CHAPTER LXX.VIOLET DARKWELL TELLS MISS WAGGET THAT QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD.The sun was near the western horizon, and sky and clouds were already flooded with the sunset glow, as William Maubray drove up to the high and formal piers of Gilroyd, with their tall urns at top—decorations which belong to old-world fancy—a little formal, like the stately dress of by-gone beauties and beaux, but with a sentiment and a prettiness of their own. Sad looked to him the smile of the old building and lordly trees in the fading sunlight; the windows sparkled redly in it, the ivy rustled in the light air, and the sparrows twittered and fluttered up and down among its glittering leaves—the time, the sights, and sounds recalling many an arrival at the same pleasant hour, and many a welcome look and tone—gone now—faint and far away in memory, and ever to grow more and more distant.The hall door was opened—in went William without a summons—and in the hall he heard voices issuing from the drawing-room. Old Miss Wagget’s kindly and cheering tones were distinctly audible, and Winnie Dobbs was making answer as he entered. From the two old women,as he stepped in, there was a simultaneous ejaculation, and Winnie’s two hands were lifted in amaze, and she beamed on him with a ruddy smile of welcome, crying aloud, “Well, law! ’Tis him, sure enough!” and “There you are; what a charming surprise!” exclaimed Miss Wagget, trotting up to him with her hands extended, and shaking both his with a jolly little laugh.“We walked over to pay our respects to good Winnie Dobbs here, little expecting to meet the lord of the castle. Ha, ha, ha! why we thought you were at Hamburg, and lo and behold! Here we have you! And I ventured to bring a friend, will you allow me to introduce?”But Violet Darkwell—for she was the friend—not waiting for Miss Wagget’s mock ceremony, came a step or two to meet him, and again, in Gilroyd, he held that prettiest of slender hands in his.“Oh! pretty Vi, who could forget you? How I wish you liked me ever so little! Oh! that you were the mistress of Gilroyd!” These were his thoughts as with a smile and a quiet word or two of greeting he took her hand.“Did you come through London?” asked Miss Wagget.“No; direct here,” he answered.“Surprised to find us, I dare say?” and she glanced at Violet. “Our friend here—like a good little creature, as she is—came down to keep me company for a week, and as much longer as I can make her stay, while my brother is at Westthorpe, and you must come over with us to tea.”William acquiesced.“And, Winnie Dobbs, you must tell me all you know of that Tummins family at the mill—are they really deservingpeople?—there was a rumour, you know—young people, do you go out and take a ramble in the lawn, and I’ll join you. Winnie and I must talk for a minute or two.”So Violet and William did go out, and stood for a minute in the old familiar porch.“How pretty it looks—always—in the setting sun—it’s the light that suits Gilroyd. There’s something a little melancholy in this place, though cheery along with it—I don’t know how,” said William.“So do I—I always thought that—like those minuets I used to play, that dear old grannie liked so well—something brilliant and old-fashioned, and plaintive,” replied the sweet voice of Violet Darkwell.“Come out into the sunlight,” said William. “Oh! how pretty! isn’t it?”Violet looked round with a sad smile that was beautiful on her girlish face.“And the chestnut trees—I wonder how old they are,” said William. “I must see you once more, Violet, among the chestnut trees;” and he led her towards them, she going willingly, with a little laugh that sounded low and sadly.Among their stems, he stopped before that of a solitary beech tree.“Do you remember that tree?” said William, speaking very low.“I do indeed,” said Violet, with the faintest little laugh in the world.“It’s more than three years ago—it’s four years ago—since I carved them.” He was pointing to two lines of letters, already beginning to spread and close in as such memorials on the living bark will do—but still legible enough. They were—Vi Darkwell.William Maubray.“These are going,” he said with a sigh, “like the old inscriptions in Saxton Church-yard; I believe it is impossible to make any lasting memorial; even memory fails as we grow old; God only remembers always; and this little carving here seems to me like an epitaph, times are so changed, and we—Vi Darkwell—William Maubray”—(he read slowly). “Little Vi is gone—dead and buried—and William Maubray—he did not know a great many things that he has found out since. He is dead and gone too, and I am here. He did not know himself; he thought the old things were to go on always; he did not know, Vi, how much he loved you—how desperately he loved you.Youdon’t know it—youcan’tknow it—or how much rather I’d die than lose you.”She was looking down, the point of her little foot was smoothing this way and that the moss on the old roots that overlaced the ground.“If I thought you could like me! Oh! Violet, can you—ever so little?” He took her hand in both his, and his handsome young face was as that of a man in some dreadful hour pleading for his life. There were the glow of hope, the rapture of entreaty, the lines of agony.