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diff --git a/75404-0.txt b/75404-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..50a1ae2 --- /dev/null +++ b/75404-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5920 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75404 *** + + + [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. II. + + + + London: + Richard Bentley & Son, + Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen. + 1892. + + (All rights reserved.) + + + + +[Illustration] + AUNT ANNE. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + +Portsea Place, Connaught Square, is composed of very small houses, most +of which are let out in apartments. It was to one of these that Mrs. +Baines drove on her arrival in town. Her two canvas-covered boxes, +carefully corded, were on the top of the cab, her many small packages +piled up inside. Mr. Wimple was not with her. He had left her at +Waterloo, but it had been arranged that he was to see her later on in +Portsea Place, and that if she failed to take rooms there, she was to +leave a message where she was to be found. + +“Well, Mrs. Hooper,” she said to the landlady, smilingly, but with the +condescending air of a patroness, “you see I have not forgotten you, and +if your rooms are still at liberty I should like to inspect them again.” + +“Yes, ma’am, certainly they are at liberty,” said Mrs. Hooper, who felt +convinced that, in spite of the shabby cloak with the clasp, the spare +old lady must be some grand personage in disguise. “I shall be only too +glad if they please you.” + +Mrs. Baines inspected them carefully, two little rooms on the +drawing-room floor, a bedroom and a sitting-room. She looked at the +pictures, she winked at herself in the looking-glass, she gently shook +the side-table to see if it was rickety. She tried the springs of the +easy-chair, and the softness of the sofa cushions. She asked if the +chimney had been properly swept, and whether there was a draught from +the windows. + +“I think a guinea a week is an ample rent, Mrs. Hooper, considering that +it is not the season,” she said. “However, I will take the rooms for a +week.” + +“I don’t usually let them for so short a time,” the landlady began +meekly. + +“I might not require them for longer,” answered Mrs. Baines distantly, +“but I can make them suit my purpose for a week.” + +“Very well, ma’am,” and Mrs. Hooper gave way, overawed by Aunt Anne’s +unflinching manner. “Would you like a fire lighted?” + +“Certainly, and at once; but first will you be good enough to have the +luggage carried in? And tell the cabman to wait; he can drive me to +Portman Square. There will be a gentleman here to dinner to-night.” + +“I didn’t think you would want late dinner, ma’am; ladies so often have +tea and something with it—and company the first night——” but the +landlady stopped with a little dismay in her voice, for Mrs. Baines +looked displeased. + +“I am accustomed to dining late,” she said haughtily, feeling acutely +the superiority of her own class, “and I have frequent visitors. Cabman, +will you put those boxes into the bedroom?—and be careful not to knock +the walls. They are so often careless,” she said, with a smile to the +landlady that completely subjugated her, “and it is so very annoying to +have one’s place injured.” + +“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Mrs. Hooper replied gratefully. “If you will give +your orders we will get in what you want for this evening while you are +gone to Portman Square.” The address had evidently impressed her. + +“I must consider for a moment,” and Aunt Anne sat down and was silent. +Then she ordered a little dinner that she thought would be after the +heart of Mr. Wimple, and gave many domestic directions; and with “I +trust to you to make everything exceedingly comfortable, Mrs. Hooper,” +departed in a four-wheeled cab. + +Sir William Rammage lived in a big house in Portman Square. The windows +looked dull, the blinds dingy, the door-step deserted. Half the square +seemed to hear the knock which Mrs. Baines gave at the double door. A +servant in an old-fashioned black suit appeared with an air of surprise. + +“Is Sir William Rammage at home?” Mrs. Baines asked. The man looked her +swiftly up and down. + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“I wish to see him,” she said, and walked into the wide stone hall, +before the servant could prevent her. + +“It’s quite impossible, ma’am,” he said firmly; “Sir William keeps his +room, and is too ill to see any one.” + +“You will be good enough to take him my card,” Mrs. Baines said. “If he +is able to do so, you will find that he will see me.” + +“I’ll take it to Mr. Boughton, ma’am,” said the man hesitatingly, for he +was overcome by the visitor’s imperious manner; “he has been with Sir +William just now, and will know if it is possible for any one to see +him.” + +“Who is Mr. Boughton?” she asked, almost contemptuously. + +“He is Sir William’s solicitor.” + +“Very well, that will do,” said Mrs. Baines, and she was shown into a +large empty dining-room, that looked as grim and gloomy as the outside +of the house had promised that all should be within. In a few minutes he +returned. + +“Mr. Boughton will be with you directly, ma’am,” he said respectfully. + +In five minutes’ time there appeared a little dried-up man, bald and +shrewd-looking, but with a kindly expression in his pinky face. + +“Mr. Boughton,” Mrs. Baines said, “I am most glad to make your +acquaintance;” and she shook hands. “Is it possible to see Sir William +Rammage? He is my cousin, and we have known each other since we were +children together.” + +“Quite impossible, my dear madam, quite impossible,” the lawyer answered +briskly. + +“Is he very ill?” + +“Very seriously ill.” + +“Dear William,” the old lady said tearfully, “I feared it was so. I knew +him too well to suppose that he would leave my letters unanswered had it +been otherwise.” + +“If it is any business matter, madam, I am his confidential lawyer, and +have been for thirty years.” + +“Mr. Boughton, I am Sir William’s own first cousin; our mothers were +sisters,” Mrs. Baines said with deep emotion. + +“Dear me, dear me,” answered the lawyer thoughtfully. + +“When we were children we were rocked in the same cradle.” + +“Most touching, I am sure;” and still he appeared to be turning +something over in his mind. + +“I know that he has a sincere affection for me, but of late years he has +been so frequently indisposed that he has not been able to show it as he +wished.” + +“Frequently the case, my dear lady, frequently the case,” Mr. Boughton +said soothingly. “May I ask you to tell me what other members of his +family survive? I am a little uncertain in the matter.” + +“Mr. Boughton, I am his mother’s sister’s child, and the nearest +relation he has in the world. The others have been dead and gone these +many years. There may be some distant cousins left, but we have never +recognized them.” + +“I understand,” he said; “most interesting. And you wish to see him on +family business, I presume?” + +“I did.” + +“I am sorry to refuse you, my dear lady, but I am afraid he is too ill +to see you.” + +“I am not rich,” Aunt Anne began, and her voice faltered a little; “and +he promised to make me an allowance.” + +“He has never done so yet?” + +“No,” she said sadly, “he has had it under consideration. Perhaps he was +reflecting what would be an adequate sum to defray my necessary +expenses.” + +“Perhaps so,” Mr. Boughton said thoughtfully. “If you will excuse me one +moment, I will inquire if by any possibility my client can see you;” and +he left the room. + +But in a few minutes he returned. + +“It is quite out of the question,” he explained, “quite. I don’t wish to +distress you, but I fear that our friend is much too ill to attend for +some time to his worldly affairs.” + +“I have been waiting many months for his decision,” the old lady said, +with a world of pain in her voice; “it has been most difficult to +maintain my position.” + +“Quite so, quite so, my dear lady, and I feel sure that Sir William +would wish this matter to be attended to without delay. I think I +understand you to be the daughter of his mother’s sister——” + +“His dear mother’s sister Harriet.” + +“Quite so,” and Mr. Boughton nodded approvingly. “Well, my dear lady, +suppose I take it upon myself, having the management of his affairs for +the present, to allow you just a hundred a year, say, till he is able to +settle matters himself. Would that enable you to await his recovery, +or——” + +A little lump came into Aunt Anne’s throat, a slow movement of +satisfaction to her left eye; her voice was unsteady when she spoke. + +“Mr. Boughton,” she said, “I know Sir William will be most grateful to +you. My circumstances must have been the cause of much anxiety to him.” + +“Then we will consider the matter arranged until he is in a condition to +attend to it himself or—by the way, would you like to have a cheque at +once?” + +“Perhaps it would be advisable,” Aunt Anne said, but she seemed unable +to go on. Try to conceal it as she would, the sudden turn in her fortune +was too much for her. + +“You must forgive me,” she said gently, sitting down, “I have had a +journey from the country, and I am not so young as I was years ago;” she +looked up with a little smile, as if to belie her words. + +“Of course,” answered Mr. Boughton, feelingly. “Age is a malady we all +inherit if we live long enough. Let me get you a glass of wine; there is +some excellent port in the sideboard;” and in a moment he found a +decanter and, having filled a glass, handed it to her. But she shook her +head while she looked up at him gratefully. + +“You must forgive me,” she said, “port wine is always pernicious to me.” +But he persuaded her to take a little sip, and then the glass was set +down beside her while he wrote the cheque. + +“You will tell dear William,” she said, “when he is well enough, with +what solicitude I think of him. And, Mr. Boughton, you must permit me to +say how much indebted I feel to your courtesy, and to the consideration +with which you have treated me.” + +Five minutes later Mrs. Baines was walking along Portman Square, feeling +like a woman in a dream, or a millionaire carrying his entire capital. +She bought some flowers, on her way back, to put on the little dinner +table in Portsea Place, and two little red candle-shades, for with +characteristic quickness she had noticed the old-fashioned plated +candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and remembered that gas above the table +was unbecoming; and then she bought a yard or two of lace to wear round +her throat, feeling a little ashamed and yet happy while she did so. She +thought of her lover, and looked longingly round the shop; but there was +nothing that even she could imagine would be an acceptable present to a +man. + +“Welcome, my darling,” she said to him, when he arrived an hour or two +later; “this is the first time I have had the happiness of receiving you +in a place of my own. I trust our repast will be ready punctually.” + +“How is Sir William Rammage?” he asked. + +“In a most precarious condition.” + +“No better?” + +“From what I could gather, Alfred, he must be worse,” and she spoke +solemnly. + +“Whom did you see?” + +“I saw a solicitor, Mr. Boughton.” + +“That is my uncle; and he said he was worse?” + +“He was so ill, Alfred, that Mr. Boughton even paid me my quarter’s +income out of his own pocket.” A little smile hovered on Mr. Wimple’s +face. + +“You didn’t say anything about me?” + +“No, my darling; you had desired me not to mention your name and that +was sufficient.” + +“And he paid you out of his own pocket?” + +“Yes, my love, he was most anxious that I should not be inconvenienced; +but our repast is ready. Come,” and she motioned him to the place +opposite her, and with happy dignity went to the head of the table. “I +hope you will do it justice.” + +Mr. Wimple ate his dinner with much solemnity. He always accepted his +food as if it was a responsibility that demanded his most serious +attention. Presently he looked at her across the dinner-table, at the +lace about her throat, at the little crinkly gold brooch, which Florence +had seen first years before at Rottingdean, at the lines and wrinkles +that marked the tender old face, at the thin white hands with the loose +skin and the blue veins; but no expression came into his dull full eyes. +When the meal was over he got up and stood by the fireplace. + +“My dear one,” she said, “are you tired with the journey?” + +“No.” + +“Did you find your rooms quite comfortable and ready for you?” she +asked, and went over to his side. + +“Yes,” he answered with the little gulp peculiar to him. He seemed to be +considering something of which he was uncertain whether to speak or be +silent. But he kept his eyes fixed full upon her. + +“Are they in the Gray’s Inn Road, dear Alfred?” + +“Near there,” he said, and his lips closed. For a minute he was silent. +Her eyes dropped beneath his gaze, she seemed to be trembling, and +fragile—oh, so fragile, a little gust of wind might have swept the +slight thin form away. He opened his lips to speak, but no sound came +from them. + +“You are so thoughtful,” she asked gently; “I have not vexed you?” + +“No;” and there was a long pause. Then he spoke again. + +“Anne,” he said, and went a little further from her, “I think perhaps it +would be as well if we were married at once.” The tears came into her +eyes, her mouth twitched, there was a pause before she found words to +speak. + +“My dear one,” she said, “is it really true that all your heart is mine; +you are sure, dear Alfred?” + +“Yes,” he answered, in a voice he tried to make gentle, but that, oddly +enough, sounded half defiant, “I told you so last night.” + +“I know,” she answered; “only I have not deserved such happiness,” and +the tears stole down her cheeks. “I have lived so long alone, my dear +one; but all my life is yours, Alfred, all my life, and the truest love +that woman can give I will give you,” and she clasped her hands while +she spoke—she seemed to be making the promise before some unseen +witness to whom she owed account of all her doings. + + * * * * * + +A week later Alfred Wimple and Mrs. Baines were married from the little +lodging in Portsea Place. It was a sensation in Mrs. Hooper’s monotonous +life. She would have laughed and made fun of the wedding, but that Aunt +Anne’s dignity forbade almost a smile. The old lady seemed to be in a +dream, the beginning of which she hardly remembered—to be living +through the end of a poem, the first part of which she had learned in +her youth. Her poor weak eyes looked soft and loving, and the smile that +came and went about her mouth had something in it that was pathetic +rather than ridiculous. She had conjured a grey wedding-dress from +somewhere, and a grey bonnet to match, but the cold caused her to wrap +herself round in the big cloak she always wore. She pulled on her +gloves, which were large and ill-fitting, and stood before the glass +looking at herself, but all the time her thoughts were straying back to +forty years and more ago. If only time could be conquered, and its cruel +hand held back—if flesh and blood could change as little as sometimes +do the souls they clothe, how different would be the lives of men and +women! The woman who went down the stairs was old and wrinkled +outwardly, but within she was as full of tenderness as any girl of +twenty going forth to meet her lover. She stepped into the four-wheel +cab alone, the biting wind swept maliciously over her face, and quickly +she pulled up the window. It was but a little way to the church. It +stood in the middle of an open space; she started when she caught sight +of it, then turned away her head for a moment with a strange dread: and +her courage almost gave way as she stopped before the deserted doorway. +Alfred Wimple heard her arrive, and came to meet her with the +hesitating, half-doubtful look that his face always wore when he was +with her. There was no tenderness in his manner, there was something +almost like shame. But he seemed to be impelled by fate and unable to +turn back. The old lady’s heart was full; the tears came into her eyes. +She took his arm, and together they walked up the empty aisle. The two +odd people who had been pressed into service as witnesses came forward, +the clergyman appeared, he looked for a moment at the couple before him, +but it was no business of his to interfere, and slowly he began the +service. + +A quarter of an hour later Aunt Anne and Alfred Wimple were man and +wife. + +“I think we had better walk back,” were the first words he said when +they were outside. His manner was almost cowering, little enough like a +bridegroom. + +“My darling, don’t you think people would guess?” she whispered. + +“You need not be afraid. We don’t look much like a wedding-party,” he +answered grimly. + +“No, my love, I fear not. But you do not mind?” + +“No,” and they walked on in silence. Then she spoke again, her voice +tremulous with emotion— + +“I feel, my darling, as if I could not have borne it if there had been +more signs of our joyousness. It is too sacred; it is the day of my +life,” she whispered to herself. + +“I hope there will be some sunshine at Hastings,” he said, as if he did +not in the least understand what she was talking about. He had hardly +listened to her. + +“I hope so, my darling,” she answered gently; “and in your life too. I +will try to put it there, Alfred.” + +He turned and looked at her with an expression that seemed half shame +and half shrinking. + +“It will be warmer at Hastings,” he said, as if at a loss for words. + +Aunt Anne had arranged a honeymoon trip. It was she who made all the +arrangements, and he who reluctantly consented to them. They were to go +to Hastings by a late afternoon train, stay there a few days, and then +return to town; but everything was vague beyond. + +“It will be better to wait,” Mr. Wimple said, when she wanted to settle +some sort of home. “I must consider my work, Anne. I cannot be tied +down: you must understand that.” + +There was a little wedding-breakfast set out in the drawing-room. A cold +chicken and a shape of jelly, and a very small wedding-cake with some +white sugar over it, put almost shyly on one side. In the middle of the +table was a pint bottle of champagne. The gold foil over the cork made +the one bright spot in the room, and gave it an air of festivity. A +cheerless meal enough on a winter’s day, but not for worlds would Aunt +Anne have had an ordinary one on such an occasion. And so they sat down +to their cold chicken and the cheap stiff jelly; and Alfred Wimple +opened the champagne, and Aunt Anne, quick to see, noticed that he gave +her three quarters of a glass and drank the rest himself, and she felt +that she was married indeed. + +“Bless you, my dear one, bless you,” she said, as she always did, when +she raised her glass to her lips. “And may our life be a happy one.” + +“Thank you,” he answered solemnly—and then, as if he remembered what +was expected of him, he drank back to her. + +“Good health, Anne, and good luck to us,” he said. + +The meal ended, the things were taken away by Mrs. Hooper herself, and +they were left alone. + +Mr. Wimple loitered uneasily round the room. + +“I think we must go to Hastings by a later train,” he said; “I shall +have to get to my chambers presently.” + +“Must you go to your chambers again to-day?” she asked meekly. + +“Yes,” he answered. “I shan’t be long, but there are some things I must +see to.” + +“Couldn’t I go with you, Alfred, in a cab?” + +“No;” and his lips locked. + +“Are the rooms in the Gray’s Inn Road?” she asked again. + +“They are near there,” he said once more; he looked at her steadfastly, +and something in his eyes told her that he did not mean to give her the +address. For a few moments there was silence between them. He stood on +the hearth-rug by the fire. She sat a few paces from him, seemingly lost +in thought. Suddenly she looked up. + +“Alfred, my darling,” she cried sadly, “you do love me, do you not? You +seem so cold to me to-day, so reserved and different. I have taken this +great step for you, and you have not said a tender word to me since we +returned from the church, yet this is our wedding-day,” and she stopped. + +“I am not well, and it’s so cold, and I am worried about money matters, +Anne.” + +“I will take care of you,” she said, and stood up beside him, “and nurse +you, and make you strong; I will study your every wish. If I had +millions of money, they should all be yours, my darling; I should like +to spread out gold for your feet to walk on.” + +“I believe you would,” he said, with something like gratitude in his +voice, and he stooped and kissed her forehead. + +Even this meagre sign of affection overcame her, she put her head +thankfully down on his shoulder and let it rest there a minute from +sheer weariness and longing. He put his arm round her and his face +touched her head, but it was as a man caresses his mother. Still, for a +moment the weary old heart found rest. + +“You are all my world,” she whispered. + +“I’m not good enough for you, Anne,” he said uneasily. “You are a fool +to care about me.” Then she raised her head and the bright smile came +back. + +“Oh yes,” she said joyfully, “you are much too good. It shall be the +study of my life to be good enough for you.” The enthusiasm of youth +seemed to flash back upon her for a moment. “I am not a fool to care for +you. I am the wisest woman on earth. My darling Alfred,” she went on +after a pause, “I have a wedding-present for you; you must have thought +me very remiss in not giving you one already.” + +“I have nothing for you,” he answered. But she did not hear him. She was +fumbling in a travelling-bag at the end of the room. Presently she came +back with a large old-fashioned gold watch. + +“This belonged to my brother John, who died,” she said. “I want you to +wear it in memory of to-day.” + +“It’s a very handsome watch,” he said. “I never saw it before. Where has +it been?” + +She was silent for a moment and her left eye winked. + +“My love,” she said, “I had it kept in a place of safety till I required +it,” and he asked no more questions. + +He put on his great coat to go out; but he hesitated by the door and +half reluctantly came back. “Anne,” he said, “even if we have no money, +we ought to be prudent and business like; I meant to have told you so +yesterday.” + +“Yes, my darling,” she said, half wonderingly. + +“People usually sign their wills on their wedding-day. You see I am not +strong and might die.” And he looked at her keenly. + +“Yes, my love, or I might die, which would be far more natural.” + +“I have made a will leaving you all I have. How do you wish to leave +anything that you possess?” + +“To you, of course, Alfred—everything I have in the world.” + +“I don’t wish to influence you,” he said, “but I thought you might wish +to make your will in substance the same as mine. So after I left you +yesterday I had them both drawn up. They are in my great coat pocket +now, we might as well get them signed and done with. The landlady and +the servant will witness them.” He produced two long envelopes from his +pocket, and Mrs. Hooper and the servant were called. + +“Alfred,” Aunt Anne said, when they were alone again, and she read over +the documents, “your name is in my will, but in yours you only say you +‘leave everything to my wife.’” + +“Surely that is sufficient?” he said shortly. + +“Of course, dear, for I am”—the voice dropped, as almost a blush came +upon the withered cheek—“your wife now.” Mr. Wimple put his lips +together again after his favourite manner and said nothing. She watched +him curiously, a little fear seemed to overtake her, her hands, half +trembling, sought each other. “Have I displeased you, Alfred,” she asked +gently; “my darling, have I displeased you?” + +“No,” he answered drily; “but I am not very sentimental, Anne. Perhaps +you had better remember that,” and he put the wills carefully into his +pocket. “We will go by the 5.35 train. By the way, you might meet me at +the station,” and he looked at her steadfastly. + +“If you do not come back for me I shall not go at all,” and something +like an angry flash came from her eyes. He hesitated a moment. + +“Very well,” he answered, “I will come back for you.” She watched him go +down the stairs, she listened while he opened the street door and closed +it—to his footsteps growing fainter along the pavement outside; then +she went back into the little drawing-room and shut herself in, and put +her head down on the lumpy sofa-cushion and sobbed with the bitter +disappointment and hopelessness that had suddenly opened itself out +before her. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + +Six months later. Walter was back in England, better in health, brown +and handsome. Florence was in a seventh heaven of happiness. Her husband +was her very devoted lover; the children were as good as gold; the +little house near Regent’s Park was decorated with all manner of Indian +draperies and _bric-à-brac_—what more could the heart of woman desire? + +“Really,” she said, “it was worth your going away to know the delight of +getting you back again.” + +“Yes, darling; shall I go away again?” + +“No, you dear stupid! Walter, why doesn’t Mr. Fisher come and see us? He +has only been once since you returned, and then he seemed most anxious +to go away again.” + +“I suppose he was afraid Ethel Dunlop would come in.” + +“I wish he hadn’t fallen in love with her,” Florence said; “I shall +always reproach myself about it. But, really, he was so good and kind +that I half hoped she would like him.” + +“A woman under thirty doesn’t marry a man merely because he is good and +kind, unless matrimony is her profession.” + +“I can’t help thinking it might have been different if he had spoken to +her,” Florence said; “it is so absurd of a man to write. I wouldn’t have +accepted you if you had proposed in a letter.” + +“Oh, wouldn’t you?” he laughed; “that was a matter in which you wouldn’t +have been allowed to decide for yourself. One must draw the line +somewhere. It is all very well to let women do as they like in little +things; but in a big one like marrying you, why——” + +“Don’t talk nonsense,” Florence laughed, putting her hand over his +mouth. He kissed it, and jerked back his head. + +“I wonder what Fisher said in his letter, Floggie?” + +“I should think it was very proper and respectful.” + +“The sort of letter a churchwarden or an archbishop would write. Poor +chap, I expect he feels a little sore about it. He hadn’t a very good +time with his first wife, I fancy. Probably he wanted to make a little +sunshine for his sober middle-age. I dare say he would have been awfully +good to her if she had taken him.” + +“I wish she had, and I wish he would come here again,” Florence said; +“he was so very kind about taking the house, and I always liked him.” + +“I am afraid,” Walter said, with a sigh, “he hasn’t quite forgiven me +for putting Wimple on to him. It really was a ghastly thing for _The +Centre_ to get reviews from other papers palmed off on it as fresh ones. +I can’t think, setting aside the lowness of cheating, how Wimple could +be such a fool as to suppose that Fisher wouldn’t find out that they had +been prigged.” + +“He was quite taken in at first. I remember his telling me that Mr. +Wimple wrote very well.” + +“You see, those Scotch papers are uncommonly clever. How Wimple expected +not to be found out I can’t imagine. If he had prigged from the +_Timbuctoo Journal_, of course he might have escaped. Fisher must have +sworn freely. It made him look such an ass”—and Walter laughed, in +spite of himself. + +“Is there a _Timbuctoo Journal_?” Florence asked innocently. + +“No, you sweet idiot—perhaps there is, though. Should think it would be +interesting. Probably gives an account of a roast-missionary feast now +and then.” + +“You horrid thing!” said Florence. “I wish Mr. Wimple were in Timbuctoo, +and that I knew how poor Aunt Anne was getting on.” + +“Poor, dear old fool!—we never dreamed what would come of that +introduction, either, did we?” + +“Oh, Walter, I shall never forget what I suffered about her at the +cottage when she told me she was going to marry Mr. Wimple. And then, +after she had vanished, there were the bills at Witley and Guildford. I +can’t imagine what she did with all the things she bought, for she was +only at the cottage a week or so without me.” + +“Probably sent them to Wimple at Liphook.” + +“She couldn’t send him chickens and claret, and cakes and chocolate, and +a dozen other things.” + +“Oh yes, she could—trust her,” laughed Walter. “It is very odd,” he +went on, “but I have always had an idea, somehow, that there was a +feminine attraction at Liphook. If it was the young lady we saw with him +that morning at Waterloo Station, I don’t think much of her. How did you +manage to pay all the bills, Floggie dear? You didn’t owe a penny when I +came back, and had saved something too—I never knew such a frugal +little woman.” + +“Steggall’s bill was the worst,” Florence said; “there were endless +waggonettes.” + +“Probably she spent her time in showing Wimple the beauties of the +country. How did you manage to pay them all, Floggie?” + +“Lived on an egg one day, and nothing the next.” + +“That’s what a woman always does. A man would have robbed Peter to pay +Paul. You ought to have a reward. It is too cold at Easter, but if I +could get away for a fortnight this Whitsuntide we might take a run to +Monte Carlo.” + +“Monte Carlo makes me think of Mrs. North. I should like to see her +again; she was very fascinating.” + +“Why didn’t you go and see her?” + +“I was not sure that you would like it. There was evidently something +wrong.” + +He was silent for a few minutes. “Do you know,” he said presently, “when +there is something wrong with a woman I think it is a reason for going, +and not for staying away. It’s the only chance for setting it right. +What is the use of goodness if it isn’t used for the benefit of other +people?” + +“Walter,” Florence said, and she stood up and clasped her hands—“she +said nearly the same thing to me that evening she was here. There was +something almost desperate in her manner; it has haunted me ever since; +and I should have gone to see her but that I was afraid of your being +angry.” + +“What, at your going to see a woman who perhaps needed your help? If she +were up a moral tree, you might have done her some good.” + +“I can’t bear to think I missed a chance of doing that. Walter,” she +added, with a sigh, “sometimes I fear that I am very narrow.” + +“No, dear, you are only a little prim Puritan, and I love you for it as +I love you for everything; so please, Floggie, will you take me to Monte +Carlo this Whitsuntide, or may I take you?” + +“You are a wicked spendthrift, as bad as Aunt Anne; I believe it runs in +the family. What is to be done with the children while we go to Monte +Carlo?” + +“We’ll leave them with the mother-in-law.” + +“I wish you wouldn’t call my mother that horrid name.” + +“I thought it would make you cross. I say, I really do wish we knew what +had become of the Wimples.” + +“I think they must be all right, somehow,” Florence said, “or else——” + +“Or else she would have arrived to borrow a five-pound note. I wonder +how Wimple likes it. Well, darling, I must be off to the office. It’s +all agreed about Whitsuntide, then, Fisher permitting.” + +“Go away,” Florence laughed; “go to the office, you bad person.” + +“Very well, I will,” he said, in a patient voice; “but I really do wish +Aunt Anne would turn up. I want some more scissors; I lost all those she +gave me, and some one stole the case.” + +“And Catty broke my velvet pincushion. It is, clearly, time that she +turned up.” + +When Walter had gone, Florence thought of Mrs. North again. “It was +rather unkind of me not to be nice to her, for she was generous to Aunt +Anne,” she said to herself. “I wonder whether I could go and call upon +her now. I might explain that I never dared to mention Madame +Celestine’s bills.” + +But she had no more time in which to think of Mrs. North, for there were +the inevitable domestic matters to arrange; and then Ethel Dunlop came +in, full of her engagement to George Dighton. + +“I always imagined it was merely friendship,” Florence said, thinking +regretfully of the editor. + +“Did you?” said Ethel, brightly. “We thought so ourselves for a long +time, I believe; but we found out that we were mistaken. By the way, +Florence, you can’t think how good Mr. Fisher has been to us.” + +“Mr. Fisher? Well, you don’t deserve anything from him.” + +“No, I don’t. Still, it wasn’t my fault that he proposed; I never +encouraged him. How droll it was of him to come and pour out his +troubles to you.” + +“I think it was manly and dignified,” Florence said; “it proved that he +wasn’t ashamed of wanting to marry you. Did he write a nice letter, +Ethel?” + +“Yes, very, I think.” + +“How did he begin?” + +“He began, ‘My dear Miss Ethel,’ and ended up, ‘Yours very faithfully.’” + +“I am afraid you did lead him on a little bit.” + +“Indeed I did not. He asked me to come and see his mother when she had +this house, and he was always here.” + +“That was very nice of him,” Florence said; “it shows that he is very +fond of his mother.” + +“Oh yes, it was very nice of him,” Ethel answered, “and he is very fond +of his mother; but I found that he generally came a little before I did, +and he always saw me home. I couldn’t refuse to let him do so, because +he evidently thought it a matter of duty to see that I arrived safely at +my own street door. Middle-aged men always seem to think that a girl +must get into mischief the moment she is left to her own devices.” + +“How did he know of your engagement?” + +“I wrote and told him. He had been so kind that I felt it was due to +him. I told him we should be as poor as church mice, as George would be +in a government office all his life, with little to do and less to +spend, after the manner of those officials; and he wrote back such a +nice letter, inquiring into all our affairs and prospects—you would +have thought he was our godfather, at least.” + +“He does that sort of thing to everybody,” Florence said; “he is +astonishingly kind. He always seems to think he ought to do something +for the good of every one he knows.” + +“Perhaps he mistakes himself for a minor providence, and goes about +living up to it.” + +“Oh, Ethel!” + +“And then,” Ethel went on, altogether ignoring the slightly shocked look +on her friend’s face, “he said that, perhaps, a word might be put in +somewhere and something done for George. He didn’t say any more, but I +gathered that cabinet ministers occasionally range themselves round a +newspaper office, seeking whom they may oblige.” + +“Oh, Ethel!” exclaimed Florence again, “that is just your little +exaggerated way.” + +“Well, at any rate, he thinks he can do something, and he evidently +wants to be good to us.” + +“He seems to delight in doing kind things,” Florence answered; “you know +how good he was about Walter.” + +“He ought to have married Mrs. Baines. He would have been much better +than Alfred Wimple”—with which wise remark Ethel went away, full of her +own happiness, and Florence sat down and thought over Mr. Fisher’s +generosity. + +“He is always doing kind things,” she said to herself. “It was he who +sent Walter to India, and perhaps set him up for the rest of his life; +and he who gave that horrid Mr. Wimple work, only to find himself +cheated and insulted in return. I can’t think what I shall do whenever I +meet Mr. Wimple.” But she swiftly dismissed that disagreeable person +from her mind, and returned to the consideration of Mr. Fisher’s +virtues. “He is so unselfish,” she thought. “It isn’t every one who +would try to help on the man for whom he had been refused. Yet it is +very odd that, with all his goodness, Mr. Fisher is not a bit +fascinating; I quite understand Ethel’s refusing him. I have an idea +that few go out of their way to be good to him. Some people seem to live +in the world to give out kindness, and others only to take it in.” The +reflection felt like a self-reproach. She did so little for others +herself, and yet she was always longing to do more in life than merely +to take her own share of its enjoyment. She wanted most to help Aunt +Anne; she longed to see her, to comfort and soothe her, and perhaps to +lend her a little money. She felt convinced that Aunt Anne must want +some money by this time, and that she was miserable with Mr. Wimple. “I +am so afraid he isn’t kind to her,” she said to herself; “I am certain +he hasn’t married her for love—there is some horrid reason that we are +not clever enough to guess. I only wish she had never left Mrs. North; +she was so happy there, and looked so grand driving about and giving +presents; and perhaps if she had stayed she might, eventually, have been +able to pay for them.” Then, almost against her will, Mrs. North’s face +was before her again. She could see it quite plainly, lovely and +restless, but with a sad look in the blue eyes that was like an appeal +for kindness. “I feel as if there were an aching in her heart for +something she has missed in life. But perhaps that is nonsense, or it is +only that I don’t understand her—we are so different. I have half a +mind to go and call on her. I wonder if she would care to see me?” + +Some more hesitation, some curiosity and kindly feeling, and then +Florence put on her prim little bonnet and her best furs, for she +remembered Mrs. North’s magnificent array and felt that it would not do +to look shabby. She took the train from Portland Road to South +Kensington, and walked slowly to Cornwall Gardens. + +“I won’t leave Walter’s card,” she thought, “or any cards at all if she +is out; for, though I am glad to go and see her, I don’t want to be on +visiting terms.” + +But Mrs. North was at home, and Florence was shown into a gorgeous +drawing-room, all over draperies, and bits of colour, and tall palms, +and pots of lovely flowers. In the midst of them sat Mrs. North, a +little lonely figure by a piled-up wood fire, for the early spring day +was cold and dreary. She rose as her visitor entered, and came just a +step forward. She was lovelier than ever. With a cry of joyful surprise, +she held out her hands to Florence. + +“_You!