Trevor did appear, and was received smilingly; and Aunt Dinah came out and sat a little apart on the rustic seat, and looked on cheerfully, the day was so very charming. Perhaps she fancied it a case for a chaperone, and being a little more in evidence, than a seat in the drawing-room window would make her, and with her work, and with Psyche at her feet, she presided very cheerily.
When, after two or three games, Trevor was taking his leave, Miss Violet Darkwell having, notwithstanding various nods and small frowns from grannie, persisted in announcing that she was tired, and had beside a long letter to write before Tom left for the town, the master of Revington said—(he and Maubray were knocking the balls about at random)—
“I say, Maubray, you must come over to Revington and have a mutton chop, or something. You really must; an old schoolfellow, you know; and I want to talk to you a bit, upon my honour I do. I’m totally alone, you know, at present, and you must come.”
“But I’m going to-morrow, and this is my last evening here,” said William, who felt unaccountably queer and reluctant.
What could Trevor want to talk to him about? There was something in Trevor’s look and manner a little odd and serious—he fancied even embarrassed. Perhaps it is some nonsense about Vi!
“I want him to come and dine with me, Miss Perfect, and he says you can’t spare him,” said Trevor, addressing that lady. “I really do. I’ve no one to talk to. Do tell him to come.”
“Certainly,” said Aunt Dinah, with an imperious little nod to William Maubray. “Go, William, my dear, we shall see you to-night, and to-morrow morning. He’ll be very happy I’m sure,” said Aunt Dinah, who, like William Maubray possibly, anticipated a revelation.
So William, having no excuses, did walk over to Revington to dine. There was almost a pain at his heart as he paused for a moment at the stile, only one field away, and saw pretty Vi on the dark green grass, looking at the flowers, with little Psyche frisking beside her, and the kindly old front of Gilroyd Hall, and its lofty chestnuts in the sad evening light, and he sighed, thinking—“Why won’t things stay as they are, as they were? What is the drift of this perpetual mutation? Is it really progress? Do we improve? Don’t we” (he would have said Violet?) “grow more selfish and less high-minded? It is all a beautiful decay, and the end is death.”
Violet was plainly intent on her flowers; she had her hoe and her rake, and her movements somehow were so pretty that, unseen, he paused for another moment.
“It is a blessed thing to have so little affection as that pretty creature; old times are nothing for her, and I, like a fool, yearn after them. The future for her no doubt looks all brilliant; for me it is a story, to the end of which I dare not look, and the pleasant past is a volume shut up and over; she is little Vi and Violet no longer, and even Miss Darkwell will very soon be like the song of a dead bird—a note only remembered; and I suppose I shall bring back the news to-night, a message from Mr. Vane Trevor, of Revington, to say that he lays his heart and his title-deeds at her feet. It’s all over; I look on it as all settled.”