UNSOCIABLE.
At dinner, in the parlour of Gilroyd Hall, there was silence for some
time. William looked a little gloomy, Violet rather fierce and stately,
and Aunt Dinah eyed her two guests covertly, without remark, but
curiously. At last she said to William—
“You took a walk with Mr. Trevor?”
“Yes, a tiresome one,” he answered.
“Where?”
“All about and round that stupid Warren—six or seven miles,” answered
William.
“How very fatiguing!” exclaimed Violet, compassionately, as if to
herself.
“No, not the exercise; that was the only thing that made it endurable,”
answered William, a little crossly. “But the place is uglier than I
fancied, and Trevor _is_ such a donkey.”
Aunt Dinah, with her eyes fixed on William’s, made a nod and a frown, to
arrest that line of remark, which, she felt, might possibly prejudice
Vi, and could do no possible good. And Miss Vi, looking all the time on
the wing of the chicken on her plate, said, “The salt, please,” and
nothing more.
“Vi, my dear,” said Miss Perfect, endeavouring to be cheery, “he asked
my leave last Sunday to send you an Italian greyhound. He has two, he
says, at Revington. Did he mention it to-day?”
“Perhaps he did. I really forget,” said Miss Vi, carelessly, laying down
her fork, and leaning back, with a languid defiance, for as she raised
her eyes, she perceived that William was smiling.
“I know what you mean,” she said, with a sudden directness to William.
“You want me—that is, I _think_ you want me to think _you_ think—”
“Oh! do stop one moment. There are so many ‘thinks’ there. I’m quite
bewildered among them all. Let’s breathe an instant. You think I want to
make you think that I think. Yes, now I have it, I _think_. Pray go on.”
“Polite!” said Miss Vi, and turned toward Aunt Dinah.
“Well, no,” said William, for the first time laughing a little like
himself; “it was not polite, but very rude and ill-bred, and I’m very
sorry; and I assure you,” he continued more earnestly, “I should be
very angry, if any one else had made the stupid speech that I have
just made: and, really, I believe it is just this—you have been too
patient with me, and allowed me to go on lecturing you like an old
tutor—and—and—really, I’m certain I’ve been a horrid bore.”
Vi made no reply, but looked, and, no doubt, thought herself more
ill-used for his apologies.
After tea she played industriously, having avowed a little cold, which
prevented her singing. William had asked her. He turned over the leaves
of a book, as he sat back in an elbow-chair, and Aunt Dinah was once
more deep in her old box of letters, with her gold spectacles on.
They were as silent a party as could be fancied; more silent than at
dinner. Still, the pleasant light of fire and candle—the handsome young
faces and the kindly old one—and the general air of old-fashioned
comfort that pervaded the apartment, made the picture pleasant; and the
valses and the nigger ditties, with snatches of Verdi, and who knows
what composer beside, made the air ring with a merry medley, which
supplied the lack of conversation.
To William, with nothing but his book to amuse him, time moved slowly
enough. But Violet had many things to think of; and one could see that
her eyes saw other scenes and shapes far away, perhaps, from the music,
and that she was reading to herself the romance that was unrolled within
her pretty girlish head.
So prayers came, and William read the chapter; and I am afraid his
thoughts wandered, and he felt a little sore and affronted, he could not
tell why, for no one had ill-used him; and, when their devotions were
over, Miss Vi took her candle, and bid grannie good-night, with an
embrace and a kiss, and William with a nod and a cold little smile, as
he stood beside the door, having opened it for her.
He was growing formal in spite of himself, and she quite changed. What
heartless, cruel creatures these pretty girls are!
She had quite vanished up the stairs, and he still held the door-handle
in his fingers, and stood looking up the vacant steps, and, as it were,
listening to distant music. Then, with a little sigh, he suddenly closed
the door, and sat down drowsily before the fire, and began to think that
he ought to return to his Cambridge chambers, his books, and monastic
life: and he thought how fortunate those fellows were, who, like
Trevor—what a goose that fellow is!—were born to idleness, respect, and
admiration.
“Money!—d—n money—curse it! I wish I had a lot of it!” and William
clutched the poker, but the fire did not want poking, and he gave it a
rather vicious knock upon the bar, which startled Miss Perfect, and
recalled his own thoughts from unprofitable speculations, upon the
preposterous injustice of Fate, and some ultimate state of poetical
compensation, in which scholars and men of mind, who played all sorts of
games excellently, and noodles, who never did anything decently—in fact,
he and Trevor—would be dealt with discriminately, and with common
fairness.
“Don’t, dear William, pray, make such a clatter. I’m _so_ nervous.”
“I beg a thousand pardons. I’m so stupid.”
“Well, it does not signify—an accident—but don’t mind touching the
fire-irons,” said Miss Perfect; “and how did your walk with Mr. Trevor
proceed? Did he talk of anything?”
“Oh! didn’t he? Fifty things. He’s a wonderful fellow to talk, is
Trevor,” said William, looking with half-closed eyes into the fire.
“Oh, yes,” persisted Aunt Dinah; “but was there anything—anything
particular—anything that could interest us?”
“Next to nothing that could interest anyone,” said William,
uncommunicatively.
“Well, it would interest _me_, if he talked of Violet,” said Aunt Dinah,
coming directly to the point. “_Did_ he?”
“Of Violet? Yes, I believe he did,” answered William, rather
reluctantly.
“Well, and why did not you say so? Of course, you knew that’s what I
meant,” said Miss Perfect.
“How could I know, auntie?”
“I think, William Maubray, you are a little disagreeable to-night.”
William, at these words, recollected that there was truth in the
reproof. His mood was disagreeable to himself, and, therefore, to
others.
“My dear auntie, I’m very sorry. I’m sure I have been—not a little, but
_very_—and I beg your pardon. What was it? Yes—about Violet. He did, a
great deal. In fact he talked about her till he quite tired me.”
“He admires her, evidently. Did he talk of her good looks? She _is_, you
know, extremely pretty,” said Aunt Dinah.
“Yes, he thinks her very pretty. She _is_ very pretty. In fact, I don’t
think—judging by the women who come to church—there is a good-looking
girl, except herself, in this part of the world; and she would be
considered pretty anywhere—_very_ pretty.”
“Revington is a very nice place, and the Trevors a good old family. The
connection would be a very desirable one: and I—though, of course, not
knowing, in the least, whether the young man had any serious
intentions—I never alluded to the possibility to Vi herself. Yet, I do
think she likes him.”
“I should not wonder,” said William.
“And he talked pretty frankly?” continued Aunt Dinah.
“I suppose so. He did not seem to have anything to conceal; and he
always talks a great deal, an enormous quantity;” and William yawned, as
it seemed, over the recollection.
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