Early that evening William drove from the station toward Gilroyd. The people at Dolworth had heard nothing of Miss Perfect’s illness. How should they, living so far away, and hardly ever seeing a Saxton face, and not caring enough about her to be very likely to inquire.
At last, at the sudden turn in the road, as it crosses the brow of Drindle Hill, the pretty little place, the ruddy brick and tall chestnuts, touched with the golden smile of sunset, and throwing long gray shadows over the undulating grass, revealed themselves. The small birds were singing their pleasant vespers, and the crows sailing home to the woods of Wyndleford, mottled the faint green sky, and filled the upper air with their mellowed cawings. The very spirit of peace seemed dreaming there. Pretty Gilroyd!
Now he was looking on the lawn, and could see the hall-door. Were the blinds down? He was gazing at Aunt Dinah’s windows, but a cross-shadow prevented hi? seeing distinctly. There was no one on the steps, no one at the drawingroom window, not a living thing on the lawn. And now that view of Gilroyd was hidden from his eyes, and they were driving round the slope of the pretty road to the old iron gate, where, under the long shadow of the giant ash tree opposite, they pulled up. The driver had already run at the gateway.
Pushing his way through the wicket, William Maubray had reached the porch before any sign of life encountered him. There he was met by honest Tom. He looked awfully dismal and changed, as if he had not eaten, or dept, or spoken for ever so long. Aunt Dinah was dead. Yes, she was dead. And three or four dark shadows, deeper and deeper, seemed to fall on all around him, and William Maubray went into the parlour, and leaning on the chimneypiece, wept bitterly, with his face to the wall.
CHAPTER LVI.
SOME PARTICULARS.
THE air is forlorn — the house is vocal no more — love is gone.
“When was it, Tom? at what hour?” asked he. “Late cockcrow, just the gray of the morning. She was always early, poor little thing — somewhere betwixt five and six — it must ‘a’ bin. Will you please have something a’ter your ride?”
“Nothing, Tom, nothing, thanks, but I’d like very much to see Winnie. Call her, Tom, and I’ll wait here — or no — I’ll be in the drawingroom, tell her.”
And to that room he went, standing for a while at the threshold, and making his desolate survey; and then to the window, and then from place to place.
The small table at which she used to sit in the evenings stood in its old place by the sofa. Her little basket of coloured worsted balls, the unfinished work with the ivory crotchet-needles stuck through it, were mere awaiting the return that was not to be. There lay the old piano open.
How well he knew that little oval landscape over the notes mellow by time, the lake and ruined tower, and solitary fisherman — poor enough, I dare say, as a work of art; but to William’s mind always the sweetest and saddest little painting the world contained Under that roofless tower that lonely fisherman there had heard all Violet’s pretty music, and before it poor Aunt Dinah’s grand and plaintive minuets, until, years ago, she had abdicated the music-stool in favour of the lighter finger and the rich young voice.
He remembered dear Aunt Dinah’s face as she, sitting by that little table there would lower her book or letter and listen to the pretty girl’s song, sadly, in some untold poetry of memory. Oh, Aunt Dinah! — He did not know till now how much you were to him — how much of Gilroyd itself was in your kindly old face. The walls of Gilroyd speak and smile no more.
He heard old Winnie Dobbs talking to Tom in the passage, and her slow foot approaching. Poor Aunt Dinah’s light step and pleasant tones would come no more on stair or lobby.
Such a welcome at Gilroyd, or anywhere, as the old one, for him would be no more — no, nowhere — never.
In came old Winnie. Could old Winnie be quite old Winnie, and Aunt Dinah gone? The yearnings of love were strong within him, and he hugged good old Dobbs on the threshold, and her fat arms were round him, and her fat fingers were grotesquely patting his back, and the sounds of sobbing were heard by the servants in the kitchen through the silent house. At last Winnie, drying her eyes, related all she had to tell.
