CHAPTER XVI.OVER THEIR CLARET“Great fun, croquet, isn’t it? Awful fun with pretty girls,” exclaimed Vane Trevor, rising, and standing on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, and his glass in his hand, and simpering agreeably with his chin in the air. “Ithink it capital fun, I know. There’s so much cheating—ha, ha!—isn’t there?—and such lots of—of—whispering and conspiring—and—and—all that sort of thing, you know; and the girls like it awfully. At Torhampton we had capital games, and such glorious ground. Do you know the Torhamptons?”“The Marquess?—no, of course I don’t; how should I?” said William with a little laugh of disgust.“Oh! well, I thought a—but Lady Louisa, she is so sweetly pretty; I was told off pretty often to play with her and wehadsuch fun knocking the fellows about. Capital player and awfully clever—they’re all clever—one of the cleverest families in England they’re thought; the old lady issowitty—you can’t imagine—and such a pleasant party staying there. I was almost the only fellow not a swell, by Jove, among them,” and he ran his eye along his handsome cornices, with a sort of smile that seemed to say something different. “I fancy they wish to be civil, however, from something Lady Fanny said—I rather fancy they have an idea of putting up LordEdward—you know, for the county, but don’t let that go further, and I suppose they thought I might be of use. Won’t you have some more claret?”“I don’t know them—I don’t understand these things; I don’t care if all the Marquesses in England were up the chimney,” said William, cynically, throwing himself back in his chair, with his hands in his pockets, and looking sulkily into the fire.“Well—ha, ha!—that need not prevent your filling your glass, eh?” laughed Trevor, graciously and indulgently, as though he belonged himself to that order of Marquesses of whom Maubray spoke so slightly, and forgave him.“Thanks; I will,” and so he did, and sipped a little; and after a little silence he asked with a surly quietude, “And why don’t you marry that lady—what’s her name—Louisa—if she liked you?”“It doesn’tfollowthat she likes me, and you know there are difficulties; and even if she did, it does not follow that I likeher; don’t you see?” and he cackled in gay self-complacency; “that is, of course, I mean liking in the way you mean.”Again this desultory conversation flagged for a little time, and Trevor, leaning on the chimney-piece, and looking down on William, remarked profoundly—“It’s odd—isn’t it?—when you come to think of it, how few things follow from one another; I’ve observed it in conversation—almost nothing, by Jove!”“Nothing from nothing, and nothing remains,” said William drowsily, to the fire, repeating his old arithmetical formula.“And about marrying and that sort of thing; seriously, you know—your glass is empty again; do have some more.”So William poured a little into his glass and his heart seemed to stop and listen, although he looked as if he only half heard, and was weary of the subject.“And as we were saying, about marrying—and, by-the-bye, Maubray, it’s the sort of thing would just answer you, a quiet fellow—why don’t you think about it, old fellow, eh?”It was a way Trevor had of always forgetting those little differences of circumstance which, in contrast, redounded to his importance, and he asked such questions, of course, quite innocently.“You know very well I couldn’t,” said William, poking the fire, unbidden, with a few angry stabs. “How the devil can a fellow marry in college, and without a shilling?”“Ah, ah, it isn’tquiteso bad; come! But of course there is a difference, and, as you say, there’s lots of time to look about—only if a fellow is really spooney on a girl—I mean awfully spooney, the big wigs say, don’t they?—the best thing a fellow going to the bar can do is to marry, and have a wife and lots of babbies—it makes them work so hard—doesn’t it? You’re going to the bar, you say, and that is the way to get on, eh?”“I’m glad there’s any way, but I don’t mean to try that,” murmured William, a little bitterly, and after a pause, during which who knows what a dance his fancy led him? “I know that sort of talk very well; but I never could see what right a fellow has to carry off a poor girl to his den merely that her hunger, and misery, and cries may stimulate him to get on at the bar; and the fact is, some fellows are slaves, and some can do just as they please; and life is damnably bitter for some, and very pleasant for others, and that’s the whole story; you can marry whenever you please, and I can’t.”“I’m afraid it’s a true bill,” said Trevor, complacently; whereupon there issued a silence, and twice and again was William Maubray moved to break it with a question, and as often his voice seemed to fail him. At last, however, he did say, quite quietly—“And why don’t you marry, if you think it so good a thing?”Was it something in William’s tone and air, although he was trying his best to seem quite unconcerned, that elicited the quick, and somewhat cunning glance that Trevor shot on him?At all events Trevor’s manner became a little diplomatic and reserved.