CHAPTER LVI.SOME PARTICULARSThe air is forlorn—the house is vocal no more—love is gone.“When was it, Tom? at what hour?” asked he.“Late cock-crow, 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 drawing-room, 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 there 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 thesweetest 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 MissWagget 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, if 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, indeed,that’strue, 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 —notyet. 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, shewould, 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 to-morrow—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 outthere?” 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 LVI.
SOME PARTICULARS
SOME PARTICULARS
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 cock-crow, 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 drawing-room, 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 there 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 thesweetest 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 MissWagget 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, if 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, indeed,that’strue, 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 —notyet. 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, shewould, 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 to-morrow—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 outthere?” 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.