_” she exclaimed. “Oh, Mrs. Hibbert, I never thought you would +come and see me at all; but now—oh, it is good of you! Did you think +how glad I should be?” + +“I didn’t know whether you would care to see me or not,” Florence said, +surprised at her delight. + +“Care?” Mrs. North almost gasped, and Florence fancied that her lip +quivered; “indeed I do, only no one—won’t you sit down?”—and she made +a cosy corner on a low couch, with a pile of soft, silk-covered +cushions. + +“I was so sorry not to be able to come and see you last year——” + +“I quite understand,” Mrs. North said, and the colour rushed to her +face. “I did not expect it.” + +“You were so kind about Madame Celestine”—Florence went on, thinking +that she, too, would have a heap of down cushions in her drawing-room, +and not noticing Mrs. North’s confusion—“and about all those dreadful +bills.” + +“Yes, I remember. Then you did not stay away on purpose?” Mrs. North +leaned forward while she spoke, and waited breathlessly for the answer. + +“Why, of course not.” A happy look came over the girlish face. + +“And did you come now to tell me about Mrs. Baines? I should love to +hear about her. Of course I knew she would not write. Was she very angry +at my paying the bill?” + +“Well, no——” and Florence hesitated. + +“Do tell me. I don’t in the least mind if she was. How furious she would +be with me now, and how she would gather her scanty skirts and pass me +by in scornful silence.” Mrs. North laughed, an almost shrill laugh that +seemed to be born of sorrow and pain. She was very strange, Florence +thought, and her manner was oddly altered. “Do tell me,” she asked +again—“was she very angry?” + +“I am ashamed to say that she never knew you had paid it.” + +“You were afraid to tell her?” + +“I never had a good opportunity.” + +“It doesn’t matter a bit. It saved her from being worried, poor +thing,—that was the chief point. So long as a thing is done, it doesn’t +matter who does it—unless it’s a bad thing. It matters then very +much—especially to the person who does it,” Mrs. North added, with a +little bitter laugh. “The pain of it”—she stopped again, and went on +suddenly, “Tell me more about Mrs. Baines. Where is she?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Have you not seen her lately?” + +“Not for a long time.” + +“But what has become of her?” + +Florence hesitated again. “I cannot tell you.” + +“Dear lady!” said Mrs. North, her face merry with sudden fun. “You have +not quarrelled with her? A Madonna doesn’t quarrel, surely? Oh, how rude +I am—but you will forgive me, won’t you?” She got up from the other end +of the couch and rang the bell. “Bring some tea,” she said to the +servant, “and quickly.” + +“Don’t have tea for me, please——” Florence began. + +“Oh yes, yes,” Mrs. North said entreatingly. “I feel, dear Mrs. Hibbert, +that we are going to talk scandal—therefore we must have tea. I have +had enough scandal lately,” she added, with a sigh, “but still when it +isn’t about one’s self it is so exhilarating, as Mrs. Baines would have +said; now, please, go on.” + +“Go on with what?” + +Mrs. North pulled out a little scented lace handkerchief and twirled it +into a ball in her excitement. + +“About Mrs. Baines. There is some exciting news—I know it; I feel it in +the air. Ah, here’s the tea. I will pour it out first, and then, while +we drink it, you must tell me all about her. Some sugar and +cream?—there, now we look more cosy. Where is the old lady? What have +you done with her? You have not locked her up?” she asked quickly. + +“No,” laughed Florence, thinking how good the tea was, and how pretty +were the cups and the little twisted silver spoons. “I have not locked +her up.” + +“And you have really not quarrelled with her?” + +“No,” answered Florence, a little doubtfully. “Though I sometimes fear +that she is angry with me for what she called my lack of sympathy. +Really, Mrs. North, I don’t know how to tell you; but the fact is,—she +is married again.” + +“No, no?” cried Mrs. North. “Oh, it’s too lovely! And who is the dear +old gentleman?” + +“It’s a young one,” and Florence laughed, for she could not help being +amused. “I don’t know if you ever saw him—Mr. Wimple?” Mrs. North +rocked to and fro, with wicked delight, till the last words came; then +she grew quite grave. + +“Oh, but I am sorry,” she said, “for I have seen him; and he didn’t look +nice; he looked—rather horrid.” + +“I am afraid he did,” Florence answered regretfully. + +“Do tell me all about it”—but the only account that Florence was able +to give did not satisfy Mrs. North. “You must have seen something of the +love-making beforehand?” she said. + +“I am afraid I saw nothing of that either,” Florence explained, “for I +was in London, and she was at the cottage.” + +“I thought she liked him when she was here,” Mrs. North said; “but, of +course, I never dreamed of her being in love with him. She used to meet +him and go to contemplate the Albert Memorial. Sometimes, when I was out +alone, I drove by them; but I pretended to be blind, for I did not want +to invite him here—he was so unattractive. He called once, but I did +not encourage him to come again. I would give anything to see them +together. If I knew where she lived, I would brave everything, and call +upon her, though she probably wouldn’t let me in.” + +Then Florence began to be a little puzzled. What did Mrs. North mean? +Had she done anything—anything bad? Almost without knowing it she +looked up and asked, “Is Mr. North quite well?” The colour flew to Mrs. +North’s face again. + +“Oh yes, I suppose so,” she answered coldly. “Naturally I don’t inquire +after his health.” + +“You had had a telegram last time I saw you——” + +“I remember”—it was said bitterly. “I wondered why he was coming back +so suddenly.” + +“I thought perhaps he was at home still.” + +“At home! He may be. I don’t know where he is. I have not the least +idea. It is no concern of mine.” + +“Then he did not return after all?” Florence said, bewildered. Mrs. +North looked at her for a moment in silence. Then she got up and stood +leaning against the mantelpiece, which was covered with flowers and +_bric-à-brac_. + +“Mrs. Hibbert,” she said, and it seemed as if her lips moved +reluctantly, but she showed no other sign of emotion—“you know—what +has happened to me, don’t you?” + +“No,” answered Florence, breathlessly, and she stood up too. Mrs. North +glanced quickly at the door, almost as if she expected to see her +visitor flee towards it. + +“Mr. North divorced me,” she said, very slowly. + +“I didn’t know,” Florence answered, and began to put on her glove. + +“I thought you didn’t,” and there came a bitter little laugh. “I knew +you didn’t; and yet, deep down in the bottommost corner of my heart, I +hoped you did.” + +“You must forgive me for saying that, if I had, I should not have come, +though I am very, very sorry for you.” + +“As a judge is when he sends a prisoner into solitary confinement, or to +be hanged, and turns away to his own comfortable life?” Florence +buttoned her glove. “And you will never come and see me again, of +course?” she added, with another little burst. + +“I do not think I can,” Florence said gently. + +“I don’t want you,” Mrs. North answered quickly, while her cheeks burned +a deeper and deeper red. “It was only a test question.” + +“I am very sorry for you,” Florence said again, “very, very. You are so +young; and you seem to have no one belonging to you. But there are some +things that are impossible, if——” + +“Oh, I know,” burst out Mrs. North again; “I know. My God! and this is a +Christian country—yes, wait,” she said, for she fancied Florence was +going. “I know you are kind and gentle, and you are—good,” she added, +almost as an afterthought; “and you and the women like you try very hard +to keep your goodness close among yourselves, and never to let one scrap +of it touch women like me. Tell me,” she asked—“did you marry the man +you loved best in the world?” + +“Yes,” Florence answered unwillingly, afraid of being dragged into an +argument. + +“Then you have never known any temptation to do wrong. Where does the +merit of doing right come in?” + +“I would rather not discuss it,” Florence said, gently but coldly. + +“Oh, let me speak—not for my own sake, for I shall be strong enough to +make some sort of life for myself after a time; but for the sake of +other women who may be in my position and judged as you judge me. When I +was eighteen I was persuaded to marry a man old enough to be my father.” + +“But if you didn’t care for him——” + +“So many of us think that love is half a myth till our own turn comes. +They said I should be happy, and I wanted to be. Of course I wasn’t: +human nature is not so easily satisfied. He was rather kind at first. +But after a time he grew tired of me. I suppose I wasn’t much of a +companion to him. He went abroad and left me alone, again and again. At +first my sister was with me; she married and went away. Mrs. Baines came +a little while before that——” She stopped, as if unable to go on +without some encouragement. + +“Yes?” Florence said, listening almost against her will. + +“And I was young and inexperienced. How could I know the danger in so +many things that amused me? At last I fell in love; I had been so +lonely, I was so tired, and I had never cared for any one in my whole +life before.” + +“But you knew that it was wrong. You were married.” + +“Oh yes, but the paths of virtue had been deadly dull, and trodden with +a man I did not love and whom I had been made to marry. The man I did +love was young and handsome,—he is a soldier. The rest of the story was +natural, even if it was wicked.” + +“And then?” asked Florence, wonderingly. + +“Then my husband came back, and there were the usual details. He heard +something that sent him flying home to look after his honour. He had +forgotten to look after mine—or my happiness.” + +“And the man?” + +“He had gone to India with his regiment. He telegraphed over, ‘No +defence,’ and that was the end of it.” + +“I hope he will come back and make you reparation.” + +“He has not written me a line,” Mrs. North said, and the tears came into +her eyes for a moment—“not a word, not a sign. Perhaps he is +dead—India is a country that swallows up many histories; or, perhaps,” +she added desperately, “he, too, despises me now. People flee from me as +if I had the plague,” she added, with the bitter laugh again. “Oh, there +are no people in the world who encourage wickedness as do the strictly +virtuous.” + +“Don’t say that,” Florence answered, “for, indeed, it is not true.” + +“But it is,” Mrs. North said eagerly. “I have proved it: once do wrong, +and men and women seem to combine to prevent you from ever doing right +again. You can’t make a Magdalen of me”—and she held out her hands. “I +am young; I am a girl still; you can’t expect me to go in sackcloth and +ashes all my life—and that in solitude. I want to be happy; I am +hungry—and aching for happiness.” + +“I hope you will get some still, but——” + +“How can I? Men shun me, unless they want to make me worse; and women +fly from me, as if they feared their own respectability would vanish at +the mere sight of me. It seems to be made of brittle stuff.” + +“It is not that,” Florence interrupted—“but a difference must be made; +there must be some punishment—something done to prevent——” + +“That is why so many women go on doing wrong,” Mrs. North continued, as +if she had not heard the interruption; “they cannot bear the treatment +of that portion of the world which has remained unspotted or +unfound-out. Oh, the cruelty of good women! I sometimes think it is only +the people who have sinned or who have suffered who really know how to +feel.” + +“That is not true——” Florence began, but still Mrs. North did not heed +her. + +“Do you know,” she said, speaking under her breath, “I am so sorry for +women now that I believe I could kneel down beside a wicked, drunken +creature in a gutter, and kiss her, and bring her back, and be tender to +her in the hope of making her better. For I understand not only the sin, +but the pain and the misery, and the good people, and all else that have +driven her there.” + +“But some difference must be made—you cannot expect to be received as +if people thought you now what they thought you once?” + +“I know that,” Mrs. North said scornfully. “People can’t ask me to their +parties. I don’t want to go to them. They may not want me for the friend +of their daughters, though I should not harm them——” and she burst +into tears. + +“It isn’t possible,” Florence said helplessly. + +“But need men and women flee from me as if I were a leper? People who +have known me for years, and might make me better, women especially, who +might make me a little happier and ashamed of having done wrong. But +no—no; they gather their skirts, and do not see me as they pass, though +a year ago they crowded here. They are waiting to hear that I am dead, +or have grown wickeder still. They would feel a sort of pleasure in +hearing it, and be glad they did not risk their spotless reputations by +trying to prevent it.” + +“I think you must let me go away,” Florence said gently, determined to +end the interview. + +“Oh yes, you had better go!”—and Mrs. North put the backs of her hands +against her flushed cheeks to cool them. “My tea has not poisoned you, +and I have not ‘contaminated you,’ as Mrs. Baines would say. If you ever +think of me in the midst of your own successful life, believe this, that +if I had had all that you have had, I might have been as good as +you—who knows? As it is, I have my choice between isolation, with a few +breaths of occasional scorn, or the going farther along a road on which, +no doubt, you think I am well started.” + +“Please let me go,” Florence said gently, almost carried away by Mrs. +North’s beauty when she looked up at her face, but feeling that she +ought to stand by the principles that had been a part of her religion. +“This has been so painful, I am sure you must want to be alone.” + +“Oh yes, it has been painful enough, but it has been instructive also,” +Mrs. North said; and then she added gently, “I think I would rather you +go now. Yes, please go,” she entreated suddenly, while a sob choked her, +and she dabbed her tears with her little lace handkerchief, vainly +struggling to laugh again. + +“I think it would be better,” Florence said; “but perhaps some day, if I +may—I will——” She stopped, for she felt that she ought to consult her +husband before she promised to come again. + +“Oh yes, I understand,” Mrs. North said. “You will come again if you +can; but if you don’t, it will only increase my respect for goodness. I +shall think how precious it is, how valuable—it has to be guarded like +the Koh-i-noor. Good-bye, Mrs. Hibbert, good-bye.” She rang the bell and +bowed almost haughtily, so that Florence felt herself dismissed. + +“Good-bye,” the latter said, and slowly turned from the room. Somehow +she knew that Mrs. North watched her until the door had half closed, and +then threw herself, a little miserable heap, among the silk cushions. +But she was halfway down the stairs before she realized it, and the +servant was waiting to show her out. + +“Oh, I was cold and cruel,” she thought, when the street door had closed +behind her, “but I could not help it; there is no sin in the world so +awful as that one.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + +“I CAN understand what you felt,” Walter said, when he heard of +Florence’s interview with Mrs. North; “still, I wish we could do +something for her.” + +“It has made me miserable; but I don’t quite see what we can do. We +can’t invite her here—who would come to meet her? As for my going to +see her again, I would go willingly if I thought I should do her any +good; but I don’t think she would care about seeing me. She imagines I +am good and disagreeable.” + +“Poor Floggie! Perhaps you might write her a little letter, and then let +it drop.” + +“I’ll wait till I hear some news about Aunt Anne; then I will write, and +try to make my letter rather nice.” + +This excuse was soon given her. + +Mrs. Burnett, Mr. Fisher’s Whitley friend, called to see Florence one +afternoon. + +“I thought perhaps you would come for a drive with me,” she said; “it is +lovely in the Park to-day—such beautiful sunshine.” + +“It would be delightful,” Florence answered, for she always liked Mrs. +Burnett; “but I am afraid I must go to tea with a cousin in Kensington +Gore. I promised to meet Walter there, and go for a walk afterwards.” + +“Let me drive you there, at any rate.” + +“That would be very kind,” Florence said, and in five minutes they were +on their way. + +“Have you seen Mr. Fisher lately?” Mrs. Burnett asked, as they went +across the Park. + +“I saw him two or three weeks ago.” + +“He has grown very grave and silent. I have an idea that he fell in love +with a rather handsome girl who used to come and see his mother. I think +she was a friend of yours, Mrs. Hibbert.” + +“He doesn’t look like a man to fall in love,” Florence said, trying not +to betray Mr. Fisher’s confidence. + +“Oh, but you never know what is going on inside people—their feelings +are so often at variance with their appearance. My husband said once +that he sometimes thought people drew lots for their souls, because they +are so seldom matched with their bodies.” + +“Perhaps they do, and for their hearts as well. It would account for the +strange capacity some people have for loving, though you have only to +look at them to see it is hopeless that they should be loved back +again.” + +“I know, and it is terrible that love should so often depend, as it +does, on the chance arrangement of a little flesh and blood—for that is +what beauty amounts to.” + +“Oh, but we don’t always love beauty.” + +“No, not always,” Mrs. Burnett answered; “but the shape of a face, for +instance, will sometimes prevent our love going to a very beautiful +soul.” + +“And a few years and wrinkles will make love ridiculous or impossible,” +Florence said, thinking of Aunt Anne. Oddly enough, Mrs. Burnett +evidently thought of her too, for she asked— + +“Has your aunt been at the cottage at Witley lately?” + +“No,” answered Florence; but she did not want to discuss Aunt Anne. “My +children so often remember the donkey-cart,” she said; “it was a great +joy to them.” + +“Oh, I’m very glad. When you go to Witley again, I hope you will use the +pony.” + +“What has become of the donkey?” + +“We were obliged to sell it. It would not go at all at last. We are not +going to Witley ourselves till July; so, meanwhile, I hope you will use +the pony. Only, dear Mrs. Hibbert, you won’t let him go too fast uphill, +for it spoils his breath; and we never let him gallop downhill, for fear +of his precious knees.” + +“I will be very careful,” Florence said, rather amused. + +“I’m afraid we don’t let him go too fast, even on level ground,” Mrs. +Burnett added; “for he’s a dear little pony, and we should be so grieved +if he came to any harm.” + +“Perhaps he would be safer always standing still,” Florence suggested. + +“Oh, but he might catch cold then; but do remember, dear Mrs. Hibbert, +when you are going to Witley, that you have only to send a card the +night before to the gardener, and he will meet you at the station.” + +“Thank you, only I should be rather afraid to use him for fear of +accidents.” + +“Oh, but you needn’t be; and we are so glad to have him exercised. +Perhaps Mrs. Baines would like to drive him? Why, we are at Kensington +Gore already. It has been delightful to have you for this little drive. +Good-by, dear Mrs. Hibbert.” + +Walter was waiting for Florence at her cousin’s. He gave her a sign not +to stay too long. + +“We so seldom get a walk together,” he said, when they were outside, +“that it seemed a pity to waste our time under a roof. Let us get into +the Park;” and they crossed over. + +“How lovely it is,” Florence said, “with the tender green coming out on +the trees. The brown boughs look as if they were sprinkled with it. And +what a number of people are out. The Park is beginning to have quite a +season-like look.” + +“Do you remember how Aunt Anne used to come here and contemplate the +Albert Memorial?” Walter asked. “By the way, Fisher was talking of +Wimple to-day; he is very sore about him.” + +“It was very vexing; I wish we had never seen him, don’t you?” + +“What, Wimple? I should think so. I asked Fisher if he knew the fellow’s +address; he says the last time he heard of him he was somewhere near +Gray’s Inn Road. I wonder if she was with him?” + +“Walter!” exclaimed Florence, and she almost clutched his arm, “I +believe she is over there. Perhaps that is why she has been running in +our thoughts all day.” + +A little distance off, on a bench under a tree, sat a spare black +figure, with what looked like a cashmere shawl pulled round the slight +shoulders. Limp and sad the figure looked: there was an expression of +loneliness in every line of it. + +“It is very like her,” Walter said. They went a little nearer; they were +almost beside her; but they could not see her face, which was turned +away from them. + +“Oh, it must be she,” Florence said, in a whisper. Perhaps she heard +their footsteps, for the black bonnet turned slowly round, and, sure +enough, there was the face of Aunt Anne. It looked thin and woebegone. + +“Aunt Anne! Dear Aunt Anne! Why have you left us all this time without a +sign?” and Florence put her arms round the slender shoulders. + +“Aunt Anne! Why, this is real good luck!” Walter exclaimed. + +“My dear Florence, my dear Walter,” the old lady said, looking at them +with a half-dazed manner; “bless you, dear children; it does me good to +see you.” + +“You don’t deserve it, you know,” he said tenderly, “for cutting us.” + +“It wasn’t my fault, dear Walter,” she answered; “you and Florence and +the dear children have been constantly in my thoughts; but we have had +many unavoidable anxieties since our marriage; besides, I was not sure +that you desired to see me again.” + +“Why, of course we did. But you don’t deserve to see us again after +leaving us alone all this long time. Where is Wimple?” + +“He is at Liphook,” she answered. “He is not strong, and finds the air +beneficial to him.” + +“It was always beneficial to him,” Walter said dryly, as he sat down +beside her. + +“He ought not to leave you alone, dear Aunt Anne; you don’t look well,” +Florence said. + +“I am very frail, my love, but that is all. London air is never +detrimental to me, as it is to Alfred. He finds that Liphook invigorates +him, and he frequently goes there for two or three days; but, as our +means are not adequate to defray the expenses of much travelling, I +remain in town. Walter,” she asked, looking up with a touch of her old +manner, “did you enjoy your visit to India? I hope you have most +pleasant recollections of your journey.” + +“I’ll tell you what, Floggie dear,” Walter said, not answering Aunt +Anne’s question, “we’ll take her back with us at once.” + +“Oh no, my love,” the old lady began; “it is impossible——” + +“How can it be impossible?” Florence said gaily; “you are evidently all +alone in London; so we’ll run away with you. The children are longing to +see you, and I want to show you all the things Walter brought from +India. There is a little ivory elephant for you.” + +“It was just like him to think of me,” the old lady said, with a flicker +of her former brightness; but in a moment her sadness returned, and +Walter noticed that there was almost a cowed expression on her face. It +went to his heart, and gave him a mighty longing to thrash Wimple. + +“You must come at once,” he said, putting on an authoritative manner; +“then you can tell us all your news, and we will tell you all ours. +There, put your arm in mine, and Florence shall go the other side to see +you don’t escape.” + +“He is just the same. He makes me think of his dear father,” she said, +as she walked between them; “and of that happy day at Brighton, years +and years ago now, when I met you both on the pier. Do you remember, my +dear ones?” + +“Of course we do!” said Walter; “and how victoriously you carried us off +then, just as we are carrying you off now.” + +“Oh, he’s just the same,” the old lady repeated. + +“Here’s a four-wheeler,” he said, when they reached the Bayswater Road. +“This is quite an adventure; only,” he added gently, “you don’t look up +to much.” + +“I shall be better soon,” she said, and dropped into silence again. She +looked, almost vacantly, out of the cab window as they went along, and +they were afraid to ask her questions, for, instinctively, they felt +that things had not gone well with her. Presently she turned to +Florence. “Did you say the children were at home, my love?” + +“Yes, dear.” The old lady looked out again at the green trees in the +Park, and almost furtively at the shops in Oxford Street. Then she +turned to Florence. + +“My love,” she said, “I must take those dear children a little present. +Would you permit the cabman to stop at a sweetmeat-shop? We shall reach +one in a moment.” + +“Oh, please don’t trouble about them, dear Aunt Anne.” + +“I shouldn’t like them to think I had forgotten them, my love,” she +pleaded. + +“No, and they shan’t think it,” Walter said, patting her hand. “Hi! +stop, cabby. Stay in the cab; I’ll go and get something for them.” In a +few minutes he reappeared with two boxes of chocolates. “I think that’s +the sort of thing,” he said. She looked at them carefully, opened them, +and examined the name of the maker. + +“You have selected them most judiciously, dear Walter,” she answered. + +“That’s all right. Now we’ll go on.” She looked at the boxes once more, +and put them down, satisfied. + +“It was just like you, to save me the fatigue of getting out of the +cab,” she said to her nephew. “I hope the children will like them; they +were always most partial to chocolates. You must remind me to reimburse +you for them presently, my dear.” And once more she turned to the +window. + +“Aunt Anne, are you looking for any one?” Walter asked presently. + +“No, my love, but I thought the cabman was going through Portman Square, +and that he would pass Sir William Rammage’s house.” + +“That worthy was at Cannes the other day, I saw.” + +“He stays there till next month,” she explained, and then they were all +silent until they reached the end of their journey. It was impossible to +talk much to Aunt Anne; it seemed to interrupt her thoughts. Silence +seemed to have become a habit to her, just as it had to Alfred Wimple. +She was a little excited when they stopped at the house, and lingered +before the entrance for a moment. Almost sadly she looked up at the +balcony on which she had sat with Alfred Wimple, and slowly her left eye +winked, as if many things had happened since that happy night of which +only she had a knowledge. + +They sat her down in an easy-chair, and gave her tea, and made much of +her, and asked no questions—only showed their delight at having her +with them again. Gradually the tender old face looked happier, the sad +lines about the mouth softened, and once there was quite a merry note in +her voice, as she laughed and said, “You dear children, you are just the +same.” Then Catty and Monty were brought in, and she kissed them, and +patronized them, and gave them their chocolates, and duly sent them away +again, just as she always used to do. + +“I began to work a little hood for Catty,” she said, “but I never +finished it; it was not that I was dilatory, but that my eyes are not as +good as they were.” She said the last words sadly, and Florence, looking +up quickly, wondered if they were dimmed from weeping. + +“Poor Aunt Anne,” she said soothingly; “but you are not as lonely as +formerly?” + +“No, my love, only Alfred has a great deal of work to do. It keeps him +constantly at his chambers; and his health not being good, he is obliged +to go out of town very often, so that, unwillingly”—and she winked +sadly—“he is much away from me.” + +“What work is he doing?” Walter asked. + +“My dear,” she said, with gentle dignity, “you must forgive me for not +answering that question, but I feel that he would not approve of my +discussing his private affairs.” + +“Have you comfortable rooms in town?” Florence asked, in order to change +the subject. + +“No, my love, they are not very comfortable, but we are not in a +pecuniary position to pay a large rent.” She paused for a moment, and +her face became grave and set. Florence, watching her, fancied that +there was a little quiver to the upper lip. + +“Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne, I am certain you are not very happy—tell us +what it is. We love you. Do tell us—is anything the matter? Is Mr. +Wimple kind to you? Are you poor?” + +“Yes, do tell us!” Walter said, and put his arm round her shoulder, and +gave it a little affectionate caress. + +She hesitated for a moment. “My dears,” she said gratefully, but a +little distantly, “Alfred is very kind to me, but he is very much tried +by our circumstances. He is not strong, and he is obliged to be +separated from me very often. It causes him much regret, although he is +too unselfish to show it.” + +“But you ought not to be very poor, if Wimple has lots of work,” Walter +said. + +“I fear it is not very profitable work, dear Walter, and though I have +an allowance from Sir William Rammage, it does not defray all our +expenses”—and she was silent. Walter and Florence were silent too. They +could not help it, for Aunt Anne had grown so grave, and she seemed to +lose herself in her thoughts. Only once did she refer to the past. + +“Walter, dear,” she asked, “did you find my little gifts useful when you +were away?” Aunt Anne always used to inquire after the wear and tear of +her presents. + +“Indeed I did,” he answered heartily. “I was speaking of them only +to-day—wasn’t I, Floggie?” But he concealed the fact that all the +scissors were lost, lest she should want to give him some more. + +“Aunt Anne,” Florence asked, “isn’t there anything we could do for you? +You don’t look very well.” + +“The spring is so trying, my love,” the old lady said gently. + +“I expect you want a change quite as much as Mr. Wimple.” + +“Oh no, my love. I have been a little annoyed by my landlady, who was +impertinent to me this morning. It depresses me to have a liberty taken +with me.” Perhaps the rent was not paid, Florence thought, but she did +not dare to ask. Aunt Anne shivered and pulled her shawl round her +again, and explained that she had not put on her warm cloak, as it was +so sunny and bright, and the people in the Park might have observed that +it was shabby; and while she was talking a really brilliant idea came to +Walter. + +“Aunt Anne,” he exclaimed, “why should not you and Wimple go to our +cottage at Witley for a bit? Oh! but I forgot—he stays with friends at +Liphook, doesn’t he?” + +“No, my love, he lodges with an old retainer.” + +“Oh,” said Walter, shortly, remembering a different account that Wimple +had given him the year before, on the memorable morning when they met in +the Strand. “Well, I think it would be an excellent thing if you and he +went to our cottage. It is standing empty; we don’t want it just yet, +and there you could be together.” Aunt Anne looked up with keen +interest. + +“Yes, why not?” exclaimed Florence. “I wish you would. You would be +quite happy there.” + +“My love,” said the old lady, eagerly, “it would be delightful. But I’m +afraid there are reasons that render it impossible for me to accept your +kindness.” + +“What reasons?