CHAPTER XII.CROQUET.While William Maubray was thus employed, Mr. Trevor agreeably accosted Miss Violet.“Now we are to choose the ground, you know, Miss Darkwell—you are to choose it, in fact. I think, don’t you, it looks particularly smooth just there. By Jove it does!—really, now, just like a billiard-table, behind those a—those a—what-d’ye-callem’s—the evergreens there.”“I think it does, really,” said Miss Vi, gliding very contentedly into his ambuscade. “There’s a little shade too.”“Yes, lots of shade; I hate the sun. I’m afraid my deeds are darkness, as Dr. Mainwaring says. There’s only one sort of light I really like, now, upon my honour—the light—the light you—you know, the light that comes from Miss Darkwell’s eyes—ha, ha! upon my honour.”The idea was not quite original, perhaps, but Miss Darkwell blushed a little, and smiled, as it were, on the leaves, and wondered how soon the messenger with the croquet things would return. And Mr. Trevor consulted his watch, and said he would allow him a quarter of an hour more, and added that he would willingly allow the poor little beggar an hour, or any time; for his part, the—the time, in fact, went only too fast for him.Miss Perfect, looking over her spectacles, and then with elevated chin through them, said:“Where have they gone to? can you see?”“I don’t know—I suppose sauntering about—they can’t be very far,” answered William, looking a little uneasily. And somehow forgetting that he was in the midst of a dialogue with Aunt Dinah, he strode away, whistling a little air, anxiously, in the direction in which he had left them.“We have such a charming piece of ground here,” exclaimed Violet, on whose cheeks was a flush, and in whose beautiful eyes a light which Maubray did not like.“First rate; capital, by Jove! it is,” exclaimed Trevor in corroboration.“I don’t see anything very wonderful about it. I think the ground on the other side of these trees better, decidedly; and this is out of sight of the windows,” said William, a little drily.“We don’t want a view of the windows—do we?” asked Mr. Trevor, with an agreeable simplicity, of Miss Darkwell. “The windows? I really did not think of them; but, perhaps, Mr. Maubray wishes to be within call for lunch.”Mr. Trevor laughed pleasantly at this cruel sally.“Well, yes, that, of course,” said William, “and, beside, my aunt might want to speak to me again, as she did just now; and I don’t want to be out of sight, in case she should.”This was very bitter of William; and, perhaps, Miss Violet was a little put out, as she certainly was a little more flushed, and a short silence followed, during which, looking and walking slowly toward the gate, she asked, “Is that the boy with the croquet?”“Yes—no—yes, by Jove, itis! What wonderful eyes yours are, Miss Darkwell!”The latter remark was in a tender undertone, the music of which was accompanied by the long-drawn screak of the iron gate, as the boy entered with a holland bag, mallets, and hoops.The hoops were hardly placed, when Miss Perfect once more knocked at the window and beckoned.“Aunt Dinah wants me again,” said William, and he ran to the window, mallet in hand.The old clergyman had gone away, and I think Aunt Dinah only wanted to give the lovers a few minutes.“Villikens and his Dinah,” said Mr. Trevor, and exploded in repeated cachinations over his joke. “I vote we call him Villikens—capital name, isn’t it?—I really do. But, by Jove, I hope the old lady won’t go on calling him up from his game every minute. We’d have been a great deal better at the other side of the trees, where we were going to play, don’t you think?”“He is coming at last,” said Miss Violet.“Shall we be partners, you and I? Do let us, and give him two balls,” urged Mr. Trevor, graciously, and a little archly.“Well, I think that’s dull, rather, isn’t it? one playing with two balls,” remonstrated Miss Darkwell.And before the debate could proceed William Maubray had arrived.“Everyone for himself, eh?” said Trevor; and so the game set in, Trevor and William Maubray playing rather acrimoniously, and making savage roquets upon one another; and Miss Darkwell—though William dealt tenderly with her—was hard upon him, and, so far as her slender force would go, knocked him about inconveniently.“Capital roquet, Miss Darkwell,” Trevor would cry, as William’s ball bounded away into perspective, and his heart felt sore, as if her ungrateful mallet had smitten it; and his reprisals on Trevor were terrific.Thus, amid laughter, a little hypocritical, and honest hard knocks, the game proceeded, and Miss Darkwell, at its close, was the winner.William Maubray could lose as good-humouredly as any fellow at other games, but he was somehow sore and angry here. He was spited by Violet’s partial dealing. Violet, how unnatural! Little Vi! his bird! his property, it seemed, leagued with that coxcomb to whack him about—to make a butt and a fool of him.