Rupert Godwin

LOVE AT SIGHT.

While Violet walked slowly homewards to the cheerless lodging in that dingy street near the Waterloo-road, a mail-phaeton dashed up to Mrs. Trevor’s pretty villa, and Sir Harold Ivry alighted.

It was the fashionable hour for paving and receiving visits; so the widow and her favourite daughter were seated in the drawing-room, dressed exquisitely, prepared to fascinate any eligible marrying man who might fall in their way, for which favoured being the delights of social afternoon tea were specially reserved.

Anastasia was seated close to the window, pretending to be occupied by some fashionable Berlin-wool work; but she watched the phaeton as it drew up to the door.

“Mamma!” she exclaimed, “it is Sir Harold!”

“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Trevor, in triumphant tones. “Then you see last night’s party was not an unsuccessful affair after all. The Baronet must be smitten, or he would never be in such a hurry to call. I shall see you mistress of that splendid place in the North, my love, depend upon it.”

“That’s just like you, mamma!” exclaimed the petted Anastasia, impatiently; “you always fancy that everything is going to happen just as you want it. I’m sure Sir Harold took no more notice of me last night than if I were the plainest gawky that ever emerged from a third-rate boarding-school. And I daresay he has only come to-day in the hope of seeing that Miss Westford.”

“What!” shrieked Mrs. Trevor, almost hysterically. “You don’t mean to tell me that Sir Harold would presume to come to my house for the purpose of paying his addresses to your governess! Nonsense, Anastasia, you are really too absurd.”

No more could be said, for the Baronet was announced, and the two ladies turned to receive him with their brightest smiles.

“My dear Sir Harold, how very kind of you to call to-day!” exclaimed the widow.

“Your party was so charming, Mrs. Trevor, that I really could not delay coming to tell you how thoroughly I enjoyed myself, and to express a hope that neither you nor your daughters were fatigued by your exertions in our behalf,” answered the young man. “How magnificently Miss Trevor sang!” he added, bowing to Anastasia; “and Miss Theodosia; and that other young lady, Miss Westford—what a lovely voice she has!”

Anastasia crimsoned with anger. The Baronet did not even attempt to conceal his admiration of Violet. Mrs. Trevor’s indignation knew no bounds, and yet she contrived to smile sweetly at the Baronet.

Nil desperandum is the motto of every manœuvring mother; and Mrs. Trevor was by no means disposed to abandon her hopes at the first disappointment. Even though Sir Harold admired the penniless governess, a little clever management and an unlimited amount of flattery might change the current of his fancies, and bring him to the feet of Anastasia.

This is what Mrs. Trevor thought; and this hope inspired her with heroic courage.

The Baronet talked of general subjects for some little time. He discussed the operas, the picture galleries, the botanical fêtes, the delights of a Sunday afternoon at the “Zoo,” the Toxophilite Society’s field-days in the neighbouring park, and the movements of the Royal Family, in the most conventional strain of polite commonplace; but Mrs. Trevor could see that he talked at random, and that he was thinking of other subjects than those in which he pretended to be interested. At last he broke out suddenly, without any reference to his previous conversation:

“What a charming girl that Miss Westford is! I never saw any one I so much admired. She is so lovely, so modest, so completely unconscious of her own beauty! She is really the most bewitching creature I ever beheld; and O, my dear Mrs. Trevor, if you wish to render me your grateful and devoted slave, pray introduce me to that charming girl’s family! I want so much to know them, that I may have the opportunity of seeing more of her.”

“Sir Harold, I really am at a loss to——”

“O, pray do not misunderstand me, my dear Mrs. Trevor. You surely cannot think that I should feel any less respect for that sweet girl, because I find her in a dependent position—going away from a party on foot, and all that kind of thing. No, Mrs. Trevor, I am not the man to be influenced by any consideration of that sort. I am no aristocrat, as you and all the world know very well indeed. My father won his position by sheer hard work, and there’s a blundering old wheelbarrow kept in a lumber room at Ivry Place, which my grandfather used to wheel when he was a navvy, and helped to make the Slopsall Canal down in our county. So, you see, it wouldn’t do for me to give myself airs. I am rich, independent, and can afford to marry the woman I love, if I am only so happy as to win her regard. Under these circumstances, Mrs. Trevor, I am sure you will believe me when I declare the honourable nature of my intentions with regard to Miss Westford; and I know you are just the kind of warm-hearted woman to be fond of that feminine amusement called match-making. You’ll not refuse to introduce me to her family, will you now?”

