The last moment came. We had finished breakfast. I was dressed for the journey, and my brass-nailed box was ready in the hall. We awaited the sound of Lord Tawborough's carriage.
Aunt Jael epitomized.
"Well, child, you're at your eighteenth year and you're doing well in life. I'm sure I don't grudge it 'ee. Your poor mother would have been a proud woman to see you going off like this to a good post among fine folk; but don't think as much of folk being fine and grand as she did, poor soul. All is vanity. Keep lowly. Don't let your head be turned because a fine lord is seeing you on your way to a life amid foreign lords and ladies: they're no better than humbler folk before the Lord and not often as good. Profit all you can. Never be ashamed of those who brought you up. Maybe 'twill be three or four years before we see you. A long time when we're old and within sight of the grave. Maybe you'll never see us again."
"Oh no, Aunt Jael!"
"Why not?" said my Grandmother, "'tis as likely as not true. Ye know not the day nor the hour." (The door knocker sounded.) "Come kiss me good-bye and remember I shall tell her you're following after. Love the Lord always."
I hold in my mind the last vision of Bear Lawn: Aunt Jael and my Grandmother standing at the gate of Number Eight, Mrs. Cheese behind weeping in the doorway. I turned round in the carriage and waved my hand. I got a last glimpse of my Grandmother and Great-Aunt and saw them turn round and begin to walk back along the garden path. I saw them after they had ceased to see me. That was the real instant of parting.
On the long journey I said little to my companion; wrapped up in myself and my own thoughts. Some of the way I slept. When we got to Southampton docks, and my last Good-bye in England was but a few minutes ahead I remembered with the greater shame and vividness (that throughout the long journey I had forgotten it) to whom it was I owed all the bright prospects before me, how needlessly good and generous he had always been, and how utterly unworthy of his goodness and generosity I was.
"Sir," I said, and my voice was shaky, "I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for me. I've no money, no power, no anything. But if there's anything I can make or send you to remember me by—if there's anything at all I can do—Is there anything?"
"Yes: Kiss me."
He spoke in a low voice. I trembled with sudden emotion and surprise. Then I kissed him on the cheeks, and he kissed me.