“It happened early this morning, a little before sunrise? she went very quiet — like a child. She talked a deal about Master William, when she was well enough, an’ more loving-like than ever. She did not wish to live: but she thought she would though — ay, she thought she’d do well, poor thing. Miss Vi was with her all the time she was breaking her heart like about it; and Miss Wagget came down in the carriage, and took her away wi’ her — and better, sure it was. This was no place for her — poor Miss Vi. Doctor Drake was very kind, and sat up all the night wi’ her. And sure was Winnie, it doctors could a’ saved her she would a’ bin on her feet still; but everyone has their time. It’s right, of course, to have the doctors in; but, dear me, we all know ’tis no more use than nothink — there’s a time, you know, and, all is one, first or last., I have mine, and you yours, and she had hers — the dear mistress; and time and tide waits for no man; and as the tree falleth so it lieth; and man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward — and, in deed, that’s true, dear knows. Would you like to see her, Master William?”
“Does she look happy — does she look like herself?” inquired William.
“Ah! that she does — asleep like, you’d say. You never saw quieter — just her own face. She is a very pretty corpse — poor little thing, she is.”
“Perhaps, by-and-by — not yet. I could not now. You’ll come with me to her room, in a little while, perhaps. But oh! Winnie, I don’t think I could bear it.”
“It is not in her room,” said Winnie Dobbs. “She was very particular, you know, poor little thing, and would have her way; and she left a note in the looking-glass drawer for the rector — Mr. Wagget, you know that now is; and she made him promise it should be done as ordered, and so he did — only a scrap of a note, no bigger than a playing card; and I don’t think you knew, unless she told you, but she had her coffin in the house this seven years — nigh eight a’most — upright in the little press by the left of the bed, in her room — the cupboard like in the wall. Dearie me! ’twas an odd fancy, poor little thing, and she’d dust it, and take it out, she would, wi’ the door locked, her and me, once a month. She had a deal o’ them queer fancies, she had; but she was very good, she was — very good to everyone, and a great many will miss her.”
And Winnie cried again.
“I knew it must a’ happened some time for certain — her or me must go — but who’d a’ thought ’twas to be so soon? — who’d a’ thought it ever? There’s a great plate, silvered over, wi’ her name on’t, as Doctor Wagget took away to get her years and date put on; ‘twill be back again tomorrow — poor thing — and she’s not in her room — out in the gardener’s house.”
This was a disused outbuilding; for it was many a year since Gilroyd had boasted a gardener among its officers.
“Do you mean to say she has been carried out there!” inquired William, in unfeigned astonishment.
“Them was her directions — the little note as I told you — and Doctor Wagget went by her orders strict, as he said he would; and sure ’twas right he should, for she would not be denied.”
So this odd conversation proceeded, and, indeed, with this strange direction of poor Aunt Dinah’s, whose coffin lay on tressels in the little tiled room in the small two storied cubical brick domicile, which stood even with the garden wall, old Winnie’s revelations ended.
William walked down to Saxton, and had a long talk with Doctor Drake, who was always sober up to nine o’clock, about poor Aunt Dinah’s case; and he wrote to Doctor Wagget, not caring to present himself at the Rectory so late, to report his arrival. And in the morning Doctor Wagget came down and saw him at Gilroyd, when a conversation ensued, which I am about to relate.
CHAPTER LVII.
DOCTOR WAGGET: FURTHER PARTICULARS.
DOCTOR WAGGET found William in the study at Gilroyd; he met him without the con
ventional long face, and with a kindly look, and a little sad, and shaking his hand warmly, he said, “Ah, Sir, your good aunt, my old friend, Miss Perfect, we’ve lost her; my loss is small compared with yours, but I can grieve with you.”
The doctor laid his hat, and gloves, and cane upon the table, and fixing his earnest eyes on William, he went on —
“We had a great deal of conversation in her last illness which will interest you. On religious subjects I found her views — poor lady — all very sound; indeed, if it had not been for that foolish spirit-rapping, which a little led her away — that is, confused her — I don’t think there was anything in her opinions to which exception could have been taken. She had the sacrament twice, and I visited and prayed with her constantly, and very devout and earnest she was, and indeed her mind was: in a very happy state — very serene and hopeful.”
