CHAPTER LXIX.WILLIAM MAUBRAY IN LONDONViolet Darkwell’s stay in London lengthened. Saxton was growing intolerable. William began to despond. He ran up to town, and stayed there a few weeks. He eat his dinner in Lincoln’s Inn Hall for two terms, and dined every Sunday, and twice beside, at the Darkwells’.The sergeant was so busy that, on these occasions, he appeared like a guest—an unexpected presence, and was still evidently haunted by briefs—fatigued and thoughtful; but very kind to William. In their short after-dinner sittings I do not think that William ever opened the subject that was nearest his heart. He had, I think, and with a great deal better reason than poor Vane Trevor of Revington, whose pale phantom sometimes flitted warningly before his imagination—horrible qualms about his money qualification.After one of these Sunday dinners William and Sergeant Darkwelltête-à-tête, the barrister, in his quiet cheery way, had been counselling the student on some points, and relating bar stories, always pleasant to hear when told by bright and accurate men like him; and said he, as they rose, “and the first term you make a hundred pounds I give you leave to marry.”William looked hard at his host. But his countenance was thoughtful, he had wandered away already to some other matter. In fact he looked quite innocent, and I believe he was, of thought of Violet.“I give you leave to marry.” Of course it was quite out of the question that he could have meant what the young man fancied he might mean. Still he thought he might lay down this general rule, and leave it to him to make the particular inference.“I see,” said William, in conference with himself as he trudged home that night, dejectedly. “He wishes me to understand that I shan’t have his consent till then. A hundred pounds in a term!Hehad been seven years called before he made that. Could William hope to succeed so well? Not quite, he rather thought.” And then grasping his stick hard he swore it was like Jacob’s service for Rachel—a seven years’ business; and all for a Rachel, who had no thought of waiting.On all these occasions he saw Violet. But was there not a change, a sense of distance, and above all, was there not that awful old “she-cousin” (to borrow Sam Papy’s convenient phrase), of Sergeant Darkwell, silent, vigilant, in stiff silk, whose thin face smiled not, and whose cold gray eyes followed him steadily everywhere, and who exercised an authority over Violet more than aunt-like?William called again and again, but never saw pretty Violet without this prudent and dreadful old lady.Herindeed he twice saw alone. In atête-à-têteshe was not more agreeable. She listened to what few things, with a piteous ransacking of his invention and his memory he could bring up, and looked upon him with a silent suspicion and secret aversion under which his spirit gradually despaired and died within him. Glimpses of Violet, underthe condition of this presence, were tantalising, even agonising sometimes. The liberty of speech so dear to Englishmen was denied him, life was gliding away in this speechless dream, the spell of that lean and silent old lady was upon him. How he yearned for the easy country life with its kindly chaperons and endless opportunities. Love, as we all know, is a madness, and it is the property of madmen to imagine conspiracies, and William began to think that there was an understanding between Sergeant Darkwell and the “she-cousin,” and that she was there to prevent his ever having an opportunity of saying one confidential word in Violet’s ear. It seemed to him, moreover, that this was unspeakably worse, that Violet was quite happy in this state of things. He began to suspect that he had been a fool, that his egotism had made him, in a measure, mad, and that it was time for him to awake and look the sad truth in the face.William left London. He wavered in his allegiance to the bar. He doubted his fitness for it. Had he not money enough for all his wants? Why should he live a town life, and grieve his soul over contingent remainders, and follow after leading cases in objectless pursuit, and lose himself in Bacon’s interminable Abridgment, all for nothing?He returned to keep his next term, and suffer a like penance. It seemed to him there was a kind of coldness and reserve in Violet that was hardly tangible, and yet it was half breaking his heart. She was further away than ever, and he could not win her back. He sate there under the eye of silent Miss Janet Smedley—the inexorable she-cousin. There was no whispering in her presence. She was so silent you might hear a pin drop. Not a syllable escaped her observant ear. There was no speaking in her presence, and that presence never failed—thoughViolet’s sometimes did. The situation was insupportable. Away went William again—and this time he made a portion of that charming tour of Brown, Jones, and Robinson, which for any comfort it gave his spirit, he might as well or better have made within the covers of Mr. Doyle’s famous quarto.Back to England with the home sickness of love came William. He had still a week before his term commenced.“I can’t stand it any longer,” said he, as he paced the platform of the “railway” by which he had taken not an “up” but a “down” ticket. “I know I’m right. I must go down and see Miss Wagget. I’d rather talk to her than to the doctor. I know very well she sees how it is, and she’ll tell me what she thinks, and if she advises I’ll speak to the sergeant when I go to town, and so I shall soon know one way or other,” and he sighed profoundly, and with a yearning look townwards he took his place, and flew away toward Gilroyd.
CHAPTER LXIX.
