Florence sat thinking over Walter’s hint concerning his health. She had
succeeded in frightening herself a good deal; for there was really
nothing the matter with him that rest and change would not set right.
She remembered all the years he had been constantly at work, for even in
their holidays he had taken away something he wanted to get done, and
for the first time she realized how great the strain must have been upon
him. “He must long for a change,” she thought, “for a break in his life,
an upsetting of its present programme. The best thing of all would be a
sea voyage. That would do him a world of good.” She fancied him on board
a P. and O., walking up and down the long deck, drinking in life and
strength. How vigorous he would grow; how sunburnt and handsome, and how
delightful it would be to see him return. She hoped that Mr. Fisher
would offer him a special correspondentship for a time, or something
that would break the routine of his life and give him the excitement and
pleasure that a spell of rest and complete change would entail. She
would talk to Mr. Fisher herself, she thought. He always liked arranging
other people’s lives; he was so clever in setting things right for any
one who consulted him, and so helpful; and no doubt he had noticed
already that Walter was looking ill.
“But he is quite well; it is nothing but overwork, and that can soon be
set right——”
There was a double knock at the street door.
It was only eleven o’clock, too early for visitors. Florence left off
thinking of Walter to wonder who it could be. The door was opened and
shut, the servant’s footsteps going up to the drawing-room were followed
by others so soft that they could scarcely be heard at all.
“Mrs. Baines, ma’am. She told me to say that she was most anxious to see
you.”
“Mrs. Baines?” Florence exclaimed absently. It was so long since she had
seen Aunt Anne, and she had never heard her called by her formal name,
that for the moment she was puzzled. Then she remembered and went up
quickly to meet her visitor.
Aunt Anne was sitting on the little yellow couch near the window. She
looked thin and spare, as she had done at Brighton, but she had a
woebegone air now that had not belonged to her then. She was in deep
mourning; there was a mass of crape on her bonnet, and a limp cashmere
shawl clung about her shoulders. She rose slowly as Florence entered,
but did not advance a single step.
She stretched out her arms; the black shawl gave them the appearance of
wings; they made her look, as she stood with her back to the light, like
a large bat. But the illusion was only momentary, and then the wan face,
the many wrinkles, and the nervous twitch of the left eye all helped to
make an effect that was pathetic enough.
“Florence,” she said in a tremulous voice, “I felt that I must see you
and Walter again,” and she folded Mrs. Hibbert to her heart.
“I am very glad to see you, Aunt Anne,” Florence answered simply. “Are
you quite well, and are you staying in London?—But you are in deep
mourning; I hope you have not had any very sad loss?”
The tears came into the poor old lady’s eyes.
“My dear,” she said still more tremulously than before, “you are
evidently not aware of my great bereavement; but I might have known
that, for if you had been you would have written to me. Florence, I am a
widow; I am alone in the world.”
Mrs. Hibbert put her hands softly on Aunt Anne’s and kissed her.
“I didn’t know, I had no idea, and Walter had not——”
“I knew it. Don’t think that I have wronged either you or him. I knew
that you were ignorant of all that had happened to me or you would have
written to express your sympathy, though, if you had, I might not even
have received your letter, for I have been homeless too,” Mrs. Baines
said sadly. She stopped for a moment; then, watching Florence intently,
she went on in a choking voice, “Mr. Baines has been dead more than
eight months. He died as he had lived, my darling. He thought of you
both three weeks before his death,” and her left eye winked.
“It was very kind of him,” Florence said gratefully; “and you, dear Aunt
Anne,” she asked gently, “are you staying in London for the present?
Where are you living?”
It seemed as if Aunt Anne gathered up all her strength to answer.
“My dear, I am in London because I am destitute—destitute, Florence,
and—and I have to work for my living.”
Her niece was too much astonished to answer for a minute.
“But, Aunt Anne,” she exclaimed, “how can you work? what can you have
strength to do, you poor dear?”
Aunt Anne hesitated a moment; she winked again in an absent unconscious
manner, and then answered with great solemnity:
“I have accepted a post at South Kensington as chaperon to a young
married lady whose husband is abroad. She has a young sister staying
with her, and her husband does not approve of their being alone without
some older person to protect them.”
“It is very brave of you to go out into the world now,” Florence said
admiringly.
“My dear, it would be most repugnant to me to be a burden to any one,
even to those who love me best; that is why—why I did it, Florence.”
“And are they kind to you? do they treat you quite properly?” Mrs.
