CHAPTER XIII.UNSOCIABLE.At dinner, in the parlour of Gilroyd Hall, there was silence for some time. William looked a little gloomy, Violet rather fierce and stately, and Aunt Dinah eyed her two guests covertly, without remark, but curiously. At last she said to William—“You took a walk with Mr. Trevor?”“Yes, a tiresome one,” he answered.“Where?”“All about and round that stupid Warren—six or seven miles,” answered William.“How very fatiguing!” exclaimed Violet, compassionately, as if to herself.“No, not the exercise; that was the only thing that made it endurable,” answered William, a little crossly. “But the place is uglier than I fancied, and Trevorissuch a donkey.”Aunt Dinah, with her eyes fixed on William’s, made a nod and a frown, to arrest that line of remark, which, she felt, might possibly prejudice Vi, and could do no possible good. And Miss Vi, looking all the time on the wing of the chicken on her plate, said, “The salt, please,” and nothing more.“Vi, my dear,” said Miss Perfect, endeavouring to becheery, “he asked my leave last Sunday to send you an Italian greyhound. He has two, he says, at Revington. Did he mention it to-day?”“Perhaps he did. I really forget,” said Miss Vi, carelessly, laying down her fork, and leaning back, with a languid defiance, for as she raised her eyes, she perceived that William was smiling.“I know what you mean,” she said, with a sudden directness to William. “You want me—that is, Ithinkyou want me to thinkyouthink—”“Oh! do stop one moment. There are so many ‘thinks’ there. I’m quite bewildered among them all. Let’s breathe an instant. You think I want to make you think that I think. Yes, now I have it, Ithink. Pray go on.”“Polite!” said Miss Vi, and turned toward Aunt Dinah.“Well, no,” said William, for the first time laughing a little like himself; “it was not polite, but very rude and ill-bred, and I’m very sorry; and I assure you,” he continued more earnestly, “I should be very angry, if any one else had made the stupid speech that I have just made: and, really, I believe it is just this—you have been too patient with me, and allowed me to go on lecturing you like an old tutor—and—and—really, I’m certain I’ve been a horrid bore.”Vi made no reply, but looked, and, no doubt, thought herself more ill-used for his apologies.After tea she played industriously, having avowed a little cold, which prevented her singing. William had asked her. He turned over the leaves of a book, as he sat back in an elbow-chair, and Aunt Dinah was once more deep in her old box of letters, with her gold spectacles on.They were as silent a party as could be fancied; more silent than at dinner. Still, the pleasant light of fire and candle—the handsome young faces and the kindly old one—and the general air of old-fashioned comfort that pervaded the apartment, made the picture pleasant; and the valses and the nigger ditties, with snatches of Verdi, and who knows what composer beside, made the air ring with a merry medley, which supplied the lack of conversation.To William, with nothing but his book to amuse him, time moved slowly enough. But Violet had many things to think of; and one could see that her eyes saw other scenes and shapes far away, perhaps, from the music, and that she was reading to herself the romance that was unrolled within her pretty girlish head.So prayers came, and William read the chapter; and I am afraid his thoughts wandered, and he felt a little sore and affronted, he could not tell why, for no one had ill-used him; and, when their devotions were over, Miss Vi took her candle, and bid grannie good-night, with an embrace and a kiss, and William with a nod and a cold little smile, as he stood beside the door, having opened it for her.He was growing formal in spite of himself, and she quite changed. What heartless, cruel creatures these pretty girls are!She had quite vanished up the stairs, and he still held the door-handle in his fingers, and stood looking up the vacant steps, and, as it were, listening to distant music. Then, with a little sigh, he suddenly closed the door, and sat down drowsily before the fire, and began to think that he ought to return to his Cambridge chambers, his books, and monastic life: and he thought how fortunate those fellows were, who, like Trevor—what agoose that fellow is!—were born to idleness, respect, and admiration.“Money!—d—n money—curse it! I wish I had a lot of it!” and William clutched the poker, but the fire did not want poking, and he gave it a rather vicious knock upon the bar, which startled Miss Perfect, and recalled his own thoughts from unprofitable speculations, upon the preposterous injustice of Fate, and some ultimate state of poetical compensation, in which scholars and men of mind, who played all sorts of games excellently, and noodles, who never did anything decently—in fact, he and Trevor—would be dealt with discriminately, and with common fairness.