NEXT MORNING
Aunt Dinah leaned on her thin hand, looking with something like fear at
William fixed and silently.
“What o’clock is it, aunt?” asked he.
“Three minutes to four,” she replied, consulting her broad old gold
watch, and then holding it to her ear. “Yes; three minutes to four. I
thought it was later. You _saw_ something, William Maubray—you _did_.
You _have_ seen something: haven’t you?”
So William, bit by bit, scared and very uncomfortable, recounted his
adventure, to which Miss Perfect listened attentively, and she said—
“Yes—it _is_ remarkable—_very_ wonderful—if anything can be said to be
particularly so, where all is marvellous. I understand it, quite.”
“And what is it?” asked he.
“The spirit key again—my name and image—don’t you see? and ‘don’t let me
go,’ and the other intimation—take it all together, it’s quite plain.”
“Do tell me, dear aunt, what you mean?”
“It all connects, dear William, with what I told you; the grasp of that
hand links you with the spirit world; the image was mine—my _double_, I
do suppose. Hand me that snuff-box. It spoke as if after my death; it
urged upon you to maintain your correspondence with me—‘don’t let me
go’—and it plainly intimates that I shall have the power of doing as I
promised and certainly shall, in case you should meditate disregarding
my solemn warning about your marriage, and think of uniting yourself,
William dear, to anyone, before the expiration of five years—there’s the
whole thing in a nutshell.”
“May I sit here for a little?” asked William, who from childish years
had been accustomed to visit his aunt’s room often, and when she was ill
used to sit there and read for her.
“Certainly, my dear: but don’t go to sleep and fall into the fire.”
Aunt Dinah resumed her sermon, with now and then a furtive reference to
Elihu Bung, concealed under her pillow, and William Maubray sat near the
bed with his feet on the fender: and thus for nearly five minutes—he
looking on the bars, and she on her sermon and her volume of
reference—at the end of that time she laid it again on the coverlet, and
looked for some time thoughtfully on the back of William’s head; and she
said so suddenly as to make him start—
“Five years is nothing: it’s quite ridiculous making a fuss about it.
I’ve known girls engaged that time, and longer, too: for ten and even
_twelve_ years.”
“Pretty girls they must have been by that time,” thought William, who
was recovering from the panic of his _vision_.
“And I think they made fonder couples than people that are married three
weeks after their engagement,” added Aunt Dinah. “Therefore _do_ have a
little patience.”
“But I’m in no hurry about anything,” said William; “least of all about
marriage. I have not an idea; and if I had I _couldn’t_; and my honest
belief is I shall die an old bachelor.”
“H’m! I never mind what people say on that subject,” said Miss Perfect;
“but I hope what you’ve experienced to-night will be a warning. Yes,
dear William, I’m very glad it has happened; it is always well to know
the _truth_—it may affright, but when it comes in the shape of warning
it is always welcome—that is it ought to be. I needed nothing more to
convince me, but you did, and you’ve got it. Depend upon it, if you
disobey you are a ruined man all your days; and if I die before the
time, I’ll watch you as an old gray cat watches a mouse—ha, ha, ha! and
if you so much as think of it, I’ll plague you—I will. Yes, William,
I’ll save you in spite of yourself, and mortal was never haunted and
tormented as you’ll be, till you give it up.”
William could not have forborne a joke, though a kindly one, upon such a
speech at another time; but somehow now he could not. The spectre of
Aunt Dinah cowering at his bedside was present with him, and when she
bid him good-night, although he was ashamed to confess his trepidation,
he hated a return to that old-fashioned room where he had twice
experienced the same kind of visitation.
When he returned he made up his fire, drew his window curtains wide open
to admit the earliest streak of sunrise, pulled his bed-curtains back to
the posts, and placed his candle on the table in the centre of the room,
resolved that Aunt Dinah’s double should not at all events steal on him
unawares.
At last the pleasant October morning came. The wind that had blown
wildly in the night was quiet now, having left its spoil of yellow
leaves strewn upon the lawn or rustling over the gravel walks.
The cheerful yellow light cleared the room of all unearthly shadows, and
the song of birds refreshed his ears, as he made his early toilet.
The joyous bark of little Psyche scampering before the windows, the call
of the driver to his team, the whistling of birds, the voices of the
inmates of the house, and at last the laugh of Violet Darkwell from the
porch.
Beautiful music! like merry spirits in the air departing, soon to
be heard no more. He stood with his hand on his half open
door—smiling—scarcely breathing—listening, as never did _Fanatico
per la musica_, to the favourite roulade of prima donna. It
ceased—he listened still, and then sighed in the silence, and
seemed to himself to waken.
In his ear that music sounded sadly, and his heart was full as he ran
down the stairs smiling. And pretty Violet’s slender figure was leaning
at the side of the porch; and she looked up, knowing his step, with a
smile, the old kindly smile, for a moment, and then its character a
little changed, something of the inscrutable but beautiful reserves of
girlhood, which baffled, and interested, and pained William so. He would
have liked to have called her Vi. The name was at his lips; but there
was something of pride, which even thus, while his boat is on the shore
and his bark is on the sea, restrained him.
“Miss—mind I’m calling you rightly—_Miss_ Violet Darkwell, I’m so glad
I’ve found you so early,” he said, smiling, “my hours—I ought to say
_minutes_—are so precious. I go at half-past ten, and I hardly saw or
heard you last night, you were so anxious to be off.”
“You forget how wise we all were, and wisdom, though it’s a very good
thing, is not lively; and its chief use, I suppose, is _that_—a sort of
lullaby, for I’m sure nobody ever minds it. _You_ don’t nor _I_, nor
darling grannie: and I think if you wanted to be put to sleep there
would be nothing like having a tranquil old sage, like Winnie Dobbs, at
your bedside to repeat a string of her sayings, like ‘Early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise;’ and besides being
very wise, I think you were just, if it is not very disrespectful to say
so, ever so little cross, so that altogether I thought it best to go to
bed and to sleep as fast as I could.”
“I quite forget. Was I cross? I dare say I was. I think ill-temper is
one expression of suffering; and I have not been very happy lately,”
said William.
“You have been strangely misrepresented, then,” said the young lady,
slily.
“So I have; and I do so wish you’d stop about that nonsense. You can’t
conceive unless you knew the people⸺”
“I thought she was very pretty,” interrupted Miss Darkwell, innocently.
“So she _is_—perhaps—I dare say; but pretty or plain, as I said before,
I’m not in love with her. _I’m_ not in love, thank Heaven, with anyone,
and I⸺”
“Come in to prayers, William, dear,” Aunt Dinah called aloud from the
parlour door, “I’ve had breakfast early, expressly for you, and you must
not delay it.”
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