Time went by, and I returned to Raxton. Just when I had determined
that, come what would, I would go into Wales, Wynne one day told me
that Winnie was coming to live with him at Raxton, her aunt having
lately died. 'The English lady,' said he, 'who lived with them so
long and eddicated Winifred, has gone to live at Carnarvon to get the
sea air.'
This news was at once a joy and a perplexity.
Wynne, though still the handsomest and finest man in Raxton, had sunk
much lower in intemperance of late. He now generally wound up a
conversation with me by a certain stereotyped allusion to the dryness
of the weather, which I perfectly understood to mean that he felt
thirsty, and that an offer of half-a-crown for beer would not be
unacceptable. He was a proud man in everything except in reference to
beer. But he seemed to think there was no degradation in asking for
money to get drunk with, though to have asked for it to buy bread
would, I suppose, have wounded his pride. I did not then see so
clearly as I now do the wrong of giving him those half-crowns. His
annuity he had long since sold.
Spite of all his delinquencies, however, my father liked him; so did
my uncle Aylwin of Alvanley. But my mother seemed positively to hate
him. It was the knowledge of this that caused my anxiety about
Winifred's return. I felt that complications must arise.
At this time I used to go to Dullingham every day. The clergyman
there was preparing me for college.
On the Sunday following the day when I got such momentous news from
Wynne, I was met suddenly, as my mother and I were leaving the church
after the service, by the gaze of a pair of blue eyes that arrested
my steps as by magic, and caused the church and the churchgoers to
vanish from my sight.
The picture of Winifred that had dwelt in my mind so long was that of
a beautiful child. The radiant vision of the girl before me came on
me by surprise and dazzled me. Tall and slim she was now, but the
complexion had not altered at all; the eyes seemed young and
childlike as ever.
When our eyes met she blushed, then turned pale, and took hold of the
top of a seat near which she was standing. She came along the aisle
close to us, gliding and slipping through the crowd, and passed out
of the porch. My mother had seen my agitation, and had moved on in a
state of haughty indignation. I had no room, however, at that moment
for considerations of any person but one. I hurried out of the
church, and, following Winifred, grasped her gloved hand.
'Winifred, you are come,' I said; 'I have been longing to see you.'
She again turned pale and then blushed scarlet. Next she looked down
me as if she had expected to see something which she did not see, and
when her eyes were upraised again something in them gave me a strange
fancy that she was disappointed to miss my crutches.
'Why didn't you write to me from Wales, Winifred? Why didn't you
answer my letter years ago?'
She hesitated, then said,
'My aunt wouldn't let me, sir.'
'Wouldn't let you answer it! and why?'