Hibbert inquired anxiously.
The old lady drew herself up and answered severely:
“I should not stay with them an hour if they ever forgot what was due to
me. They treat me with the greatest respect.”
“But why have you been obliged to do this, you poor Aunt Anne? Had Mr.
Baines no money to leave you?”
Aunt Anne’s mouth twitched as she heard the “Mr. Baines,” but Florence
had never thought of him as anything else, and when the two last words
slipped out she felt it would be better to go on and not to notice her
mistake.
“No, my love, at his death his income ceased; there was barely enough
for immediate expenses, and then—and then I had to go out into the
world.”
It was terrible to see how keenly Aunt Anne suffered; how fully alive
she was to the sad side of her own position. Poor old lady, it was
impossible to help feeling very much for her, Florence thought.
“And had he no relations at all who could help you, dear?” she asked,
wondering that none should have held out a helping hand.
“No, not one. I married for love, as you did; that is one reason why I
knew that you would feel for me.”
There was a world of sadness in her voice as she said the last words;
her face seemed to grow thinner and paler as she related her troubles.
She looked far older, too, than she had done on the Brighton day. The
little lines about her face had become wrinkles; her hair was scantier
and greyer; her eyes deeper set in her head; her hands were the thin dry
hands of old age.
Florence ached for her, and pondered things over for a moment. Walter
was not rich, and he was not strong just now; the hint of yesterday had
sunk deep in her heart. Still, he and she must try and make this poor
soul’s few remaining years comfortable, if no one else could be found on
whom she had a claim. She did not think she could ask Aunt Anne to come
and live with them; she remembered an aunt who had lived in her
girlhood’s home, who had not been a success. But they might for all that
do something; the old lady could not be left to the wide world’s tender
mercies. Florence knew but little of her husband’s relations, except
that he had no near or intimate ones left, but there might be some
outlying cousins sufficiently near to Aunt Anne to make their helping
her a moral obligation.
“Have you no friends—no relations at all, dear Aunt Anne?” she asked.
With a long sigh Mrs. Baines answered:
“Florence”—she gave a gulp before she went on, as if to show that what
she had to tell was almost too sad to be put into words,—“Sir William
Rammage is my own cousin, he has thousands and thousands a year, and he
refuses to allow me anything. I went to him when I first came to London
and begged him to give me a small income so that I might not be obliged
to go out into the world; but he said that he had so many claims upon
him that it was impossible. Yet he and I were babes together; we lay in
the same cradle once, while our mothers stood over us, hand in hand. But
though we had not met since we were six years old till I went to him in
my distress a few months ago, he refused to do anything for me.”
“Have you been in London long then, Aunt Anne?”
“I have been here five months, Florence. I took a lodging on the little
means I had left, and then—and then I had to struggle as best I could.”
“You should have come to us before, poor dear.”
“I should have done so, my love, but—my lodging was too simple, and I
was not in a position to receive you as I could have wished. I waited,
hoping that Sir William would see that it was incumbent on him to make
me an adequate allowance; but he has not done so.”
“And won’t he do anything for you? If he is rich he might do something
temporarily, even if he won’t make you a permanent allowance. Has he
done nothing?”
Mrs. Baines shook her head sadly.
“He sent me some port wine, my love, but port wine is always pernicious
to me; I wrote and told him so, but he did not even reply. It is not
four years ago since he was Lord Mayor of London, and yet he will do
nothing for me.”
She had lost her air of distress, there was a dogged dignity in her
manner; she stood up and looked at her niece; it seemed as if, in
speaking of Sir William Rammage, she remembered that the world had used
her shamefully, and she had determined to give it back bitter scorn for
its indifference to her griefs.
“Lord Mayor of London,” Mrs. Hibbert repeated, and rubbed her eyes a
little; it seemed like part of a play and not a very sane one—the old
lady, her deep mourning, her winking left eye, and the sudden
introduction of a Lord Mayor.
“Yes, Lord Mayor of London,” repeated Mrs. Baines, “and he lets me work
for my daily bread.”
“Is Walter also related to the Lord Mayor?”
“No, my love. Your Walter’s grandfather married twice; I was the
daughter of the first marriage—my mother was the daughter of a London
merchant—your Walter’s father was the son of the second marriage.”
“It is too complicated to understand,” Florence answered in despair.
“And is there no one else, Aunt Anne?”