“Don’t, dear William, pray, make such a clatter. I’msonervous.”“I beg a thousand pardons. I’m so stupid.”“Well, it does not signify—an accident—but don’t mind touching the fire-irons,” said Miss Perfect; “and how did your walk with Mr. Trevor proceed? Did he talk of anything?”“Oh! didn’t he? Fifty things. He’s a wonderful fellow to talk, is Trevor,” said William, looking with half-closed eyes into the fire.“Oh, yes,” persisted Aunt Dinah; “but was there anything—anything particular—anything that could interest us?”“Next to nothing that could interest anyone,” said William, uncommunicatively.“Well, it would interestme, if he talked of Violet,” said Aunt Dinah, coming directly to the point. “Didhe?”“Of Violet? Yes, I believe he did,” answered William, rather reluctantly.“Well, and why did not you say so? Of course, you knew that’s what I meant,” said Miss Perfect.“How could I know, auntie?”“I think, William Maubray, you are a little disagreeable to-night.”William, at these words, recollected that there was truth in the reproof. His mood was disagreeable to himself, and, therefore, to others.“My dear auntie, I’m very sorry. I’m sure I have been—not a little, butvery—and I beg your pardon. What was it? Yes—about Violet. He did, a great deal. In fact he talked about her till he quite tired me.”“He admires her, evidently. Did he talk of her good looks? Sheis, you know, extremely pretty,” said Aunt Dinah.“Yes, he thinks her very pretty. Sheisvery pretty. In fact, I don’t think—judging by the women who come to church—there is a good-looking girl, except herself, in this part of the world; and she would be considered pretty anywhere—verypretty.”“Revington is a very nice place, and the Trevors a good old family. The connection would be a very desirable one: and I—though, of course, not knowing, in the least, whether the young man had any serious intentions—I never alluded to the possibility to Vi herself. Yet, I do think she likes him.”“I should not wonder,” said William.“And he talked pretty frankly?” continued Aunt Dinah.“I suppose so. He did not seem to have anything to conceal; and he always talks a great deal, an enormous quantity;” and William yawned, as it seemed, over the recollection.
CHAPTER XIII.
UNSOCIABLE.
UNSOCIABLE.
UNSOCIABLE.
At dinner, in the parlour of Gilroyd Hall, there was silence for some time. William looked a little gloomy, Violet rather fierce and stately, and Aunt Dinah eyed her two guests covertly, without remark, but curiously. At last she said to William—
“You took a walk with Mr. Trevor?”
“Yes, a tiresome one,” he answered.
“Where?”
“All about and round that stupid Warren—six or seven miles,” answered William.
“How very fatiguing!” exclaimed Violet, compassionately, as if to herself.
“No, not the exercise; that was the only thing that made it endurable,” answered William, a little crossly. “But the place is uglier than I fancied, and Trevorissuch a donkey.”
Aunt Dinah, with her eyes fixed on William’s, made a nod and a frown, to arrest that line of remark, which, she felt, might possibly prejudice Vi, and could do no possible good. And Miss Vi, looking all the time on the wing of the chicken on her plate, said, “The salt, please,” and nothing more.
“Vi, my dear,” said Miss Perfect, endeavouring to becheery, “he asked my leave last Sunday to send you an Italian greyhound. He has two, he says, at Revington. Did he mention it to-day?”
“Perhaps he did. I really forget,” said Miss Vi, carelessly, laying down her fork, and leaning back, with a languid defiance, for as she raised her eyes, she perceived that William was smiling.
“I know what you mean,” she said, with a sudden directness to William. “You want me—that is, Ithinkyou want me to thinkyouthink—”
“Oh! do stop one moment. There are so many ‘thinks’ there. I’m quite bewildered among them all. Let’s breathe an instant. You think I want to make you think that I think. Yes, now I have it, Ithink. Pray go on.”
“Polite!” said Miss Vi, and turned toward Aunt Dinah.
“Well, no,” said William, for the first time laughing a little like himself; “it was not polite, but very rude and ill-bred, and I’m very sorry; and I assure you,” he continued more earnestly, “I should be very angry, if any one else had made the stupid speech that I have just made: and, really, I believe it is just this—you have been too patient with me, and allowed me to go on lecturing you like an old tutor—and—and—really, I’m certain I’ve been a horrid bore.”
Vi made no reply, but looked, and, no doubt, thought herself more ill-used for his apologies.
