Then it was that Florence discovered that Aunt Anne was really a
charming person to have in the house, especially with children. She was
so bright, so clever with them, so full of little surprises. In her
pocket there always lingered some unexpected little present, and at the
tip of her tongue some quaint bit of old-world knowledge that was as
interesting to grown-up folk as to the children. To see her prim figure
about the place seemed to Florence like having lavender among her linen.
She was useful too, ready with her fingers to darn some little place in
a tablecloth that every one else had overlooked, to sew a button on
Monty’s little shoe, or to mend a tear in Catty’s pinafore. Above all,
she was so complimentary, so full of admiration, and it was quite
evident that she meant with her whole heart all the pretty things she
said. She did too. Walter was the son of her favourite brother, and to
Florence she had really taken a fancy from the beginning.
“I loved you from the first moment, my love,” she said. “I shall never
forget the look of happiness on your face that morning at Brighton when
I met you and your dear Walter together. It endeared you to me. It was a
happy day,” she added, with a sigh.
“Yes, a very happy day,” Florence answered, affectionately remembering
how ungrateful both she and dear Walter had been at the time. This was
at breakfast one morning, a week after Walter’s departure. She was
pouring out the coffee very quickly because she longed to open her
letters, though she knew it was not possible to get yet the one he had
posted from Gibraltar.
Aunt Anne meanwhile was undoing a little packet that had come by post
addressed to her. Catty and Monty having finished their porridge were
intently watching. She stopped when she noticed the gravity of their
faces.
“My love,” she said, in the tone of one asking a great favour, “have I
your permission to give these dear children some bread and jam?”
“Oh yes, of course,” Florence answered, not looking up from the long
letter she was reading.
Aunt Anne, quick to notice, saw that it had a foreign postmark and an
enclosure that looked like a cheque. Then she cut some bread and took
off the crust before she spread a quantity of butter on the dainty
slices, and piled on the top of the butter as much jam as they could
carry.
“Oh!” cried the children, with gleeful surprise.
“Dear Aunt Anne,” exclaimed Florence, looking up when she heard it, “I
never give them quite so much butter with quite so much jam. It is too
rich for them, and we don’t cut off the crusts.”
“The servants will eat them.”
“Indeed they will not,” laughed Florence; “they don’t like crusts.”
“You are much too good to them, love, as you are to every one. They
should do as they are told, and be glad to take what they can get. I
never have patience with the lower classes,” she added, in the gentlest
of voices.
But the words gave Florence a sudden insight into the possible reason of
Aunt Anne’s collapse at Mrs. North’s, a catastrophe to which the old
lady never referred. The very mention of Mrs. North’s name made her
manner a little distant.
“And then, you know,” Florence said, for she was always careful, and now
especially, in order to make the very short allowance on which she had
put herself in her husband’s absence hold out, “we must not let the
children learn to be dainty, must we? So they must try to eat up the
crusts of their bread; and we only give them a little butter when they
have jam. I never had butter and jam together at all at home,” and she
stroked Catty’s fat little hand while she went on reading her letter.
“Grandma has written from France, my babes,” she said, looking up after
a few minutes; “she sends you each a kiss and five shillings to spend.”
“I shall buy a horse and be a soldier,” Monty declared.
“I shall buy a present for mummy and a little one for Aunt Anne,” said
Catty.
“Bless you, my darling, for thinking of me,” the old lady said
fervently, and suddenly opening a tin of Devonshire cream, she piled a
mass of it on to the bread and butter and jam already before the
astonished children. Aunt Anne’s nature gloried in profusion.
“Why,” said Florence, not noticing anything at table, “here is a letter
from Madame Celestine—her name is on the seal at least. I don’t owe her
anything. Oh no, it isn’t for me. _Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter
Hibbert._ It is for you, Aunt Anne.”
“Thank you, my love.” Mrs. Baines took it, with an air of slight but
dignified vexation. “It was remiss of your servant not to put all my
letters beside me. I am sorry you should be troubled with my
correspondence.”
“But it doesn’t matter,” Florence answered. “I hope you have not found
her very expensive; she can be so sometimes?” and through Florence’s
mind there went a remembrance of the dress in which Aunt Anne had
appeared on the night of the dinner-party. A little flush, or something
like one, went across the old lady’s withered cheek.
“My love,” she said, almost haughtily, “I have not yet given her charges
my consideration. I have been too much engaged with more important
matters.”
“I sincerely hope she does not owe for that dress,” Florence thought,
but she did not dare ask any questions. “Madame Celestine is not a
comfortable creditor, nor usually a small one.”
Then she understood Catty’s and Monty’s remarkable silence of the past
few minutes. It had suddenly dawned upon her how unusual it was.
“Why, my beloved babes,” she exclaimed, “what are you eating?” and she
looked across laughingly at Aunt Anne. “Where did those snowy mountains
of cream come from?”
“They came by post, just now, my love,” Mrs. Baines said firmly.
“Oh, you are much too kind, Aunt Anne. But you will spoil the children,
you will indeed, as well as their digestions. You are much too good to
them; but we shall have to send them away if you corrupt them in this
delicious manner.”
“It is most nutritious, I assure you,” Aunt Anne answered, with great
gravity, while with dogged and desperate haste she piled more and more
cream on to Monty’s plate. “I thought you would like it, Florence. I
have ordered three pounds to be sent in one-pound tins at intervals of
three days. I hoped that you would think it good for the dear children,
that they would have your approbation in eating it.”
“Of course, and I shall eat some too,” Florence answered, trying to
chase away Aunt Anne’s earnestness; “only you are much too good to
them.”
The old lady looked up with a tender smile on her face.
“It is not possible to be good enough to your children, my
darling—yours and Walter’s.”
