was there no special augury inhisfavour discernible in it? He had the Bar before him now—could not Sergeant Darkwell bring him forward, put him in the way of business? He was not afraid of his work—he liked it. Anything—everything, for sake of her. Besides, he was no longer penniless. He could make a settlement now. Thanks to poor dear Aunt Dinah, Gilroyd was his. Aunt Dinah!
And here the thought of her odd threatenings and prohibition crossed his brain. Five years! Nonsense!Madness!Thatwould never do. Five years before so young a man, looks like fifty. In a lover’s chronicle it is an age. Quite impracticable. He would lay the case before Sergeant Darkwell and Doctor Wagget. He well knew howthey, conscientious, good, clear-headed men, would treat it. But, alas! it troubled him—it vexed him. The menace was in his ear—a shadow stood by him. There were memoranda in his desk, and poor Aunt Dinah’s last letter. He would read them over. He had fancied very likely that she meant more—and moreseriously, than a reperusal would support. So eagerly he opened his desk, and got out these momentous papers.