VIOLET DARKWELL AT GILROYD AGAIN
“Mrs. Kincton Knox” it said, “presents her compliments to the Rev. W. H.
Sprague, and as Mr. Kincton Knox is suffering from gout in his hand,
which though slight, prevents his writing, she is deputed to apprise him
that the gentleman calling himself Mr. Herbert, who has been acting as
tutor at Kincton, need not return to complete his engagement. Mr.
Kincton Knox desires to remit to him, through your hands, the enclosed
cheque, payable to you, and for the full amount of the term he was to
have completed. Should the young man feel that, under the circumstances,
he can have no right to retain the entire amount, he will be so good as
to return that portion of the sum to which he feels himself unentitled.
We wish to mention that we part with him not in consequence of any
specific fault, so much as from a feeling, upon consideration, that we
could no longer tolerate the practice of a concealment at Kincton, the
character and nature of which—although we impute nothing—might not
consist with our own ideas upon the subject.”
“She begins in the third person and ends in the first,” said Doctor
Sprague, “otherwise it is a very fine performance. What am I to do about
the check?”
“I will not touch a farthing,” said William.
“Tut, tut; I think you’ve a right to it all, but if you object, we’ll
send them back all that represents the unexpired part of your
engagement, but I’ll have no Quixotism. I’m half sorry, Maubray, we ever
thought of tuitions: we must think of some other way. You’re quite right
in resolving not to vex Miss Perfect more than you can help, I’m clear
upon that; but I’ve been thinking of quite another thing—I have not time
now to tell you all.” He glanced at his watch. “But you can speak
French, and you would have to reside in Paris. I think it would answer
you very nicely, and I think you ought to let Miss Perfect know
something of your plans, considering all she has done. I’ll see you here
again in an hour.”
And William took his leave.
That evening Miss Violet Darkwell arrived at Gilroyd. She did not think
old “grannie” looking well—was it a sadness or a feebleness—there was
something unusual in her look that troubled her. _She_ thought her
Violet looking quite beautiful—_more_ so than ever—so perhaps she was.
And she asked her all sorts of questions about all sorts of things, and
how the Mainwarings had arranged the rooms, for Aunt Dinah had known the
house long ago, and whether the paint had ever been taken off that
covered the old oak wainscot in the parlour, and ever so many other
particulars besides.
And at last she said—
“Great news Mr. Trevor tells me of William.” She had already resolved
against opening the Trevor budget to its more interesting recesses.
“William Maubray—he’s going to marry—to make a great match in some
respects—money, beauty⸺”
“Oh!” said Violet with a smile.
“Yes; a Miss Kincton Knox. He has been residing in the house; an only
daughter. _Kincton_ is the place.”
Something of this Violet had heard before she left Gilroyd, but not all;
and Aunt Dinah went on—
“They are connected somehow with Mr. Trevor, whom I’ve grown to like
extremely, and he saw William there; and from what he told me _I_ look
upon it as settled, and so in fact does he.”
“It’s very cold, isn’t it, to-night?” said Miss Violet. “That’s all very
nice—very well for William Maubray.”
“Very well; better, perhaps, than he deserves. Had I been, however, as
we used to be, I should have endeavoured to postpone it, to induce the
parties to defer it for a little—in fact for five years. I may say,
indeed, I should have made a point of it; because I—I happen to _know_
that his marrying within that time will be attended with the worst
consequences.”
There was a silence.
“_Very_ cold,” repeated Miss Violet, drawing a little nearer to the
fire.
“It seems odd, as a mere matter of _respect_—that’s all, of course—he
should not have written me a single line upon the subject,” said Miss
Perfect grimly.
“Well, perhaps not _very_ odd,” answered Miss Darkwell carelessly, yet
somehow, ever so little, sadly. “I’m beginning to think it a worse world
than I used to think it, and so hard to know anyone in it, except dear
old grannie.”
And up got the girl, and threw her pretty arms round old Aunt Dinah’s
neck, and kissed her.
“Little Vi, little Vi!” said Aunt Dinah, with a tender tremor in her
voice, and she laughed a little.
“I think you are tired, darling. Your long drive,” she added.
“I believe I _am_, grannie. Shall I run away to my bed?”
“God bless you, darling!” said grannie, and rang the bell for old Winnie
Dobbs, who appeared; and away, with a second good-night, they went.
“Well, old Winnie Dobbs, great doings, I hear. Grannie says Mr.
William’s to be married—a great lady, Miss Kincton Knox, she says—and
very pretty—quite a beauty, quite a belle.”
She was looking with a faint little smile down upon the trinkets she was
laying upon the dressing-table, and she spoke in the tones in which
people recall a very far-off remembrance.
“Well, she did tell me so, Miss Vi: and very glad I was, poor fellow;
but very young. I that knew him when he was only the length o’ my arm—to
think of him now. But very sensible—always was; a good head—wiser than
many an older body.”
“You’ve never seen the lady?” said Vi.
“No; but Mr. Trevor’s groom was stopping there last summer for a week
with Mr. Trevor, you know, and he did not much like the family—that’s
the old lady—no one has a good word of her; and the young one, Miss
Clara—do you like the name Clara, Miss?”
“Yes; a pretty name, I think.”
“Well, they don’t say much about her; only she’s very distant like.”
“And _she’s_ the lady?” asked Violet.
“Ah! _that_ she is, Miss—the only daughter.”
“She’s tall?”
“Well, yes; he says she is.”
“Taller than I, I dare say?”
“Well, he did not say that; you’re a good height, you know yourself,
Miss—a nice figure, yes indeed.”
“And what colour is her hair?” asked Vi.
“Light—light hair, he said.”
“Yes; he always liked light hair, I think,” she said, still with the
same faint smile and in the same soft and saddened tones. Vi was
arranging her own rich dark brown tresses at the glass.
“And blue eyes—large—something the colour o’ yours, he said, Miss; he
used to take great notice to her, the groom—everything. She used to go
out a ridin’. A hair-pin, Miss?”
“No, Winnie, thanks.”
“He says she’s a fine rider; showy, handsome, that sort, you know.”
“And when is it all to be?”
“Well, they don’t know; but once it’s settled, I do suppose it won’t be
long delayed. Why should it?”
“_No_ why, once it’s settled, as you say.”
“And is it not well for him, poor fellow, he should have some one to
love him, and look after him? What’s the good o’ life without kindness?
Both o’ them handsome, and young, and loving. What more need they ask?”
said old Winnie. “And if they aren’t happy, who will?”
“Yes, old Winnie, they will, very happy, I’m sure; and now I’ll bid you
good-night, I’m so _tired_, very tired; it’s a long tedious way, and I’m
always wishing to come back to you, and dear old grannie, and poor old
Gilroyd, where we were all so happy, where I always feel so safe—but I
believe we always fancy the old times the pleasantest—when I was a
child. Good-night, old Winnie.”
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