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diff --git a/75403-0.txt b/75403-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c868328 --- /dev/null +++ b/75403-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5726 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75403 *** + + + [Cover Illustration] + + + + + AUNT ANNE. + + _By Mrs. W. K. Clifford_, + + _Author of “Mrs. Keith’s Crime,” etc._ + + + “As less the olden glow abides, + And less the chillier heart aspires, + With driftwood beached in past spring-tides + We light our sullen fires.” + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + In Two Volumes. + Vol. I. + + + + London: + Richard Bentley & Son, + Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen. + 1892. + + (All rights reserved.) + + + + +[Illustration] + AUNT ANNE. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + +Mr. and Mrs. Walter Hibbert had been married just four months when Aunt +Anne first appeared on the scene. They were at Brighton, whither they +had gone from Friday to Tuesday, so that Mr. Hibbert might get braced up +after a hard spell of work. Besides doing his usual journalism, he had +been helping a friend with a popular educational weekly, and altogether +“had slaved quite wickedly,” so his wife said. But he had declared that, +though he found matrimony, as far as he had gone, very delightful, it +had to be paid for, especially at the beginning of its career, when it +ran into furniture, linen, plate, and expensive presents to a dear +little wife, though the expensiveness of the last he generously kept to +himself. So it resulted in the visit to Brighton. They spent the +happiest four days in the world there, and felt quite sad when Tuesday +morning arrived. But they wisely did their best to forget that the +evening train would take them back to London, and resolved that their +last day should pass merrily. + +“Suppose we have a long drowsy morning on the pier,” she suggested; +“nothing is nicer or more restful than to listen to the band and look +down into the water. We needn’t see the horrid people—indeed, if we sit +on one of the end seats and keep our faces turned seawards, we can +forget that they even exist.” + +Mr. Hibbert solemnly considered the proposal. + +“The only drawback is the music, it makes so much noise—that’s the +worst of music, it always does,” he said sadly. “Another thing is, that +I cannot lie full length on the pier as I can on the beach.” + +“Very well, then we’ll go to the beach. The worst of the beach is, that +we can’t look down into the water, as we can from the end of the pier.” + +“That’s true; and then there are lots of pretty girls on the pier, and I +like to see them, for then I know that there are some left—for the +other fellows,” he added nobly. + +So they went to the pier, and sat on one of the side seats at the far +end and looked down into the water, and blinked their happy eyes at the +sunshine. And they felt as if all the beautiful world belonged to them, +as if they two together were being drawn dreamily on and on into the +sky, and sea, and light, to make one glorious whole with happy nature; +but a whole in which they would be for ever conscious of being together, +and never less sleepy or blissful than now. This was Walter’s idea, and +he said it all in his dear romantic way that generally ended up with a +laugh. “It would never do, you know, because we should get nothing to +eat.” + +“Don’t,” she said. “That is so like you; you always spoil a beautiful +idea, you provoking thing,” and she rubbed her chin against the back of +the seat and looked down more intently at the water. Without any one in +the least suspecting it, he managed to stoop and kiss her hand, while he +pretended to be trying to see something, that of course was not there, +at the top of a wave. + +They were having a delightful morning, they lived in every moment of it, +and wished it would never come to an end; still, when it did, there +would be a delicious luncheon to go back to—very large prawns, roast +chicken and green peas, and an enormous dish of ripe figs, which both +their souls loved. After all, Walter thought, the world was not a bad +place, especially when you had a wife who adored you and thought that +everything you did bore the stamp of genius. + +The band was playing a waltz, though to this day they do not know it. +All manner of people were passing to and fro, but they did not notice +them. + +“I should like to stay here for ever,” Mrs. Hibbert said, with a sweet +sigh of content. “Do you know, Walter,” she went on suddenly after a +pause, “it will be four months to-morrow since we were married? Time +seems to have flown.” + +“By Jove! it really is a miracle what those four months have done with +themselves,” he answered, looking up for a moment; as if to be sure that +Time was not a conjurer standing before him about to hand the four +months from beneath a handkerchief, with a polite bow and the remark +that they would have to be lived through at the ordinary rate. + +A spare-looking old lady, dressed in black, passed by, but he did not +notice her. + +“You see,” he went on, with his eyes fixed on a sailing boat in the +distance, “if things were always going to be——” + +At the sound of his voice the lady in black, who was only a few yards +off, stopped, listened, hesitated, and, turning back, stood before him. +He recognized her in a moment. + +“Aunt Anne!” he exclaimed. His voice was amiable, but embarrassed, as if +he did not quite know what to do next. + +“My dear Walter,” she said, with a sigh and in a tone of great relief, +“I am so glad to find you; I went to your lodgings, I saw your name and +address in the visitors’ list yesterday, but you were out; then I +thought I might find you here. And this is your wife? My dear Florence, +I am so glad to see you.” + +Till that moment Mrs. Walter Hibbert had never heard of the existence of +Aunt Anne, but Aunt Anne had evidently heard of Mrs. Hibbert. She knew +her Christian name, and called her by it as naturally as if she had been +at her christening. She stretched out a small hand covered with a black +thread glove as she spoke, and held Florence’s fingers affectionately in +hers. Florence looked at her a little wonderingly. Aunt Anne was slight +and old, nearly sixty perhaps. All over her face there were little lines +that crossed and re-crossed, and branched off in every direction. She +had grey hair, and small dark eyes that blinked quickly and nervously; +there appeared to be some trifling affection of the left eye, for now +and then, as if by accident, it winked at you. The odd thing was that, +in spite of her evident tendency to nervous excitement, her shabby black +satin dress, almost threadbare shawl, and cheap gloves, there was an air +of dignity about the spare old lady, and something like determination in +her kindly voice that, joined to her impulsive tenderness, made you +quickly understand she would be a very difficult person to oppose. + +“Dear boy,” she said gently to Walter, “why didn’t you write to me when +you were married? You know how glad I should have been to hear of your +happiness.” + +“Why didn’t you write to me, Aunt Anne?” he asked, gaily turning the +tables. + +“Yes, I ought to have done so. You must forgive me, dears, for being so +remiss,” she said, looking at them both, “and believe me that it was +from no lack of affection. But,” she went on quickly, “we must not waste +our time. You are coming to Rottingdean with me, and at once. Mr. Baines +is longing to see you both.” + +“But we can’t go now, Aunt Anne,” Walter declared in his kindest manner; +“we must get back to the lodgings. We told them to have luncheon ready +at one o’clock, and to-night we go home. You must come and lunch with +us.” + +“That is impossible, dear Walter; you are coming back with me.” + +“It can’t be done to-day,” he said regretfully. + +“My dear Walter,” she answered, with a look of dismay and in a voice +that was almost pained, “what would your uncle say if he heard you? I +could not possibly return without you.” + +“But he has never seen me, Aunt Anne.” + +“That is one reason why he would never forgive me if I did not take you +back.” + +“But it is so far, and we should be all day getting there,” Walter +objected a little helplessly, for he felt already that Aunt Anne would +carry her point. + +“It is only to Rottingdean”—she spoke with hurt surprise—“and we will +drive. I saw a beautiful fly as I was coming on to the pier, and engaged +it. I know you too well, my darling, to think that you will refuse me.” + +Her manner had changed in a moment; she said the last words with soft +triumph, and looked at Florence. The sight of the young wife seemed to +be too much for her; there was something like a tear in the left eye, +the one that winked, when she spoke again. + +“I must give her a kiss,” she said tenderly, and putting out her arms +she gathered the girl to her heart. “But we must make haste,” she went +on quickly, hurrying over the fag end of her embrace, as if she had not +time to indulge in her feelings much as she desired to do so. “Mr. +Baines will wonder what has happened to us. He is longing to see you;” +and without their knowing it, she almost chased them along the pier. + +Then Walter, thinking of the prawns and the chicken and the large dish +of ripe green figs, made a wild struggle to get free. + +“But really, Aunt Anne,” he said firmly, “we must go back to the +lodgings. Come and lunch with us now, and let us go and see Mr. Baines +another time; I dare say we shall be at Brighton again soon. We will +make a point of coming now that we know you are here, won’t we, +Floggie?” and he appealed feebly to his wife. + +“Yes, indeed we will,” Florence assured her. + +“Dear children,” Aunt Anne laughed, “I shall not take any excuse, or +think of letting you escape now that I have found you.” There was an +unexpected brightness in her manner, but there was no intention of +letting them go. + +“Besides, there may be important letters at the lodgings, and I ought to +do a bit of work;” but there was evident invention in Walter’s voice, +and she did not slacken her pace. Still, as if she wanted him to know +that she saw through his excuses, she looked at him reproachfully, and +with a determination that did not falter. + +“It would be impossible for me to return without you,” she said, with +extreme gravity; “he would never forgive me. Besides, dear children, you +don’t know what a pleasure it is to see you. I could not let you go just +yet. My heart gave a bound as I recognized Walter’s voice,” she went on, +turning to Florence; “he is so like what his dear father used to be. I +knew him directly.” + +They were already by the turnstile. They felt helpless. The old lady +with the thin shoulders and the black shawl loosely floating behind +seemed to be their master: they were like children doing as they were +told. + +“Here is the fly. Get in, my darlings,” she said triumphantly, and +Florence meekly took her place. “Get in, dear Walter,” she repeated with +decision, “I will follow; get in,” and he too obeyed. Another moment and +they were going towards Rottingdean. + +The old lady looked relieved and pleased when they were well on their +way. + +“It is a lovely drive,” she said, “and it will do you far more good than +sitting on the pier. I am so glad to have you with me, dear children.” +She seemed to delight in calling them children, and it was odd, but each +time that she said the word it seemed to give her a stronger hold on +them. She turned to Florence. + +“Are your father and mother quite well, my dear?” she asked, and waited +with polite eagerness for a reply. + +Walter put his hand on his wife’s. + +“She only has a mother,” he said gently. + +Aunt Anne looked quite penitent. She winked with her left eye and was +silent for a moment or two, almost as if she meditated shedding a tear +for the defunct father of the niece by marriage whom she had never seen +in her life before to-day. Suddenly she turned the subject so +grotesquely that they nearly laughed. + +“Are you fond of chocolates, my darling?” + +“Yes——” Florence hesitated a minute and then said softly, “Yes, Aunt +Anne, very”—she had not had occasion to give the old lady any name in +the few words she had spoken previously. + +“Dear child, I knew you would be,” Aunt Anne said, and from under her +shawl she produced a box covered with white satin paper and having on +its lid a very bright picture of a very smart lady. “I bought that box +of chocolates for you as I came along. I thought Florence would be like +the picture on the lid,” she added, turning to her nephew; “and she is, +don’t you think so, Walter dear?” + +“Yes, Aunt Anne, she is—it is a most beautiful lady,” he answered, and +he looked fondly at his wife and drew up his lips a little bit in a +manner that Florence knew meant, in the language only she and he in all +the wide world understood, that in his thoughts he kissed her. + +Aunt Anne was a dear old lady, Florence thought, and of course she +liked, and always would like, any relation of Walter’s; still, she did +so wish that on this particular day, their last by the sea together, +Aunt Anne had kept her distance. Walter was so pale when they left town, +but since Friday, with nothing to do but to get brown in the sun, he had +been looking better and handsomer every day, and this last one they had +longed to enjoy in their own lazy way; and now all their little plans +were spoilt. To-morrow he would be at his office: it was really too bad, +though it was ungrateful to think it, perhaps, with the remembrance of +Aunt Anne’s embrace fresh upon her, and the box of chocolates on her +lap. Still, after all, she felt justified, for she knew that Walter was +raging inwardly, and that if they were alone he would use some short but +very effective words to describe his own feeling in respect to the +turning up of Aunt Anne. Only he was so good, so gentle and considerate, +that, no matter what his thoughts might be, of course he would not let +Aunt Anne feel how much her kindness bothered him. + +Meanwhile, they jogged along in the open fly towards Rottingdean. A +long, even road, with a view on the right of the open sea, on the left +alternate high hedges and wide meadows. The grass on the cliffs was +green; among the grass were little footpaths made by wandering feet that +had diverged from the main road. Florence followed the little tracks +with her eyes; she thought of footpaths like them far away, not by the +sea, but among the hanging woods of Surrey. She and Walter had sauntered +along them less than a year ago. She thought of home, of the dear mother +busy with her household duties, but making time between to write to the +boys in India; of the dear, noisy boys who suddenly grew to be young men +and vanished into the whirl of life; of the dirty old pony carriage in +which she had loved to drive her sweetheart; and when she got to this +point her thoughts came to a full stop to think more particularly of the +pony. His name was Moses, and he had liked being kissed and eating +sugar. She remembered, with a pang of self-reproach, that in the last +months before her marriage she used to forget to kiss Moses, though she +often stood absently stroking his patient nose. She had sometimes even +forgotten his morning lump of sugar in the excitement of reading the +letter that the early post never failed to bring. + +“Are you fond of scenery, dear?” Aunt Anne asked. + +With a start Florence looked round at the old lady, at Walter, at the +shabby lining of the fly. + +“Yes, very,” she answered. + +“I knew it by the expression of your face when you looked at the sea. +Mr. Baines says it is a lovely view.” + +Why should Mr. Baines be quoted? Florence wondered. She looked again—an +open sea, a misty horizon, a blue sky, and the sun shining. A fine +sea-view, certainly, and a splendid day, but scenery was hardly the term +to apply to the distance beside them. + +“Is Mr. Baines very fond of the sea?” she asked. She saw that Aunt Anne +was waiting for her to speak, and she said the first words that +presented themselves. + +“Yes, my love, he delights in scenery. You must call him Uncle Robert, +Florence. He would be deeply wounded to hear you say Mr. Baines. Neither +he nor I could think of Walter’s wife as anything but our niece. You +will remember, won’t you, my love?” Aunt Anne spoke in the gentle but +authoritative voice which was, as they had already found, difficult to +resist. + +“Yes, Aunt Anne, of course I will if you wish it; it was only because as +yet I do not know him.” + +“But you soon will know him, my love,” the old lady answered +confidently; “and when you do, you will feel that neither he nor I could +think of Walter’s wife except to love her. Dear child, how fond he will +be of you!” And she put her hand affectionately on Florence’s while she +turned to Walter and asked suddenly— + +“Walter dear, have you got a white silk handkerchief for your neck?” + +He looked at her for a moment, almost puzzled, wondering whether she +wanted to borrow one. + +“No, Aunt Anne, I fear I have not.” + +She dived down into her pocket and pulled out a little soft packet. “I +thought it possible you hadn’t one,” she said joyfully, “so I bought +this for you just now;” and she tucked the little parcel into his hand. + +It took him by surprise, he did not know what to say. He felt like the +schoolboy she seemed to take him for, and a schoolboy’s awkwardness +overtook him; he smiled, nodded mysteriously, and put the handkerchief +into his pocket. His manner delighted Mrs. Baines. + +“He is just the same,” she said to Florence; “I remember him so well +when he was only ten years old. He had the most lovely eyes I ever saw. +Walter, do you remember my visit to your father?—Ah! we have reached +the hill, that’s why he’s going so slowly,” she exclaimed excitedly. “We +shall be there in five minutes. Now we are close to the village. Drive +through the street, coachman,” she called out, “past the church, and a +little way on you will see a house standing back from the road with a +long garden in front and a white gate. Florence dear,” she asked, still +keeping her eyes fixed on the driver, “do you like preserve?” + +“Like—do you mean jam?” Florence asked, bewildered by another sudden +question. + +“Yes, my love, preserve,” Aunt Anne answered pointedly, as if she +resented the use of the shorter word. + +“Yes, I like it very much,” her newly found niece said humbly, feeling +that she had been rebuked. + +“We have quantities of fruit in our garden, and have been preserving it +all the week. It is not very firm yet, but you must have some to take +back with you.” + +“I am afraid we shall hardly be able to carry it,” Florence began +timidly, feeling convinced that if she were made to carry jam to London +it would be fatal to the rest of her luggage. + +“I will pack it for you myself,” Aunt Anne said firmly. She was watching +the driver too intently to say more. She did not speak again till they +had driven down the one street of Rottingdean, past the newly built +cottages and the church, and appeared to be getting into another main +road. Then suddenly she rose triumphantly from her seat. “There it is, +coachman, that little cottage to the left. Dear Walter—how pleased your +uncle will be! Here it is, dears,” and all her kindly face lighted up +with satisfaction as they stopped before a small whitewashed cottage +with a long garden in front and a bed of lupins at the side. Florence +noticed that the garden, stretching far behind, was full of fruit-trees, +and that a pear-tree rubbed against the sides of the house. + +The old lady got out of the fly slowly, she handed out her niece and +nephew; the latter was going to pay the driver, but she pushed away his +hand, then stood for a moment feeling absently in her pocket. After a +moment she looked up and said in an abstracted voice, “Walter dear, you +must settle with the flyman when you go back to Brighton; he is paid by +the hour and will wait for you, my darlings;” and she turned towards the +gate. “Come,” she said, “I must present you to your uncle.—Robert,” she +called, “are you there?” She walked along the pathway with a quick +determined step a little in advance of her visitors: when she reached +the house she stood still, looking in, but hesitating to enter. Florence +and Walter overtaking her saw that the front door opened into a room +simply, almost poorly, furnished, with many photographs dotted about the +walls, and a curious arrangement of quartz and ferns in one corner. +While Mrs. Baines stood irresolute, there came round the house from the +right a little shabby-looking maid-servant. Her dress was dirty, and she +wore a large cap on her untidy head. + +“Emma,” said Aunt Anne in the condescending voice of one who struggled, +but unsuccessfully, to forget her own superior condition in life, “where +is your master?” + +“I don’t know, mum, but I think he’s tying up the beans.” + +“Have you prepared luncheon?” + +The girl looked up in surprise she evidently did not dare express, and +answered in the negative. + +“Then go and do so immediately.” + +“But please, mum, what am I to put on the table?” asked the girl, +bewildered. + +“Put!” exclaimed the old lady; “why, the cold bacon, and the preserved +cranberries, of course, and the honey and the buns.” + +Florence thought that it sounded like the oddest meal in the world. + +“I think we had better return, I do indeed, Aunt Anne, if you will +kindly let us,” urged Walter, thinking regretfully of the chicken. + +Aunt Anne waved her hand. + +“Walter,” she answered grandly, “you shall not go until you have +partaken of our hospitality. I wish it were a thousand times better than +it is,” she added, with a pathetic note in her voice that found their +hearts directly. + +Walter put his hand on her shoulder like the simple affectionate fellow +he was, and Florence hastened to say heartily— + +“It sounds delightful, dear Aunt Anne; it is only that we——” And then +there came slouching round the left side of the house a tall +ungainly-looking man of about sixty, a man with a brown beard and brown +trousers, carrying in his hand a newspaper. He looked at Walter and at +Florence in almost stupid surprise, and turned from them with a grunt. + +“Anne,” he said crossly, “where have you been? I have wasted all my +morning looking for you; you knew those scarlet runners wanted tying up, +and the sunflowers trimming. Who are these?” he asked, nodding at his +visitors as coolly as if they had been out of hearing; “and what is that +fly doing at the gate?” + +“Why, I have been to Brighton, of course,” Aunt Anne answered bravely, +lifting her head and looking him in the face, but there was a quaver of +something like fear in her voice; “I told you I was going: I went by the +omnibus.” + +“What did you go to Brighton for? you were there only last week.” He +lowered his voice and asked again, “Who are these?” + +“Robert, I told you yesterday that Walter Hibbert’s name was in the +visitors’ list in the paper, and that I was longing to see him and his +wife,” she answered sharply, but still with dignity—it was doubtful +which of the two was master—“so of course I went off this morning to +fetch them. I knew how glad you would be to see them.” + +Mr. Baines gave a grunt. + +The maid, laying the cloth in the whitewashed sitting-room, stopped +clattering the forks and spoons to hear what was going on and to look +through the open window. Aunt Anne noticed it in a moment, and turning +round said sternly— + +“Emma, proceed with your work. I told you,” she went on, again speaking +to her husband, “that these dear children were at Brighton. I have +brought them back, Robert, to introduce them to you. They have been +looking forward to it.” + +He gave another grunt, and shook his awkward shoulders in what was meant +to be a civil manner. + +“Oh, that’s it,” he said; “well, you had better come in and have +something to eat.” And he led the way into the cottage. + +Aunt Anne entirely recovered herself the moment she was under her own +roof. “He is so forgetful,” she said softly, “but he has really been +longing to see you;” and she touched his arm: “I told them how glad you +would be to see them, Robert,” she said appealingly, as if she felt +quite certain that he would remember his gladness in a moment or two, +and wondered if it was yet flowing into his heart. “Dear Florence, you +must ask him to show you his botanical specimens; he has a wonderful +collection.” + +“We will,” said Walter, good-humouredly. + +“And now you must excuse me for a few minutes, dears. I know how much +your uncle will enjoy a talk with you;” and, to the dismay of the +Hibberts, Aunt Anne vanished, leaving them alone with the brown man. + +Mr. Baines sat slowly down on the arm-chair, the only really comfortable +one in the room, and stretched out his left leg in a manner that showed +it was stiff. Then he looked at his visitors grimly, yet with a +suggestion of odd amusement on his face, as if he knew perfectly how +embarrassed they felt. + +“Sit down, Mrs. Hibbert,” he said, nodding towards an ordinary chair, +and including Walter in the nod. “I dare say you’ll be glad of your food +before you look at specimens. I shall,” and he gave a lumbering laugh. +“I have done a hard morning’s work.” + +“I am sure you must be very tired,” Florence said politely, wishing Aunt +Anne would return. + +He seemed to know her thoughts, and answered them in an explanatory +manner: “Anne won’t be long. She always dresses before we have dinner. +Great nonsense, living as we do; but it’s no use my speaking. Do you +make a long stay in Brighton, Mr. Hibbert?” + +“No, we go back to town to-night.” + +“A good thing,” he said, with another lumbering laugh; “Brighton is a +horrible place to my mind, and the sooner one leaves it the better. That +pier, with its band and set of idle people, with nothing else to do but +to walk up and down;—well, it’s my opinion that railways have done a +vast deal of mischief and mighty little good to make up for it. The same +thing can be said of newspapers. What good do they do?” + +Walter felt that this sudden turn upon the Press was a little hard on +him, but he looked up over his moustache with laughter in his eyes, and +wondered what would come next. Florence was almost angry. Aunt Anne’s +husband was very rude, she thought, and she determined to come to the +rescue. + +“But you were reading a paper,” she said, and tried to see the name of +one that Mr. Baines had thrown down beside his chair. + +“Oh, yes; I like to try and find out what mischief they are going to do +next. If I had my way they should only be published monthly, if at all. +All they do is to try and set people by the ears.” + +“But they tell us the news.” + +“Well, and what better are we for that? I don’t want to know that a man +was hanged last week, and a prince will be married to-morrow; I only +waste my time reading about them when I might be usefully employed +minding my own business.” + +“Walter writes for a paper,” Florence said distantly, determined to find +out if Mr. Baines was being rude on purpose. A little dull curiosity +came into his eyes, as he looked up and asked— + +“Walter—who’s Walter?” + +“I am,” laughed the owner of the name; “but she needn’t have betrayed +me.” Mr. Baines was in no way disconcerted. + +“Oh! you write for a paper, do you? Well, I am sorry for you; you might +do something much better. Oh, here’s Anne; now we had better go and +eat.” With the aid of a stick, he shuffled out of the chair, refusing +Walter’s offered help. “I didn’t know you wrote for a paper, or I would +have held my tongue,” he said, as a sort of apology. “No, thank you, I +am all right once I am on my feet.” + +Florence and Walter were astonished when they looked at Aunt Anne. They +hardly knew her again. The shabby black shawl had vanished, the dusty +bonnet was replaced by a soft white cap; there was lace at her throat +fastened by a little crinkly gold brooch that had a place for hair in +the middle: her satin dress trailed an inch or two on the ground behind, +and she had put a red carnation in her bosom almost coquettishly. + +“Now, dears,” she said, with a smile of welcome that was fascinating +from its absolute genuineness, “I shall be truly hurt if you fail to do +justice to our simple repast”—and she sat down with an air of +old-fashioned stateliness as if she were heading a banquet table. “Sit +down, dears. Robert, you must have Florence on your right hand.” + +The Hibberts took their places merrily, their spirits reviving now that +they were no longer alone with their host. Aunt Anne, too, looked so +picturesque sitting there in the little summer-like room, with the +garden beyond, that they could not help being glad they had come. They +felt that they were living a distinct day in their lives, and not one +that afterwards in looking back they would find difficult to sort out +from a hundred others like it. + +Even Mr. Baines grew less grumpy, and offered presently to show them the +garden. + +“And the plum-trees and the pear-trees,” said Aunt Anne; “and the view +from the summer-house in the corner.” + +“Oh yes,” her husband said, “we’ll show them all;” and he helped to do +the honours of the table with what he evidently intended to be genial +courtesy. + +“It does my heart good to see you, dears,” Aunt Anne said, as she +insisted on helping them to an enormous quantity of stewed cranberries. + +“And it does us good to be here,” they answered, forgetting all their +vexation at losing a day by the sea; forgetting even the poor chicken +that was being roasted in vain, and the waiting fly to be paid for at so +much an hour. + +“Walter dear,” Mrs. Hibbert said, as they drove back to Brighton, +carefully balancing on their knees four large pots of jam, while they +also kept an eye on an enormous nosegay badly tied up, that wobbled +about on the back seat, “Mr. Baines didn’t seem to know you when we +arrived.” + +“He had never set eyes on me before. Aunt Anne only set eyes on him five +years ago. He was rather a grumpy beggar. I wonder who the deuce he was? +We none of us ever knew.” + +“He didn’t know you were a journalist, I think.” + +“No, I suppose not. I wonder if he ever did anything for a living +himself?” Then, as if he repented saying anything that sounded unkind of +a man whose salt he had just eaten, he added, “But you can never tell +what people are from their talk the first time you see them. He is not +unlike a man I knew some years ago, who was a great inventive genius. He +used to shuffle about in shoes too big for him, just as this beggar +did.” + +“I felt quite frightened when he first came round the corner.” + +“You see it was rough upon him having his morning spoilt. A man who +lives in the country like that generally gets wrapped up in his +surroundings. I suppose I must have known that Aunt Anne was at +Rottingdean,” he went on; “but if so, I had forgotten it. She quarrelled +with my father and every one else because she was always quite unable to +keep any money. There was a great deliberation in the family a few years +ago, when it was announced that Aunt Anne was destitute and no one +wanted to keep her.” + +“But had she no money of her own?” + +“She had a little, but she lived on the capital till it was gone, and +there was an end of that. Then suddenly she married Mr. Baines. I don’t +know who he was, but she met him at a railway station. He had a bad +headache, I believe, and she thought he was ill, and went up and offered +him some smelling-salts.” + +“Why, it was quite romantic,” Florence exclaimed. + +Walter had a curious way of looking up when he was amused, and he looked +up in that curious way now. + +“Yes,” he said, “quite romantic.” + +“Do go on.” + +“I don’t know any more except that somehow they got married, and she +turned up to-day as you saw; and I wish she hadn’t given us any jam, +confound it. I say, darling, let’s throw it over that hedge.” + +“Oh, I wouldn’t for the world,” Florence said. “It would be so unkind. +She was a dear old lady, Walter, and I am glad we went to see her. She +asked for our address in London, and said she should write to us.” + + * * * * * + +But Aunt Anne did not write for a long time, and then it was only to +condole with Walter on the death of his father. The first year after +their visit to Rottingdean she sent a large Christmas card inscribed to +“My dear Walter and Florence, from Aunt Anne;” but the second year even +this was omitted. It was not until Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert had been married +nearly seven years that Aunt Anne again appeared before them. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + +Many things had happened to Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert in those seven years. +Most important of all—to themselves, at least—was the birth of their +two children, lovely children Mrs. Hibbert declared them to be, and in +his heart her husband agreed with her. But the time came when Walter +found to his dismay that even lovely children would sometimes cry, and +that as they grew older they wanted room to run about with that constant +patter-pattering sound that is usually more delightful to a mother’s ear +than to a fathers, especially when he has to produce intelligible copy. +So the Hibberts moved away from the little flat in which they had begun +their married life, to an ugly little upright house sufficiently near +Portland Road to enable Walter to get quickly to the office. There a +nursery could be made at the top of the house, where the children would +be not only out of sight, but out of hearing. + +Walter did a great deal of work, and was fairly well paid, but that did +not mean a large income for a young couple with two children and three +servants, trying to keep up an appearance before the world. He wrote for +magazines and literary journals, occasionally he did a long pot-boiler +for one of those reviews he called refuges for destitute intellects; and +altogether was thrown much among men better off than himself, so that he +did not like to look poor. Besides, he preferred to live with a certain +amount of comfort, even though it meant a certain amount of anxiety, to +looking poverty-stricken or shabby for the sake of knowing precisely how +he would stand at the end of the quarter, or being able at any moment to +lay his hand on a ten-pound note. + +“You not only feel awkward yourself if you look poor, but cause other +people to feel so,” he said; “and that is making yourself a nuisance: +you have no business to do that if you can avoid it.” + +So, though the Hibberts had only a small house, it was pretty and well +arranged. Their simple meals were daintily served, and everything about +them had an air that implies content dashed with luxury. In fact, they +lived as people can live now, even on a small income, and especially in +London, in comfort and refinement. + +Still, it was a difficult task to pull through, and Walter felt that he +ought to be making more money. He knew, too, though he did not tell his +wife so, that the constant work and anxiety were telling on him; he +wanted another but a far longer bracing-up than the one he had had seven +years ago at Brighton. “A sea voyage would be the thing,” he thought, +“only I don’t see how it could be managed, even if I could get away.” + +The last year had been a fortunate one in some respects: an aunt of Mrs. +Hibbert’s had died, leaving them a hundred pounds and a furnished +cottage near Witley, in Surrey. It was a dear little cottage, they both +protested—red brick, of course, as all well-bred cottages are nowadays, +standing in an acre and a half of its own fir-wood, and having round it +a garden with tan paths and those prim flowers that grow best in the +vicinity of fir. It would be delightful to stay there in the summer +holidays, they agreed, or to run down from Saturday to Monday, or, +by-and-by, to send the children there for a spell with the governess +when their parents were not able to get away from town. Walter had tried +sending Florence and the children and going down every week himself, but +he found “it didn’t work.” She was always longing to be with him, and he +with her. It was only a broad sea and a few thousand miles that would +make separation possible, and he did not think he could endure that very +long: he was absurdly fond of his dear little wife. + +All this he thought over as he walked along the Strand one morning to +his office. He was going to see his chief, who had sent for him on a +matter of business. His chief was Mr. Fisher, an excellent editor, +though not quite enough of a partisan perhaps to have a strong +following. _The Centre_ was a model of fairness, and the mainstay of +that great section of the reading public that likes its news trustworthy +and copious, but has no pronounced party leanings. Still, if it was a +paper without political influence, it was one of great political use, +for it invariably stated a question from all points of view with equal +fairness, though it leant, if at all, from sheer editorial generosity, +towards making the best of it for the weakest side. Thus a minority +looked to it almost as to an advocate, and the majority knew that any +strength that was against them would be set forth in _The Centre_, and +that if none was pleaded there, the right and the triumph were together. +Mr. Fisher liked Walter Hibbert; and though by tacit agreement their +relations inside the office were purely formal, outside they were a good +deal more intimate. Occasionally they took the form of a quiet dinner, +or a few hours in the little house near Portland Road; for Florence was +rather a favourite of the editors—perhaps, for one reason, because she +was obviously of opinion that he ought to be married. A man generally +likes a woman who pays him this compliment, especially when it is +disinterested. Mr. Fisher was a widower and childless. There was some +story connected with his marriage, but the Hibberts never heard the +rights of it, and it was evidently a painful subject to him. All that +was known in the office was that years before a gaunt-looking woman used +to sometimes come for him, and that they always walked silently away +together. Some one said once that he had married her because he had +known her for years, and she was poor and he did not know how to provide +for her except by marrying her, and that she was querulous and worried +him a good deal. After a time she grew thin and feeble-looking. One day, +about three years after the marriage, her death appeared in the paper; +her husband looked almost relieved, but very sad, and no one ventured to +ask him any questions. + +As Walter walked along the Strand that morning he meditated on many ways +of improving his condition and at the same time of not overworking +himself. He found that it told on him considerably to be down late at +the office three nights a week, writing his article, and then, with the +excitement of work still upon him, to go home tired and hungry in the +small hours of the morning. It was bad for Florence, too, for she +generally sat up for him, declaring that to taste his supper and to have +a little chat with him did her good and made her heart light. Sometimes +he thought he would take up a different line altogether (he knew his +editor would aid and abet him in anything for his good) and try living +in the country, running up to town every day if necessary. But this +would never do; it would only make him restive. His position was not yet +strong enough to admit of his taking things so easily. It was important +to him to live among men of knowledge and influence, to be in the whirl +and twirl of things, and London was essentially the bull’s-eye, not only +of wealth and commerce, but of most other things with which men of all +degrees concern themselves. + +And when he got to this point he came to the conclusion that he was +thinking too much about himself. After all, he only wanted a month’s +rest or a couple of months’ change of air; a friendly talk such as he +might possibly get in the next quarter of an hour would probably bring +about one or the other and in a far better form than he himself could +devise it. Mr. Fisher was a man of infinite resource, not merely in +regard to his paper, but for himself and his friends too, when they +consulted him about their personal affairs. It was one of his +characteristics that he liked being consulted. Walter felt that the best +thing would be to get away alone with Florence, to some place where the +climate had no cause to be ashamed of itself: he wanted to be sated with +sunshine. It was no good going alone, and no matter how pleasant a +friend went with him, a time always came when he wanted to go by one +route and the friend by another. “Now, your wife,” he thought, “not only +particularly longs to go by your route, but thinks you a genius for +finding it out.” + +He stopped for a moment to look at a bookshop; there was a box of +second-hand books outside; he hesitated, but remembered that he had no +time to stay. As he turned away some one touched him on the arm, and a +voice said doubtfully— + +“Will you speak to me, Walter?” He looked up and instantly held out his +hand with a smile. + +“Why, it’s Wimple,” he said; “how are you, old fellow? Of course I’ll +speak to you. How are you?” + +The man who had stopped him was about eight-and-twenty; he was tall and +thin, his legs were too long and very rickety. To look at he was not +prepossessing; he had a pinky complexion, pale reddish hair, and small +round dark eyes with light lashes and weak lids. On either side of his +face there were some straggling whiskers; his lips were thin and his +whole expression very grave. His voice was low but firm in its tone, as +though he wished to convey that even in small matters it would be +useless to contradict him. He wore rather shabby dark clothes, his thin +overcoat was unbuttoned and showed that the undercoat was faced with +watered silk that had worn a little shiny; attached to his waistcoat was +a watchguard made of brown hair ornamented here and there with bright +gold clasps. He did not look strong or very flourishing. He was fairly +gentleman-like, but only fairly so, and he did not look very agreeable. +The apparent weakness of his legs seemed to prevent him from walking +uprightly; he looked down a good deal at the toes of his boots, which +were well polished. The oddest thing about him was that with all his +unprepossessing appearance he had a certain air of sentiment; +occasionally a sentimental tone stole into his voice, but he carefully +repressed it. Walter remembered the moment he looked at him that the +brown hair watchguard had been the gift of a pretty girl, the daughter +of a tailor to whom he had made love as if in compensation for not +paying her father’s bill. He wondered how it had ended, whether the girl +had broken her heart for him, or found him out. But the next moment he +hated himself for his ungenerous thoughts, and forcing them back spoke +in as friendly a voice as he could manage. “It’s ages since we came +across each other,” he said, “and I should not have seen you just now if +you had not seen me.” + +“I wasn’t sure whether you would speak to me,” Mr. Wimple said solemnly, +as they walked on together, and then almost hurriedly, as if to avoid +thinking about unpleasant things, he asked, “How is your wife?” + +“All right, thank you. But how are you, and how are you getting on?” + +“I am not at all well, Walter”—Mr. Wimple coughed, as if to show that +he was delicate—“and my uncle has behaved shamefully to me.” + +“Why, what has he done?” Walter asked, wishing that he felt more +cordial, for he had known Alfred Wimple longer almost than he had known +any one. Old acquaintance was not to be lightly put aside. It +constituted a claim in Walter’s eyes as strong as did relationship, +though it was only when the claim was made on him, and never when he +might have pressed it for his own advantage, that he remembered it. + +“Done! Why, he has turned me out of his office, just because he wanted +to make room for the son of a rich client, for nothing else in the +world.” + +“That was rough,” Walter answered, thinking almost against his will that +Wimple had never been very accurate and that this account was possibly +not a fair one. “What excuse did he make?” + +“He said my health was bad, that I was not strong enough to do the work, +and had better take a few months’ holiday.” + +“Well, but that was rather kind of him.” + +“He didn’t mean it for kindness;” and Mr. Wimple looked at his friend +with dull severity in his eyes. “He wanted to give my place in his +office to some one else. But it is quite true about my health. I am very +delicate, Walter. I must take a few months’ rest.” + +“Then perhaps he was right after all. But can you manage the few months’ +rest?” Walter asked, hesitating, for he knew the question was expected +from him. In old days he had had so much to do with Wimple’s affairs +that he did not like now to ignore them altogether. + +“He makes me an allowance, of course, but it’s not sufficient,” Alfred +Wimple answered reluctantly; “I wanted him to keep my post open for a +few months, but he refused, though he’s the only relation I have.” + +“Well, but he has been pretty good,” Walter said, in a pacific voice, +“and perhaps he thinks you really want rest. It’s not bad of him to make +you an allowance. It’s more than any one would do for me if I had to +give up work for a bit.” + +“He only does it because he can’t well refuse, and it’s a beggarly sum, +after all.” + +To which Walter answered nothing. He had always felt angry with himself +for not liking Alfred better; they were such very old friends. They had +been school-fellows long ago, and afterwards, when Walter was at +Cambridge and Alfred was an articled clerk in London (he was by three +years the younger of the two), there had been occasions when they had +met and spent many pleasant hours together. To do Walter justice, it had +always been Alfred who had sought him and not he who had sought Alfred, +for in spite of the latter’s much professed affection Walter never +wholly trusted him; he hated himself for it, but the fact remained. “The +worst of Alfred is, that he lies,” he had said to himself long ago. He +remembered his own remark to-day with a certain amount of reproach, but +he knew that he had not been unjust; still, after all, he thought it was +not so very great a crime: many people lied nowadays, sometimes merely +to give their conversation an artistic value, and sometimes without even +being aware of it. He was inclined to think that he had been rather hard +on Alfred, who had been very constant to him. Besides, Wimple had been +unlucky; he had been left a penniless lad to the care of an uncle, a +rich City solicitor, who had not appreciated the charge; he had never +had a soul who cared for him, and must have been very miserable and +lonely at times. If he had had a mother or sister, or any one at all to +look after him, he might have been different. Then, too, Walter +remembered that once when he was very ill in the vacation it was Alfred +who had turned up and nursed him with almost a woman’s anxiety. A +kindness like that made a link too strong for a few disagreeables to +break. He could not help thinking that he was a brute not to like his +old friend better. + +“I am sorry things are so bad with you, old man. You must come and dine +and talk them over.” + +Mr. Wimple looked him earnestly in the face. + +“I don’t like to come,” he said in a half-ashamed, half-pathetic voice; +“I behaved so badly to you about that thirty pounds; but luck was +against me.” + +“Never mind, you shall make it all right when luck is with you,” Walter +answered cheerfully, determined to forget all unpleasant bygones. “Why +not come to-night? we shall be alone.” + +Mr. Wimple shook his head. + +“No, not to-night,” he said; “I am not well, and I am going down to the +country till Wednesday; it will do me good.” A little smile hovered +round his mouth as he added, “some nice people in Hampshire have asked +me to stay with them.” + +“In Hampshire. Whereabouts in Hampshire?” + +There was a certain hesitation in Mr. Wimple’s manner as he answered, +“You don’t know them, and I don’t suppose you ever heard of the place, +Walter; it is called Liphook.” + +“Liphook? Why, of course I know it. It is on the Portsmouth line; we +have a cottage, left us by my wife’s aunt only last year, in the same +direction, only rather nearer town. How long are you going to stay +there?” + +“Till Wednesday. I will come and dine with you on Thursday, if you will +have me.” + +“All right, old man, 7.30. Perhaps you had better tell me where to write +in case I have to put you off for business reasons.” + +Mr. Wimple hesitated a minute, and then gave his London address, adding +that he should be back on Wednesday night or Thursday morning at latest. +They were standing by the newspaper office. + +“Do you think there might be anything I could do here?” he asked, +nodding at the poster outside the door; “I might review legal books or +something of that sort.” + +“I expect Fisher has a dozen men ready for anything at a moment’s +notice,” Walter answered, “but I’ll put in a word for you if I get the +chance;” and with a certain feeling of relief he shook his friend’s hand +and rushed upstairs. The atmosphere seemed a little clearer when he was +alone. “I’ll do what I can for him,” he thought, “but I can’t stand much +of his company. There is a want of fresh air about him that bothers me +so. Perhaps he could do a legal book occasionally, he used to write +rather well. I’ll try what can be done.” + +But his talk with Mr. Fisher was so important to himself and so +interesting in many ways that he forgot all about Alfred until he was +going out of the door; and then it was too late to speak about him. +Suddenly a happy thought struck him—Mr. Fisher was to dine with him +next week, he would ask Wimple also for Thursday. Then, if they got on, +the rest would arrange itself. He remembered too that Alfred always +dressed carefully and looked his best in the evening and laid himself +out to be agreeable. + +“By the way, Fisher, I wonder if you would come on Thursday instead of +on Wednesday. I expect an old friend, and should like you to meet him; +he is clever and rather off luck just now; of course you’ll get your +chat with my wife all right—in fact, better if there are one or two +people to engross me.” + +“Very well, Thursday if you like; it will do just as well for me; I am +free both evenings as far as I know.” + +“Agreed, then.” And Walter went down the office stairs pleased at his +own success. + + * * * * * + +“That horrid Mr. Wimple will spoil our dinner; I never liked him,” +Florence exclaimed when she heard of the arrangement. + +“I know you didn’t, and I don’t like him either, which is mean of me, +for he’s a very old friend.” + +“But if we neither of us like him, why should we inflict him on our +lives?” + +“We won’t; we’ll cut him as soon as he has five hundred a year; but it +wouldn’t be fair to do so just now when he’s down on his luck; he and I +have been friends too long for that.” + +“But not very great friends?” + +“Perhaps not; but we won’t throw him over in bad weather—try and be a +little nice to him to please me, there’s a dear Floggie,” which +instantly carried the day. “You had better ask Ethel Dunlop; Fisher is +fond of music, and she will amuse him when he is tired of flirting with +you,” Walter suggested. + +“He’ll never tire of that,” she laughed, “but I’ll invite her if you +like. She can sing while you talk to Mr. Wimple and your editor +discusses European politics with me.” + +“He’ll probably discuss politics outside Europe, if he discusses any,” +her husband answered; “things look very queer in the East.” + +“They always do,” she said wisely; “but I believe it’s all nonsense, and +only our idea because we live so far off.” + +“You had better tell Fisher to send me out to see.” + +“Us, you mean.” + +“No, me. They wouldn’t stand you, dear,” and he looked at her anxiously; +“I shouldn’t be much surprised if he asked me to go for a bit—indeed, I +think he has an idea of it.” + +“Oh, Walter, it would be horrible.” + +“Not if it did me good; sometimes I think I need a thorough change.” + +She looked at him for a moment. + +“No, not then,” she answered. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + +Florence sat thinking over Walter’s hint concerning his health. She had +succeeded in frightening herself a good deal; for there was really +nothing the matter with him that rest and change would not set right. +She remembered all the years he had been constantly at work, for even in +their holidays he had taken away something he wanted to get done, and +for the first time she realized how great the strain must have been upon +him. “He must long for a change,” she thought, “for a break in his life, +an upsetting of its present programme. The best thing of all would be a +sea voyage. That would do him a world of good.” She fancied him on board +a P. and O., walking up and down the long deck, drinking in life and +strength. How vigorous he would grow; how sunburnt and handsome, and how +delightful it would be to see him return. She hoped that Mr. Fisher +would offer him a special correspondentship for a time, or something +that would break the routine of his life and give him the excitement and +pleasure that a spell of rest and complete change would entail. She +would talk to Mr. Fisher herself, she thought. He always liked arranging +other people’s lives; he was so clever in setting things right for any +one who consulted him, and so helpful; and no doubt he had noticed +already that Walter was looking ill. + +“But he is quite well; it is nothing but overwork, and that can soon be +set right——” + +There was a double knock at the street door. + +It was only eleven o’clock, too early for visitors. Florence left off +thinking of Walter to wonder who it could be. The door was opened and +shut, the servant’s footsteps going up to the drawing-room were followed +by others so soft that they could scarcely be heard at all. + +“Mrs. Baines, ma’am. She told me to say that she was most anxious to see +you.” + +“Mrs. Baines?” Florence exclaimed absently. It was so long since she had +seen Aunt Anne, and she had never heard her called by her formal name, +that for the moment she was puzzled. Then she remembered and went up +quickly to meet her visitor. + +Aunt Anne was sitting on the little yellow couch near the window. She +looked thin and spare, as she had done at Brighton, but she had a +woebegone air now that had not belonged to her then. She was in deep +mourning; there was a mass of crape on her bonnet, and a limp cashmere +shawl clung about her shoulders. She rose slowly as Florence entered, +but did not advance a single step. + +She stretched out her arms; the black shawl gave them the appearance of +wings; they made her look, as she stood with her back to the light, like +a large bat. But the illusion was only momentary, and then the wan face, +the many wrinkles, and the nervous twitch of the left eye all helped to +make an effect that was pathetic enough. + +“Florence,” she said in a tremulous voice, “I felt that I must see you +and Walter again,” and she folded Mrs. Hibbert to her heart. + +“I am very glad to see you, Aunt Anne,” Florence answered simply. “Are +you quite well, and are you staying in London?—But you are in deep +mourning; I hope you have not had any very sad loss?” + +The tears came into the poor old lady’s eyes. + +“My dear,” she said still more tremulously than before, “you are +evidently not aware of my great bereavement; but I might have known +that, for if you had been you would have written to me. Florence, I am a +widow; I am alone in the world.” + +Mrs. Hibbert put her hands softly on Aunt Anne’s and kissed her. + +“I didn’t know, I had no idea, and Walter had not——” + +“I knew it. Don’t think that I have wronged either you or him. I knew +that you were ignorant of all that had happened to me or you would have +written to express your sympathy, though, if you had, I might not even +have received your letter, for I have been homeless too,” Mrs. Baines +said sadly. She stopped for a moment; then, watching Florence intently, +she went on in a choking voice, “Mr. Baines has been dead more than +eight months. He died as he had lived, my darling. He thought of you +both three weeks before his death,” and her left eye winked. + +“It was very kind of him,” Florence said gratefully; “and you, dear Aunt +Anne,” she asked gently, “are you staying in London for the present? +Where are you living?” + +It seemed as if Aunt Anne gathered up all her strength to answer. + +“My dear, I am in London because I am destitute—destitute, Florence, +and—and I have to work for my living.” + +Her niece was too much astonished to answer for a minute. + +“But, Aunt Anne,” she exclaimed, “how can you work? what can you have +strength to do, you poor dear?” + +Aunt Anne hesitated a moment; she winked again in an absent unconscious +manner, and then answered with great solemnity: + +“I have accepted a post at South Kensington as chaperon to a young +married lady whose husband is abroad. She has a young sister staying +with her, and her husband does not approve of their being alone without +some older person to protect them.” + +“It is very brave of you to go out into the world now,” Florence said +admiringly. + +“My dear, it would be most repugnant to me to be a burden to any one, +even to those who love me best; that is why—why I did it, Florence.” + +“And are they kind to you? do they treat you quite properly?” Mrs. +Hibbert inquired anxiously. + +The old lady drew herself up and answered severely: + +“I should not stay with them an hour if they ever forgot what was due to +me. They treat me with the greatest respect.” + +“But why have you been obliged to do this, you poor Aunt Anne? Had Mr. +Baines no money to leave you?” + +Aunt Anne’s mouth twitched as she heard the “Mr. Baines,” but Florence +had never thought of him as anything else, and when the two last words +slipped out she felt it would be better to go on and not to notice her +mistake. + +“No, my love, at his death his income ceased; there was barely enough +for immediate expenses, and then—and then I had to go out into the +world.” + +It was terrible to see how keenly Aunt Anne suffered; how fully alive +she was to the sad side of her own position. Poor old lady, it was +impossible to help feeling very much for her, Florence thought. + +“And had he no relations at all who could help you, dear?” she asked, +wondering that none should have held out a helping hand. + +“No, not one. I married for love, as you did; that is one reason why I +knew that you would feel for me.” + +There was a world of sadness in her voice as she said the last words; +her face seemed to grow thinner and paler as she related her troubles. +She looked far older, too, than she had done on the Brighton day. The +little lines about her face had become wrinkles; her hair was scantier +and greyer; her eyes deeper set in her head; her hands were the thin dry +hands of old age. + +Florence ached for her, and pondered things over for a moment. Walter +was not rich, and he was not strong just now; the hint of yesterday had +sunk deep in her heart. Still, he and she must try and make this poor +soul’s few remaining years comfortable, if no one else could be found on +whom she had a claim. She did not think she could ask Aunt Anne to come +and live with them; she remembered an aunt who had lived in her +girlhood’s home, who had not been a success. But they might for all that +do something; the old lady could not be left to the wide world’s tender +mercies. Florence knew but little of her husband’s relations, except +that he had no near or intimate ones left, but there might be some +outlying cousins sufficiently near to Aunt Anne to make their helping +her a moral obligation. + +“Have you no friends—no relations at all, dear Aunt Anne?” she asked. + +With a long sigh Mrs. Baines answered: + +“Florence”—she gave a gulp before she went on, as if to show that what +she had to tell was almost too sad to be put into words,—“Sir William +Rammage is my own cousin, he has thousands and thousands a year, and he +refuses to allow me anything. I went to him when I first came to London +and begged him to give me a small income so that I might not be obliged +to go out into the world; but he said that he had so many claims upon +him that it was impossible. Yet he and I were babes together; we lay in +the same cradle once, while our mothers stood over us, hand in hand. But +though we had not met since we were six years old till I went to him in +my distress a few months ago, he refused to do anything for me.” + +“Have you been in London long then, Aunt Anne?” + +“I have been here five months, Florence. I took a lodging on the little +means I had left, and then—and then I had to struggle as best I could.” + +“You should have come to us before, poor dear.” + +“I should have done so, my love, but—my lodging was too simple, and I +was not in a position to receive you as I could have wished. I waited, +hoping that Sir William would see that it was incumbent on him to make +me an adequate allowance; but he has not done so.” + +“And won’t he do anything for you? If he is rich he might do something +temporarily, even if he won’t make you a permanent allowance. Has he +done nothing?” + +Mrs. Baines shook her head sadly. + +“He sent me some port wine, my love, but port wine is always pernicious +to me; I wrote and told him so, but he did not even reply. It is not +four years ago since he was Lord Mayor of London, and yet he will do +nothing for me.” + +She had lost her air of distress, there was a dogged dignity in her +manner; she stood up and looked at her niece; it seemed as if, in +speaking of Sir William Rammage, she remembered that the world had used +her shamefully, and she had determined to give it back bitter scorn for +its indifference to her griefs. + +“Lord Mayor of London,” Mrs. Hibbert repeated, and rubbed her eyes a +little; it seemed like part of a play and not a very sane one—the old +lady, her deep mourning, her winking left eye, and the sudden +introduction of a Lord Mayor. + +“Yes, Lord Mayor of London,” repeated Mrs. Baines, “and he lets me work +for my daily bread.” + +“Is Walter also related to the Lord Mayor?” + +“No, my love. Your Walter’s grandfather married twice; I was the +daughter of the first marriage—my mother was the daughter of a London +merchant—your Walter’s father was the son of the second marriage.” + +“It is too complicated to understand,” Florence answered in despair. +“And is there no one else, Aunt Anne?” + +“There are many others, but they are indifferent as he is, they are cold +and hard, Florence; that is a lesson one has to learn when fortune +deserts one,” and the old lady shook her head mournfully. + +“But, dear Aunt Anne,” Florence said, aghast at this sudden vista of the +world, “tell me who they are besides Sir William Rammage; let Walter try +what can be done. Surely they cannot all be as cold and hard as you +think.” + +“It is of no use, my love,” Mrs. Baines said sadly. + +“But perhaps you are mistaken, and they will after all do something for +you. Do tell me who they are.” + +Mrs. Baines drew herself up proudly; the tears that had seemed to be on +their way a minute ago must have retreated suddenly, for her eyes looked +bright, and she spoke in a quick, determined voice. + +“My love,” she said, “you must not expect me to give you an account of +all my friends and relations and of what they will or will not do for +me. Don’t question me, my love, for I cannot allow it—I cannot indeed. +I have told you that I am destitute, that I am a widow, that I am +working for my living; and that must suffice. I am deeply attached to +you and Walter; there is in my heart a picture that will never be +effaced of you and him standing in our garden at Rottingdean, of your +going away in the sunshine with flowers and preserve in your hands—the +preserve that I myself had made. It is because I love you that I have +come to you to-day, and because I feel assured that you love me; but you +must remember, Florence, that I am your aunt and you must treat me with +proper respect and consideration.” + +“But, Aunt Anne——” Florence began astonished. + +Mrs. Baines put her hand on Mrs. Hibbert’s shoulder. + +“There there,” she said forgivingly, “I know you did not mean to hurt +me, but”—and here her voice grew tender and tremulous again—“no one, +not even you or Walter, must presume, for I cannot allow it. There—kiss +me,” and she pulled Florence’s head down on to her breast, while +suddenly—for there were wonderfully quick transitions of feeling +expressed on the old wan face all through the interview—a smile that +was almost joyous came to her lips. “I am so glad to see you again, my +dear,” she said; “I have looked forward to this day for years. I loved +you from the very first moment I saw you at Brighton, and I have always +loved your Walter. I wish,” she went on, as Florence gently disengaged +herself from the black cashmere embrace, “I wish you could remember him +a little boy as I do. He had the darkest eyes and the lightest hair in +the world.” + +“His hair is a beautiful brown now,” her niece answered, rather +thankfully. + +“Yes, my love, it is,” the old lady said, with a little glee at the +young wife’s pride. “And so is yours. I think you have the prettiest +hair I ever saw.” There was not a shade of flattery in her voice, so +that Florence was appeased after the severe snub of a moment ago, and +smoothed her plaits with much complacency. “And now, tell me when will +your dear one be at home, for I long to see him?” + +“He is very uncertain, Aunt Anne; I fear he has no fixed time; but I +know that he will try and make one to see you when he hears that you are +in town.” + +“I am sure he will,” Mrs. Baines said, evidently certain that there was +no doubt at all about that. “Are the dear children at home?” she +inquired. “I long for a sight of them.” + +“Shall I call them?” + +“Yes, my love; it will do my heart good to look at them.” + +Nothing loth, Florence opened the door and called upstairs: + +“Monty and Catty, are you there, my beauties? I want you, my chicks.” + +There was a quick patter-patter overhead, a door opened and two little +voices answered both at once— + +“We’ll come, mummy, we’ll come.” + +A moment later there entered a sturdy boy of six, with eyes like his +father’s, and a girl of three and a half, with nut-brown hair hanging +down her back. + +“We are come, mummy,” they exclaimed joyfully, as their mother, taking +their fat hands in hers, led them up to Aunt Anne. The old lady took +them in her arms and kissed them. + +“Bless them,” she said, “bless them. I should have known them anywhere. +They couldn’t be any one else’s children. My darlings, do you know me?” +Monty drew back a little way and looked at her saucily, as if he thought +the question rather a joke. + +“No, we don’t know you,” he answered in a jovial voice, “we don’t know +you a bit.” + +“Bless him,” exclaimed Aunt Anne, and laughed aloud for glee. “He is so +like his father, it makes me forget all my sorrows to see him. My dear +children,” she went on, solemnly addressing them, “I did not bring you +anything, but before the day is finished you shall