“There are many others, but they are indifferent as he is, they are cold
and hard, Florence; that is a lesson one has to learn when fortune
deserts one,” and the old lady shook her head mournfully.
“But, dear Aunt Anne,” Florence said, aghast at this sudden vista of the
world, “tell me who they are besides Sir William Rammage; let Walter try
what can be done. Surely they cannot all be as cold and hard as you
think.”
“It is of no use, my love,” Mrs. Baines said sadly.
“But perhaps you are mistaken, and they will after all do something for
you. Do tell me who they are.”
Mrs. Baines drew herself up proudly; the tears that had seemed to be on
their way a minute ago must have retreated suddenly, for her eyes looked
bright, and she spoke in a quick, determined voice.
“My love,” she said, “you must not expect me to give you an account of
all my friends and relations and of what they will or will not do for
me. Don’t question me, my love, for I cannot allow it—I cannot indeed.
I have told you that I am destitute, that I am a widow, that I am
working for my living; and that must suffice. I am deeply attached to
you and Walter; there is in my heart a picture that will never be
effaced of you and him standing in our garden at Rottingdean, of your
going away in the sunshine with flowers and preserve in your hands—the
preserve that I myself had made. It is because I love you that I have
come to you to-day, and because I feel assured that you love me; but you
must remember, Florence, that I am your aunt and you must treat me with
proper respect and consideration.”
“But, Aunt Anne——” Florence began astonished.
Mrs. Baines put her hand on Mrs. Hibbert’s shoulder.
“There there,” she said forgivingly, “I know you did not mean to hurt
me, but”—and here her voice grew tender and tremulous again—“no one,
not even you or Walter, must presume, for I cannot allow it. There—kiss
me,” and she pulled Florence’s head down on to her breast, while
suddenly—for there were wonderfully quick transitions of feeling
expressed on the old wan face all through the interview—a smile that
was almost joyous came to her lips. “I am so glad to see you again, my
dear,” she said; “I have looked forward to this day for years. I loved
you from the very first moment I saw you at Brighton, and I have always
loved your Walter. I wish,” she went on, as Florence gently disengaged
herself from the black cashmere embrace, “I wish you could remember him
a little boy as I do. He had the darkest eyes and the lightest hair in
the world.”
“His hair is a beautiful brown now,” her niece answered, rather
thankfully.
“Yes, my love, it is,” the old lady said, with a little glee at the
young wife’s pride. “And so is yours. I think you have the prettiest
hair I ever saw.” There was not a shade of flattery in her voice, so
that Florence was appeased after the severe snub of a moment ago, and
smoothed her plaits with much complacency. “And now, tell me when will
your dear one be at home, for I long to see him?”
“He is very uncertain, Aunt Anne; I fear he has no fixed time; but I
know that he will try and make one to see you when he hears that you are
in town.”
“I am sure he will,” Mrs. Baines said, evidently certain that there was
no doubt at all about that. “Are the dear children at home?” she
inquired. “I long for a sight of them.”
“Shall I call them?”
“Yes, my love; it will do my heart good to look at them.”
Nothing loth, Florence opened the door and called upstairs:
“Monty and Catty, are you there, my beauties? I want you, my chicks.”
There was a quick patter-patter overhead, a door opened and two little
voices answered both at once—
“We’ll come, mummy, we’ll come.”
A moment later there entered a sturdy boy of six, with eyes like his
father’s, and a girl of three and a half, with nut-brown hair hanging
down her back.
“We are come, mummy,” they exclaimed joyfully, as their mother, taking
their fat hands in hers, led them up to Aunt Anne. The old lady took
them in her arms and kissed them.
“Bless them,” she said, “bless them. I should have known them anywhere.
They couldn’t be any one else’s children. My darlings, do you know me?”
Monty drew back a little way and looked at her saucily, as if he thought
the question rather a joke.
“No, we don’t know you,” he answered in a jovial voice, “we don’t know
you a bit.”
“Bless him,” exclaimed Aunt Anne, and laughed aloud for glee. “He is so
like his father, it makes me forget all my sorrows to see him. My dear
children,” she went on, solemnly addressing them, “I did not bring you
anything, but before the day is finished you shall have proof that Aunt
Anne loves you. Good-bye, my dears, good-bye;” and she looked at their
mother with an expression that said plainly, “Send them away.”
Florence opened the door and the children pattered back to the nursery.
When they had gone Mrs. Baines rose.
