Walter was going to India for the winter. It had all been arranged while
Aunt Anne sat out on the balcony with Mr. Wimple. Mr. Fisher had
explained to Florence that the paper wanted a new correspondent for a
time, and that it would be an excellent thing for Walter to get the
change and movement of the new life. He was to go out by P. and O.,
making a short stay at Gibraltar, for business purposes, as well as one
at Malta. He had looked anxiously enough at his wife when they were
alone again that evening; but she had put out her hands as if in
congratulation.
“I am very glad,” was all she said, “it will do you good and make you
strong.”
“To live for you and the chicks, my sweet.”
And so they arranged the getting ready; for he was to start by the very
next boat, and that sailed in ten days’ time.
“If your mother had been in England you might have gone with me as far
as Gib,” Walter remarked. “I suppose you would be afraid to leave the
servants in charge?”
“I should like to go,” she answered, as she poured out the coffee—it
was breakfast time—“but I couldn’t leave the children.”
“By Jove,” Walter exclaimed, not heeding her answer, “there’s Aunt Anne
in a hansom! I say, Floggie dear, let me escape. What on earth does she
mean by coming at this hour of the morning? Say I’m not down yet, and
shall be at least three hours before I am; but keep the breakfast hot
somehow.”
“Couldn’t you see her?”
“No, no, she would want to weep over me if she heard that I was going,
and I know I should laugh. Manage to get rid of her soon.” And he flew
upstairs as the street door was opened.
“My dear Florence,” Mrs. Baines said, as she walked in with a long
footstep and a truly tragic air, “let me put my arms round you, my poor
darling.”
“Why, Aunt Anne, what is the matter?” Florence asked cheerfully, and
with considerable astonishment.
“You are very brave, my love,” the old lady said, scanning her niece’s
face, “but I know all; an hour ago I had a letter telling me of Walter’s
departure. My dear, it will break your heart.”
“But why?”
“My love, it will.”
“Oh no,” Florence said, “I am not so foolish. Life is full of ordinary
events that bring out very keen feelings, I have been thinking that
lately, but one must learn to take them calmly.”
“You do not know what you will suffer when he is gone.”
“No, Aunt Anne, I shall miss him, of course; but I shall hope that he is
enjoying himself.”
“My dear Florence, I expected to find you broken-hearted.”
“That would be cruel to him. I am glad he is going, it will do him good,
and really I have not had time to think of myself yet, I have been so
busy.”
Mrs. Baines considered for a moment.
“That is the reason, I knew there was an explanation somewhere,” she
said in an earnest emotional tone. “I knew how unselfish you were from
the first moment I saw you, Florence. It is like you, my darling, not to
think of yourself. Try not to do so, for you will feel your loneliness
bitterly enough when he is gone.”
“But don’t tell me so,” Florence said, half crying, half laughing. “How
did you know about it, Aunt Anne?”
“Mr. Wimple told me.”
“Mr. Wimple—have you seen him then?”
“My love, he is one of the most cultivated men I ever met; we have many
tastes and sympathies in common. He wrote to ask me to meet him by the
Albert Memorial.”
“To meet him!” Florence exclaimed.
“Yes,” answered the old lady solemnly. “He agrees with me that never was
there in any age or country a more beautiful work than the Albert
Memorial. We arranged to meet and examine it together; he wrote to me
just now and mentioned that Walter was going to India; I telegraphed
instantly that I could see no one else to-day, for I thought you would
welcome my loving sympathy. I came to offer it to you, Florence.” She
said the last words in a disappointed and injured voice.
“It was very kind of you, Aunt Anne; but indeed I have only had time to
be glad that he would get a rest and pleasant change of work.”
“I must see him before he goes; I may never do so again,” Mrs. Baines
said, after a pause.
“Oh yes, you will, dear.”
“I have brought him two little tokens that I thought of him as I
hastened to you after hearing the news. I know they will be useful to
him. These are glycerine lozenges, Florence; they are excellent for the
throat. The sea mist or the desert sand is sure to affect it.”
“Thank you, it was very kind of you; you are much too generous—you make
us quite uneasy.” Florence was miserable at the two evils suggested.
“My love, if I had thousands a year you should have them,” Aunt Anne
answered, and, intent on her present-making, she went on, “and here is a
little case of scissors, they are of different sizes. I know how much
gentlemen”—Aunt Anne always said “gentlemen,” never “men,” as do the
women of to-day—“like to find a pair suited to their requirements at
the moment; I thought they might be useful to him on the voyage.” She
gave a sigh of relief as though presenting her gifts had removed a load
from her mind. “I suppose Walter is not down yet, my love?”
