CHAPTER IV.VIOLET DARKWELL.At the head of the stairs, the topmost step of which had been their bench, there rose to him two female figures. He did not instantly recognise them, for one candle only was burning, and it was on the little table nearly behind them. One was old Winnie Dobbs, the other Violet Darkwell; she stood up slight and girlish still, but looking taller than he had expected, with an old faded silk quilted shawl of Aunt Dinah’s about her shoulders, and hood-wise over her head, for the night was frosty.“Ha! Vi—little Vi, I was going to say; dear me! how you have grown! So glad to see you.”He had the girl’s slim hand in his, and was speaking as he felt, very kindly.“We’ve been waiting here, Winnie and I, to hear what you thought of dear grannie,”—(grannie was merely a pet name in this case, defining no relationship)—“and what do you think, William?”“I really don’t understand it,” he answered. “I—I hope it’s all nonsense; I really think so. She says she is very well; and the doctor—Drake, you know—I really think he was laughing, and one thing I’m quite certain of—it is connected in her mind with that foolish spirit-rapping.”“And you don’t believe in it?” inquired the young lady.“All bosh and nonsense. Not a bit of it,” he replied.“Oh, William, I am so delighted to hear you say so!” she exclaimed, much relieved by the promulgation of so valuable an opinion. “And you’re quite right, Iknow, about grannie. Itis, really—is not it, Winnie?—all, all about that awful spirit-rapping. Grannie never speaks of it to me; I believe she’s afraid of frightening me; but old Winnie, here—you must not tell of her—she tells me all about it—everything; and Iamso afraid of it; and it isentirelythat. Grannie thinks she has got a message! fancy! How awful! And Winnie does not know what the words were; for grannie writes down the letters with a pencil, and tells her only what she thinks fit; and I amsodelighted—you can’t think.”“You good little Vi, I’m so glad to see you!” She laughed a low little laugh—the first for several days—as he shook her hand again; and he said—“Winnie, do, like a dear old thing, open myportmanteau—here’s the key—and fetch me a canister you’ll see at the top, with a great paper label, blue and red, on it.”Away went Winnie Dobbs, with his key and candle, and he said to the pretty girl who stood leaning lightly against the banister—“My old friend, Vi! When I went into the drawing-room just now, I looked all round for you, and could not think what had become of you, and was really afraid you had gone away to London. I don’t think I should ever care to come to Gilroyd Hall again; I should prefer seeing my aunt anywhere else—it would not be like itself if you were gone.”“So you really missed me, William!” she laughed.“I should think so. And another thing—you are not to call me William. Why don’t you call me Willie, or old bear, as you used to do? If you change old names, I’ll begin and call you Miss Darkwell.”“How awful!”“Indeed I will, and be as formal as you please, and treat you like a young lady, and you’ll never be ‘wicked little Vi’ any more.”She was laughing as she leaned back, and he could see her small teeth, and he bethought him that she was looking really quite lovely; so with two fingers he picked up her little hand again, as it lay at her side, and he said—“And we are always to be good friends, you know—great friends; and although you’ve no more dolls to mend, I’ll still be of use. I’m going to the bar, and I’ll manage all your law suits, if you let me; and when you are going to be married, I’ll draw your settlements, and you are to have me always for your counsel.”She was still smiling, but said nothing, and looked wonderfully pretty, with the old gray silk hood wrapped all about her, so that sober old William was on the very point of kissing the slender hand he held in his. But a new feeling of shyness prevented, and he only shook her hand gently once more, and laid it by her side again, as you replace some precious thing you have been admiring where you found it.“And you really think we may be happy about dear old grannie again?” she said.The sound of Winnie’s footsteps was heard approaching.“Yes; certainly. I’ll try to get a word with Doctor Drake. I can’t imagine anything serious. Won’t you come to the drawing-room now?”“No; not to-night; not while those people are there.I was so wretched about dear grannie, I could not bear to go in at first; and now it would be odd, I think, going down when tea is over.”“As if I had brought you down from the nursery, as I often did, Vi, on my back. Well, old Winnie, have you got it?”