WILLIAM MAUBRAY IN LONDON
WILLIAM MAUBRAY IN LONDON
WILLIAM MAUBRAY IN LONDON
Violet Darkwell’s stay in London lengthened. Saxton was growing intolerable. William began to despond. He ran up to town, and stayed there a few weeks. He eat his dinner in Lincoln’s Inn Hall for two terms, and dined every Sunday, and twice beside, at the Darkwells’.
The sergeant was so busy that, on these occasions, he appeared like a guest—an unexpected presence, and was still evidently haunted by briefs—fatigued and thoughtful; but very kind to William. In their short after-dinner sittings I do not think that William ever opened the subject that was nearest his heart. He had, I think, and with a great deal better reason than poor Vane Trevor of Revington, whose pale phantom sometimes flitted warningly before his imagination—horrible qualms about his money qualification.
After one of these Sunday dinners William and Sergeant Darkwelltête-à-tête, the barrister, in his quiet cheery way, had been counselling the student on some points, and relating bar stories, always pleasant to hear when told by bright and accurate men like him; and said he, as they rose, “and the first term you make a hundred pounds I give you leave to marry.”
William looked hard at his host. But his countenance was thoughtful, he had wandered away already to some other matter. In fact he looked quite innocent, and I believe he was, of thought of Violet.
“I give you leave to marry.” Of course it was quite out of the question that he could have meant what the young man fancied he might mean. Still he thought he might lay down this general rule, and leave it to him to make the particular inference.
“I see,” said William, in conference with himself as he trudged home that night, dejectedly. “He wishes me to understand that I shan’t have his consent till then. A hundred pounds in a term!Hehad been seven years called before he made that. Could William hope to succeed so well? Not quite, he rather thought.” And then grasping his stick hard he swore it was like Jacob’s service for Rachel—a seven years’ business; and all for a Rachel, who had no thought of waiting.
On all these occasions he saw Violet. But was there not a change, a sense of distance, and above all, was there not that awful old “she-cousin” (to borrow Sam Papy’s convenient phrase), of Sergeant Darkwell, silent, vigilant, in stiff silk, whose thin face smiled not, and whose cold gray eyes followed him steadily everywhere, and who exercised an authority over Violet more than aunt-like?
William called again and again, but never saw pretty Violet without this prudent and dreadful old lady.Herindeed he twice saw alone. In atête-à-têteshe was not more agreeable. She listened to what few things, with a piteous ransacking of his invention and his memory he could bring up, and looked upon him with a silent suspicion and secret aversion under which his spirit gradually despaired and died within him. Glimpses of Violet, underthe condition of this presence, were tantalising, even agonising sometimes. The liberty of speech so dear to Englishmen was denied him, life was gliding away in this speechless dream, the spell of that lean and silent old lady was upon him. How he yearned for the easy country life with its kindly chaperons and endless opportunities. Love, as we all know, is a madness, and it is the property of madmen to imagine conspiracies, and William began to think that there was an understanding between Sergeant Darkwell and the “she-cousin,” and that she was there to prevent his ever having an opportunity of saying one confidential word in Violet’s ear. It seemed to him, moreover, that this was unspeakably worse, that Violet was quite happy in this state of things. He began to suspect that he had been a fool, that his egotism had made him, in a measure, mad, and that it was time for him to awake and look the sad truth in the face.
William left London. He wavered in his allegiance to the bar. He doubted his fitness for it. Had he not money enough for all his wants? Why should he live a town life, and grieve his soul over contingent remainders, and follow after leading cases in objectless pursuit, and lose himself in Bacon’s interminable Abridgment, all for nothing?
He returned to keep his next term, and suffer a like penance. It seemed to him there was a kind of coldness and reserve in Violet that was hardly tangible, and yet it was half breaking his heart. She was further away than ever, and he could not win her back. He sate there under the eye of silent Miss Janet Smedley—the inexorable she-cousin. There was no whispering in her presence. She was so silent you might hear a pin drop. Not a syllable escaped her observant ear. There was no speaking in her presence, and that presence never failed—thoughViolet’s sometimes did. The situation was insupportable. Away went William again—and this time he made a portion of that charming tour of Brown, Jones, and Robinson, which for any comfort it gave his spirit, he might as well or better have made within the covers of Mr. Doyle’s famous quarto.
Back to England with the home sickness of love came William. He had still a week before his term commenced.
“I can’t stand it any longer,” said he, as he paced the platform of the “railway” by which he had taken not an “up” but a “down” ticket. “I know I’m right. I must go down and see Miss Wagget. I’d rather talk to her than to the doctor. I know very well she sees how it is, and she’ll tell me what she thinks, and if she advises I’ll speak to the sergeant when I go to town, and so I shall soon know one way or other,” and he sighed profoundly, and with a yearning look townwards he took his place, and flew away toward Gilroyd.