“I’m not going to play any more. I’ll sit down here, if you like, and do”—gooseberry, he was on the point of saying, for he was very angry, and young enough, in his wrath, to talk away like a schoolboy—“and do audience, or rather spectator; or, if you choose, Trevor, to take that walk over the Warren you promised me, I’m ready. I’ll do exactly whatever Miss Darkwell prefers. If she wishes to play on with you, I’ll remain, and if she has had enough of us, I’ll go.”“I can’t play—there is not time for another game,” said Miss Vi, peeping at her watch. “My aunt will want me in a few minutes about that old woman—old Widow Grey. I—I’m afraid I must go. Good-bye.”“Awfully sorry! But, perhaps you can? Well, I suppose, no help for it,” said Trevor.And they walked slowly to the door, where Miss Vi pronounced the conventional invitation to enter, which was, however, wistfully declined, and Trevor and William Maubray set out upon their walk, and Miss Vi, in the drawing-room, sat down on the old-fashioned window-seat, and looked out, silent, and a little sulkily after them.Miss Perfect glanced over her spectacles, with a stealthy and grave inquisitiveness, at the pretty girl.“Well, dear, they went away?” she said, after a silence.“Oh! yes; I was tired playing, and, I think, William wanted to go for a walk.”“There seemed to be a great deal of fun over the game,” said Aunt Dinah, who wanted to hear everything.“Yes, I believe so; but one tires of it. I do, I know:” and saying this, Violet took up her novel, and Aunt Dinah scrutinised her, from time to time, obliquely, over her crochet needles, and silence reigned in the drawing-room.“Very pretty Miss Darkwell is. I quite envy you. Your cousin, isn’t she?” said Trevor, graciously. He felt that William would be flattered by the envy, even playful, of Vane Trevor, Esq., of Revington.“Cousin, or something, someway or other connected or related, I don’t know exactly. Yes, I believe she is very well. She was prettier as a child, though. Isn’t there a short way to the Warren?”“Yes, I’ll take you right. She looks, I’d say, about seventeen.”“Yes, I dare say,” answered William. “Do you know those Miss Mainwarings—Doctor Mainwaring’s daughters?”But it would not do. Vane Trevor would go on talking of Violet Darkwell, in spite of William’s dry answers and repeated divergences, unaccountably to that philosophical young gentleman’s annoyance.
CHAPTER XII.
CROQUET.
CROQUET.
CROQUET.
While William Maubray was thus employed, Mr. Trevor agreeably accosted Miss Violet.
“Now we are to choose the ground, you know, Miss Darkwell—you are to choose it, in fact. I think, don’t you, it looks particularly smooth just there. By Jove it does!—really, now, just like a billiard-table, behind those a—those a—what-d’ye-callem’s—the evergreens there.”
“I think it does, really,” said Miss Vi, gliding very contentedly into his ambuscade. “There’s a little shade too.”
“Yes, lots of shade; I hate the sun. I’m afraid my deeds are darkness, as Dr. Mainwaring says. There’s only one sort of light I really like, now, upon my honour—the light—the light you—you know, the light that comes from Miss Darkwell’s eyes—ha, ha! upon my honour.”
The idea was not quite original, perhaps, but Miss Darkwell blushed a little, and smiled, as it were, on the leaves, and wondered how soon the messenger with the croquet things would return. And Mr. Trevor consulted his watch, and said he would allow him a quarter of an hour more, and added that he would willingly allow the poor little beggar an hour, or any time; for his part, the—the time, in fact, went only too fast for him.
Miss Perfect, looking over her spectacles, and then with elevated chin through them, said:
“Where have they gone to? can you see?”
“I don’t know—I suppose sauntering about—they can’t be very far,” answered William, looking a little uneasily. And somehow forgetting that he was in the midst of a dialogue with Aunt Dinah, he strode away, whistling a little air, anxiously, in the direction in which he had left them.
“We have such a charming piece of ground here,” exclaimed Violet, on whose cheeks was a flush, and in whose beautiful eyes a light which Maubray did not like.
“First rate; capital, by Jove! it is,” exclaimed Trevor in corroboration.
“I don’t see anything very wonderful about it. I think the ground on the other side of these trees better, decidedly; and this is out of sight of the windows,” said William, a little drily.
“We don’t want a view of the windows—do we?” asked Mr. Trevor, with an agreeable simplicity, of Miss Darkwell. “The windows? I really did not think of them; but, perhaps, Mr. Maubray wishes to be within call for lunch.”
Mr. Trevor laughed pleasantly at this cruel sally.
“Well, yes, that, of course,” said William, “and, beside, my aunt might want to speak to me again, as she did just now; and I don’t want to be out of sight, in case she should.”
