"Where's Warmson?"he said suddenly."I should like a glass of Madeira to-night.""There's champagne,James."
James shook his head."No body,"he said;"I can't get any good out of it."Emily reached forward on her side of the fire and rang the bell.
"Your master would like a bottle of Madeira opened,Warmson.""No,no!"said James,the tips of his ears quivering with vehemence,and his eyes fixed on an object seen by him alone.
"Look here,Warmson,you go to the inner cellar,and on the middle shelf of the end bin on the left you'll see seven bottles;take the one in the centre,and don't shake it.It's the last of the Madeira I had from Mr.Jolyon when we came in here--never been moved;it ought to be in prime condition still;but I don't know,Ican't tell."
"Very good,sir,"responded the withdrawing Warmson.
"I was keeping it for our golden wedding,"said James suddenly,"but I shan't live three years at my age.""Nonsense,James,"said Emily,"don't talk like that.""I ought to have got it up myself,"murmured James,"he'll shake it as likely as not."And he sank into silent recollection of long moments among the open gas-jets,the cobwebs and the good smell of wine-soaked corks,which had been appetiser to so many feasts.In the wine from that cellar was written the history of the forty odd years since he had come to the Park Lane house with his young bride,and of the many generations of friends and acquaintances who had passed into the unknown;its depleted bins preserved the record of family festivity--all the marriages,births,deaths of his kith and kin.And when he was gone there it would be,and he didn't know what would become of it.It'd be drunk or spoiled,he shouldn't wonder!