VIOLET AND WILLIAM IN THE DRAWING-ROOM
Violet seemed merry and good-natured, William thought, but somewhat
cold. No one else would have perceived it; but this little chill, hardly
measurable by the moral thermometer, was for him an Icelandic frost, in
which his very heart ached.
This pretty girl kissed Aunt Dinah, and put off her bonnet, and out
gushed her beautiful dark brown hair, but kept her other mufflers on,
and said smilingly towards William,—
“I was so surprised to see him at the door, I could scarcely believe my
eyes.”
“And looking very well—a little thin perhaps, but very well,” added Aunt
Dinah.
“And how is Mr. Wagget?” asked William, who did not care to come
formally under critical discussion.
“Oh, very well, and Miss Wagget too; but I don’t know that you’ve made
her acquaintance. She’s quite charming, and I doubt very much whether so
susceptible a person as you would do wisely in putting himself in her
way.”
“She has been hearing that nonsense about Miss Kincton Knox,” thought
William, and he said rather drily,—
“I’m not a bit susceptible. How did I ever show it? I’d like to know who
I ever was in love with in my life. Susceptible, by Jove! but I see
you’re laughing.”
Miss Vi looked curiously at him for a moment, and then she said,—
“We heard quite another account of him, didn’t we, grannie?”
“It was all a mistake though, it seems,” said Aunt Dinah.
“I should like to know who the kind person is who cares enough about me
to invent all these lies.”
“The ladies there liked you extremely, we have the best authority for
believing that,” said Miss Perfect.
“I don’t know; I’m sure they detest me now, and I really don’t know any
reason they ever had for doing either.”
“Detest you, my dear!” exclaimed Aunt Dinah.
“Mrs. Kincton Knox is awfully offended with me, I don’t know for what.
I’ve nothing on earth to charge myself with, and I really don’t care two
pence, and I hate to think about them,” said William testily; “and I’d
rather talk about anything else.”
Miss Vi looked at William, and glanced at Aunt Dinah, and then laughed,
with a pleasant little silvery cadence.
“Dear me! Grannie, what a disappointment. We simple people in this part
of the world have been lost for weeks in wonder and respect—we heard
such stories of your prowess, and here comes the lady-killer home,
harmless William Maubray, as he went.”
“Just so,” said he. “Not William the Conqueror—nothing of the kind; and
I don’t think it likely I shall ever try to kill a lady, nor a lady ever
kill me. Weapons of iron won’t do nowadays, and a knight-errant of that
sort must arm himself with the precious metals, and know how to talk the
modern euphuism, and be a much finer man than ever I can hope to be; and
even so, when all’s done, it’s a poor profession enough. By Jove! I
don’t envy them their adventures, and their exploits, and their
drubbings, and their Dulcineas—the best among them is often laid on his
back; and I’m not ashamed to say I have more of Sancho Panza than of the
Don in my nature.”
“He rails like a wounded knight—doesn’t he, grannie?” laughed Violet.
“I’d like to know who wounded me,” said he.
“We’ll take your own account, William,” said Aunt Dinah, who saw that he
was vexed and sore, “and whoever is to blame, I’m very glad. Oh!
prayers,” and the little household of Gilroyd trooped solemnly into the
room, and the family devotions were performed, William officiating in
his old capacity.
“William leaves us early to-morrow,” said Aunt Dinah, glancing
regretfully at him.
“Oh?” said Miss Violet.
“Yes, to London; and from London perhaps to Paris, there to remain for
some time,” said William, spiritedly.
“Charming excursion,” exclaimed the young lady.
“Why London is not particularly lively at this moment, and I hope to be
pretty hard worked in Paris. There’s nothing very charming about it, but
I’m glad to go;” and thinking this a little strong, he added, “because
it is time I should begin, if ever I am to do any good for myself or
anyone else.”
“He’s like the good boy in a story-book, he makes such wise reflections;
and I’m certain he’ll grow rich and prosper,” said Miss Vi to Aunt
Dinah. “My only wise saw is ‘Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man
healthy, wealthy, and wise.’ I learned it from Winnie, and I’m going to
act on it now. Good-night, dear old grannie,” and she kissed her in a
fond little embrace. “All this wise talk makes one sleepy, I think; and
I’ve been walking about with Miss Wagget all day. Good-night.” This was
to William, with a smile.
“Good-night,” he answered quietly, and a little bitterly, as without
smiling he took her hand. Then he lighted her candle, and gave it to
her, and stood at the door while she ran up the broad stair, humming an
air.
He came back, looking sulky, and sat down with his hands in his pocket,
looking at the fire-irons that rested on the fender.
“How do you think she’s looking?” asked Aunt Dinah.
“Very well; much as usual,” said William, with a dreary carelessness.
“I think she’s looking particularly beautiful,” said Miss Perfect.
“Perhaps so—very likely; but I’ve plenty of work before me, thank God,
the sort of work I like; and I’m in no admiring mood, like Trevor and
other fellows who have nothing better to do. I like work. ‘Man delights
not me, nor woman neither.’ And, dear Aunt, I’m a little bit sleepy,
too; but I’ll see you early, shan’t I?”
And William yawned dismally.
“Good-night, dear, it _is_ better,” said Aunt Dinah; “but I don’t know,
it strikes me that you and Vi are not as friendly together as you used
to be, and I think it is a pity.”
“Not so friendly,” exclaimed William. “Ha, ha! That did not strike me;
but I assure you there’s no change, at least that I know of—none on my
part, I’m sure. I suppose it’s just that our heads are full of other
things; we have each got our business to think of—don’t you see?—and
hers, you know, is very serious,” and William Maubray laughed again a
little bitterly.
“Well, she is a dear little creature, an affectionate little soul. I’ve
always found her quite the same,” said Aunt Dinah.
“I’m _sure_ she is—I dare say—I don’t see why she shouldn’t, that is, as
affectionate as other young ladies. You know it isn’t I who say she’s
changed.”
“I did not say _she’s_ changed more than _you_. I think you don’t seem
so kindly as you used, and more disposed to be disagreeable; and I
think, considering you have been so long together, and are so soon to
part, and life is so uncertain, I think it a pity; and _you_ can’t see
even how pretty she is looking.”
“I must have been thinking of something else, for she is in particularly
good looks;” and he added, quite like himself, “Yes, indeed, I think she
improves every time I see her, but that may be the old partiality, you
know. Good-night, Aunt Dinah.”
Aunt Dinah took both his hands to hers, and kissed him.
“Good-night, my dear William—my dear boy. You will never know, dear
William, all the pain you have cost me. Pray, my dear child, for a
reasonable spirit, and that you may have power to conquer the demon of
pride—the besetting sin of youth, and, my dear William, you _must_
reconsider the question of ordination, and pray for light. God bless
you, and don’t forget to put out your candle. _There_”—another
kiss—“Good-night.”
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