“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 Mucklestane 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 lovemaking of his own must prove, “of a very early friend — one of your earliest. Wasn’t I?”
“Yes, so you were, a very goodnatured 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 maid-hood. 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.
CHAPTER LIV.
DOCTOR DRAKE GOES TO GILROYD.
“And now I must say farewell, and if I can, or if you want me, I’ll come soon and see you again; and God bless you, Violet; and goodbye, my darling aunt. I’ll write from London this evening, and let you know what my Paris address will be.”
“God Almighty bless you, my precious Willie; and I’m very glad— “and here Aunt Dinah’s sentence broke short,-and tears were in her eyes, and she bit her lip. “I am, my darling Willie, that we met; and you’ll really come soon, if I write for you; and you won’t forget your Bible and your prayers; and, oh! goodness gracious! have you forgot the tobacco-box?”
It was safe in his dressing-case. So another hurried farewell, and a smiling and kissing of hands. “Goodbye, goodbye!” from the cab window; and away it rattled, and William was gone; and the two ladies and old Winnie in the rear, stood silently looking for a minute or so where the carriage had been, and then they turned, with the faded smile of farewell still on their faces, and slowly reentered old Gilroyd Hall, which all in a moment had grown so lonely.
In the drawingroom they were silent. Violet was looking through the window, but not, I think, taking much note of the view, pretty as it is.
“I’m going away, and everything breaking up, and you roust make allowances” — William’s words were in her lonely ears now. A breaking-up had partly come, and a greater was coming. William’s words sounded like a prophecy. “Breaking-up.” Poor Gilroyd! Many a pleasant summer day and winter evening had she known in that serene old place.
Pleasant times, no doubt, were before her — a more splendid home, perhaps. Still memory would always look back regretfully on those early times, and the familiar view of Gilroyd; its mellow pink-tinted brick, and window-panes, flashing in the setting sun, half seen through the stooping branches of the old chestnuts, would rise kindly and quaint before her, better beloved than the new and colder glories that might await her. Had the break-up indeed come? There was a foreboding of change, a presage as of death at her heart. When she looked at Miss Perfect she saw that she had been crying, and it made her heart heavier.
“Remember, he said he’d come to you whenever you write. You can bring him back whenever you please; and really Paris is no distance at all.”
“I don’t know, little Violet, I’m very low. It’s all very true, what you say, but I’ve a misgiving. I’ve looked my last on my fine fellow — my boy. If I did as I am prompted, I think I should follow him to London, just to have one look more.”
“You’re tired, grannie, darling, and you look pale; you must have a little wine.”
“Pooh, child — no — nothing,” said Aunt Dinah, with a flicker of her usual manner; but there was a fatigue and feebleness in her look which Violet did not like.
“Give me my desk, like a darling,” said Miss Perfect; and she wrote a note, pondering a good while over it: and she leaned back, tired, when she had completed it “I did my duty by him, I hope. I think he does me credit — a handsome fellow! I d
on’t see anywhere — !”
There was a pause here, and a kind of groan, and, coming near, Violet Darkwell saw that she had fainted.
Great commotion was there in Gilroyd Hall. Miss Perfect’s seizure did not pass away like a common swoon. Away went Tom for Doctor Drake, and Vi and the servants got poor Aunt Dinah, cold, and breathing heavily, and still insensible, to her bed.
Doctor Drake arrived quickly, and came up to her room, with his great coat buttoned up to his chin, looking rather stem, in a reserved but friendly sort of fuss.
“Hey — yes, yes — there it is. How long ago did this happen, my dear?”
“Not quite half an hour — in the drawingroom. Oh, Doctor Drake, is it anything very bad?” answered Violet.