—do speak out,” they said entreatingly, “because, +perhaps, we can smooth them away.” + +“My dears,” said the old lady, “I must be frank with you. I am indebted +to some of the tradespeople there, and I am not in a position to pay +their bills.” + +“They are all paid,” Walter said joyfully, “so don’t trouble about them; +and, moreover, we told them that they were never to give us any credit, +so I am afraid they won’t give you any next time, any more than they +will us, but you won’t mind that.” + +“And then, my love,” the old lady went on, to Florence, “I have no +servants.” + +“I can arrange that,” said Florence. “I can telegraph to Jane Mitchell, +the postman’s sister, who always comes in and does for us when we go +alone, from Saturday to Monday, and take no servant. Do go, Aunt Anne; +it will do you a world of good. I shall take you back to your lodgings, +and get you ready, and send you off to-morrow morning.” + +Aunt Anne stood up excitedly. “My dears,” she said, “I will bless you +for sending me. I can’t bear this separation. I want to be with him, and +he wants me—I know he does; it makes him cross and irritable to be away +from me.” There was almost a wild look in her eyes. They were astonished +at her vehemence. But suddenly she seemed to remember something, and all +her excitement subsided. “I cannot go until Sir William Rammage returns +to town, or his solicitor does. My quarter’s allowance is not due for +some weeks, and unfortunately——” + +“We’ll make that all right, Aunt Anne; leave it to us,” said Walter. +“Florence will come round in the morning and carry you off, and Wimple +will be quite astonished when you send for him.” + +Aunt Anne looked up almost gaily. “Yes, my love, he will be quite +astonished. You have made me happy,” she added, with something like a +sob; “bless you for all your goodness. Now, my dear ones, you must +permit me to depart; I shall have so many arrangements to make this +evening. Bless you for all your kindness.” + +“I am going to take you back in a hansom,” said Walter. And in a few +minutes they were driving to the address she had given, a florist’s shop +in a street off the Edgware Road. + +“I think her rooms were on the top floor,” he told Florence, when he +returned, “for she looked up at the windows with a mournful air when we +arrived. The house seemed neglected, and the shop had a dead-and-gone +air; nothing in it but some decayed plants and a few stray slugs. It is +my opinion that she is left in a garret all by herself, poor dear; and +that Wimple takes himself off to his chambers, or to his Liphook +friends, and has a better time.” + +“He’s a horrid thing!” + +“Floggie, do you know that he is our uncle Alfred?” her husband asked +wickedly. She looked at him for a moment in bewilderment, then she +understood. + +“Walter,” she said, “if you ever say that again I will run away from +you. I shall go and write a line to Mrs. Burnett’s gardener,” she added, +“and tell him to meet us with the pony to-morrow; she said I was to use +it, and I think it would be good for Aunt Anne not to be excited by the +sight of Steggall’s waggonette. I am certain she is very unhappy.” + +“I don’t know how she could expect to be anything else,” he answered. +“Poor thing, what the deuce did he marry her for? There is some mystery +at the bottom of it.” + + * * * * * + +Walter had divined rightly. Aunt Anne’s lodging was at the top of the +house. When he left her she went slowly up the dark staircase that led +to it. On the landing outside her door were her two canvas-covered +boxes, one on top of the other. She looked at them for a moment, half +hesitatingly, as if she were thinking of the journey they would take +to-morrow, and of the things she must not forget to put into them. She +turned the handle of the front-room door and walked in. Alfred Wimple +was sitting by a cinder fire, over which he was trying to make some +water boil. He looked up as she entered, but did not rise from the +broken cane-bottomed chair. + +“Why did you go out, Anne?” he asked severely, without giving her any +sort of greeting. + +“My dear one,” she said excitedly, going forward, “I did not dream of +your being here; it is, indeed, a joyful surprise.” She put her hands on +his shoulder and leaned down. He turned his head away with a quick +movement, and her kiss brushed his cheek near the ear; but she pretended +not to see it. “When did you come, my darling?” + +“Two hours ago,” he said solemnly; “and I wanted some tea.” + +“I am so sorry, but I did not dream of your coming. Are you better, my +dear one?” She tried to pull the fire together with the little poker. + +“I am a little better,” he answered. “You will never make the water boil +over that fire.” + +“Yes, I will”—and she looked into the coal-scuttle. “Have you come up +to town for good, dear Alfred?” The scuttle was empty, but she found +some little bits of wood and tried to make a blaze. + +“I don’t know; I am going back to my chambers presently to do a night’s +work.” + +“And to-morrow?” she asked anxiously. + +“Perhaps you will see me to-morrow,” he answered. “Can you give me +something to eat? I wish you would make a decent fire.” + +“I will, my dear one. If you will rest here patiently for a few minutes, +I will go downstairs and ask the landlady to let me have some coals.” + +“I have no money,” he said sullenly; “understand that.” + +“But I have, my darling,” she answered joyfully; “and I am quite sure +you require nourishment. Will you let me go out and buy you a chop?” + +“Give me some tea. I can get dinner on my way back.” + +“Won’t you stay with me this evening, Alfred? I have some news for you, +and I have been so lonely.” She looked round the shabby room, as if to +prove to him how impossible it was to find comfort in it. + +“No, I can’t stay,” he answered shortly. “How much money have you got?” + +“I have a sovereign. Walter slipped it into my glove just now. I have +been to see them both, Alfred.” + +“What did they say about me?” + +“They spoke of you most kindly, my darling,” she answered, and winked +very timidly. + +“Why couldn’t he give you more? A sovereign isn’t much,” Wimple said +discontentedly. “I see Rammage is not coming back from Cannes just yet,” +he added. + +“My dear,” she said gravely, “you are fatigued with your journey, and +hungry, and I know you are anxious. If you will excuse me a moment, I +will make some little preparations for your comfort.” And, with the +dignity that always sat so quaintly upon her, she rose from the rug and +left the room. She returned in a few minutes, followed by the landlady +with a scuttleful of coals. Then she made some tea, and cut some bread +and butter, and set it before Alfred Wimple, all the time putting off, +nervously, the telling of her great bit of news. She looked at him while +he ate and drank, and her face showed that she was not looking at the +actual man before her, but at some one she had endowed with a dozen +beauties of heart and soul: she wished he could realize that he +possessed them; they might have given him patience and made him happier. + +“Did you enjoy the country?” she asked gently. + +“Yes”—he coughed uneasily—“but I was not well. I shall go there again +soon.” + +“What do you do all day?” she asked. “Have you any society?” + +He was silent for a moment, as if struggling with the destitution of +speech that always beset him. “I can’t give you an account of all my +days, Anne,” he said, and turned to the fire. + +“I did not ask it, Alfred; you know that I never intrude upon your +privacy. I had some news,” she went on, with a pathetic note in her +voice, “and hoped it would be pleasing to you.” + +“What is it?” The expression of his face had not changed for a moment +from the one of sulky displeasure it had worn when she entered, and her +manner betrayed a certain nervousness, as if she felt that he was with +her against his will, and only by gentle propitiation could she keep him +at all. + +“Walter and Florence have offered to lend us their cottage at Witley. We +can go to it to-morrow—if it is convenient to you, dear Alfred,” she +added meekly. + +“I shall not go there,” he said sullenly; and for a moment he looked her +full in the face with his dull eyes. + +“I thought the air of that locality was always beneficial to you,” she +said, in the same tone in which she had last spoken. + +“Thank you, I don’t wish to go to that ‘locality,’ and be laughed at.” +He half mocked her as he spoke. + +“Why should you be laughed at?” she asked, with almost a cry of pain in +her voice, for she knew what the answer would be, beforehand; but the +words were forced from her, she could not help them. He coughed and +looked at her again. + +“People generally laugh at a young man who marries an old woman, Anne.” +She got up and went to the end of the room, and came back again, and put +her hand upon his shoulder. + +“No one is there to laugh,” she said. “There is no one there to know. We +need not keep any society.” She did not see the absurdity of the last +remark, and made it quite gravely. “There are only a few people in the +neighbourhood at all, and those of an inferior class. It does not matter +what they think.” + +“It matters to me what every one thinks.” + +“We cannot remain here much longer,” she went on. “The landlady was most +impertinent to-day. I think Florence and Walter would help to pay her if +we went to the cottage to-morrow. They said they would arrange +everything.” + +“It is a long way from Liphook,” he said, almost to himself; “if any one +saw us, they wouldn’t suspect that we were married. They would think you +were my aunt, perhaps.” + +“They may think what they please, Alfred,” she answered, “if you are +only with me.” Then her voice changed. “My dear one, I cannot bear life +unless you are gentle to me,” she pleaded; “and I cannot bear it here +alone any longer, always away from you, day after day. I am your wife, +Alfred, and, if I am an old woman, I love you with all the years I +remember, and all the love that has been stored up in me since my youth. +I want to be near you, to take care of you, to see that you have +comforts. You can say that I am your aunt, if it pleases you. I never +feel that I am your wife, only that it is my great privilege to be near +you and to serve you.” She stopped, as if unable to go on, and he was +silent a moment or two before he answered. + +“It might be a good idea; as you say, there is no one about there to +know.” + +“Are you ashamed of me?” + +“I don’t want to look ridiculous.” Then a flash came into her eyes, and +the old spirit asserted itself. + +“Alfred,” she said, “if you do not love me, I think at least you should +learn to treat me with respect. If I am so distasteful to you we had +better separate. I cannot go on bearing all that I have borne patiently +for months. Let me go to Florence and Walter; they will be kind to me, +and I will never be a burden upon you. The allowance that Sir William +Rammage gives me would keep me in comfort alone, and it struck me the +other day that, when he dies, perhaps he will leave me something.” + +He looked at her with sudden alarm. The cowed look seemed to have gone +from her face to his, and as she saw it she gathered strength, and went +on, “I cannot be insulted, Alfred; I cannot and will not.” + +“Don’t be foolish, Anne; I am irritable sometimes, and I am not +strong——” + +“That is why I have borne so much from you.” + +“I will go to Witley with you,” he said, ignoring her remark altogether; +“that is, if you like, and can raise the money to go. I have none.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + +“Fisher was quite pleased when I asked him if we could get off to Monte +Carlo at Whitsuntide for a fortnight,” Walter told Florence a few weeks +later. + +“Wasn’t he shocked at your gambling propensities?” + +“Not a bit. He looked as if he would like to go too; said, in rather a +pompous manner”—and Walter imitated his editor exactly—“‘Certainly, +certainly; I think, Hibbert, your wife deserves a little treat of some +sort after your long absence in the winter, and I am very glad if it is +in my power to help you to give it to her.’ He looked like the King of +the Cannibal Islands making an Act of Parliament all by himself.” + +“You are a ridiculous dear.” + +“Thank you, Floggie. Fisher’s a nice old chap, and I am very fond of +him.” + +“Do you know,” she said, in rather a shocked tone, “Ethel Dunlop said +one day that she believed he looked upon himself as a sort of minor +providence?” + +“Well, he does go about minor-providencing a good deal—which reminds me +that he said he was coming, in a day or two, to ask you to take him out +to buy a wedding-present for Ethel.” + +“He’ll buy her a Crown Derby tea-set, or a sugar-basin with a very large +pair of tongs, see if he doesn’t. Ethel said he ought to have married +Aunt Anne.” + +“He would have been a thousand times better than Wimple. I wonder how +those gay young people are getting on at Witley, and whether they want +anything more before we start.” + +“I think they must be all right at present,” Florence said. “We sent +them a good big box of stores when they went to the cottage; and I know +you gave her a little money, dear Walter, and we paid up her debts, so +that she cannot be worried. Then, of course, she has her hundred a year +from Sir William to fall back upon, and Mr. Wimple probably has +something.” + +“Oh yes, I suppose they are all right; besides, I don’t feel too +generous towards that beggar Wimple.” + +“I should think not,” Florence said virtuously. “Do you know, Walter, +once or twice it has struck me that perhaps he won’t live; he doesn’t +look strong, and he is always complaining. Aunt Anne said that he wanted +constant change of air.” + +“Oh yes, I remember she said Liphook was ‘beneficial’ to him.” + +“If he died she would have her allowance, and be free.” + +“No such luck,” said Walter. “Besides, if he died, there would be +nowhere for him to go to—he’d have to come back again. Heaven wouldn’t +have him, and, after all, he isn’t quite bad enough for the devil to use +his coals upon.” + +“Walter, you mustn’t talk in that way—you mustn’t, indeed;” and she put +her hand over his mouth. + +“All right,” he said, struggling to get free; “I won’t do it again.” + +Mr. Fisher duly arrived the next afternoon. He was a little breathless, +though he carefully tried to conceal it, and wore the air of deference, +but decision, which he always thought the right one to assume to women. +With much gravity he and Florence set out to buy the wedding-present. It +resolved itself into a silver butter-dish with a silver cow on the lid, +though Florence tried hard to make him choose a set of apostle spoons. + +“A butter-dish will be much more useful, my dear lady.” + +“It will be very useful,” Florence echoed, though she feared that Ethel +would be a little disappointed when she saw the cow. + +“And now,” said Mr. Fisher, in a benevolent voice, as they left the +silversmith’s in Bond Street, “we are close to Gunters—if you would do +me the honour to eat an ice?” + +“I will do you the honour with great pleasure.” And she thought to +herself, “His manner really is like Aunt Anne’s this afternoon. If she +had only married him instead of that horrid Mr. Wimple, we would have +called him uncle with pleasure.” + +She sat eating her very large strawberry ice, while he tasted his at +intervals, as if he were rather afraid of it. “Did the white cockatoo +die?” she asked. + +He almost started, he was so surprised at the question. “The white +cockatoo?” + +“You spoke of it last year—that night when Mrs. Baines dined with us.” + +“I remember now,” he said solemnly. “Yes; it died, Mrs. Hibbert. For +five years it was perhaps my most intimate friend, and the companion of +my solitude.” + +“Why did it die?” + +“It pulled a door-mat to pieces, and we fear it swallowed some of the +fibre. My housekeeper, who is a severe woman, beat it with her gloves, +and it did not recover.” He spoke as if he were recounting a tragedy, +and became so silent that Florence felt she had ventured on an unlucky +topic. But it was always rather difficult to make conversation with Mr. +Fisher when she was alone with him; there were so few things he cared to +discuss with a woman. Politics he considered beyond her, on literary +matters he thought she could form no opinion, and society was a +frivolity, it was as well not to encourage her to consider too much. +Suddenly a happy thought struck her. + +“I am so happy about our holiday,” she said; “it is a long time since +Walter and I had a real one together.” + +“I am delighted that it has been arranged. I feel sure that Walter will +enjoy it with so charming a companion,” he answered, with an effort at +gallantry that touched her. + +“Are you going away this Whitsuntide?” she asked. + +“No. I seldom go away from London, or my work.” + +“I wish you were going to have a holiday, with some one you liked,” she +said. + +“My dear lady,” and he gave a little sigh as he spoke, “I fear the only +society I am fitted for is my own.” + +“Oh no, you are much too modest”—and she tried to laugh. “Some day I +hope to buy you a butter-dish. I shall like going to get it so much, +dear Mr. Fisher.” + +“I think not,” he answered almost sadly. + +“Ethel says you have been very kind to her about George,” Florence said +in a low voice, for she was almost afraid to refer to it; “but you are +kind to everybody.” + +Mr. Fisher turned and looked at her with a grateful expression in his +clear blue eyes; but she knew that he did not want to make any other +answer. Gradually he put on his editorial manner, as if to ward off more +intimate conversation, and when he left her at the door of her house, +for he refused to come in, she felt, while she looked after him, as if +she had been present at the ending of the last little bit of romance in +his life. + + * * * * * + +The Hibberts were in high spirits when they started for their holiday. + +“Two days in Paris,” he said, as they drove to the hotel; “and then +we’ll crawl down France towards the south, and I will introduce you to +the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a pity we can only eat one dinner a night, +considering the number of good ones there are to be had here. To be +sure, if we manage carefully, we can do a little supper on the Boulevard +afterwards; still, that hardly counts. But I don’t think we can stay any +longer, dear Floggie, even to turn you into a Parisian.” + +Forty-eight hours later saw them in the express for Marseille, where +they stayed a night, in order to get the coast scenery by daylight, as +they went on to Monte Carlo. + +“It’s a wonderful city,” Walter said, with a sigh, as they strolled +under the trees on the Prado. “The Jew, and the Turk, and the Infidel, +and every other manner of man, has passed through it in his turn. +Doesn’t it suggest all sorts of pictures to you, darling?” + +“Yes,” she answered, a little absently; “only I was thinking of Monty +and Catty.” + +“We ought to wait a day, and go to see Monte Christo’s prison.” + +“Yes”—but she was not very eager. Her thoughts were with her children. +Walter was able to enjoy things, and to garnish them with the right +memories. “I wonder if we shall find letters from home when we get to +Monte Carlo?” she said. + +“I hope so,” he answered gently, but he said no more about the +associations of Marseille. + +As they were leaving the big hotel on the Cannebière, the next morning, +a lady entered it. She had evidently just arrived—her luggage was being +carried in. + +“I shall be here three nights,” they heard her say to the manageress. “I +leave for England on Thursday morning.” + +At the sound of her voice Florence turned round, but she had gone +towards the staircase. The Hibberts had to catch their train, and could +not wait. + +“It was Mrs. North, Walter,” Florence said, as they drove to the +station; “I wish I could have spoken to her. She looked so lonely +entering that big hotel.” + +“But there was no time,” he answered; “if we lost our train we should +virtually lose a day.” + +“I wonder why she has come here?” + +“The ways of women are inscrutable.” + +“I meant to have written and told her about Aunt Anne, but I had so much +to do before we left London that I really forgot it.” + +“You might send her a line from Monte Carlo; you heard her say that she +was to be at Marseille three days: and then, perhaps, it would be better +to leave her alone.” + +“I should like to write to her just once, for I am afraid I was not very +kind that day; but she took me by surprise.” + +“Very well, then; write to her from Monte Carlo. It will give her an +idea that we are not such terrible patterns of virtue ourselves, and +perhaps she’ll find that a consolation; but I don’t see what more we can +do for her. It is very difficult to help a woman in her position. She +has put out to sea in an open boat, and, even if she doesn’t get +wrecked, every craft she runs against is sure to hurt her.” + + * * * * * + +The letter was duly written and sent to the hotel at Marseille. It found +Mrs. North sitting alone, in her big room on the first floor. She was +beside the open window, watching the great lighted _cafés_ and the happy +people gathered in little groups round the tables on the pavement. + +“Oh, what a pity it is,” she said to herself, “that we cannot remember. +I always feel as if we had lived since the beginning and shall go on +till the end—if end there is; but if one only had a memory to match, +how wonderful it would be. If I could but see this place just once as it +was hundreds of years ago, with the Greek people walking about and the +city rising up about them. Now it looks so thoroughly awake, with its +great new buildings and horrible improvements; but if it ever sleeps, +how wonderful its dreams must be. If one could get inside them and see +it all as it once was.” . . . She turned her face longingly towards the +port, at the far end of the Cannebière. “I am so hungry to see +everything, and to know everything,” she said to herself—“so hungry for +all the things I have never had.—I wonder if I shall die soon—I can’t +go on living like this, longing and waiting and hoping and grasping +nothing.—I wish I could see the water. If I had courage I would drive +down and look at it—or walk past those people sitting out on the +pavement, and go down to the sea. There might be a ship sailing by +towards England, and I should know how his ship will look if it, too, +ever sails by. Or a ship going on towards India, and I could look after +it, knowing that every moment it was getting nearer and nearer to him. +To-morrow I will find out precisely where the P. & O.’s sail from for +Bombay; then I shall be able to guess what it all looked like when he +set his foot on board, a year ago. Oh, thank God, I may think of him a +little—that I am free—that it is not wickedness to think of him—or to +love him,” she added, with almost a sob. + +She got up and looked round the room. It was nearly dark. She could see +the outline of the furniture and of her own figure dimly reflected in +the long glass of the wardrobe. + +“The place is so full of shadows they frighten me; but I am frightened +at everything.” She flung herself down again on the couch at the foot of +the bed. “I wonder if the people who have always done right ever for a +moment imagine that the people who have done wrong can suffer as +much—oh, a thousand times more than themselves. They seem to imagine +that sin is a sort of armour against suffering, and it does not matter +how many blows are administered to those who have gone off the beaten +track.” She pillowed her head on her arms and watched the moving +reflection of the light from the street. In imagination she stared +through it at the long years before her, wondering, almost in terror, +how they would be filled. “I am so young, and I may live so long.” There +was a knock at her bedroom door. + +“Come in,” she cried, thankful for any interruption. + +“A letter for Madame.” + +“For me!” She seized it with feverish haste and looked at the direction +by the window while the candles were being lighted. “I declare,” she +said, when the door was closed behind the _garçon_, “it is from the +immaculate Mrs. Hibbert. May the saints have guarded her from +contamination while she wrote it to me.” Her happy spirits flashed back, +and the weary woman of five minutes ago was almost a light-hearted girl +again. + +“It is rather a nice letter,” she said, and propped up the wicks of the +flickering candles with the corner of the envelope. “I believe she wrote +merely out of kindness; it proves that there is some generosity in even +the most virtuous heart. I’ll write to Mrs. Wimple——” She stopped and +reflected for a minute or two. “Poor old lady, she was very good to me; +she was like a mother—no woman has called me ‘my love’ since she went +away.” She walked up and down the room for a moment, and looked out +again at the wide street and the flashing lights. Suddenly she turned, +seized her blotting-book, and knelt down by the table in the impulsive +manner that characterized her. “I’ll write at once,” she said. “Of +course it will shock her sweet old nerves; but I know she’ll be glad to +hear from me, though she won’t own it even to herself.” + + “DEAREST OLD LADY— + + “I have been longing to know what had become of you. I only + heard a little while ago that you were a happy bride, and I have + just succeeded in getting your address. A thousand + congratulations. I hope you are very much in love, and that Mr. + Wimple is truly charming. He is, indeed, a most fortunate man + and to be greatly envied by the rest of his sex. + + “I fear you will be shocked to hear that Mr. North has divorced + me. I never loved him, you know. I told you that when you were + so angry with me that day in Cornwall Gardens, and it was not my + fault that I married him. I have been very miserable, and I + don’t suppose I shall ever be happy again. But the world is a + large place, and I am going to wander about; I have always + longed to see the whole of it: now I shall go to the east and + west, and the north and the south, like a Wandering Jewess. But + before I start on these expeditions I shall be in England for a + few weeks and should like to see you. Would you see me? But I + don’t suppose you would come near me or let me go near you, + though I should like to put my head down on your shoulder and + feel your kind old arms round me again. + + “I am afraid you have eaten up all your wedding-cake, dear old + lady, and even if you have any left you would, no doubt, think + it far too good for the likes of me. I wonder if you would + accept a very little wedding-present from me, for I should so + much like to send you one? My love to you, and many + felicitations to both you and Mr. Wimple. + + “Yours always, + “E. NORTH.” + +When it was finished, her excitement gave way; her spirits ran down; she +went, wearily, back to the sofa and pillowed her head on her arms once +more. “I wonder what the next incident will be, and how many days and +nights it is off.” She shut her eyes, and in thought hurried down the +street to the old port. She saw the masts of ships, and the moving +water, and the passing lights in the distance. “O God!” she said to +herself, “how terrible it is to think that the land is empty for me from +end to end. Though I walked over every mile of it, I should never see +his face or hear his voice, and there is not a soul in the whole of it +that cares one single jot for me. And the great sea is there, and the +ships going on and on, and not a soul on board one of them who knows +that I live or cares if I die. It frightens me and stuns me, and +frightens me again. I am so hungry, and longing, and eager for the utter +impossibilities. Oh, my darling, if you had only trusted me; if you +could have believed that the sin was outside me and not in my heart; if +you had written me just one little line to tell me that some day, even +though it were years and years ahead, you would come to me and take me +into your life for ever, I would have been so good—I would have made +myself the best woman on earth, so that I might give you the best love +that ever Heaven sent into a human heart.” There was another knock at +the door, and something like a cry escaped from her lips. + +“Come in”—and again the _garçon_ entered with a letter. This time it +was a thick packet. + +“This is also for Madame,” he said; “it is from England.” She waited +until the door had closed behind him before she opened it. + +The envelope contained a dozen enclosures. They looked like bills and +circulars sent on from her London address. Among them was a telegram. + +“I suppose it is nothing,” she said, as, with trembling hands, she +opened it. It was from Bombay, and contained five words— + +“Sailing next month in _Deccan_.” + +She fell down on her knees by the table and, putting her face on her +hands, burst into passionate weeping. + +“O dear God,” she prayed, “forgive me and be merciful to me. I have not +meant to do wrong, I have only longed to be happy—let me be so. I will +try to do right all my life long, and to make him do right, too—only +let him love me still. I have never been happy, and I have suffered so. +O dear God, is it not enough? Forgive me and let me be happy.” + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + +It was chilly as only an English spring knows how to be. The fir-woods +were deserted—the pathways through them wet and slippery. But overhead +there was fitful sunshine and patches of blue sky, though the Surrey +hills were misty and the fields were sodden with many rains. The leaves +were beginning to unfold, fresh and green; the primroses were thick in +the hedges; and here and there the little white stitchwort showed +itself, tearful and triumphant. The thrushes and blackbirds were making +ready for summer, though as yet there was not a sign of it. + +Alfred Wimple and Aunt Anne had been more than a month at the cottage. +The latter pottered about the garden, looking at every up-coming plant +with absent recognition; but that was all. She was too sad to care any +more for the delights of the country. She had grown feeble, too, and +could not walk very far—even the garden tired her. Mrs. Burnett’s +governess-cart had been her great comfort. She had no fear of doing the +pampered pony, as she called it, any harm, and had driven herself for +hours along the lonely roads between the fir-trees, and the hedges of +awakening gorse and heather. The straggling population for three miles +round knew her well—the lonely old lady, with the black bonnet and the +long black cloak fastened with the steel clasp. Alfred Wimple never went +with her; he had refused from the very first. But he had a way of +disappearing by himself for long hours together. Where he went she could +never divine; and to ask him questions, she told herself once, was like +trying to look at the bottom of the sea by pushing away the water with +her two hands. Still it was a mystery she was determined to unravel +sooner or later: she felt that the solution lay at Liphook, and dreaded +to think what it might be. Into her heart, against her will, lately +there had sometimes crept a suspicion that was shame and agony; but she +would not own, even in the lowest, most secret whisper, that it was +possible. She never went to Liphook, though it would have been easy +enough to drive there; she never dared: something seemed to hold her +back from that which she felt to be only a few miles away, on the other +side of Hindhead. She would not try to put into any shape at all what +her dread was: least of all would her pride let her for a single moment +imagine that it was the one thing of which the humiliation would kill +her. But, silently, she watched, and hour after hour she sat wondering +what was in the heart of that strange, inscrutable young man, who spoke +so few words, and seemed to be always watching and waiting for the +accomplishment of some mysterious plan he revolved again and again in +his mind, but to which he had no intention of giving a clue. + +He could hire no more waggonettes at Steggall’s without paying for them, +or without her knowledge; but once or twice she had seen him going along +a by-path towards the station, so that he would arrive there just about +the time there was a train to Liphook. She remembered that on the first +occasion, he had pulled a shilling out of his pocket an hour or two +before he started and looked at it, as if wondering whether it would be +enough for a return ticket. + +“Alfred,” she asked one day, “will you take me to see your country +quarters, my love? I should like to visit the place which has been of so +much benefit to you?” + +“No,” he answered, looking at her steadfastly, as he always did; “I +don’t wish you to go there.” + +“May I ask your reason?” + +“My wish should be sufficient.” + +“It is,” she said gently; “for I know, dear Alfred, that you always have +a reason for what you wish, and you would not prevent me from seeing a +place for which you have such a preference if you had not a good one.” + +He was soothed by her conciliatory manner. + +“I owe some money there,” he said, “and if you went they might expect +you to pay it”—an answer which satisfied her for a time on account of +its obvious probability. But still his disappearances tormented her, and +his silence stifled all questions she longed to ask. + +She liked being at the cottage; she liked being the virtual mistress of +a certain number of rooms and of a servant of her own; and, on the +whole, the first month had gone smoothly. Florence and Walter had been +generous, and made many provisions for their comfort, and she had been +separated less from Alfred than when she was in town. And here, too, she +was better able to keep some account of his movements. Moreover, if he +disappeared for hours together now, it had been for days together then. +He always went off silently, without warning or hint, and as silently +reappeared. + +“Have you been for a walk, my love?” she asked him one evening. He +turned and looked at her: there was no anger in his dull eyes, but he +made her quail inwardly, though outwardly she showed no sign. + +“Yes”—and she knew, perfectly, he would tell her no more. Still, +hopelessly, she persevered. + +“In what direction did you bend your steps, dear Alfred?” + +“I dislike being asked to give an account of my movements, Anne,” he +said, and locked his lips in the manner that was so peculiar to him. + +“I quite understand, my love,” she answered gently; “it is also +extremely repugnant to me to be questioned. I merely asked, hoping that +you felt invigorated by your walk.” He looked at her again, and said +nothing. + +It was nine o’clock. Jane Mitchell, the postman’s sister, who acted as +their daily servant, came in to say she was going home till the morning. +Aunt Anne followed her, as she always did, to see that the outer door +was made fast. She looked out at the night for a moment, with a haunting +feeling of mistrust—of what, she did not know—and listened to the +silence. Not a sound—not even a footstep passing along the road. The +fir-trees stood up, dark and straight, like voiceless sentinels. She +looked at the stars and thought how far they were away. They gave her a +sense of helplessness. She was almost afraid of the soft patter of her +own feet as she went back to the drawing-room. She winked nervously, and +looked quickly and suspiciously round, then sat down uneasily before the +fire and watched Alfred Wimple. She knew that again and again his eyes +were fixed upon her, though his lips said no word. + +“Are you sleepy, my love?” she asked. + +“I am very tired, Anne; good-night”—and, taking up a candlestick, he +went slowly upstairs while she stayed below, looking at the deadening +fire, knowing that one night, suddenly, everything would be changed; but +how and when it would be changed she could not guess. She did not dare +look forward a single day or hour. She extinguished the lamp and shut +the drawing-room door and locked it, remembering for a moment the +unknown people, in the bygone years, who had gone out of the room never +to enter it more. + +Gradually the money in their possession was coming to a sure and certain +end. She knew it, and her recklessness and extravagance vanished. She +guarded every penny as if it were her heart’s blood, though she still +did her spending with an air of willingness that concealed her +reluctance. Hour after hour she racked her brains to think of some new +source of help; but no suggestion presented itself, and he and she +together faced, in silence, the bankruptcy that was overtaking them. He +went less often towards the station now; he stayed discontentedly in the +drawing-room, sitting uneasily by the fire on one of the easy-chairs +with the peacock screen beside it. Sometimes, after he had brooded for a +while in silence, he would get up and write a letter, but he always +carefully gave it himself to the postman, and no letters at all ever +arrived for him to Aunt Anne’s knowledge. + +“Alfred,” she asked one day, “what has become of your work in town?