“Why don’t I? Oh! fifty reasons—a hundred. There are all sorts of difficulties; I don’t mean, of course, anything mysterious—or that sort of bosh: this house and the property, everyone knows, are very well. I’ve been four years in possession, and I’ve no fault to find with Revington—either tenants orthis,” and he nodded towards the ceiling, indicating that he meant the house.“But—you know—for a fellow like me; we’ve been here, you know, a long time: there was a Trevor here in Henry the Fifth’s time—but you know more history than I do.”Trevor considered his family and his domicile as a part of English history, and William, who was in an unpleasant mood just then, said—“And the estate was larger, wasn’t it?”“Ah, ha—yes certainly—that is, there was another estate,” acquiesced Trevor, eagerly, but looking a little put out. “The Torhamptons, by-the-bye, have got it now; a marriage, or something.”“A purchase, I thought,” insisted Maubray.“Apurchase! very likely. It does not signify sixpenceif the thing’s gone, and gone it is. But you see, having been here for a longer time, I’m afraid, than you and I are likely to live; and having a sort of place among the people—you understand—a kind of a—quite undeserved—only because we have been here so long—that sort of aninfluence—or whatever it is—a fellow isn’t as free as you’d fancy. By Jove! he’s tied up, I can tell you; horribly tied up. A poor devil like me. Egad, he’s not like a man with an income out of the funds—there’s that sort of thing, I suppose it is the shadow—don’t you see—of the old feudal thing, but so it is. There’s a sort of rural opinion, a kind of loyalty, in a very small way, of course; but itisthat sort of feeling—and there’s no use, you know, in blinking it; and a fellow has to consider, you know, how his tenants and people would receive it; and—ask anyone—you can’t conceive how a fellow’s hampered, really hampered, now.”“Do you really think they care a farthing?” asked Maubray.“Care! You’ve no idea,” exclaimed his friend.“Well, when I make my fortune, I’ll keep it in the funds,” said Maubray.“Istronglyadvise you,” said Trevor, with admirable solemnity. “Have some coffee? And—here’s curacoa.”“When will he talk about Vi?” thought William, as he set down his coffee cup; “he can’t have brought me here to dinner merely to hear that pompous lecture.”And indeed, it seemed to William that Trevor had something more to say, but did not know how to begin it.
CHAPTER XVI.
OVER THEIR CLARET
OVER THEIR CLARET
OVER THEIR CLARET
“Great fun, croquet, isn’t it? Awful fun with pretty girls,” exclaimed Vane Trevor, rising, and standing on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, and his glass in his hand, and simpering agreeably with his chin in the air. “Ithink it capital fun, I know. There’s so much cheating—ha, ha!—isn’t there?—and such lots of—of—whispering and conspiring—and—and—all that sort of thing, you know; and the girls like it awfully. At Torhampton we had capital games, and such glorious ground. Do you know the Torhamptons?”
“The Marquess?—no, of course I don’t; how should I?” said William with a little laugh of disgust.
“Oh! well, I thought a—but Lady Louisa, she is so sweetly pretty; I was told off pretty often to play with her and wehadsuch fun knocking the fellows about. Capital player and awfully clever—they’re all clever—one of the cleverest families in England they’re thought; the old lady issowitty—you can’t imagine—and such a pleasant party staying there. I was almost the only fellow not a swell, by Jove, among them,” and he ran his eye along his handsome cornices, with a sort of smile that seemed to say something different. “I fancy they wish to be civil, however, from something Lady Fanny said—I rather fancy they have an idea of putting up LordEdward—you know, for the county, but don’t let that go further, and I suppose they thought I might be of use. Won’t you have some more claret?”
“I don’t know them—I don’t understand these things; I don’t care if all the Marquesses in England were up the chimney,” said William, cynically, throwing himself back in his chair, with his hands in his pockets, and looking sulkily into the fire.
“Well—ha, ha!—that need not prevent your filling your glass, eh?” laughed Trevor, graciously and indulgently, as though he belonged himself to that order of Marquesses of whom Maubray spoke so slightly, and forgave him.
“Thanks; I will,” and so he did, and sipped a little; and after a little silence he asked with a surly quietude, “And why don’t you marry that lady—what’s her name—Louisa—if she liked you?”
“It doesn’tfollowthat she likes me, and you know there are difficulties; and even if she did, it does not follow that I likeher; don’t you see?” and he cackled in gay self-complacency; “that is, of course, I mean liking in the way you mean.”
Again this desultory conversation flagged for a little time, and Trevor, leaning on the chimney-piece, and looking down on William, remarked profoundly—
“It’s odd—isn’t it?—when you come to think of it, how few things follow from one another; I’ve observed it in conversation—almost nothing, by Jove!”
