CHAPTER II.A LETTER.The following letter, posted at Saxton, reached a rather solitary student in St. John’s College, Cambridge.“Dear William,“You will be sorry—I know you will—to hear that poor old auntie is not long for this world; I don’t know exactly what is wrong, but something I am certain very bad. As for Doctor Drake, I have no faith in him, or, indeed, in medicine, and don’t mean to trouble him except as a friend. I am quite happy in the expectation of the coming change, and have had within the last week, with the assistance of good old Winnie Dobbs, some very delightfulcommunications, you know, I dare say, what I mean. Bring with you—for youmustcomeimmediately, if you care to see poor Aunt Dinah before she departs—a basket-bottle of eau de Cologne, like the former, you know the kind I mean, and buy it at the same place. You need not get the cameo ring for Doctor Drake; I shan’t make him a present—in fact, we are not now on terms. I had heard from many people of his incivility and want of temper; God forgive him hisingratitude, however, as I do. The basket-bottleholds about a pint,remember. I want to tell you exactly what I can do for you by my will; I always told you, dear William, it was verysmall; still, as the people used to say, ‘every little makes a muckle,’ and though little, it will be ahelp. I cannot rest till you come; I know and am sure you love poor old auntie, and would like to close her eyes when the hour comes; therefore, dear Willie, come without delay. Also bring with you half a pound of the snuff, the same mixture as before; they make it up at Figgs’s—get it there—not in paper, observe; in a canister, androlled in lead, as will be poor auntie before long! Old Dobbs will have your room and bed comfortable, as usual; come by the cross coach, at eight o’clock. Tea, and anything else you like, willawaityou.“Ever your fond old“Auntie.“P.S.—I send you,to guard against mistakes, the exact proportions of the mixture—thesnuffI mean, of course. I quite forgot a new collar for Psyche,plated. Make them engrave ‘Mrs. Perfect, Gilroyd Hall,’ upon it. Heaven bless you. We are all progressing upward. Amen! says your poor old Aunt Dinah, who loves you.”It was in his quiet college room by candlelight that William Maubray read this letter from his kind, wild, preposterous old aunt, who had been to him as a mother from his early days.Aunt Dinah! was it possible that he was about to lose that familiar friend and face, the only person on earth who cared about him?He read the letter over again. A person who did not know Aunt Dinah so well as he, would have argued fromthe commissions about scents, dog-collars, and snuff, that the old lady had no honest intention of dying. But he knew that incongruous and volatile soul too well to infer reliable consolation from those levities.“Yes, yes—I shall lose her—she’s gone,” said the young man in great distress, laying the letter, with the gentleness of despair, upon the table, and looking down upon it in pain and rumination.It would certainly make a change—possibly a fatal one—in his prospects. A sudden change. He read the letter through again, and then, with a sinking heart, he opened the window and looked out upon the moonlight prospect. There are times when in her sweetest moods nature seems unkind. Why all this smiling light—this cheer and serenity of sky and earth—when he was stricken only five minutes since, perhaps undone, by the message of that letter—that sorrow-laden burlesque?This sort of suggestion, in such a moment, comes despairingly. The vastness of creation—the inflexibility of its laws, and “What is man, and what am I among men, that the great Projector of all this should look after ephemeral me and my concerns? The human sympathy that I could rely upon, and human power—frail and fleeting—but still enough—is gone, and in this solitary hour, as in the coming one of death, experience fails me, and I must rest all upon that which, according to my light, is faith, or theory, or chance!”With a great sigh, and a heavy heart, William Maubray turned away from the window, and a gush of very true affection flooded his heart as he thought of kind old Aunt Dinah. He read the letter once more, to make out what gleams of comfort he could.A handsome fellow was William Maubray—nearly three-and-twenty by this time—good at cricket—great