It was a long night that followed. A telegram had arrived from the
Hibberts. They were on their way, and coming as fast as possible, they
said; but through the dark hours, as Mrs. North sat beside Aunt Anne,
she feared that death would come still faster.
Her bronchitis was worse at times; she could hardly breathe; it was only
the almost summer-like warmth that saved her. She talked of strange
people when she could find voice to do so—people of whom Mrs. North had
never heard before; but it seemed somehow as if they had silently
entered—as if they filled the house, and were waiting. At midnight and
in the still small hours of the morning she could fancy that they were
going softly up and down the stairs; that they peered into the room in
which Aunt Anne lay—the one to the front that looked down on the long
white road stretching from the city to the sea. “Oh, if the Hibberts
would come,” Mrs. North said, a dozen times. “I want her to die with her
own people. I love her, but I am a stranger.”
So the night passed.
“My dear,” Aunt Anne asked, opening her eyes, “is it morning yet?”
“Yes,” Mrs. North answered tenderly, “and a lovely morning. The sun is
shining, and a thrush is singing on the tree outside. We will open the
window presently, and let the summer in.” An hour passed, and the
postman came, but he brought no news of those who were expected. Later
on the doctor looked in, and said her pulse was weaker.
“She must live a little longer,” Mrs. North said, in despair; “she must,
indeed.”
“I will come again this afternoon,” he said; “perhaps she may have a
little rally.”
While Aunt Anne dozed and the maid watched, Mrs. North, unable to sit
quietly any longer, wandered up and down the house, and round the little
drawing-room, bending her face over the pot-pourri on the corner
cupboard, opening the piano and looking at the yellow keys she did not
venture to touch. And then, restlessly, she went into the garden, and
gathered some oak and beech boughs, with the fresh young leaves upon
them, and put them in pots, as Aunt Anne had once done for the
home-coming of Florence.
“I cannot feel that she is going to die,” she thought, “but rather as if
she were going to meet the people she knew long ago; it will be a
festival for them.” She looked down the road, and strained her ears, but
there was no sound of a carriage, no sign of Walter and Florence. She
could hardly realize that she was watching for the Hibberts and that
Aunt Anne upstairs lay dying. “It is all such a tangle,” she said to
herself, “life and death, and joy and sorrow, and which is best it is
difficult to say.” Aunt Anne’s little breakfast was ready, and she
carried it up herself, and lovingly watched the old lady trying to
swallow a spoonful.
“You look a little better again, Aunt Anne.”
“Yes, love; and I shall be much better when I have seen those dear
children. I am not quite happy about my will. I wanted you to have some
remembrance of me.”
“Give me something,” Mrs. North said, “something you have worn; I shall
like that better than a legacy, because I shall have it from your own
two living hands.”
“I have parted with all my possessions, but Florence and Walter shall be
commissioned to get you something.”
“The thing I should have liked,” Mrs. North answered, “was a little
brooch you used to wear. It had hair in the middle, and a crinkly gold
setting around it.”
“My dear,” said Aunt Anne, dreamily, “it is in a little box in my
left-hand drawer; but it needs renovating—the pin is broken, and the
glass and the hair have come out. It belonged to my mother.”
“Give it to me,” Mrs. North said eagerly. “I will have it done up, and
wear it till you are better, and then you shall have it back; let me get
it at once”—and in her eager manner she went to the drawer. “Here it
is,” she said. “It will make a little gold buckle. I have a
canary-coloured ribbon in the next room; I will put it through, and wear
it round my neck. Aunt Anne, you have made me a present.”
“I am delighted that it meets with your approval, my dear”—and there
was a long silence. The morning dragged on—a happy spring morning, on
which, as Mrs. North said to herself, you could almost hear the summer
walking to you over the little flowers. Presently Aunt Anne called her.
“I was thinking,” she said, “of a canary-coloured dress I had when I was
a girl. I wore it at my first ball—it was a military ball, my dear, and
the officers were all in uniform. As soon as I entered the room, Captain
Maxwell asked me to dance; but I felt quite afraid, and said, ‘You must
take off your sword, if you please, and put it on one side.’ Think of my
audacity in asking him to do such a thing; but he did it. Your ribbon
made me remember it”—and again she dropped off to sleep.
Mrs. North went to the window, and looked out once more. “I feel like
sister Anne on the watch-tower,” she said to herself. “If they would
only come.” Suddenly a dread overcame her. Florence and Walter knew
nothing of Alfred Wimple’s conduct. They might arrive, and, before she
had time to tell them, by some chance word cause Aunt Anne infinite
pain. The shame and humiliation seemed to have gone out of the old
lady’s life during the last day or two. It would be a cruel thing to
remind her of it. She had made herself ready to meet death. It was
coming to her gently and surely, with thoughts of those she loved, and a
remembrance of the days that had been before the maddening shame of the
past year. Mrs. North went downstairs. Jane Mitchell was in the kitchen.
