“Five miles and a half to the station, and the up train at eleven forty-five. The cab, or whatever it is, will be here at half-past ten, and then good-bye. Farewell, perhaps, for three years to Gilroyd,” so said William, as he and Violet Darkwell stood side by side, looking out from the window, upon the glowing autumnal landscape.
“Three years! you don’t mean to say you’d stay away all that time, without ever coming to see grannie?”
“Of course if she wants me I’ll come; but should she not, and should she at the same time continue, as I hope she will, quite well, and should I be kept close to my work, as I expect, it’s sure to turn out as I say. Three years—yes, it is a long time—room for plenty of changes, and changes enough, great ones, there will be, no doubt.”
The uplands of Revington formed the background of the pretty prospect before him, and it needed the remembrance of the promise he had made to Aunt Dinah to prevent his speaking with less disguise, for he always felt of late an impetuous longing almost fierce to break through conventional hypocrisies, and lay bare his wounded heart, and upbraid, and implore, in the wildest passion before Violet Darkwell. To be alone with her, and yet say nothing of all that was swelling and rolling at his heart—was pain. And yet to be alone with her, even in this longing and vain anguish, and near her, was a strange despairing delight.
“Oh, yes, everyone changes, every day almost, except dear grannie and old Winnie Dobbs. I’m sure I change, and so do you, and what won’t three years do? You’ve changed very much, and not for the better,” and saying this Miss Violet laughed.
“My changes, be they what they may, don’t seem to trouble you much,” replied William.
“Trouble?—not at all. I dare say they are improvements, though I don’t like them,” laughed she.
“I don’t think I’m a bit changed. I know I’m not, in fact. Tell me any one thing in which I’m changed.”
“Well, it is generally; you have grown so disagreeable, that’s all—it is not much to me, but I dare say it will be to other people,” said she.
“I’m disagreeable—yes, of course—because I have my opinion about men and things, and fools and nonsense. I don’t know anything I’ve said to you, at least since I came yesterday, that could annoy you. I have not mentioned a single subject that could possibly even interest you. I dare say it is tiresome my talking so much as Aunt Dinah makes me, about myself. But I couldn’t help it.”