atfootball: three years ago, in the school days, now, so old, tall, and lithe. A studious man in his own way—a little pale, with a broad forehead, good blue eyes, and delicately formed, but somewhat sad features.He looked round his room. He had grown very fond of that homely apartment. His eyes wandered over his few shelves of beloved old books, in all manner of dingy and decayed bindings—some of them two centuries and a half old, very few of later birth than a hundred years ago. Delightful companions—ready at a moment’s call—ready to open their minds, and say their best sayings on any subject he might choose—resenting no neglect, obtruding no counsel, always the same serene, cheerful inalienable friends.The idea of parting with them was insupportable, nearly. But if the break-up came, theymustpart company, and the world be a new one for him. The young man spent much of that night in dismal reveries and speculations over his future schemes and chances, all of which I spare the reader.Good Dr. Sprague, whom he saw next day, heard the news with much concern. He had known Miss Perfect long ago, and was decorously sorry on her account. But his real regrets were for the young man.“Well, you go, of course, and see your aunt, and I do trust it mayn’t be quite so bad. Stay, you know, as long as she wants you, and don’t despond. I could wish your reading had been in a more availabledirection, but rely on it, you’ll find a way to make a start and get into a profession, and with your abilities, I’ve no doubt you’ll make your way in the world.”And the doctor, who was a shrewd as well as a kindly little gentleman, having buttoned the last button of his gaiter, stood, cap in hand, erect, and smiling confidently,he shook his hand with a “God bless you, Maubray,” and a few minutes later William Maubray, with all his commissions stowed away in his portmanteau, had commenced his journey to Gilroyd Hall.The moon was up, and the little town of Saxton very quiet, as Her Majesty’s mail, dropping a bag at the post-office, whirled through it, and pulled up at the further end, at the gate of Gilroyd Hall, there to drop our friend, an outside passenger.The tall, florid iron gate was already locked. William tugged at the bell, and drew back a little to reconnoitre the premises. One of the old brick gables overhangs the road, with only a couple of windows high up, and he saw that his summons had put a light in motion within them. So he rejoined his hat-case, and his portmanteau, awaiting him on its end, in front of the white iron gate that looked like lace-work in the moonlight.“Ha! Tom; glad to see you.”“Welcome, Mr. William, Sir; she a wearyin’ to see ye, and scarce thought you’d a come to-night.”The wicket beside the great gate was now open, and William shook hands with the old retainer, and glancing anxiously up at the stone-faced windows, as it were to read the countenance of the old house, he asked, “And howisshe, Tom, to-night?”“Complainin’ an’ down-hearted a bit forher, that is now and again. She cried a good bout to-day wi’ old Winnie, in the little parlour.”“She’s up, then?”“Ooh, ay; she’s not a body to lay down while she’s a leg to stan’ on. But I do think she’s nigh her endin’. Gie’t to me,” this referred to the portmanteau. “I do, poor old girl; and we’s all be sorry, Master Willie.”William’s heart sank.“Where is she?” he inquired.“In the drawing-room, I think.”By this time they were standing in the oak-panelled hall, and some one looked over the banister from the lobby, upon them. It was old Winnie; the light of her candle was shining pleasantly on her ruddy and kindly face.“Oh! Master Willie. Thank God, you’re come at last. Glad she’ll be to see you.”Old Winnie ambled down the stairs with the corner of her apron to her eye, and shook him by both hands, and greeted him again very kindly, and even kissed him according to the tradition of a score of years.“Is sheveryill, Dobbs?” whispered he, looking pale.“Well, not to sayveryto look at, you’d say, but she’s had a warnin’, her and me sittin’ in the bed-room, an’ she’s bin an’ made a new will; the lawyer’s bin up from Saxton. Don’t ye say I said nothing, mind; ’twould only fret her, maybe.”
CHAPTER II.
A LETTER.
A LETTER.
A LETTER.
The following letter, posted at Saxton, reached a rather solitary student in St. John’s College, Cambridge.