have proof that Aunt +Anne loves you. Good-bye, my dears, good-bye;” and she looked at their +mother with an expression that said plainly, “Send them away.” + +Florence opened the door and the children pattered back to the nursery. +When they had gone Mrs. Baines rose. + +“I must go too,” she said sadly, as if she had overtaken her griefs and +sorrows again, “for I am no longer my own mistress. Remember that, dear, +when you think of me, or when you and Walter converse together.” + +“But it is nearly one o’clock, will not you stay and lunch? Walter might +come, and he would be so glad to see you,” Florence said anxiously, +remembering that as yet she had done nothing to help the old lady, and +without her husband she felt it was too awkward a task to attempt. + +“No, my dear, no; but I shall come again when you least expect me, on +the chance of finding you at home.” + +“And is there nothing I can do for you, Aunt Anne?” Florence asked +hesitatingly, “no way in which I can be useful to you?” + +“No, my dear, no; but thank you and bless you for your tender heart. +There is nothing I want. I wish you could see Mrs. North, Florence, she +is kindness itself. I have been in the house five weeks, and they have +never once failed to show me the attention that is due to me,” she said, +with grave dignity. “We went to Covent Garden Theatre last night—I +refused to go to Drury Lane, for I did not approve of the name of the +piece—they insisted on giving me the best place, and were most anxious +when we reached home for fear I had taken cold whilst waiting for the +carriage.” + +It seemed as if Aunt Anne had been extraordinarily lucky. + +“And you like being with young people, I think,” Florence said, noticing +how her sad face lighted up while she spoke of the theatre. + +“It is always a pleasure to me to witness happiness in others,” Aunt +Anne answered, with a long benevolent sigh, “and it is a comfort to know +that to this beautiful girl—for Mrs. North is only four-and-twenty, my +dear—my presence is beneficial and my experience of life useful. I wish +you would come and call on her.” + +“But she might not like it? I don’t see why she should desire my +acquaintance.” + +“She would think it the greatest honour to know anybody belonging to +me.” + +“Is she an old friend, Aunt Anne, or how did you know her?” Florence +asked, wondering at the great kindness extended to the old lady, and +whether there was a deep foundation for it. She did not think it likely, +from all that she had heard, that companions were generally treated with +so much consideration. For a moment Aunt Anne was silent, then she +answered coldly— + +“I met her through an advertisement. But you must not question me, you +must not indeed, Florence; I never allowed any one to do that, and I am +too old to begin; too old and feeble and worn out to allow it even from +you, my love.” + +“But, dear Aunt Anne, I did not mean to hurt or offend you in any way. I +merely wondered, since these people were so kind to you, if they were +new or old friends,” Florence said affectionately, but still a little +stiffly, for now that she had been assured the old lady was so well +provided for, she felt that she might defend herself. + +“Then you must forgive me,” Mrs. Baines said penitently; “I know I am +foolishly sensitive sometimes, but in my heart I shall never misjudge +you or Walter; be assured of that, my darling.” + +She went slowly up to a little ebony-framed looking-glass that was over +a bracket in an out-of-the-way corner—it was odd that she should even +have noticed it—and stood before it arranging her bonnet, till she was +a mass of blackness and woe. “My love,” she said, “would you permit your +servant to call a cab for me? I prefer a hansom. I promised Mrs. North +that I would return to luncheon, and I fear that I am already a little +behindhand.” + +“Oh, but hansoms are so expensive, and I have been the cause——” +Florence began as she put her hand on the bell. + +“I must beg you not to mention it. I would spend my last penny on you +and Walter, you know I would.” Mrs. Baines answered with the manner that +had carried all before it at Brighton. It brought back to Florence’s +memory her own helplessness and Walter’s on that morning which had ended +in the carrying away of jam and yellow flowers from Rottingdean. She +went downstairs with the old lady and opened the door. Mrs. Baines +looked at the hansom and winked. “It is a curious thing, my dear +Florence,” she said, “but ever since I can remember I have had a marked +repugnance to a grey horse.” + +“Shall we send it away and get another?” + +“No, my dear, no; I think it foolish to encourage a prejudice: nothing +would induce me now not to go by that cab.” + +She gathered her shawl close round her shoulders and went slowly down +the steps; when she was safely in the hansom and the door closed in +front of her, she bowed with dignity to Florence, as if from the private +box of a theatre. + +That same afternoon there arrived a pot of maidenhair fern with a card +attached to it on which was written, _Mrs. Walter Hibbert, from Aunt +Anne_, and two smaller pots of bright flowers _For the dear children_. + +“How very kind of her,” exclaimed Florence; “but she ought not to spend +her money on us—the money she earns too. Oh, she is much too generous.” + +“Yes, dear,” Walter said to Florence; and Florence thought that his +voice was a little odd. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + +“I WISH we could do something for Aunt Anne,” Mrs. Hibbert said to her +husband that evening. “It was very kind of her to send us those +flowers.” + +“Let’s ask her to dine.” + +“Of course we will—she is longing to see you; still, asking her to dine +will not be doing anything for her.” + +“But it will please her very much; she likes being treated with +respect,” Walter laughed. “Let’s send her a formal invitation. You see +these people she is with evidently like her and may give her a hundred +or two a year, quite as much as she wants, so that all we can do is to +show her some attention. Therefore, I repeat, let’s ask her to dine.” + +“It’s so like a man’s suggestion,” Florence exclaimed; “but still, we’ll +do it if you like. She wants to see you. Of course she may not be able +to come if her time is not her own.” + +“We must risk that—I’ll tell you what, Floggie dear, ask her for next +Thursday, with Fisher and Wimple and Ethel Dunlop. She’ll make the +number up to six, which will be better than five. It will please her +enormously to be asked to meet people—in your invitation say a small +dinner-party.” + +“Very well. It will be a comfort if she takes Mr. Wimple off our hands. +Perhaps she will.” + +So a quite formal invitation was sent to Aunt Anne, and her reply +awaited with much anxiety. It came the next morning, and ran thus: + + “MY DEAR FLORENCE, + + “It gives me sincere pleasure to accept the invitation that you + and your dear Walter have sent me for next Thursday. It is long + since I went into society, except in this house, where it is a + matter of duty. But, for your sakes, dears, I will put aside my + sorrow for the evening, and try to enjoy, as I ought, the + pleasure of seeing you both, and of meeting those whom you + honour with your friendship. + + “In the happiness and excitement of seeing you the other day, + dear Florence, I forgot to mention one object of my visit. It is + most important to me in my present unfortunate position to hide + my poverty and to preserve an appearance that will prevent me + from being slighted in the society in which—sorely against my + will—I am thrown. Will you, therefore, my dear ones, send me a + black satin sunshade, plain but good, lined with black in + preference to white, and with a handle sufficiently distinctive + to prevent its being mistaken for another person’s if it is left + in the hall when I am paying visits? There are many other things + I require, but I do not like to tax your kindness too far, or, + knowing your generous hearts, to cause you disquiet even by + naming them. At the same time, dear Florence, I am sure you will + understand my embarrassment when I tell you I only possess four + pocket-handkerchiefs fit to use in a house like this. If you + have any lying by you with a deep black border, and would lend + them to me till you require them, it would be a real boon. + + “Kiss your sweet children for me. I sent them yesterday a little + token that I did not cease to think of you all as soon as I had + left your presence—as the world is only too prone to do. + + “Your affectionate Aunt, + “ANNE BAINES. + + “P.S.—I should be glad, my darlings, to have the sunshade + without delay, for the afternoons are getting to be so bright + and sunny that I have requested Mrs. North to have out the open + carriage for her afternoon drive.” + +“Really, Walter,” Mrs. Hibbert said, “she is a most extraordinary +person. If she is so poor that she cannot buy a few +pocket-handkerchiefs, why did she send us those presents yesterday? +Flowers are expensive at this time of year.” + +“It was very like her. I remember years ago hearing that she had +quarrelled with my uncle Tom because she sent his son a wedding present, +and then he would not lend her the money to pay the bill.” + +“Of course we will send her the things, but she is a foolish old lady. +As if I should keep deep black-bordered handkerchiefs by me: really it +is too absurd.” + +“Yes, darling, it is too absurd. Still, send her a nice sunshade, or +whatever it is she wants; I suppose a pound or two will do it,” Walter +said, and hurried off to the office. + +But Florence sat thinking. The sunshade and the handkerchiefs would make +a big hole in the money allowed for weekly expenses, could not indeed +come out of it. She wished she could take things as easily as Walter +did, but the small worries of life never fell upon him as they did upon +her. She was inclined to think that it was the small worries that made +wrinkles, and she thought of those on poor Aunt Anne’s face. Perhaps +that was why women as a rule had so many more lines than men. The lines +on a man’s face were generally fewer and deeper, but on a woman’s they +were small and everywhere; they symbolized the little cares of every +day, the petty anxieties that found men too hard to mark. She went +through her accounts: she was one of those women who keep them +carefully, who know to a penny how they spent their last five-pound +note. But it was only because she was anxious to give Walter the very +best that could be got out of his income that she measured so often the +length and breadth of her purse. However, it was no good. The old lady +must have her sunshade and her handkerchiefs. So Florence walked to +Regent Street and back to buy them. She went without the gloves she had +promised herself, determined that Catty should wait for a hat, and that +she would cut down the dessert for a week at the little evening dinner. + +The brown-paper parcel was directed and sent off to Mrs. Baines. With a +sigh Florence wished she were more generous, and dismissed the whole +business from her mind. + +“Mrs. Baines called, ma’am,” the servant said, when she reached home +that day. “She wanted the address of a very good dressmaker.” + +“Is she here? I hope you begged her to come in?” Florence asked, with a +vision of Aunt Anne calling in a hurry, tired by her walk, and +distressed at finding no one at home. + +“Oh no, ma’am; she didn’t get out of the carriage when she heard you +were not in. I gave her Madame Celestine’s address, and said that she +had made your best evening dress, as she was very particular about its +being a grand dressmaker.” + +“I suppose it was for Mrs. North,” Florence thought. “Poor Aunt Anne is +not likely to want Madame Celestine.” + +Then she imagined the spare old lady in a scanty black gown going out +with the pretty and probably beautifully dressed girls to whom she was +chaperon. + +As a sort of amends for the unkindness of fate, Florence made some +little soft white adornments for throat and wrists such as widows wear +and that yet look smart, and, packing them in a cardboard box, sent +them—_With kind love to Aunt Anne_. “Perhaps they will gratify her +pride a little, poor dear, and it is so nice to have one’s pride +gratified,” she thought. And then, for a space, Aunt Anne was almost +forgotten. + +The days slipped by anxiously enough to the Hibberts—to Walter, for he +knew that Mr. Fisher meant to talk with Florence about something that +had been agreed between them at the office; to Florence, because without +increasing the bills she really could not manage to put that little +dinner together. Walter was particular; he liked luxuries, and things +well managed, and she could not bear to disappoint him. However, the +evening came at last. The flowers and dessert were arranged, the claret +was at the right temperature, the champagne was in ice. Florence went +upstairs to say good-night to the children, and to rest for five +minutes. Walter came in with a flower for her dress. + +“It is so like you,” she said as she kissed it; “you are always the +thoughtfullest old man in the world.” + +“I wished I had bought one for Aunt Anne as I came along in the hansom; +but I forgot it at first, and then I was afraid to go back because it +was getting so late.” + +He dressed and went downstairs. Florence leisurely began to get ready. +Ten minutes later a carriage stopped; a bell rang, there was a loud +double knock—some one had arrived. + +“But it is a quarter of an hour too soon?” she said in dismay to Maria +who was helping her. + +The maid stood on tiptoe by the window to see who the early comer might +be. + +“It’s only Mrs. Baines, ma’am.” + +They had learned to say “only” already, Florence thought. She was angry +at the word, yet relieved at its not being a more important visitor. + +“I am very vexed at not being dressed to receive her,” she said coldly, +in order to give Mrs. Baines importance. “Make haste and fasten my +dress, Maria.” + +There was a sound of some one coming upstairs, a rustle of silk, and a +gentle knock at the bedroom door. + +“My darling, I came early on purpose. May I be allowed to enter, dear +Florence?” + +The voice was certainly Aunt Anne’s, but the tone was so joyous, so +different from the woebegone one of ten days ago that it filled her +hearer with amazement. + +“Come in, Aunt Anne, if you like; but I am not quite ready.” + +“I know that, my love. I hoped you would not be;” and Aunt Anne entered, +beaming with satisfaction, beautifully dressed, her long robe trailing, +her thin throat wrapped with softest white of some filmy kind, her shoes +fastened with heavy bows that showed a paste diamond in them, her hands +full of flowers. Florence could scarcely believe her eyes. + +“Aunt Anne!” she exclaimed, and stood still looking at her. + +“Yes, my love,” the old lady laughed. “Aunt Anne; and she has brought +you these flowers. I thought they might adorn your room, and that they +would prove how much you were in my mind, even while I was away from +you. Would you gratify me by wearing one or two? I see you have a white +rose there, but I am sure Walter will not mind your wearing one of his +aunt’s flowers; and, my love, perhaps you will permit your maid to take +the rest downstairs to arrange before the arrival of your other guests. +I will myself help you to finish your toilette.” + +With an air that was a command, she gave the flowers to Maria and +carefully watched her out of the room. Then turning to Florence, she +asked with the joyousness still in her manner, “And now, my dear, tell +me if you like my dress?” + +“It is quite beautiful, and so handsome.” + +“My darling, I am thankful to hear you say that, for I bought it to do +you honour. I was touched to get your invitation, and determined that +you should not be ashamed of me. Did the housemaid tell you that she +gave me Madame Celestine’s address?” + +“Yes. But, Aunt Anne, I hope you bargained with her. She costs a fortune +if you don’t.” + +“Never mind what she costs. I wished to prove to you both how much I +loved you and desired to do you honour. And now, my dear, I perceive +that you are ready, let us go down. I have not seen Walter yet, and am +longing to put my arms round his dear neck before any one else arrives +and forces me into a formality that my heart would resent.” + +She turned and led the way downstairs. Florence followed meekly, feeling +almost shabby and altogether left in the shade by the magnificent +relation who had appeared for their simple party. + +Aunt Anne trod with the footstep of one who knew the house well; she +opened the drawing-room door with an air of precision, and going towards +Walter, who met her halfway across the room, dropped her head with its +white cap on his shoulder. + +“My dear Walter, no words can express how glad I am to see you again, to +meet you in your own house, in your own room. It makes me forget all I +have suffered since we parted; it even forces me to be gay,” she +murmured, in an almost sobbing tone. + +“Yes, dear, of course it does,” he said cheerily, giving her a kiss. +“And we are very glad to see you. Why, you look uncommonly well; and, I +say, what an awful swell you are—isn’t she, Floggie?” + +“He is precisely the same—the same as ever,” laughed out the old lady +just as she had at Brighton seven years before. “Precisely the same. Oh, +my dear Walter, I shall——” + +But here the door opened, and for the moment Mr. Wimple’s arrival put an +end to Aunt Anne’s remembrances. + +Mr. Wimple was evidently conscious of his evening clothes; his waistcoat +was cut so as to show as much white shirt as possible; his tie looked a +little rumpled, as though the first attempt at making a bow had not been +successful. He shook hands solemnly with his host and hostess, then +looked round almost sadly, and in a voice that was full of grave meaning +said it was cold and chilly. + +“Cough better?” Walter inquired. + +“Yes, it is better,” Mr. Wimple replied slowly after a moment’s +consideration, as if the question was a momentous one. + +“That’s right. Now, I must introduce you to my aunt, Mrs. Baines. Alfred +Wimple is an old schoolfellow of mine, Aunt Anne.” + +The old lady put out her gloved hand with the lace ruffle round the +wrist. + +“I am glad to meet you,” she said. “It is always a pleasure to me to +meet any one who has been intimately associated with my dear Walter.” + +“And to me to meet any one belonging to him,” Mr. Wimple responded, with +much gravity. “Walter is the oldest, and I may say the dearest, friend I +possess.” + +“It makes us also friends;” and Aunt Anne gave him a little gracious +smile. + +He looked up at her. + +“It would be impossible that any one loving my dear Walter should not +possess my friendship,” she said as if explaining her previous speech: +she made it appear almost a condescension. He looked at her again, but +more attentively. + +“I am very fond of Walter,” he said. + +“It is impossible to help it—dear boy,” she said under her breath as +she looked at her nephew. “It must be a great pleasure to him, Mr. +Wimple, to preserve your affection; the feelings of our youth are so +often lost in oblivion as we grow old—as we grow older I should say, in +speaking to you.” + +The other guests entered, Ethel Dunlop a little shy but smiling, as if +aware that being a girl she had more business at dances than at +dinner-parties, but was nevertheless quite happy. And lastly Mr. Fisher. +Alfred Wimple stood on one side till Walter went towards him. + +“Fisher, this is a very old friend of mine. I want to introduce him to +you.” + +There was something irritating and savouring of mock humility in Mr. +Wimple’s manner as he bowed and said, with a little gulp that was one of +his peculiarities— + +“Walter is always conferring benefits upon me—this is a great honour.” + +Mr. Fisher looked at him and, with a polite word, turned to Ethel +Dunlop. She was busy with her glove. + +“Buttons always come off,” she said, without looking up. Other people +might treat him with deference as an editor; to her he was a mere man. + +“But you can at least sew them on; my sex is not so accomplished.” + +She seemed to be thinking of something else and did not answer, and a +puzzled look came over his face, as if a girl was a problem he did not +know how to work out. He was an odd looking man, tall and pale, with a +quantity of light hair pushed back from his high forehead. He had almost +tender blue eyes; but there was something hard and firm about the mouth +and square jaw that gave his face a look of strength. He was not a young +man, but it was difficult to believe that he had ever been younger or +would be older; he seemed to have been born for middle age, and the +direction of people and affairs. The awkwardness of middle age that is +not accustomed to womankind overtook him as he stood by Ethel. It was a +little relief to him when dinner was announced. + +Aunt Anne turned to Walter, as he went up to her, with a little +inclination of her head and a smile of dignified happiness. + +“It is so like a dream to be here with you, to be going down on your +arm—dear children,” she whispered as they descended the narrow +staircase. + +Looking back, Florence always felt that Aunt Anne had been the heroine +of that party. She took the lead in conversation, the others waiting for +her to speak, and no one dared to break up the group at table into +_tête-à-tête_ talk. She was so bright and full of life and had so much +to say that she carried all before her. Ethel Dunlop, young and pretty, +felt piqued; usually Mr. Fisher was attentive to her, to-night he talked +entirely to Mrs. Baines. That horrid Mr. Wimple, as she called him in +her thoughts, had been quite attentive when she met him before, but now +he too kept his eyes fixed on the old lady opposite; but for her host +she would have felt neglected. And it was odd how well Aunt Anne managed +to flirt with everybody. + +“Mrs. Baines has given me some useful hints about birds,” Mr. Fisher +told Florence with a suspicion of amusement in his voice: “if I had been +as wise formerly as she has made me to-night the white cockatoo might +have been living still. We ought to have met years ago, Mrs. Baines,” he +said, turning to her. + +“I think so too,” she said winningly. “It is such a pleasure to meet +dear Walter’s and Florence’s friends,” she added, looking round the +table and giving a strange little wink at the last word that made Mr. +Wimple feel almost uncomfortable. “It is a privilege that I have looked +forward to for years, but that living in the country has hitherto made +impossible. Now that I am in London I hope I shall meet them all in +turn.” Then she lowered her voice and went on to the editor: “I have +heard so much of you, Mr. Fisher, if you will forgive me for saying so, +though a great career like yours implies that all the world has heard of +you.” + +“I wish it could be called a great career, my dear lady,” he answered, +feeling that she was a person whose death would deserve a paragraph +simply on account of the extraordinary knowledge of the world she +possessed. “Unfortunately it has been a very ordinary one, but I can +assure you that I am most glad to meet you to-night. I ought to have +been at a City dinner, and shall always congratulate myself on my +happier condition.” + +“I should like to see a City dinner,” Mrs. Baines said sadly. + +“I wish I could send you my invitations. I go to too many, I fear.” + +“I suppose you have been to a great many also, Mr. Wimple?” Aunt Anne +inquired, careful to exclude no one from her little court. + +“To one only, I regret to say, Mrs. Baines,” Mr. Wimple answered +solemnly; “four years ago I went to the solitary one I ever attended.” + +“Ah, that was during the mayoralty of Sir William Rammage.” + +“Do you know him, Mrs. Baines, or do you keep a record of the Lord +Mayors?” Mr. Fisher asked. + +“I knew him well, years and years—I am afraid I should shock you—you +are all so young—if I said how many years ago,” she answered; and Mr. +Fisher, who was well on in his forties, thought she was really a +charming old lady. + +“He is a great friend of my uncle’s, he is a very old client of his,” +Mr. Wimple said, looking at Mrs. Baines again with his strange fixed +gaze, while Ethel Dunlop thought that that horrid Mr. Wimple was +actually making eyes at the old lady as he did at every one else. + +“And may I ask if you also are on intimate terms with him?” Mrs. Baines +said. + +“No, I have only met him at my uncle’s. He is very rich,” he added, with +a sigh, “and rich people are not much in my way. Literary people and +out-at-elbow scribblers are my usual associates; for,” he went on, +remembering that there was a possibility of doing some business with Mr. +Fisher, and that he had better make an impression on the great man, “I +never met any illustrious members of the profession till to-night, +excepting our friend Walter of course.” + +Mr. Fisher looked a little disgusted and turned to the young lady of the +party. + +“Have you been very musical lately, Miss Dunlop?” he inquired. + +“No,” she answered, “not very. But we enjoyed the concert. It was very +kind of you to send the tickets.” + +The editor’s face lighted up. + +“I am glad,” he said; “and did you find a pleasant chaperon?” + +“Oh yes, thank you. I went with my cousin, George Dighton.” + +“Is that the good-looking youth I saw you with once?” + +“Youth,” Ethel laughed; “he is three-and-twenty.” + +“A most mature age,” and a smile flickered over Mr. Fisher’s grave face; +“and does he often escort you to concerts?” + +“Occasionally.” + +“He is fortunate in having the privilege as well as the time to avail +himself of it,” the editor said formally. His manner was always +reserved, sometimes even a little stately. Now and then, oddly enough, +it reminded one of Aunt Anne’s, though it was a generation younger, and +he had not her faculty for long words. + +“You never seem able to go to concerts. It is quite sad and wicked,” +Ethel said brightly. + +He looked up as if he liked her. + +“Not often. Perhaps some day if you would honour me, only I am not a +cousin; still I have passed the giddy age of Mr. Dighton.” + +“We will, we will,” she laughed, and nodded; “but relations only are +able to survive the responsibility of taking me about alone. Perhaps +Mrs. Hibbert would——” + +“Ah yes, Mr. Wimple,” they heard Mrs. Baines say, “I have good reason to +know Sir William Rammage. He is my own cousin, though for years and +years we had not met till we did so a few months since, when I came to +take up my residence in London.” + +The old lady’s mouth twitched nervously, the sad note of a week ago made +itself heard in her voice again. Mrs. Hibbert knew that she was thinking +of the unsuccessful appeal to her rich relation, and of the port wine +that had always proved pernicious to her digestion. + +“Your cousin!” said Mr. Wimple, and he fixed another long, steady gaze +upon Mrs. Baines, “that is very interesting;” and he was silent. + +“Cousins seem to abound in our conversation this evening,” Miss Dunlop +said to Mr. Fisher; “it must be terrible to be cousin to the Lord +Mayor.” + +“Like being related to Gog and Magog,” he whispered. + +“Even worse,” she answered, pretending to shudder. + +But Mrs. Hibbert was looking at Aunt Anne, for it was time to go +upstairs. Mrs. Baines went out of the door with a stateliness that was +downright courage, considering how small and slight she was. Ethel +Dunlop, standing aside to let her pass, looked at her admiringly, but +the old lady gave her back, with the left eye, a momentary glance that +was merely condescending. Unless Aunt Anne took a fancy to people, or +made a point of being agreeable, she was apt to be condescending. Her +manner to young people was sometimes impatient, and to servants it was +generally irritating. She had taken a dislike to Miss Dunlop—she +considered her forward. She did not like the manner in which she did her +hair. She was of opinion that her dress was unbecoming. All these things +had determined Mrs. Baines to snub Miss Dunlop, who ill deserved it, for +she was a pretty, motherless girl of one-and-twenty, very anxious to do +right and to find the world a pleasant dwelling-place. + +The old lady sat down on the yellow couch in the drawing-room again, the +same couch on which, a fortnight before, she had sat and related her +misfortunes. But it was difficult to believe that she was the same +person. Her dress was spread out; her gloves were drawn on and carefully +buttoned; she opened and shut a small black fan; she looked round the +drawing-room with an air of condescension, and almost sternly refused +coffee with a “not any, I thank you,” that made the servant feel rebuked +for having offered it. Mrs. Hibbert and Ethel felt that she was indeed +mistress of the situation. + +“You are musical, I think, Miss Dunlop,” she asked coldly. + +“I am very fond of music, and I play and sing in a very small way,” was +the modest answer. + +“I hope we shall hear you presently,” Mrs. Baines said grandly, and +then, evidently feeling that she had taken quite enough notice of Miss +Dunlop, she turned to her niece. + +“My dear Florence,” she said, “I think Mr. Wimple is charming. He has +one of the most expressive countenances I ever beheld.” + +“Oh, Mrs. Baines, do you really think so?” Ethel Dunlop exclaimed. + +“Certainly I do.” And Mrs. Baines turned her back. “Florence, are not +you of my opinion?” + +“Well, Aunt Anne, I hardly know——” And happily the entrance of the men +prevented any further discussion. Somehow conversation flagged a little, +and silence threatened to fall on the party. Florence felt uneasy. + +“Are we to have some music?” Walter asked presently. In these days music +after dinner, unless it is very excellent or there is some special +reason for introducing it, is generally a flag of distress, a sign that +dulness is near. Florence knew it, and looking at Ethel tried to cover +it by asking for a song. + +“Ethel sings German songs delightfully, Aunt Anne,” she said; “I think +you would enjoy listening to her.” + +“I should enjoy listening to any friend of yours,” the old lady +answered. But Miss Dunlop pleaded hoarseness and did not stir. + +Mr. Wimple roused himself a little. “I am sure Mrs. Baines plays,” he +said, standing before her. Aunt Anne gave a long sigh. + +“My playing days are over,” she answered. + +“Oh no, Aunt Anne,” laughed Walter, “we cannot allow you to make that +excuse.” + +In a moment she had risen. + +“I never make excuses, Walter,” she said proudly; “if it is your +wish—if it will give you pleasure I will touch the keys again, though +it is long since I brought myself even to sit down before an +instrument.” + +She took her place at the piano; she pulled out her handkerchief, not +one of the black-bordered ones that Florence had sent her a week ago, +but a dainty one of lawn and lace, and held it for a moment to her +forehead; then suddenly, with a strange vibrating touch that almost +startled her listeners, she began to play “Oft in the stilly night.” +Only for a moment did the fire last, her fingers grew feeble, they +missed the notes, she shook her head dreamily. + +“I forget—I forget them all,” she said to herself rather than to any +one else, and then quickly recovering she looked round and apologized. +“It is so long,” she said, “and I forget.” + +She began softly some variations on “I know a bank,” and played them +through to the end. When they were finished she rose and, with a little +old-fashioned bow to the piano, turned to Florence, and, saying, with a +sweet and curious dignity, “Thank you, my dear, and your friends too, +for listening to me,” went back to her seat. + +Mr. Wimple was near her chair, he bent down to her. + +“You gave us a great treat,” he said, as if he were stating a scientific +fact. + +Mrs. Baines listened to his words gravely, she seemed to revolve them in +her mind for a moment before she looked up. + +“I am sure you are musical, Mr. Wimple,” she said, “I can see it in your +face.” + +“Aunt Anne,” Walter said, passing her, “should you mind my opening this +window?” + +“No, my darling, I should like it,” she answered tenderly. + +Mr. Wimple gave a long sigh. + +“Lucky beggar he is; you are very fond of him?” + +“Oh yes,” she answered, “he is like my own son;” and she nodded at +Walter, who was carrying on a laughing conversation with Ethel Dunlop, +while his wife was having what seemed to be a serious one with Mr. +Fisher. She looked round the room, her gaze rested on the open window. +“I think the carriage must be waiting,” she said, almost to herself. + +“I will tell you;” and Mr. Wimple went on to the balcony. “It is a +lovely night, Mrs. Baines,” he said, and turning back he fastened his +strange eyes upon her. Without a word she rose and followed him. + +“Aunt Anne,” Florence said, “you will catch your death of cold; you +mustn’t go out. Walter dear, get my thick white shawl for Aunt Anne.” + +“Oh no, my love, pray continue your conversation; I have always made a +point of looking up at the sky before I retire to rest, therefore it is +not likely to do me harm.” + +“I wouldn’t let it do you harm for the world,” Mr. Wimple whispered. + +She heard him; but she seemed to digest his words slowly, for she nodded +to herself before, with the manner and smile that were so entirely her +own, she answered— + +“Pray don’t distress yourself, Mr. Wimple, I am accustomed to stand +before the elements at all seasons of the year, and this air is not +likely to be detrimental to me; besides,” she added, with a gentle +laugh, “perhaps though I boasted of my age just now I am not so old as I +look. Oh, dear Walter, you are too good to me—dear boy;” and she turned +and let him wrap the thick white shawl about her. He lingered for a +moment, but there fell the dead silence that sometimes seems to chase +away a third person, and, feeling that he was not wanted, he went back +to Ethel Dunlop. It was a good thing Aunt Anne liked Alfred, he thought. +He had been afraid the latter would not wholly enjoy his evening, but +the old lady seemed to be making up for Florence’s rather scanty +attentions. + +“It is impossible to you to be old,” Mr. Wimple said, still speaking +almost in a whisper. + +The old lady appeared not to hear him; her hands were holding the white +shawl close round her neck, her eyes were following the long row of +street lamps on the right. The horses, waiting with the carriage before +the house, moved restlessly, and made their harness clink in the +stillness. Far off, a cornet was playing, as cornets love to do, “Then +you’ll remember me.” Beside her stood the young man watching. Behind, in +the drawing-room, dimly lighted by the shaded lamp and candles, the +others were talking, forgetful of everything but the subject that +interested them. Cheap sentimental surrounding enough, but they all told +on the old lady standing out on the balcony. The stars looking down on +her lighted up the soft white about her throat, and the outline of the +shawl-wrapped shoulders, almost youthful in their slenderness. Mr. +Wimple went a little closer, the tears came into her eyes, they trickled +down her withered cheeks, but he did not know it. + +“It is like years ago,” she whispered, “those dear children and +all—all—it carries me back to forty—more—eight-and-forty years ago, +when I was a girl, and now I am old, I am old, it is the end of the +world for me.” + +He stooped and picked up the handkerchief with the lace border. + +“No,” he said, “don’t say that. It is not the end; age is not counted by +years, it is counted by other things;” and he coughed uneasily and +waited as if to watch the effect of his speech before continuing. “In +reality,” he went on, in the hard voice that would have jarred horribly +on more sensitive nerves—“in reality I am older than you, for I have +found the world so much colder than you can have done.” He said it with +deliberation, as if each word were weighed, or had been learnt +beforehand. “I wish you would teach me to live out of the abundance of +youth that will always be yours.” + +She listened attentively; she turned and looked towards her left, far +ahead, away into the distance, as if puzzled and fascinated by it, +almost as if she were afraid of the darkness to which the distance +reached. Then she gave a little nod, as if she had remembered that it +was only the trees of the Regent’s Park that made the blackness. + +“If you would teach me to live out of the abundance of youth that will +always be yours,” he said again, as if on consideration he were well +satisfied with the sentence, and thought it merited a reply. + +She listened attentively for the second time, and looked up half +puzzled— + +“I should esteem myself most fortunate, if I could be of use to any +friend of Walter’s,” she answered, with an almost sad formality. + +“You have so many who love you——” The voice was still hard and +grating. + +“No,” she said, “oh no——” + +“There is Sir William Rammage.” He spoke slowly. + +“Ah!” she said sadly, “he forgets. And old association has no effect +upon him.” + +“Has he any brothers and sisters?” he asked. + +“They are gone. They all died years and years ago.” + +“It is remarkable that he never married.” + +“I suppose his inclinations did not prompt him to do so.” + +“He seems to have no one belonging to him.” + +“There are hardly any left,” she answered, with a sigh, “and unhappily +he does not appreciate the companionship of those——” + +“Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne,” Florence said, “do come in, you will catch +your death of cold.” + +“My love, the carriage is waiting and you must excuse me; it is growing +late. It has been delightful to be with you, and to meet your friends.” + +She shook hands with Mr. Fisher, and bowed to Ethel Dunlop; then she +went slowly out of the room on Walter’s arm, the long train of Madame +Celestine’s dress sweeping behind her. + +“Good-night, Mrs. Hibbert,” Mr. Wimple said, and, shaking hands quickly +with the air of a man who has many engagements and suddenly remembered +one that must be instantly kept, he too was gone. + +He was just in time to reach the carriage door. + +“Mrs. Baines,” he said, “I think you said you were going to South +Kensington—could you take me as far as Queen’s Gate?” + +“I wonder where he is going,” Walter said to himself as he went upstairs +again; “I don’t believe he knows a soul in Queen’s Gate.