“He is upstairs,” Florence said, a little guiltily, “I am afraid he will
not be down just yet.”
Aunt Anne gave a reflective wink, as though she perfectly understood the
reason of Walter’s non-appearance; but if she did she had far too much
tact to betray it.
“If it be your wish, my dear, I will forego the pleasure of saying a
last good-bye to him.”
“Well, dear Aunt Anne, when he does come down he will have a great deal
to do,” Florence answered still more guiltily, for she could not help
feeling that Aunt Anne saw through the ruse.
“My love, I quite understand,” Mrs. Baines said solemnly, “and he will
know that it was from no lack of affection that I did not wait to see
him. Tell him that he will be constantly in my thoughts;” and she slowly
gathered her cashmere shawl round her shoulders, and buttoned her black
kid gloves.
“Poor Aunt Anne,” Florence thought when she had gone, she would wring a
tragedy from every daily trial if she were encouraged. “Oh, you wicked
coward,” she said to Walter, “to run away like that.”
“Yes, my darling; but I am starved, and really, you know, Floggie,
confound Aunt Anne.”
“Oh, but she is very kind,” Florence said, as she displayed the
presents. “How did Mr. Wimple know that you were going to India?” she
asked.
“I met him yesterday at the office. He went to see Fisher; it was
arranged that he should the other night.”
“It is very extraordinary his striking up a friendship with Aunt Anne.”
“Yes, very extraordinary,” he laughed and then the old lady was
forgotten.
The days flew by and the last one came. To-morrow (Thursday) Walter was
to start by an early train for Southampton. All his arrangements were
complete, and on that last day he had virtually nothing to do,
“therefore, Floggie dear,” he pleaded, “let us have a spree.”
“Yes,” she answered, willingly enough, though her heart was heavier than
his. “How shall we manage it?”
“Let us stroll about all day or go to Richmond, and come back and have a
cosy little dinner somewhere.”
“Here,” she pleaded, “let us dine here, in our own home on this last
evening; we’ll have a very nice dinner.”
“Very nice indeed?”
“Very nice indeed, you greedy thing.”
“All right, darling, suppose you go and order it. Then get ready and
let’s start as soon as possible; we’ll amuse ourselves well, and forget
that we have not a month to do it in. Live and be happy in the present
day, dear Floggie,” he went on in a mock-serious tone; “for there is
always a chance that to-morrow will not declare itself.”
So they went off, like the boy he was in spite of his more than thirty
years, and the girl that she sometimes felt herself to be still in spite
of the two children and the eight years of matrimony. They walked a
little way. Then Walter had a brilliant idea.
“Let’s get into a hansom,” he said, “drive to Waterloo and take the
first train that is going in any pleasant direction; I think Waterloo is
the best place for that sort of speculation. This beggar’s horse looks
pretty good, jump in.”
As they drove up to the station, a four-wheel cab moved away, the cabman
grumbling at the sum that had been given him by two people, a man and a
woman, who still stood on the station steps looking after him.
“Why, there’s Wimple!” Walter exclaimed; “and who’s that with him, I
wonder?”
Florence looked up quickly. Mr. Wimple wore a shabby grey coat, and
round his neck and over his mouth there was a grey comforter, for the
October morning was slightly chilly. In his hand he carried a worn brown
portmanteau. Beside him stood a tall good-looking young woman of
five-and-twenty, commonly, almost vulgarly dressed. She looked after the
departing cab with a scowl on her face that told it was she who had paid
the scanty fare. As they stood together, they looked poor and common and
singularly unprepossessing; it was impossible to help feeling that they
were nearly connected. They looked like husband and wife, and of an
indefinite and insignificant class. Suddenly Alfred Wimple caught
Walter’s eye, he nodded gravely without the least confusion, but he
evidently said something quickly and in a low tone to his companion, for
they hurried away through one of the station doors.
“That horrid Mr. Wimple seems to possess us lately,” Florence thought.
As they went from the ticket office she saw Mr. Wimple and his friend
hurrying along the platform. A minute later they had entered a
Portsmouth train which was on the point of starting.
“If that’s his Liphook friend I don’t think much of the looks of her.
Alfred always picked up odd people,” Walter thought; but he kept these
reflections to himself; all he said aloud was, “I say, Floggie dear, if
Wimple turns up while I’m away, don’t be uncivil to him, and give him
food if you can manage it. Somehow he always looks half starved, poor
beggar. Fisher is going to give him some reviewing to do, perhaps that
will help him a bit.”