“Is there any way of sending a note to the station?” she asked.
“Why, yes, ma’am; Lucas would take it with the pony-cart.”
“Go to him, ask him to get ready at once, and come to me for the
letter.” As shortly as possible she wrote an account of all that had
taken place at the cottage, and explained her own presence there.
“Take this at once to the station-master, and ask him to give it to Mr.
and Mrs. Hibbert the moment they arrive, and to see that they come here
by the fastest fly that is there.” And once more she went up to the
front bedroom. Aunt Anne was sleeping peacefully; a little smile was on
her lips. Mrs. North went to the window, and looked up and down the long
straight road, and over at the fir-trees. Presently Lucas came by with
the pony-cart; he touched his hat, pulled the note out of his pocket to
show that he had it safely, and drove on in the sunshine. The birds were
twittering everywhere. A clump of broom was nearly topped with yellow;
some spots of gold were on the gorse. Half an hour. Aunt Anne still
slept. Mrs. North put her arms on the window-sill, and rested her head
down on them with her face turned to the road that led to the station.
“If only the Hibberts would come,” she said. “Oh, if they would come.”
The long morning went into afternoon. A change came over Aunt Anne. It
was plain enough this time. She spoke once, very gently and so
indistinctly that Mrs. North could hardly make out the words, though she
bent over her, trying to understand.
“Aunt Anne, dear, do you know me?” A smile came over the old lady’s
face. She was thinking of something that pleased her.
“Yes, dear Walter,” she said, “you must get some chocolates for those
dear children, and I will reimburse you.” Then the little woman, who had
watched so bravely, broke down, and, kneeling by the bedside, sobbed
softly to herself.
“Oh, they must come; oh, they must come,” she whispered. “Perhaps I had
better rouse her a little,” she thought after a little while, and
slipped her arm under the old lady’s shoulder.
“Aunt Anne—Aunt Anne, dear,” she said, “Walter and Florence are coming;
they are hurrying to you, do you hear me?”
“Yes, my love,” the old lady said, recovering a little, and recognizing
her. “You said it was morning time, and a thrush was singing on the tree
outside. I think I hear it.”
“You do; listen, dear, listen!” and Mrs. North turned her face towards
the window, as though she were listening, and looked at Aunt Anne’s
face, as if to put life into her. And as she did so there came upon her
ears a joyful sound, the one she most longed to hear in the world—the
sound of carriage wheels.
“They have come,” she said; “thank God! they have come.”
Aunt Anne seemed to understand; an expression of restfulness came over
her face; she closed her eyes, as if satisfied. Mrs. North was in
despair; it seemed as if they would be a moment too late.
“Dearest old lady, they have come! they are in the garden! Wake up—wake
up, to see them. Stay, let me prop you up a little bit more.” She could
scarcely say the words, her heart was so full. “There, now you can see
the fir-trees and the sunshine. Kiss me once, dear Aunt Anne; I am going
to fetch your children”—and she gently drew her arms away. The Hibberts
were in the house—they were on the stairs already. Mrs. North met them.
“You are just in time,” she whispered to Florence—“she has waited.”
Mrs. Hibbert could not speak, but she stopped one moment to put her arms
round Mrs. North’s neck, and then went on.
“Come with us,” Walter said.
“No,” Mrs. North answered chokingly, while the tears ran down her face.
“She is waiting for you. Go in to her. I have no business there.”
Without a word they went to Aunt Anne. Like a flash there came over
Florence the remembrance of the day when she had first entered the room,
and had thought that it looked like a room to die in. The old lady did
not make a sign. For a moment they stood by her silently. Florence
stooped, and kissed the coverlet.
“Dear Aunt Anne,” they said tenderly, “we have come.” Then a look of joy
spread over the old lady’s face. She made one last struggle to speak.
“My dear Walter and Florence,” she said, and stopped for a moment. “I
have not been able—to make any preparation for your arrival—but Mrs.
North——” She stopped again, and her eyes closed. They went a little
nearer to each other, and stood watching.
The scent of the fresh spring air filled the room. The sunshine was
passing over the house. But all was still—so still that Florence looked
up, with a questioning look of fear upon her face. Walter bent over the
bed for a moment, then gently put his arm round his wife’s shoulder.
Aunt Anne had journeyed on.
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where
multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer
errors occur.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to
the public domain.
[The end of _Aunt Anne, Vol. 2_, by Mrs. W. K. Clifford.]