“Dear William,“You will be sorry—I know you will—to hear that poor old auntie is not long for this world; I don’t know exactly what is wrong, but something I am certain very bad. As for Doctor Drake, I have no faith in him, or, indeed, in medicine, and don’t mean to trouble him except as a friend. I am quite happy in the expectation of the coming change, and have had within the last week, with the assistance of good old Winnie Dobbs, some very delightfulcommunications, you know, I dare say, what I mean. Bring with you—for youmustcomeimmediately, if you care to see poor Aunt Dinah before she departs—a basket-bottle of eau de Cologne, like the former, you know the kind I mean, and buy it at the same place. You need not get the cameo ring for Doctor Drake; I shan’t make him a present—in fact, we are not now on terms. I had heard from many people of his incivility and want of temper; God forgive him hisingratitude, however, as I do. The basket-bottleholds about a pint,remember. I want to tell you exactly what I can do for you by my will; I always told you, dear William, it was verysmall; still, as the people used to say, ‘every little makes a muckle,’ and though little, it will be ahelp. I cannot rest till you come; I know and am sure you love poor old auntie, and would like to close her eyes when the hour comes; therefore, dear Willie, come without delay. Also bring with you half a pound of the snuff, the same mixture as before; they make it up at Figgs’s—get it there—not in paper, observe; in a canister, androlled in lead, as will be poor auntie before long! Old Dobbs will have your room and bed comfortable, as usual; come by the cross coach, at eight o’clock. Tea, and anything else you like, willawaityou.“Ever your fond old“Auntie.“P.S.—I send you,to guard against mistakes, the exact proportions of the mixture—thesnuffI mean, of course. I quite forgot a new collar for Psyche,plated. Make them engrave ‘Mrs. Perfect, Gilroyd Hall,’ upon it. Heaven bless you. We are all progressing upward. Amen! says your poor old Aunt Dinah, who loves you.”
“Dear William,
“You will be sorry—I know you will—to hear that poor old auntie is not long for this world; I don’t know exactly what is wrong, but something I am certain very bad. As for Doctor Drake, I have no faith in him, or, indeed, in medicine, and don’t mean to trouble him except as a friend. I am quite happy in the expectation of the coming change, and have had within the last week, with the assistance of good old Winnie Dobbs, some very delightfulcommunications, you know, I dare say, what I mean. Bring with you—for youmustcomeimmediately, if you care to see poor Aunt Dinah before she departs—a basket-bottle of eau de Cologne, like the former, you know the kind I mean, and buy it at the same place. You need not get the cameo ring for Doctor Drake; I shan’t make him a present—in fact, we are not now on terms. I had heard from many people of his incivility and want of temper; God forgive him hisingratitude, however, as I do. The basket-bottleholds about a pint,remember. I want to tell you exactly what I can do for you by my will; I always told you, dear William, it was verysmall; still, as the people used to say, ‘every little makes a muckle,’ and though little, it will be ahelp. I cannot rest till you come; I know and am sure you love poor old auntie, and would like to close her eyes when the hour comes; therefore, dear Willie, come without delay. Also bring with you half a pound of the snuff, the same mixture as before; they make it up at Figgs’s—get it there—not in paper, observe; in a canister, androlled in lead, as will be poor auntie before long! Old Dobbs will have your room and bed comfortable, as usual; come by the cross coach, at eight o’clock. Tea, and anything else you like, willawaityou.
“Ever your fond old
“Ever your fond old
“Auntie.
“Auntie.
“P.S.—I send you,to guard against mistakes, the exact proportions of the mixture—thesnuffI mean, of course. I quite forgot a new collar for Psyche,plated. Make them engrave ‘Mrs. Perfect, Gilroyd Hall,’ upon it. Heaven bless you. We are all progressing upward. Amen! says your poor old Aunt Dinah, who loves you.”
It was in his quiet college room by candlelight that William Maubray read this letter from his kind, wild, preposterous old aunt, who had been to him as a mother from his early days.
Aunt Dinah! was it possible that he was about to lose that familiar friend and face, the only person on earth who cared about him?
He read the letter over again. A person who did not know Aunt Dinah so well as he, would have argued fromthe commissions about scents, dog-collars, and snuff, that the old lady had no honest intention of dying. But he knew that incongruous and volatile soul too well to infer reliable consolation from those levities.
“Yes, yes—I shall lose her—she’s gone,” said the young man in great distress, laying the letter, with the gentleness of despair, upon the table, and looking down upon it in pain and rumination.
It would certainly make a change—possibly a fatal one—in his prospects. A sudden change. He read the letter through again, and then, with a sinking heart, he opened the window and looked out upon the moonlight prospect. There are times when in her sweetest moods nature seems unkind. Why all this smiling light—this cheer and serenity of sky and earth—when he was stricken only five minutes since, perhaps undone, by the message of that letter—that sorrow-laden burlesque?
This sort of suggestion, in such a moment, comes despairingly. The vastness of creation—the inflexibility of its laws, and “What is man, and what am I among men, that the great Projector of all this should look after ephemeral me and my concerns? The human sympathy that I could rely upon, and human power—frail and fleeting—but still enough—is gone, and in this solitary hour, as in the coming one of death, experience fails me, and I must rest all upon that which, according to my light, is faith, or theory, or chance!”