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + +Walter was going to India for the winter. It had all been arranged while +Aunt Anne sat out on the balcony with Mr. Wimple. Mr. Fisher had +explained to Florence that the paper wanted a new correspondent for a +time, and that it would be an excellent thing for Walter to get the +change and movement of the new life. He was to go out by P. and O., +making a short stay at Gibraltar, for business purposes, as well as one +at Malta. He had looked anxiously enough at his wife when they were +alone again that evening; but she had put out her hands as if in +congratulation. + +“I am very glad,” was all she said, “it will do you good and make you +strong.” + +“To live for you and the chicks, my sweet.” + +And so they arranged the getting ready; for he was to start by the very +next boat, and that sailed in ten days’ time. + +“If your mother had been in England you might have gone with me as far +as Gib,” Walter remarked. “I suppose you would be afraid to leave the +servants in charge?” + +“I should like to go,” she answered, as she poured out the coffee—it +was breakfast time—“but I couldn’t leave the children.” + +“By Jove,” Walter exclaimed, not heeding her answer, “there’s Aunt Anne +in a hansom! I say, Floggie dear, let me escape. What on earth does she +mean by coming at this hour of the morning? Say I’m not down yet, and +shall be at least three hours before I am; but keep the breakfast hot +somehow.” + +“Couldn’t you see her?” + +“No, no, she would want to weep over me if she heard that I was going, +and I know I should laugh. Manage to get rid of her soon.” And he flew +upstairs as the street door was opened. + +“My dear Florence,” Mrs. Baines said, as she walked in with a long +footstep and a truly tragic air, “let me put my arms round you, my poor +darling.” + +“Why, Aunt Anne, what is the matter?” Florence asked cheerfully, and +with considerable astonishment. + +“You are very brave, my love,” the old lady said, scanning her niece’s +face, “but I know all; an hour ago I had a letter telling me of Walter’s +departure. My dear, it will break your heart.” + +“But why?” + +“My love, it will.” + +“Oh no,” Florence said, “I am not so foolish. Life is full of ordinary +events that bring out very keen feelings, I have been thinking that +lately, but one must learn to take them calmly.” + +“You do not know what you will suffer when he is gone.” + +“No, Aunt Anne, I shall miss him, of course; but I shall hope that he is +enjoying himself.” + +“My dear Florence, I expected to find you broken-hearted.” + +“That would be cruel to him. I am glad he is going, it will do him good, +and really I have not had time to think of myself yet, I have been so +busy.” + +Mrs. Baines considered for a moment. + +“That is the reason, I knew there was an explanation somewhere,” she +said in an earnest emotional tone. “I knew how unselfish you were from +the first moment I saw you, Florence. It is like you, my darling, not to +think of yourself. Try not to do so, for you will feel your loneliness +bitterly enough when he is gone.” + +“But don’t tell me so,” Florence said, half crying, half laughing. “How +did you know about it, Aunt Anne?” + +“Mr. Wimple told me.” + +“Mr. Wimple—have you seen him then?” + +“My love, he is one of the most cultivated men I ever met; we have many +tastes and sympathies in common. He wrote to ask me to meet him by the +Albert Memorial.” + +“To meet him!” Florence exclaimed. + +“Yes,” answered the old lady solemnly. “He agrees with me that never was +there in any age or country a more beautiful work than the Albert +Memorial. We arranged to meet and examine it together; he wrote to me +just now and mentioned that Walter was going to India; I telegraphed +instantly that I could see no one else to-day, for I thought you would +welcome my loving sympathy. I came to offer it to you, Florence.” She +said the last words in a disappointed and injured voice. + +“It was very kind of you, Aunt Anne; but indeed I have only had time to +be glad that he would get a rest and pleasant change of work.” + +“I must see him before he goes; I may never do so again,” Mrs. Baines +said, after a pause. + +“Oh yes, you will, dear.” + +“I have brought him two little tokens that I thought of him as I +hastened to you after hearing the news. I know they will be useful to +him. These are glycerine lozenges, Florence; they are excellent for the +throat. The sea mist or the desert sand is sure to affect it.” + +“Thank you, it was very kind of you; you are much too generous—you make +us quite uneasy.” Florence was miserable at the two evils suggested. + +“My love, if I had thousands a year you should have them,” Aunt Anne +answered, and, intent on her present-making, she went on, “and here is a +little case of scissors, they are of different sizes. I know how much +gentlemen”—Aunt Anne always said “gentlemen,” never “men,” as do the +women of to-day—“like to find a pair suited to their requirements at +the moment; I thought they might be useful to him on the voyage.” She +gave a sigh of relief as though presenting her gifts had removed a load +from her mind. “I suppose Walter is not down yet, my love?” + +“He is upstairs,” Florence said, a little guiltily, “I am afraid he will +not be down just yet.” + +Aunt Anne gave a reflective wink, as though she perfectly understood the +reason of Walter’s non-appearance; but if she did she had far too much +tact to betray it. + +“If it be your wish, my dear, I will forego the pleasure of saying a +last good-bye to him.” + +“Well, dear Aunt Anne, when he does come down he will have a great deal +to do,” Florence answered still more guiltily, for she could not help +feeling that Aunt Anne saw through the ruse. + +“My love, I quite understand,” Mrs. Baines said solemnly, “and he will +know that it was from no lack of affection that I did not wait to see +him. Tell him that he will be constantly in my thoughts;” and she slowly +gathered her cashmere shawl round her shoulders, and buttoned her black +kid gloves. + +“Poor Aunt Anne,” Florence thought when she had gone, she would wring a +tragedy from every daily trial if she were encouraged. “Oh, you wicked +coward,” she said to Walter, “to run away like that.” + +“Yes, my darling; but I am starved, and really, you know, Floggie, +confound Aunt Anne.” + +“Oh, but she is very kind,” Florence said, as she displayed the +presents. “How did Mr. Wimple know that you were going to India?” she +asked. + +“I met him yesterday at the office. He went to see Fisher; it was +arranged that he should the other night.” + +“It is very extraordinary his striking up a friendship with Aunt Anne.” + +“Yes, very extraordinary,” he laughed and then the old lady was +forgotten. + +The days flew by and the last one came. To-morrow (Thursday) Walter was +to start by an early train for Southampton. All his arrangements were +complete, and on that last day he had virtually nothing to do, +“therefore, Floggie dear,” he pleaded, “let us have a spree.” + +“Yes,” she answered, willingly enough, though her heart was heavier than +his. “How shall we manage it?” + +“Let us stroll about all day or go to Richmond, and come back and have a +cosy little dinner somewhere.” + +“Here,” she pleaded, “let us dine here, in our own home on this last +evening; we’ll have a very nice dinner.” + +“Very nice indeed?” + +“Very nice indeed, you greedy thing.” + +“All right, darling, suppose you go and order it. Then get ready and +let’s start as soon as possible; we’ll amuse ourselves well, and forget +that we have not a month to do it in. Live and be happy in the present +day, dear Floggie,” he went on in a mock-serious tone; “for there is +always a chance that to-morrow will not declare itself.” + +So they went off, like the boy he was in spite of his more than thirty +years, and the girl that she sometimes felt herself to be still in spite +of the two children and the eight years of matrimony. They walked a +little way. Then Walter had a brilliant idea. + +“Let’s get into a hansom,” he said, “drive to Waterloo and take the +first train that is going in any pleasant direction; I think Waterloo is +the best place for that sort of speculation. This beggar’s horse looks +pretty good, jump in.” + +As they drove up to the station, a four-wheel cab moved away, the cabman +grumbling at the sum that had been given him by two people, a man and a +woman, who still stood on the station steps looking after him. + +“Why, there’s Wimple!” Walter exclaimed; “and who’s that with him, I +wonder?” + +Florence looked up quickly. Mr. Wimple wore a shabby grey coat, and +round his neck and over his mouth there was a grey comforter, for the +October morning was slightly chilly. In his hand he carried a worn brown +portmanteau. Beside him stood a tall good-looking young woman of +five-and-twenty, commonly, almost vulgarly dressed. She looked after the +departing cab with a scowl on her face that told it was she who had paid +the scanty fare. As they stood together, they looked poor and common and +singularly unprepossessing; it was impossible to help feeling that they +were nearly connected. They looked like husband and wife, and of an +indefinite and insignificant class. Suddenly Alfred Wimple caught +Walter’s eye, he nodded gravely without the least confusion, but he +evidently said something quickly and in a low tone to his companion, for +they hurried away through one of the station doors. + +“That horrid Mr. Wimple seems to possess us lately,” Florence thought. + +As they went from the ticket office she saw Mr. Wimple and his friend +hurrying along the platform. A minute later they had entered a +Portsmouth train which was on the point of starting. + +“If that’s his Liphook friend I don’t think much of the looks of her. +Alfred always picked up odd people,” Walter thought; but he kept these +reflections to himself; all he said aloud was, “I say, Floggie dear, if +Wimple turns up while I’m away, don’t be uncivil to him, and give him +food if you can manage it. Somehow he always looks half starved, poor +beggar. Fisher is going to give him some reviewing to do, perhaps that +will help him a bit.” + +There was a train starting to Windsor in ten minutes; so they went by +it, and strolled down by the river and lingered near the boats, and went +into the town and looked at the shops and the outside of the castle. +Then they lunched at the confectioner’s, an extravagant lunch which +Walter ordered, and afterwards, while they were still drowsy and happy, +they hired an open fly and drove to Virginia Water. They hurried back to +Windsor in time to catch the 6 p.m. train for town by half a minute, and +congratulated themselves upon finding an empty carriage. + +“I shall always remember this dear day,” Florence said, as they sat over +their last little dinner at home. + +“That’s a good thing,” Walter said, “and so will I, dear wife. When I +come back we’ll have another like it in memory of this one’s success.” +Then he remembered Alfred Wimple. “I should like to know who that girl +was,” he thought; “wonder if she’s the daughter of another tailor he +doesn’t want to pay, and if I met him to-morrow I wonder what lie he +would tell me about her—he always lied, poor beggar.” And this shows +that his thoughts were sometimes not as charitable as his words. + +The next day very early Walter departed for Southampton. Florence went +to see him safely on board. + +“We shall have the good little journey together,” he said dismally, for +he was loth enough to leave her now that the parting time had come. + +But it seemed as if the train flew along the rails in its hurry to get +near the sea, and the journey was over directly. There was all the +bustle of getting on board; and almost before she knew it, Florence was +on her way back to London alone. As if in a dream she walked home from +the station, thinking of her husband watching the sea as it widened +between him and England. She was glad she had seen the ship, she could +imagine him seated at the long table in the saloon, with the +punkahs—useless enough at present—waving overhead, or in his cabin, +looking out through the porthole at the white crests to the waves. Yes. +She could see all his surroundings plainly. She gave a long sigh. She +was a brave little woman, and had tried so hard not to break down before +Walter, though in the last moment on board, when she had felt as if her +heart would break, she had not been able altogether to help it. And now, +as she walked home in the dusk without him, she felt as if she could not +live through the long months of separation. + +“But I will—I will,” she said to herself while the tears trickled down +her face; “only it _is_ hard, for there is no one in the world like him, +no one—no one; and we have never been parted before.” + +Every moment, too, she remembered, took him farther away. She told +herself again and again how much good the journey would do him, how glad +she was that he would get the change; but human nature is human nature +still, and will not be controlled by argument. So she quickened her +pace, resolving not to give way till she was safe in the darkness of her +own room, hidden from the eyes of the servants, and then she would let +her feelings have their fling. + +She looked up at the house with a sigh. It would be so still without +Walter. There was a flickering light in the drawing-room. Probably the +servants had put a lamp there, for the days were growing shorter; it was +nearly dark already. The children would be in bed, but they were certain +not to be asleep, and she thought of the little shout of welcome they +would give when they heard her footstep on the stair as she went up to +kiss them. She let herself in with Walter’s latchkey—she kissed it as +she took it from her pocket, and nearly cried again—and then, having +entered, stood still and wondered. There in the hall were two square +boxes—boxes of the sort that were used before overland trunks came into +fashion, and when American arks were unknown. They were covered with +brown holland, bordered with faded red braid, and corded with thick +brown cord. Stitched on to each cover was a small white card, on each of +which was written, in a hand Florence knew well, _Mrs. Baines, care of +Mrs. Walter Hibbert_. While she was still contemplating the address, a +servant, who had heard her enter, came up. + +“Mrs. Baines has been here since eleven o’clock, ma’am,” she said; +“she’s in the drawing-room, and has had nothing to eat all day except a +cup of tea, and a little toast that nurse made her have at four o’clock. +She’s been waiting to see you.” + +It was evident that there had been some catastrophe. Florence went +wearily upstairs, and, after a moment’s hesitation to gather courage, +entered the drawing-room. + +“Aunt Anne!” she exclaimed, “what has happened?” + +The old lady had been standing by the fireplace. Her thin white hands +were bare, but she still wore her cloak and black close-fitting bonnet, +though she had thrown aside the crape veil. Her face looked worn and +anxious, but a look of indignation came to her eyes when she saw +Florence, a last little flash of remembered insult: then she advanced +with outstretched hands. + +“Florence,” she said, “I have come to you for advice and shelter, I have +been insulted—and humiliated”—a quaver came into her voice, she could +not go on till indignation returned to give her strength. “Florence,” +she begun again, “I have come to you. I—I——” + +“Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne!” Florence said, aching with fatigue, and +feeling ruefully that her longing for rest and quiet was not likely to +be satisfied, yet thinking, oddly enough too, even while she spoke, of +Walter going on, farther and farther away across the darkening sea, +“what is the matter? tell me, dear.” There was a throbbing pain in her +head. It was like the thud-thud of the screw on board his ship. + +Aunt Anne raised her head and spoke firmly— + +“My love, I have been insulted.” + +“Insulted, Aunt Anne, but how?” + +“Yes, my love, insulted. I frequently had occasion to reprove the +servants for their conduct, for the want of respect they showed me. The +cook was abominable, and a reprimand had no effect upon her. To-day her +impertinence was past endurance, I told Mrs. North so, and that she must +be dismissed. Mrs. North refused—refused, though her servant had +forgotten what was due to me, and this morning—— I can’t repeat her +words.” + +“Well,” said Florence, “but surely you did not let a servant drive——” + +“No, dear Florence, it was not the cook who drove me away, I should not +allow a subordinate to interfere with my life; it was Mrs. North. She +has behaved cruelly to me. She listened to her servants in preference to +me. I told her that they showed me no respect, that they entirely forgot +what was due to me, and unless she made an example, and dismissed one of +them, it would be impossible for me to stay in her house, and then, my +love, I was told that—that,” she stopped for a moment, “I can’t tell +you,” she went on suddenly; “I can’t repeat it all, Florence; but, my +love, there were other reasons—that are impossible to repeat; and I am +here—I am here, homeless and miserable, and insulted. I flew to you, I +knew you would be indignant, that your dear heart would feel for me.” + +“But you were so happy.” + +“Yes, my love, I was.” + +“And Mrs. North was so kind to you,” Florence went on regretfully; +“could you not have managed——” + +“No, my love, I must remember what is due to myself.” + +“Oh, but, dear Aunt Anne, don’t you think it would have been better to +have put up——” + +“Florence, if you cannot sympathize with me I must ask you not to +discuss the matter,” the old lady answered, raising her head and +speaking in a tone of surprise; “there is no trouble you could have come +to me with that I should not have felt about as you did.” + +Aunt Anne had a remarkable gift for fighting her own battles, Florence +thought. + +“But don’t you see, Aunt Anne, that——” + +“I would prefer not to discuss the matter, my love,” the old lady said +loftily. “You are so young and inexperienced that perhaps you cannot +enter into my feelings. Either the cook or I had to leave the house. +There were other reasons too, I repeat, why I deemed it +unadvisable,—why it was impossible to remain. Mrs. North has lately +shown a levity of manner that I could not countenance; her sister is no +longer with her, and her husband has been thousands of miles away; is +away still, yet she is always ready for amusement. I cannot believe that +she loves him, or she would show more regret at his absence. I have +known what a happy marriage is, Florence, and you know what it is too, +my love. You can therefore understand that I thought her conduct +reprehensible. I felt it my duty to tell her so.” + +“Yes,” Florence said wearily, “I know, I know;” but she could not help +thinking that Aunt Anne had behaved rather foolishly. + +Then she rang the bell and ordered tea to be made ready in the +dining-room, a substantial tea of the sort that women love and men +abhor. + +“Now rest and forget all the worries,” she said gently. “You are tired +and excited, try and forget everything till you have had some tea and +are rested. The spare room is quite ready, and you shall go to bed +early, as I will, for it has been a long day.” + +“I know what you must have gone through,” and Mrs. Baines shook her head +sadly, “and that you want to be alone to think of your dear Walter. But +I will only intrude on you for one night, to-morrow I will find an +apartment.” + +“You must not talk like that, for you are very welcome, Aunt Anne,” +Florence said gently, though she could not help inwardly chafing at the +intrusion, and longing to be alone. + +“Tell me, love, did Walter go off comfortably?” Mrs. Baines asked, +speaking with the air people sometimes speak of those who have died +rather to the satisfaction of their relations. + +“Yes, he sailed a few hours ago. I have just come back from +Southampton.” + +“I know it,” Aunt Anne answered, her voice full of untold feeling; “did +he take my simple gifts with him, dear?” + +“Yes, he took them,” Florence answered gratefully; “but come downstairs, +Aunt Anne, you must be worn out.” + +Then in a moment Aunt Anne recovered her old manner, the manner that had +some indefinable charm in it, and looked at Florence. + +“Yes, my love,” she said, “I am very much fatigued but I am thankful +indeed to enjoy your hospitality again. Before I retire to rest I must +write some letters, if you will permit your servant to post them.” + +Florence had to write one or two letters also. She gave three to the +little housemaid to post; as she did so, one of Aunt Anne’s caught her +eye. It was addressed to Alfred Wimple. “Perhaps she wanted to tell him +something about the Albert Memorial,” she thought, and dismissed the +matter from her mind. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + +Then it was that Florence discovered that Aunt Anne was really a +charming person to have in the house, especially with children. She was +so bright, so clever with them, so full of little surprises. In her +pocket there always lingered some unexpected little present, and at the +tip of her tongue some quaint bit of old-world knowledge that was as +interesting to grown-up folk as to the children. To see her prim figure +about the place seemed to Florence like having lavender among her linen. +She was useful too, ready with her fingers to darn some little place in +a tablecloth that every one else had overlooked, to sew a button on +Monty’s little shoe, or to mend a tear in Catty’s pinafore. Above all, +she was so complimentary, so full of admiration, and it was quite +evident that she meant with her whole heart all the pretty things she +said. She did too. Walter was the son of her favourite brother, and to +Florence she had really taken a fancy from the beginning. + +“I loved you from the first moment, my love,” she said. “I shall never +forget the look of happiness on your face that morning at Brighton when +I met you and your dear Walter together. It endeared you to me. It was a +happy day,” she added, with a sigh. + +“Yes, a very happy day,” Florence answered, affectionately remembering +how ungrateful both she and dear Walter had been at the time. This was +at breakfast one morning, a week after Walter’s departure. She was +pouring out the coffee very quickly because she longed to open her +letters, though she knew it was not possible to get yet the one he had +posted from Gibraltar. + +Aunt Anne meanwhile was undoing a little packet that had come by post +addressed to her. Catty and Monty having finished their porridge were +intently watching. She stopped when she noticed the gravity of their +faces. + +“My love,” she said, in the tone of one asking a great favour, “have I +your permission to give these dear children some bread and jam?” + +“Oh yes, of course,” Florence answered, not looking up from the long +letter she was reading. + +Aunt Anne, quick to notice, saw that it had a foreign postmark and an +enclosure that looked like a cheque. Then she cut some bread and took +off the crust before she spread a quantity of butter on the dainty +slices, and piled on the top of the butter as much jam as they could +carry. + +“Oh!” cried the children, with gleeful surprise. + +“Dear Aunt Anne,” exclaimed Florence, looking up when she heard it, “I +never give them quite so much butter with quite so much jam. It is too +rich for them, and we don’t cut off the crusts.” + +“The servants will eat them.” + +“Indeed they will not,” laughed Florence; “they don’t like crusts.” + +“You are much too good to them, love, as you are to every one. They +should do as they are told, and be glad to take what they can get. I +never have patience with the lower classes,” she added, in the gentlest +of voices. + +But the words gave Florence a sudden insight into the possible reason of +Aunt Anne’s collapse at Mrs. North’s, a catastrophe to which the old +lady never referred. The very mention of Mrs. North’s name made her +manner a little distant. + +“And then, you know,” Florence said, for she was always careful, and now +especially, in order to make the very short allowance on which she had +put herself in her husband’s absence hold out, “we must not let the +children learn to be dainty, must we? So they must try to eat up the +crusts of their bread; and we only give them a little butter when they +have jam. I never had butter and jam together at all at home,” and she +stroked Catty’s fat little hand while she went on reading her letter. +“Grandma has written from France, my babes,” she said, looking up after +a few minutes; “she sends you each a kiss and five shillings to spend.” + +“I shall buy a horse and be a soldier,” Monty declared. + +“I shall buy a present for mummy and a little one for Aunt Anne,” said +Catty. + +“Bless you, my darling, for thinking of me,” the old lady said +fervently, and suddenly opening a tin of Devonshire cream, she piled a +mass of it on to the bread and butter and jam already before the +astonished children. Aunt Anne’s nature gloried in profusion. + +“Why,” said Florence, not noticing anything at table, “here is a letter +from Madame Celestine—her name is on the seal at least. I don’t owe her +anything. Oh no, it isn’t for me. _Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter +Hibbert._ It is for you, Aunt Anne.” + +“Thank you, my love.” Mrs. Baines took it, with an air of slight but +dignified vexation. “It was remiss of your servant not to put all my +letters beside me. I am sorry you should be troubled with my +correspondence.” + +“But it doesn’t matter,” Florence answered. “I hope you have not found +her very expensive; she can be so sometimes?” and through Florence’s +mind there went a remembrance of the dress in which Aunt Anne had +appeared on the night of the dinner-party. A little flush, or something +like one, went across the old lady’s withered cheek. + +“My love,” she said, almost haughtily, “I have not yet given her charges +my consideration. I have been too much engaged with more important +matters.” + +“I sincerely hope she does not owe for that dress,” Florence thought, +but she did not dare ask any questions. “Madame Celestine is not a +comfortable creditor, nor usually a small one.” + +Then she understood Catty’s and Monty’s remarkable silence of the past +few minutes. It had suddenly dawned upon her how unusual it was. + +“Why, my beloved babes,” she exclaimed, “what are you eating?” and she +looked across laughingly at Aunt Anne. “Where did those snowy mountains +of cream come from?” + +“They came by post, just now, my love,” Mrs. Baines said firmly. + +“Oh, you are much too kind, Aunt Anne. But you will spoil the children, +you will indeed, as well as their digestions. You are much too good to +them; but we shall have to send them away if you corrupt them in this +delicious manner.” + +“It is most nutritious, I assure you,” Aunt Anne answered, with great +gravity, while with dogged and desperate haste she piled more and more +cream on to Monty’s plate. “I thought you would like it, Florence. I +have ordered three pounds to be sent in one-pound tins at intervals of +three days. I hoped that you would think it good for the dear children, +that they would have your approbation in eating it.” + +“Of course, and I shall eat some too,” Florence answered, trying to +chase away Aunt Anne’s earnestness; “only you are much too good to +them.” + +The old lady looked up with a tender smile on her face. + +“It is not possible to be good enough to your children, my +darling—yours and Walter’s.” + +“Dear Walter,” said Florence, as she rose from the table, “I shall be +glad to get his letter. Now, my monkeys, my vagabonds, my darlings, go +upstairs and tell nurse to take you out at once to see the trees and the +ducks in the pond; go along, go along,” and she ran playfully after the +children. + +“May I go and buy my horse?” asked Monty; “and I think I shall buy a +sword too. I want to kill a man.” + +“He is just like his father!” exclaimed Aunt Anne. “What is Catty going +to do with her money?” she asked. + +“Give it to mummy,” the child answered softly. + +“And she is just like you, dear Florence,” said the old lady, in a +choking voice. + +“She is just like herself, and therefore like a dickie-bird, and a white +rabbit, and a tortoiseshell kitten, and many other things too numerous +to mention,” Florence laughed, overtaking Catty and kissing her little +round face. “But go, my babes, go—go and get ready; your beloved mummy +wants to turn you out of doors;” and shouting with joy the children +scampered off. + +Florence took up _The Centre_. + +“Won’t you have the paper, Aunt Anne, and a quiet quarter of an hour?” + +“Thank you, no, my love; I rarely care to peruse it until a more leisure +time of the day. With your permission I will leave you now, I have some +business to transact out of doors; are there any commissions I could +execute for you?” + +“No, thank you.” + +Aunt Anne was always thoughtful, Florence said to