[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.)
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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.
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