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 delightful
_communications_, you know, I dare say, what I mean. Bring with
you—for you _must_ come _immediately_, 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 his
_ingratitude_, however, as I do. The basket-bottle holds 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 very _small_;
still, as the people used to say, ‘every little makes a muckle,’ and
though little, it will be a _help_. 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, and _rolled 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, will _await_ you.
“Ever your fond old
“AUNTIE.
“P.S.—I send you, _to guard against mistakes_, the exact proportions
of the mixture—the _snuff_ I 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 from the 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 at football: 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, they _must_ part 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 available
direction, 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 how _is_ she, Tom, to-night?”
“Complainin’ an’ down-hearted a bit for _her_, 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 she _very_ ill, Dobbs?” whispered he, looking pale.
“Well, not to say _very_ to 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.”
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