dying. It was the end of an era, the passing of Romance.
As Philip stood helplessly by, watching Dorothy packing his necessities, he found that he was reacting to the emergency in an unusual way. Robert’s dying affected him as his living had done. Philip had not been to London for ten years, and never to Wiltshire, and he contemplated the journey now with excitement.
Nor was this the cold, blank sense of loss that old George’s death had brought widi it. Robert’s death was high tragedy: two friends parted for a lifetime, but still friends and united at a deathbed. It was poignant, almost exhilarating.
As Dorothy fastened the suitcase her eyes were shining.
“I’m glad she went to him,” she said.
“Ah, Ernestine,” said Philip softly and shook his head.
All through the long confusing journey, with its terrifying passage through the City, he thought of Robert and he was ashamed of himself for being so old. Two years of Robert’s memories would fill a column: his own life might be written in a chapter.
It was dark when he arrived at the small country railway station and the grim-faced youth who met him explained that there was very little time. After a terrifying ride, he climbed out on to a moss-grown drive and walked up two shallow steps to an old elm door, which stood open.
As he stood hesitating a light flickered at the far end of the stone hall and an old woman came forward, an oil lamp held high over her head.
“Mr. Dell?” she said in a harsh, respectful voice with a country twang in it. “Will you come in here, please, sir?”
He followed her into a dusty study and she set the lamp down on a table. She was a tall, gaunt woman and her manner was authoritative, after the way of very old servants.
“I didn’t like to tell you at the door, sir,” she said, ‘but he’s gone. He dropped off an hour ago.”
Philip nodded. It seemed he had expected the news. Yet he was conscious of a sense of deep disappointment. Robert was gone. The dramatic reunion was not to be. The elderly housekeeper insisted on taking him upstairs to the big overcrowded bedroom where books, ornaments and little wicker tables besieged an enormous patriarchal bed.
The old man who sat beside it rose respectfully as they entered and the woman glanced at Philip.
‘This is my husband, sir,” she said. “We’ve looked after the poor Master for fifty years.”
Philip was puzzled.
“I only knew Mr. Robert,” he said. “I never met his brother.”
“That would be Mr. Richard,” observed the housekeeper placidly. “He died when I was a girl. Mr. Robert’s been what you might call a recluse all his life. I don’t think he’s been outside the garden these twenty years. We took the liberty of sending for you, sir, because you were the only person he ever wrote to. He was a wonderful, quiet, thoughtful man, were Mr. Robert. He’d take the services at one time, but when the curate came he retired, as you might say.”
Philip stood very still.
“Was Mr. Robert the vicar of the parish?” he inquired unsteadily.
The woman blinked at him.
“Why, o” course he were, sir,” she said. “Just like his father and grandfather were before him. They were all wonderful retiring gentlemen. Never took but little interest in the parish. It was always as if their thoughts were far away. And Mr. Robert, he was just the same.”
A great inspiration came to Philip.
“You,” he said to the woman, “you are Ernestine?”
“Yes, sir,” she said primly. “My surname was Ernest and the Master’s mother thought it unsuitable for a woman, so she called me Irna in the German fashion, and afterwards the Master changed it to Ernestine. When I married John here we’d all got used to it… Would you care to see the Master’s face, sir? He were a very old man.”
“No,” said Philip suddenly. “No. I’d rather think of him as I remember him.”
The old servants bowed to his very natural request.
Dorothy came to meet Philip at
As Philip stood helplessly by, watching Dorothy packing his necessities, he found that he was reacting to the emergency in an unusual way. Robert’s dying affected him as his living had done. Philip had not been to London for ten years, and never to Wiltshire, and he contemplated the journey now with excitement.
Nor was this the cold, blank sense of loss that old George’s death had brought widi it. Robert’s death was high tragedy: two friends parted for a lifetime, but still friends and united at a deathbed. It was poignant, almost exhilarating.
As Dorothy fastened the suitcase her eyes were shining.
“I’m glad she went to him,” she said.
“Ah, Ernestine,” said Philip softly and shook his head.
All through the long confusing journey, with its terrifying passage through the City, he thought of Robert and he was ashamed of himself for being so old. Two years of Robert’s memories would fill a column: his own life might be written in a chapter.
It was dark when he arrived at the small country railway station and the grim-faced youth who met him explained that there was very little time. After a terrifying ride, he climbed out on to a moss-grown drive and walked up two shallow steps to an old elm door, which stood open.
As he stood hesitating a light flickered at the far end of the stone hall and an old woman came forward, an oil lamp held high over her head.
“Mr. Dell?” she said in a harsh, respectful voice with a country twang in it. “Will you come in here, please, sir?”
He followed her into a dusty study and she set the lamp down on a table. She was a tall, gaunt woman and her manner was authoritative, after the way of very old servants.
“I didn’t like to tell you at the door, sir,” she said, ‘but he’s gone. He dropped off an hour ago.”
Philip nodded. It seemed he had expected the news. Yet he was conscious of a sense of deep disappointment. Robert was gone. The dramatic reunion was not to be. The elderly housekeeper insisted on taking him upstairs to the big overcrowded bedroom where books, ornaments and little wicker tables besieged an enormous patriarchal bed.
The old man who sat beside it rose respectfully as they entered and the woman glanced at Philip.
‘This is my husband, sir,” she said. “We’ve looked after the poor Master for fifty years.”
Philip was puzzled.
“I only knew Mr. Robert,” he said. “I never met his brother.”
“That would be Mr. Richard,” observed the housekeeper placidly. “He died when I was a girl. Mr. Robert’s been what you might call a recluse all his life. I don’t think he’s been outside the garden these twenty years. We took the liberty of sending for you, sir, because you were the only person he ever wrote to. He was a wonderful, quiet, thoughtful man, were Mr. Robert. He’d take the services at one time, but when the curate came he retired, as you might say.”
Philip stood very still.
“Was Mr. Robert the vicar of the parish?” he inquired unsteadily.
The woman blinked at him.
“Why, o” course he were, sir,” she said. “Just like his father and grandfather were before him. They were all wonderful retiring gentlemen. Never took but little interest in the parish. It was always as if their thoughts were far away. And Mr. Robert, he was just the same.”
A great inspiration came to Philip.
“You,” he said to the woman, “you are Ernestine?”
“Yes, sir,” she said primly. “My surname was Ernest and the Master’s mother thought it unsuitable for a woman, so she called me Irna in the German fashion, and afterwards the Master changed it to Ernestine. When I married John here we’d all got used to it… Would you care to see the Master’s face, sir? He were a very old man.”
“No,” said Philip suddenly. “No. I’d rather think of him as I remember him.”
The old servants bowed to his very natural request.
Dorothy came to meet Philip at
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