No words can describe Mrs. Trevor’s rage and mortification as she listened to this speech. Here was the wealthy Baronet, whom she had intended to win as a husband for her own daughter, utterly indifferent to Anastasia’s charms, and ready to throw himself at the feet of a friendless orphan girl, whom he had only seen once in his life. The fashionable widow was past-mistress of all the hypocrisies of polished society. She contrived, therefore, to conceal her aggravation, and looked at Sir Harold with a countenance expressive only of the most profound sympathy.

“My dear Sir Harold,” she exclaimed, with a long-drawn sigh, “I pity you—I do indeed pity you. Nothing could be more charming than the sentiments which you so eloquently express. I only regret that they should be wasted upon an unworthy object.”

“An unworthy object, Mrs. Trevor!” cried the Baronet; “what do you mean?”

“I have only this morning dismissed Miss Westford from my employment as an unfit associate for my dear children.”

Annabella Trevor gave a little shiver of horror as she spoke. The Baronet turned pale, and the widow saw that her poisoned arrow had gone home to its mark.

“You dismissed her!” exclaimed Sir Harold. “An unfit associate! But how?”

“That I decline to tell you,” answered Mrs. Trevor, with supreme dignity. “There are secrets which no honourable woman can ever bring herself to reveal. I will not sully my lips by repeating what has passed between Miss Westford and myself. It is enough for you to know that she was dismissed from this house—and in disgrace.”

“But the nature of that disgrace, Mrs. Trevor?” asked the Baronet, in an almost imploring tone.

“That, I must repeat, I decline to tell you; and I must beg you, as a gentleman, not to press the question,” answered the lady with dignity. “Surely, Sir Harold, you cannot doubt my word?”

“Doubt you, Mrs. Trevor! O, no, no. What motive could you possibly have for blighting the fair fame of this poor girl? I cannot doubt you. But the blow is very bitter to me. A few days ago, I should have ridiculed the mere idea of love at first sight; and yet I believe, upon my word, that I am as deeply attached to Miss Westford as if I had known her for half a lifetime. And to discover that she is unworthy of an honest man’s regard! O, Mrs. Trevor, you cannot imagine how cruelly I feel this disappointment!”

In his almost boyish candour, the Baronet made no attempt to conceal the state of his feelings. Anastasia looked at him with mingled contempt and anger. She had always envied and disliked Violet Westford for her superior beauty; but now she hated her with as fierce a hatred as ever raged in a woman’s breast.

Sir Harold Ivry rose to take leave.

“I fear I have made a fool of myself, and that you must really despise me, ladies,” he said, blushing crimson, as he remembered the emotion he had betrayed; “but I am a spoiled child of fortune, and I am not used to disappointment—and I am the worst possible hand at keeping a secret. Forgive me for having bored you with my affairs. Good morning.”

He shook hands with both the ladies, and was about to leave; but Mrs. Trevor was not inclined to let him escape so easily.

“You will dine with us to-morrow evening, I hope, Sir Harold, and escort us to Covent Garden, where my dear friend Lady Mordaunt has given me her box. Pray don’t say you are engaged elsewhere. Anastasia knows you are an excellent musical critic, and wants to hear your opinion of the new opera.”

The young man hesitated for some moments, but at last accepted the invitation.

He did not do so from any regard for Mrs. Trevor or her daughter, but because he still cherished the hope that from them he should discover the truth about Violet Westford. He left the house very much depressed and disheartened by what he had heard, and ashamed of his impetuous devotion, now that he had been told that its object was base and unworthy. He had been accustomed to find life the pleasantest, easiest kind of affair, like a royal progress by special train, with a saloon-carriage fitted by Jackson and Graham to repose in, and all the stations draped with red cloth and festooned with garlands in honour of the favoured traveller. To-day, for the first time, he discovered that there is happiness which wealth cannot purchase, and his disappointment was even keener than that of the young spendthrift, who wanted a box for the opera on one of Jenny Lind’s field-nights, and offered a hundred pounds for the object of his desire, only to be told that it was impossible of attainment even at that price; whereupon he left Mr. Mitchell’s shop, murmuring dolefully, “By Jove, there’s something that money won’t buy!”