THE PRODIGAL
Then came one of those little silences, during which thoughts glide on
with the stroke, as it were, of the last sentence or two; and old Winnie
Dobbs said at last:
“But I don’t think it would be like a wedding if Master Willie wasn’t
here.”
“Stop that,” said Miss Perfect, grimly, and placing the end of the comb,
with which she had been adjusting her gray locks, that lay smoothly over
her resolute forehead, on a sudden upon old Winnie’s wrist. “I never
change my mind when once I’ve made it up. You don’t know, and you
_can’t_ know, for your wits are always wool-gathering, all I’ve done for
that boy—young _man_, indeed, I ought to call him—nor the measure of his
perversity and ingratitude. I’ve supported him—I’ve educated him—I’ve
been everything to him—and at the first opportunity he has turned on me.
If I were a total stranger, a Cambridge doctor, or anything else that
had never cared or thought about him, he’d have listened to what I had
to say, and been influenced by it. He has refused me for his
friend—renounced me—chosen other advisers—he’ll soon be married.”
“Dearie me!” interpolated old Winnie, in honest sympathy.
“And although Mr. Trevor wrote to him yesterday to mention my view and
conviction, that his marriage ought to be postponed for some little
time, I know perfectly it won’t have the slightest effect, no more than
those birds twittering.”
The sparrows in the glittering ivy were gossiping merrily in the beams
of the setting sun.
“I simply told his friend, Mr. Trevor, and left it to him to acquaint
him, not as having any claim whatever on my particular regard any
longer, but as a—a human being—just that; _you_ know, Winnie Dobbs, when
I make a resolution I can keep it; you remember⸺”
Miss Perfect had reached this point in her oration when old Winnie, who
had been looking out of the window with unusual scrutiny, on a sudden
exclaimed—
“I’m blest if here baint Master William a comin’!”
Aunt Dinah uttered a little exclamation, with her shut hand pressing on
her breast, as she looked over her old servant’s shoulder.
I don’t know how it was, but as William Maubray entered the old iron
gate, he heard the swift tread of a light foot, and Aunt Dinah, hurrying
from the red brick porch, ran towards him with a little cry, and “My
darling!” and threw her thin arms round his neck, and they both stood
still.
“Oh! Willie, you’ve come back.”
William did not answer, he was looking down in her face, pale, with his
hands very gently on her shoulders.
“Come in, darling,” she said at last.
“_Am_ I to come in?” said William, wistfully and softly.
And she looked at him, pleadingly with tears in her eyes, and said—
“Poor old Aunt Dinah.”
And he leant down and kissed her.
“Come in, my boy—my Willie man—my only precious boy that I was so proud
of.”
And William kissed her again, and cried over her thin shoulder, and she,
close laid to his breast, sobbed also; each felt the tremble in the
other’s kindly arms.
Thank God it was made up now—the two loving hearts so near again—sweet
and bitter the angelic love and mortal sadness—the sense of uncertainty
and parting mingling with the great affection that welled up from the
eternal fountain of love. Improve the hours of light. The time is near
when the poor heart will tremble no more, and all the world of loving
thoughts lie in dust and silence.
“I am going to give you the silver tobacco-box that was on Marston
Moor—it is the most valuable thing I have—it has the inscription on the
inside of the cover. It was in my foolish old head to send it to Doctor
Sprague for you. It was your ancestor’s. The ‘Warwickshire Knight,’ we
called him—Sir Edwin. He joined the Parliament, you know, and took the
name of Perfect. I always intended the tobacco-box for you, Willie, even
when I was offended—come in—come, my darling.”
And she drew in the prodigal with her arm in his, and her hand on his
fingers, liking to feel as well as to see and to hear him—to be _quite_
sure of him!
“Dinner, Tom, this minute,” said she to old Tom, who, grinning, spoke
his hearty word of welcome in the hall, “Master William is very
hungry—he has come ever so far—tell Mrs. Podgers—come Willie—are you
cold?”
So before the bright fire, which was pleasant that clear red, frosty
evening, they sat—and looking fondly on him, her hand on his, she said—
“A little thin—certainly a little thin—have you been quite well,
Willie—quite well?”
“Yes, quite well—all right—and how have you been?” he answered and
asked.
“Very well—that is, pretty well—indeed I can’t say I _have_—I’ve _not_
been well—but time enough about that. And tell me—and tell me about this
news—about Miss Kincton Knox—is it true—is there really an engagement?”
“I’ve left them—I came from Cambridge. Engagement! by Jove! I—I don’t
know exactly what you mean.”
So said William, who was struck by something more in Aunt Dinah’s look
and tone than could possibly arise from the contemplation merely of that
engagement he had been fulfilling at Kincton.
“I—I heard—I thought—was not there—isn’t there”—Aunt Dinah paused,
gazing dubiously on William—“I mean—something of—of—she’s very
handsome—I’m told.”
“Going to be married to Miss Kincton Knox!—I assure you, if you knew
her, such an idea would strike you as the most absurdly incredible thing
the people who invented it could possibly have told you”—and William
actually laughed.
“Ha!” exclaimed she, rather dismally—“that’s very odd—that is really
very odd—it must have been a mistake—people do make such mistakes—it
must—and you have heard of—Vi—it seems so odd—little Vi! There’s no
mistake _there_, for Mr. Trevor has had a long conversation with me, and
has written to her father, and we both approve highly. But—but about
Miss Kincton Knox—it was an odd mistake, though I can’t say I’m sorry,
because—but it does not signify now; you would never have waited, and so
sure as you sit there, if you had not, you’d have regretted your
precipitation all the days of your life.”
And thrice she nodded darkly on William, in such a way as to assure him
that Henbane had been looking after his interests.
After dinner she ordered Tom to call Winnie Dobbs, who had already had
_her_ chat with William.
“Winnie,” said she, producing a large key from her bag, “you must go to
the store-room and fetch one of the three bottles on the shelf.”
“We dust them every week, old Winnie and I,” said she as soon as Dobbs
had gone. “They have been there fifteen years—Frontignac—the doctor
ordered it—sillabubs in the morning, when I was recovering, and I don’t
think they did me a bit of good; and we must open one of them now.”
William protested in vain.
“Yes, it’s the kind of wine young people like—they like it—sweet
wine—you _must_. I hear her coming. What are you dawdling there for,
Winnie? Come in—bring it in—why _don’t_ you?”
So, sitting side by side, her hand on his, and looking often in his face
as they talked, they sipped their wine; and old Winnie, standing by, had
her glass, and drank their healths, and declared it was “a beautiful
sight to see them.” And Aunt Dinah sent Tom to Saxton for some muffins
for tea. Mr. William liked muffins—“Be quiet—you know you do.”
“I’m so sorry Violet should have been out, drinking tea at the Rectory;
but you’re to stay to-night; you say you’ll be in time at Mr. Cleaver’s
chambers at five to-morrow evening; and you have a London up train at
half-past eleven at our station; and you must sleep at Gilroyd; it would
not be like the old times if you didn’t.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------