With a great sigh, and a heavy heart, William Maubray turned away from the window, and a gush of very true affection flooded his heart as he thought of kind old Aunt Dinah. He read the letter once more, to make out what gleams of comfort he could.
A handsome fellow was William Maubray—nearly three-and-twenty by this time—good at cricket—great atfootball: three years ago, in the school days, now, so old, tall, and lithe. A studious man in his own way—a little pale, with a broad forehead, good blue eyes, and delicately formed, but somewhat sad features.
He looked round his room. He had grown very fond of that homely apartment. His eyes wandered over his few shelves of beloved old books, in all manner of dingy and decayed bindings—some of them two centuries and a half old, very few of later birth than a hundred years ago. Delightful companions—ready at a moment’s call—ready to open their minds, and say their best sayings on any subject he might choose—resenting no neglect, obtruding no counsel, always the same serene, cheerful inalienable friends.
The idea of parting with them was insupportable, nearly. But if the break-up came, theymustpart company, and the world be a new one for him. The young man spent much of that night in dismal reveries and speculations over his future schemes and chances, all of which I spare the reader.
Good Dr. Sprague, whom he saw next day, heard the news with much concern. He had known Miss Perfect long ago, and was decorously sorry on her account. But his real regrets were for the young man.
“Well, you go, of course, and see your aunt, and I do trust it mayn’t be quite so bad. Stay, you know, as long as she wants you, and don’t despond. I could wish your reading had been in a more availabledirection, but rely on it, you’ll find a way to make a start and get into a profession, and with your abilities, I’ve no doubt you’ll make your way in the world.”
And the doctor, who was a shrewd as well as a kindly little gentleman, having buttoned the last button of his gaiter, stood, cap in hand, erect, and smiling confidently,he shook his hand with a “God bless you, Maubray,” and a few minutes later William Maubray, with all his commissions stowed away in his portmanteau, had commenced his journey to Gilroyd Hall.
The moon was up, and the little town of Saxton very quiet, as Her Majesty’s mail, dropping a bag at the post-office, whirled through it, and pulled up at the further end, at the gate of Gilroyd Hall, there to drop our friend, an outside passenger.
The tall, florid iron gate was already locked. William tugged at the bell, and drew back a little to reconnoitre the premises. One of the old brick gables overhangs the road, with only a couple of windows high up, and he saw that his summons had put a light in motion within them. So he rejoined his hat-case, and his portmanteau, awaiting him on its end, in front of the white iron gate that looked like lace-work in the moonlight.
“Ha! Tom; glad to see you.”
“Welcome, Mr. William, Sir; she a wearyin’ to see ye, and scarce thought you’d a come to-night.”
The wicket beside the great gate was now open, and William shook hands with the old retainer, and glancing anxiously up at the stone-faced windows, as it were to read the countenance of the old house, he asked, “And howisshe, Tom, to-night?”
“Complainin’ an’ down-hearted a bit forher, that is now and again. She cried a good bout to-day wi’ old Winnie, in the little parlour.”
“She’s up, then?”
“Ooh, ay; she’s not a body to lay down while she’s a leg to stan’ on. But I do think she’s nigh her endin’. Gie’t to me,” this referred to the portmanteau. “I do, poor old girl; and we’s all be sorry, Master Willie.”
William’s heart sank.
“Where is she?” he inquired.
“In the drawing-room, I think.”
By this time they were standing in the oak-panelled hall, and some one looked over the banister from the lobby, upon them. It was old Winnie; the light of her candle was shining pleasantly on her ruddy and kindly face.
“Oh! Master Willie. Thank God, you’re come at last. Glad she’ll be to see you.”
Old Winnie ambled down the stairs with the corner of her apron to her eye, and shook him by both hands, and greeted him again very kindly, and even kissed him according to the tradition of a score of years.
“Is sheveryill, Dobbs?” whispered he, looking pale.
“Well, not to sayveryto look at, you’d say, but she’s had a warnin’, her and me sittin’ in the bed-room, an’ she’s bin an’ made a new will; the lawyer’s bin up from Saxton. Don’t ye say I said nothing, mind; ’twould only fret her, maybe.”