—the +work you used to go to your chambers to do?” + +“I am resting now, and do not wish to be questioned about it. I require +rest,” he said: and that was all. + +Then a time came when he took to walking in the garden, and she knew +that while he did so he kept a watch on the house, and especially on the +window of the room in which she was sitting. When he thought she did not +see him he disappeared down the dip behind and along the pathway between +the fir-trees and larches towards the short cut to Hindhead. She +remembered that the way to Hindhead was also the way to Liphook. It was, +of course, too far to walk there, but perhaps there were some means of +obviating that necessity. She said nothing, but she waited. It seemed to +her as if Alfred Wimple waited too. For what? Was it for her to die? she +sometimes asked herself, though she reproached herself for her +suspicions. Then all her tenderness would come back, and she hovered +round him lovingly, or stole away to commune with herself. + +“I am sure he loves me,” she would think, as she sat vainly trying to +comfort herself—“or why should he have married me? His love must be the +meaning of mine for him, and the forgiveness of the past, after all the +long years of waiting. It is different from what it was then; he is +changed, and I am changed too. I am old with waiting, and he does not +yet understand the reason of his own youth. I wonder which it is,” she +said one day, almost in a dream, as she rocked to and fro over the +fire—“is he disguised with youth of which he does not know the meaning; +or am I disguised with years, so that he does not know that under them +my youth is hidden?” + +Closer and closer came the ills of poverty. The tradespeople trusted +them to some extent, in spite of the warning they had received from the +Hibberts, but at last they refused to do so any longer. The stores that +Florence had sent in, too—Aunt Anne had said, “you must allow me to +remain in your debt for them, my dear”—had gradually run out. Dinner +became more and more of a difficulty, and at the scanty meal it was +Alfred Wimple who ate, and Aunt Anne who looked on, pretending she liked +the food she hardly dared to taste. He knew that she was starving +herself for his sake, but he said nothing. It gave him a dull +gratification to see her doing it. In his heart there was a resentment +that death had not sooner achieved for his benefit that which from the +first he had meant it to accomplish. Not that it was within his scheme +to let Aunt Anne die yet; but when he married her he had not realized +the awful shrinking that would daily grow upon him—the physical +shrinking that youth sometimes feels from old age. In his nature there +was no idealism, no sentiment. He could not give her the reverence that +even mere age usually provokes, or the affection, as of a son, that some +young men in his position might possibly have bestowed. He saw +everything concerning her years with ghastly plainness—the little lines +and the deep wrinkles on her face, the tremulous eyelids, the scanty +hair brushed forward from places the cap covered. Even the soft folds of +muslin round her withered throat made him shiver. He thought once, in +one mad moment, how swiftly he could strangle the lingering life out of +her. Her hands with the loose dry skin and the bloodless fingers and +wrists that were always cold, as if the fire in them were going out, +sent a thrill of horror through his frame when she touched him. The mere +sound of her footstep, the touch of her black dress as she passed him +by, insensibly made him draw back. He had played a daring game, but he +had an awful punishment. He lived a brooding secret life, full of dread +and alertness lest shame should overtake him, and his heart was not less +miserable because it was incapable of generosity or goodness. + + * * * * * + +At last it became a matter of shillings. + +“You had better go to London, Anne,” he said, “and borrow some money.” + +“Of whom am I to borrow it?” she asked. “Florence and Walter are at +Monte Carlo.” + +“Walter is very selfish,” he answered; “I nursed him through an illness, +years ago, at the risk of my own life.” + +“I know how tender your heart is, dear Alfred.” + +“I believe he resents my having borrowed some money from him once or +twice. He forgets that if he were not in a much better position than I +am he couldn’t have lent it.” + +“Of course he could not, my love,” she said, agreeing with him, as a +matter not merely of course but of loyalty and affection. + +He gave one of his little gulps. “We can’t go on staying here, unless we +have enough to eat; I cannot, at any rate. You must get some money. You +had better go to London.” He looked at her fixedly, and she knew that he +wanted to get rid of her for a space. + +“Go to London, my love?” she echoed, almost humbly. + +“Yes, to get money.” + +“Alfred,” she asked, “how am I to get money? We disposed of everything +that was available before we came here.” + +“You must borrow it; perhaps you can go and persuade my uncle to let you +have some.” + +“If you would let me tell him that I am your wife,” she pleaded. + +“I forbid you telling him,” he said shortly. “But you might ask him to +advance your quarter’s allowance.” + +“I might write and request him to do that, without going to town.” + +“No. It is easy to refuse in a letter, and he must not refuse.” + +“But if he will not listen to me, Alfred?” she asked, watching him +curiously. + +“Tell him that Sir William Rammage is your cousin, and that he has no +right to refuse.” + +“But if he does?” she persisted. + +“Then you must get it elsewhere. There are those people you stayed with +in Cornwall Gardens.” + +She looked up quickly. “I cannot go to Mrs. North,” she said firmly. +“There are some things due to my own self-respect: I cannot forget them +even for you.” + +“You can do as you like,” he answered. “If you cannot get money, I must +go away.” + +“Go away!” she echoed, with alarm; he saw his advantage and followed it +up. + +“I shall not stay here to be starved,” he repeated. + +“I should starve, too,” she said sadly; “are you altogether oblivious of +that fact, Alfred?” + +“If you choose to do so it is your own business, and no reason why I +should. I have friends who will receive me, and I shall go to them.” + +“Would they not extend a helping hand to us both?” + +“No,” he said doggedly. + +“They cannot love you as I do,” she pleaded. + +“I cannot help that. I shall go to them.” + +“I give you all I have.” + +“I want more—more than you give me now,” he answered; “and if you don’t +give it me, I shall not stay here. You had better go to London +to-morrow, and look for some money. My uncle will let you have some if +you are persistent.” + +“I think I will go to-day,” she said, with an odd tone in her voice. “I +should be in time for the twelve o’clock train.” + +“You will go to-morrow,” he replied decisively. + +“Very well, my love”—and she winked quickly to herself. “I will go +to-morrow.” + +“Unless you bring back some money, I shall not stay here any longer. You +must clearly understand that, Anne. I am tired of this business,” he +said, in his hard, determined voice. + +“It’s not worse for you than it is for me, Alfred. I can bear it with +you; cannot you bear it with me?” + +He looked at her—at her black dress, her white handkerchief, at the +poverty-stricken age of which she seemed to be the symbol; and he +shuddered perceptibly as he turned away and answered, “No, I cannot, and +I want to go.” + +“Alfred!” she said, with a cry of pain, and going to his side she put +her hand on his arm; but he shook her off, and went a step farther away. + +“Stay there,” he said sternly. + +“Why do you recoil from me?” she asked; “am I so distasteful to you?” + +But he only shuddered again, and looked at her with almost terror in his +eyes, as though he dumbly loathed her. + +“Have I forfeited your love, Alfred?” she asked humbly. + +“I dislike being touched.” + +“You will break my heart,” she cried, with a dry sob in her throat. “My +dear one, I have given you all—all I possess; I have braved everything +for you. Has all your love for me gone?” + +“I don’t want to talk sentiment,” he said, drawing back still a little +farther from her, as though he shrank from being within her reach. + +“Do you remember that night when we walked along the road by the +fir-trees, and you told me you would always love me and take care of me? +What have I done to make you change? I never cease thinking of you, day +or night, but it is months since you gave me a loving word. What have I +done to change you so?” + +He looked down at her; for a moment there was an expression of hatred on +his face. + +“You are old—and I am young.” + +“My heart is young,” she said piteously. Still he was merciless. + +“It is your face I see,” he said, “not your heart.” + +She let her hands fall by her side. “I cannot bear it any more,” she +said quickly; “perhaps we had better separate; these constant scenes +will kill me. You must permit me to retire; I cannot bear any more”—and +she walked slowly away into the little drawing-room, and shut the door. +She went up to the glass, and looked at her own face, long and sadly; +she put her wrists together, and looked at them hopelessly. + +“Oh, I am old!” she cried, with a shiver; “I am old!”—and she sat down +on the gaunt chair by the fireplace, still and silent, till cold and +misery numbed her, and all things were alike. + +Presently, she heard his footsteps; he had left the dining-room, and +seemed to be going towards the front door; she raised her head and +listened. He hesitated, turned back, and entered the drawing-room. He +stood for a moment on the threshold and looked round the little room—at +the hard, old-fashioned sofa, at the corner cupboard with the pot-pourri +on it, the jingling piano, the chair on which she sat. He remembered the +day of his interview with Florence, and afterwards with Aunt Anne, and +he looked at the latter now half doubtfully. She did not move an inch as +he entered, or raise her eyes. + +“Anne!” There was no answer. She turned a little more directly away from +him. “Anne,” he said, “we had better make it up. It is no good +quarrelling.” + +“You were very cruel to me, Alfred,” she said, with gentle indignation; +“you forgot everything that was due to me. You frequently do.” + +“I cannot always be remembering what is due to you, Anne. It irritates +me.” + +“But you cut me to the quick. I sometimes wonder whether you have any +affection at all for me.” + +“Don’t be foolish,” he said, with an effort that was rather obvious; +“and don’t let us quarrel. I dislike poverty—it makes me cross.” + +“I can understand that,” she said, “but I cannot understand your being +cruel to me.” + +“I didn’t mean to be cruel,” he answered; “we had better forget it.” She +stood up and faced him, timidly, but with a slight flush in her face. + +“You said I was old; you taunted me with it; you often taunt me,” she +said indignantly. + +“Well, but I knew it before we were married.” + +“Yes, you knew it before we were married,” she repeated. + +“Then I couldn’t have minded it so much, could I?” he said, with a +softer tone in his voice, though it grated still. + +“No, my love”—and she tried to smile, but it was a sad attempt. + +“Well, is it all right?” he asked. “We won’t quarrel any more.” + +“Yes, my love, it is all right,” she said lovingly, and, half +doubtfully, she put up her face to his. + +Involuntarily he drew back again, but he recovered in an instant and +forced himself to stoop and kiss her forehead. + +“There,” he said, “it’s all right. To-morrow you shall go to London, and +we will be more sensible in future.” He touched her hand, and went out +into the garden. When she had watched him out of sight, she sat down +once more on the chair by the fire. + +“I am old!” she cried; “I am old, I am old”—and, with a quick movement, +as if she felt a horror of herself, she hid her thin hands out of sight. +“I cannot bear it—I am old.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + +Before nine the next morning, Aunt Anne was ready to set out on her +journey to London. Mrs. Burnett’s governess-cart was at the gate with +Lucas, the gardener, to drive her to the station. Alfred Wimple looked +on at her preparations to go with an anxiety that was almost eagerness; +and, stealthily, the old lady watched his every movement. + +“Jane can prepare the dinner after my return. I shall bring back some +little dainty with me, hoping that it may tempt you, my love.” + +“I am very tired of the food we have had lately,” he said ungraciously. +“What train are you coming back by?” + +“That will depend on my occupations in town,” she answered, after a +moment’s consideration. + +“I will go to the station at half-past six. You can leave Waterloo +Station at five fifteen.” Aunt Anne winked slowly. + +“I will try to come by an earlier train, my darling, if you will be +there to relieve me of the packages with which I hope to be burdened.” + +“No. Come by the five fifteen,” he said decisively. “I have some letters +to write.” + +“Very well, my love,” she answered, with tender courtesy. “It is always +a pleasure to study your wishes, even in trifles. Would you assist me +with my cloak, dear Alfred?” + +“It isn’t cold, and you have your shawl. Why are you taking this heavy +cloak?” + +“I have my reasons.” + +He understood perfectly. He felt a gleam of almost fiendish triumph as, +one by one, she divested herself of her belongings to buy him food and +comfort. As she was going out of the doorway an idea seemed to strike +him. + +“Anne,” he said, “remember it is no good bringing back a few +shillings—you must bring back a few pounds at least.” + +“Have you any anxieties?—any payment it is imperative that you should +make?” she asked anxiously. + +“Yes,” he answered, with a little smile to himself, as if an idea had +been suggested to him. “I have a payment to make.” + +“I will do all I can—more for your sake than my own, dear Alfred,” and +she turned to go. They were in the drawing-room. + +She hesitated for a moment by the door. “My love,” she said, going up to +him doubtfully, “will you kiss me? You will never know how much I love +you—you are all I have in the world.” The cashmere shawl clung to her +and the heavy cloak swung back from her arms as she put them up round +his neck and kissed him, first on one side of his face and then on the +other; but even as she did so, and though for once he strove to hide it, +she felt that, inwardly, he was shrinking. + +“I will be back by half-past six o’clock,” she said, with a hopeless +tone in her voice, and, slowly letting go her hold, she went out of the +house. + +On her way to the cart she stopped for a moment to look at a pile of +faggots that were stacked in a partly concealed corner inside the garden +gate. + +“Jane,” she said, “I think there have been some depredations among the +wood lately.” + +“I saw two lads stealing a bit the other morning,” Jane answered. + +“We must take steps to prevent it occurring again.” + +“There’s plenty of wood, too, about here,” said Jane; “I don’t see why +they should take ours; but I think they were tramps and wanted to make a +fire. I thought I’d speak to the policeman—but I couldn’t catch him +when he went by on his beat last night.” + +“I should like to speak to him myself: at what time does he pass?” + +“Well, ma’am, he is generally pretty punctual at about half-past eight.” + +“If you see him this evening you can tell me”—and she got into the +governess-cart. “Jane,” she said, looking back, “I forgot to tell you +that your master and I will dine at half-past seven. I shall probably +bring back a chicken.” She said the last words almost recklessly as she +set off to the station. + +She looked back towards the cottage, but though Alfred Wimple had +strolled down to the gate after she had left it, his face was turned +towards Liphook. There was something almost fierce in her voice as she +spoke to the gardener, who was driving. + +“The pony seems inclined to procrastinate—you had better chastise him.” + +“They have spoiled him up at the house,” said Lucas, “till he won’t go +nohow unless he gets a bit of the whip.” + +“He goes very well with me,” she snapped. + +“He knows your hand, most likely—they do get to know hands; do you find +him shy much?” + +She made no answer, but looked at the holes of the sand martens in the +cutting on one side of the road—they always fascinated her—and at the +bell heather, which was just beginning to show a tinge of colour. “He’s +a bad ’un to shy, he is,” Lucas went on; “and he’s not particular what +it’s at—wheel-barrows, and umbrellas, and perambulators, and covered +carts, and tramps—he don’t like tramps, he don’t—and bicycles, and +children if there’s a few of ’em together, and bits of paper on the +road—he’s ready to be afraid of anything. There’s Tom Mitchell coming +along with the letters—would you like to stop?” + +“I do not expect any, but I may as well put the question to him,” the +old lady said, very distantly, for she was of opinion that Lucas talked +too much for his station. But he was not to be abashed easily. + +“Them beeches is coming on,” he said. Aunt Anne looked up, but made no +answer. “Everything is so late this year on account of the cold. Tom, +have you got any letters for Mrs. Wimple at the cottage?” + +“There’s one, I know, with a foreign postmark.” The man stopped and took +a packet out of the leather wallet by his side. + +Aunt Anne, leaning over the cart, saw, as he pulled out the letter with +the French stamps on it for her, that there was another beneath, +directed, in an illiterate-looking hand, to “A. Wimple, Esq.,” but it +was a woman’s writing and it had the Liphook postmark. Her eyes flashed; +she could hardly make her voice steady as she said— + +“I see you have one there for Mr. Wimple; you will find him at the +cottage.” Then she drove on. She looked at her own letter, a little +bewildered. “It is not from Walter or Florence,” she said, “yet I know +the handwriting.” She gazed vacantly at the hedges again, while Peter +the pony, urged by arguments from the whip, went on more swiftly towards +the station. Lucas’s remarks fell unheeded on her ears. Something was +tightening round her heart that made her cheeks burn with a fire they +had not felt for long years past. + +“I think we’ll have more rain—them clouds over there seem like it,” the +man said, wondering why she was so silent, for she generally liked a +chat with him. “Maybe she wanted to drive him herself,” he thought; “I +forgot to offer her the reins, and it’s no good changing now, we are so +near the station. The train’s signalled,” he said, as they pulled up; +“but you are in plenty of time.” + +“I calculated that I should have sufficient time,” she answered. + +“Would you like me to meet you this afternoon? I will, if you tell me +what train you are coming down by.” She was silent for a minute, then, +suddenly, she seemed to find courage. + +“I shall leave London by the four thirty train,” she said. “It is due at +Witley at a quarter to six, and I shall expect to find you there.” She +walked into the station, with almost a hunted look. + +She managed to get into an empty carriage, shut the door, and stood up +by the window, winking sternly at the passengers who, in passing, +hesitated whether or not to enter. As the train moved off she shut the +window, and, sitting down with a sigh, stared out at the fir-woods and +the picturesque Surrey cottages. She did not see them; she saw nothing +and heard nothing but the rattle of the train, that gradually shaped +itself into the word Liphook—Liphook—Liphook—till she was maddened. +“It might have been some one writing to importune him for money,” she +said, thinking of the letter. But if the difficulty at Liphook were only +a debt, she felt certain that Alfred Wimple would not have spared her +the annoyance of knowing it. It was a mystery of which her indomitable +pride refused her even the suggestion of one solution, which yet seemed +gradually, and from without, to be getting burned upon her brain. A +despair that was half dread was taking possession of her. A desperate +knowledge was bearing down upon her that the only chance she had of +keeping the man to whom she had bound herself was by giving him money. +He was evidently at his wit’s end for it, and had no resource of his +own, for whatever was the attraction at Liphook it did not seem to +include money. Her one chance was to give it him, and to let him see +that she would not fail to give it him—then, perhaps, he would stay +with her. She stretched out her arms for a moment as if she were +drowning, and trying to save herself by holding on to him, but she +stretched them only into space, and clutched nothing. “Perhaps he thinks +because I am old I cannot love properly. Oh, my dear one, if you would +only speak to me out of your own heart, or if you could only look into +my heart—for that is not old; it is young. Age makes no difference if +he did but know it—I feel the same as when I was twenty, and we walked +between the chestnuts to the farm. It is only the years that have marked +me.” And then anger and pride chased away her misery and tenderness. “I +will have it settled,” she said; “I will know what it means; and if he +has not treated me properly he shall be called to account. If Walter and +Florence were only in England, I should not be in this sad dilemma.” The +mention of their names made her remember the letter in her pocket. She +pulled it out and opened it; it was the one Mrs. North had written from +Marseille. At another time she would have liked the congratulations, or +have been indignant at the divorce. Now she passed the news by with +little more than a scornful wink. “It is most presumptuous of her to +have written to me; she has taken a great liberty; she has committed a +solecism,” she said, almost mechanically. As she put the letter back +into her pocket her hand touched something she did not remember to have +placed there. She looked puzzled for a moment, then drew it out. It was +a little necktie of Alfred Wimple’s, blue with white spots on it. She +understood—it was faded and frayed; she had put it into her pocket to +mend. She looked at it wonderingly for a moment, then kissed it with a +vehemence that was almost passion. + +“He thinks I cannot love,” she said; “I am convinced that is it. If he +did but know—if he did but know.” + +The servant who opened the door at Portman Square instantly recognized +her, and was disposed to treat her with more respect than on a former +occasion. + +“Mr. Boughton is not here, ma’am,” he said, in answer to her inquiry. + +“Would you give me the address of his office?” + +“I can give you the address, but he is away in Scotland, and not +expected back for another fortnight.” Aunt Anne stood dumbfounded for a +moment, then slowly she looked up at the servant, with a little smile +that had its effect. + +“It is very unfortunate,” she said; “my business with him is most +pressing. Have you good accounts of Sir William?” + +“Sir William is back, ma’am. He returned last week, but he is confined +to his room with another attack.” + +“Does he keep his bed?” + +“Well, he is sitting by the fire just now, ma’am, writing some letters.” +In a moment Aunt Anne had whisked into the house; she felt quite +exhilarated. + +“Be good enough to take my name to him, and ask if he is sufficiently +well to see his cousin, Mrs.—Mrs. Baines”—she hesitated over the last +word; “say that I am extremely solicitous to have a few minutes’ +conversation with him.” + +“I am afraid he won’t be able to see you——” the servant began. + +“Have the goodness to take up my name.” + +“I am afraid——” the servant began again. + +“And say I wish to see him on a matter of great importance,” she went on +imperiously, not heeding the interruption. She walked towards the +dining-room door, as if she had a right to the entire house, but +suddenly turned round. + +“I feel certain Sir William will see me,” she said, “and I will follow +you upstairs.” + +Helplessly the servant obeyed her, and unfalteringly the soft footstep +pattered after him up to the second floor. Then he entered the front +bedroom, while she remained on the landing. + +“Mrs. Baines wishes to know if she can speak to you, sir,” she heard him +say. + +“Tell her I am too ill to see any one,” a thin, distinct voice answered. + +“She says it is a matter of extreme importance, sir.” + +“I am writing letters, and don’t wish to be disturbed: bring my +chicken-broth in twenty minutes.” + +But a moment later, and Aunt Anne had whisked also into the room, +passing the servant who was leaving it. + +“William,” she said, “you must not refuse to let me see you once again. +I cannot believe that you are too ill to shake hands with your cousin +Anne.” As she spoke she looked round the room, and took in all its +details at a glance. It had three windows, a writing-table and a +book-case between them, facing them, a big four-post bedstead with dark +hangings. To the left was a tall wardrobe of rosewood that had no +looking-glass let into its panelled doors. By the fireplace was a roomy +easy-chair, in which sat Sir William Rammage. He was dressed in a puce +woollen dressing-gown, and half rolled up in a coloured blanket. By his +side was an invalid table, with writing materials on it, and a flap at +the side that stretched over his knees. In the large fireplace blazed a +cheerful fire, and on the other side of the fireplace, and facing Sir +William, there was a second easy-chair. He was evidently a tall +man—thin, nervous, and irritable. His manner was cold and disagreeable, +but it conveyed a sense of loneliness, a remembrance of long, cheerless +years, that in a manner excused it. He looked like a man who had +probably deserved respect, but had made few friendships. He was not +nearly as old as he appeared at the first glance; illness, and work, and +lack of human interests had aged him more than actual years. + +“How do you do?” he said dryly. + +“I have been so grieved to hear of your illness, William. I hope you +received my letters—I wrote three or four times to tender you my +sympathy.” She looked at the servant in a manner that said, “Go +away”—and he went, carefully shutting the door. + +“I am not well enough to receive visitors,” Sir William said, in the +same dry voice. + +“My dear William, you must let me stay with you five minutes; I will not +intrude longer on your privacy”—and she seated herself on the chair +facing him. + +“If what you have to say is of a business nature, I am not well enough +to enter upon it now.” + +“Did you derive benefit from your stay at Cannes?—you were constantly +in my thoughts.” + +“Thank you, thank you.” + +“I fear you have had to abandon many of your city occupations,” she went +on, in a sympathetic voice; “it must be a great regret to the +corporation. I was speaking of your mayoralty some months ago to Mr. +Fisher, the editor of _The Centre_.” Aunt Anne was talking to gain time. +Her throat was choking; her mouth twitched with restrained excitement. + +“Where did you meet him?” Sir William asked, in a judicial manner, +tapping the arm of his chair with his thin fingers. + +“I met him at Walter Hibbert’s.” + +He was silent, and seemed to be waiting for her to go. For a few moments +she could not gather courage to speak again. He looked up at her. + +“I am much obliged for this visit,” he said coldly, “but I cannot ask +you to prolong it.” + +“William,” she said, “I came to see you on a matter of necessity. I +would not have intruded had it been otherwise. On the occasion of my +last visit I saw Mr. Boughton, but I understand that he is now away.” + +“He will be back in two or three weeks: you will then be able to see +him.” + +She hesitated for a moment, and then went on doubtfully, “I have been +deeply touched by your kindness.” + +“Yes?” he said inquiringly. + +“That it has been the greatest help to me I need hardly say; but I have +had so many expenses this winter, it was inadequate to meet them all.” + +“I don’t quite understand?” He was becoming interested. + +“There are some weeks yet before the next quarter is due. I am staying +in a country-house, and the expenses I have to meet——” + +“What country-house?” + +“Walter and Florence Hibbert’s. It is a cottage most charmingly situated +in Surrey.” + +“I suppose it costs you nothing to stay there?” + +“They have been most kind. But they are now abroad, and, naturally, I +have appearances to maintain and the necessities of the table to +provide.” + +“For whom? Only for yourself, I suppose? You have not a large +establishment.” His thin fingers wandered beneath the papers on the +table, as if they were seeking for something. They found it, and drew it +a little forward. Aunt Anne, following the movement with her eyes, saw +the corner of a cheque-book peep out from beneath the blotting-paper. +“You have not a dozen servants?” he asked ironically. + +“I have only one servant”—she was getting a little agitated. + +“And yourself?” + +“And some one who is with me.” + +“And doesn’t the some one who is with you keep you? or do you keep her?” +and he pushed back the cheque-book. Aunt Anne was silent for a moment. +“I suppose it doesn’t cost you anything to live. What do you want money +for?” He put his hands on the arms of his chair and looked at her. + +“William,” she said, “I cannot discuss all my expenditures, or enter +into every detail of my household”—and there was as much pride in her +tone as she dared put into it. “I came to ask you if you would have the +great kindness to advance the quarter’s allowance you are so kind as to +give me. It will be due——” + +“Quarter’s allowance I give you? I don’t understand. I told you some +time ago that I was not in the habit of giving away money. I believe you +had some of your own when you started in life, and if you made away with +it that is your own business.” + +“But, William, I am speaking of the hundred a year you have allowed me +lately through Mr. Boughton.” + +He was fairly roused now, and turned his face full upon her. There were +cruel, pitiless lines upon it, though she fought against them bravely. + +“I have allowed you no hundred a year,” he said angrily, “and I intend +to allow you none. Do you mean to tell me that Boughton has paid you a +hundred a year on my account?” + +“I understood so,” she gasped, shaking with fright. + +“I suppose he had some reason for it. If he has done it out of his own +money, it is his own business. If he has done it out of mine, I shall +have a reckoning up with him, and probably you will have one, too.” + +“But, William, have you been under the impression that I was left to +starve?” + +“I was under no impression at all concerning you. Once for all, Anne, +you must understand that it is not my intention to give away the money +for which I have worked to people who have been idle.” + +“I have not been idle,” she said; “and you forget that I am your cousin, +that our mothers——” + +“I know all that,” he said, interrupting her; “your people and you had +your own way to make in life, and so had I and my people.” + +“But if you do not help me”—she burst out, for she could bear it no +longer—“if you do not help me, I shall starve.” + +“I really don’t see what claim you have upon me.” + +“I am your cousin, and I am old, and I shall starve,” she repeated. “I +must have money to-day. If I don’t take back money this afternoon my +heart will break.” Again his fingers went for a moment in the direction +of the cheque-book and tantalized her. She stood up and looked at him +entreatingly. “I am not speaking only for myself,” she pleaded, “but for +another——” and she broke down. + +“For whom else are you speaking?” he asked, withdrawing his fingers. + +“I do not wish to tell you, William.” + +“For whom else?” he repeated, glaring at her. + +“For one who is very dear to me, and who will starve, too, unless you +help us. William, I entreat you to remember——” + +“But who is this pauper you are helping, and why should I help her, +too?” + +“It is not a pauper,” she said indignantly. “It is some one who is +dearer than all the world to me; and, once more, I entreat you to help +us.” + +“Well, but who is it?