THE FLOWER
At breakfast the little party had a great deal to talk about, topics of
hope, and topics of regret, glanced at in all sorts of spirits, sad and
cheerful, black spirits and white, blue spirits and gray; but on the
whole one would have said, looking on and a stranger to all that was
possibly passing within, that it was a cheerful meal.
“Five miles and a half to the station, and the up train at eleven
forty-five. The cab, or whatever it is, will be here at half-past ten,
and then good-bye. Farewell, perhaps, for three years to Gilroyd,” so
said William, as he and Violet Darkwell stood side by side, looking out
from the window, upon the glowing autumnal landscape.
“Three years! you don’t mean to say you’d stay away all that time,
without ever coming to see grannie?”
“Of course if she wants me I’ll come; but should she not, and should she
at the same time continue, as I hope she will, quite well, and should
_I_ be kept close to my work, as I expect, it’s sure to turn out as I
say. Three years—yes, it _is_ a long time—room for plenty of changes,
and changes enough, great ones, there _will_ be, no doubt.”
The uplands of Revington formed the background of the pretty prospect
before him, and it needed the remembrance of the promise he had made to
Aunt Dinah to prevent his speaking with less disguise, for he always
felt of late an impetuous longing almost fierce to break through
conventional hypocrisies, and lay bare his wounded heart, and upbraid,
and implore, in the wildest passion before Violet Darkwell. To be alone
with her, and yet say nothing of all that was swelling and rolling at
his heart—was pain. And yet to be alone with her, even in this longing
and vain anguish, and near her, was a strange despairing delight.
“Oh, yes, everyone changes, every day almost, except dear grannie and
old Winnie Dobbs. I’m sure _I_ change, and so do you, and what won’t
three years do? You’ve changed very much, and not for the better,” and
saying this Miss Violet laughed.
“My changes, be they what they may, don’t seem to trouble you much,”
replied William.
“Trouble?—not at all. I dare say they are improvements, though I don’t
like them,” laughed she.
“I don’t think I’m a _bit_ changed. I _know_ I’m not, in fact. Tell me
any one thing in which I’m changed.”
“Well, it is _generally_; you have grown so disagreeable, that’s all—it
is not much to me, but I dare say it will be to other people,” said she.
“I’m disagreeable—yes, of course—because I have my opinion about men and
things, and fools and nonsense. I don’t know anything I’ve said to you,
at least since I came yesterday, that could annoy you. I have not
mentioned a single subject that could possibly even interest you. I dare
say it is tiresome my talking so much as Aunt Dinah makes me, about
myself. But I couldn’t help it.”
“It won’t do, William; you know very well how cross you always are now,
at least with me, not that I mind it much, but there’s no denying.”
“You accused me of that before, and I said I was sorry. I—perhaps I am.
I’m going away, and everything breaking up, you know, and you must make
allowances. I used not to be cross long ago, and I’m _not_ changed.
No—I’m the same—I never said an unkind word to you, Vi, all the time
when you were a little thing, and if ever I speak differently now, it is
not from unkindness, only that things have gone wrong with me, and I’ve
seen something of the world; and things happen to sour one, and—I don’t
know—but I’m _not_ changed. You mustn’t think it now that I’m going
away. I’m such a fool, I’m such a beast, I can’t help talking bitterly
sometimes, and sometimes I think I am a—a _fiend_ almost, but I hope I
am not as bad as I seem.”
So spoke this Penruddock, who fancied himself soured for life, and
soliloquised at times in the vein of Elshender of Muckle-stane Muir, but
still cherished at the age of three-and-twenty some sparks of his
original humanity.
“There goes Tom with my things to the gate. Yes, it ought to be here
now,” said William looking at his watch. “I’ll send you something pretty
from Paris if you let me; nothing very splendid you know, only a little
reminder such as a poor beggar like me, can offer,” and he laughed, not
very merrily. “And I shall hear all the news from Aunt Dinah, and send
her all mine; and I like flowers. I always remember the Gilroyd flowers
along with you. You were always among them, you know, and will you give
me that little violet—a namesake? No one ever refuses a flower, it is
the keepsake everyone gets for the asking.”
“Here it is,” said Violet, with a little laugh, but looking not
mockingly, but a little downward and oddly, and William placed it very
carefully in a recess of his complicated purse, that was a cardcase
also, and I know not what else beside. He was on the point of saying
something very romantic and foolish, but suddenly recollected himself,
and pulled up at the verge just before he went over.
“This is a souvenir of very old days, you know,” said William,
remembering Trevor, and how humiliating because vain any love-making of
his own must prove, “of a very early friend—one of your earliest. Wasn’t
I?”
“Yes, so you were, a very good-natured friend, and very useful.
Sometimes a little bit prosy, you know, always giving me excellent
advice; and I think I always, _often_ at least, listened to your
lectures with respect. But why is it, will _you_ tell me who know
everything, that gentlemen always ask for a rose or a violet, or a
flower of some sort, as a keepsake? Nothing so perishable. Would not a
thimble or even a slipper be better? I suppose you have us all in what
you used to call a _hortus siccus_, brown roses, and yellow violets, and
venerable polyanthuses, thoroughly dried up and stiff as chips, and now
and then with a sort of triumph review your prisoners, and please
yourselves with these awful images of old maidhood. How can we tell what
witchcrafts go on over our withering types and emblems. Give me back my
violet and you shall have a hair-pin instead.”
“Many thanks; I’ll keep my violet, however. It may grow dry and brown to
other eyes, to mine it will never change. Just because it is an
enchanted violet, and there is a spell upon my eyes as often as I look
on it, and the glow and fragrance will never pass away.”
“Very good song, and very well sung! only _I_ suspect that’s the usual
speech, and you asked for the violet for an opportunity of making it.”
At this moment Aunt Dinah entered the room accompanied by old Winnie
Dobbs, supporting a small hamper tray fashion. William recognised the
old commissariat of Gilroyd in this nutritious incumbrance, against
which he had often and vainly protested, as he now did more faintly by a
smile and lifting his hands.
“Now there’s really very little in this; just a fowl cut up, half a ham,
one of the Saxton plumcakes, and a pint bottle with a little sherry.
You’ll find bread by itself, and some salt in white paper, and a few
Ripston pippins, and it is really no weight at all; is it, Winnie?”
“No, nothing to them porter fellows. What else be they paid for, if it
baint to carry loads? what’s a hamper like this here to one of them? and
he’ll want something on the way. You’ll be hungry, you will, Master
William.”
“And whatever’s left will be of use to you when you reach your
destination,” said Aunt Dinah, repeating her ancient formula on similar
occasions. “Now, William, you promise me you’ll not leave this behind.
Surely you can’t be such a fool as to be ashamed to take a little
refreshment before the passengers. Well-bred people won’t stare at you,
and I know you won’t vex me by refusing the little provision.”
So William laughed and promised, and Miss Vi looked as if she could have
quizzed him, but at this moment the Saxton vehicle from the Golden Posts
pulled up at the iron gate of Gilroyd, and William glanced at his watch,
and though he smiled, it was with the pale smile of a man going to
execution, and trying to cheer his friends rather than being of good
comfort himself.
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