The Project Gutenberg eBook of Aunt Anne, Vol. 2 (of 2)
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Title: Aunt Anne, Vol. 2 (of 2)
Author: Mrs. W. K. Clifford
Release date: February 18, 2025 [eBook #75404]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Richard Bentley & Son, 1892
Credits: Delphine Lettau, Pat McCoy & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUNT ANNE, VOL. 2 (OF 2) ***
[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
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