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]