—is it a child?” + +“No,” she answered, in a low voice, full of infinite tenderness, and she +clasped her hands and let her chin fall on her breast. + +“Who is it?” he asked sternly. + +“It is my husband”—and almost a sob broke from her. + +“Your husband!—I thought he was dead?” + +“Mr. Baines is dead—long ago; but—I have married again.” + +“Married again?” he repeated, as if he could hardly believe his ears. + +“Yes, married again, and that is why I implore you to help me, so that I +may give the young, tender life that is joined to mine the comforts that +are necessary to him,” she said, with supplicating misery. + +“Do you mean to say”—and he looked at her as if he thought she was +mad—“that some young man has married you?” + +“Yes,” she answered, in a low voice; “we have been married nearly eight +months.” + +“And has he got any money?—or does he do anything for a living?” + +“He is a most brilliant writer, and has given the greatest satisfaction +to Mr. Fisher; but he has been ill, and he requires country air and +nourishment and luxuries—and I implore you to help me to preserve this +young and beautiful life that has been confided to me.” + +“Is he a cripple or mad?” + +She looked up in astonishment. + +“He is a fine, tall young man!” she said, with proud indignation. “I +should not have married a cripple, William, and I have already told you +that he is a writer on _The Centre_, though he is not able at present to +do his talents justice.” + +“So you have to keep him?” + +“He kept me when he had money; he gave me himself, and all he possessed +in the world.” + +“What did he marry you for?” Sir William asked, gazing at her in wonder, +and almost clutching the arms of his chair. + +“He married me”—her voice trembled and she drooped her head again—“he +married me because—because he loved me.” + +“Loved you! What should he love you for?” + +“William, do you wish to insult me? I do not see why he should not love +me, or why he should pretend to do so if he did not.” + +“And I suppose you love him?” he said, pulling the blanket farther up +over his knees and speaking in a scornful, incredulous voice. + +“Yes, William, I do—I love him more than all the world; and unless you +will help me so that I may give him those things that he requires and +make our little home worthy of his residence in it, you will break my +heart—you will kill him, and you will break my heart,” she repeated +passionately. “I will conceal nothing from you—we are starving. We have +not got a pound in the world—we have not even food to eat. He is young, +and requires plenty of nourishment; he is not strong, and wants +luxuries.” + +“And you want me to pay for them?” + +But she did not seem to hear him, and swept on— + +“He must have them or he will die. We have spent every penny we had—I +have even borrowed money on my possessions. I can conceal things from +strangers, but you and I belong to the same family, and what I say to +you I know is sacred—we are starving, William, we are starving, and I +implore you to help me. He says he cannot stay unless I take back +money—that he will go and leave me.” Something seemed to gather in her +throat—there was a ring of fright and despair in her voice as she said +the last words. “He will leave me, and it will break my heart, for he is +all the world to me. It will break my heart if he goes, and unless I +take back money he will leave me!” + +“And let you starve by yourself?—a nice man to marry.” + +“William,” she said, “he must remember what is due to himself. He cannot +stay if he has not even food to eat.” + +“And, pray, who is this gentleman?” + +“I have told you that he is a brilliant writer.” + +“What is his name?” + +“I don’t think I am justified in telling you—he does not wish our +marriage to be known.” + +“I can quite understand that,” Sir William answered ironically. “Did he +tell you to come to me for money?” + +“Yes, he told me to do so,” she said, tragically; “he knew your good +heart.” + +“Knew my good heart, did he?” There was a deadly pallor spreading over +Sir William’s face that frightened her. For a moment his lips moved +without making a sound, then he recovered his voice, “Tell me his +name—what is it?” + +“William——” she began. + +“What is it?” he cried, and his breath came short and quick. + +She was too scared to demur any longer. + +“It is Alfred Wimple”—and her heart stood still. + +He gazed at her for a moment in silence. + +“Wimple,” he said—“what, Boughton’s nephew? That skunk he had to turn +out of his office?” + +“He is Mr. Boughton’s nephew; and he left his uncle’s office because the +duties were too arduous for his health.” + +“He left his uncle’s office because he was kicked out of it. Do you mean +to tell me that you have married him—a man who never did a day’s work +in his life, or paid a bill that he owed? And as for writing, I don’t +believe one word of it. It’s not a month ago that his uncle told me of +some old woman, his landlady, forsooth! who had been to him with a long +bill——” + +“It was for his professional chambers. A man in his position requires +them.” + +“Yes; and he’d been sponging on the woman’s mother, too, in the country. +Were you with him?” + +“No, William, I was not”—and, suddenly, a load was lifted from Aunt +Anne’s heart. The mystery of Liphook appeared to be solved, and Alfred +Wimple’s account of his debts to be verified. A world of tenderness +rushed back into her heart and gave her strength and courage to fight +her battle to the end. “No, I was not with him,” she repeated; and as +she looked up a smile, a look of almost happiness, was on her face, that +made her cousin more wonder-struck than ever. “He required country air +to invigorate him, and our means would not admit of——” + +“Boughton has been allowing you a hundred a year,” said Sir William; +“and this Wimple has married you,” he went on, a light seeming to break +upon him. “I am beginning to understand it. I presume he knows that you +are my cousin?” + +“Yes, I told him that you were—he spoke of you with admiration,” Aunt +Anne added, always more anxious to say something gratifying to her +listener than to be strictly veracious. + +“I have no doubt he did. Pray, when did this fine love-making begin?” +Sir William asked scornfully. + +“Nearly a year ago,” she answered, in a faltering voice, for she was +almost beaten, in spite of the relief that had been given her a minute +or two ago. + +“And when did Boughton begin to allow you this hundred a year?” + +“About the time of my marriage.” + +“I perfectly understand. I’ll tell you the reason of your marriage and +of his love for you in a moment.” With an effort he stretched out his +hand and touched the bell. “Charles,” he said, when the servant entered, +“unlock my safe.” + +The man pulled back a curtain that had been drawn across a recess to +hide an iron door. “On the top of the shelf to the left you will see a +blue envelope labelled ‘Last Will and Testament.’ Give it to me,” Sir +William said. + +A scared look broke over Aunt Anne’s face; and she watched the +proceedings breathlessly. + +“Lock the safe and go—no, stop—give me some brandy first.” + +The servant poured a little into a glass from a bottle which stood on +the writing-table between the windows. The old man’s hand shook while he +took it. Aunt Anne, looking at him like a culprit waiting for +punishment, noticed a blackness round his mouth, and that the lines in +his face were rigid. + +“Shall I bring you some chicken-broth, Sir William?” the servant asked. + +“When I ring. Go.” Then he turned to Aunt Anne. “Now I will tell you why +this young man loved you.” He said the last words with an almost +fiendish chuckle. “He loved you because, being a clerk in his uncle’s +office, the office from which he had to be kicked, he probably knew—in +fact, I am certain that he knew, for he came to ask me your Christian +name when the instructions were being given—that I had provided for you +in my will. I do not choose to pauperize people while I live, but I +considered it my duty to leave some portion of my wealth to my +relations, no matter how small a claim they had upon me. He knew that +you would get a fourth share of my money—probably he reckoned it up and +calculated that it would amount to a good many thousand pounds, so he +and Boughton concocted a scheme to get hold of it together.” + +“Mr. Boughton knew nothing of our marriage.” + +“I tell you it was all a scheme. What should Boughton allow you a +hundred a year for?” He was grasping the will while he spoke. + +“He knew nothing about it, William—neither did Alfred.” + +“Well, we’ll put his disinterestedness to the test”—and he tried to +tear the will in half, but his fingers were too weak. + +“Oh no,” she cried; “no—no——” + +“Do you suppose a young man would marry an old woman like you for any +reason but gain? That you should have been such a fool! and for that +unwholesome-looking cur, with his long, rickety legs and red hair—why, +he looks like a stale prawn,” the old man said derisively, and made +another effort to tear the will. + +“I cannot bear it—William, I implore you”—and she clasped her hands +with terror. + +He leaned forward with an effort, and put the will on the fire. + +“Oh no, no—” she cried again, and, dropping on her knees, she almost +snatched it from the flames. + +He took the poker between his two white hands, and held the paper down +with it. + +“It is cruel—cruel——” she began, as she watched it disappear from her +sight. + +“I think I have made the case clear,” he said; “and you will see that +there is nothing to be gained by staying. My money was not made to +benefit Mr. Alfred Wimple. I shall make another will, and it will not +contain your name.” He rang the bell again. + +“You have treated me cruelly—cruelly—but Heaven will frustrate you +yet——” she said tremblingly, as she rose from her knees. Anguish and +dignity were strangely blended in her voice, but after a moment it +seemed as if the latter had gained the victory, “You and I will probably +never meet again, William; you have insulted me cruelly, and you will +remember it when it is too late to ask my forgiveness. You have insulted +me and treated me heartlessly, yet it was beside us when we were +children that our mothers——” the servant entered with a cup of +chicken-broth. + +“Good-bye, Mrs. Alfred Wimple,” Sir William said politely. “Charles, +show Mrs. Wimple downstairs.” + +The man was bewildered at the strange name, and looked at Aunt Anne +doubtfully. Sir William clutched at the arms of his chair again, and his +head sank back upon the pillow. + +“William—” she began. + +“Go!” he said hoarsely. For a moment she hesitated, a red spot had +burned itself on her cheek, and then slowly she followed the servant +down. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + +AUNT ANNE went slowly along Portman Square. She felt, and it was a cruel +moment to do so, that she was growing very old. Her feet almost gave way +beneath her; her hands had barely strength to hold her cloak together +over her chest. There was a little cold breeze passing by; as it swept +over her face she realized that she was half stunned and sad and sick at +heart. But she dragged on, step by step, stopping once, to hold by the +iron railings of a house, before she could find strength enough to turn +into a side-street. + +“I won’t believe it,” she said; “it was not for the money. He could not +have known; his uncle would not have told him—it is not likely that he +would have betrayed the confidence of a client.” And then she remembered +what Sir William had said about the debt to the landlady in the Gray’s +Inn Road and to the mother in the country. Of course that meant Liphook. +It gave her a world of comfort, had lifted a terrible dread from her +heart, so that, even in spite of the insults of the last hour, she felt +that her morning’s visit had not been wholly thrown away. She had not +the faculty of looking forward very far, and it did not occur to her as +yet that, by revealing her marriage, she had ruined her prospects with +her cousin. It was the insults that had enraged her; the going back to +Witley, the day’s dinner, and the very near future, that perplexed her. +A month, even a week hence, might take care of itself, provided to-day +were made easy; it had always been so with her. + +She was bewildered, staggered, for want of money; she had just two +shillings in the world. Florence and Walter were still away; she could +think of no one of whom to borrow. She came to a confectioner’s shop, +and looked at it hesitatingly, for she was tired and exhausted. Even +though Alfred Wimple waited at the other end, mercilessly ready to count +the coins with which she returned, she felt that she must buy a few +minutes’ rest for herself. She wanted to sit down and think. She +tottered into the shop, and having asked for a cup of tea, waited for +it, with a sigh of relief, in a dark corner. But she was too much +stupefied and beaten to think clearly. When the tea came, hot and +smoking, in a thick white cup, to which her lips clung gratefully, she +felt better. She began to burn with indignation, which was an excellent +sign; she crushed Sir William Rammage out of her thoughts, and winked +almost savagely, as though she had felt him under her foot. She told +herself again that Alfred could not have known about the will, and had +not deceived her about Liphook. She even tried to think of him +affectionately, though that was difficult, with the dread of his face +before her if she returned empty-handed. But she did not think of the +money question as despairingly now as she had done a few minutes since; +she had a firm belief in her own power of resource. She felt certain +that when she had reflected calmly, something would suggest itself. She +remembered Mrs. North; but it was not possible to borrow of her, for she +had forfeited all consideration to the regard Aunt Anne thought it +necessary to feel for any one from whom she could accept a loan. + +“I cannot do that, even for Alfred,” she said. “I have always held my +head so high; I cannot lower it to Mrs. North, even for him.” But she +took the letter from her pocket and read it over again. “She does not +seem to comprehend the difference in our positions,” she said, as she +put it back into the envelope, though not before she had noticed, with a +keen eye, that Mrs. North had said she would be back in England very +soon, and calculated that that could not mean just yet. “If Walter and +Florence were in London, I should be relieved of this anxiety +immediately,” she thought. Then a good idea occurred to her. She +considered it from every point of view, and felt at last that it was +feasible. “I am quite sure,” she told herself, “that Florence would say +I was justified in going to her mother in her absence. I will explain to +her that there are some things her daughter would wish me to buy, and +ask her to let me have sufficient money to defray their cost. Besides,” +she added, as an afterthought, “I must see those dear children; +Florence, I know, would wish me to do so; and it is an attention I ought +not to omit, after all the regard and kindness that she and dear Walter +have always shown me.” She got up and looked longingly at the buns and +tarts in the window; though she had only one unbroken shilling left, she +could not wholly curb her generosity. + +“Would you put me a couple of sponge-cakes into a bag?” she said to the +young woman, “I hope they are quite fresh; I prefer them a little +brown.” She walked away, justified and refreshed, holding the paper bag +by the corner. + +But when she arrived at the house near Regent’s Park, it was only to be +told that Florence’s mother had gone out for the day, and that the +children had not yet returned from their morning walk. The servant, +seeing how disappointed she looked, begged her to come in and wait for a +little while. “I don’t think they’ll be long, ma’am,” she said almost +gently. “For,” as she explained to her fellow-servants afterwards, “I +could not help being sorry for an old lady who had made a stupid of +herself like that.” Aunt Anne hesitated a moment. “There’s a nice fire +in the dining-room,” the servant continued, and having persuaded her to +enter, she turned the easy-chair round, and asked if she should make a +cup of tea. + +“Thank you, no,” said Aunt Anne, in a tone that showed she was sensible +of the desire to please her, but was, nevertheless, aware of her own +position in society. “I do not require any refreshment; I have just +partaken of an early lunch.” She turned, gratefully, to the fire when +she was alone, and, putting her feet on the fender, faced her +difficulties once more. She could not remember any human being in London +from whom, under any pretext whatever, she could borrow. She was baffled +and at bay. The memory of Sir William’s taunts vanished altogether as, +with a fright that was gradually becoming feverish, she went over in her +mind every possible means of raising even a few shillings—though a few +shillings, she knew, would be virtually useless against the tide she had +to stem. Of a very small sum she was already certain, for she had +devised a means of raising it, but she feared it would only be +sufficient to provide food for the evening, and perhaps for +to-morrow—and then? She folded her hands and looked into the fire, +shaking her head once or twice, as if various schemes were presenting +themselves, only to be rejected. The clock on the mantelpiece struck +half-past one; at half-past four her train left Waterloo Station. There +was little time to lose. She got up, took off her cloak, and examined it +carefully, then put it round her once more, fingering the clasp, while +she fastened it, as if it were a thing she treasured. As she did so, her +eye caught a little pile on the mantelpiece; it consisted of seven +shillings in silver, with a half-sovereign on the top. She looked at it +as if fascinated, and calculated precisely all it would buy. She +remembered, with dismay, that Jane Mitchell’s weekly wages were due that +evening, that Jane’s mother was ill, and the money was necessary. She +heard again the hard voice in which Alfred had said, “Unless you bring +back money, I shall not stay here any longer.” She could see his eyes, +dull and unrelenting. + +“I know they would give it to me; I know that Walter and Florence would +deny me nothing that was really for my happiness,” she thought, and rang +the bell. “I fear I shall not be able to stay and see the children,” she +said haughtily to the servant, but with a little excitement she could +not keep out of her voice; “my train is, unfortunately, an early one. +And would you tell their grandmother that I have ventured to borrow this +seventeen shillings on the mantelpiece? I came up to town with less +money than I find I require; I will write to her in a day or two, and +return it.” + +“It’s the children’s money, ma’am; I heard their grandmother say they +were to save it up for Christmas.” + +“Dear children,” said the old lady, with a little smile; “they will be +delighted to hear that I have borrowed it. Tell them that Aunt Anne is +their debtor. Give them these two sponge-cakes, they will think of me +while they eat them.” She snapped her purse as she put the money into +it, and left the house with a light footstep. + +She walked on towards Portland Road. There was only one thing more to +do, and that must be done quickly. It would add perhaps ten shillings to +her purse, but even that would be a precious sum. She hesitated a +moment. A threat of rain was in the air, but she did not feel it. The +chilly wind touched her face, but it did not make her shiver, now that +her courage had returned. She looked up and down Great Portland Street +doubtfully, then went slowly, but with decision, towards a street she +knew well. + +A quarter of an hour later she was in an omnibus, going to Waterloo +Station. The cloak with the steel clasp had disappeared; on her face was +an expression that betrayed she had gone through an experience that +depressed her. She watched the people hurrying by in hansoms, and +remembered the day she had driven in one herself to see Alfred Wimple +off to the country—the day on which Florence had given her the +five-pound note. She was very weary, and beginning to long for home. She +planned the evening dinner, and got out a little before she reached +Waterloo, in order to buy it at the shops near the station. There had +been concealed beneath her cloak all the morning a square bag, made of +black stuff, which now she carried on her arm. When she stood on the +platform waiting for her train it was no longer flat and empty, but +bulged into strange shapes that were oddly suggestive. In her hand she +carried three bunches of primroses, and a smaller one of violets; under +her arm were some evening papers. She looked satisfied, and almost +happy, for she felt that a few hours at least of contentment were before +her. She entered her third-class carriage, thinking of the day she had +seen Alfred Wimple off to Liphook; she remembered, with a little +triumph, how she had exchanged his ticket. “I am sure the papers will be +a solace to him,” she said; “writing for the press must give him a deep +interest in public affairs—it must have been a great deprivation to him +not to know all that was going on. My dear Alfred! these violets shall +be my offering to him as soon as I arrive; I cannot do enough to +compensate him for William’s cruel aspersions on his character. My +darling, if I only had thousands, I would give them to you; I would make +them into a carpet for you to walk upon.” + +She was alone in the carriage; she put her bag carefully down beside her +on the seat, and shut the windows, for the drizzling rain was coming in +aslant, and chilled her. Once or twice a sharp pang of pain darted +through her shoulders, but she did not mind; she was dreaming among +illusions, and found a passing spell of happiness that brought a smile +to her lips and a wink of almost merry anticipation to her eye, as she +saw the little dinner she had devised set out, and Alfred facing her at +table. She imagined him saying, in the solemn manner in which he said +everything, “I feel better, Anne,” when he had finished, and she knew +that in those few words she would find a balm for all the insults and +misery of the last few hours. She repented now that she was returning by +the early train; it seemed like treachery to him. It had been almost +noble of him to conceal from her the embarrassing debt he had at +Liphook. “He has evidently been reticent,” she thought, “from a desire +to save me pain. My dear one,—I have wronged him lately, but I will +make it up to him this evening. I will tell him that there is no poverty +or sorrow I should not think it a privilege to share with him.” She +peered out of the window at the landscape dulling with the rain. “I hope +he is not in the garden,” she thought. “He will catch cold, and his +cough was so bad last week. I am glad I remembered to bring some +lozenges for him.” + +The train sped on past Woking and the fir-woods beyond; they reminded +her of the trees round the cottage at Witley. When it was dark to-night, +she would look up at them before she bolted the door after Jane +Mitchell. And then she and Alfred would sit over the fire and talk; he +would feel so much better after his dinner, she was sure he would be +kind to her. He had been worried lately with poverty, but just for a +little while he should forget it. With the future she did not concern +herself, for she had already devised a plan that would make it easy. She +would go and see Mr. Boughton, and of course he would help them when he +heard that Alfred was her husband. He would continue the allowance he +had given them, and when Sir William Rammage made a new will he would +take care that it was not an iniquitous one. It had never seriously +occurred to her that William would leave her money, though, once or +twice, the possibility had crossed her mind. But she had never been able +to look forward at all for herself. “Now,” she thought, “I must give the +future my consideration. I must think of it for my dear Alfred. Luxuries +are necessary to him; he cannot divest himself of his longing for them. +Perhaps when Mr. Boughton returns he will make William ashamed of his +conduct to me to-day, and he will do something for us before he dies; it +would be very detrimental to his pride that we should starve, and I did +not mince words to-day.” The train passed Milford Station; in a few +minutes she would be at Witley. “I hope Alfred won’t be angry with me +for coming by the earlier train,” she thought, with some misgiving. “I +will explain to him that I had finished my commissions in town sooner +than I had anticipated, and, seeing that the weather was not likely to +improve, I thought it better to return, even at the risk of his +displeasure.” + +The governess-cart was waiting for her. + +“I brought an umbrella,” Lucas said, “as it was raining. I noticed you +went without one this morning, and the weather has come on that +unexpected bad, I was afraid you would get wet through.” + +“I am most grateful for your thoughtfulness,” Aunt Anne said, with +distant graciousness. She put her bag out of reach of the rain, and +cared little for herself. She was too full of other matters to trouble +about the weather. As she went along the straight road, of which by this +time she knew every yard, she mentally counted up the shillings in her +pocket, and considered that she ought to give one of them to Lucas. “He +has been most attentive,” she said, and she managed to extract the coin +from her pocket, and put it into her black silk glove, ready for the end +of the journey, which she considered would be the right moment to +present it. The rain came down steadily. It was no longer aslant or +fitful, and in the sky overhead there were no changing clouds. “I fear +you have had an unfavourable day,” she said to Lucas. + +“It has rained mostly all the time. I hope you won’t catch cold, ma’am. +I thought I saw you with a cloak this morning; have you left it behind?” + +Aunt Anne resented the question; she thought it was unduly familiar, and +she answered coldly, + +“I have left it behind—for a purpose. It required renovating,” she +added. + +“I might have brought you a shawl, or something, if I had known. I +called at the house as I passed to see if Mr. Wimple would like to come +and meet you. But he wasn’t in.” + +“I hope he is not out in the rain,” she thought. “Did the servant say if +he had been out long?” she asked. + +“She said he had been gone about an hour. It’s a pity I missed him.” + +“He probably had an engagement,” she said, and a little uneasiness stole +over her. Another mile. She could scarcely conceal her impatience. +“Couldn’t the pony run up this little hill?” she asked. + +“It could,” said Lucas, rather contemptuously; “but Mrs. Burnett don’t +like him to run uphill, she don’t—she thinks it’s bad for him.” Aunt +Anne was too much engrossed in her own thoughts to answer. “He goes +faster than the donkey did last year, anyhow, ma’am; do you mind the +donkey?” + +“I frequently drove him.” + +“He was a deal of trouble, he was,” Lucas went on; “and they didn’t do +well by him—gave four pound ten for him, and when they come to sell him +a year later they only got two pound five.” + +“So that they were mulcted of just half the sum for which they had +purchased him,” she said absently, having quickly reckoned up the loss +in her head. “Was there any reason for that?” + +“Well, you see, this was it,” said Lucas—“when gentry first come to +live about here they took to keeping donkeys, so donkeys went up; then +after a bit they found they wouldn’t go, and they took to selling them +and buying ponies, so donkeys went down. I am afraid you are getting +very wet, ma’am. I wish I had thought to bring a rug to cover you. But +here we are at the house, and you’ll be able to dry yourself by the +fire.” + +“Thank you, Lucas, thank you,” and she slipped the shilling into his +hand, and, taking her bulging bag from under the seat, walked into the +house by the back door. + +“Jane,” she asked, the moment she crossed the threshold, “where is Mr. +Wimple?” + +“He went out an hour and a half ago, ma’am, or a little more perhaps.” + +“Do you know in what direction he went?” + +“Well, last time I saw him he was in the garden; then I see him going +down the dip.” + +She was silent for a moment, then she asked gently— + +“Was he at home all the morning?” and received an answer in the +affirmative. She was silent, and seemed to turn something over in her +mind. + +“You are quite sure he went down the dip, and not much more than an hour +and a half ago?” She stood by the kitchen fire, and she spoke absently. +“I have brought a sole for dinner,” she said. “I must ask you to cook it +more carefully than you did the last one, Jane. Mr. Wimple is most +particular about fish—he cannot eat it unless it is quite dry. After +the sole there is a chicken and some asparagus. Give me my bag—there +are some other things in it, and a bottle of claret at the bottom, which +I wish put on the dining-room mantelshelf for an hour. I trust you have +made a good fire, Jane?” + +“Yes, ma’am; but I had to do it of wood, for the coals are nearly out.” + +“I prefer wood; it is not my intention to have in more coal just yet,” +said Aunt Anne, firmly. “Where have you put the primroses I brought? I +wish to arrange them in a bowl for the centre of the table.” + +“Hadn’t you better take off your shawl first, ma’am—it’s wringing +wet—and let me make you a cup of tea?” + +“No, thank you, I will not trouble you to do that,” Aunt Anne said +gently. “But put Mr. Wimple’s slippers by the fire in the dining-room.” +She went into the drawing-room and held a match to the grate, and stood +beside it while the paper blazed and the wood crackled, thinking that +she and Alfred would sit over the fire cosily that evening after dinner. + +“I am sure he is worried about money,” she said to herself, “and that he +is in debt; but he shall not have these anxieties long—it is much +better that his uncle should know about our marriage.” Her eyes turned +towards the window and the garden and the trees with the rain falling on +them. “I wonder if he has gone far; I hope he is not depressed. I fear +he worries himself unduly,” she said, and went into the dining-room. The +slippers were toasting in the fender; she turned the easy-chair towards +the fire and put beside it a little table from the corner of the room. +Then she went for the papers she had brought from London, and arranged +them on the table, and put the bunch of violets in a glass and set it by +the papers. She drew back and looked at the cosy arrangement with +satisfaction. “My darling Alfred!” she said to herself; and then, +softly, as if she were afraid of Jane hearing her, she crept out of the +front door and under the verandah that went round the house, and looked +out at the weather. The rain had nearly stopped, but the sky was grey +and the air was cold. She pulled her shawl closer, and, trying to shake +off the chill that was overtaking her, went swiftly down the garden +pathway. At the far end the grass was long and wet; the drops fell from +the beeches and larches above. She found the narrow pathway that led to +the dip, and went along it. She looked anxiously ahead, but there was no +sign of Alfred. “I