“Do tell me, dear aunt, what you mean?”
“It all connects, dear William, with what I told you; the grasp of that hand links you with the spirit world; the image was mine—my double, I do suppose. Hand me that snuff-box. It spoke as if after my death; it urged upon you to maintain your correspondence with me—‘don’t let me go’—and it plainly intimates that I shall have the power of doing as I promised and certainly shall, in case you should meditate disregarding my solemn warning about your marriage, and think of uniting yourself, William dear, to anyone, before the expiration of five years—there’s the whole thing in a nutshell.”
“May I sit here for a little?” asked William, who from childish years had been accustomed to visit his aunt’s room often, and when she was ill used to sit there and read for her.
“Certainly, my dear: but don’t go to sleep and fall into the fire.”
Aunt Dinah resumed her sermon, with now and then a furtive reference to Elihu Bung, concealed under her pillow, and William Maubray sat near the bed with his feet on the fender: and thus for nearly five minutes—he looking on the bars, and she on her sermon and her volume of reference—at the end of that time she laid it again on the coverlet, and looked for some time thoughtfully on the back of William’s head; and she said so suddenly as to make him start—
“Five years is nothing: it’s quite ridiculous making a fuss about it. I’ve known girls engaged that time, and longer, too: for ten and even twelve years.”
“Pretty girls they must have been by that time,” thought William, who was recovering from the panic of his vision.
“And I think they made fonder couples than people that are married three weeks after their engagement,” added Aunt Dinah. “Therefore do have a little patience.”
“But I’m in no hurry about anything,” said William; “least of all about marriage. I have not an idea; and if I had I couldn’t; and my honest belief is I shall die an old bachelor.”
“H’m! I never mind what people say on that subject,” said Miss Perfect; “but I hope what you’ve experienced to-night will be a warning. Yes, dear William, I’m very glad it has happened; it is always well to know the truth—it may affright, but when it comes in the shape of warning it is always welcome—that is it ought to be. I needed nothing more to convince me, but you did, and you’ve got it. Depend upon it, if you disobey you are a ruined man all your days; and if I die before the time, I’ll watch you as an old gray cat watches a mouse—ha, ha, ha! and if you so much as think of it, I’ll plague you—I will. Yes, William, I’ll save you in spite of yourself, and mortal was never haunted and tormented as you’ll be, till you give it up.”