SUSPENSE
One day Trevor actually made up his mind to bring about the crisis; and
pale as a man about to be hanged, and with the phantom of a smile upon
his lips, after his accustomed inquiries, he told Mrs. Podgers, the
cook, who, in the absence of Winnie Dobbs, officiated as hall-porter, to
ask Miss Violet Darkwell if she would be so good as to give him just a
moment. And on getting through his message his heart made two or three
such odd jumps and rolls, that he was almost relieved when she told him
that old Doctor Wagget had come by appointment, and that Miss Violet and
Winnie were receiving the sacrament with the mistress, who, thank God,
was getting on better every day.
“It’s wiser for me to wait,” thought Trevor, as he walked away,
determined to take a long ride through the Warren, and over Calston
Moor, and to tire himself effectually. “They never think what they’re
doing, girls are so hand-over-head—by Jove, if she had not Miss Perfect
to talk to she might refuse me, and be awfully sorry for it in a day or
two. I must only have patience, and wait till the old woman is better. I
forget how the woman said she is to-day. No matter—old Drake will tell
me. It’s hanged unlucky, I know. I suppose she eat too much dinner with
that great fellow, Maubray; or some nonsense—however, I’ll think it over
in my ride; or, by Jove, I’ll take my gun and have a shot at the
rabbits.”
Miss Perfect was, indeed, better, and Doctor Drake, though a little
reserved, spoke, on the whole, cheerily about her. And she saw a good
deal of her kind old friend, Parson Wagget; and also, was pronounced
well enough to see her lawyer, Mr. Jones, not that Doctor Drake quite
approved of business yet, but he thought that so eager a patient as Miss
Perfect might suffer more from delay and disappointment. So there were a
few quiet interviews on temporal matters.
William was a little disquieted at receiving no letter from Gilroyd for
some days after his arrival. But there came at last a short one from
Doctor Drake, which mentioned that he had seen the ladies at Gilroyd
that morning—both as well as he could desire; and that Miss Perfect had
got into a troublesome dispute with some tenants, which might delay her
letter a little longer, and then it passed to shooting anecdotes and
village news. Such as it was, he welcomed it fondly—enclosing as it did
the air of Gilroyd—passing, as it must have done, in its townward flight
from Saxton, the tall gate of Gilroyd—penned by the hand which had
touched Violet Darkwell’s that very day, and conned over by eyes on
whose retinas her graceful image lingered still. Even tipsy Dr. Drake’s
letter was inexpressibly interesting, and kept all the poetry of his
soul in play for that entire evening.
Miss Violet consulted with Miss Wagget, and agreed that in a day or two
they might write a full account of Miss Perfect’s attack and recovery to
William, whom it had been judged best, while there was still any
anxiety, to spare the suspense of a distant and doubtful illness.
But this is an uncertain world. The message, when it did go, went not by
post but by telegraph, and was not of the cheery kind they contemplated.
When William returned to his lodgings that evening, oddly enough
projecting a letter to Aunt Dinah, in the vein of the agreeable Baron de
Grimm, whose correspondence he had been studying, he found upon his
table a telegram, only half an hour arrived.
It was sent “From the Rev. J. Wagget, Saxton Rectory, to M. William
Maubray,” &c., &c., and said simply—
“Miss Perfect is dangerously ill. Come to Gilroyd immediately.”
A few hours later William was speeding northward in the dark, for a long
time the only occupant of his carriage, looking out from time to time
from the window, and wondering whether train had ever dragged so
tediously before—thinking every moment of Gilroyd and dear old Aunt
Dinah—reading the telegram over and over, and making for it sometimes a
cheery, and sometimes the most portentous interpretation; then leaning
back with closed eyes, and picturing a funereal group receiving him with
tears, on the door-steps at home. Then again looking out on the gliding
landscape, and in his despairing impatience pressing his foot upon the
opposite seat as if to impel the lagging train.
When William reached London he found at his old lodgings two letters,
one from Doctor Sprague, the other from Miss Perfect, which had been
lying there for some days.
Having a wait of two hours for his train he was glad to find even this
obsolete intelligence. That which, of course, interested him most was
written with a very aged tremble in the hand, and was very short, but
bore the signature of “poor old auntie.” It was as follows—
“MY DEAR WILLIE,
“I suppose they given you some account of my indisposition—not much,
and need not not you be disquieted. My old head is a little
confused, some medicine I dare say, but shall well again in a day or
two two. This note is under the rose. The doctor says I must not
write, so you need not it. I have eaten a morsel for three days—so
the pen a little. Do remember, dear boy, all told you, dear, about
the five years. I dreamed much since. If you think of such a thing,
I must do it. Willie, sorry I should be you shoul fear or dislike
me. I should haunt torment Willie. But you will do right. When you
go go to France, I will send £4 to amuse yourself with sights, &c.
And Heaven bless and guard my precious Willie by every and
influence, says his fond
“poor old AUNTIE.
“Better.”
William Maubray’s trouble increased on reading this letter. The slips
and oddities of style instinctively alarmed him. There was something
very bad the matter, he was sure. The letter was eight days old, the
telegram scarce four-and-twenty hours. But however ill she might be, it
was certain she was living when the message was despatched. So he went
on assuring himself, although there lay on his mind a dreadful misgiving
that he was summoned not to a sick bed, nor even to a death-bed, but to
a funeral.
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 his seeing distinctly. There was no one on the steps, no one
at the drawing-room 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 rung 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 slept, 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 chimney-piece, wept bitterly, with his face to the
wall.
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