know he will be glad to see me,” she thought. “I know +the silent tenderness of his heart—my darling—my darling, you are all +I have in the world!” + +On she went among the gorse, between the firs, and over the clumps of +budding heather, a limp black figure in the misty twilight. She had no +definite reason for supposing he would return that way; but she knew it +to be a short cut from the Liphook direction, and some strange instinct +seemed to be sending her on: she did not hesitate or falter, but just +obeyed it. The pathway was very narrow, the wet growth on either side +brushed her skirts as she passed by—down and down—lower and +lower—towards the valley. On the other side, a quarter of a mile away, +she could see the little thatched shed the children called their +“house,” where perhaps in past days a cow had been tethered. There was +not a sign of Alfred. “Perhaps he is a little farther on, over the +ridge,” she said, and sped on. A miserable aching was upon her; she had +been out of doors many hours; she was wet and cold through and through. +Every moment the long grasses and the dead bracken of a past year swept +over her feet. The mist stole up to her closer and closer. The drops +fell from the leaves above on to her shoulders. “He must be so cold and +wet,” she thought; “I know he will make his cough worse; I am glad I +kept the lozenges in my pocket.” She hesitated at the bottom of the +valley for a moment, and then began the upward path. “I know he wants +me,” she said aloud, with an almost passionate note in her feeble voice; +“I can feel that he wants me.” She looked through the straggling firs +that dotted the ground over which she was now making her way. Still, +there was not a sign of Alfred. Only the trees and the undergrowth, +sodden with the long day’s rain. + +Suddenly there was the sound of a woman’s laughter. She stopped, +petrified. It came from the little thatched shed twenty yards away. The +side of the shed was towards her and only the front of it was open, so +that she could not see who was within it. But she knew that two people +were there. One was a woman, and something told her that the other was +Alfred Wimple. For a minute she could not stir. Then, as if it had been +waiting for a signal, the rain began to fall, with a soft, swishing +sound, upon the thatched roof of the shed, upon Aunt Anne’s thin +cashmere shawl, upon all the drooping vegetation. The mistiness grew +deeper, and from the distances the night began to gather. The black +figure standing in the mist knew that a few yards off there was hidden +from her that which meant life or death. She went a little nearer to the +shed, but her feet almost failed her, her heart stood still, a sickening +dread had laid hold of her. “I will go round and face them,” she +thought, and dragged herself up to the shed. But as she reached the +corner she heard Alfred Wimple’s voice— + +“You know it’s only for her money that I stay with the old woman, +Caroline.” She stopped, and rested her head and hands against the back +and sides of the shed, from sheer fright at what was coming next. + +“Well, but you don’t give me any of it,” the woman answered. + +“I don’t get any myself now.” + +“Then what do you stay with her for?” + +“Because it won’t do to let her slip.” + +“It’s mother that makes such a fuss—it’s not me; though, of course, +it’s hard, you always being away like this.” + +“Tell her she won’t gain anything by making a fuss,” Alfred Wimple said, +in the hard voice Aunt Anne knew so well. + +“She says all the four years we have been married you have not kept me +decently three months together.” + +Aunt Anne held on to the shed for dear life, and her heart stood still. + +“I shall keep you decently by-and-by, Caroline.” + +“And then she’s always going on about what you owe her. I daren’t go up +to London any more, she leads me such a life.” + +“Tell her I’ll pay her by-and-by,” Alfred Wimple said. + +“I’m sure if it wasn’t for grandmother being at Liphook, I don’t know +what I’d do. Sometimes I think I’d better get a place of some sort—then +I’d be able to help you.” + +“But your grandmother doesn’t lead you a life, Caroline, does she?” + +“Well, you see, it was she made us get married, so she can’t well, and +she has kept mother quiet on that account; but couldn’t you come to us +again, Alfred? I don’t believe grandmother would mind. She thinks you +are very wise to stay with your aunt if you’re going to get her money, +and often tells me I am impatient, but I can’t bear being parted like +this.” + +“And I can’t bear it either”—something that was equivalent to +tenderness came into his voice. Aunt Anne drew her breath as she heard +it. “You know I am fond of you; I never was fond of anybody else.” + +“Mother says when you first had her rooms in the Gray’s Inn Road, there +was some girl you used to go out with?” + +“She was fond of me,” he said; “I didn’t care about her.” + +“My goodness! look at the rain,” said the woman, as it came pouring +down; “we must stay here till it’s over a bit. Alfred, you are sure you +are as fond of me as ever?” + +“I am just as fond of you; I am fonder. You don’t suppose I stay with an +old woman from choice, do you? I do it just as much for your sake as +mine, Caroline.” + +“Call me your wife again—you haven’t said it lately—and kiss me, do +kiss me.” + +“You are my wife,” he said, “and you know I am fond of you, and——” +Aunt Anne heard the sound of his kisses. “I like holding you again,” he +went on; “it’s awful being always with that old woman.” + +“Well, you don’t have to kiss her, as she’s your aunt,” she said with a +laugh. + +“I have to kiss her night and morning,” he answered; “but I get out of +her way as much as possible—you can bet that.” + +“Mother and grandmother are always saying, perhaps she will give you the +slip and leave her money to somebody else.” + +“I don’t think she’ll do that,” he said; “but that’s one reason why I +keep a sharp look-out.” + +“Hasn’t she got anything now? You don’t seem to get much out of her, if +she has.” + +“She’s a close-fisted old woman. Come up closer on my shoulder—I like +feeling your face there.” + +“Suppose she died to-morrow,” the woman said—“where would you be then?” + +“Of course there’s that danger. One must risk something.” + +“And is she sure to get money when this—what is it—her cousin—dies?” + +“She’ll get five and twenty thousand pounds. I have seen his will, so I +know it’s true.” + +“Does she know herself?” + +“No”—and he laughed a little short laugh. + +Aunt Anne, listening and shuddering, remembered, oddly, that she had +hardly ever heard him laugh in her life before. + +“But how did you manage to see the will?” + +“I told you before, Caroline, I saw it in my uncle’s office; so there is +no mistake about it, if that is what you mean.” + +Aunt Anne nodded her weary head to herself. “William Rammage is right,” +she thought; “he is justified. I might have known that at least he would +not deceive me.” + +“And has she left it all to you, Alfred?” the girl’s voice—for it was a +girl’s voice—asked. + +“Every penny. I took good care of that; and I’ll take good care she +doesn’t alter it, too.” + +“But when do you think she’ll get it?” + +“As soon as this cousin of hers dies. He has been dying these ever so +many months,” Alfred Wimple said discontentedly; “only he’s so long +about it.” + +“But she won’t give it to you right away when she has got it herself. +You’ll have to wait till she dies.” + +“I don’t think she’ll live long,” he said grimly; “I’m half afraid, +sometimes, that she won’t last as long as he will, unless he makes +haste.” + +“We’ll have good times, Alfred, once we’ve got our money?” + +“Yes, we will,” he answered with determination. + +“You mustn’t think that I care only for the money,” the girl went on; +“it’s your being away that I care about most.” + +“I care about money; I want money, Caroline. I don’t like being poor.” + +“You see, I have always been poor, and don’t mind so much.” + +“You won’t be poor by-and-by, when the old woman is dead. I hope she’ll +be quicker than her cousin over it, for I can’t stand it much longer.” + +“Isn’t she kind to you?” + +“I suppose she means to be kind,” he said gratingly. “But she whines +about me so, and is always wanting to kiss me”—and he made a harsh +sound in his throat. “I can’t bear being kissed by an old woman.” + +“It doesn’t matter when she is your aunt; it isn’t as if you were +married to her. Wouldn’t it be awful to be married to an old woman?” + +“Ugh! I think I should kill her, Caroline. Let’s talk about something +else.” + +“Let’s say all we’ll do when we get our money, Alfred dear,” the girl +said in a wheedling voice. “I am glad of this rain, for we can’t go back +till it leaves off a bit; let’s say all we’ll do when we get her money.” + +“I believe you care more about her money than you do about me,” he said, +in the grumbling voice Aunt Anne knew well. + +“No, you don’t”—and she laughed a little; “you don’t think that a bit. +I am fonder of you than the day I was married.” + +“You were fond enough then,” he said almost tenderly; “I remember seeing +you kiss your wedding-gown as you sat and stitched at it the night +before.” + +“I thought I’d never get it done in time.” + +“You were determined to have a new one, weren’t you?” + +“I thought it would be unlucky if I didn’t, though there wasn’t anybody +but you to see it. It isn’t that I care for money, Alfred,” she went +on—“don’t think it. It’s only mother that makes the fuss. We’ll pay her +up quick when we’ve got it, and we’ll be awfully good to grandmother; +but, as for me, I wouldn’t care if you hadn’t a penny. It’s only you I +want.” + +“And it’s only you I want,” he said, with a little cough that belied his +words. + +“What is that rustling, Alfred—is there any one about?” + +“It’s only the rain among the grass and leaves; I wish it’d leave off—I +ought to be getting in.” + +“What time is she coming from London?” + +“I expect she’ll be here soon now. You had better give me that money, +Caroline.” + +“It’s hidden in my dress—wait till I get it out. I hope mother won’t +hear I was paid, or she’ll wonder what I’ve done with it.” + +“I can’t do without a little money,” he said, in the tone Aunt Anne had +often heard; “and the old woman is so close-fisted she expects me to +account for everything she gives me.” + +“Well, there it is—twenty-two shillings and sixpence. I don’t want +grandmother to know, for she said last time she wondered you liked +taking it.” + +“A man has a right to his wife’s earnings,” he said firmly. + +“Well, I’ve got three dresses in the house to do; they’ll come to a good +bit. It isn’t that I mind giving it. Alfred! there’s some one against +the back of the shed.” + +“It’s only the branches of the trees brushing against it,” he said. “I +must go back—the old woman will be coming home.” + +“Don’t go till it stops raining a bit,” she pleaded; “and put your arms +tighter round me, I am not with you so often now. Aren’t you glad I am +not an old woman?” + +“Ugh!”—and he made a sound of disgust again. “Old women make me sick.” + +“Well, you’ll be old long before I am,” she said, with a triumphant +laugh. “My goodness! look at the rain.” + +Aunt Anne went slowly along the narrow pathway, down into the valley, +and up towards the larch and fir-trees again. Her strength was almost +spent when she reached the garden. She bent her head beneath the +downpour, and dragged herself, in such frightened haste as she could +manage, to the house. She stopped for a moment beneath the verandah, as +if to be sure that she was awake. She looked, half incredulously down at +her wet and clinging clothes, and then into the darkness and distance. +Beyond the trees and across the valley she knew that two people were +saying their good-byes. She imagined their looks and words, and their +caresses. It seemed as if the whole world were theirs—it had been +pulled from under her feet to make a heaven for them. She was trembling +with cold and fear, but she told herself that there was one thing left +at which she must clutch a little longer—her self-control and dignity. + +“I thought,” she said bewildered, and with the strange hunted look on +her face, as she entered the cottage—“I thought God had forgiven me and +sent him back, but it is all a mistake. Perhaps it is part of my +punishment.” Everything looked strange to her; as if years had passed +since she had gone out only an hour ago. She stood by the drawing-room +door for a moment, looking in at the fire that had burned up and made a +cheerful blaze, but she was afraid to go nearer to it. She felt like an +outcast from everywhere; there was no place for her in the world, no one +who wanted her, nothing left to do. And there was no love for her, and +no forgetfulness; she had to bear pain—that alone was her portion. She +wanted most of all to lie down and die, but death and love alike are +often strangely difficult to those who need them most. She meandered +into the kitchen, without any settled plan of what she was going to do. + +“Jane,” she said, “the moment you have finished taking in the dinner, I +want you to go upstairs and follow the directions I will give you.” + +“Yes, ma’am,” Jane answered, with some astonishment when she had +listened to them; “but do you mean to-night?” + +“Yes, I mean to-night,” Aunt Anne said, and turned away. + +“Let me take your shawl, ma’am; it is wringing wet.” + +“I shall be glad if you will divest me of it,” the old lady said gently, +“and if you will bring me my cap and slippers; I am fatigued, and cannot +ascend the stairs.” She sat down for a minute, and listened to Jane’s +footsteps going and returning. It seemed as if the whole house were full +of shame and agony; a single step in any direction might take her into +its midst—she did not dare venture there till she had finished the task +that was before her. She went into the dining-room, with a strange, +bewildered air still upon her, as if she were doubtful whether it was +the room that she had known so well, or if it had, somehow, been changed +in the last hour. The cloth was laid; the primroses were in their place; +the candles were lighted, for it was nearly dinner-time; the blinds were +down, and the curtains drawn. She looked at the easy-chair she had put +ready for Alfred, with the little table beside it, and the papers and +the violets. Then she went up to the mantelpiece and rang a hand-bell +that stood on it. + +“Jane,” she said, “take away Mr. Wimple’s slippers—he will not require +them; put them with the other things as I told you.” She pushed the +easy-chair to its place, away from the fire, put the little table back +into the corner, and hid the papers and the violets out of sight, for +she could not bear to see them. She looked at the cloth again, and +taking up the things that had been laid for her carried them to the +sideboard. + +“You need not set a place for me,” she said to Jane, who still lingered, +half wonderingly. “I dined early in town; it is only for Mr. +Wimple”—and she went back to the drawing-room. She hesitated for a +moment by the door; she felt as if the dead people who had known it in +bygone years were softly crowding into it now, as if they would witness +the scene that was before her, and look on at all she had to bear, just +for a little while, before she became one of them. She gathered courage +to walk to one of the chairs; she put the peacock screen beside her and +waited. A quarter of an hour went by, while she stared at the fire with +her hands clasped and her head drooping, or at the darkness outside the +windows that looked towards the garden. But she could scarcely bear to +turn her head in that direction. All the time she was listening, +curiously and with a shrinking dread, for the sound of footsteps. Jane +came to her. + +“The dinner is ready,” she said; “it’s a pity Mr. Wimple don’t come—I +wanted to get home to mother a bit early to-night. Her cough was worse +this morning.” + +“You can go as soon as you have finished your duties,” Aunt Anne said; +“and remind me to pay you your wages, for I am often oblivious——” + +The words died away on her lips. She heard the handle of the hall-door +turn. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + +The rain showed no signs of abating, but Alfred Wimple was chilly and +hungry. Moreover, he was tired of the _tête-à-tête_ in the shed, and he +had a dull curiosity to hear the result of Aunt Anne’s visit to town. It +was certain to provide some sort of excitement for the evening. If she +had brought back money he would reap the benefit of it; if she had not, +he could at least make her suffer, and to watch her suffer would provide +him a satisfaction over which he gloated more and more with every +experience of it. He buttoned his coat, turned up the bottoms of his +trousers, and looked for his umbrella; then he hesitated a moment and +looked out at the weather. He hated rain. + +“I wish I had thought to bring myself an umbrella,” his companion said; +“it’s a long way across. Joe Pook is over at the King’s Head with his +cart, and he’ll drive me back; but it’s a good bit to there.” + +Alfred Wimple coughed. + +“I can’t let you have mine”—and he held it firmly; “my chest is not +strong.” + +“I wasn’t saying it for that,” she answered; “I was only thinking it was +a pity I didn’t bring one. Good-bye; you’ll take care of yourself, won’t +you?” + +“I will try,” he said, in his most sombre manner, as though he felt it +to be an important undertaking. “Good-bye, Caroline.” + +Before they were many yards apart she turned and went after him. Her +jacket was already wet with rain; her black straw hat was shining. There +was an anxious excitement in her manner. + +“Alfred”—she put her hand on his shoulder and looked at his face while +she spoke—“you care about me really, don’t you?” + +“Why do you ask that now?” he asked severely. + +“I don’t know. Mother said once that you had love for nothing but +yourself. It isn’t true, is it? Sometimes I think I would have done +better if I had married Albert Spark. I believe he’s fonder of me now +than you are.” + +He looked impatient and at a loss what to do. He could not understand +unselfish love; self-protection was his own strongest feeling; +everything else was merely a means, a weapon to be used in attaining it. + +“You mustn’t keep me in the rain,” he said; “the old woman will be back +by this time. Why do you think I don’t care for you?” + +“I don’t know,” and as she spoke the tears came into her eyes; “I think +it was because you just let me go in the rain and didn’t see that I’d +get wet through. It doesn’t matter, but I’d like you to have seen it.” + +“You are stronger than I am. It is dangerous for me to get wet: I came +out in the rain to meet you.” + +“And then, perhaps I oughtn’t to say it, but you took the money and +didn’t offer me a shilling to keep for myself.” + +“I didn’t know you wanted it. You can’t expect me to go without anything +in my pocket?” + +“No,” and she burst into tears; “it’s only sometimes I get +dissatisfied,” she added apologetically. + +“You should have done it in the shed. You ought not to keep me here in +the rain. You know that.” + +“No, I oughtn’t; you go on, dear”—there was sudden repentance in her +voice. “Just kiss me and say you are fond of me again.” He leaned over +her, and for a moment his eyes flashed, as he kissed her with a +loathsome eagerness that left the woman’s heart more hungry than before. + +“I am fond of you,” he said; “you know I am fond of you—when I see you. +But I can’t come to Liphook to be dunned for money.” + +“I always do the best I can to get things for you; and if I have plenty +of work I’ll take care it’s more comfortable, if you’ll only come. +There, go now, Alfred dear. I don’t want to keep you in the wet. It’s +only that we have been married these four years, and, somehow, we never +seem to have got any good of it yet.” She put her arms round his neck +for a moment “I am awful fond of you,” she said, and turned away. + +Something in her voice touched him; or it might have been that he was +fonder of her than he supposed, for as he went by the pathway that poor +Aunt Anne had hurried along, bowed down with insult and despair, only +twenty minutes before, there was a less sullen expression than usual on +his face. He thought of the clinging hands and tearful eyes, and the +undisguised love written on her face, with something like satisfaction. +He would settle down with her, once he possessed the money. He liked the +idea of it; it would be good to be waited upon by her, to go abroad with +her perhaps, to buy comfort and luxury, and to feel her hanging about +him. He lingered in thought over her caresses; he remembered Aunt Anne’s +and shuddered. He had said truly enough that he could not bear the +latter much longer; toleration had grown to endurance, endurance to +dislike, and dislike to loathing. He was sensible of even being beneath +the same roof with her; her voice irritated him, her touch produced a +feeling that was almost fear. Every step he made now towards the house +that contained her was reluctant and almost shrinking. He could just +bear life with her if she gave him good food and comfort and money he +could not obtain elsewhere; but unless she gave him these things, which +he counted worth any price that could be paid, he felt it would be +impossible to stay with her longer. Warmth and idleness and comfort were +gods to him; but his loathing for the poor soul who had struggled for +months to give them to him was developing into horror. He waited, +doggedly, day after day for Sir William Rammage’s death. When that +happened he would seize the money that would be hers and, without mercy, +leave her to her fate; he and Caroline could easily keep out of her +reach. If she would not give him the money he would make life impossible +for her to bear. He had not the least intention of murdering her, but in +imagination he often put his hands round her throat, and all his fingers +felt her life growing still beneath them. He resented everything she +did: her voice, her footstep, her tender, wrinkled face; he felt as if +her winking left eye were driving him mad—as if there were poison in +her breath. He considered her life an offence against him, except as a +means of giving him money. When once she had done that, when she had +given him the thousands for which he had married her, he wanted her for +ever out of his sight, and underground; he gloated in imagination over +the deepness of the grave into which he would have her put, and the +silence and darkness that would surround her. + +He was at the bottom of the dip. He reflected, with triumph, that it was +too late for any question of going to the station to meet the half-past +six o’clock train. He thought of the rain that would fall upon her as +she drove to the cottage. He wondered if she had left her cloak behind, +and imagined the cold and pain she would suffer without it. He could see +her in the open cart, bending her head and shoulders beneath the grey +storm, carrying the bag that contained the dinner for him, and he +imagined the bulging condition in which the bag would return. If she had +not brought back all he considered necessary for his comfort, she would +tremble to see him, and he would not spare her one single pang. He was +among the firs and larches, within sight of the cottage windows. He +hated to think that she was behind them—that almost immediately he +would be in the same room with her, sitting opposite to her at table. He +thought of himself as a martyr, and of her as a loathsome burden, a +presence that had no right to be inflicted on him; one that he would be +justified in using any means within his power to remove. His feeling for +her had grown in intensity till it threatened to burst the bonds of +reserve and silence in which he had wrapped himself. It was only with an +effort that he could keep in all the lashing words that hatred could +suggest. He went up the pathway, as slowly as she herself had done, and +walked round the house under the verandah. Unknowingly, in putting the +easy-chair back into its place, Aunt Anne had pushed aside a little bit +of the dining-room curtain. He looked in and saw the table laid, the +candles burning, and the bowl of primroses; they were a sign that she +had returned, and had not returned empty-handed. He noticed that only +one place was laid, and he wondered vaguely what it meant. He thought of +Aunt Anne’s face, and a sickening feeling came over him. If it had only +been a girl’s face to which he was going in, a young woman who would +come to meet him, and put her arms round his neck, and call him +endearing names, instead of the old woman, shrivelled and wrinkled, to +whom in a moment or two he would have to submit himself? He went towards +the front door, vaguely determining that he would make her miserable +that night. He had a right to everything she could give, but she had no +right to intrude herself upon his sight, and he would make her feel it. + +There was a click at the gate. Some one had entered the garden from the +road. He stopped. A boy came up to him through the darkness. + +“Wimple? A telegram, sir. There is sixpence for porterage.” He felt in +his pocket among the silver the woman had given him in the shed; he +found a sixpence, and the boy departed. He opened the yellow envelope, +and stood still for a moment, with the telegram in his hand. He guessed +what it meant. He took a match from his pocket, struck a light, and, +protecting it from the wind with his hat, read: + + “Died at five o’clock from sudden attack.” + +He screwed it up into a ball and put it carefully into his pocket. His +feeling for Aunt Anne changed in a moment: he felt that for this one +evening, at any rate, he would endure her—he would even be civil—since +it was through her that he was about to gain all he wanted. He looked up +at the cottage before he entered it with the almost pleasant feeling +with which a prisoner sometimes looks at his cell before he departs into +freedom. Aunt Anne was sitting by the drawing-room fire; he lingered by +the doorway. + +“You are home, then?” he said. There was something exalted in his voice, +that at another time would have made her look up at him lovingly, as he +expected to see her do now. But, instead, she answered coldly and +without any words of greeting— + +“Yes, Alfred, I am home.” + +“What did you do in town?” She winked haughtily and did not speak. “What +did you do?” he repeated. + +“I did a great deal, and learned many things of which I will tell you +when you have finished your dinner. It is quite ready—you will be good +enough to go to it, Alfred.” + +He looked at her searchingly, and felt a little uneasiness. + +“Are you coming?” he asked, seeing that she did not move. + +“No, I have dined; but I trust you will be satisfied with what I have +provided for you,” she said coldly. Something in her manner forced him +reluctantly to obey. He went into the dining-room; she shut the door +that led into it and waited in the drawing-room. Jane came in after she +had served the sole, and drew down the blinds and arranged the curtains +and threw some wood on the fire. + +“There is only one candle left,” she said, “till the two in the +dining-room are done with.” + +“It is quite sufficient; you can light it and put it on the table. As +soon as you have finished waiting upon Mr. Wimple you will go upstairs +and do what I have told you”—and she was left alone again. While she +looked at the fire she could almost imagine Alfred Wimple eating his +sole; she knew when it was finished; she listened while Jane entered and +pushed his plate through the buttery-hatch; she heard the chicken +arrive, and imagined Alfred Wimple solemnly carving it. Her heart beat +faster as he went on towards the end of his feast; she was impatient for +the crisis to begin. At last he rose from the table, opened the door, +and stood looking at her curiously. She rose too and waited, facing him, +on the rug. + +“Did you bring a paper from town, Anne?” he asked, without a word of +gratitude for his dainty dinner. + +“Yes, I brought some papers; but you will not require them.” She +hesitated a moment, and then went on firmly, “I wish you to know, +Alfred, that you are about to leave this house never to enter it again.” + +“What do you mean?” he asked, and fastened his eyes on her with only a +little more expression in them than usual. + +“I mean that I know everything.” + +“Have you seen my uncle?” he asked, betraying no surprise and not moving +from the doorway. + +“He is in Scotland for a fortnight—but I know everything. I know that +you have insulted and defamed me.” She spoke in a low voice and so +calmly that he looked at her as if he thought she did not understand the +meaning of her own words. “Till I met you,” she went on, “I bore an +unsullied name and reputation.” + +“What have I done to your name and reputation?” he asked, and closed his +lips as though he were almost stupefied with silence. But he went a step +towards her, with a shrinking, defensive movement. She retreated towards +the table on which the candle stood, a flickering witness of the scene +between them—a scene full of shame and suffering and unconfessed fear +for her, and of cruelty and loathing and bewilderment for him; but for +both strangely destitute of fire and passion. + +“You have ruined both,” she said. “You have dared to make a pretence of +marriage with me, though you were married already to an inferior person +whom you had known at your lodgings.” + +“Who told you this?” + +“I shall not tell you my informant, but I know everything. You will +retire from my presence this evening and never enter it again.” + +“It is not true,” he said shortly, and made another step towards her, +and again she retreated. + +“It is true. To-morrow I shall go to Liphook and expose your infamous +behaviour.” + +“If you dare,” he said, almost fiercely, and then, suddenly, he changed +his note. “I was obliged to do it, Anne,” he added, as if he had +suddenly seen that the game was up, and lying would serve him nothing. +“But I was fond of you; I told you there were many difficulties the +night I asked you to marry me.” + +“No, Alfred”—and for the first time her lips quivered—“you were not +fond of me, even then. You were under the impression that you would get +the money Sir William Rammage had left me in his will.” + +“What should I know about his will?” + +“You were aware of its contents. You went to him in regard to the +instructions. I have heard everything from his own lips.” He was silent +for a moment, and still there was no expression in his dull eyes. + +“Rammage could not tell you that I was married,” he said presently. +“Where did you get that ridiculous story from?” + +“It is not a ridiculous story. You have married a common dressmaker, and +you presumed after that to insult and impose on me.” + +“What are you going to do—what do you want me to do?” he asked, almost +curiously. + +“I shall not treat you with the severity you deserve, but you will leave +this house to-night and never enter it again.” + +“I should go to Liphook. You would not like that, Anne.” + +“Alfred,” she said indignantly, “I could not accept shame and +degradation, even from a man I love. Besides, I have no longer any love +for you. You will not dare to offer me that. Every moment that you stay +in my presence is an insult. I must insist on your leaving this house at +once.” + +“Where am I to go?” he asked, still curiously. + +“That is for your consideration. You and I are apart.” + +“I have no money,” he said, too much astonished, though he made no sign +of it, to fight her fairly. + +“You have sufficient money for your present necessities, Alfred. You +must not think that you can deceive me any longer. I know everything +about you.” + +Suddenly an idea occurred to him, and he asked, in a manner that was +almost a threat, though it had no effect upon her— + +“Have you been to Liphook?” + +“I shall not tell you where I have been, Alfred; I have discovered your +baseness, and that is sufficient. I know that our marriage was a +mockery, that you dared to offer me what you had already given to +another woman. You will go back to her, and at once. You came to me +solely for my money, and of that you will not have one penny piece.” + +Still he stood looking at her speechlessly, while with each word she +said his loathing for her increased and his anger grew more difficult to +control. His lips parted and showed his teeth, white and clenched +together. + +“I will have the money yet; and you shall suffer,” he said. + +“You will not,” she answered, with a determined wink. “I have taken care +of that.” + +“You have left it to me.” + +For a moment she was silent; then a light broke upon her, and she spoke +quickly. + +“Alfred,” she said, “I know now why you put your name in my will without +mentioning the relationship in which I supposed you stood to me, and why +you did not put my name in yours, but only said that you left everything +to your wife. You were deliberately insulting me, and deceiving me most +cruelly even then, on the day I thought most sacred.” + +“I thought you were fond of me,” he said, as if he had not heard her +last speech. For a moment she could not answer him. Only a few hours +before, and the deceptions of which she had known him then to be guilty +had but made him dearer to her. She had loved him with all her own +strength, and supposed him to possess it. She had idealized him with her +own goodness, till she had mistaken it for his. It had never occurred to +her that any comfort she gathered in through him was but her own feeling +returning to soothe her a little with its beauty. Now all the glamour +had vanished, she loathed and shrank from him, just as he had done from +her. It was like a death agony. + +“I was fond of you,” she said. “I loved you more than all the world, and +I would have given you my life, I would have worked for your daily +bread. I wanted nothing in the world but you, Alfred; but I am +undeceived. You must go; you must leave me, and at once. I have desired +Jane to pack your things——” + +“I shall stay,” he said, in a tone that made