“Here, I think, Master William,” answered Winnie.“Yes; all right. So you won’t come, Vi?”“No.”“Quite made up your mind?”“Quite, Willie.”“That’s right—Willie,” said he, with a smile, and a nod of approbation. “I should so like to stay here a little longer, as you won’t come, and hear all the news, and tell you mine; but Aunt Dinah would lose patience—I’m afraid shehas.”“Yes, indeed; you had better go. Good-night, bear.”“Good-night, wicked little Vi. Remember we meet at breakfast—shan’t we?”“Oh, certainly. Good-night.”“Good-night.”And so the gray silk hood vanished, with a smile, prettily, round the corner, and William Maubray descended with his snuff to the drawing-room, with the pretty oval portrait of that young face still hovering before him in the air.Miss Letty Drake, whose countenance was unpleasantly long in proportion to her height, and pallid, and her small figure bony, and who was dressed on this sad occasion in her silk “half-mourning,” a sad and, it was thought, a dyed garment, which had done duty during many periods of affliction, as William entered the room, was concluding a sentence with a low and pointed asperity, thus—“which seems to me hardly compatiblewith Saint Paul’s description of Christian charity,” and a short silence followed these words.“I was going to ring the bell, William,” said the doomed lady of the house. “One would have thought you weremakingthat snuff. Let me see it—h’m. See, get off this cover. Ho! what is this? A lead wrapper!”“You said, Aunt Dinah, you wished it.”“Did I? Well, no matter. Get it open. Thanks. Yes; that’s it. Yes; very good. You take snuff, doctor, don’t you?”“Aw—yes, certainly, nothing like it, I do believe—where a man is obliged to work his head—aw haw—a stimulus and a sedative.”The doctor, it was averred, “worked” his occasionally with brandy and water, and not a great deal otherwise.“No, many thanks; don’t care for perfumes; high toast is my snuff.” And Doctor Drake illustrated the fact by a huge pinch, which shed another brown shower over the wrinkles of his waistcoat.“Letty, dear,” said Aunt Dinah, turning suddenly to Miss Drake, “we won’t quarrel; we can’t agree, but I won’t quarrel.”“Well, dear, I’m glad to hear you say so. I’m sure, for my part, I never quarrel. ‘Be ye angry, and let not the sun go down on your wrath.’”
CHAPTER IV.
VIOLET DARKWELL.
VIOLET DARKWELL.
VIOLET DARKWELL.
At the head of the stairs, the topmost step of which had been their bench, there rose to him two female figures. He did not instantly recognise them, for one candle only was burning, and it was on the little table nearly behind them. One was old Winnie Dobbs, the other Violet Darkwell; she stood up slight and girlish still, but looking taller than he had expected, with an old faded silk quilted shawl of Aunt Dinah’s about her shoulders, and hood-wise over her head, for the night was frosty.
“Ha! Vi—little Vi, I was going to say; dear me! how you have grown! So glad to see you.”
He had the girl’s slim hand in his, and was speaking as he felt, very kindly.
“We’ve been waiting here, Winnie and I, to hear what you thought of dear grannie,”—(grannie was merely a pet name in this case, defining no relationship)—“and what do you think, William?”
“I really don’t understand it,” he answered. “I—I hope it’s all nonsense; I really think so. She says she is very well; and the doctor—Drake, you know—I really think he was laughing, and one thing I’m quite certain of—it is connected in her mind with that foolish spirit-rapping.”
“And you don’t believe in it?” inquired the young lady.
“All bosh and nonsense. Not a bit of it,” he replied.
“Oh, William, I am so delighted to hear you say so!” she exclaimed, much relieved by the promulgation of so valuable an opinion. “And you’re quite right, Iknow, about grannie. Itis, really—is not it, Winnie?—all, all about that awful spirit-rapping. Grannie never speaks of it to me; I believe she’s afraid of frightening me; but old Winnie, here—you must not tell of her—she tells me all about it—everything; and Iamso afraid of it; and it isentirelythat. Grannie thinks she has got a message! fancy! How awful! And Winnie does not know what the words were; for grannie writes down the letters with a pencil, and tells her only what she thinks fit; and I amsodelighted—you can’t think.”
“You good little Vi, I’m so glad to see you!” She laughed a low little laugh—the first for several days—as he shook her hand again; and he said—
“Winnie, do, like a dear old thing, open myportmanteau—here’s the key—and fetch me a canister you’ll see at the top, with a great paper label, blue and red, on it.”