“I like you, William. I do like you,” she said, so low that no other ears but his, I think, could have heard it, and the little wood anemones nodded their pretty heads, and the groups of wood-sorrel round trembled, it seemed with joy; and William said, in a wild whisper—“My darling—oh! Vi—my darling. My only love—dearer and dearer, every year. Oh! darling, my love is everlasting!” and he kissed her hand again and again,and he kissed her lips, and the leaves and flowers were hushed, nature was listening, pleased, and, I think, the angels looking down smiled on those fair young mortals, and those blessed moments that come with the glory of paradise, and being gone are remembered for ever.“Why, young people, what has become of you?” cried the well known voice of Miss Wagget. “Ho! here you are. I guessed I should find you among the trees; grand old timber, Mr. Maubray.” The guilty pair approached Miss Wagget side by side, looking as unconcerned as they could, and she talked on. “I sometimes think, Mr. Maubray, that Gilroyd must be a much older place than most people fancy. That house, now, what style is it in? My brother says there were such houses built in Charles the Second’s time, but the timber you know is—particularly the oaks down there—the treesareenormously old, and there are traces of a moat. I don’t understand these things, but my brother says, at the side of the house toward the road,” and so on kind Miss Wagget laboured, little assisted by William, upon topics about which none of them were thinking.That evening Miss Wagget was seized with a sort of musical frenzy, and sat down and played through ever so many old books of such pieces as were current in her youth, and very odd and quaint they sound now—more changed the fashion of our music even than of our language.I’m afraid that the young people were not so attentive as they might, and William whispered incessantly, sitting beside Violet on the sofa.It was rather late when that little musical party broke up.To Gilroyd, William walked in a dream, in the air, all the world at his feet, a demi-god. And that night when Vi, throwing her arms about Miss Wagget’s neck, confidedin her ear the momentous secret, the old lady exclaimed gaily—“Thank you for nothing! a pinch for stale news! Why I knew it the moment I saw your face under the trees there, and I’m very happy. I’m delighted. I’ve been planning it, and hoping for it this ever so long—and poor fellow! Hewasso miserable.”
CHAPTER LXX.
VIOLET DARKWELL TELLS MISS WAGGET THAT QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD.
VIOLET DARKWELL TELLS MISS WAGGET THAT QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD.
VIOLET DARKWELL TELLS MISS WAGGET THAT QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD.
The sun was near the western horizon, and sky and clouds were already flooded with the sunset glow, as William Maubray drove up to the high and formal piers of Gilroyd, with their tall urns at top—decorations which belong to old-world fancy—a little formal, like the stately dress of by-gone beauties and beaux, but with a sentiment and a prettiness of their own. Sad looked to him the smile of the old building and lordly trees in the fading sunlight; the windows sparkled redly in it, the ivy rustled in the light air, and the sparrows twittered and fluttered up and down among its glittering leaves—the time, the sights, and sounds recalling many an arrival at the same pleasant hour, and many a welcome look and tone—gone now—faint and far away in memory, and ever to grow more and more distant.
The hall door was opened—in went William without a summons—and in the hall he heard voices issuing from the drawing-room. Old Miss Wagget’s kindly and cheering tones were distinctly audible, and Winnie Dobbs was making answer as he entered. From the two old women,as he stepped in, there was a simultaneous ejaculation, and Winnie’s two hands were lifted in amaze, and she beamed on him with a ruddy smile of welcome, crying aloud, “Well, law! ’Tis him, sure enough!” and “There you are; what a charming surprise!” exclaimed Miss Wagget, trotting up to him with her hands extended, and shaking both his with a jolly little laugh.
“We walked over to pay our respects to good Winnie Dobbs here, little expecting to meet the lord of the castle. Ha, ha, ha! why we thought you were at Hamburg, and lo and behold! Here we have you! And I ventured to bring a friend, will you allow me to introduce?”
But Violet Darkwell—for she was the friend—not waiting for Miss Wagget’s mock ceremony, came a step or two to meet him, and again, in Gilroyd, he held that prettiest of slender hands in his.
“Oh! pretty Vi, who could forget you? How I wish you liked me ever so little! Oh! that you were the mistress of Gilroyd!” These were his thoughts as with a smile and a quiet word or two of greeting he took her hand.
“Did you come through London?” asked Miss Wagget.
“No; direct here,” he answered.
“Surprised to find us, I dare say?” and she glanced at Violet. “Our friend here—like a good little creature, as she is—came down to keep me company for a week, and as much longer as I can make her stay, while my brother is at Westthorpe, and you must come over with us to tea.”
