“Our beautiful brides!” exclaimed Maubray, a little mockingly.
“It’s a confounded world we live in,” resumed Trevor, after a little silence. “Look at me, now, for instance, how we are, and all this belongs to me, and has been ours for—goodness knows how many centuries and I assure you I sometimes feel I’d rather be a simple fellow with a few hundreds a-year, and my way to make in the world, and my liberty along with it, than all this.”
“Suppose we exchange,” said William, “I’ll take the estate off your hands, and allow you three hundred a-year, and your liberty, and wish you joy of the pleasant excitement of making your way in the world, and applaud when you get on a bit, and condole when you’re in the mud.”
Trevor only smiled grandly, and shook his head at William’s waggery.
“But seriously, just consider. You know I’m telling you things, old fellow, that I wouldn’t say to everyone, and this won’t, I know, go further.” He resumed after a little interval spent in smoking, “But just think now: here’s everything, as you see; but the estate owes some money; and I give you my honour, it does not bring me in, net, when everything’s paid, three thousand a-year.”
“Oh, no!” said William, in a tone which unconsciously implied, “a great deal less, as we all know.”
“No, not three thousand—I wish it was,” said Trevor, with an eager frankness, that savoured of annoyance. He had not intended to be quite believed. “And there’s the position. You’re expected to take a lead in things, you see, as if you had your six thousand a-year, egad, or whatever it is; and how the devil are you to manage it? Don’t you see? And you tumble in love with a girl; and you find yourself encumbered with a pedigree—a confounded family tree, by Jove! and everyone expects you to marry accordingly. And I don’t say they’re not right, mind, for, by Jove! on the whole, I believe they are. So here I am with all this about me, and not a soul on earth to bully me, and yet I can’t do as I like. I don’t say, by Jove, that I do want to marry. I dare say it would not answer at all, at least for a jolly good number of years, and then I suppose, I must do as the rest of the world does. I must, you see, have some money, and I must have something of, you know, a—a—family; and that’s how I stand. Come along, it’s growing awfully late, and it’s very likely—ha—ha—ha!—I may die an old bachelor.”
“Well, you know,” said William, who thought that Trevor had spoken with extraordinary good sense, “there’s no such hurry. Fellows wait, as you say, and look about them: and it’s a very serious thing, by Jove! here we are at the gate; and I’ve had a very pleasant evening—jolly! I did not think two fellows, by themselves, could be so jolly, and that capital claret!” Poor William was no great judge, nor, for that matter, indeed, was his great friend, Mr. Trevor, who, however, knew its price, and laying his hand on William’s arm, said—
“Well, old fellow, I’m glad—I really am—you enjoyed yourself; and I hope when next you come, you’ll have another glass or two with me. There’s one thing I say about wine, be it what it may—hang it, let it be real, and get it from a good house; and give my respects to the ladies—don’t forget; and when you come again, we must have more croquet. Let the balls and mallets stay where they are, you know, till then; and God bless you, Maubray, old boy, and if I can give you a lift, you know, any way, tell me, and I dare say my solicitor can give you a lift when you get to the bar. Sends out a lot of briefs, you know. I’ll speak to him, if you wish.”
“A good time before that,” laughed William. “Many thanks, though; I suppose I shall turn up in a few weeks again, and I’m beginning to take to the croquet rather, and we can have lots of play; but, by Jove! I’m keeping you all night—good-bye.”