herself. Every morning +since she came this question had been asked and answered in almost the +same words. + +“By the way, Aunt Anne, Mr. Wimple called yesterday. I am sorry I was +not at home”—and this she felt to be a fib. + +“He told me that he intended to do so before he left town.” + +There was a strange light on Aunt Anne’s face when she spoke of him; her +niece saw it with wonder. + +“I dare say she takes a sort of motherly interest in him,” she said to +herself. “He is delicate and she has no belongings; poor old lady, how +sad it must be to have no belongings, no husband, no children, no +mother, no anything. I don’t wonder her sympathies go out even to Mr. +Wimple.” Then aloud she asked, “Is he going away for long?” + +“He is going to some friends near Portsmouth by the twelve o’clock train +to-day,” and Mrs. Baines glanced at the clock; “from Waterloo,” she +added. + +“Are you going to see him off, Aunt Anne?” + +“My love, I have an engagement in the City at one o’clock. I am going +out now, but I cannot say what my movements will be between this and +then.” + +In a moment Aunt Anne’s voice was a shade distant. Florence had only +asked the question as a little joke, and with no notion that Aunt Anne +would take it seriously. + +“I didn’t mean to be curious,” she said, and stroked the old lady’s +shoulder. + +“I know you did not, my darling. You are the last person in the world to +commit a solecism,”—and again there came a smile to Aunt Anne’s face. +It made Florence stoop and kiss her. + +“And you told me of your expedition to the Albert Memorial, remember,” +she went on wickedly; “and I know that you and Mr. Wimple are very +sympathetic to each other.” + +“You are right, Florence. We have many tastes and sympathies in unison. +We find it pleasant to discuss them altogether. Good-bye, my love; do +not wait luncheon for me. I shall probably partake of it with a +friend”—and she left the room. Florence took up _The Centre_ again, but +she could not read for thinking uneasily of the bill which she felt +convinced Madame Celestine had just sent to Aunt Anne. + +“I wish I could pay it,” she thought; “but I can’t, in spite of mother’s +present this morning. It is probably at least fifteen pounds. Besides, +Aunt Anne is such a peculiar old lady that the chances are she would be +offended if I did.” + +She put down the paper and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then she went +to the writing-table in the corner by the fireplace, unlocked the corner +drawer and took out a little china bowl in which she was in the habit of +keeping the money she had in the house. Four pounds in gold and a +five-pound note. She took out the note, put in a cheque, locked the +drawer and waited. + +When she heard the soft footsteps of Aunt Anne descending the stairs she +went to the door nervously, uncertain how what she was going to do would +be received. Mrs. Baines was dressed ready to go out. She was a little +smarter than usual. Round her throat there was some soft white muslin +tied in a large bow that fell on her chest and relieved the sombreness +of her attire. The heavy crape veil she usually wore was replaced by a +thinner one that had little spots of jet upon it. + +“Aunt Anne, you look as if you were going to a party.” + +The old lady was almost confused, like a person who is found out in some +roguish mischief of which she is half, but only half, ashamed. + +“My love, I only go to your parties,” she said; “there are no others in +the world that would tempt me.” + +“Can you come to me for five minutes before you start? I won’t keep you +longer.” + +“Yes, with pleasure,” Aunt Anne answered; “but it must only be for five +minutes, if you will excuse me for saying so, for I have an appointment +that I should deeply regret not being able to keep.” + +Florence led the old lady to an easy-chair and shut the door. Then she +knelt down by her side, saying humbly but with a voice full of joy, for +she was delighted at what she was going to do—if Aunt Anne would only +let her do it. + +“I want to tell you that—that I had a letter from my mother this +morning.” + +“I know, my love. I hope she is well, and that you have no anxiety about +her.” + +“Oh no.” + +“She must long to see you, Florence dear.” + +“She does; she is such a dear mother, and she is coming to England in +two or three weeks’ time.” + +“Her society will be a great solace to you.” + +“Yes; but what I wanted to tell you is that she has sent me a present.” + +“I hope it is a substantial one,” Aunt Anne said, courteously. + +“Indeed it is.” + +“It rejoices me greatly to hear it, my love.” + +“It is money—a cheque. My mother says she sends it to cheer me up after +losing Walter.” + +“She knew how your tender heart would miss him, my darling;” but she was +watching Florence intently with a hungry look that a second self seemed +trying to control. + +“And as I have had a present of filthy lucre, Aunt Anne, and am +delighted and not too proud to take it, so I want you to have a present +of filthy lucre and not to be too proud to take it; but just to have +this little five-pound note because you love me and for any little odd +and end on which you may find it convenient to spend it. It would be so +sweet of you to let me share my present as my children shared the cream +with you.” + +Florence bent her head and kissed the old lady’s hands as she pushed the +bit of crisp paper into them. Aunt Anne was not one whit offended, it +seemed for a moment as if she were going to break down and cry; but she +controlled herself. + +“Bless you, my darling, bless you indeed. I take it in the spirit you +offer it me; I know the pleasure it is to your generous heart to give, +and it is equally one to mine to receive. I could not refuse any gift +from you, Florence,” she said, kissing Mrs. Hibbert; and when she +departed, it was with an air of having done a gracious and tender deed. +But besides this, her footstep had grown lighter, there was a joyfulness +in her voice and a flickering smile on her face that showed how much +pleasure and relief the money had given her. + +“I am so glad,” Florence thought, as she noticed it; “poor old dear. I +wonder if it will go to Madame Celestine, or what she will do with it. +And I wonder where she is gone.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + +Florence’s speculations concerning Aunt Anne were brought to an end by +the arrival of Mr. Fisher. She was surprised at his paying her so early +a visit, and for a moment feared lest it should mean bad news from +Walter. But his benevolent expression reassured her. + +“I hope you will forgive my intruding on you at this hour, Mrs. +Hibbert,” he said. “My visit is almost a business one, if I may venture +to call it so, and I hope its result may be pleasant to us both.” His +manner was a faint echo of Aunt Anne’s. “I would have written to ask you +to see me, but the idea that brings me only occurred to me an hour or +two ago.” + +“But of course I would see you,” she answered brightly. “And I think the +morning is a delicious time of day to which we devote far too much +idleness.” + +“I thoroughly agree with you,” he said, and looked at her approvingly, +for he was quite alive to the duties of domesticity. In his short +married life it had been an everlasting irritation to him that his wife +was a slattern and wholly indifferent about her home. It had made him +keen to observe the ways of other women; though the sight of a well-kept +house always depressed him a little, for it set him thinking of the +denials in his own life, of what he might have had and could have been; +it made him also a little extra deferential and gracious to the woman +who presided over it. He was so to Florence this morning. He had noticed +quickly that all signs of breakfast had vanished, he divined that the +children were out of doors, and that she herself, with her slate and +account-books, was deep in household matters. It was thus he thought +that a woman should chiefly concern herself. Her husband, children, and +home were her business in life. The rest could be left to the discretion +and management of men. He felt that it was almost a duty on his part, in +the absence of her husband, to discreetly manage Florence. Moreover, in +the intervals of editing his paper, he had a turn for editing the lives +of other people, and he felt it almost an obligation to give a good deal +of time to the consideration of the private affairs of his staff. He +liked the Hibberts too, and was really anxious to be good and useful to +them. He had come to the conclusion that it was a pity that Florence and +her children should stay in London while Walter was away. “She would be +much better in the country,” he thought; “the children could run about; +besides, what is the good of keeping that cottage near Witley empty?” +and then he remembered his own mother, who was seventy years old and +lived far off in the wilds of Northumberland. Her sole amusement +appeared to be writing her son letters, lamenting that he never went to +stay with her, and that since he lived in small and inconvenient +bachelor chambers, she could not go and stay with him. It had been her +desire that he should marry again. She had told him that it was foolish +not to do so, that she could die happy if he had a wife to take care of +him. But he never answered a word. “It would not be a bad idea if I had +the old lady up for a couple of months, and took the Hibberts’ house,” +he said to himself. The idea grew upon him. He imagined the dinners he +could give to his staff and their wives—not to the outside world, for +it bothered him. “We might ask Ethel Dunlop occasionally,” he thought; +“a nice girl in her twenties, fond of pleasure, would brighten up the +old lady.” He remembered the twenties with regret, and wished they were +thirties; then he would not have felt so keenly the difference in years +between them. But he reflected that after all he was still in the prime +of life, as a man is, if he chooses, till he is fifty; and he struggled +to feel youthful; but struggle as he would, youthful feelings held +aloof. They were coy after forty, he supposed, and looking back he +consoled himself by thinking that they had been rather foolish. Then he +thought of Ethel’s cousin; confound her cousin! she seemed to like going +about with him. Perhaps he made love to her; yet he was too much of a +hobble-de-hoy for that, surely—three-and-twenty at most—a very +objectionable time of life in the masculine sex, a time of dash and +impudence and doing of things from sheer bravado at which wisdom, +knowledge, and middle age hesitated. Ethel was probably only amusing +herself with him. To fall in love with a cousin would show a lack of +originality of which he was slow to suspect her. He wondered what the +cousin did, and if he wanted a post of any sort; if he had a turn for +writing and adventure. Perhaps he could be sent as special correspondent +to the Gold Coast, where the climate would probably sufficiently engross +him. Ethel at any rate might be invited to see his mother, it would +cheer the old lady up to have a girl about her. Yes, he had quite made +up his mind. Mrs. Hibbert should go to her country cottage with her two +children; he would take the house near Portland Road for a couple of +months, and the rest would arrange itself. + +“I don’t know whether Walter would like it,” Florence said, when Mr. +Fisher had explained his errand. + +“I’ll answer for Walter,” Mr. Fisher said concisely. Of course he, a +man, knew better than she did what Walter, also a man, would like; that +was plainly conveyed in his manner. “It will be better for you and the +children,” he went on, with gracious benevolence, for as he looked at +Florence he thought how girlish she was. He felt quite strongly that in +her husband’s absence it was his duty to look after her, and to teach +her, pleasantly, the way in which she should go. It was absurd to +suppose that a woman should know it without any direction from his sex, +and he was now the proper person to give it. “I will send you plenty of +novels to read, and if you would allow me to introduce you to her,” he +added, with a shade of pomposity in his voice, “there is a friend of +mine at Witley—Mrs. Burnett. You would be excellent companions for each +other, I should say, for her husband comes up to town every morning, +and——” + +“I know her a little,” Florence said, “a tall, slight woman with sweet +grey eyes.” + +“I never looked at her eyes,” Mr. Fisher said quickly, and Florence felt +reproved for having mentioned them. Of course, he would not look at the +eyes of a married woman. Mr. Fisher had clear and distinct views about +the proprieties, which he thought were invented especially for married +and marriageable women. “Perhaps Miss Dunlop would pay you a visit,” he +suggested. + +“She has her father to take care of. Besides, Mrs. Baines is staying +with me.” + +“I saw Mrs. Baines with Wimple the other day. Has she adopted him?” + +“With Mr. Wimple,” Florence said, bewildered at the sudden mention of +the name again; and then remembering Walter, she added loyally, “she +likes him because he is Walter’s friend.” + +“He writes well,” Mr. Fisher answered, as if he were making a remark +that surprised himself. “He has done some work for us, and done it very +well too.” + +Then he unfolded the details in regard to the taking of the house. + +Florence found to her surprise that he had arranged them all carefully. + +“Let me see,” he said, “this is Monday. You can go on Saturday, I +suppose? I think that would be the best day for my mother to arrive.” + +“Oh yes. There are things to get ready and to put away, of course.” + +“They won’t take you long,” he answered shortly. + +“I dare say it will do the children good,” she said, reluctantly. + +“Of course it will.” + +“I might ask Aunt Anne to take the children to-morrow—I am sure she +would—then I could soon get the place ready.” + +“Mrs. Baines? Yes, it would be an excellent plan to send her on first.” + +“It is very kind of you; don’t you think that you are really paying too +much rent, Mr. Fisher?” + +“Not at all, not at all; it is a fair one, and I shall be very glad to +have the house.” + +She was really a nice little woman, he thought, docile, and far from +stupid; she only wanted a little managing. He had a suspicion that +Walter was too easy-going, and if so, this little experience would be +excellent for her; it would teach her that after all men were the +governing race. It was so foolish when women did not recognize it. + +“Very well then, you will go on Saturday? Good-bye. Oh, I should like to +ask Miss Dunlop to come and see my mother; do you think she would mind +cheering her up sometimes?” + +“Oh no. She is a nice girl too.” + +“We might make a party to the theatre one night perhaps. By the way, +Mrs. Hibbert,” he exclaimed, a sudden thought striking him, “I shall +write to Walter as soon as I get to the office and tell him of this +arrangement. I might as well enclose a note from you. The mail goes out +to-day from Southampton, so that it would be too late to post, but I am +sending specially by rail. I will wait while you write a note, and +enclose it in mine.” + +“I wrote by this mail last night,” she answered. “But I should like to +tell him about the house—he might be angry.” She laughed at the last +words. She only said them to keep up Walter’s dignity. + +“Oh no, he won’t be angry,” Mr. Fisher laughed back, and Florence +thought he was quite good-looking when he was not too grave. He did not +look more than forty either; perhaps Ethel might be happy with him. +Then, when she had written a few lines, he departed, satisfied with the +result of his visit. + +An odd thing happened about that note. He went straight to the office +and found a dozen matters of business awaiting his attention, and all +remembrance of the Hibberts fled from him. Suddenly, an hour later, he +dived into his pocket for a memorandum, and pulled out an unopened white +envelope. He did not look at the address. “What’s this?” he said in +utter forgetfulness, and tore it open; and—for his own name caught his +eye—he read a passage in Mrs. Hibbert’s note to her husband:— + +“——_he is a kind old fogey, and I think he likes Ethel D. Would it not +be funny if he married her?_” + +He folded it up quickly for fear he should read more. “Why should it be +funny?” he said to himself. The word haunted him all day. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Aunt Anne was deeply engaged. She was delighted with +Florence’s unexpected gift; it would enable her to do a few things that +only an hour or two ago she had felt to be impossible. She had not the +least intention of paying Madame Celestine. She looked upon her as an +inferior who must be content to wait till it was the pleasure of her +superior to remember her bill, and any reminder of it she resented as a +liberty. She spent a happy and very excited hour in Regent Street, and +at eleven o’clock stood on the kerbstone critically looking for a +hansom. She let several go by that did not please her; but at last with +excellent instinct she picked out a good horse and a smart driver, and a +minute later was whirling on towards Waterloo Station. She liked driving +in hansoms; she was of opinion that they were well constructed, a great +improvement on older modes of conveyance, and that it was the positive +duty of people in a certain rank of life to encourage all meritorious +achievements with their approval. She never for a moment doubted that +she was one of those whose approval was important. She felt her own +individuality very strongly, and was convinced that the world recognized +it. She was keenly sensible of making effects, and it was odd, but for +all her eccentricities, there was in her the making of a great lady; or +it might have seemed to a philosophical speculator that she was made of +the worn-out fragments of some past great lady, and dimly remembered at +intervals her former importance. She had perfect control over her +manner, and could use it to the best advantage; she had reserve, a power +of keeping off familiarity, a graciousness, a winsomeness when she +chose, that all belonged to a certain type and a certain class. As she +went on swiftly to the station she looked half-disdainfully, yet +compassionately, at the people who walked and the people who passed in +omnibuses. She told herself that the last were excellent institutions, +she wondered what the lower class would do without them; it rejoiced her +to think that they had not got to do without them, it was a satisfaction +to feel that she could enjoy her own superior condition without +compunction. + +At Waterloo, with an air of decision that showed a perfect knowledge of +her own generosity, she gave the cabman sixpence over his fare and +walked slowly into the station. She looked up and down the platform from +which the Portsmouth train would depart, but saw no one she knew. She +stood for a moment hesitating, and winked slowly to herself. Then she +went to the bookstall and bought a _Times_ and a _Morning Post_. The one +cost threepence and the other was fashionable. She disliked penny +papers. Again her mania for present-giving asserted itself, and quickly +she bought also a pile of illustrated papers and magazines. “Gentlemen +always like the _Field_,” she said to herself, and added it to the heap. +She turned away with them in her arms, and as she did so Alfred Wimple +stood facing her. + +“I have ventured to get you a few papers, hoping they would beguile you +on your journey,” she said. + +Mr. Wimple was as grave as ever and as rickety on his legs. His face +showed no sign of pleasure at the sight of the old lady, but his manner +was deferential; he seemed to be trying to impress certain indefinite +facts upon her. + +“I never read in a train,” he answered, “but I shall be glad of them at +the end of the journey. Thank you.” + +He said the last two words with a sigh, and put them in the corner he +had already secured of the railway carriage. He looked at the clock. +Twenty minutes before he started. He seemed to consider something for a +moment, looking critically at the old lady while he did so. + +“Cannot I persuade you to give me your address in Hampshire?” He coughed +a little. “Have you your glycerine lozenges with you?” she asked +hurriedly. + +“Yes,” he answered, “they are in my pocket. I will write to you, Mrs. +Baines; I may have something of importance to say.” + +“Everything that you say is important,” she answered nervously. + +He got into the train and sat down. + +“I am tired,” he said; “you must excuse me for not standing any longer.” +He shivered as he opened the window. “I dislike third class,” he added, +“but I go by it on principle; I am not rich enough to travel by any +other, Mrs. Baines,” and he looked at her fixedly. + +She was silent, she seemed fascinated, she looked at him for a moment +and winked absently; then a thought seemed to strike her and she +started. + +“Wait!” she exclaimed; “I will return in a moment,” and she hurried +away. + +In five minutes she came back breathless with excitement. “I have taken +a great liberty,” she said humbly, “but you must forgive me. I have +ventured to get you this ticket; will you please me by changing into a +first-class carriage? You must imagine that you are my guest,” and she +looked at him anxiously. “The guard is waiting——” + +“I cannot refuse you anything, Mrs. Baines.” And with a chastened air he +pulled his portmanteau from under the seat. The guard was waiting +outside for it, and took it to an empty carriage. Mr. Wimple followed, +Aunt Anne carrying the papers. He took his place and looked round +satisfied. The guard touched his hat to the old lady and went his way. +Mrs. Baines gave a sigh of satisfaction. + +“Now I shall feel content, and you will not be disturbed,” she added +triumphantly. “I have spoken——” She stopped, for his hacking cough +came back; she seemed to shrink with pain as she heard it. + +“I am quite an invalid,” he said impressively. + +“I wish I were going with you to nurse you.” + +“I need nursing, Mrs. Baines,” he answered sadly. “I need a great many +things.” + +“I wish I could give them to you.” + +He looked at her curiously; as if the words came from him without his +knowledge, he said suddenly, “I see Sir William Rammage is a little +better.” + +“I am going to inquire after him this morning,” she answered, and then +she drew a little parcel from beneath her shawl. “I want you to put this +into your pocket,” she said, “and to open it by-and-by; it is only a +trifling proof that I thought of you as I came along.” + +“I always think of you,” he said, almost reproachfully, as, without a +word of thanks, he put the parcel out of sight. + +“Not more than I do of you,” she said, in a low choking voice. “I hear +you cough in my sleep; and it grieves me to think how hard you have to +work.” + +“I can’t take care of myself,” he said; “I was always careless, Mrs. +Baines, and I must work. Fisher is a very fidgety man to work for; it +has taken me three days to review a small book on American law, and even +now I am not sure that he will be satisfied.” + +His voice never varied, the expression of his eyes never changed save +once for a moment. She had taken off her gloves and was resting her +hands, thin and dry, on the ledge of the carriage window while she leant +forward to talk to him, and suddenly he looked down at them. They seemed +to repel him, he drew back a very little; she saw the movement and +followed his eyes; she understood perfectly; for she had quick insight, +and courage to face unflinchingly even truths that were not pleasant. +She drew her hands away and rubbed them softly one over the other, as if +by doing so she could put young life into them. Suddenly with a jerk the +train moved. + +“Good-bye,” she said excitedly. “Good-bye; if I write to the address in +town will the letter be forwarded?” + +But he could only nod. In a moment he was out of sight. He did not lean +forward to look after her, he sat staring into space. “She must be +seventy,” he said. “I wonder——” Then he felt in his pocket for the +third-class ticket he no longer needed. “Probably they will return the +amount I paid for it.” A sudden thought struck him. He looked at the +ticket Mrs. Baines had given him. “It is for Portsmouth,” he said +grimly. The one he had taken himself had been for Liphook. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + +It was not at all a bad thing to do, Florence thought, as she sat and +considered the arrangement Mr. Fisher had so suddenly made in regard to +the house in town and the cottage at Witley. The country would do the +children good, and Aunt Anne would probably enjoy it. Of course the +latter would consent to go with them. Indeed, she had clearly no other +resource. Florence wondered if she would like it. + +But Mrs. Baines was so full of news herself when she returned that she +had no time to listen to any one else. + +“My love,” she said, “I have passed a most important day.” + +“Relate your adventures, Aunt Anne.” But at this request Mrs. Baines +winked and spoke slowly. + +“I had an engagement in the morning,” she began, and hesitated. “When I +had fulfilled it,” she went on, “I thought it right, Florence, to go and +call on Sir William Rammage. He has been ill, and I wanted to assure him +of my sympathy. Besides, I felt that it was due to you—that it was an +imperative duty on my part to ask him for an allowance, and that it was +his duty to give it to me.” + +“But, Aunt Anne——” + +“Yes, my love. I am living now on your generous kindness; don’t think +that I am insensible to it. But for your tenderness, my darling, I +should have been alone in a little lodging now, as I was when—when I +was first left a widow.” + +“I should not like to think of you in a little lodging, Aunt Anne,” +Florence said gently; and then she added gaily, “but continue your +adventures.” + +Mrs. Baines gave a long sigh, and was silent for a moment. She sat down +on the easy-chair and, as if she had not heard Florence’s interruption, +went on with a strange tragic note in her voice— + +“I never told you about that time, Florence. I had three pounds in the +world when I came to London; just three pounds to maintain my position +until I could find something to do. I had a little room at Kilburn—a +little room at the top of the house; and I used to sit day after day, +week after week, waiting. I had no coals, only a little spirit-lamp by +which I made some water hot, then poured it into a jug and covered it +over and warmed my hands by it; it was often an hour before it grew +cold, my love.” + +“But why did you not come to us?” + +“I couldn’t,” the old lady answered in an obstinate tone. “I felt that +it would not be treating you properly to present myself before you while +I was so poor and miserable”—she paused and looked into the fire for a +moment, then suddenly went on: “The woman at the corner where I went +every morning to buy a newspaper, saw that I was poor, and presumed upon +it. Once she said I looked nipped up, and asked me to sit down and get +warm. I reproved her for familiarity, and never went to the shop again.” + +“But perhaps she meant it for kindness?” + +“She should have remembered her position, my love, and asked me in a +different manner. There is nothing more painful to bear than the +remembrance of one’s own rank in life when one has to encounter the +hardships that belong by right to a lower class.” Aunt Anne paused again +for a moment, and gave a long sigh before she went on: “We won’t go over +it, my dear. If Mrs. North had shown less levity in her conduct and more +consideration to me, I should have been there still instead of living on +your charity.” + +“Oh no, Aunt Anne.” + +“Yes, my love, it is so; even though you love me and I love you, it is +charity; and I felt it keenly when you resented my little offering of +cream this morning—you, to whom I would give everything I possess.” + +“Oh no, Aunt Anne——” interrupted Florence. + +“And so—and so,” continued the old lady with a little gasp, “I went to +Sir William Rammage once more. I told him—I told him”—she stopped—“I +told him how our mothers had stood over us together, years and years +ago.” + +“Yes, I know,” Florence said soothingly. She had heard this so often +before. “I hope he was good to you?” + +“My dear, he listened with compunction, but he saw the force of what I +said. He will write and tell me how much he will allow me,” she added +simply. + +“I am very glad, Aunt Anne; I hope he will write soon, and be generous. +I know it will make you happier.” + +“It will, indeed,” and Mrs. Baines gave another long sigh. “I shall not +be dependent on any one much longer.” + +“Except upon him,” Florence said unwittingly. + +“No, I shall not feel that I am dependent even upon him,” and she looked +up quickly. “He will give it and I shall take it for the honour of the +family. I told him how impossible it was that I could go on living upon +you and Walter, that it would be a disgrace. I could not live upon him +either. He has shown me so little sympathy, my love, that I could not +endure it. I shall take the allowance from him as I should take an +inheritance, knowing that it is not given to me for my own sake. I could +not take it in any other spirit; but it would be as wrong in him to +forget what is due to us, as it would be in me to let him do so. It +would shed dishonour on his name.” + +And again she was silent; she seemed to be living over the past, to be +groping her way back among days that were over before Florence was even +born, to be seeing people whose very names had not been heard for years. + +“They would rise in their graves if I were left to starve,” she +continued; “I have always felt it; and it was but right towards them +that I should go to William; it was due to them even that I should live +on you and Walter, my darling, till I received an adequate income.” + +Suddenly her voice changed again, the wonderful smile came back—the +happy look that always seemed as if it had travelled from the youth she +had left long years behind. + +“You understand, my love?” she asked. “Bless you for all your kindness, +but I am not going to intrude upon you much longer. I have already seen +an apartment that will, I think, suit my requirements.” + +“Oh no.” + +“Yes, my love, it will be much better. You cut me to the quick this +morning, Florence,” and her voice grew sad; “you said that you would +have to send away your dear children because my influence would spoil +them.” + +“Aunt Anne!”—Florence began in consternation. + +“Yes, dear, yes,” the old lady said solemnly; “it gave me the deepest +pain, as I sat and thought it over in the privacy of my own chamber. But +when I came downstairs and you shared your dear mother’s gift with me, I +knew that you loved me sincerely.” + +“I do,” said Florence, soothingly. + +“I am sure of it, my darling,” with even more solemnity, “but it will be +better that I should take an apartment. It will rejoice your tender +heart to know that by your gift you have helped me to secure one, and +when I receive my allowance from Sir William I shall feel that I am +independent once more. You must forgive me, my love; it is not that I do +not appreciate your hospitality—yours and Walter’s—I do. But I feel +that it would sadden all my dear ones who are gone, if they knew that I +was alone in the world, without a home of my own. That is why I went to +Sir William Rammage, Florence; and though he said little, I feel sure +that he saw the matter in a proper light, and felt as I do about it.” + +“What did he say?” + +“He said he would think it over, and when he had made up his mind he +would write to me. My love, would you permit me to ring the bell?” + +“Yes, of course. Why do you always ask me? Don’t you feel at home here, +dear Aunt Anne?” Florence asked, thinking that Sir William’s answer had, +after all, committed him to little. + +“I hope I shall never so far forget myself as not to treat you with the +courtesy that you have a right to expect, my darling. I will never take +advantage of our relationship.—Jane,” she said, with quite another +manner, and in a cold and slightly haughty tone, to the servant who had +entered, “would you have the goodness to divest me of my cloak? and if +your mistress gives you permission, perhaps you would carry it up to my +room?” + +“Yes, ma’am,” said Jane, respectfully, but without much willingness in +her manner. The servants had learnt to resent the tone in which Mrs. +Baines usually spoke to them. “She treats us like dirt,” the housemaid +explained to the cook; “and if were made of dirt, I should like to know +what she’s made of? She give me a shilling the other day, and another +time a new apron done up in a box from the draper’s; but I don’t care +about her for all her presents. I know she always sees every speck of +dust that others would be blind to; it’s in her wink that she does.” + +“And now that you have told me all your news, I want you to listen to +mine,” Florence said. + +Then she gave an account of Mr. Fisher’s visit, and of the letting of +the house for a couple of months. + +“So, Aunt Anne,” she continued triumphantly, “I want you to be very, +very good, and to go with the children and two of the servants to the +cottage at Witley to-morrow, and to be the mistress of the great +establishment, if you will, and mother to the children till I come; that +proves how bad I think your influence is for them, doesn’t it, you +unkind old dear?”