This was very bitter of William; and, perhaps, Miss Violet was a little put out, as she certainly was a little more flushed, and a short silence followed, during which, looking and walking slowly toward the gate, she asked, “Is that the boy with the croquet?”
“Yes—no—yes, by Jove, itis! What wonderful eyes yours are, Miss Darkwell!”
The latter remark was in a tender undertone, the music of which was accompanied by the long-drawn screak of the iron gate, as the boy entered with a holland bag, mallets, and hoops.
The hoops were hardly placed, when Miss Perfect once more knocked at the window and beckoned.
“Aunt Dinah wants me again,” said William, and he ran to the window, mallet in hand.
The old clergyman had gone away, and I think Aunt Dinah only wanted to give the lovers a few minutes.
“Villikens and his Dinah,” said Mr. Trevor, and exploded in repeated cachinations over his joke. “I vote we call him Villikens—capital name, isn’t it?—I really do. But, by Jove, I hope the old lady won’t go on calling him up from his game every minute. We’d have been a great deal better at the other side of the trees, where we were going to play, don’t you think?”
“He is coming at last,” said Miss Violet.
“Shall we be partners, you and I? Do let us, and give him two balls,” urged Mr. Trevor, graciously, and a little archly.
“Well, I think that’s dull, rather, isn’t it? one playing with two balls,” remonstrated Miss Darkwell.
And before the debate could proceed William Maubray had arrived.
“Everyone for himself, eh?” said Trevor; and so the game set in, Trevor and William Maubray playing rather acrimoniously, and making savage roquets upon one another; and Miss Darkwell—though William dealt tenderly with her—was hard upon him, and, so far as her slender force would go, knocked him about inconveniently.
“Capital roquet, Miss Darkwell,” Trevor would cry, as William’s ball bounded away into perspective, and his heart felt sore, as if her ungrateful mallet had smitten it; and his reprisals on Trevor were terrific.
Thus, amid laughter, a little hypocritical, and honest hard knocks, the game proceeded, and Miss Darkwell, at its close, was the winner.
William Maubray could lose as good-humouredly as any fellow at other games, but he was somehow sore and angry here. He was spited by Violet’s partial dealing. Violet, how unnatural! Little Vi! his bird! his property, it seemed, leagued with that coxcomb to whack him about—to make a butt and a fool of him.
“I’m not going to play any more. I’ll sit down here, if you like, and do”—gooseberry, he was on the point of saying, for he was very angry, and young enough, in his wrath, to talk away like a schoolboy—“and do audience, or rather spectator; or, if you choose, Trevor, to take that walk over the Warren you promised me, I’m ready. I’ll do exactly whatever Miss Darkwell prefers. If she wishes to play on with you, I’ll remain, and if she has had enough of us, I’ll go.”
“I can’t play—there is not time for another game,” said Miss Vi, peeping at her watch. “My aunt will want me in a few minutes about that old woman—old Widow Grey. I—I’m afraid I must go. Good-bye.”
“Awfully sorry! But, perhaps you can? Well, I suppose, no help for it,” said Trevor.
And they walked slowly to the door, where Miss Vi pronounced the conventional invitation to enter, which was, however, wistfully declined, and Trevor and William Maubray set out upon their walk, and Miss Vi, in the drawing-room, sat down on the old-fashioned window-seat, and looked out, silent, and a little sulkily after them.
Miss Perfect glanced over her spectacles, with a stealthy and grave inquisitiveness, at the pretty girl.
“Well, dear, they went away?” she said, after a silence.
“Oh! yes; I was tired playing, and, I think, William wanted to go for a walk.”
“There seemed to be a great deal of fun over the game,” said Aunt Dinah, who wanted to hear everything.
“Yes, I believe so; but one tires of it. I do, I know:” and saying this, Violet took up her novel, and Aunt Dinah scrutinised her, from time to time, obliquely, over her crochet needles, and silence reigned in the drawing-room.
“Very pretty Miss Darkwell is. I quite envy you. Your cousin, isn’t she?” said Trevor, graciously. He felt that William would be flattered by the envy, even playful, of Vane Trevor, Esq., of Revington.
“Cousin, or something, someway or other connected or related, I don’t know exactly. Yes, I believe she is very well. She was prettier as a child, though. Isn’t there a short way to the Warren?”
“Yes, I’ll take you right. She looks, I’d say, about seventeen.”
“Yes, I dare say,” answered William. “Do you know those Miss Mainwarings—Doctor Mainwaring’s daughters?”
But it would not do. Vane Trevor would go on talking of Violet Darkwell, in spite of William’s dry answers and repeated divergences, unaccountably to that philosophical young gentleman’s annoyance.