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]