William acquiesced.
“And, Winnie Dobbs, you must tell me all you know of that Tummins family at the mill—are they really deservingpeople?—there was a rumour, you know—young people, do you go out and take a ramble in the lawn, and I’ll join you. Winnie and I must talk for a minute or two.”
So Violet and William did go out, and stood for a minute in the old familiar porch.
“How pretty it looks—always—in the setting sun—it’s the light that suits Gilroyd. There’s something a little melancholy in this place, though cheery along with it—I don’t know how,” said William.
“So do I—I always thought that—like those minuets I used to play, that dear old grannie liked so well—something brilliant and old-fashioned, and plaintive,” replied the sweet voice of Violet Darkwell.
“Come out into the sunlight,” said William. “Oh! how pretty! isn’t it?”
Violet looked round with a sad smile that was beautiful on her girlish face.
“And the chestnut trees—I wonder how old they are,” said William. “I must see you once more, Violet, among the chestnut trees;” and he led her towards them, she going willingly, with a little laugh that sounded low and sadly.
Among their stems, he stopped before that of a solitary beech tree.
“Do you remember that tree?” said William, speaking very low.
“I do indeed,” said Violet, with the faintest little laugh in the world.
“It’s more than three years ago—it’s four years ago—since I carved them.” He was pointing to two lines of letters, already beginning to spread and close in as such memorials on the living bark will do—but still legible enough. They were—
Vi Darkwell.William Maubray.
Vi Darkwell.William Maubray.
Vi Darkwell.William Maubray.
Vi Darkwell.
William Maubray.
“These are going,” he said with a sigh, “like the old inscriptions in Saxton Church-yard; I believe it is impossible to make any lasting memorial; even memory fails as we grow old; God only remembers always; and this little carving here seems to me like an epitaph, times are so changed, and we—Vi Darkwell—William Maubray”—(he read slowly). “Little Vi is gone—dead and buried—and William Maubray—he did not know a great many things that he has found out since. He is dead and gone too, and I am here. He did not know himself; he thought the old things were to go on always; he did not know, Vi, how much he loved you—how desperately he loved you.Youdon’t know it—youcan’tknow it—or how much rather I’d die than lose you.”
She was looking down, the point of her little foot was smoothing this way and that the moss on the old roots that overlaced the ground.
“If I thought you could like me! Oh! Violet, can you—ever so little?” He took her hand in both his, and his handsome young face was as that of a man in some dreadful hour pleading for his life. There were the glow of hope, the rapture of entreaty, the lines of agony.
“I like you, William. I do like you,” she said, so low that no other ears but his, I think, could have heard it, and the little wood anemones nodded their pretty heads, and the groups of wood-sorrel round trembled, it seemed with joy; and William said, in a wild whisper—
“My darling—oh! Vi—my darling. My only love—dearer and dearer, every year. Oh! darling, my love is everlasting!” and he kissed her hand again and again,and he kissed her lips, and the leaves and flowers were hushed, nature was listening, pleased, and, I think, the angels looking down smiled on those fair young mortals, and those blessed moments that come with the glory of paradise, and being gone are remembered for ever.
“Why, young people, what has become of you?” cried the well known voice of Miss Wagget. “Ho! here you are. I guessed I should find you among the trees; grand old timber, Mr. Maubray.” The guilty pair approached Miss Wagget side by side, looking as unconcerned as they could, and she talked on. “I sometimes think, Mr. Maubray, that Gilroyd must be a much older place than most people fancy. That house, now, what style is it in? My brother says there were such houses built in Charles the Second’s time, but the timber you know is—particularly the oaks down there—the treesareenormously old, and there are traces of a moat. I don’t understand these things, but my brother says, at the side of the house toward the road,” and so on kind Miss Wagget laboured, little assisted by William, upon topics about which none of them were thinking.
That evening Miss Wagget was seized with a sort of musical frenzy, and sat down and played through ever so many old books of such pieces as were current in her youth, and very odd and quaint they sound now—more changed the fashion of our music even than of our language.
I’m afraid that the young people were not so attentive as they might, and William whispered incessantly, sitting beside Violet on the sofa.
It was rather late when that little musical party broke up.
To Gilroyd, William walked in a dream, in the air, all the world at his feet, a demi-god. And that night when Vi, throwing her arms about Miss Wagget’s neck, confidedin her ear the momentous secret, the old lady exclaimed gaily—
“Thank you for nothing! a pinch for stale news! Why I knew it the moment I saw your face under the trees there, and I’m very happy. I’m delighted. I’ve been planning it, and hoping for it this ever so long—and poor fellow! Hewasso miserable.”