She went downstairs. In the Oak Hall she found the dog, who rose slowly to greet her, looking awkwardly in her direction.
“You, Ruffles? Why have they let you out so early? Poor blind old thing. Oh, so old.”
She scratched his neck gently. Would it be better to have him destroyed? He was so old, he could hardly see any more, and it hurt him to bark. What enjoyment could he get out of life, lying there by the fire, asleep all day and hardly eating at all? Yet he had been such a good servant, for ten years he had barked faithfully at friends. And the only time he had not barked was when the burglars had come that once, when they had eaten the Christmas cake, and had left the silver. But it would be kinder to put him out of the way. One must be practical. But he was blind!
William came in by the dining-room door carrying one of the silver inkstands as if it had been a chalice. His episcopal face was set in the same grave lines, his black tail-coat clung reverently to a body as if wasted by fasting, his eyes, faithfully sad, had the same expression of respectful aloofness. William, at least, never changed. She remembered so well old Lady Randolph, who had known him fifty years ago when he was at Greenham, saying, “I see no change in William.” But of course her eyesight had not been very grand, nevertheless William had shown distant pleasure when told. Still he was too aged, he could not do his share of the work, it must all fall on Robert; the boy was so lazy, though, that it would be good for him to do a little extra. But what could one do? He had served her for years, he had been a most conscientious servant, and it was only the night when the burglars did come that he had been asleep. However, they had only eaten the Christmas cake, they had left the silver.
“William, I should like breakfast as soon as possible.”
“Very well, madam.”
And he was gone. Yes, it was convenient to have him about. He was quiet, he never exceeded himself, and he understood.
Outside, on the little patch of lawn up to the drive, they were mowing already with the horse-mower. They had made a very early start. The same George, the same Henry, leading the pony which had carried John across the open country behind the hounds before he had given up, and which was still the same. It was only John who had changed.
“George,” she cried, “George.”
The pony halted by himself, the men listened.