CHAPTER L.VIOLET AND WILLIAM IN THE DRAWING-ROOMViolet 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 within 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 finerman 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 oldgrannie,” 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, itisbetter,” 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’msureshe 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 sayshe’schanged more thanyou. 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; andyoucan’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, youmustreconsider 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.”
CHAPTER L.
VIOLET AND WILLIAM IN THE DRAWING-ROOM
VIOLET AND WILLIAM IN THE DRAWING-ROOM
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 within 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 finerman 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 oldgrannie,” 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, itisbetter,” 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’msureshe 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 sayshe’schanged more thanyou. 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; andyoucan’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, youmustreconsider 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.”