—and she stooped and kissed Mrs. Baines. + +Aunt Anne was delighted, and consented at once. + +“I shall never forget your putting this confidence in me. You have +proved your affection for me most truly,” she said. “My dear Florence, +your children shall have the most loving care that it is in my power to +give them. I will look after everything till you come; more zealously +than you yourself could. Tell me, love, where do you say the cottage is +situated?” + +“It is near Witley, it is on the direct Portsmouth road; a sweet little +cottage with a garden, and fir woods stretching on either side.” + +“And how far is it from Portsmouth, my love?” Mrs. Baines asked eagerly. + +Florence divined the meaning of the question instantly. + +“Oh, I don’t know, Aunt Anne; after Witley comes Hindhead, and then +Liphook, and then Petersfield, and then—then I don’t know. Liphook is +the place where Mr. Wimple”—the old lady winked to herself—“has +friends, and sometimes goes to stay.” + +“And how far is that?” + +“About six miles, I think—six or seven.” + +“Thank you, my love; and now, if you will allow me, I will retire. I +must make preparations for my journey, which is indeed a delightful +anticipation.” + +Florence never forgot the October morning on which she took Aunt Anne +and the children to Witley. They went from Waterloo. She thought of +Walter and the day they had spent at Windsor, and of that last one on +which they had gone together to Southampton, and she had returned alone. +“Oh, my darling,” she said to herself, “may you grow well and strong, +and come back to us soon again.” + +Mrs. Baines, too, seemed full of memories. She looked up and down the +platform; she stood for a moment dreamily by the bookstall before it +occurred to her to buy a cheap illustrated paper to amuse Catty and +Monty on the journey. + +“My love,” she said to Florence, with a little sigh, “a railway station +is fraught with many recollections of meeting and parting——” + +“And meeting again,” said Florence, longingly thinking of Walter. + +“Yes, my love,” the old lady answered tenderly; “and may yours with your +dear one be soon.” + +There were three miles to drive from Witley to the cottage. A long white +road, with fir woods on either side. Gaps in the firs, and glimpses of +the Surrey hills, distant and blue, of hanging woods and deep valleys. +The firs came to an end; and there were cliffs of gravel full of the +holes of sand-martins. More woods, then hedges of blackberry-bushes, +bare enough now; gorse full of late bloom, heather faded and turning +from russet to black. Here and there a solitary house, masses of oak and +larch and fir, patches of sunshine, long wastes of shade; and the road +going on and on. + +“Here we are at last,” Florence said, as they stopped before a red-brick +cottage that stood only a few yards back from the road. On either side +of it was a fir plantation. There was a gravel pathway round the house, +but the other paths were covered with tan. Behind stretched a wilderness +of garden almost entirely uncultivated. There was a little footway that +wound through it in and out among beeches and larches and firs and oaks, +and stopped at last on the ridge of a dip that could hardly be called a +valley. + +“Sometimes,” said Florence, as they walked about, half an hour later, +while the servants were busy within, “we go down the dip and up the +other side, and so get over to Hindhead. It is nearer than going there +by the road.” + +“Our house is over there,” the children said. + +“Their house,” explained Florence, “is a little, lonely, thatched shed, +half a mile away. We don’t know who made it. It is in a lovely part on +the other side of the dip, among the straggling trees. Perhaps some one +tethered a cow in it once. The children call it their house now, because +one day they had tea there. After I return next week we must try and +walk across to it.” + +But the old lady’s eyes were turned towards the distance. + +“And the road in front of the house,” she asked, “where does that go +to?” + +“It winds round the Devil’s Punch Bowl, and over Hindhead, and on +through Liphook and Petersfield to Portsmouth.” + +Aunt Anne did not answer, she looked still more intently into the +distance, and gave a long sigh. + +“It is most exhilarating to be out of London again, my dear Florence,” +she said. “I sincerely trust it will prove beneficial to your dear ones. +I was born in the country, and I hope that some day I shall die in it. +London is most oppressive after a time.” + +“I like London,” Florence answered; “still it does now and then feel +like a prison.” + +“And the rows and rows of houses are the prison bars, my love. May we +enter the cottage?” she asked suddenly. She was evidently tired; she +stooped, and looked older and more worn than usual. + +“Poor old dear,” Florence thought. “I hope she is not worrying about +Madame Celestine’s bill, and that she will soon hear from Sir William +Rammage. Then she will be happier.” + +It was a little house, simple inside as well as out, with tiny rooms, +plainly furnished. The dining-room had been newly done up, with cretonne +curtains and a dado, and a buttery-hatch in which Florence took a +certain pride as something rather grand for so small a place. The +drawing-room was old-fashioned; a stiff roomy sofa with hard flat +cushions at one end; at the other a sweet jangling piano. There were +corner cupboards with china bowls of pot-pourri on them; on either side +of the fireplace a gaunt, high-backed easy-chair, and on the left of +each chair an old-fashioned screen on which was worked a peacock. Aunt +Anne stopped on the threshold. + +It seemed to Florence as if the room recognized the old lady, as if it +had been waiting, knowing that she would come. There was something about +it that said more plainly than any words could have said that the hands +were still that had first arranged it, and many footsteps had gone out +from its doorway that would never come in at it more. + +“It always depresses me,” Florence explained; “but it is just as we +found it. We refurnished the dining-room, and sit there a good deal. It +is more cheerful than this. Come upstairs”—and she led the way. + +The bedrooms were all small too, save one in front, that seemed to match +the drawing-room. It looked like a room to die in: Florence thought so, +as she entered it for the first time with Aunt Anne. A quaint four-post +bedstead with dark chintz curtains, a worm-eaten bureau, a sampler +worked in Berlin wool and framed in black cherry-wood hanging over the +fireplace. + +“This is the best room,” she said, “and we keep it for visitors. There +is a little one, meant to be a dressing-room, I suppose, leading out of +it,” and she went to a bright little nook with a bed in it. “I always +feel that the best bedroom and the drawing-room belong to a past world, +and the rest of the house to the present one.” + +“It is like your life and mine, my darling; mine to the past and yours +to the present.” + +“I think you ought to sleep in the best room, Aunt Anne.” + +“No, my love,” the old lady interrupted, “let me have this little one +which is next it. When you require the other, if I am still with you, I +can lock the door between. The best one is too grand for me; but +sometimes while it is empty I will go in, if you have no objection, and +look out at the fir trees and the road that stretches right and +left——” + +“I like doing that,” Florence interrupted. “It always sets me +thinking—the road from the city to the sea.” + +“From the city to the sea,” the old lady repeated; “from the voices to +the silences.” + +“Aunt Anne, we mustn’t grow sentimental,” Florence began. There was the +sound of a tinkling bell. It seemed to come at an opportune moment. “Oh, +happy sound,” she laughed; “it means that our meal is ready. Catty, +darling,” she called, “Monty, my son, roast chicken is waiting +downstairs. Auntie and mummy are quite ready; come, dear babes”—and +patter, patter, came the sound of the little feet, and together they all +went down. + +An hour later the fly came to the door; it was time for Florence to +start on her way back to town. + +“I shall be with you at latest on Tuesday. Perhaps, dear Aunt Anne, if +you don’t mind taking care of the bad children so long, I may go on +Saturday for a day or two to an old schoolfellow,” she said. “Then I +should not be here till the middle of next week.” + +“Dear child, you do indeed put confidence in me,” Mrs. Baines answered +quaintly. + +“And, Aunt Anne, I have ordered most things in, but the tradespeople +come every day if there is anything more you want. What you order is, of +course, put down, but here is some money for odds and ends. Four pounds, +I think, will carry you through; and here is a little book in which to +put down your expenses. I always keep a most careful account of what I +spend; you don’t mind doing so either, do you?” + +“My love, anything you wish will be a pleasure to me.” + +“If you please, ma’am,” said Jane, entering, “the driver says you must +start at once if you want to catch this train.” + +“Then good-bye, dear Aunt Anne; good-bye, dear dickie-birds; be happy +together. You shall see me very soon again; send me a letter every other +day;” and with many embraces Florence was allowed to get out of the +door. But Aunt Anne and the children ran excitedly after her to the +gate, and helped her into the little waggonette, and kissed their hands +and waved their handkerchiefs as she drove off, and called “Good-bye, +good-bye;” and so, watching them, Florence went along the white road +towards the station. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + + +The days that followed were busy ones for Florence—busy in a domestic +sense, so that the history of them does not concern us here. Mr. Fisher +called one afternoon; by a strange coincidence it was while Ethel Dunlop +was helping Florence with an inventory of china. Miss Dunlop readily +promised to visit his mother, but she did not show any particular +interest in the editor. + +“He has been so kind,” Florence said, “and don’t you think he is very +agreeable?” + +“Oh yes; but you know, Florrie dear, he has a very square jaw.” + +“Well?” + +“It is a good thing he never married again; he would have been very +obstinate.” + +“But why do you say never did?—as if he never would. He is only +forty-odd.” + +“Only forty-odd!” laughed Ethel—“only a million. If a man is over +eight-and-twenty he might as well be over eighty; it is mere modesty +that he is not.” + +“Walter is over thirty, and just as fascinating as ever.” + +Florence was rather indignant. + +“Ah, yes, but he is married, and married men take such a long time to +grow old. By the way, Mr. Fisher said something about a theatre-party, +when his mother is here. Do you think I might ask him to invite George +Dighton as well? George is very fond of theatres.” + +Before Florence could reply, a carriage stopped at the door; it looked +familiar, it reminded her of Aunt Anne in her triumphant days. But a +strange lady descended from it now, and was shown upstairs to the +drawing-room, in which Aunt Anne had sat and related her woes and known +her triumphs. + +“Mrs. North, ma’am,” said the servant; and then Florence understood. + +She left Ethel in the dining-room with the inventory, and went up to +receive the visitor. Mrs. North was as pretty as Aunt Anne had declared +her to be; a mere girl to look at, tall and slim. Florence thought it +was quite natural that her husband should like her to have a chaperon. + +“I came to see Mrs. Baines,” she said, coming forward in a shy, +hesitating manner, “but hearing that she was in the country I ventured +to ask for you. What have you done with the dear old lady?” and she +laughed nervously. Florence looked at her, fascinated by her beauty; by +her clothes, that seemed to be a mixture of fur and lace and perfume, by +the soft brown hair that curled low on her forehead, by the sweet blue +eyes—by every bit of her. “She told you, probably, that she was very +angry when she left me; I know it has all been very dreadful in her +eyes; but she was always kind to me, and I thought by this time that she +would, perhaps, forgive me and make it up; so I came.” She said it with +a penitent air. + +“I am afraid she is very angry,” Florence answered, laughing, for the +pretty woman before her did not seem like a stranger. “Do you want her +again?” + +“Oh no!” and Mrs. North shook her head emphatically. “She would not +come, I know; besides, it would be impossible: she led us a terrible +life. But we loved her, and wanted just to make it up with her again. I +think we could have put up with anything if she had not quarrelled with +the servants.” + +“I was afraid it was that,” Florence answered. + +“Oh yes!” sighed Mrs. North; “she was horribly autocratic with +them—‘autocratic’ is her own word. At last she quarrelled with Hetty, +and wanted me to send her away—to send away Hetty, who is a born +treasure, and cooks like an angel. It would have broken our hearts—a +woman who sends up a dinner like a charm; we couldn’t let her go, it was +impossible, and the old lady fled.” + +“I am very sorry. You were so kind to her; she always said that.” + +“I loved her,” Mrs. North answered, with a little sigh. “She was so like +my dear dead mother grown old—that was the secret of her attraction for +us; but she ruled us with a rod of iron that grew more and more +unyielding every day. And yet she was very kind. She was always giving +us presents.” + +“Oh yes,” Florence said, in a despairing voice. + +“We have had the bills for them since,” Mrs. North went on, with a +comical air. “She used to say that I was very frivolous,” she added +suddenly. “She thought it wicked of me to enjoy life while my husband +was away. But he is old, Mrs. Hibbert; one may have an affection for an +old husband, but one can’t be in love with him.” + +“If she were very nice she would not have made that remark to me, whom +she never saw before,” Florence thought, beginning to dislike her a +little. + +“Of course I am sorry he is away,” Mrs. North said, as if she perfectly +understood the impression she was making; “he is coming back now. He has +telegraphed suddenly.” There was something like fright in her voice as +she said it. “I did not expect him; but he is coming almost directly. I +suppose I ought to be very glad,” she added, with a ghostly smile. “I +am, of course; but I am surprised at his sudden return. I took Mrs. +Baines because he wished me to have an old lady about me; but I wanted +my own way. I liked her to have hers when it amused me to see her have +it, when it didn’t I wanted to have mine.” Mrs. North’s whole expression +had altered again, and she looked up with two blue eyes that fascinated +and repelled, and laughed a merry, uncontrolled laugh like a child’s. +“Oh, she was very droll.” + +“Perhaps it is very rude of me to say it,” Florence said primly, for +deep in her heart there was a great deal of primness, “but I can +understand Mr. North wishing you to have a chaperon; you are very young +to be left alone.” + +“Oh yes, and very careless, I know that. And Mrs. Baines used to provoke +me into shocking her. I could shock her so easily, and did—don’t you +know how one loves power for good or ill over a human being?” + +“No, I don’t,” Florence answered, a little stiffly. + +“I do; I love it best of all things in the world, whether it leads me +uphill or downhill. But I am intruding,” for she saw a set cold look +coming over Florence’s face. “Let me tell you why I asked for you. I +have been so embarrassed about Mrs. Baines. She gave us presents, and +she bought all sorts of things: but she didn’t pay for them. These bills +came, and the people wanted their money.” She pulled a little roll out +of her pocket. “She probably forgot them, and I thought it would be +better to pay them, especially as I owed her some money when she left +which she would not take;” and she laughed out again, but there was the +odd sound like fright in her voice. “They are from florists and all +sorts of people.” + +Florence looked over the bills quickly and almost guiltily. There were +the pots of fern and the flowers that had been sent to her and the +children after Aunt Anne’s first visit; and there were the roses with +which she had triumphantly entered on the night of the dinner-party. +“Oh, poor old lady!” she exclaimed sadly. + +“They are paid,” Mrs. North said. “Don’t be distressed about them and +many others—lace-handkerchiefs, shoes, all sorts of things. Don’t tell +her. She would think I had taken a liberty or committed a solecism,” and +she made a little wry face. “But what I really wanted to see you about, +Mrs. Hibbert, was Madame Celestine’s bill. I am afraid I can’t manage +that all by myself; it is too long. Madame Celestine, of course, is +sweetly miserable, for she thinks the old lady has vanished into space. +She came to me yesterday. It seems that she went to you a few days ago, +but you were out, and she was glad of it when she discovered that Mrs. +Baines was your aunt, for she doesn’t want to offend you. She came to me +again to-day. She is very miserable. I believe it will turn her hair +grey. Oh, it is too funny.” + +“I don’t think it is at all funny.” + +“But indeed it is, for I don’t believe Mrs. Baines will ever be able to +pay the fifteen pounds; in fact, we know that she won’t. Probably it is +worrying her a good deal. I have been wondering whether something could +not be done; if you and I, for instance, were to arrange it between us.” + +“You are very good, Mrs. North,” Florence said, against her will. + +“Oh no, but I am sorry for her, and it vexes and worries me to think +that she is annoyed. I want to get rid of that vexation, and will pay +something to do so. That is what most generosity comes to,” Mrs. North +went on, with mock cynicism, “the purchase of a pleasant feeling for +one’s self, or the getting rid of an unpleasant one. There is little +really unselfish goodness in the world, and when one meets it, as a +rule, it isn’t charming, it isn’t fascinating; one feels that one would +rather be without it.” She rose as she spoke. “Well,” she asked, “what +shall we do? I’ll pay one half of the old lady’s bill if you will pay +the other half.” + +“You are very good,” Florence repeated, wonderingly. + +“No; but I expect you are,” and Mrs. North showed two rows of little +white teeth. “I should think you are a model of virtue,” she added, with +an almost childlike air of frankness, which made it impossible to take +offence at her words, though Florence felt that at best she was only +regarded as the possessor of a quality that just before her visitor had +denounced. + +“Why,” she asked, smiling against her will, “do I look like a model of +virtue?” + +“Oh yes, you are almost Madonna-like,” Mrs. North said, with a sigh. “I +wish I were like you, only—only I think I should get very tired of +myself. I get tired now; till a reaction comes. But a reaction to the +purely good must be tame at best.” + +“You are very clever,” Florence said, almost without knowing it, and +shrinking from her again. + +“How do you know? My husband says I am clever, but I don’t think I am. I +am alive. So many people are merely in the preface to being alive, and +never get any farther. I am well in the middle of the book; and I am +eager, so eager, that sometimes I long to eat up the whole world in +order to know the taste of everything. Do you understand that?” + +“No. I am content with my slice.” + +“Ah, that is it. I am not content with mine. You have your husband and +children.” + +“But you have a husband.” + +“Yes, I have a husband too; a funny old husband, a long way off, who is +rapidly—too rapidly, I fear—coming nearer”—Florence hated her—“and +no children. I amused myself with the old lady—Mrs. Baines—till she +fled from me. Now I try other things. Good-bye.” + +“Good-bye,” Florence said. + +As Mrs. North was going out of the door she turned and asked, “Have you +many friends—women friends?” + +“Yes, a great many, thank you,” Mrs. Hibbert said, with a little haughty +inclination of the head. The haughtiness seemed to amuse Mrs. North, for +the merry look came over her face again, but only for a moment. + +“I thought you had,” she answered. “I have none; I don’t want them. +Good-bye.” + +It was nearly dark, and the one servant left to help Florence get the +house ready had neglected to light the lamp on the staircase. Mrs. North +groped her way down. + +“I want to tell you something,” she said. “You said just now that I was +clever. I don’t think I am, but I can divine people’s thoughts pretty +easily. You are very good, I think; but consider this, your goodness is +of no use if you are not good to others; good to women especially. The +good of goodness is that you can wrap others inside it. It ought to be +like a big cloak that you have on a cold night, while the shivering +person next to you has none. If you don’t make use of your goodness,” +she went on with a catch in her breath, “what is the good of it?—I seem +to be talking paradoxes—you prove how beautiful it is, perhaps, but +that is all; you make it like the swan that sings its own death-song. +One listens and watches, and goes away to think of things more +comprehensible, and to do them. Good-bye, Mrs. Hibbert,” she said +gently, and almost as if she were afraid she held out her hand. Florence +took it, a little wonder-struck. “You are like a Madonna, very like one, +as I said just now; but though you are older than I am, I think I know +more about some things than you do—good and bad. Madonnas never know +the world very well. Give my love to the old lady, and say I hope she +has forgiven me. I am going to Monte Carlo the day after to-morrow, only +for three days, to brace myself up for my husband’s return; tell her +that too. It will shock her. Say that I should like to have taken her,” +and with a last little laugh she went out—into the darkness, it seemed +to Florence. + +But the next minute there were two flashing lamps before the house; +there was the banging of a door, and Mrs. North was driven away. + +Florence went slowly back to the dining-room and the inventory. Ethel +Dunlop had gone. She was glad of it, for she wanted to think over her +strange visitor. + +“I don’t understand her,” she said to herself. “She is unlike any one I +ever met; she fascinated and repelled me. I felt as if I wanted to kiss +her, and yet the touch of her hand made me shiver.” Then she thought of +Madame Celestine’s bill, and of Aunt Anne, and wished that the dress had +not been bought, especially for the dinner-party; it made her feel as if +she had been the unwitting cause of Mrs. Baines’s extravagance. She +looked into the fire, and remembered the events of that wonderful +evening, and thought of Walter away, and the bills at home that would +have to be paid at Christmas. And she thought of her winter cloak that +was three years old and shabby, and of the things she had longed to buy +for the children. Above all she thought of the visions she had had of +saving little by little, and putting her savings away in a very safe +place, until she had a cosy sum with which some day to give Walter a +pleasant surprise, and suggest that they should go off together for “a +little spree,” as he would call it, to Paris or Switzerland. The fire +burnt low, the red coals grew dull, the light from the street lamp +outside seemed to come searching into the room as though it were looking +for some one who was not there. She thought of Walter’s letter safe in +her pocket. He himself was probably at Malta by this time—getting +stronger and stronger in the sunshine. Dear Walter, how generous he was; +he too was a little bit reckless sometimes. She wondered if he inherited +this last quality from Aunt Anne. She thought of her children at Witley +having tea, most likely with cakes and jam in abundance; and of Aunt +Anne in her glory. She wondered if Mr. Wimple had turned up. “Poor Aunt +Anne,” she sighed, and there was a long bill in her mind. Presently she +rose, lighted a candle, drew down the blind—shutting out the glare from +the street lamp—and going slowly to the writing-table in the corner, +unlocked it, opened a little secret drawer, and looked in. There were +three five-pound notes there—the remainder of her mother’s gift. “I +wonder if Mrs. North had Madame Celestine’s bill,” she thought. “But it +doesn’t matter; she said it was fifteen pounds. I can send her the +amount.” + +A couple of hours later, while she was in the very act of putting a +cheque into an envelope, a note arrived. It had been left by hand; it +was scented with violets, and ran thus:— + + “DEAR MRS. HIBBERT, + + “I have ventured to pay Madame Celestine. I determined to do so + while I was with you just now; but was afraid to tell you, that + was why I changed the conversation so abruptly. Please don’t let + the old lady know that it is my doing, for she might be angry; + but she was very good to me, and I am glad to do this for her. + Forgive all the strange things I said this afternoon, and don’t + trouble to acknowledge this. + + “Yours sincerely, + “E. NORTH. + + “P.S.—I enclose receipt.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER X. + + +It was not till Tuesday afternoon in the week following that Florence +went back to Witley. + +Mrs. Burnett was at the station, sitting in a little governess-cart +drawn by a donkey. + +“I am waiting for my husband,” she explained; “he generally comes by +this train, and I drive him home, donkey permitting. It is a dear little +donkey, and we are so fond of him.” + +“A dear little cart too,” Florence answered as she stood by its side, +talking. “I have been hoping that you would come and see me, Mrs. +Burnett; we are going to be here for six or seven weeks.” + +“I know, Mr. Fisher told me,” Mrs. Burnett replied in her sweet and +rather intense voice, “and we are so sorry that your visit takes place +just while we are away. I am going to Devonshire to-morrow morning to +stay with my mother while my husband goes to Scotland. I am so-o +sorry,”—she had a way of drawing out her words as if to give them +emphasis. Florence liked to look at Mrs. Burnett’s eyes while she spoke, +they always seemed to attest that every word she said expressed the +absolute meaning and intention in her mind. Her listeners gained a sense +of restfulness which comes from being in the presence of a real person +from whom they might take bitter or sweet, certain of its reality. “I +hoped from Mr. Fisher’s note that you had arrived before, and ventured +to call on Saturday.” + +“Did you see Mrs. Baines?” + +“Only for a moment. What a charming old lady—such old-fashioned +courtesy; it was like being sent back fifty years to listen to her. She +wanted me to stay, but I refused, for she was just setting off for a +drive with your children and her nephew.” + +“Setting off for a drive?” Florence repeated. + +“Yes, she had Steggall’s waggonette from the Blue Lion, and was going to +Guildford shopping. She said she meant to buy some surprises for you.” + +“Oh,” said Florence meekly, and her heart sank. “Did you say that she +had a nephew with her?” + +“Well, I supposed it was a nephew, unless she has a son—a tall fair +young man, who looks delicate, and walks as if his legs were not very +strong.” + +“Oh yes, I know,” Florence answered, as she signed to the fly she had +engaged to come nearer to the donkey-cart, so that she might not waste a +minute. “He is a friend; he is no relation. Good-bye, Mrs. Burnett; I am +sorry you are going away. I suppose you are waiting for the fast train, +as Mr. Burnett did not come by the last one?” + +“Yes, it is due in twenty minutes. Good-bye; so sorry not to have been +at home during your visit. Oh, Mrs. Hibbert, do you think your children +would like to have the use of this cart while we are away? The donkey is +so gentle and so good.” + +“It is too kind of you to think of it,” Florence began, beaming; for she +thought of how Catty and Monty would shout for joy at having a +donkey-cart to potter about in. And in her secret soul, though she felt +it would not do to betray it, she was nearly as much pleased as they +would be: she often had an inward struggle for the dignity with which +she felt her matronly position should be supported. + +“It will be such a pleasure to lend it them. It’s a dear little donkey, +so good and gentle. It doesn’t go well,” Mrs. Burnett added, in an +apologetic tone; “but it’s a dear little donkey, and does everything +else well.” And over this remark Florence pondered much as she drove +away. + +When she came in sight of the cottage she wondered if she had been +absent more than half an hour, or at all. She had left it in the +afternoon more than a week ago, and the children had stood out in the +roadway dancing and waving their handkerchiefs till she could see them +no longer. As she came back, they stood there dancing and waving their +handkerchiefs again. They shouted for joy as she got out of the fly. + +“Welcome, my darling, welcome,” cried Aunt Anne, who was behind them, by +the gate. “These dear children and I have been watching more than an +hour for you. Enter your house, my love. It is indeed a privilege to be +here to receive you.” + +“It is a privilege to come back to so warm a welcome,” Florence said +when, having embraced her children and Aunt Anne, she was allowed to +enter the cottage; “and how comfortable and nice it looks!” she +exclaimed, as she stopped by the dining-room doorway. There was a wood +fire blazing, and the tea set out, and the water in the silver kettle +singing, and hot cakes in a covered dish in the fender. Flowers set off +the table, and in the pots about the room were boughs of autumn leaves. +It was all cosy and inviting, and wore a festival air—festival that +Florence knew had been made for her. She turned and kissed the old lady +gratefully. “Dear Aunt Anne,” she said, and that was thanks enough. + +“I thought, my love, that you would like to partake of tea with your +dear children on your return. Your later evening meal I have arranged to +be a very slender one.” + +“But you are too good, Aunt Anne.” + +“It is you who have been too good to me,” the old lady answered +tenderly. “And now, my darling, let me take you up to your chamber; it +is ready for your reception.” + +There was a triumphant note in her voice that prepared Florence for the +fire in the grate and the bouquet on the dressing-table, and all the +little arrangements that Mrs. Baines had devised to add to her comfort. +It was very cheery, she thought when she was alone; Aunt Anne had a +knack of making one enjoy a home-coming. She sat for a few moments over +the fire, and pulled out Walter’s letter and read it and kissed it and +put it back into her pocket. Then she looked round the cosy room again, +and noticed a little packet on the corner of the drawers. Aunt Anne must +have placed it there when she went out of the room. On it was written, +_For my darling Florence_. “Oh,” she said, “it’s another present,” and +regretfully her fingers undid the string. Inside the white paper was a +little pin-cushion covered with blue velvet, and having round it a rim +of silver filigree work. Attached to it was a little note which ran +thus— + + “MY DARLING,—Accept this token of my love and gratitude. I feel + that there is no way in which I can better prove how much I + appreciated your generous gift to me than by spending a portion + of it on a token of my affection for you. I trust you will + honour my little gift with your acceptance.” + +“Oh,” said Florence again, in despair, “I wonder if she has once thought +of Madame Celestine’s bill or the others. What is the good of giving her +money if one gets it back in the shape of presents?” + +But she could not bear to treat the old lady’s generosity with coldness. +So Aunt Anne was thanked, and the cushion admired, and a happy little +party gathered round the tea-table. + +“And have you had any visitors except Mrs. Burnett?” Florence asked +artfully, when the meal was over. + +“We have had Mr. Wimple,” Aunt Anne said; “he is far from well, my love, +and is trying to recruit at Liphook.” + +“Oh yes, he has friends there.” + +“No, my love, not now. He is at present lodging with an old retainer.” + +“And have you been to see him?” + +“No, dear Florence, he preferred that I should not do so.” + +“We took him lots of rides,” said Monty. + +“And Aunt Anne gave him a present,” said Catty, “and he put it into his +pocket and never looked at it. He didn’t know what was inside the +paper,—we did, didn’t we, auntie?” + +“My dear children,” Mrs. Baines said, “if your mother will give you +permission you had better go into the nursery. It is past your hour for +bed, my dear ones.” + +The children looked a little dismayed, but did not dream of disobeying. + +“Was it wrong to say you gave him a present?” asked Catty, with the odd +perception of childhood, as she put up her face to be kissed. + +“My dears,” answered Aunt Anne, sweetly, “in my day children did not +talk with their elders unless they were invited to do so.” + +“We didn’t know,” said Monty, ruefully. + +“No, my darlings, I know that. Bless you,” continued the old lady +sweetly; “and good night, my dear ones. Under your pillows you will each +find a chocolate which auntie placed there for you this morning.” + +“And did you enjoy the drives?” Florence asked, when the children had +gone. + +“Yes, my dear, thank you.” Mrs. Baines was silent for a moment. Then she +raised her head, and, as if she had gathered courage, went on in a +slightly louder tone, “I thought it would do your dear children good, +Florence, to see the country, and, therefore, I ventured to take them +some drives. Occasionally Mr. Wimple was so kind as to accompany us.” + +“And I hope they did him good, too,” Florence said, trying not to betray +her amusement. + +“Yes, my love, I trust they did.” + +Then Florence remembered the bills paid by Mrs. North. They were all in +a sealed envelope in her pocket, but