There was a train starting to Windsor in ten minutes; so they went by
it, and strolled down by the river and lingered near the boats, and went
into the town and looked at the shops and the outside of the castle.
Then they lunched at the confectioner’s, an extravagant lunch which
Walter ordered, and afterwards, while they were still drowsy and happy,
they hired an open fly and drove to Virginia Water. They hurried back to
Windsor in time to catch the 6 p.m. train for town by half a minute, and
congratulated themselves upon finding an empty carriage.
“I shall always remember this dear day,” Florence said, as they sat over
their last little dinner at home.
“That’s a good thing,” Walter said, “and so will I, dear wife. When I
come back we’ll have another like it in memory of this one’s success.”
Then he remembered Alfred Wimple. “I should like to know who that girl
was,” he thought; “wonder if she’s the daughter of another tailor he
doesn’t want to pay, and if I met him to-morrow I wonder what lie he
would tell me about her—he always lied, poor beggar.” And this shows
that his thoughts were sometimes not as charitable as his words.
The next day very early Walter departed for Southampton. Florence went
to see him safely on board.
“We shall have the good little journey together,” he said dismally, for
he was loth enough to leave her now that the parting time had come.
But it seemed as if the train flew along the rails in its hurry to get
near the sea, and the journey was over directly. There was all the
bustle of getting on board; and almost before she knew it, Florence was
on her way back to London alone. As if in a dream she walked home from
the station, thinking of her husband watching the sea as it widened
between him and England. She was glad she had seen the ship, she could
imagine him seated at the long table in the saloon, with the
punkahs—useless enough at present—waving overhead, or in his cabin,
looking out through the porthole at the white crests to the waves. Yes.
She could see all his surroundings plainly. She gave a long sigh. She
was a brave little woman, and had tried so hard not to break down before
Walter, though in the last moment on board, when she had felt as if her
heart would break, she had not been able altogether to help it. And now,
as she walked home in the dusk without him, she felt as if she could not
live through the long months of separation.
“But I will—I will,” she said to herself while the tears trickled down
her face; “only it _is_ hard, for there is no one in the world like him,
no one—no one; and we have never been parted before.”
Every moment, too, she remembered, took him farther away. She told
herself again and again how much good the journey would do him, how glad
she was that he would get the change; but human nature is human nature
still, and will not be controlled by argument. So she quickened her
pace, resolving not to give way till she was safe in the darkness of her
own room, hidden from the eyes of the servants, and then she would let
her feelings have their fling.
She looked up at the house with a sigh. It would be so still without
Walter. There was a flickering light in the drawing-room. Probably the
servants had put a lamp there, for the days were growing shorter; it was
nearly dark already. The children would be in bed, but they were certain
not to be asleep, and she thought of the little shout of welcome they
would give when they heard her footstep on the stair as she went up to
kiss them. She let herself in with Walter’s latchkey—she kissed it as
she took it from her pocket, and nearly cried again—and then, having
entered, stood still and wondered. There in the hall were two square
boxes—boxes of the sort that were used before overland trunks came into
fashion, and when American arks were unknown. They were covered with
brown holland, bordered with faded red braid, and corded with thick
brown cord. Stitched on to each cover was a small white card, on each of
which was written, in a hand Florence knew well, _Mrs. Baines, care of
Mrs. Walter Hibbert_. While she was still contemplating the address, a
servant, who had heard her enter, came up.
“Mrs. Baines has been here since eleven o’clock, ma’am,” she said;
“she’s in the drawing-room, and has had nothing to eat all day except a
cup of tea, and a little toast that nurse made her have at four o’clock.
She’s been waiting to see you.”
It was evident that there had been some catastrophe. Florence went
wearily upstairs, and, after a moment’s hesitation to gather courage,
entered the drawing-room.
“Aunt Anne!” she exclaimed, “what has happened?”
The old lady had been standing by the fireplace. Her thin white hands
were bare, but she still wore her cloak and black close-fitting bonnet,
though she had thrown aside the crape veil. Her face looked worn and
anxious, but a look of indignation came to her eyes when she saw
Florence, a last little flash of remembered insult: then she advanced
with outstretched hands.
“Florence,” she said, “I have come to you for advice and shelter, I have
been insulted—and humiliated”—a quaver came into her voice, she could
not go on till indignation returned to give her strength. “Florence,”
she begun again, “I have come to you. I—I——”
“Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne!” Florence said, aching with fatigue, and
feeling ruefully that her longing for rest and quiet was not likely to
be satisfied, yet thinking, oddly enough too, even while she spoke, of
Walter going on, farther and farther away across the darkening sea,
“what is the matter? tell me, dear.” There was a throbbing pain in her
head. It was like the thud-thud of the screw on board his ship.
