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 the sweetest
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 Miss Wagget 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’s_ true,
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 — _not_ yet. 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, she would, 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 out _there_?” 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.
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