At last he left Heidelberg. For three months
he had been thinking of nothing but the future; and
he went without regret. He never knew that he
had been happy there. Fraulein Anna gave him a
copy of Der Trompeter von Sackingen and in return
he presented her with a volume of William Morris.
Very wisely neither of them ever read the other’s
present.
Philip was surprised when he saw his uncle and aunt.
He had never noticed before that they were quite old
people. The Vicar received him with his usual,
not unamiable indifference. He was a little stouter,
a little balder, a little grayer. Philip saw
how insignificant he was. His face was weak and
self-indulgent. Aunt Louisa took him in her arms
and kissed him; and tears of happiness flowed down
her cheeks. Philip was touched and embarrassed;
he had not known with what a hungry love she cared
for him.
“Oh, the time has seemed long since you’ve
been away, Philip,” she cried.
She stroked his hands and looked into his face with
glad eyes.
“You’ve grown. You’re quite
a man now.”
There was a very small moustache on his upper lip.
He had bought a razor and now and then with infinite
care shaved the down off his smooth chin.
“We’ve been so lonely without you.”
And then shyly, with a little break in her voice,
she asked: “You are glad to come back to
your home, aren’t you?”
“Yes, rather.”
She was so thin that she seemed almost transparent,
the arms she put round his neck were frail bones that
reminded you of chicken bones, and her faded face
was oh! so wrinkled. The gray curls which she
still wore in the fashion of her youth gave her a
queer, pathetic look; and her little withered body
was like an autumn leaf, you felt it might be blown
away by the first sharp wind. Philip realised
that they had done with life, these two quiet little
people: they belonged to a past generation, and
they were waiting there patiently, rather stupidly,
for death; and he, in his vigour and his youth, thirsting
for excitement and adventure, was appalled at the
waste. They had done nothing, and when they went
it would be just as if they had never been. He
felt a great pity for Aunt Louisa, and he loved her
suddenly because she loved him.
Then Miss Wilkinson, who had kept discreetly out of
the way till the Careys had had a chance of welcoming
their nephew, came into the room.
“This is Miss Wilkinson, Philip,” said
Mrs. Carey.
“The prodigal has returned,” she said,
holding out her hand. “I have brought a
rose for the prodigal’s buttonhole.”
