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.