Aunt Anne raised her head and spoke firmly—
“My love, I have been insulted.”
“Insulted, Aunt Anne, but how?”
“Yes, my love, insulted. I frequently had occasion to reprove the
servants for their conduct, for the want of respect they showed me. The
cook was abominable, and a reprimand had no effect upon her. To-day her
impertinence was past endurance, I told Mrs. North so, and that she must
be dismissed. Mrs. North refused—refused, though her servant had
forgotten what was due to me, and this morning—— I can’t repeat her
words.”
“Well,” said Florence, “but surely you did not let a servant drive——”
“No, dear Florence, it was not the cook who drove me away, I should not
allow a subordinate to interfere with my life; it was Mrs. North. She
has behaved cruelly to me. She listened to her servants in preference to
me. I told her that they showed me no respect, that they entirely forgot
what was due to me, and unless she made an example, and dismissed one of
them, it would be impossible for me to stay in her house, and then, my
love, I was told that—that,” she stopped for a moment, “I can’t tell
you,” she went on suddenly; “I can’t repeat it all, Florence; but, my
love, there were other reasons—that are impossible to repeat; and I am
here—I am here, homeless and miserable, and insulted. I flew to you, I
knew you would be indignant, that your dear heart would feel for me.”
“But you were so happy.”
“Yes, my love, I was.”
“And Mrs. North was so kind to you,” Florence went on regretfully;
“could you not have managed——”
“No, my love, I must remember what is due to myself.”
“Oh, but, dear Aunt Anne, don’t you think it would have been better to
have put up——”
“Florence, if you cannot sympathize with me I must ask you not to
discuss the matter,” the old lady answered, raising her head and
speaking in a tone of surprise; “there is no trouble you could have come
to me with that I should not have felt about as you did.”
Aunt Anne had a remarkable gift for fighting her own battles, Florence
thought.
“But don’t you see, Aunt Anne, that——”
“I would prefer not to discuss the matter, my love,” the old lady said
loftily. “You are so young and inexperienced that perhaps you cannot
enter into my feelings. Either the cook or I had to leave the house.
There were other reasons too, I repeat, why I deemed it
unadvisable,—why it was impossible to remain. Mrs. North has lately
shown a levity of manner that I could not countenance; her sister is no
longer with her, and her husband has been thousands of miles away; is
away still, yet she is always ready for amusement. I cannot believe that
she loves him, or she would show more regret at his absence. I have
known what a happy marriage is, Florence, and you know what it is too,
my love. You can therefore understand that I thought her conduct
reprehensible. I felt it my duty to tell her so.”
“Yes,” Florence said wearily, “I know, I know;” but she could not help
thinking that Aunt Anne had behaved rather foolishly.
Then she rang the bell and ordered tea to be made ready in the
dining-room, a substantial tea of the sort that women love and men
abhor.
“Now rest and forget all the worries,” she said gently. “You are tired
and excited, try and forget everything till you have had some tea and
are rested. The spare room is quite ready, and you shall go to bed
early, as I will, for it has been a long day.”
“I know what you must have gone through,” and Mrs. Baines shook her head
sadly, “and that you want to be alone to think of your dear Walter. But
I will only intrude on you for one night, to-morrow I will find an
apartment.”
“You must not talk like that, for you are very welcome, Aunt Anne,”
Florence said gently, though she could not help inwardly chafing at the
intrusion, and longing to be alone.
“Tell me, love, did Walter go off comfortably?” Mrs. Baines asked,
speaking with the air people sometimes speak of those who have died
rather to the satisfaction of their relations.
“Yes, he sailed a few hours ago. I have just come back from
Southampton.”
“I know it,” Aunt Anne answered, her voice full of untold feeling; “did
he take my simple gifts with him, dear?”
“Yes, he took them,” Florence answered gratefully; “but come downstairs,
Aunt Anne, you must be worn out.”
Then in a moment Aunt Anne recovered her old manner, the manner that had
some indefinable charm in it, and looked at Florence.
“Yes, my love,” she said, “I am very much fatigued but I am thankful
indeed to enjoy your hospitality again. Before I retire to rest I must
write some letters, if you will permit your servant to post them.”
Florence had to write one or two letters also. She gave three to the
little housemaid to post; as she did so, one of Aunt Anne’s caught her
eye. It was addressed to Alfred Wimple. “Perhaps she wanted to tell him
something about the Albert Memorial,” she thought, and dismissed the
matter from her mind.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]