“Thank you, Sir, it is a great comfort.”
“And about that spiritualism, mind you, I don’t say there’s nothing in it,” continued the rector, “there may be a great deal — in fact, a great deal too much — but make it what way we may, to my mind, it is too like what Scripture deals with as witchcraft to be tampered with. If there be no familiar spirit, it’s nothing, and if there be, what is it? I talked very fully with the poor lady the last day but one I saw her on this subject, to which indeed she led me. I hope you don’t practise it — no — that’s right; nothing would induce me to sit at a séance, I should as soon think of praying to the devil. I don’t say, of course, that everyone who does is as bad as I should be; it depends in some measure on the view you take. The spirit world is veiled from us, no doubt in mercy — in mercy, Sir, and we have no right to lift that veil; few do with impunity; but of that another time. She made a will, you know?”
“No, I did not hear.”
“Oh, yes; Jones drew it; it’s in my custody; it leaves you everything. It is not a very great deal, you know; two annuities die with her; but it’s somewhere about four hundred a year, Jones says, and this house. So it makes you quite easy, you see.”
To William, who had never paid taxes, and knew nothing of servants’ wages, four hundred a year and a house was Aladdin’s lamp. The pale image of poor Aunt Dinah came with a plaintive smile, making him this splendid gift, and he burst into tears.
“I wish, Sir, I had been better to her. She was always so good to me. Oh, Sir, I’d give anything, I would, for a few minutes to tell her how much I really loved her; I’m afraid, Sir, she did not know.”
“Pooh! she knew very well. You need not trouble yourself on that point. You were better to her than a son to a mother. You are not to trouble yourself about that little — a — a — difference of opinion about taking orders; for I tell you plainly, she was wrong, and you were right; one of her fancies, poor little thing. But that’s not a matter to be trifled with, it’s a very awful step; I doubt whether we make quite solemnity enough about it; there are so few things in life irrevocable; but however that may be, you are better as you are, and there’s nothing to reproach yourself with on that head. When I said, by-the-bye, that she had left you everything, I ought to have excepted that little jewellery, which was left to Miss Darkwell, and a few books to me, that mad fellow, Bung, you know, among them, and an old silver salver to Saxton Church, which there was a tradition was stolen by a Puritan tenant of Sir — what’s-his-name — that had the tobacco-box, you know, from some church, she did not know what, in this county, when his troop was quartered at Hentley Towers. And — and she had a fancy it was that spirit, Henbane, you know, that told her to restore it to the Church — any church — and there are a few trifling legacies, you know, and that’s all.”
Then their conference diverged into the repulsive details of the undertaker, where we need not follow, and this over, the rector said: —
“You must come down and see us at the Rectory; Miss Darkwell, you know, is with us at present; something likely to be in that quarter very soon, you are aware,” he added, significantly; “very advantageous, everything, but all this, you know, delays it for a time; you’ll come over and see us, as often as you like; a very pretty walk across the fields — nothing to a young athlete like you, Sir, and we shall always be delighted to see you.”
Well, this dreadful week passed over, and another, and William Maubray resigned his appointment at Paris, and resolved on the bar; and with Mr. Sergeant Darkwell’s advice, ordered about twenty pounds’ worth of law-books, to begin with, and made arrangements to enter his name at Lincoln’s Inn, which was the learned Sergeant’s, and to follow in the steps of that, the most interesting of all the sages of the law, past or present.
Vane Trevor looked in upon William very often. Gilroyd, William Maubray, even the servants, interested him; for there it was, and thus surrounded, he had seen Miss Violet Darkwell. There, too, he might talk of her; and William, too, with a bitter sort of interest, would listen, an angry contempt of Vane rising at his heart; yet he did not quite hate him, though he would often have been glad to break his head.
Trevor, too, had his grounds for vexation.