Away went Winnie Dobbs, with his key and candle, and he said to the pretty girl who stood leaning lightly against the banister—
“My old friend, Vi! When I went into the drawing-room just now, I looked all round for you, and could not think what had become of you, and was really afraid you had gone away to London. I don’t think I should ever care to come to Gilroyd Hall again; I should prefer seeing my aunt anywhere else—it would not be like itself if you were gone.”
“So you really missed me, William!” she laughed.
“I should think so. And another thing—you are not to call me William. Why don’t you call me Willie, or old bear, as you used to do? If you change old names, I’ll begin and call you Miss Darkwell.”
“How awful!”
“Indeed I will, and be as formal as you please, and treat you like a young lady, and you’ll never be ‘wicked little Vi’ any more.”
She was laughing as she leaned back, and he could see her small teeth, and he bethought him that she was looking really quite lovely; so with two fingers he picked up her little hand again, as it lay at her side, and he said—
“And we are always to be good friends, you know—great friends; and although you’ve no more dolls to mend, I’ll still be of use. I’m going to the bar, and I’ll manage all your law suits, if you let me; and when you are going to be married, I’ll draw your settlements, and you are to have me always for your counsel.”
She was still smiling, but said nothing, and looked wonderfully pretty, with the old gray silk hood wrapped all about her, so that sober old William was on the very point of kissing the slender hand he held in his. But a new feeling of shyness prevented, and he only shook her hand gently once more, and laid it by her side again, as you replace some precious thing you have been admiring where you found it.
“And you really think we may be happy about dear old grannie again?” she said.
The sound of Winnie’s footsteps was heard approaching.
“Yes; certainly. I’ll try to get a word with Doctor Drake. I can’t imagine anything serious. Won’t you come to the drawing-room now?”
“No; not to-night; not while those people are there.I was so wretched about dear grannie, I could not bear to go in at first; and now it would be odd, I think, going down when tea is over.”
“As if I had brought you down from the nursery, as I often did, Vi, on my back. Well, old Winnie, have you got it?”
“Here, I think, Master William,” answered Winnie.
“Yes; all right. So you won’t come, Vi?”
“No.”
“Quite made up your mind?”
“Quite, Willie.”
“That’s right—Willie,” said he, with a smile, and a nod of approbation. “I should so like to stay here a little longer, as you won’t come, and hear all the news, and tell you mine; but Aunt Dinah would lose patience—I’m afraid shehas.”
“Yes, indeed; you had better go. Good-night, bear.”
“Good-night, wicked little Vi. Remember we meet at breakfast—shan’t we?”
“Oh, certainly. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
And so the gray silk hood vanished, with a smile, prettily, round the corner, and William Maubray descended with his snuff to the drawing-room, with the pretty oval portrait of that young face still hovering before him in the air.
Miss Letty Drake, whose countenance was unpleasantly long in proportion to her height, and pallid, and her small figure bony, and who was dressed on this sad occasion in her silk “half-mourning,” a sad and, it was thought, a dyed garment, which had done duty during many periods of affliction, as William entered the room, was concluding a sentence with a low and pointed asperity, thus—“which seems to me hardly compatiblewith Saint Paul’s description of Christian charity,” and a short silence followed these words.
“I was going to ring the bell, William,” said the doomed lady of the house. “One would have thought you weremakingthat snuff. Let me see it—h’m. See, get off this cover. Ho! what is this? A lead wrapper!”
“You said, Aunt Dinah, you wished it.”
“Did I? Well, no matter. Get it open. Thanks. Yes; that’s it. Yes; very good. You take snuff, doctor, don’t you?”
“Aw—yes, certainly, nothing like it, I do believe—where a man is obliged to work his head—aw haw—a stimulus and a sedative.”
The doctor, it was averred, “worked” his occasionally with brandy and water, and not a great deal otherwise.
“No, many thanks; don’t care for perfumes; high toast is my snuff.” And Doctor Drake illustrated the fact by a huge pinch, which shed another brown shower over the wrinkles of his waistcoat.
“Letty, dear,” said Aunt Dinah, turning suddenly to Miss Drake, “we won’t quarrel; we can’t agree, but I won’t quarrel.”
“Well, dear, I’m glad to hear you say so. I’m sure, for my part, I never quarrel. ‘Be ye angry, and let not the sun go down on your wrath.’”