“AFTER DEATH MY GHOST SHALL HAUNT YOU.”
It was a clear, frosty, moonlight night, and the stars blinking and
staring fiercely in the dark sky, as William Maubray peeped between the
drawing-room shutters, and listened in vain for the ring of the wheels
of the promised brougham; and Aunt Dinah returned just as he let the
curtains fall together, having in her hand a little cardboard box tied
round with a little blue ribbon.
“Blue, you see, for loyalty—not to princes, but to right—I tied it with
blue ribbon,” said Aunt Dinah, sitting down beside him, and untying the
knot, and taking out the silver box, with embossed windmills, trees,
dogs, and Dutchmen upon it. “Here it is—the tobacco-box; it is yours,
mind, and your eldest boy’s to have it—an heirloom,” said she, with a
gentle smile, looking into that dim but sunny vista, and among the
golden-haired and blue-eyed group, painted in fancy, where she would
have no place; “and it’s never to go out of the family, and who knows
what it may inspire. It was a brave man’s tobacco-box—_my_ hero. The
courtiers, I believe, did not smoke, and he did not like tobacco; indeed
I can’t abide the smell, except in snuff—the kind you know you bring me
sometimes; but he would not be different from the other officers about
him, and so he did smoke; though, my dear father told me, always
sparingly; and so, dear William, here it is, and I have had your name
placed underneath, and you can take it with you.”
Hereupon the tea and muffins entered, and after a time the conversation
took another turn.
“And I’m not sorry, William, about that Kincton Knox business; indeed
I’m very glad; I never knew before—I never knew intimations—and you know
I implicitly believe in them—so peremptory upon any point as on that;
and you’re not to marry—mind, you shall promise me you will not—till
after the expiration of five years.”
“I think I might promise you safely enough, I’ll never marry,” said
William, with a little laugh.
“Don’t be rash—no—don’t promise more than I ask; but _that_ you _must_,”
replied the old lady.
“You’ll not ask me to make promises, I’m sure?” said William; “I hate
them so.”
“For five years,” said Miss Perfect, holding up her head a little
sternly.
“For five years, dear aunt?” replied William, with a smile, and shaking
his head.
“It is not much,” said Aunt Dinah, looking sadly down on her muffin, and
chopping it lightly with the edge of her knife, as if she cut off the
head of a miniature argument at every stroke. “I don’t think it’s _very_
much for a person, that is, who says he’ll _never_ marry.”
“I’ll never marry—I’m sure I shall never marry—and yet I can’t promise
_any_thing. I hate vows; they are sure to make you do the very thing you
promise not to do,” said William, half provoked, half laughing, “and if
I _were_ to promise, I really can’t tell _what_ the consequence might
be.”
“Ha!” said Miss Perfect. “Well! It _is_ odd!” and up she got and stood
very erect and grim on the hearthrug.
“Now, don’t, dear aunt, don’t be vexed with me; but I assure you I
_could_ not. I _can’t_ make vows about the future; but I really and
honestly think I shall _never_ be a married man; it’s all—all—_odious_.”
“Well,” said she with an effort, “I _won’t_ quarrel. It was not
much—five years.” A little pause here she allowed for William to reflect
upon its reasonableness, but he made no sign. “Not a great deal; but I
won’t quarrel—_there_—I won’t,” and she extended her hand to him in
amity, and he clasped it very affectionately.
“But I’ll speak to you seriously. I’m not fanciful, I think; I don’t
believe things without _evidence_, and I don’t much care what very
young, or very prejudiced people may think about me; that which I know I
declare, and I don’t shrink an atom—no, not at the stake.”
William looked at her with respectful amazement.
“No—truth first—truth _always_—in the face of ridicule and bigotry.
Never abandon the truth. I say I know perfectly well we are surrounded
by spirits—disprove it if you can—and unequivocally have they declared
themselves to me, and from that one among them, who is always near me,
who is present at this moment, a friendly spirit—Henbane! Why should I
hesitate to name him?—I have learned the _condition_, I may say, of your
_fate_, and _I_ won’t hide it, nor suffer you, if I can help it, to
disregard it. Marry for five years you shan’t. If I be alive I’ll leave
no stone unturned to prevent it; and if I’m dead, there’s nothing that
spirit can do, if you so much as harbour the thought, I’ll not do to
prevent it. I’ll be about you; be I good or evil, or mocking, I’ll
trouble you, I’ll torment you, I’ll pick her eyes out, but I won’t
suffer you to ruin yourself.”
Preposterous as was this harangue, Aunt Dinah delivered it like a
Pythoness, with a vehemence that half awed her nephew.
“I’ll speak of this no more,” she said, more like herself, after two or
three minutes’ silence. “I’ll not mention it—I’ll let it rest in your
mind—it’s nothing to me, but for your sake, my mind’s made up though,
and if I’ve power in this world or the next, you’ll hear of me, remember
that, William Maubray.”
William was bound to listen to this flighty rigmarole with respect as
coming from his aunt, but her spiritual thunders rather amused than
alarmed him, and of Henbane he entertained, I must confess, the meanest
possible opinion.
Connected with all this diablerie, indeed, there was but one phenomenon
which had unpleasantly fastened upon his imagination, and that was the
mysterious adventure which had befallen him in this old house of
Gilroyd; when in his bed, his wrist was seized and held fast in the
grasp of an unseen hand, and the intensely disagreeable sensations of
that night recurred to his memory oftener than he would have cared to
admit.
“I wonder you have so little curiosity, sometimes,” said Aunt Dinah,
speaking now, though gravely, much more in her usual way; “you young
people think you are so far away from the world of spirits, material and
sceptical. You’ve never once cared to ask me for Elihu Bung. I’ll lend
it to you with pleasure, while you are here. But that portion of the
Almighty’s empire has no interest—is dead—for you.”
There was abundant truth in this reproach, for William indeed could not
without great offence have told his aunt what rubbish he thought it all.
But said he:
“I dare say it is very curious.”
“Not a bit curious; that’s not the word; it is serious and it’s certain;
bread and butter is not very curious; your foot is not very curious, nor
your hat; but there they are, facts! that’s all. I’m glad you say you
have no present intention of marrying; in fact, dear William, the idea
has caused me the most extreme anxiety, having the warning I _have_; as
for me, however, my course is taken. I expect to be what we call a
mocking spirit—yes, a mocking spirit—and I’ll play you such tricks as
will make you think twice, if such an idea should be in your head. Mind,
I told you, though I be dead you shan’t escape me,” and she smiled
oddly, and nodded her head, and then frowned a little bit.
“But I dare say it won’t happen. Now that this Kincton Knox business has
turned out a mistake—thank God—a _canard_. There’s no hurry; you are too
young. Remember it was on the 28th of September the warning came, five
years, and you count from that; but goodness knows you have time enough.
I think I hear the brougham.”
William was already at the window and the gate-bell ringing.
“And William, remember, not a word to Violet about Mr. Trevor—not a
hint.”
“Oh! certainly,” cried he, and he was at the hall door in time to open
the carriage door, and take little Violet’s hand.
“Oh! _you_ come?” said she smiling, and descending lightly with a
bouquet of old Miss Wagget’s best flowers in her fingers. “I had not an
idea—only just come, I suppose?”
“Yes, this evening: and you quite well, Violet?”
“Quite well, flourishing. Grannie is in the drawing-room? And I’m glad
you’ve come to Gilroyd; poor old grannie. I think she has been in very
low spirits; let us go to her.”
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