“Well, my dear, it’s serious — but I hope it will be all right; it’s a smart little attack of apoplexy — upon my word it is. There was no convulsion — that’s right. It was very well he came when he did — just caught me at the door. Open the window and door. Mrs. Dobbs, give me cold water. Have you a scissors? We’ll cut the strings of her dress and staylace. One of you run down and bring up a kettleful of hot water. Her feet are a little cold. Get up her head a little more. We’ll get her sitting up, if you please, in this armchair here. We’ll bathe her feet, and you’ll see she’ll do very well, presently. It’s not a case for bleeding; and bring up mustard. I think you’ll see she’ll come round in a little time.”
And so on the doctor talked and directed, and actively treated his patient; and in a little time consciousness returned, and there was time at last, to think of William Maubray.
“Shall we telegraph a message to London?” asked Violet.
“Not a bit; she’s going on as nicely as possible. He’d only be in the way here, and it would frighten her. She’s doing capitally; and she may never have a return, if she just takes care. She must take care, you know, and I’ll give you full directions how to treat her.”
And so he did. Miss Vi being accurate and intelligent, and rising with the occasion, so that Doctor Drake that evening celebrated Miss Darkwell to his friend Dignum, of the Golden Posts, as a trump and a brick, and the nicest little creature he ever saw.
Mr. Vane Trevor, who had called at Gilroyd that morning, but found all things in confusion and panic, called again in the evening, and had the pleasure of an interview with Winnie Dobbs; but he could not see Miss Darkwell. The young lady had given peremptory directions respecting all visitors, and would not leave Miss Perfect’s room.
Doctor Drake was honoured that evening by a call from the proprietor of Revington, and gave him a history of the case; and Trevor accompanied him back again to Gilroyd, where he was about to make his evening visit, and awaited his report in the little gravel courtyard, stealing now and then a wistful glance up to the oldfashioned stone-faced windows. But Violet did not appear. It might have been different — I can’t say — had she known all that had passed between Miss Perfect and Vane Trevor respecting her. As it was, the young gentleman’s long wait was rewarded only by the return of Doctor Drake, and a saunter with him back again to Saxton.
Pretty nearly the same was the routine of several subsequent days. Fruits and vegetables, too, with messages came down from Revington; and in his interviews with old Winnie Dobbs he betrayed a great solicitude that the young lady should not wear herself out with watching and attendance.
On Sunday he was in the churchyard almost as early as the doors opened, and loitered there till the bell ceased ringing; and sat in his pew so as to command an easy view of the church door, and not a late arrival escaped his observation. But Violet Darkwell did not appear; and Vane Trevor walked home with little comfort from the Rev. Dr. Wagget’s learned sermon; and made his usual calls at Gilroyd and at Doctor Drake’s, and began to think seriously of writing to Violet, and begging an interview, or even penning the promptings of his ardent passion in the most intelligible terms. And I have little doubt that had he had a friend by him, to counsel him ever so little in that direction, he would have done so.
CHAPTER LV.
SUSPENSE.
ONE day Trevor actually made up his mind to bring about the crisis; and pale as a man about to be hanged, and with the phantom of a smile upon his lips, after his accustomed inquiries, he told Mrs. Podgers, the cook, who, in the absence of Winnie Dobbs, officiated as hall-porter, to ask Miss Violet Darkwell if she would be so good as to give him just a moment. And on getting through his message his heart made two or three such odd jumps and rolls, that he was almost relieved when she told him that old Doctor Wagget had come by appointment, and that Miss Violet and Winnie were receiving the sacrament with the mistress, who, thank God, was getting on better every day.
“It’s wiser for me to wait,” thought Trevor, as he walked away, determined to take a long ride through the Warren, and over Calston Moor, and to tire himself effectually. “They never think what they’re doing, girls are so hand-over-head — by Jove, if she had not Miss Perfect to talk to she might refuse me, and be awfully sorry for it in a day or two. I must only have patience, and wait till the old woman is better. I forget how the woman said she is to-day. No matter — old Drake will tell me. It’s hanged unlucky, I know. I suppose she eat too much dinner with that great fellow, Maubray; or some nonsense — however, I’ll think it over in my ride; or, by Jove, I’ll take my gun and have a shot at the rabbits.”