“I must go too,” she said sadly, as if she had overtaken her griefs and
sorrows again, “for I am no longer my own mistress. Remember that, dear,
when you think of me, or when you and Walter converse together.”
“But it is nearly one o’clock, will not you stay and lunch? Walter might
come, and he would be so glad to see you,” Florence said anxiously,
remembering that as yet she had done nothing to help the old lady, and
without her husband she felt it was too awkward a task to attempt.
“No, my dear, no; but I shall come again when you least expect me, on
the chance of finding you at home.”
“And is there nothing I can do for you, Aunt Anne?” Florence asked
hesitatingly, “no way in which I can be useful to you?”
“No, my dear, no; but thank you and bless you for your tender heart.
There is nothing I want. I wish you could see Mrs. North, Florence, she
is kindness itself. I have been in the house five weeks, and they have
never once failed to show me the attention that is due to me,” she said,
with grave dignity. “We went to Covent Garden Theatre last night—I
refused to go to Drury Lane, for I did not approve of the name of the
piece—they insisted on giving me the best place, and were most anxious
when we reached home for fear I had taken cold whilst waiting for the
carriage.”
It seemed as if Aunt Anne had been extraordinarily lucky.
“And you like being with young people, I think,” Florence said, noticing
how her sad face lighted up while she spoke of the theatre.
“It is always a pleasure to me to witness happiness in others,” Aunt
Anne answered, with a long benevolent sigh, “and it is a comfort to know
that to this beautiful girl—for Mrs. North is only four-and-twenty, my
dear—my presence is beneficial and my experience of life useful. I wish
you would come and call on her.”
“But she might not like it? I don’t see why she should desire my
acquaintance.”
“She would think it the greatest honour to know anybody belonging to
me.”
“Is she an old friend, Aunt Anne, or how did you know her?” Florence
asked, wondering at the great kindness extended to the old lady, and
whether there was a deep foundation for it. She did not think it likely,
from all that she had heard, that companions were generally treated with
so much consideration. For a moment Aunt Anne was silent, then she
answered coldly—
“I met her through an advertisement. But you must not question me, you
must not indeed, Florence; I never allowed any one to do that, and I am
too old to begin; too old and feeble and worn out to allow it even from
you, my love.”
“But, dear Aunt Anne, I did not mean to hurt or offend you in any way. I
merely wondered, since these people were so kind to you, if they were
new or old friends,” Florence said affectionately, but still a little
stiffly, for now that she had been assured the old lady was so well
provided for, she felt that she might defend herself.
“Then you must forgive me,” Mrs. Baines said penitently; “I know I am
foolishly sensitive sometimes, but in my heart I shall never misjudge
you or Walter; be assured of that, my darling.”
She went slowly up to a little ebony-framed looking-glass that was over
a bracket in an out-of-the-way corner—it was odd that she should even
have noticed it—and stood before it arranging her bonnet, till she was
a mass of blackness and woe. “My love,” she said, “would you permit your
servant to call a cab for me? I prefer a hansom. I promised Mrs. North
that I would return to luncheon, and I fear that I am already a little
behindhand.”
“Oh, but hansoms are so expensive, and I have been the cause——”
Florence began as she put her hand on the bell.
“I must beg you not to mention it. I would spend my last penny on you
and Walter, you know I would.” Mrs. Baines answered with the manner that
had carried all before it at Brighton. It brought back to Florence’s
memory her own helplessness and Walter’s on that morning which had ended
in the carrying away of jam and yellow flowers from Rottingdean. She
went downstairs with the old lady and opened the door. Mrs. Baines
looked at the hansom and winked. “It is a curious thing, my dear
Florence,” she said, “but ever since I can remember I have had a marked
repugnance to a grey horse.”
“Shall we send it away and get another?”
“No, my dear, no; I think it foolish to encourage a prejudice: nothing
would induce me now not to go by that cab.”
She gathered her shawl close round her shoulders and went slowly down
the steps; when she was safely in the hansom and the door closed in
front of her, she bowed with dignity to Florence, as if from the private
box of a theatre.
That same afternoon there arrived a pot of maidenhair fern with a card
attached to it on which was written, _Mrs. Walter Hibbert, from Aunt
Anne_, and two smaller pots of bright flowers _For the dear children_.
“How very kind of her,” exclaimed Florence; “but she ought not to spend
her money on us—the money she earns too. Oh, she is much too generous.”
“Yes, dear,” Walter said to Florence; and Florence thought that his
voice was a little odd.
[Illustration]