her look up quickly. “I do +not mean to go until I have the money that old Rammage has left you.” + +“You will not have one penny piece of it,” she answered. + +“I will,” he said, with a quiet, determined look she knew well in his +dull eyes. “He has left it to you, and you have left it to me. I mean to +have it.” + +“It is no use trying to intimidate me, Alfred,” she said; “it is too +late. To-morrow I shall make another disposition of my property.” + +“No, you will not,” he said; “for I shall not let you out of my sight +till you are dead, and you will be dead soon.” + +“You will gain nothing by that, Alfred. William Rammage also will make +another disposition of his property to-morrow, for I told him of our +marriage.” + +“No, he will not, Anne” and he looked at her with awful triumph—“for he +is dead already.” + +“Dead already? You are trying to hoodwink me, Alfred; and if it is true +it will not alter my intention or prevent me from carrying it out,” she +answered, determined not to let him know that her promised wealth had +vanished. There was a sound of footsteps, and then the back door closed. +Aunt Anne quaked when she heard it, for she knew that Jane had gone home +without coming to say the usual good-night. He heard it, too, and his +tone altered in a moment. + +“You will have no chance of altering your intention, Anne,” he said, and +went another step towards her. + +“Why?” she asked, with a fearless wink. + +“Because you shall not live to do it”—and he went still a little +nearer; but she did not quail for a moment. “Do you hear?” and he showed +his teeth while he spoke, “you shall not live to do it.” + +“And you think when I am dead that you will go and spend my money with +the woman at Liphook?” + +“Yes,” he said; “I like her, and I loathe you.” He drew the word out as +if he gloated over the sound of it, and an awful look came into his eyes +again. + +“Heaven has frustrated your design,” she said. “Alfred, if you kill me +you will gain nothing by it, and the law will punish you. William +Rammage has burnt his will. He burnt it to-day before my eyes, when he +heard that I had disgraced my family and my name by a marriage with +you.” + +“Burnt it!” He clenched his hands, and struggled to control himself. +“Then I shall go; I shall go—when it suits me. I only wanted your +money. A young man does not marry an old woman for anything but money, +Anne. You are loathsome—loathsome and unwholesome,” he repeated, +watching the effect of every word upon her—“and I have loathed being +with you. I shall go to the other woman. She is my wife; I like her—she +is young, not old and loathsome like you. I only married you for the +sake of your money.” Aunt Anne never moved an inch; she only watched him +steadily, as slowly he brought out his sentences, pausing between each +one. “You have kept me from her all these months,” he went on, +concentrating himself on every word he said; “and now you have taken +from me the money I deserved for being with you—for being with a +wrinkled, withered old woman.” + +She did not move or speak. For a moment he showed his teeth again, then +slowly lifted his hands. + +“Anne,” he said, with a fiendish look in his eyes, but with the calm +gravity of a just avenger, “I am going to strangle you”—and he went +nearer and bent over her. He had no intention of carrying out his +threat, it was a luxury he dared not afford himself, but he wanted to +torture and frighten her till she quailed before him. For only one +moment was his desire satisfied. + +“If you dare to touch me——” she said, and a shriek burst from her. +There was the sound of a door opening and of footsteps entering. + +“Jane!” shouted Aunt Anne, “Jane!” + +Jane opened the door and looked in. + +“If you please, ma’am, I heard Mr. Knox, the policeman, go by, and you +said you wanted him.” + +Alfred Wimple stared at her in astonishment, and his face blanched. Aunt +Anne recovered her self-possession in a moment, though she trembled from +head to foot. + +“If you will ask him to stay in the kitchen, I will speak to him,” she +said. Then she turned to Alfred Wimple again. + +“You will only get yourself laughed at,” he said. + +She was silent a moment; she saw what was in his thoughts and took +advantage of it. + +“You do not deserve my clemency,” she said, “but I will extend it to +you, provided you go from the house this minute. If you do not I shall +take measures to punish you.” + +He was trembling, and could not speak. + +She opened the door. “Jane,” she called, “get Mr. Wimple’s portmanteau; +have you put everything into it?” + +“Everything but the slippers. It’s raining, ma’am,” Jane added, not in +the least understanding what was going on. But Aunt Anne had shut the +door, and turned to Alfred Wimple again. + +“Now you will go,” she said. + +“I cannot go in the rain,” he answered, and made a sound in his throat; +“you know how bad my cough is. You cannot turn me out in this weather. I +was angry just now; but I did not mean it. I was only trying to frighten +you.” + +“You will go immediately,” she said; “you shall not remain another hour +under my roof.” + +“It will kill me to go in this rain,” he said doggedly. + +“You would have killed me when you thought you would get William +Rammage’s money by it; and just now you threatened me, Alfred. You are +not fit to remain another hour in the same house with the woman you have +wronged, and you shall not. Your coat is in the hall, ready for +you”—and she went towards the door. “You will go this very moment, and +you will never venture to come near me again.” + +“I have been coughing all day,” he almost pleaded, utterly confounded by +the turn things had taken. + +“I brought you some lozenges from London, before I knew all your +baseness”—and she fumbled in her pocket. “Here they are, and you can +take them with you.” She put them down before him on the table, and went +slowly out to the kitchen. “Officer,” she said, “I will not detain you +about the wood this evening. I want you to walk with Mr. Wimple as far +as Steggall’s, and see him into a waggonette; and there,” she added, in +a low voice, “is a half-crown to recompense you for your trouble.” + +“It’s very wet, ma’am; is the gentleman obliged to go to-night?” + +“Yes”—and, winking sternly, she opened the street door wide. “Yes, he +is obliged to go to-night.” With a puzzled air Jane picked up the +portmanteau. Alfred Wimple took it from her with sulky reluctance. For a +moment they all stood looking out at the blackness of the fir-trees and +listened to the falling rain. Aunt Anne turned to the little hat-stand +in the hall. “Here is an umbrella, Alfred,” she said, “and you have your +lozenges. Good-night, officer”—and she did not say another word. Alfred +Wimple gave her a long look of cowed and baffled hatred, as he went out, +followed by the policeman. She shut the door, double-locked it, and drew +the bolts at the top and bottom—it was the last sound that Wimple heard +as he left the cottage. + +For a moment she stood still, listening to his footsteps; she waited to +hear the click of the gate as it shut behind them. Then, with a strange, +dazed manner, as if she were not quite sure that she was awake, she went +back to the drawing-room. + +“If you please, ma’am,” asked the servant, “isn’t Mr. Wimple coming back +to-night?—for you won’t like being left alone, and I don’t know what to +do about mother.” + +“You can go to her,” Aunt Anne answered. A desperate longing to be alone +was upon her; she wanted to think quietly, and it seemed impossible to +do so while any one remained beneath the same roof with her. She was +impatient for a spell of loneliness before she died. She felt that she +was going to die, that she had heard her death-sentence in the shed +beyond the valley. There was no gainsaying it—shame and agony were +going to kill her. But first she wanted to be alone, to realize all that +had happened, and how it had come about. She remembered suddenly, but +only for a moment, that Alfred had stated that Sir William Rammage was +dead. It was untrue, of course—Alfred could not have known. Besides, +William Rammage’s life or death concerned her no longer; in his money +she took no further interest. She only wanted to be alone and to think. +“You can go to your mother, Jane,” she repeated; “I wish to be left +alone; I have a predilection for solitude.” + +“Yes, ma’am,” the girl answered hesitatingly—“and you said I was to +remind you about the wages; I wouldn’t, only mother’s bad.” + +“I will pay them.” She opened her purse and counted out the few silver +coins left in it. “I must remain a sixpence in your debt; this is all +the change I have for the moment.” She put her empty purse down on the +table, and knew that she had not a penny left in the world. For a moment +she was silent; she looked puzzled, as if she were doing a mental sum. +Then she looked up. “Jane,” she said, “you can take the remains of the +chicken and the sole to your mother, and anything else that was left +from dinner. I shall not require it.” She dreaded seeing the things that +Alfred Wimple had touched. She felt that, even down to the smallest +detail, she must rid herself of all that had had to do with her life of +shame and disgrace, and there was not much time left her in which to do +it. She must begin at once: when she had made her life clean and +spotless again she would look up and meet death unabashed. + +“I am ready, ma’am,” Jane said presently, and looked in, with her basket +on her arm. Aunt Anne got up and followed her to the back door, in order +to see that it was made fast. She shook with fear when she beheld the +night. Under that sky and through the darkness Alfred Wimple was making +his way to Liphook. The very air seemed to have pollution in it. She +retreated thankfully to the covering of the cottage; but the stillness +appalled her, once she was wholly alone in it. She stood in the hall for +a moment and listened: there was not a sound. She waited for a moment at +the foot of the stairs and remembered Alfred’s room above, from which +every trace of him had been removed, but she had not courage to mount +the stairs. She went back into the little drawing-room and shut the +door, and taking up her empty purse from beside the candlestick put it +into her pocket. As in the morning, her hand touched something that +should not be there; but she knew what it was this time, and pulled it +out quickly. It was the blue tie that she had kissed in the train. With +almost a cry of horror, as if it were a deadly snake, she threw it on +the fire and held it down with the poker, as William Rammage had held +down his burning will. As she did so her eyes caught the wedding-ring on +her left hand; in a moment she had pulled it off her trembling finger +and put it in the fire too. The flame blazed and smouldered and died +away, and her excitement with it. But she had not strength to rise from +the floor on which she had been kneeling; she pulled the cushion down +from the back of the easy-chair, and sank, a miserable heap, upon the +rug. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + + +During the days that followed she was shut up in the cottage alone; and +no one entered save Jane Mitchell, who came in the morning to light the +fire while the remnant of coal lasted, and then was sent away. + +“I shall not require you any more,” she said to Lucas, when he came to +ask if she wanted the pony. She was covered with shame, and could never +drive along the roads again. + +“No, I do not need any provisions,” she said to Jane Mitchell, who +offered to do some shopping for her; “I have sufficient in the house, +and I will not trouble you to come again, Jane, until this day +week”—and, having securely fastened the outer doors, she went to the +drawing-room. + +“I shall be dead by then,” she thought, “and Jane will find me.” + +She was terribly ill, but she did not know it. The cold and the damp of +that long day in London and afterwards had laid hold on her. She +coughed, and knew that swift pains went through her, and a load was on +her chest, but she had no time to notice these things. She had had no +food for days. Save a little milk in a cup, and some bread, there was +nothing left when Jane Mitchell took her departure. She was being slowly +starved; she knew it, and did not care. The awful shame, the misery, the +agony, that had overtaken her, stifled all other feelings, and were +killing her; she knew that, too, and waited for death. Everything had +gone out of her life; there was nothing to come into it more. She had +been proud of her memories, her unsullied past, her own +spotlessness—“Now it is all gone,” she said to herself. Every memory +was a reproach or was hideous. She sat on one of the chairs before the +drawing-room fireplace, and thought and thought and thought, till she +could bear it no longer. It seemed as if pain were stamping the life out +of her, as if she must be dying; she could feel that she was dying; but +life remained by a little, and grew keen, and tortured her again. The +key was turned in the lock of Alfred Wimple’s room, but his touch was on +everything in the house; and a shrinking from it was her strongest +feeling concerning him. Even the sight of a cup from which he had drunk +made her shudder more than the bitter cold. “The place is contaminated,” +she said to herself; “it is poisoned.” Sometimes for a few minutes a +little tenderness would try to push its way into her heart again, but +she shrank from that most of all, and with horror and loathing of +herself. She was bowed down with disgrace. She felt as if by even living +she was committing an offence against the whole world. There was no one +she was fit to see; she had no right of any sort left, no business to be +in the light; and there was no place in which she could hide. The nights +were worst of all, they were so long and still; and when she had used +the two candles left in the dining-room she had no means of shortening +them even by an hour. Then, quaking, she lay on the hard sofa in the +drawing-room, while the darkness gathered round, and the cold fastened +its sharpest fangs into her. In those long hours she suffered not only +her own reproaches, but the reproaches of the dead—of the dear ones she +had loved in bygone years. From every corner they seemed to +come—through the closed door and in at the curtained windows; troops of +them—till she could bear it no longer, and dared not see the darkness +that seemed to be growing white with their faces. But when she closed +her eyes it was no better: they came a little closer and touched her +with their hands, as if they would push her a little farther into space; +she was not fit to be among them. The friends of her girlhood, with whom +she had played and shared her little secrets, came from the strange +world into which they had carried the memory of their own blameless +lives. They looked at her reproachfully, and went away; she would never +be one of them now, even in eternity. And there was one more; she could +see him coming softly through the shadows. He stood beside her, and she +cowered and hid her face. Then she knew that he was sorry and understood +that, in some grotesque manner, it had been done half for love of him. +It comforted her a little to think this, while she turned her face down +to the cushion, and sobbed, “Forgive me, I am so ashamed—so ashamed.” +At last, perhaps, she would ache with fever and cold, and the sharp +pains went through her again. She welcomed these almost lovingly, +thinking that perhaps they meant the coming of the end; and gradually, +as the morning broke, she would doze off into a weary sleep. + +Sometimes a ghastly fear would seize her that Alfred Wimple was coming +back. She could hear his footsteps going round the house; she fancied he +was creeping beneath the verandah, that he was trying the window. He +wanted to come in and strangle her. She could feel his long hands +closing round her throat, and put up her own to draw them, finger by +finger, away. It was not the killing she would mind, but the pollution +of his touch. + +Through the day she wandered from room to room—now looking at the table +at which he had sat the last night of all; or seeing him, with his back +to the buttery-hatch, eating the sole and the chicken she had brought +from London; or standing in the doorway, when he came afterwards and +asked her for the evening paper. She went to the window and looked at +the garden, and the pathway down to the dip; but this was more than she +could bear, and she would turn away and sit down by the empty fireplace +again. She grew hungry once; a terrible craving for food came over her. +She gathered some sticks together, and made a fire, all the time seeing +strange visions and grinning fiends that mocked her. She took them to be +the punishment of her sin—for sin she counted all that she had +done—but in reality they were but signs of the illness and starvation +that were contending for the mastery of her. She put a little water on +to boil over the blazing sticks, and watched it greedily. She made some +tea, with trembling eagerness, and found a new excitement in the +strength it gave her; but when the fire had died away, and an hour had +passed, she was prostrate again. Gradually she became so ill that she +could scarcely drag herself from the drawing-room to the kitchen; the +sense of being unfit to stay in the world grew upon her—a dread of +seeing people, a haunting fear of some one coming to the door. But no +one came through all those terrible days except, once or twice, Jane +Mitchell, only to be told that “her services were not required.” + +She thought of Walter and Florence sometimes, and was afraid of their +coming back. She could never look them in the face again, or dare to +speak to them, or see the children. Just as before she had exaggerated +her own importance in the world and her own virtue, now she exaggerated +her own disgrace. She knew what the women she had once despised felt +like—“I was never lenient,” she said to herself. “I was very harsh, as +if they had gone out of their way to do wrong. I ought to have shown +them more clemency”—and as she said this, there came before her the +face of Mrs. North. She sat and looked at it. “She was young, and there +was excuse for her; and I am old, yet could not forgive her. I will make +atonement now. I will write and tell her.” Her fingers were so weak she +could hardly hold the pen, but she managed to put down a little entreaty +for forgiveness. “I ought to have been more gentle to you,” she wrote. +“I know that now, for I have been as frail”—she stopped and gave a sad +little wink at the word—“as you. I know what your sufferings have been +by my own, and can pity your humiliation.” The letter remained on the +table—she almost forgot it; fever and blackness filled her life—she +could scarcely walk across the room. + +The morning brought the postman, with a letter from Walter and Florence. +“Would you put a postage-stamp on this for me?” she said, giving him the +one for Mrs. North. “I will repay you the next time you come; I have no +change for the moment.” + +She put the letter with the Monte Carlo postmark on the mantelpiece, and +stood looking at the familiar handwriting, and imagining them together +beneath the blue sky, Walter in high spirits, and Florence with her +pretty hair plaited round her head. “Dear children,” she said. “He is +growing more and more like his father.” She closed her eyes for a +moment; her limbs swayed and gave way beneath her; and she fell from +sheer weakness, and could make no effort to rise. Presently she pulled +the cushion down, and lay on the rug again as she had on the night of +Alfred Wimple’s departure. She did not know how the day passed—probably +most of it went in forgetfulness. The next afternoon came, and she had +not noticed the hours. + +The click of the gate, and footsteps coming towards the house—Aunt Anne +struggled up, panting, and listened—a quick knock at the door. She +hesitated, raised herself to her feet by the armchair, and went out, but +could not gather courage to undo the lock. + +“Who is it?” she asked. + +“Let me in,” cried a voice that was familiar enough, though she could +not identify it. She bowed her head—she was about to be looked at in +all her humiliation—and, with trembling hands, opened the door. + +Mrs. North walked in, with a happy laugh. She was perfectly dressed, as +usual, and carried a white basket. + +“My dear old lady,” she said, “what is the matter? Your letter +frightened me out of my senses. I came off the moment it arrived. You +poor old darling, what is the matter? Why, you can’t stand—I must carry +you.” She supported the old lady back into the drawing-room—cheerless +and cold enough it looked; that was the first impression Mrs. North had +of it—and sat down beside her on the sofa. + +“My love,” the old lady said, “I wrote to ask your forgiveness; it was +due to you that I should, for I am worse than you. If I was harsh to you +once, you may be harsh to me now.” + +Mrs. North pressed her hand. + +“But you are ill, dear Mrs. Wimple,” she said. + +Aunt Anne looked up, with a start of horror. + +“I must ask you never to call me by that name again; it is not mine. It +is the symbol of my disgrace. It is my greatest punishment to remember +that I ever for a single moment bore it.” And then she broke down, and, +dropping her head on Mrs. North’s shoulder, sobbed as if her heart would +break. + +“You dear—you poor old dear,” Mrs. North said, stroking the scanty gray +hair; “I can’t bear to see you cry—you mustn’t do it; you are ill. Who +is here with you?” + +“There is no one here. I am not fit to have any one with me. I am all +alone.” + +“All alone!” + +“Yes”—and she shook her head. + +“Then I shall stay and take care of you, and nurse you, and make you +quite well again. You know I always cared for you, dear old lady”—and +Mrs. North kissed her tenderly. + +“And I treated you with so much severity,” Aunt Anne said ruefully. + +“It was very good for me. And now,” Mrs. North said, in her sweet, +coaxing voice, “put your feet up on the sofa; you are trembling and +shaking with cold. Why, you have no fire; let us go into another room +where there is one.” + +“There is no fire in the house,” Aunt Anne answered. “The weather is +very mild; moreover, the coal-cellar needs replenishing. I have not been +sufficiently well to do it.” + +“No fire!—and you evidently suffering from bronchitis. Oh, you do +indeed need to be looked after. Have you no servant here?” Mrs. North +was rapidly taking in the whole situation. + +“No, my dear. I wished to be alone.” + +“But this is terrible. We must set everything to rights. You appear to +be killing yourself. I don’t believe you have anything to eat and drink +in the house.” + +“No. I have been too ill to require nourishment; I regret that I cannot +ask you to stay——” + +“Oh, but I am going to stay——” + +“No, my love, I cannot allow it——” Aunt Anne began tremblingly. + +Mrs. North looked at her, almost in despair. Then she took off her hat +and gloves, and stood for a moment, a lovely picture in the middle of +the dreary room, before she knelt down by Aunt Anne. + +“Let me stay with you,” she pleaded, taking the two thin hands in hers; +“you were always so good to me. I know that something terrible has +happened to you; you shall tell me what it is by-and-by, when you are +better. Now I want to take care of you; and you will let me, won’t you?” + +“You shall do anything you like, my dear,” Aunt Anne gasped, too weak to +offer resistance. + +Then Mrs. North went out to the fly, which was still waiting at the +gate, and found Jane Mitchell, who, attracted by the unusual sight, was +talking to the driver. + +“I want some coals sent at once, and a servant.” + +“I was the servant, if you please, ma’am; only Mrs. Wimple said she +didn’t want me,” remarked Jane. + +“Then go in immediately and make a fire,” answered Mrs. North, +imperiously; “and if there are no coals get some, from a shop or your +mother’s cottage or anywhere else. There must be shops in the village. +Order tea and sugar, and everything else you can think of. I will send +to London for my maid and cook, to come and help you. Make haste and +light a fire in the drawing-room. Where is my shawl? Here, driver, take +this telegram; and order these things from the village, and say they are +wanted instantly”—she had written the list on the leaf of a note-book; +“and this is for your trouble,” she added. + +“Now, you dear old lady,” she said, going back to her, “let me put this +shawl over your feet first, for we must make you warm. Consider that I +have adopted you.” In a moment she ran upstairs, and searched for a soft +pillow to put under Aunt Anne’s head, and then produced some grapes and +jelly from the basket which, with a certain foresight, she had brought +with her. Aunt Anne sucked in a little of the jelly almost eagerly, and +as she did so Mrs. North realized that she had only just come in time. +“We must send for a doctor,” she thought; “but I am afraid that +everything is too late.” + +In twenty-four hours the cottage looked like another place. Mrs. North’s +cook had taken possession of the kitchen; a comfortable-looking, +middle-aged maid went up and down the stairs; the windows were open, +though there were fires burning in all the grates. There were good +things in the larder, and an atmosphere of home was everywhere. Aunt +Anne was bewildered, but Mrs. North looked quite happy. + +“I have taken possession of you,” she explained, the second morning +after she came. “You ought to have sent for me sooner. In fact, you +ought never to have left me. You only got into mischief, and so did I.” + +“Yes, my dear,” said Aunt Anne, feebly, “we both did.” + +Mrs. North’s lips quivered for a moment. + +“It shows that we ought to have stayed together,” she said, half crying. +“Perhaps I should have been better if you had not gone. Oh, I shall +never forget all you told me this morning.” + +For Aunt Anne, in sheer desperation, as well as in penitent love and +gratitude, had poured out the whole history of her life since she left +Cornwall Gardens, and Mrs. North’s keen perception and quick sympathy +had filled in any outlines that had been left a little vague. + +“We know each other so well now, I don’t think I ought to call you Mrs. +Baines any longer. I want to call you something else.” + +“Let it be anything you like, my dear.” + +“What does the Madon—Mrs. Hibbert, call you? But I know; she calls you +‘Aunt Anne.’ Let me do the same?” + +“Yes, dear, you shall call me Aunt Anne.” + +“Oh, I am so glad to be with you,” Mrs. North went on. “I have longed +sometimes to put down my head on your lap and cry. I have been just as +miserable as you have—more, a thousand times more; for my shame”—she +liked indulging Aunt Anne in her estimate of her own conduct—“has been +all my own wicked doing, but yours was only a sad mistake. I don’t think +we ought to be separated any more, Aunt Anne; we ought to live together, +and take care of each other.” + +“My dear,” said the old lady, still lying on the sofa, “there will be no +living for me; I am going to die.” + +“Oh no,” Mrs. North answered, with a little gasp, “you are going to live +and be taken care of, and loved properly. I wish the doctor would come +again. Then I should speak on medical authority. Go to sleep a little +while; I will sit by you.” + +An hour passed. Aunt Anne opened her eyes. + +“Could you put me by the fire, my dear? I am very cold.” + +“Yes, of course I can; but wait a moment. Clarke will come and help me. +Clarke,” she called, “I want you to come and help me to move Mrs. +Baines. + +“Now you look more comfortable,” she said, when it was done. “There is a +footstool for your feet, and the peacock beside you to keep you +company.” + +Aunt Anne sat still for a moment, looking at the fire. + +“My dear,” she said presently, “I have been thinking of what you said; +we have both suffered very much; we ought to be together. Only now you +have the hope of a new life before you. But we have both suffered,” she +repeated. + +Mrs. North knelt down beside her with a long sigh. “Suffered,” she said. +“Oh, dear old lady, if you only knew what I have suffered; the +loneliness of my girlhood, the misery of my marriage, the perpetual +hunger for happiness, the struggle to get it. And oh! the longing to be +loved, and the madness when love came, and then—then—but you know,” +she whispered, passionately—“I need not go over it; the shame, and the +publicity, and the relief I dared not to acknowledge even to myself, +when I was set free. And then the awful dread that even he, the man for +whom I did it all, would perhaps despise me as the rest of the world +did. I am not wicked naturally, I am not, indeed; I don’t think any +woman on this green earth has loved beautiful things and longed to do +righteous things, more than I have, or felt the misery of failure more +bitterly.” + +“It will come right now, my love,” Aunt Anne said gently. “You are +young; it will all come right. You said you had a telegram, and that he +was coming back?” + +“Yes, he is coming back,” Mrs. North answered, in a low voice; “but I do +not want him to set it right because I did the wrong for him, or just to +make reparation from a sense of honour. I do not want to spoil his life; +for some people will cut him if he marries me; it is only—only—if he +loves me still, and more than all the world, as I do him—that is the +only chance of it all coming right. It is time I had a letter. But here +is your beef-tea. Let us try and forget all our troubles, and get a +little peace together.” She looked up with an April-day smile, took the +beef-tea from Clarke, and, holding it before Aunt Anne, watched with +satisfaction every mouthful she took. + +“I fear I give you a great deal of trouble,” the old lady said +gratefully. + +“It isn’t trouble”—and the tears came to her eyes; “it is blessedness. +I never had any one before to serve and wait on whom I loved; even my +hands are sensible of the happiness of everything they do for you. It is +new life. But now we have talked too much, and you must go to sleep.” + +“Yes, my love,” and Aunt Anne put her head back on the pillow; “I will +do as you desire, but you are very autocratic.” + +“Of course.” Mrs. North laughed at hearing the familiar word, and then +went to the dining-room for a little spell of quietness. + +“Clarke,” she said to the maid who had been waiting there, “go in and +watch by Mrs. Baines; she must not be left alone.” + +Mrs. North sat down on the chair that Aunt Anne had pulled out for +Alfred Wimple after her return from London. + +“Oh, I wonder if it will come right?” she said to herself. “If it +does—if it does—if it does! But I ought to have had a letter by this +time; it is long enough since the telegram from Bombay. Something tells +me that it will come right; I think that is the meaning of the happiness +that has forced itself upon me lately. It is no use trying to be +miserable any longer. Happiness seems to be coming near and nearer. I +have a sense of forgiveness in my heart; surely I know what it means? +Perhaps, as Aunt Anne says, all I have suffered has been an atonement +for the wrong. One little letter, and I shall be content. The dear old +lady shall never go away from me; she shall just be made as happy as +possible.” She got up and went to the window, and leaned out towards the +garden. “Those trees at the end,” she said to herself, “surely must hide +the way down to the dip, where she listened. It is very lovely +to-day”—and she looked up at the sky; “but I wish the doctor would +come, I should feel more satisfied.” There was a footstep. “Yes, Clarke; +is anything the matter? Why have you come? You look quite pale.” + +“Mrs. Baines is going to die, ma’am; I am certain of it.” + +“Going to die?” Mrs. North’s face turned white, and she went towards the +door. + +“I don’t mean this minute, ma’am; but just now she opened her eyes and +looked round as if she didn’t see, and then she picked at her dress as +dying people do at the sheet—it’s a sure sign. Besides, she is black +round the mouth. I don’t believe she will live three days.” + +Mrs. North clasped her hands, with fear. + +“I wish she would stay in bed; the doctor said she ought to do so +yesterday; but she seemed better, and begged so hard to come down this +morning that I gave way.” + +“It’s another sign,” said the maid; “they always want to get up towards +the last.” + +“The doctor promised he would be here by twelve, and now it is nearly +two.” + +He came an hour later. “She must be taken upstairs at once,” he said; so +they carried her up, Clarke and the doctor between them, while Mrs. +North followed anxiously; and all of them knew that Aunt Anne would +never walk down the stairs again. + +Then a telegram was sent to Florence and Walter at Monte Carlo. + +But she was a little better in the evening, and Mrs. North brightened up +as she saw it. Perhaps Clarke was a foolish croaker, and signs were +foolish things to trouble one’s self about. The old lady might live, +after all, and there would be some happiness yet. + +“No, Aunt Anne, you are not going to get up yet,” she said next morning, +in answer to an inquiring look; “you must wait until the doctor has +been; remember it is my turn to be autocratic.” + +“Yes, my love,” and she dozed off. Half her time was spent in sleep. +Since Mrs. North’s arrival there had stolen over her a gradual +contentment, as if a crisis had occurred, and the blackness of the past +grown dim. Perhaps it was giving place to all that was in her heart, or +to the sound of Mrs. North’s fresh young voice, and the loving touch of +her hand. Be it what it might, Alfred Wimple and the misery that he had +caused seemed to have gone farther and farther away, while peacefulness +was stealing over her. “It is like being with my dear Florence and +Walter,” she said to Mrs. North once—“only perhaps you understand even +better than they could, for you have gone through the pain.” + +“Yes, dear Aunt Anne, I have gone through the pain”—and Mrs. North sat +waiting for the doctor again, not that she was very uneasy to-day, for +the old lady was a little better, and hope grows up quickly when youth +passes by. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER X. + + +The sound of the door-bell, and of some one being shown into the +drawing-room. + +“The doctor has come, Aunt Anne,” Mrs. North said. “I will invigorate +myself with a talk before I bring him to you, and tell him that you are +much better.” But instead of the doctor she found a little, +dried-up-looking old gentleman standing in the middle of the room, +holding his hat and umbrella in one hand. She looked at him inquiringly. + +“I understood that Mrs. Baines was here,” he said. Mrs. North looked up, +with expectation. “I have come from London expressly to see her on +important business. I was solicitor to the late Sir William Rammage,” he +added. Mrs. North’s spirits revived. This looked like a new and exciting +phase of the story. + +“Are you Mr. Boughton?” + +“I am Mr. Boughton,” and he made her a formal little bow. “I see you +understand——” + +“Oh yes,” she said eagerly; “and the ex-Lord Mayor was the old lady’s +cousin. I regret to say that she is very ill in bed, and cannot possibly +see you, but I should be happy to deliver any message.” Mr. Boughton +looked at her, with benevolent criticism, and thought her a most +beautiful young woman. She meanwhile grasped the whole situation to her +own satisfaction. That horrid Lord Mayor, as she mentally called Sir +William, had probably told his solicitor all about Alfred Wimple; and +the little dried-up gentleman before her, who was (as she had instantly +remembered) the uncle, had come to see how the land lay. Mrs. North felt +as convinced as Sir William had done that the whole affair was a +conspiracy between the uncle and nephew, and she promptly determined to +make Mr. Boughton as uncomfortable as possible. + +“I quite understand the business on which you have come to see Mrs. +Baines,” she said, with decision, but with a twinkle of mischief she +could not help in her eyes. “You have heard, of course, that the conduct +of your delightful nephew, Mr. Alfred Wimple, is entirely found out.” + +“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Boughton, astonished out of his senses. +“What has he to do with Mrs. Baines?” + +“You perhaps approved of his romantic marriage?” Mrs. North inquired +politely. She was enjoying herself enormously. + +“His romantic marriage!” exclaimed the lawyer. “I know nothing about it. +My dear madam, what do you mean? Is that scoundrel married?” + +“Most certainly he is married,” Mrs. North went on; “and, as far as I +can gather particulars from Mrs. Baines, your charming niece is a +dressmaker at Liphook.” + +“At Liphook!” exclaimed Mr. Boughton, more and more astonished; +“why—why——” + +“Where she lives with her grandmother,” continued Mrs. North, in the +most amiable voice. “Her mother, I understand, lets lodgings in the +Gray’s Inn Road, and it was Mr. Wimple’s kind intention to pay the +amount he owes her out of Mrs. Baines’s fortune.” + +“Good gracious!—that was the woman who came to me the other day. I +never heard of such a thing in my life. How did he get hold of Mrs. +Baines?” There was something so genuine in his bewilderment that Mrs. +North began to believe in his honesty, but she was determined not to be +taken in too easily. + +“The details are most exciting, and will be exceedingly edifying in a +court of justice. Now may I inquire why you so particularly wish to see +the old lady?” + +“I came to see her about the late Sir William Rammage,” Mr. Boughton +said, finding it difficult to collect his scattered wits after Mrs. +North’s information. + +“Is he really dead, then?” she asked politely. + +“Most certainly; he died on the fifth, and Mrs. Baines——” + +“She is much too ill to see anybody; and as I understand he burnt his +will, and has not left her any money, it is hardly worth while to worry +her with particulars of his unlamented death.” + +“Burnt his will? Yes, for some extraordinary reason he did—so Charles, +the man-servant, tells me—he did it in her presence. He had no time to +make another, for the agitation caused by her visit killed him.” + +“Or perhaps it was the mercy of Providence,” remarked Mrs. North. + +Mr. Boughton did not heed the remark, but asked— + +“May I inquire if you are in Mrs. Baines’s confidence?” + +“Entirely,” she answered decisively. + +“Then I may tell you that no former will has been found, and she is +next-of-kin. There are no other relations at all, I believe, and she +will therefore inherit about three times as much as if the burnt will +had remained in existence.” + +“Really!”—and Mrs. North clapped her hands for joy. And then the tears +came into her eyes. “Oh, but it is too late, for she is dying; nothing +can save her; she is dying. I have telegraphed to her nephew and niece +to come back from Monte Carlo. She has had a terrible shock, from which +she will never recover; and besides that she has virtually starved +herself and taken a hundred colds. She has not the strength of a fly +left. I know she is dying,” Mrs. North added, with almost a sob. + +“Don’t you think that the good news I bring might save her life?” + +“No; and I am not sure that it would be good to save her life, she has +suffered so cruelly. What a wicked old man Sir William Rammage was!” she +burst out, and looked up sympathetically at Mr. Boughton. + +“He was my client,” the lawyer urged. + +“He allowed the poor old lady to starve for want of money, and now that +he is dead and she is dying it comes to her.” + +“Yes, it is very unfortunate—very unfortunate.” + +“Everything seems to be a point of view,” Mrs. North went on, in the +eager manner which so often characterized her. “Poverty is the point of +view from which we look at the riches we cannot get; from vice we look +at virtue which we cannot attain; from hell we look at the heaven we +cannot reach. Perhaps Sir William Rammage would appreciate the latter +part of the remark now”—she said the last words between laughter and +tears. + +“My dear madam,” Mr. Boughton exclaimed, in rather a shocked voice, +“pray don’t let us begin a discussion. To go back to Mrs. Baines, I +think if I could see her——” + +“It is quite impossible; you would remind her of your horrible nephew, +and that would kill her.” + +“What on earth has she got to do with my nephew?”—and this time his +manner convinced Mrs. North that he was not an impostor. + +“Mr. Boughton,” she said gravely, “the old lady is very, very ill. The +doctor says she cannot live, and I fear that the sight of you would kill +her straight off; but, if you like, I will go and sound her, and find +out if she is strong enough to bear a visit from you”—and, the lawyer +having agreed to this, Mrs. North went upstairs. + +“Dearest old lady”—her girlish voice had always a tender note in it +when she spoke to Aunt Anne—“I have some good news for you—very good +news. Do you think you could bear to hear it?” + +“Yes, my love,” Aunt Anne answered wheezily, “but you must forgive me if +I am sceptical as to its goodness.” + +Mrs. North knelt down by the bedside, and stroked the thin hands. “Mr. +Boughton is downstairs; he has come to tell you that Sir William Rammage +is dead.” + +“Then it is true,” Mrs. Baines said sadly. “Poor William! My dear, we +once lay in the same cradle together, while our mothers watched beside +it—what does Mr. Boughton say about Alfred?” + +“He doesn’t appear to know anything about his wickedness.” + +“I felt sure he did not; I never believed in the depravity of human +nature.” + +“Then how would you account for Mr. Wimple?” she asked, with much +interest. + +The old lady considered for a moment. + +“Perhaps he was my punishment for all I did in the past. I have thought +that lately, and tried to bear it—only it is more than I can bear. It +has humiliated me too much. Tell me why Mr. Boughton has come; is it +anything about Alfred?” + +“Nothing,” was the emphatic answer; “and if you see him I advise you not +to mention Mr. Wimple’s name.” + +“My dear,” Aunt Anne said impressively, “except to yourself, his name +will never pass my lips again. I feel that it is desecration to my dear +Walter and Florence to mention it in their house. I shall never forgive +myself for having brought him into it. But perhaps all I have suffered +is some expiation; you and I have both felt that about our frailty”—and +she shook her head. “What is the good news?” + +“Mr. Boughton brought it, and it is about Sir William’s money.” + +Mrs. Baines was silent for a moment; then she looked up, with a little +wink, and a smile came to her lips. “I should like to see him,” she +said. “But will you help me to get up first? I think if I could sit by +the open window I should be better.” + +“Perhaps you would, you dear; it’s warm enough for summer. Let me help +you into your dressing-gown. Stay, you shall wear mine. It is very +smart, with lavender bows; quite proper half-mourning for a cousin. +There—now—gently”—and she helped the old lady into the easy-chair by +the window. It was a long business, but at last she was safely there, +with the sunshine falling on her, and the soft lace and lavender ribbons +of Mrs. North’s dressing-gown about her poor old neck. + +“And are you sure it’s good news, my love?” she asked Mrs. North. + +“I am quite sure,” Mrs. North answered, as she tucked an eider-down +quilt round Aunt Anne. “He has come from London on purpose to bring it +to you.” + +“Has he partaken of any refreshment since he arrived?” + +“No; but I will have some ready for him when he comes down from his talk +with you. Now you shall have your _tête-à-tête_”—and Mrs. North went +back to the lawyer. + +“You must break it to her very, very gently, and you mustn’t be more +than five or ten minutes with her,” she said, as she took him up to the +bedroom door. + +Aunt Anne was so much fatigued with the exertion of getting up that she +found it a hard matter to receive Mr. Boughton with all the courtesy she +desired to show him. She took the news of her fortune very quietly; it +did not even excite her. + +“It is too late,” she said. “Nothing can solace me for what I have lost; +but it will enable me to make provision for my dear Walter and +Florence.” Her eyes closed; her head sank on her breast; she put out her +hand towards the window, as if to clutch at something that was not +there. + +Mr. Boughton saw it, and understood. + +“I cannot repay you for your kindness and consideration,” she went on +presently. “Even when I have discharged my pecuniary obligation I shall +still remain your debtor. But there are some things I should like to do. +I wish Mrs. North to have a sum of money; I will tell her my wishes in +regard to it.” + +“Perhaps I had better return in a day or two. You must forgive me for +saying, my dear madam, that, with the vast sum that is now at your +disposal, you ought to make a will immediately. I could take +instructions now if you like.” + +“Instructions?” she repeated, with a puzzled air; “I will give them all +to Mrs. North, and you can take them from her. You will not think me +inhospitable if I ask you to leave me now, Mr. Boughton? I am very +tired. Tell me, did they send for you when William Rammage died?” + +“They telegraphed for me immediately, and when I got to the office I +found your letter waiting for me—the one you wrote before you left +London, giving me your address here.” She did not hear him; her eyes had +closed again, and her chin rested down on the lavender ribbons; the +sunshine came in and lighted up her face, and that which Mr. Boughton +saw written on it was unmistakable. + +“You are quite right, my dear madam,” he said to Mrs. North, as he sat +partaking of the refreshment Aunt Anne had devised for him; “it has come +too late.” + +He looked at his watch when he had finished. “I have only a quarter of +an hour to stay,” he said. “Before I go, would you give me some +explanation of the extraordinary statements you made on my arrival?” + +“You shall have it,” Mrs. North answered eagerly; “but wait one moment, +till I have taken this egg and wine to Mrs. Baines and seen that the +maid is with her.” + +“That’s a remarkably handsome girl,” the lawyer thought, when she had +disappeared; “I wonder where I have heard her name before, and who she +is?” But this speculation was entirely forgotten when he heard the story +of his nephew’s doings of the last few months. “God bless my soul!” he +exclaimed; “why, he might be sent to prison with hard labour—and serve +him right, the scoundrel.” + +“I am delighted to hear you say it,” Mrs. North answered impulsively. +“Please shake hands with me. I am ashamed to say I thought it all a +conspiracy, even after you came, and that is why I was so disagreeable.” + +“Conspiracy, my dear madam?—why, the last thing I did to Wimple was to +kick him out of my office; and I have been worried by his duns ever +since. As for the will she made in his favour, get it destroyed at once, +or he may give us no end of trouble yet. She has virtually given me +instructions for a new one. I told her I would come in a day or two, but +I think it would be safer to come to-morrow. It will have to be rather +late in the day, I am afraid, but I can sleep at the inn. In the +meantime get the other will destroyed. Why, bless me! if she died +to-night it might make an awful scandal; I would not have it happen for +all I am worth.” + +Mr. Boughton departed; and the doctor came, and gave so bad a report +that Mrs. North sent off yet another telegram to Walter and +Florence—this time in London—asking them not to waste a moment on +their arrival, but to come straight to Witley. And then the second post +brought her the morning’s letters which had been sent on. Among them was +one with the Naples postmark, which she tore open with feverish haste +and could scarcely read for tears of joy. + +“I could not write before,” it said. “I am detained here by a friend’s +illness; but now that I am thus far I send you just a line to say I +shall be with you soon, and I shall never leave you again. I hate to +think of it all. The fault was mine, and the suffering has been yours. +But I love you, and only live to make you reparation.” + +“It is too much happiness to bear,” she said, with a sob. “It is all I +wanted, that he should love me—I must write this minute, or he will +wonder”—and she got out her blotting-case, just as she did at the hotel +at Marseille—it seemed as if that scene had been a suggestion of +this—and, kneeling down by the table, wrote— + +“I am here with Mrs. Baines, and she is dying. I have just—just had +your letter. Oh, the joy of it! What can I say or do?—you know +everything that is in my heart better than words can write it down.” + +She sealed it up; and, seizing her hat, went once round the garden, for +the cottage seemed too small a house to hold so great a happiness as +that which had come upon her. She looked up to the sky, and thought how +blessed it was to be beneath it, and away at the larches and fir-trees, +and wondered if he and she would ever walk between them. Something told +her that they would if—if all came right, if she found that he loved +her so much that he could not live without her. They would lead such +ideal lives; they would do their very best for every one, and make so +many people happy, and cover up the past with all the good that love +would surely put it into their hearts to do. “It would be too much to +bear,” she said to herself; “it is too much to think of yet. I will go +back to my dear old lady, and comfort her.” + +Aunt Anne was much better for her interview with Mr. Boughton. The +excitement had done her good, and some of her little consequential ways +had returned with the knowledge of her wealth. + +“I am glad to see you, my love,” she said to Mrs. North; “I have many +things to discuss with you if you will permit me to encroach on your +good nature. Would you mind sitting down on the footstool again beside +me, as you did yesterday?” The maid had lifted her on to the +old-fashioned sofa at the foot of the bed. She was propped up with +pillows, and looked so well and comfortable it seemed almost possible +that she might live. + +“I will,” Mrs. North answered, still overcome with her own thoughts—“I +will sit at your feet, and receive your royal commands. But first permit +me to say that you are looking irresistible—my lavender ribbons give +you a most ravishing appearance.” + +“You are in excellent spirits,” Aunt Anne said, with a pleased smile; +“and so am I,” she added. “It has done me a world of good to hear that +William Rammage’s iniquitous intentions have been frustrated.” + +“I trust he is aware of it,” Mrs. North answered, “and that his soul is +delightfully vexed by the enterprising Satan.” + +“My love,” said the old lady, with a shocked wink, “you hardly +understand the purport of your own words.” + +“Yes, I do,” Mrs. North said emphatically; “but now I want to speak +about something much more important. I hope you are going to get +well—yes, in spite of all the shakes of your dear old head; and that +you are going to live to be a hundred and one, in order to scold me with +very long words when I offend you.” + +“I will endeavour to do so, my love; but I hope that some one else will +do it better”—she stopped and closed her eyes. + +“I believe you are a witch, and you know about my letter. It has just +come, and has made me so happy,” Mrs. North said, between laughing and +crying. + +“What does he say?” the old lady asked, without opening her eyes. + +“He says he is coming,” Mrs. North answered, almost in a whisper. “It’s +almost more than I can bear. I think it will all come right. The other +was never a marriage—it was cruel to call it one; it was a girl’s body +and soul made ready for ruin by those who persuaded her——” and she put +her face down. + +“My dear, I understand now; I think I was very unsympathetic. But purity +counts before all things”—and Aunt Anne’s lips quivered. “Tell me, my +love, have you heard—I know it is painful to you to hear his name, but +have you heard anything of Mr. North lately?” Mrs. North looked up with +a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, which a moment before had been full +of tears, and answered demurely— + +“I am told that he is casting his eyes on an amiable lady of forty-five. +She is the sister of an eminent Q.C., has read Buckle’s ‘History of +Civilization,’ and her favourite fad is the abolition of capital +punishment. But I don’t want to talk of my affairs, Aunt Anne; I want to +talk of yours—they are more momentous.” Mrs. North prided herself on +picking up Aunt Anne’s words, and using them with great discretion. + +“Yes, my love, I am most grateful to you.” + +“I am certain—as I tell you—that you are going to live and get well.” +Mrs. North meant her words at the moment, for, with the sweet insolence +of youth, she was incredulous of death until it was absolutely before +her eyes. “But at the same time,” she went on, “now that you are +enormously rich, you ought to take precautions in case of an accident. +If the cottage were burned down to-night, and we were burned with it, +who would inherit your money?” + +“I told Mr. Boughton that I would give my instructions to you, and he is +coming the day after to-morrow.” + +“But have you destroyed the will you made in favour of Alfred Wimple?” + +“I have not got it; he took it away with him.” Mrs. North looked quite +alarmed. + +“We must make another, this minute,” she said; “if the conflagration +took place this evening he would get every penny. Let me make it this +minute. I can do it on a sheet of note-paper. Don’t agitate your dear +old self, I shall be back directly”—and in a moment she had fled +downstairs and returned with her blotting-book, and once more she knelt +down by a table to write. “You want to leave everything to the Hibberts, +don’t you?” + +“Yes; but if you would permit me, my love, I should like to leave you +something.” + +“Then I couldn’t make the will, for it would not be legal; besides, I am +rich enough, you kind old lady. Shall I begin?” + +“Stop one moment, my dear; will you give me a little _sal volatile_ +first, and let me rest for five minutes?” + +She closed her eyes, but it was not to sleep; she appeared to be +thinking of something that disturbed her. When she looked up again she +was almost panting with excitement as well as weakness, and there was +the fierce, yet frightened, look in her eyes that had been in them when +she opened the front door to turn Alfred Wimple out of the house. + +“I want you to do something for me,” she said, almost in a whisper—“I +want you to have a sum of money, and to get it to him”—she could not +make herself utter his name—“on condition that he goes out of the +country with it. Let him go to Australia with the woman——” + +“Yes,” Mrs. North said, seeing she hesitated. + +“She is not in his position, and could never be received in society.” + +“No, dear,” Mrs. North said, reflecting that Mr. Wimple’s own position +was not particularly exalted. + +“I want him to go out of the country,” Aunt Anne went on—“as far away +as possible; I cannot breathe the same air with him, or bear to think +that he is beneath the same sky. It is pollution; it is hurrying me out +of life; it is most repugnant to me to think that when I am dead he will +frequently be within only a few miles of this cottage and of my dear +Walter and Florence”—she stopped for a moment, and shuddered, and put +her thin hands, one over the other, under her chin. “When I am dead and +buried,” she went on, “I believe I should know if his body were put +underground, too, in the same country with me, and feel the desecration. +It has killed me; it has made me eager to die. But I want to know that +he will go away—that none of those I care for will ever see his face +again; it will be a sacrilege if he even passes them in the street. I +want him to have a sum of money, and to go away.” + +“I will take care that he has it,” Mrs. North said gently, “I will speak +to the Hibberts. But, Aunt Anne,” she asked, “don’t you think you might +forgive him? He shall go away, but you would not like to die without +forgiving him?” Mrs. North did not for a moment expect her to do it, or +even wish it, but she felt it almost a duty to say what she did from a +little notion, as old-fashioned as one of Aunt Anne’s perhaps, about +dying in charity with all men. + +“No, you must not ask me to do that”—and her voice was determined. “I +cannot; it was too terrible.” + +“And I am very glad,” Mrs. North said, having eased her conscience with +the previous remark—“a slightly revengeful spirit comforts one so +much.” + +“Don’t let us ever speak of him again, even you and I. I want to shut +him out of the little bit of life I have left.” + +“We never will,” Mrs. North said. “Let this be the Amen of him. Now I +will make the will. Here is a sheet of note-paper and a singularly bad +quill pen.” + +“This is the last Will and Testament of me, Anne Baines (sometime called +Wimple). I revoke all other wills and codicils, and give and bequeath +everything that is mine or may be mine to my dear nephew and niece, +Walter and Florence Hibbert.” + +The maid came and stood on one side and Mrs. North on the other, while +Aunt Anne gave a little wink to herself, and pushed aside the end of the +lavender ribbon lest it should smudge the paper, and signed “Anne +Baines,” looking at every letter as she made it with intense interest. + +“I am glad to write that name once more,” she said, and fell back, with +a sigh. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + + +It was a long night that followed. A telegram had arrived from the +Hibberts. They were on their way, and coming as fast as possible, they +said; but through the dark hours, as Mrs. North sat beside Aunt Anne, +she feared that death would come still faster. + +Her bronchitis was worse at times; she could hardly breathe; it was only +the almost summer-like warmth that saved her. She talked of strange +people when she could find voice to do so—people of whom Mrs. North had +never heard before; but it seemed somehow as if they had silently +entered—as if they filled the house, and were waiting. At midnight and +in the still small hours of the morning she could fancy that they were +going softly up and down the stairs; that they peered into the room in +which Aunt Anne lay—the one to the front that looked down on the long +white road stretching from the city to the sea. “Oh, if the Hibberts +would come,” Mrs. North said, a dozen times. “I want her to die with her +own people. I love her, but I am a stranger.” + +So the night passed. + +“My dear,” Aunt Anne asked, opening her eyes, “is it morning yet?” + +“Yes,” Mrs. North answered tenderly, “and a lovely morning. The sun is +shining, and a thrush is singing on the tree outside. We will open the +window presently, and let the summer in.” An hour passed, and the +postman came, but he brought no news of those who were expected. Later +on the doctor looked in, and said her pulse was weaker. + +“She must live a little longer,” Mrs. North said, in despair; “she must, +indeed.” + +“I will come again this afternoon,” he said; “perhaps she may have a +little rally.” + +While Aunt Anne dozed and the maid watched, Mrs. North, unable to sit +quietly any longer, wandered up and down the house, and round the little +drawing-room, bending her face over the pot-pourri on the corner +cupboard, opening the piano and looking at the yellow keys she did not +venture to touch. And then, restlessly, she went into the garden, and +gathered some oak and beech boughs, with the fresh young leaves upon +them, and put them in pots, as Aunt Anne had once done for the +home-coming of Florence. + +“I cannot feel that she is going to die,” she thought, “but rather as if +she were going to meet the people she knew long ago; it will be a +festival for them.” She looked down the road, and strained her ears, but +there was no sound of a carriage, no sign of Walter and Florence. She +could hardly realize that she was watching for the Hibberts and that +Aunt Anne upstairs lay dying. “It is all such a tangle,” she said to +herself, “life and death, and joy and sorrow, and which is best it is +difficult to say.” Aunt Anne’s little breakfast was ready, and she +carried it up herself, and lovingly watched the old lady trying to +swallow a spoonful. + +“You look a little better again, Aunt Anne.” + +“Yes, love; and I shall be much better when I have seen those dear +children. I am not quite happy about my will. I wanted you to have some +remembrance of me.” + +“Give me something,” Mrs. North said, “something you have worn; I shall +like that better than a legacy, because I shall have it from your own +two living hands.” + +“I have parted with all my possessions, but Florence and Walter shall be +commissioned to get you something.” + +“The thing I should have liked,” Mrs. North answered, “was a little +brooch you used to wear. It had hair in the middle, and a crinkly gold +setting around it.” + +“My dear,” said Aunt Anne, dreamily, “it is in a little box in my +left-hand drawer; but it needs renovating—the pin is broken, and the +glass and the hair have come out. It belonged to my mother.” + +“Give it to me,” Mrs. North said eagerly. “I will have it done up, and +wear it till you are better, and then you shall have it back; let me get +it at once”—and in her eager manner she went to the drawer. “Here it +is,” she said. “It will make a little gold buckle. I have a +canary-coloured ribbon in the next room; I will put it through, and wear +it round my neck. Aunt Anne, you have made me a present.” + +“I am delighted that it meets with your approval, my dear”—and there +was a long silence. The morning dragged on—a happy spring morning, on +which, as Mrs. North said to herself, you could almost hear the summer +walking to you over the little flowers. Presently Aunt Anne called her. + +“I was thinking,” she said, “of a canary-coloured dress I had when I was +a girl. I wore it at my first ball—it was a military ball, my dear, and +the officers were all in uniform. As soon as I entered the room, Captain +Maxwell asked me to dance; but I felt quite afraid, and said, ‘You must +take off your sword, if you please, and put it on one side.’ Think of my +audacity in asking him to do such a thing; but he did it. Your ribbon +made me remember it”—and again she dropped off to sleep. + +Mrs. North went to the window, and looked out once more. “I feel like +sister Anne on the watch-tower,” she said to herself. “If they would +only come.” Suddenly a dread overcame her. Florence and Walter knew +nothing of Alfred Wimple’s conduct. They might arrive, and, before she +had time to tell them, by some chance word cause Aunt Anne infinite +pain. The shame and humiliation seemed to have gone out of the old +lady’s life during the last day or two. It would be a cruel thing to +remind her of it. She had made herself ready to meet death. It was +coming to her gently and surely, with thoughts of those she loved, and a +remembrance of the days that had been before the maddening shame of the +past year. Mrs. North went downstairs. Jane Mitchell was in the kitchen. + +“Is there any way of sending a note to the station?” she asked. + +“Why, yes, ma’am; Lucas would take it with the pony-cart.” + +“Go to him, ask him to get ready at once, and come to me for the +letter.” As shortly as possible she wrote an account of all that had +taken place at the cottage, and explained her own presence there. + +“Take this at once to the station-master, and ask him to give it to Mr. +and Mrs. Hibbert the moment they arrive, and to see that they come here +by the fastest fly that is there.” And once more she went up to the +front bedroom. Aunt Anne was sleeping peacefully; a little smile was on +her lips. Mrs. North went to the window, and looked up and down the long +straight road, and over at the fir-trees. Presently Lucas came by with +the pony-cart; he touched his hat, pulled the note out of his pocket to +show that he had it safely, and drove on in the sunshine. The birds were +twittering everywhere. A clump of broom was nearly topped with yellow; +some spots of gold were on the gorse. Half an hour. Aunt Anne still +slept. Mrs. North put her arms on the window-sill, and rested her head +down on them with her face turned to the road that led to the station. +“If only the Hibberts would come,” she said. “Oh, if they would come.” + +The long morning went into afternoon. A change came over Aunt Anne. It +was plain enough this time. She spoke once, very gently and so +indistinctly that Mrs. North could hardly make out the words, though she +bent over her, trying to understand. + +“Aunt Anne, dear, do you know me?” A smile came over the old lady’s +face. She was thinking of something that pleased her. + +“Yes, dear Walter,” she said, “you must get some chocolates for those +dear children, and I will reimburse you.” Then the little woman, who had +watched so bravely, broke down, and, kneeling by the bedside, sobbed +softly to herself. + +“Oh, they must come; oh, they must come,” she whispered. “Perhaps I had +better rouse her a little,” she thought after a little while, and +slipped her arm under the old lady’s shoulder. + +“Aunt Anne—Aunt Anne, dear,” she said, “Walter and Florence are coming; +they are hurrying to you, do you hear me?” + +“Yes, my love,” the old lady said, recovering a little, and recognizing +her. “You said it was morning time, and a thrush was singing on the tree +outside. I think I hear it.” + +“You do; listen, dear, listen!” and Mrs. North turned her face towards +the window, as though she were listening, and looked at Aunt Anne’s +face, as if to put life into her. And as she did so there came upon her +ears a joyful sound, the one she most longed to hear in the world—the +sound of carriage wheels. + +“They have come,” she said; “thank God! they have come.” + +Aunt Anne seemed to understand; an expression of restfulness came over +her face; she closed her eyes, as if satisfied. Mrs. North was in +despair; it seemed as if they would be a moment too late. + +“Dearest old lady, they have come! they are in the garden! Wake up—wake +up, to see them. Stay, let me prop you up a little bit more.” She could +scarcely say the words, her heart was so full. “There, now you can see +the fir-trees and the sunshine. Kiss me once, dear Aunt Anne; I am going +to fetch your children”—and she gently drew her arms away. The Hibberts +were in the house—they were on the stairs already. Mrs. North met them. +“You are just in time,” she whispered to Florence—“she has waited.” + +Mrs. Hibbert could not speak, but she stopped one moment to put her arms +round Mrs. North’s neck, and then went on. + +“Come with us,” Walter said. + +“No,” Mrs. North answered chokingly, while the tears ran down her face. +“She is waiting for you. Go in to her. I have no business there.” + +Without a word they went to Aunt Anne. Like a flash there came over +Florence the remembrance of the day when she had first entered the room, +and had thought that it looked like a room to die in. The old lady did +not make a sign. For a moment they stood by her silently. Florence +stooped, and kissed the coverlet. + +“Dear Aunt Anne,” they said tenderly, “we have come.” Then a look of joy +spread over the old lady’s face. She made one last struggle to speak. + +“My dear Walter and Florence,” she said, and stopped for a moment. “I +have not been able—to make any preparation for your arrival—but Mrs. +North——” She stopped again, and her eyes closed. They went a little +nearer to each other, and stood watching. + +The scent of the fresh spring air filled the room. The sunshine was +passing over the house. But all was still—so still that Florence looked +up, with a questioning look of fear upon her face. Walter bent over the +bed for a moment, then gently put his arm round his wife’s shoulder. +Aunt Anne had journeyed on. + + THE END + + PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, + LONDON AND BECCLES. + + + + + 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, Vol. 2_, by Mrs. W. K. Clifford.] + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75404 *** |