“I thought she’d have gone to church last Sunday,” he observed to Maubray, and I must allow that he had made the same statement in various forms of language no less than five times in the course of their conversation. “I think she might; don’t you? I can’t see why she should not; can you? The relationship between her and poor Miss Perfect was a very roundabout affair; wasn’t it?”
“Yes, so it was; but it isn’t that — I told you before it couldn’t be that; it’s just that she was so fond of her; and really, here, I don’t see any great temptation to come out; do you?”
“No — perhaps — no, of course, there may not; but I don’t see any great temptation to shut one’s self up either. I called at the Rectory yesterday, and did not see her. I have not seen her since poor Miss Perfect’s death, in fact.”
“So did I; I’ve called very often,” answered William; “as often as you, I dare say, and I have not seen her; and that’s odder, don’t you think? and I gather from it, I suppose, pretty much what you do.”
“Very likely; what is it?” said Vane.
“I mean that she doesn’t expect much comfort or pleasure from our society.”
William had a fierce and ill-natured pleasure in placing his friend Trevor in the same boat with himself, and then scuttling it.
Vane remarked that the rain was awfully tiresome, and then looking from the window, whistled an air from “I Puritani” abstractedly, and he said suddenly —
“There’s a lot of affectation, I think, about grief — particularly among women — they like making a fuss about it.”
“To be sure they do,” replied William; “when anyone dies they make such a row — and lock themselves up — and all but take the veil; but, by Jove, they don’t waste much compassion on the living. There are you, for instance, talking and thinking all day, and nightmared all night about her, and for anything you know she never troubles her head about you. It’s awfully ridiculous, the whole thing.”
“I thought you said she was very fond of your poor aunt?” said Vane, a little nettled.
“So I did — so she was — I was speaking of us — you and me — you know. I’m an old friend — the earliest she has almost — and you a lover — no one’s listening — you need not be afraid — and you see how much she distinguishes us — by Jove, she likes old Wagget better!” and William laughed with dismal disgust, and proposed a walk — to which Vane, with a rueful impression that he was a particularly disagreeable fellow, acceded.
CHAPTER LVIII.
REVINGTON FLOWERS.
THAT very afternoon William did see Violet Darkwell; and he fancied he never saw her look so pretty as in her black silk dress. There was no crying — no scene — she met him gravely and sadly in the oldfashioned drawingroom of the Rectory, and was frankly glad to see him, and her wayward spirit seemed quite laid. His heart smote him for having acquiesced in Trevor’s fancy that there could be affe
ctation in her grief.
Good Miss Wagget being in a fuss with the schoolmistress of the Saxton Ragged School (why will benevolent people go on leavening the bread of knowledge which they offer with the bitterness of that insulting epithet?) — counting out copy-books, and primers, and slate-pencils, and rustling to and fro from the press to the hall-table, where they were getting those treasures into order — was little in the way of their conversation, except for an interjectional word now and then, or a smile or a nod, as she bustled in and out of the room, talking still to the matron in the hall.
Violet had a great deal to ask about old Winnie Pobbs, and the servants, and even little Psyche, and the bird, which latter inmate William did not somehow love, and regarded him in the light of an intruder who had established himself under false pretences, and was there with a design.
“I think papa means to take me with him to London,” said Violet, in reply to William’s question. “Mr and Mrs. Wagget — they are so kind — I think they would make me stay here a long time, if he would let me; but he says he will have a day in about three weeks, and will run down and see us, and I think be intends taking me away.”
“What can the meaning of that be?” thought William. “More likely he comes to see Trevor, and bring matters to a decisive issue of some sort,” and his heart sank at the thought; but why should William suffer these foolish agitations — had he not bid her farewell in his silent soul long ago?
What of this business of Trevor of Revington! Was it not the same to him in a day, or three weeks, or a year, since be must! And thus stoically armed, he looked up and saw Violet Darkwell’s large eyes and oval face, and felt the pang again.
“In three weeks? Oh! I’m sorry, if he’s to take you away — but I was thinking of going up to town to see him — about the bar — he has been so kind — and there are two or three things I want advice about — I’m going to the bar, you know.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 331