she could not gather the courage to +deliver it. She wanted to ask after Sir William Rammage, too, to know +whether he had written yet and settled the question of an allowance; but +for that, also, her courage failed—the old lady always resented +questions. Then she remembered Mr. Fisher’s remark about Alfred Wimple’s +writing, and thought it would please Aunt Anne to hear of it. + +“Mr. Fisher says that Mr. Wimple writes very well; he has been doing +some reviewing for the paper.” + +Mrs. Baines winked with satisfaction. + +“I am quite sure he writes well, my love,” she answered quickly; “he is +a most accomplished man.” + +“And is there no more news to relate, Aunt Anne?” Florence asked; “no +more doings during my absence?” + +“No, my love, I think not.” + +“Then I have some news for you. I hope it won’t vex you, for I know you +were very angry with her. Mrs. North has been to see me. She really came +to see you, but when she found you had gone out of town she asked for +me.” + +Mrs. Baines looked almost alarmed and very angry. + +“It was most presumptuous of her,” she exclaimed. + +“But I don’t understand; why should it be presumptuous?” Florence asked, +astonished. + +“She had no right; she had not my permission.” + +“But, dear Aunt Anne, she came to see you; and why should it be +presumptuous?” + +“I should prefer not to discuss the subject. I have expressed my +opinion, and that is sufficient,” Mrs. Baines said haughtily. “I repeat +that it was most presumptuous of her, under the circumstances, to call +upon you—a liberty, a—Florence,” she went on, with sudden alarm in her +voice, “I hope you did not promise to go and see her.” + +“She never asked me.” + +“I should have put my veto on it if she had. My dear, you must trust to +my mature judgment in some things. I know the world better than you do. +Believe me, I have my reasons for every word I say. I treated Mrs. North +with the greatest clemency and consideration, though she frequently +forgot not only what was due to herself, but what was due to me. I was +blind while I stayed with her, Florence, and did not see many things +that I do now; for I am not prone to think ill of any one. You know +that, my love, do you not? I must beg that you will never, on any +account, mention Mrs. North’s name again in my presence.” + +Florence felt as if the envelope would burn a hole in her pocket. It was +impossible to deliver it now. Perhaps, after all, the wisest way would +be to say nothing about it. She had an idea that Aunt Anne frequently +forgot all about her bills as soon as she had come to the conclusion +that it was impossible to make them any longer. She searched about in +her mind for some other topic of conversation. It was often difficult to +find a subject to converse upon with Aunt Anne, for the old lady never +suggested one herself, and except of past experiences and old-world +recollections she seldom seemed sufficiently interested to talk much. +Happily as it seemed for the moment, Jane entered with the housekeeping +books. They were always brought in on a Tuesday, and paid on a Wednesday +morning. Florence was very particular on this point. They usually gave +her a bad half-hour, for she could never contrive to keep them down as +much as she desired. That week, however, she reflected that they could +not be very bad; besides, she had left four pounds with Aunt Anne, which +must be almost intact, unless the drives had been paid out of them; but +even then there would be plenty left to more than cover the books. The +prospect of getting through her accounts easily cheered her, and she +thought that she would set about them at once. + +“They are heavy this week, ma’am,” Jane said, not without a trace of +triumph in her voice, “on account of the chickens and the cream and the +company.” + +“The chickens and the cream and the company,” laughed Florence, as Jane +went out of the room; “it sounds like a line from a comic poem. What +does she mean?” + +Aunt Anne winked as if to give herself nerve. + +“Jane was very impertinent to me one day, my love, because I felt sure +that after the fatigue of the journey from town, and the change of air, +you would prefer that your delicately-nurtured children should eat +chicken and have cream with their second course every day for dinner, +instead of roast mutton and milk pudding. White meat is infinitely +preferable for delicate digestions.” + +“Yes, dear Aunt Anne,” Florence said sweetly, and she felt a sudden +dread of opening the books, “you are quite right.” But what did a few +chickens and a little cream matter in comparison to the poor old lady’s +feelings? she thought. “And if you had company too, of course you wanted +to have a smarter table. Whom have you been entertaining, you dear and +dissipated Aunt Anne?” + +“My dear Florence, I have entertained no one but Mr. Wimple. He is a +friend of yours and your dear Walter’s, and I tried to prove to him that +I was worthy to belong to you, by showing him such hospitality as lay in +my power.” + +“Yes, dear, and it was very kind of you,” Florence said tenderly. After +all, why should Aunt Anne be worried through that horrid Mr. Wimple? +Walter would have invited him if he had found him in the neighbourhood, +and why should not Aunt Anne do so in peace, if it pleased her? Of +course, now that she herself had returned she could do as she liked +about him. She looked at the books. They were not so very bad, after +all. + +“Shall we make up our accounts now, and get it over, or in the morning?” +she asked. + +“I should prefer the morning,” Aunt Anne said meekly. “To-night, love, +you must be tired, and I am also fatigued with the excitement consequent +on seeing you.” + +“What a shame, poor Aunt Anne!” Florence said brightly. “I have worn you +out.” + +“Only with happiness, my dear,” said the old lady, fondly. + +Florence put away her books, and stroked Aunt Anne’s shoulder as she +passed. + +“We will do our work in the morning,” she said. + +“Yes, my darling, in the morning. In the afternoon I may possibly have +an engagement.” + +Florence longed to ask where, but a certain stiffness in Aunt Anne’s +manner made it impossible. + +“Have you any news from London?” she ventured to inquire, for she was +longing to know about Sir William Rammage. + +“No, my love, I have no news from London,” Mrs. Baines answered, and she +evidently meant to say no more. + + * * * * * + +In the morning much time was taken up with the arrival of the +donkey-cart and the delight of the children. A great basket of apples +was inside the cart, and on the top was a little note explaining that +they were from Mrs. Burnett’s garden, and she hoped the children might +like them. Aunt Anne was as much pleased with the donkey as the rest of +the party. + +“There is a rusticity in the appearance of a donkey,” she explained, +“that always gives me a sense of being really in the country.” + +“Not when you meet him in London, I fear,” Florence said. + +Mrs. Baines considered for a moment. She seemed to resent the +observation. + +“No, my love, of course not in London; I am speaking of the country,” +she said reprovingly; then she added, “I should enjoy a little drive +occasionally myself, if you would trust me with the cart, my love. It +would remind me of days gone by. I sometimes drove one at Rottingdean. +You are very fortunate, my dear one, in having so few sorrows to +remember—for I trust you have few. It always saddens me to think of the +past. Let us go indoors.” + +Florence put her arm through the old lady’s, and led her in. Then she +thought of the books again; it would be a good time to make them up. + +“I am always particular about my accounts, you know, Aunt Anne,” she +said in an apologetic tone. + +“Yes, my love,” answered the old lady; “I admire you for it.” + +Florence looked at the figures; they made her wince a little, but she +said nothing. + +“The bill for the waggonettes, Aunt Anne?” she asked. + +“That belongs to me, my dear.” + +“Oh no, I can’t allow that.” + +“My love, I made an arrangement with Mr. Steggall, and that is +sufficient.” + +Again Aunt Anne’s tone forbade any discussion. Florence felt sure that +one day Steggall’s bill would arrive, but she said nothing. + +“Do you mind giving me the change out of the four pounds?” she asked, +very gently. Mrs. Baines went slowly over to her work-basket, and took +up a little dress she was making for Catty. + +“Not now, my love; I want to get on with my work.” + +“Perhaps I could get your account-book, Aunt Anne; then I should know +how much there is left.” + +Mrs. Baines began to sew. + +“I did not put anything down in the account-book,” she said doggedly. “I +considered, dear Florence, that my time was too valuable. It always +seems to me great nonsense to put down every penny one spends.” + +“It is a check on one’s self.” + +“I do not wish to keep a check on myself,” Mrs. Baines answered, +scornfully. + +“Could you tell me how much you have left?” Florence asked meekly. “I +hope there may be enough to help us through the week.” + +She did not like to say that she thought it must be nearly untouched. + +“Florence,” burst out the old lady, with the injured tone in her voice +that Florence knew so well, “I have but ten shillings left in the world. +If you wish to take it from me you must do so; but it is not like you, +my darling.” + +“Oh, Aunt Anne,” Florence began, bewildered, “I am sure you—— I did +not mean—I did not know——” + +“I’m sure you did not,” Mrs. Baines said, with a sense of injury still +in her voice, “but there is nothing so terrible or so galling to a +sensitive nature like mine—and your dear Walter’s takes after it, +Florence, I am sure—as to be worried about money matters.” + +“But, indeed, Aunt Anne, I only thought that—that——” but here she +stopped, not knowing how to go on for a moment; “I thought that perhaps +the unpaid books represented the household expenses,” she added at last. +Really, something must be done to make the old lady careful, she +thought. + +“My love,” Mrs. Baines said, with an impatient shake of her head, “I +cannot go into the details of every little expense. I am not equal to +it. Everything you do not find charged in the books has either been +paid, or will be charged, by my request, to my private account, and you +must leave it so. I really cannot submit to being made to give an +explanation of every penny I spend. I am not a child, Florence. I am not +an inexperienced girl; I had kept house before, my love—if you will +allow me to say so—before you were born.” The treble note had come into +Aunt Anne’s voice; it was a sign that tears were not far off. + +But Florence could not feel as compassionate as she desired. She smarted +under the loss of her money; there was nothing at all to represent it, +and Aunt Anne did not seem to have the least idea that it had been of +any consequence. Florence got up and put the books away, looking across +at Aunt Anne while she did so. The expression on the old lady’s face was +set, and almost angry; her lips were firmly closed. She was working at +Catty’s little dress. She was a beautiful needle-woman, and embroidered +cuffs and collars on the children’s things that were a source of joyful +pride to their mother. But even the host of stitches would not pay the +week’s bills. If only Aunt Anne could be made to understand the value of +money, Florence thought—but it was no use thinking, for her foolish, +housekeeping heart was full of domestic woe. She went upstairs to her +own room, and, like a real woman who makes no pretence to +strong-mindedness, sat down to cry. + +“If Walter were only back,” she sobbed, as she rubbed her tearful face +against the cushions on the back of the basket-chair by the fireside. +“If he were here I should not mind, I might even laugh then. But after I +have tried and tried so hard to save and to spend so little, it is hard, +and I don’t know what to do.” She pulled out Walter’s letter and read it +again by way of getting a little comfort, and as she did so, felt the +envelope containing the receipts of the bills Mrs. North had paid. She +did not believe that Aunt Anne cared whether they were paid or not paid. +She always seemed to think that the classes, who were what she pleased +to consider beneath her, were invented simply for her use and +convenience, and that protest in any shape on their part was mere +impertinence. + +The day dragged by. The children prevented the early dinner from being +as awkward as it might have been. Mrs. Baines was cold and courteous. +Florence had no words to say. She would make it up with the old lady in +the evening, when they were alone, she thought. Of course she would have +to make it up. Meanwhile, she would go for a long walk, it would do her +good. She could think things over quietly, as she tramped along a lonely +road between the hedges of faded gorse and heather. But it was late in +the afternoon before she had energy enough to start. On her way out, she +put her head in at the dining-room door. Mrs. Baines was there with the +morning paper, which had just come. She was evidently excited and +agitated, and held the paper in one hand while she looked out towards +the garden. But she seemed to have forgotten all the unpleasantness of +the morning when she spoke. + +“My love, are you going out?” she asked. + +“I thought you had an engagement, Aunt Anne, and would not want me.” + +“That is true, my dear, and I shall be glad to be alone for a little +while, if you will forgive me for saying it. There is an announcement in +the paper that gives me the deepest pain, Florence. Sir William Rammage +is ill again—he is confined to his room.” + +“Oh, poor Aunt Anne!” + +“I must write to him instantly. I felt sure there was some good reason +for his not having told me his decision in regard to the allowance.” +Then, as if she had suddenly remembered the little scrimmage of the +morning, she went on quickly, “My love, give me a kiss. Do not think +that I am angry with you. I never could be that; but it is unpleasant at +my time of life to be made to give an exact account of money. You will +remember that, won’t you, dear? I should never expect it from you. If I +had hundreds and hundreds a year I would share them with you and your +darlings, and I would ask you for no accounts, dear Florence. I should +think that the money was as much yours as mine. You know it, don’t you, +my love?” + +“Yes, dear, I think I do,” Florence answered, and kissed the old lady +affectionately, thinking that perhaps, after all, she had made rather +too much fuss. + +“Then let us forget about it, my darling,” Mrs. Baines said, with the +gracious smile that always had its influence; “I could never remember +anything long of you, but your kindness and hospitality. Believe me, I +am quite sure that you did not mean to wound me this morning. It was +your zealous care of dear Walter’s interests that caused you for a +moment to forget what was due to me. I quite understand, my darling. Now +go for your walk, and be assured that Aunt Anne loves you.” + +And Florence was dismissed, feeling as the children had felt the evening +before when they had been sent to bed and told of the chocolate under +their pillows. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + + +The grey sky and the dim trees, the black hedges and the absolute +stillness; all these proved excellent comforters to Florence. They made +her philosophical and almost smiling again. It was only when an empty +waggonette of Steggall’s passed her that she remembered the vexations of +the morning. “Poor old lady,” she said to herself with almost a laugh, +“in future she must not be trusted with money, that is all. If she only +would not scold me and treat me like a child, I should not mind it so +much. Of course when Walter does it, I like it; but I don’t like it from +Aunt Anne.” + +She had walked a long way. She was getting tired. The messengers of +night were abroad, the stray breezes, the dark flecked clouds, the +shadows loitering by the trees, the strange little sounds among the +hedges by the wayside. Far off, beyond the wood, she heard a clock +belonging to a big house strike six. It was time to hurry home. If she +walked the two miles between herself and the cottage quickly, she would +be in by half-past six. At seven, after the children had gone to bed, +she and Aunt Anne were to sit down to a little evening meal they called +supper. They would be very cosy that night; they would linger over their +food, and Aunt Anne should talk of bygone days, and the quaint old world +that always seemed to be just behind her. + +It was rather dull in the country, Florence thought. In the summer, of +course, the outdoor life made it delightful, but now there was so little +to fill the days, only the children and the housekeeping, wonderings +about Walter, and the writing of the bit of diary on very thin paper +which she had promised to post out to him every week. She was not a +woman who made an intellectual atmosphere for herself. She lived her +life through her husband, read the same books, and drew her conclusions +by the light of his. Now that he had gone the world seemed half empty, +and very dull and tame. There was no glamour over anything. Perhaps it +was this that had helped to make her a little unkind to Aunt Anne, for +gradually she was persuading herself that she had been unkind. She +wished Aunt Anne had an income of her own, and the home for which she +had said she longed. It would be so much better for everybody. + +When she was nearly home, a sudden dread seized her lest Mr. Wimple +should be there, but this, she reflected, was not likely. It was long +past calling-time, and Aunt Anne was too great a stickler for etiquette +to allow him to take a liberty, as she would call it. So Florence +quickened her steps, and entered her home bravely to the sound of the +children’s voices upstairs singing as they went to bed. A fire was +blazing in the dining-room, and everything looked comfortable, just as +it had the night before. But there was no sign of Aunt Anne. Probably +she was upstairs “getting ready,” for a lace cap and bit of white at her +throat and an extra formal, though not less affectionate, manner than +usual Aunt Anne seemed to think a fitting accompaniment to the evening +meal. Florence looked round the dining-room with a little pride of +ownership. She was fond of the cottage, it was their very own, hers and +Walter’s; and how wise they had been to do up that particular room, it +made every meal they ate in it a pleasure. That buttery-hatch too, it +was absurd that it should be so, but really it was a secret joy to her. +Suddenly her eye caught a package that had evidently come in her +absence. A parcel of any sort was always exciting. This could not be +another present from Aunt Anne? and she drew a short breath. Oh no, it +had come by rail. Books. She knew what it was—some novels from Mr. +Fisher. “How kind he is,” she said gratefully; “he says so few words, +but he does so many things. I really don’t see why Ethel should not love +him. I don’t think she would find it difficult to do so,” she thought, +with the forgetfulness of womanhood for the days of girlish fancy. + +“Mrs. Baines has not yet returned,” the servant said, entering to +arrange the table. + +“Not returned. Is she out, then?” + +“Yes, ma’am, she started half an hour after you did. Steggall’s +waggonette came for her.” + +Florence groaned inwardly. + +“Do you know where she has gone?” + +“I think she has gone to Guildford, ma’am, shopping; she often did while +you were away. I heard her tell the driver to drive quickly to the +station, as she feared she was late.” + +“Oh. Did any one call, Jane?” + +“No, ma’am.” + +Then, once more, Florence delivered herself over to despair. Aunt Anne +must have gone to buy more surprises, and if she had only ten shillings +in the world it was quite clear she would have to get them on credit. +Something would have to be done. The tradespeople would have to be +warned. Walter must be written to, and, if necessary, asked to cable +over advice. Perhaps Sir William Rammage would interfere. In the midst +of all her perturbation seven o’clock struck, and there was no Aunt +Anne. + +Florence was a healthy young woman, and she had had a long walk. The +pangs of hunger assailed her vigorously, so, after resisting them till +half-past seven, she sat down to her little supper alone. Food has a +soothing effect on an agitated mind, and a quarter of an hour later, +though Aunt Anne had not appeared, Florence had come to the conclusion +that she could not get very deeply into debt, because it was not likely +that the tradespeople would trust her. Perhaps, too, after all, she had +not gone to Guildford. Still, what could keep her out so late? The roads +were dark and lonely, she knew no one in the neighbourhood. It was to be +hoped that nothing had happened to her, and, at this thought, Florence +began to reproach herself again for all her unkindness of the morning. +But while she was still reviewing her own conduct with much severity +there was a soft patter, patter, along the gravel path outside, and a +feeble ring at the bell. “That dissipated old lady!” laughed Florence to +herself, only too delighted to think that she had returned safely at +last. + +A moment later Aunt Anne entered. She was a little breathless, her left +eye winked more frequently than usual, there was an air of happy +excitement in her manner. She entered the room quickly, and seated +herself in the easy-chair with a sigh of relief. + +“My darling,” she said, looking fondly at Florence, “I trust you did not +wait for me, and that I have not caused you any inconvenience. But if I +have,” she added in an almost cooing voice, “you will forgive me when +you know all.” + +“Oh yes, dear Aunt Anne, I will forgive you,” and Florence signed to +Jane to bring a plate. “You must be shockingly hungry,” she laughed. +“Where have you been, may I know?” + +“I will tell you presently, my darling; you shall know all. But I cannot +eat anything,” Aunt Anne answered quickly. Even the thought of food +seemed to make her impatient. “Jane,” she said, with the little air of +pride that Jane resented, “you need not bring a plate for me. I do not +require anything.” Then, speaking to Florence again, she went on with +half-beaming, half-condescending gentleness, “Finish your repast, my +darling; pray don’t let my intrusion—for it is an intrusion when I am +not able to join in your meal—hurry you. When you have finished, but +not till then, I have a communication to make to you. It is one I feel +to be due to you before any one else; and it will prove to you how much +I depend on your sympathy and love.” She spoke with earnestness, +unfastening her cloak and nervously fastening it the while. Florence +looked at her with a little pity. Poor old lady, she thought, how easily +she worked herself into a state of excitement. + +“Tell me what it is now, dear Aunt Anne,” she said. “Has anything +occurred to worry you? Where have you been—to Guildford?” + +“To Guildford? No, my dear. Something has occurred, but not to worry me. +It is something that will make me very happy, and I trust that it will +make you very happy to hear it. I rely on your sympathy and Walter’s to +support me.” Florence was not very curious. Aunt Anne had always so much +earnestness at her command, and was very prodigal of it. Besides, it did +not seem likely that anything important had happened; some trifling +pleasure or vexation, probably; nothing more. + +At last the little meal was finished, the things pushed through the +buttery-hatch, the crumbs swept off the cloth by Jane, who seemed to +linger in a manner that Mrs. Baines in her own mind felt to be wholly +reprehensible and wanting in respect towards her superiors. But the +cloth was folded and put away at last, the buttery-hatch closed, the +fire adjusted, and the door shut. Aunt Anne gave a sigh of relief, then +throwing her cloak back over the chair, she rose and stood irresolute on +the hearth-rug. Florence went towards her. + +“Have you been anywhere by train?” she asked. + +“No, my love. I went to the station to meet some one.” She trembled with +excitement while she spoke. Florence noticed it with wonder. + +“What is it, Aunt Anne?” she asked gently. + +The old lady stretched out her two thin hands, and suddenly dropped her +head for a moment on Florence’s shoulder; but she raised it quickly, and +evidently struggled to be calm. + +“My darling,” she said, “I know you will sympathize with me, I know your +loving heart. I knew it the first day I saw you, when you were at +Rottingdean, and stood under the pear-tree with your dear Walter——” + +“Yes, oh yes, dear——” Florence had so often heard of that pear-tree. +But what could it have to do with the present situation? + +—“I shall never forget the picture you two made,” the old lady went on, +not heeding the interruption; “I knew all that was in your dear heart +then, just as I feel that you will understand all that is in mine now.” +Her face was flushed, her eyes were almost bright, and there were tears +in them; the left one winked tremulously. + +Florence looked at her in amazement. “What is it, Aunt Anne? Do tell me; +tell me at once, dear?” she said entreatingly. “And where you have been, +so late and in the dark.” For a moment Aunt Anne hesitated, then, with a +gasp and a strong effort to be calm and dignified, she raised her head +and spoke. + +“My dear—my dear, all this time I have been with Alfred Wimple. He +loves me.” + +“He loves you,” Florence repeated, her eyes full of wonder; “he loves +you. Yes, of course he loves you, we all do,” she said soothingly, too +much surprised to speculate farther. + +“Yes, he loves me,” Aunt Anne said again, in an almost solemn voice, +“and I have promised to be his wife.” + +“Aunt Anne!—to marry him!” + +“Yes, dear, to marry him,” and she waited as if for congratulations. + +“But, Aunt Anne, dear——” Florence began in astonishment, and then she +stopped; for though she had had some idea of the old lady’s infatuation, +she had never dreamt of its ending in matrimony. Mrs. Baines was excited +and strange; it might be some delusion, some joke that had been played +on her, for Mr. Wimple could not have seriously asked her to marry him. +She waited, not knowing what to say. But Aunt Anne’s excitement seemed +to be passing, and with a tender, pitiful expression on her face, she +waited for her niece to speak. “But, Aunt Anne, dear,” was all Florence +could say again in her bewilderment. + +“But what, Florence?” Mrs. Baines spoke with a surprised, half-resentful +manner. “Have you nothing more to say to me, my love?” + +“But you are not really going to marry him, are you?” Florence asked, in +an incredulous voice. + +The old lady answered in a terribly earnest one. + +“Yes, Florence, I am; and never shall man have truer, more loving +help-meet than I will be to him,” she burst out heroically, holding +herself erect and looking her niece in the face. There was something +infinitely pathetic about her as she stood there, quivering with feeling +and aching for sympathy, yet old, wrinkled, and absurd, her poor scanty +hair pushed back and her weak eyes full of tears. For a moment there was +silence. Then bewildered Florence broke out with— + +“But, Aunt Anne, but, Aunt Anne——” + +“Well, my love?” the old lady asked with calm dignity. + +“He—he is much younger than you,” she said at last, bringing out her +words slowly, and hating herself for saying them. + +“Age is not counted by years, my darling; and if he does not feel my age +a drawback, why should I count his youth one? He loves me, Florence, I +know he loves me,” Aunt Anne broke out in a passionate, tearful voice, +“and you would not have me throw away or depreciate a faithful heart +that has been given me?” + +Then the practical side of Florence’s nature spoke up in despair. “But, +Aunt Anne, he—is very poor.” + +“I know he is poor, but he is young and strong and hopeful; and he will +work. He says he will work like a slave for me; and if he is content to +face poverty with me, how can I be afraid to face it with him?” + +“But you want comforts, and——” + +“Oh no, my love. My tastes are very simple, and I shall be content to do +without them for his sake.” + +“But at your time of life, dear Aunt Anne, you do want them—you are not +young—as he is.” Then Mrs. Baines burst into tears, tears that were +evidently a blessed relief, and had been pent up in her poor old heart, +waiting for an excuse to come forth. + +“Florence, I did not think you would tell me of my age. If I do not feel +it, and he does not, why should you remind me of it? And why should you +tell me that he is poor? Do you suppose that I am so selfish or—or so +depraved that I would sell myself for comfort and luxury? If he can face +poverty with me, I can face it with him.” + +“Yes, yes, but——” The old lady did not heed her, and went on +breathlessly— + +“I did think, Florence, that you would have been kind to me, and +understood and sympathized. I told him that on your heart and Walter’s I +could rely. You know how lonely I have been, how desolate and how +miserable. But for your bounty and goodness I should have died——” + +“Oh no——” + +“And now, in this great crisis—now, when a young, brave, beautiful life +is laid at my feet, now that I am loved as truly as ever woman was loved +in this world, as tenderly as Walter loves you, Florence, you fail me, +as—as if”—she put her hand to her throat to steady her quivering +voice—“as if you would not let me taste the cup of happiness of which +you drink every day.” + +“But, Aunt Anne, it isn’t that indeed,” Florence answered, thinking +despairingly of Walter, and wishing that she could begin writing that +very minute, asking him what on earth she ought to say or do. “It is +that—that—it is so unexpected, so strange. I knew, of course, that you +liked him, that you were good friends; but I never dreamt that he was in +love with you.” Aunt Anne’s tears seemed to vanish as if by magic, her +left eye winked almost fiercely, her lips opened, but no sound came. +With a great effort she recovered her voice at last, and with some of +her old dignity, dashed with severe surprise, she asked— + +“My darling, is there any reason why he should not love me?” + +She stood gravely waiting for a reply, while Florence felt that she was +managing badly, that she was somehow hurting and insulting Aunt Anne. +After all, the old lady had a right to do as she liked; it was evident +that she was incapable of taking in the absurdity of the situation. + +“But, Aunt Anne——” she began and stopped. + +“My dear Florence,” Mrs. Baines repeated still more severely, “will you +tell me if there is any very obvious reason why he should not love me? I +am not an ogress, my darling—I am not an ogress,” she cried, suddenly +breaking down and bursting into floods of tears, while her head dropped +on to her black merino dress. + +She looked so old and worn, so wretched and lonely as she stood there +weeping bitterly, that Florence could stand it no longer, and going +forward she put her arms round the poor old soul, and kissed her fondly. + +“No, dear Aunt Anne,” she said, “you are not an ogress; you are a sweet +old dear, and I love you. Don’t cry—don’t cry, you dear.” + +“My love, you are cruel to me,” Aunt Anne sobbed. + +“Oh no, I am not, and you shall marry any one you like. It was a little +surprising, you know, and of course I didn’t—I didn’t think that +marrying was in your thoughts,” she added feebly, for she didn’t know +what to say. + +“Bless you, my darling, bless you,” the old lady gasped, grateful for +even that straw of comfort; “I knew you would be staunch to me when you +had recovered from the surprise of my communication, but——” and she +gently disengaged herself from Florence’s embrace and spoke in the +nervous quivering voice that always came to her in moments of +excitement—“but, Florence, since the first moment we met, Alfred Wimple +and I have felt that we were ordained for each other.” + +“Yes, dear,” Florence said soothingly. + +“He says he shall never forget the moments we sat together on your +balcony that night when your dear Walter fetched the white shawl—of +yours, Florence—to put round my shoulders,” the old lady went on +earnestly. “And the sympathy between us is so great that we do not feel +the difference of years; besides, he says he has never liked very young +women, he has always felt that the power to love accumulated with time, +as my power to love has done. Few of the women who have been loved by +great men have been very young, my darling.” + +“I didn’t know,” Florence began, for Aunt Anne had paused, almost as if +she were repeating something she had learned by heart. + +“He asked me to-night,” she went on with another little gasp, “if I +remembered—if I remembered—I forget——but all the great passions of +history have been concentrated on women in their prime. Petrarch’s Laura +had eight children when the poet fell in love with her, and Helen of +Troy was sixty when—when—I forget,” she said again, shaking her head; +“but he remembers; he went through them all to-night. Besides, I may be +old in years, but I am not old at heart; you cannot say that I am, +Florence.” + +She was getting excited again. Almost without her knowledge Florence led +her to the easy-chair, and gently pushing her on to it, undid the +strings and tried to take off her bonnet; but the old lady resisted. + +“No, my dear, don’t take off my bonnet,” she said, “unless you will +permit me to ring,” she added, getting back to her old-fashioned ways, +“and request Jane to bring me my cap from upstairs.” + +But Florence felt that Jane might look curiously at the wrinkled face +that still showed signs of recent agitation, so she put her hand softly +on the one that Aunt Anne had stretched out to touch the bell. + +“I will get it for you, dear,” she said, and in a moment she had flown +upstairs and brought down the soft lace cap put ready on the bed, and +the cashmere slippers edged with fur and lined with red flannel, in +which Aunt Anne liked to encase her feet in the evening. “There, now, +you will feel better, you poor dear,” she said when they were put on and +the old lady sat silent and composed, looking as if she were +contemplating her future, and the new life before her. Florence stood by +her silently for a moment, thinking over the past weeks in which Aunt +Anne, with her poverty and dignity, her generosity and recklessness, had +formed so striking a figure. Then she thought of the lonely life the +poor old lady had led in the Kilburn lodging. + +After all, if she only had even a very little happiness with that horrid +Mr. Wimple, it would be something; and of course, if he didn’t behave +properly, Walter could take her away. The worst of it was she had +understood that Mr. Wimple had no money. She had heard that he lived on +a small allowance from an uncle, and the uncle might stop that allowance +when he heard that his nephew had married an old woman who had not a +penny. + +“Aunt Anne,” she asked gently, “does he know that you are not rich?” + +“Florence, I told him plainly that I had no fortune,” the old lady +answered, with a pathetic half-hunted look on her face that made +Florence hate herself for her lack of sympathy. But she felt that she +ought to ask some questions. Walter would be so angry if she allowed her +to go into misery and fresh poverty without making a single effort to +save her. + +“And has he money, dear—enough to keep you both, at any rate?” + +The tears trickled down Aunt Anne’s face again while she answered— + +“If I did not ask him that question, Florence, it is not for you to ask +it me. I neither know nor care what he has. If he is willing to take me +for myself only, so am I willing to take him, loving him for himself +only too. I am too old to marry for money, and he is too noble to do so. +We are grown-up man and woman, Florence, and know our own hearts; we +will brook no interference, my darling, not even from you.” She got up +tremblingly. “I must retire; you must allow me to retire, and in the +privacy of my own room I shall be able to reflect.” + +The long words were coming back; they were a sign that Aunt Anne was +herself again. + +“Yes, dear Aunt Anne; I am sure you must want to be alone, and to +think,” Florence said gently. + +The old lady was not appeased. + +“You know—you remember what you felt yourself when your Walter first +loved you, Florence,” she said distantly. “Yes, I must be alone; my +heart is full—I must be alone.” + +Florence led her upstairs to her room. Mrs. Baines stood formally in the +doorway. + +“Good-night, my love,” she said, with cold disappointment in her voice. + +“May not I help you, Aunt Anne?” Florence asked, almost entreatingly. + +“No, my love, I must be alone,” Mrs. Baines repeated firmly, and shut +the door. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + + +The next morning Aunt Anne did not appear. She sent word that she would +like her breakfast carried up, a fire lighted in her room, and to be +left alone for a couple of hours. + +Florence was distracted. She had written to Walter, but as the mail did +not go out till three days later, nothing was gained by her haste. She +had considered things all round, and the more she did so the more +amazing did Mr. Wimple’s proposal seem. It was all nonsense to suppose, +as Aunt Anne evidently believed, that he was in love with a woman more +than twice his age. Florence mentally reviewed Aunt Anne’s charms. She +was not even a round, plump old lady with rosy cheeks, and a stray +dimple that seemed to have found her company so good it was loath to +vanish altogether. She was wrinkled, and thin, and feeble-looking. Her +eyes were small and weak, the left one had the nervous affection that so +often provided an almost droll accompaniment to her talk. Her skin was +withered and sallow. Florence tried to feel like a young man about to +marry Aunt Anne, and the idea was not pleasant. She felt that it was +almost a duty to prevent the marriage if possible—that Aunt Anne owed +it to her past years, to her own dignity, to her relations, to every one +and everything not to make a fool of herself. + +The children went out at ten o’clock. Florence listened to their shouts +of joy as they drove off in the donkey-cart. Then, hurrying through her +domestic affairs, she sat down on one of the gaunt easy-chairs by the +drawing-room fire to think matters over again. It somehow seemed fitting +to sit in the old-world little room while she considered Aunt Anne’s +romance. She could hear the old lady moving about overhead, but was +afraid to go up, for she had been refused admittance two hours ago. +Jane, who was overwhelmed with curiosity, had managed to go in and out +once or twice, and reported that Mrs. Baines was dressed and looking +through the contents of her trunks “just as if she was packing up.” +Florence wondered what it meant, and a dim suspicion of the truth +crossed her mind. She felt too as if in the little cottage by the lonely +roadside a tragedy was beginning in which Aunt Anne would play the +central figure. She shut her eyes for a moment, and, as if in a dream, +could see the old lady wringing her thin hands, and stretching them out +almost imploringly. “Oh, dear Aunt Anne,” she cried, “something must be +done. No good can come of this wild nonsense.” + +Suddenly on the gravel footpath outside she heard a footstep, just as +she had heard Aunt Anne’s footstep the night before. She got up quickly +and looked out. It was Mr. Wimple. He must have come up from the dip at +the end of the garden, the short way from Hindhead and the Liphook Road. +He was going round the house. Florence darted out and opened the front +door before he had time to ring. All in a moment it had struck her that +if she could get a talk with him, some explanation, perhaps some good, +might come of it. Yet her heart ached, she felt cruel and treacherous, +as if she were trying to cheat Aunt Anne of a promise—even though it +was a ridiculous promise—of happiness. She thought of the poor old +lady’s tears, of her pleading, of her piteous, “as if you grudged me the +cup of happiness of which you taste every day.” After all, she had a +right to do as she pleased; but that was a foolish argument. She had a +right to put herself on the kitchen fire if she pleased, but it would be +distinctly the duty of the nearest person to pull her off and prevent +her from being burnt. + +Mr. Wimple stared at Florence. “How do you do, Mrs. Hibbert?” he said +with extreme gravity. He did not hold out his hand or look as if he +expected to enter, but stood still on the door-step. + +“I saw you coming and wanted to speak to you, Mr. Wimple,” she said +almost breathlessly. “Won’t you come in?” Without a word he entered. She +led the way to the drawing-room and shut the door. She pointed to one of +the chairs beside the screen with a peacock on it, and he sat down, +still without a word, and waited for her to speak. She took the other +chair and faced him. The light was full upon him, but there was no +expression in his eyes, not even one of inquiry. + +“Mr. Wimple,” she said, in a low voice, for she was afraid of Aunt Anne +above hearing the hum of conversation, “I wanted to speak to you about +Aunt Anne—Mrs. Baines.” He looked at her then, but still he said +nothing. “I am very fond of her,” she added, as if in excuse for her +interference. + +“I am sure you are,” he answered, and waited. Florence was forced to go +on. + +“She came home last night, and she surprised me so—she told me—oh, Mr. +Wimple, it can’t be true?” + +“What cannot be true, Mrs. Hibbert?” he asked, speaking like an +automaton. + +“That—that—you had asked her to marry you?” + +“It is quite true,” he said, and looked at her unflinchingly; his face +wore an expression of slight surprise. + +“But it is so strange and unsuitable; she is so much older than you.” + +“I know she is much older.” He seemed to unlock his lips every time he +spoke. + +“She is quite old and feeble,” Florence said compassionately. + +“Yes, she is quite old and feeble,” he repeated. + +“And, Mr. Wimple, do you know that she is not rich, that—that she has +no money, nothing. She is poor.” + +“I know she is poor, Mrs. Hibbert.” He seemed to be afflicted with an +utter destitution of language, an incapacity to say anything but the +shortest, most cut-and-dried sentence. It affected Florence. But again +she struggled on; though she felt her words come with difficulty. + +“And you—forgive me, but I am fond of her—and you, I believe, are not +rich. Walter told me that you were not, and—and——” She was beginning +to despair of making any way with Mr. Wimple, his eyes were dull and +uninterested, he seemed insensible to everything except the burden of +his own gravity. + +“I am not rich, Mrs. Hibbert,” he said. The manner in which he repeated +her name at the end of every sentence irritated Florence. + +“And oh, Mr. Wimple,” she went on, “it is so—so absurd.” But he said +nothing, though she waited. “It is so strange, and Walter will be very +angry.” + +“It is not Walters affair, Mrs. Hibbert, it is mine,” he said. + +“And hers, and Aunt Anne’s too.” + +“And hers,” he repeated. + +“And she is old, she wants comforts and luxury; and oh, I cannot bear to +think of it. It seems cruel.” + +“We have talked it all over, Mrs. Hibbert; she knows best herself what +she wants,” he answered, without the slightest change in his manner. + +“But are you really in love with her?” + +“I am very fond of her,” he said blankly. + +Florence put her hand to her throat to steady her utterance. + +“But you are not in love with her? You can’t be; she is old enough to be +your mother. She is a dear, sweet old lady, but you can’t be in love +with her.” + +“I don’t see the necessity of our discussing this,” he said, still with +extreme gravity. + +“But she is my aunt, at least she is Walter’s, which is all the same.” +He gave a little dry cough. + +“Mrs. Baines and I have settled our affairs, Mrs. Hibbert,” he said. +“There is no necessity to go over them.” + +“But it is so ridiculous.” + +“Then we will not talk about it.” Suddenly he looked at her; there was +no change in his tone, but he opened his eyes a little wider as if to +impress upon her the importance of his next words. “We don’t wish our +private affairs made known to the world,” he said. “There is no +necessity to talk of them at all; they are of no importance except to +ourselves. We don’t wish to talk about them or to hear of their being +talked about. Will you remember this, Mrs. Hibbert?” It was quite a +relief to get three consecutive sentences out of him. + +“But, Mr. Wimple, do tell me that, if you persist in marrying her, you +will make her happy, you will be good to her, and—that you can keep her +in some sort of comfort,” Florence said in despair. + +“I will talk to her about this, Mrs. Hibbert. It is her affair,” he said +solemnly; and Florence felt altogether worsted, left out in the cold, +put back, and powerless. She sat silently by the fire, not knowing what +to do or say. Mr. Wimple made no sign. She looked up at him after a +minute or two. What could Aunt Anne see to like in him, in his dull +eyes, his thin lips, his straggling sandy hair and whiskers, his +pink-and-white, yet unhealthy-looking complexion? He met her gaze +steadily. “Is there anything more you wish to say to me?” he asked; “I +have not much time.” + +“No,” she answered, chokingly, “there is nothing—if you would only be a +son to her, a friend, anything, rather than marry her. Oh, Mr. Wimple, +if you really do care for her, don’t make her ridiculous in her old age, +don’t make her unhappy. Happiness cannot come of an absurd marriage like +this. You ought to marry a girl, a young woman. One day Walter and I saw +you at Waterloo——” + +He fixed his eyes upon her, and there was a slight look of curiosity in +them now, but he was absolutely calm. + +“Well, Mrs. Hibbert?” he said. + +“We thought that perhaps she was—was some one you liked; she was young, +it would have been much more suitable.” + +“I must know what I desire, and what is most suitable for myself, Mrs. +Hibbert,” he answered, without a shade of vexation, but with quiet +determination in his voice. Then Jane, evidently to her own +satisfaction, entered. + +“If you please, ma’am, Mrs. Baines says she would like to speak to Mr. +Wimple when you have quite finished with him.” + +“Tell Mrs. Baines I will go up to her in a moment; I want to see her.” +She turned to Mr. Wimple again when Jane had gone. He rose as if to +signify that he considered their conversation at an end. “I fear there +is nothing more to say,” she said lamely, for this man, with his silence +and utter lack of response, had made every word that suggested itself +seem weak and hopeless. + +“I think not, Mrs. Hibbert.” + +“But for your own happiness, Mr. Wimple,” she said suddenly, struck with +a new way of putting it, “you surely can’t want to marry Mrs. Baines for +the sake of your own happiness.” + +“I want to marry Mrs. Baines as much for my own sake as for hers,” and +he looked at her in a manner that was almost a dismissal. It had an +influence over her she could not help; almost against her will she rose, +feeling that there was no excuse for prolonging the interview. + +“I will send Mrs. Baines to you,” she said, in despair. + +“Thank you, Mrs. Hibbert, if you will,” and he held open the door for +her to pass out. + +Aunt Anne heard the drawing-room door open and Florence coming up. She +waited eagerly on the top of the stairs. She wore her best dress; round +her throat there was a white silk handkerchief, in her manner more than +the usual nervous agitation. Glancing in at the bedroom Florence could +see that she had been packing, and making ready for a journey. + +“Oh, Aunt Anne——” she began. + +“Yes, my love, I am going to town,” the old lady said, with a cold +reserve in her tenderness that showed clearly she was displeased. “I +cannot stay longer under your roof. You must not ask me to do so,” she +went on. “I was cut to the quick by your want of sympathy last night. I +cannot recover from it; I could not expose myself to it again. My +luggage is ready, and when I have seen my dear Alfred I shall be able to +tell you the time of my departure.” + +“Oh, Aunt Anne, it is cruel,” Florence said, dismayed. + +“No, my love, it is not cruel; but I must respect myself. I would not +hurt you for the world, Florence; but you have hurt me.” + +“I wouldn’t hurt you either for the world, but——” + +“Where is Mr. Wimple, my love?” the old lady asked, interrupting her +niece with a long sigh. + +“He is downstairs; I have been talking to him.” + +“Yes, my love, I understand. I appreciate all your solicitude for my +happiness; but you should allow those who are older and wiser than you +to know what is best for themselves. I will see you again when he is +gone, Florence,” and almost imperiously Mrs. Baines went downstairs. + +She entered the drawing-room and shut the door. Mr. Wimple was standing +on the hearth-rug. She looked at him for a moment nervously, and winked +solemnly as usual with her left eye. + +“My darling,” she said, and putting her arms round his neck she kissed +his face on both sides, “my darling Alfred, are you glad to see me?” He +submitted to her caress half reluctantly, then drew back a little. His +manner was no warmer than it had been to Florence. + +“Yes, I am glad to see you,” he said, and looked at her with his eyes +wide open, as if to show that he perfectly understood the position. + +“My darling, I have suffered terribly. Florence had no sympathy for us; +she said it was an unsuitable marriage; that you had no fortune, and +that I had none; as if my poverty was not hard enough to bear without +being told of it. What did she say to you? Alfred, my dear one, she has +not turned your love from me?” She put out her arms again as if to +gather him to her, but he looked blindly past her. + +“Sit down,” he said, and pushed her gently on to the chair beside the +peacock-screen. + +“She has not taken your love from me, tell me that,” Mrs. Baines said +entreatingly. “A few hours ago you assured me of your devotion. She has +not taken it from me?” + +“No.” + +“I am just the same to you?” she asked. He turned his eyes on her again. + +“You are just the same,” he said, with a gulp, but there was no +tenderness in his manner. He seemed to be speaking almost under +compulsion. + +“My darling, my darling,” she said softly, “bless you for those dear +words. I will be truer to you, Alfred, than ever woman was to man +before. But I cannot stay here; you must take me away. I have already +packed my things, I cannot remain another night, not knowing to what +treatment I may be subjected. I love Florence most sincerely; she and +Walter and their children are very dear to me. But after her coldness to +me last night when I came in full of your love and my own happiness, and +she denied me her sympathy, I cannot stay. You must not ask me to do +that, Alfred.” There was more interest in his manner now, though his +gravity never relaxed. + +“Where will you go?” he asked. + +“I shall go to London, my darling,” she said, stretching out her hands. +“But I cannot go alone, after all I have suffered during the last +twenty-four hours?” He looked at her questioningly. + +“Suffered? What have you suffered?” he asked. “I thought you were happy +about it.” + +“About you? Yes, my darling; but Florence has tortured me.” + +“It does not take much to torture you,” he interrupted. “What did she +say?” + +“I have told you already; I cannot go over it again. Don’t ask me to do +so. You could torture me, Alfred, with a word or a look—if you ceased +to love me.” + +“We need not discuss that improbability now,” he said solemnly. “What +about your going to London?” + +“I shall go by the quarter-past one o’clock train this afternoon,” she +answered. “You will take me, will you not?” + +“I cannot go to-day,” he said firmly. “I must get back to Liphook now.” +He pulled out his watch, a dull worn Waterbury one, at which Aunt Anne +looked keenly. “But I will go to-morrow; I want to see my uncle.” His +thoughts seemed to be intent on business matters. She waited a moment +after he had finished speaking, and winked slowly to herself before she +answered. + +“Alfred,” she asked, “you do truly love me?” He looked at her +steadfastly. + +“Yes,” he answered, “I told you so last night.” She half rose from her +chair again, but he waved her back. “Sit down,” he said, and she obeyed. + +“I know you did, and I will never doubt it. In bygone days, my darling, +I was foolish and wicked, and played with the truest love ever given to +woman. But I am wiser now. You must never doubt me. Promise me that you +never will.” + +“I promise you,” he said, and closed his lips. + +“My dear, my dear,” she said softly to herself, and stopped for a moment +before she went on aloud, “I must go to town this afternoon, and you +must take me. My courage is not equal to encountering the journey alone. +Do take me, my darling.” + +“Where will you go when you get to London?” he asked. + +“I know of some apartments—two rooms—I saw them the day before I came +away. If they are still unlet, I shall rent them. But when we arrive I +shall go straight to Sir William Rammage. I have business with him. He +is very ill, Alfred, it was in the paper yesterday; but he will see me, +and when he knows all——” + +“You will tell him nothing about me,” he said, in his slow determined +voice. She looked up indignantly. + +“Alfred,” she answered, “I must tell him. I shall tell him that you love +me; that I have won a true and noble heart, and that we are going +through life together.” + +“You will tell him nothing,” Mr. Wimple repeated, with something like +fright in his dull eyes. “If you did my uncle would hear of it, and +would think I was mad.” He added the clause about his uncle as if he +thought an explanation due to her. + +“Mad to marry me?” she asked. + +“Mad to think of marriage at all. He objects to it on principle.” + +“But if he knew how tenderly and truly I loved you——” + +“You must not say one word about it, to him or to any one,” came the +firm hard voice. + +“Is it because you are—you are ashamed of loving me, Alfred?” she +asked, quivering. + +“No. But it is my wish. That should be enough.” + +She was silent for a moment. + +“It is enough,” she answered slowly, “your wish shall be my law in this +as in all things. But you will take me up to town?” she pleaded. “You +can go to the Blue Lion, to Steggalls’, and tell them to drive you back +to Liphook now.” + +“I have no money with me,” he said firmly. + +“It will go down to my account, darling,” she continued, as if she had +not heard the interruption. “You can take the quarter to one train from +Liphook to London; it stops at Witley. I will be on the platform, and we +will go on together.” She ventured to stand now, and held out her hands +again, almost entreatingly. + +“You will say nothing to Sir William?” + +“Alfred, you are my lord and master,” and she bowed her head on to her +breast. But he was wholly untouched. + +“Very well,” he said, “I will drive back at once—there is not too much +time—and meet you as you say. Good-bye.” He kissed her forehead, and as +before, swiftly drew back again. + +“Will you order a waggonette for me too, Alfred?” she asked as she +followed him to the door. “I shall want one to take me to the station. +Tell them to put it all down to me.” He did not answer till the door was +open, and he saw the dark trees against the sky, and the withered leaves +beneath lying on the garden pathway. Then a smile crossed his lips, his +face wore an air of relief, he looked like a free man. He crossed the +threshold with a light step, and stopped and looked over his shoulder at +her. + +“Good-bye,” he said. “I will order the waggonette. It is lovely weather. +We shall enjoy the journey to town.” + +“My darling,” she said, with a world of tenderness in her voice, “I +shall enjoy anything with you as long as I live.” He looked at her for a +minute with the strange dumb expression that was so peculiarly his own, +and walked away. + +Mrs. Baines went back to the drawing-room, and shut the door with a +manner that conveyed to the whole house that she wanted to be alone for +a little space. She stood thoughtfully beside the chair on which he had +sat. Suddenly she caught sight of her own face in the chimney-glass. She +looked at it critically and winked slowly, she pulled the white +handkerchief up a little higher round her throat and turned away +satisfied. “He loves me,” she said, “I know he loves me, and no power on +earth shall separate me from him. I will marry him if I walk to church +without my shoes. I was faithless once, but this time I will be true.” +She crept softly upstairs, and when she came down an hour later she was +dressed and ready to depart. She went to the dining-room, where Florence +in despair had had a little luncheon-tray brought in with sandwiches and +biscuits on it. + +“My love,” she said, “I have finished the preparations for my journey; +will you permit your servants to bring down my luggage? Steggalls’ man +is coming immediately to drive me to the station. Thank you, but I do +not need any refreshment.” + +“Aunt Anne, I can’t bear you to go,” poor Florence said in dismay. + +“I must go—I cannot stay,” the old lady answered solemnly, “and I beg +you not to ask me to do so again.” + +“But you will come back?” Florence entreated. + +“No, I cannot,” Aunt Anne answered in the same voice. “You did not mean +it, but you cut me to the quick last night; I have had no sleep since, +my love. I must go away, I want to be alone. Besides, I have private +business to transact. Thank you for all your goodness and hospitality to +me, yours, and your dear ones. It has been a great privilege to be with +you and the dear children since Walter went away, and to come here and +see your second home.” She sat down for a moment by the buttery-hatch, +turning a quick sharp glance as she did so to see that it was well +closed, for one of her firm beliefs was that “servants were always ready +to listen to the private speech of their employers.” As she seated +herself, she looked as if she were trying to practise some of Mr. +Wimple’s firmness. + +But Florence knelt lovingly by the old lady’s side, and put her pretty +head down on the black merino dress. “I would not be unkind to you for +the world,” she said, “you know I would not.” + +Mrs. Baines winked sorrowfully, but did not falter. + +“You were very unkind. You hurt me more than I can say,” she said +coldly. + +Florence turned her lips towards the old lady’s hands, and kissed them. +“Aunt Anne dear,” she said very softly, “you have no money——” Mrs. +Baines stiffened herself, her voice became polite and distant. + +“Thank you, my love, but I have sufficient to defray the expenses of my +journey; and at the other end I shall be in a position to make +arrangements.” + +“Let me lend you a little,” her niece said humbly. + +“No, my love”—and Mrs. Baines shook her head—“I cannot take it.” + +But Florence thought of the ten shillings that constituted all the old +lady’s funds, and felt miserable. + +“You could pay me back,” she pleaded. “And don’t be angry, dear Aunt +Anne, but you told me how poor you were in that lodging last year, and +how cold; it makes my heart ache every time I think of it; and the +winter and the cold are coming again. Oh, do stay here. You shall do +anything in the world that makes you happy. I cannot bear to think of +you in London; and it’s unkind of you to go, for we shall miss you so +much, the children and I——” and she burst into tears. + +Then Aunt Anne melted. + +“Florence,” she said tenderly, “that was like your dear self.” + +“Then stay with us. You shall do as you like in all ways.” + +“Thank you, my love; and bless you for your goodness. But I cannot stay. +I do love you, and I will believe that your heart feels for me in this +great crisis of my life. You must not think that because I love him I +shall love you less; that would be impossible. But you must allow me to +terminate my visit now. I want to be alone, to be in retirement for a +little while; besides I have, as I said just now, imperative business to +transact in town. You must not ask me to prolong my time here, love.” + +“Let me, at any rate, be a little useful to you, Aunt Anne. I know you +are not rich.” + +For a moment Aunt Anne was silent. Then she winked her left eye very +slowly, and looked up. + +“Florence,” she said, “I know that you always mean your words, and I +should not like to hurt your generous heart. I will prove my affection +for you by letting you lend me two sovereigns. Don’t ask me to take +more, my love, for it would be impossible. There——” and she gave a +long sigh as she put the coins into her glove. “Now I hope you are +satisfied. Remember I only take them to prove my affection for you. Let +me kiss those dear children;” and quickly opening the door she called +them by their names, and laughed in an absent, excited manner, as they +came running down the stairs. “Come, my darlings,” she said; “Aunt Anne +is going away, and wants to say good-bye.” + +“But we don’t want you to go,” said Monty. + +“We don’t want you to go at all,” echoed Catty. + +“You dear children,” the old lady said, “I must go; but I shall not +forget you, and to-night when you look under your pillows you will find +some chocolates as usual. I have put them there ready for you, so that +some day you might remember that, even in the midst of her own +happiness, Aunt Anne thought of you.” She said the last words almost +mechanically, while with one eye she watched her trunks being carried +out, and with the other looked at the children. Suddenly she turned to +Florence. “I should like to wish you good-bye alone; there is something +I want to say to you.” She turned quickly and entered the drawing-room. +The fire had burnt low, the room had grown chilly, and Florence shivered +a little as she stood waiting for Aunt Anne to speak. “My dear,” the old +lady said, “will you try not to think me ungrateful for all your care of +me, for all your solicitude for my happiness? I know you think that I am +in my dotage——” + +“Oh no——” + +“—That I am doing a foolish thing in marrying a man so much younger +than myself, that——” + +“You must do as you like, Aunt Anne; it is a free country, and we can +all do as we like.” + +“Yes, my love,” Mrs. Baines answered with a sudden wink, which showed +that this was a new bit of argument to her, and one that she would try +to use to her own advantage if she had the opportunity; “we can all do +as we like, as you did when you married your dear Walter, as I shall +when I marry Alfred Wimple, for, as you say, it is a free country.” + +“I only hope that you may be happy,” Florence said earnestly. + +“Yes, my love,” Mrs. Baines said, and her eyes filled with tears, “I +hope so too, and that I may make him happy.” She was silent for a +minute, and then it seemed as if what she said were forced from her. “I +wanted to tell you,” she began with a little gasp, “I want you to know +something in my past life, so that you may better understand the reason +of what I am doing. When I was a girl, Florence, a very true love was +given to me. I won it heedlessly, and did not know its value. I played +with it and threw it away—a fresh young life like Alfred Wimple’s. It +was in my power to make him happy; but I made him miserable. He was +taken ill and died. Sometimes I think that I am answerable to God for +the loss of that life; had I acted differently it might have been in the +world now. I never had a young love offered to me again; I thought that +God had denied it to me as a punishment; for Mr. Baines’s youth had gone +when I married him; it was the marriage of his middle age. But through +all the years I have not grown old, and all things that have youth in +them are precious to me. One reason why I love you all—you, and Walter +and the children—is that I am young too, at heart. It is only the lines +on my face that make me look old, and the years I can count that make me +feel so. I am young still in all else.” She stopped for a moment, as if +waiting for some response, but Florence could think of nothing to say; +she looked at the old lady wonderingly, and put her hand on the nervous +ones that rested on the chair-back. “I remember the night of your +party,” Mrs. Baines went on. “I thought of the past all the evening +while I sat there—your guest, my darling—it came back again and again, +it enveloped me, one year after another. I went on to the balcony, and +all my dear ones who had gone gathered round me in the darkness. I heard +your fresh young voices behind, but the years had set a mark on me that +cut me off from you, and death had taken most of those I remembered, but +left my heart young and longing for love, longing to live again just as +you loved and as you lived. I said to myself, ‘I am old, I am old!’ +Alfred Wimple was standing by me, and whispered, ‘You are not old.’ He +was like my dead come back, like the one who had loved me when I was +young; I felt as if through all the years I had been waiting by a dead +man’s side, but that now perhaps out of his life that loved me this +other had grown, or else that God had sent him, my dear one, into the +world again to love me once more, and to prove I was forgiven. Do you +understand, Florence? I could not refuse the beautiful life that was +laid at my feet, the love that has come to bless me once more after all +the long years. We are young man and young woman to each other, and we +love each other with all our hearts. It is like you and your dear +Walter. I wanted to say this to you; I thought it would help you to +understand, to sympathize with me. You cannot be sorry that I am going +to be less lonely, or grudge me the love that will make my life happier. +That is all. And now, my darling, I must go; and good-bye once more.” + +Florence could not speak—she felt the hot tears filling her eyes +again—a lump had come to her throat. + +“God bless you, Aunt Anne,” she said at last, with something almost like +a sob. + +“And God bless you, dearest Florence,” the old lady said, and kissed her +niece’s face and stroked her head. “You know I always admire your hair, +my love,” she said, and pulling her forward she kissed it. Then she went +out to the waggonette. Jane held open the door. “This is for you,” Mrs. +Baines said haughtily, and slipped half a crown into the servant’s hand. +“There are some old slippers in my bedroom; I don’t know if you will +deem them worthy of your acceptance.” + +“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jane, unwillingly. + +“I trust you will study your mistress’s comfort and interests in every +way,” Mrs. Baines continued as she put a shawl over her knees, “and that +you will be good to those dear children.” The next moment she was on her +way to Witley Station. + + END OF VOL. I. + + PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, + LONDON AND BECCLES. _G., C. & Co._ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER NOTES + + Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where + multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. + + Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer + errors occur. + + New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to + the public domain + + [The end of _Aunt Anne_, by Mrs. W. K. Clifford.] + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75403 *** |