“Nothing from nothing, and nothing remains,” said William drowsily, to the fire, repeating his old arithmetical formula.
“And about marrying and that sort of thing; seriously, you know—your glass is empty again; do have some more.”
So William poured a little into his glass and his heart seemed to stop and listen, although he looked as if he only half heard, and was weary of the subject.
“And as we were saying, about marrying—and, by-the-bye, Maubray, it’s the sort of thing would just answer you, a quiet fellow—why don’t you think about it, old fellow, eh?”
It was a way Trevor had of always forgetting those little differences of circumstance which, in contrast, redounded to his importance, and he asked such questions, of course, quite innocently.
“You know very well I couldn’t,” said William, poking the fire, unbidden, with a few angry stabs. “How the devil can a fellow marry in college, and without a shilling?”
“Ah, ah, it isn’tquiteso bad; come! But of course there is a difference, and, as you say, there’s lots of time to look about—only if a fellow is really spooney on a girl—I mean awfully spooney, the big wigs say, don’t they?—the best thing a fellow going to the bar can do is to marry, and have a wife and lots of babbies—it makes them work so hard—doesn’t it? You’re going to the bar, you say, and that is the way to get on, eh?”
“I’m glad there’s any way, but I don’t mean to try that,” murmured William, a little bitterly, and after a pause, during which who knows what a dance his fancy led him? “I know that sort of talk very well; but I never could see what right a fellow has to carry off a poor girl to his den merely that her hunger, and misery, and cries may stimulate him to get on at the bar; and the fact is, some fellows are slaves, and some can do just as they please; and life is damnably bitter for some, and very pleasant for others, and that’s the whole story; you can marry whenever you please, and I can’t.”
“I’m afraid it’s a true bill,” said Trevor, complacently; whereupon there issued a silence, and twice and again was William Maubray moved to break it with a question, and as often his voice seemed to fail him. At last, however, he did say, quite quietly—
“And why don’t you marry, if you think it so good a thing?”
Was it something in William’s tone and air, although he was trying his best to seem quite unconcerned, that elicited the quick, and somewhat cunning glance that Trevor shot on him?
At all events Trevor’s manner became a little diplomatic and reserved.
“Why don’t I? Oh! fifty reasons—a hundred. There are all sorts of difficulties; I don’t mean, of course, anything mysterious—or that sort of bosh: this house and the property, everyone knows, are very well. I’ve been four years in possession, and I’ve no fault to find with Revington—either tenants orthis,” and he nodded towards the ceiling, indicating that he meant the house.
“But—you know—for a fellow like me; we’ve been here, you know, a long time: there was a Trevor here in Henry the Fifth’s time—but you know more history than I do.”
Trevor considered his family and his domicile as a part of English history, and William, who was in an unpleasant mood just then, said—
“And the estate was larger, wasn’t it?”
“Ah, ha—yes certainly—that is, there was another estate,” acquiesced Trevor, eagerly, but looking a little put out. “The Torhamptons, by-the-bye, have got it now; a marriage, or something.”
“A purchase, I thought,” insisted Maubray.
“Apurchase! very likely. It does not signify sixpenceif the thing’s gone, and gone it is. But you see, having been here for a longer time, I’m afraid, than you and I are likely to live; and having a sort of place among the people—you understand—a kind of a—quite undeserved—only because we have been here so long—that sort of aninfluence—or whatever it is—a fellow isn’t as free as you’d fancy. By Jove! he’s tied up, I can tell you; horribly tied up. A poor devil like me. Egad, he’s not like a man with an income out of the funds—there’s that sort of thing, I suppose it is the shadow—don’t you see—of the old feudal thing, but so it is. There’s a sort of rural opinion, a kind of loyalty, in a very small way, of course; but itisthat sort of feeling—and there’s no use, you know, in blinking it; and a fellow has to consider, you know, how his tenants and people would receive it; and—ask anyone—you can’t conceive how a fellow’s hampered, really hampered, now.”
“Do you really think they care a farthing?” asked Maubray.
“Care! You’ve no idea,” exclaimed his friend.
“Well, when I make my fortune, I’ll keep it in the funds,” said Maubray.
“Istronglyadvise you,” said Trevor, with admirable solemnity. “Have some coffee? And—here’s curacoa.”
“When will he talk about Vi?” thought William, as he set down his coffee cup; “he can’t have brought me here to dinner merely to hear that pompous lecture.”
And indeed, it seemed to William that Trevor had something more to say, but did not know how to begin it.