Miss Perfect was, indeed, better, and Doctor Drake, though a little reserved, spoke, on the whole, cheerily about her. And she saw a good deal of her kind old friend, Parson Wagget; and also, was pronounced well enough to see her lawyer, Mr. Jones, not that Doctor Drake quite approved of business yet, but he thought that so eager a patient as Miss Perfect might suffer more from delay and disappointment. So there were a few quiet interviews on temporal matters.
William was a little disquieted at receiving no letter from Gilroyd for some days after his arrival. But there came at last a short one from Doctor Drake, which mentioned that he had seen the ladies at Gilroyd that morning — both as well as he could desire; and that Miss Per feet had got into a troublesome dispute with some tenants, which might delay her letter a little longer, and then it passed to shooting anecdotes and village news. Such as it was, he welcomed it fondly — enclosing as it did the air of Gilroyd — passing, as it must have done, in its townward flight from Saxton, the tall gate of Gilroyd — penned by the hand which had touched Violet Darkwell’s that very day, and conned over by eyes on whose retinas her graceful image lingered still. Even tipsy Dr. Drake’s letter was inexpressibly interesting, and kept all the poetry of his soul in play for that entire evening.
Miss Violet consulted with Miss Wagget, and agreed that in a day or two they might write a full account of Miss Perfect’s attack and recovery to William, whom it had been judged best, while there was still any anxiety, to spare the suspense of a distant and doubtful illness.
But this is an uncertain world. The message, when it did go, went not by post but by telegraph, and was not of the cheery kind they contemplated.
When William returned to his lodgings that evening, oddly enough projecting a lutter to Aunt Dinah, in the vein of the agreeable Baron de Grimm, whose correspondence he had been studying, he found upon his table a telegram, only half an hour arrived.
It was sent “From the Rev. J. Wagget, Saxton Rectory, to M. William Maubray,” &c., &c., and said simply —
“Miss Perfect is dangerously ill. Come to Gilroyd immediately.”
A few hours later William was speeding northward in the dark, for a long time the only occupant of his carriage, looking out from time to time from the window, and wondering whether train had ever dragged so tediously before — thinking every moment of Gilroyd and dear old Aunt Dinah — reading the telegram over and over, and making for it sometimes a cheery, and sometimes the most portentous interpretation; then leaning back with closed eyes, and picturing a funereal group receiving him with tears, on the doorsteps at home. Then again looking out on the gliding landscape,
and in his despairing impatience pressing his foot upon the opposite seat as if to impel the lagging train.
When William reached London he found at his old lodgings two letters, one from Doctor Sprague, the other from Miss Perfect, which had been lying there for some days.
Having a wait of two hours for his train he was glad to find even this obsolete intelligence. That which, of course, interested him most was written with a very aged tremble in the hand, and was very short, but bore the signature of “poor old auntie.” It was as follows —
“MY DEAR WILLIE, “I suppose they given you some account of my indisposition — not much, and need not not you be disquieted. My old head is a little confused, some medicine I dare say, but shall well again in a day or two two. This note is under the rose. The doctor says I must not write, so you need not it. I have eaten a morsel for three days — so the pen a little. Do remember, dear boy, all told you, dear, about the five years. I dreamed much since. If you think of such a thing, I must do it. Willie, sorry I should be you shoul fear or dislike me. I should haunt torment Willie. But you will do right. When you go go to France, I will send £4 to amuse yourself with sights, &c. And Heaven bless and guard my precious Willie by every and influence, says his fond — .
“poor old AUNTIE.
“Better.”
William Maubray’s trouble increased on reading this letter. The slips and oddities of style instinctively alarmed him. There was something very bad the matter, he was sure. The letter was eight days old, the telegram scarce four-and-twenty hours. But however ill she might be, it was certain she was living when the message was despatched. So he went on assuring himself, although there lay on his mind a dreadful misgiving that he was summoned not to a sick bed, nor even to a deathbed, but to a funeral.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 330