After tea she played industriously, having avowed a little cold, which prevented her singing. William had asked her. He turned over the leaves of a book, as he sat back in an elbow-chair, and Aunt Dinah was once more deep in her old box of letters, with her gold spectacles on.
They were as silent a party as could be fancied; more silent than at dinner. Still, the pleasant light of fire and candle—the handsome young faces and the kindly old one—and the general air of old-fashioned comfort that pervaded the apartment, made the picture pleasant; and the valses and the nigger ditties, with snatches of Verdi, and who knows what composer beside, made the air ring with a merry medley, which supplied the lack of conversation.
To William, with nothing but his book to amuse him, time moved slowly enough. But Violet had many things to think of; and one could see that her eyes saw other scenes and shapes far away, perhaps, from the music, and that she was reading to herself the romance that was unrolled within her pretty girlish head.
So prayers came, and William read the chapter; and I am afraid his thoughts wandered, and he felt a little sore and affronted, he could not tell why, for no one had ill-used him; and, when their devotions were over, Miss Vi took her candle, and bid grannie good-night, with an embrace and a kiss, and William with a nod and a cold little smile, as he stood beside the door, having opened it for her.
He was growing formal in spite of himself, and she quite changed. What heartless, cruel creatures these pretty girls are!
She had quite vanished up the stairs, and he still held the door-handle in his fingers, and stood looking up the vacant steps, and, as it were, listening to distant music. Then, with a little sigh, he suddenly closed the door, and sat down drowsily before the fire, and began to think that he ought to return to his Cambridge chambers, his books, and monastic life: and he thought how fortunate those fellows were, who, like Trevor—what agoose that fellow is!—were born to idleness, respect, and admiration.
“Money!—d—n money—curse it! I wish I had a lot of it!” and William clutched the poker, but the fire did not want poking, and he gave it a rather vicious knock upon the bar, which startled Miss Perfect, and recalled his own thoughts from unprofitable speculations, upon the preposterous injustice of Fate, and some ultimate state of poetical compensation, in which scholars and men of mind, who played all sorts of games excellently, and noodles, who never did anything decently—in fact, he and Trevor—would be dealt with discriminately, and with common fairness.
“Don’t, dear William, pray, make such a clatter. I’msonervous.”
“I beg a thousand pardons. I’m so stupid.”
“Well, it does not signify—an accident—but don’t mind touching the fire-irons,” said Miss Perfect; “and how did your walk with Mr. Trevor proceed? Did he talk of anything?”
“Oh! didn’t he? Fifty things. He’s a wonderful fellow to talk, is Trevor,” said William, looking with half-closed eyes into the fire.
“Oh, yes,” persisted Aunt Dinah; “but was there anything—anything particular—anything that could interest us?”
“Next to nothing that could interest anyone,” said William, uncommunicatively.
“Well, it would interestme, if he talked of Violet,” said Aunt Dinah, coming directly to the point. “Didhe?”
“Of Violet? Yes, I believe he did,” answered William, rather reluctantly.
“Well, and why did not you say so? Of course, you knew that’s what I meant,” said Miss Perfect.
“How could I know, auntie?”
“I think, William Maubray, you are a little disagreeable to-night.”
William, at these words, recollected that there was truth in the reproof. His mood was disagreeable to himself, and, therefore, to others.
“My dear auntie, I’m very sorry. I’m sure I have been—not a little, butvery—and I beg your pardon. What was it? Yes—about Violet. He did, a great deal. In fact he talked about her till he quite tired me.”
“He admires her, evidently. Did he talk of her good looks? Sheis, you know, extremely pretty,” said Aunt Dinah.
“Yes, he thinks her very pretty. Sheisvery pretty. In fact, I don’t think—judging by the women who come to church—there is a good-looking girl, except herself, in this part of the world; and she would be considered pretty anywhere—verypretty.”
“Revington is a very nice place, and the Trevors a good old family. The connection would be a very desirable one: and I—though, of course, not knowing, in the least, whether the young man had any serious intentions—I never alluded to the possibility to Vi herself. Yet, I do think she likes him.”
“I should not wonder,” said William.
“And he talked pretty frankly?” continued Aunt Dinah.
“I suppose so. He did not seem to have anything to conceal; and he always talks a great deal, an enormous quantity;” and William yawned, as it seemed, over the recollection.