“I did not say that—but—but I know—I know I’m not a mere nobody here. The Trevors of Revington are pretty well known, and they have always married in—in a certain rank; and I think when I’ve spoken to you as I have done, I might have expected something more than a simple no, and—and I think, if you did not appear to like me—at all events there was nothing to make me think you didn’t, and that’s why I say I think I’ve a right to ask for an explanation?”
“You can have no right to make me say one word more than I please. I’ve said all I mean to say—more than I need have said—and I won’t say more,” said Miss Violet Darkwell, with eyes that glowed indignantly, for there was an implied contrast in the lordly marriages of the Trevors with his own tender of his hand to the young lady which fired her pride.
Before he recovered she had reached the door, and with her fingers upon the handle she paused, and returned just a step or two, and said, extending her hand—
“And I think we might part a little more kindly, for you have no cause to blame me, and when you think a little you’ll say so yourself. Good-bye.”
Trevor did not well know how he shook hands with her. But she was gone. It was all over.
Grief—rage—disappointment—something like insult! He could not say that he had been insulted. But Revington was. The Trevors were. What a resource in such states of mind—denied to us men—are tears. Good furious weeping—the thunder and the rain—and then the air refreshed and the sky serene.
Mr. Vane Trevor felt as if he had been drinking too much brandy and water, and had been beaten heavily about the head; he was confounded and heated, and half blind. He walked very fast, and did not think where he was going until he stopped close to the gate of Gilroyd.
He went in, and rang the bell at the hall-door, which stood open. William came into the hall.
“Come in, Trevor,” said he. He had taken his walk of a couple of miles, and was more serene.
“No. Come out and have a walk with me, will you?” answered Vane.