“Dear Walter,” said Florence, as she rose from the table, “I shall be
glad to get his letter. Now, my monkeys, my vagabonds, my darlings, go
upstairs and tell nurse to take you out at once to see the trees and the
ducks in the pond; go along, go along,” and she ran playfully after the
children.
“May I go and buy my horse?” asked Monty; “and I think I shall buy a
sword too. I want to kill a man.”
“He is just like his father!” exclaimed Aunt Anne. “What is Catty going
to do with her money?” she asked.
“Give it to mummy,” the child answered softly.
“And she is just like you, dear Florence,” said the old lady, in a
choking voice.
“She is just like herself, and therefore like a dickie-bird, and a white
rabbit, and a tortoiseshell kitten, and many other things too numerous
to mention,” Florence laughed, overtaking Catty and kissing her little
round face. “But go, my babes, go—go and get ready; your beloved mummy
wants to turn you out of doors;” and shouting with joy the children
scampered off.
Florence took up _The Centre_.
“Won’t you have the paper, Aunt Anne, and a quiet quarter of an hour?”
“Thank you, no, my love; I rarely care to peruse it until a more leisure
time of the day. With your permission I will leave you now, I have some
business to transact out of doors; are there any commissions I could
execute for you?”
“No, thank you.”
Aunt Anne was always thoughtful, Florence said to herself. Every morning
since she came this question had been asked and answered in almost the
same words.
“By the way, Aunt Anne, Mr. Wimple called yesterday. I am sorry I was
not at home”—and this she felt to be a fib.
“He told me that he intended to do so before he left town.”
There was a strange light on Aunt Anne’s face when she spoke of him; her
niece saw it with wonder.
“I dare say she takes a sort of motherly interest in him,” she said to
herself. “He is delicate and she has no belongings; poor old lady, how
sad it must be to have no belongings, no husband, no children, no
mother, no anything. I don’t wonder her sympathies go out even to Mr.
Wimple.” Then aloud she asked, “Is he going away for long?”
“He is going to some friends near Portsmouth by the twelve o’clock train
to-day,” and Mrs. Baines glanced at the clock; “from Waterloo,” she
added.
“Are you going to see him off, Aunt Anne?”
“My love, I have an engagement in the City at one o’clock. I am going
out now, but I cannot say what my movements will be between this and
then.”
In a moment Aunt Anne’s voice was a shade distant. Florence had only
asked the question as a little joke, and with no notion that Aunt Anne
would take it seriously.
“I didn’t mean to be curious,” she said, and stroked the old lady’s
shoulder.
“I know you did not, my darling. You are the last person in the world to
commit a solecism,”—and again there came a smile to Aunt Anne’s face.
It made Florence stoop and kiss her.
“And you told me of your expedition to the Albert Memorial, remember,”
she went on wickedly; “and I know that you and Mr. Wimple are very
sympathetic to each other.”
“You are right, Florence. We have many tastes and sympathies in unison.
We find it pleasant to discuss them altogether. Good-bye, my love; do
not wait luncheon for me. I shall probably partake of it with a
friend”—and she left the room. Florence took up _The Centre_ again, but
she could not read for thinking uneasily of the bill which she felt
convinced Madame Celestine had just sent to Aunt Anne.
“I wish I could pay it,” she thought; “but I can’t, in spite of mother’s
present this morning. It is probably at least fifteen pounds. Besides,
Aunt Anne is such a peculiar old lady that the chances are she would be
offended if I did.”
She put down the paper and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then she went
to the writing-table in the corner by the fireplace, unlocked the corner
drawer and took out a little china bowl in which she was in the habit of
keeping the money she had in the house. Four pounds in gold and a
five-pound note. She took out the note, put in a cheque, locked the
drawer and waited.
When she heard the soft footsteps of Aunt Anne descending the stairs she
went to the door nervously, uncertain how what she was going to do would
be received. Mrs. Baines was dressed ready to go out. She was a little
smarter than usual. Round her throat there was some soft white muslin
tied in a large bow that fell on her chest and relieved the sombreness
of her attire. The heavy crape veil she usually wore was replaced by a
thinner one that had little spots of jet upon it.
“Aunt Anne, you look as if you were going to a party.”
The old lady was almost confused, like a person who is found out in some
roguish mischief of which she is half, but only half, ashamed.
“My love, I only go to your parties,” she said; “there are no others in
the world that would tempt me.”
“Can you come to me for five minutes before you start? I won’t keep you
longer.”
“Yes, with pleasure,” Aunt Anne answered; “but it must only be for five
minutes, if you will excuse me for saying so, for I have an appointment
that I should deeply regret not being able to keep.”
Florence led the old lady to an easy-chair and shut the door. Then she
knelt down by her side, saying humbly but with a voice full of joy, for
she was delighted at what she was going to do—if Aunt Anne would only
let her do it.
“I want to tell you that—that I had a letter from my mother this
morning.”
“I know, my love. I hope she is well, and that you have no anxiety about
her.”
“Oh no.”
“She must long to see you, Florence dear.”
“She does; she is such a dear mother, and she is coming to England in
two or three weeks’ time.”
“Her society will be a great solace to you.”
“Yes; but what I wanted to tell you is that she has sent me a present.”
“I hope it is a substantial one,” Aunt Anne said, courteously.
“Indeed it is.”
“It rejoices me greatly to hear it, my love.”
“It is money—a cheque. My mother says she sends it to cheer me up after
losing Walter.”
“She knew how your tender heart would miss him, my darling;” but she was
watching Florence intently with a hungry look that a second self seemed
trying to control.
“And as I have had a present of filthy lucre, Aunt Anne, and am
delighted and not too proud to take it, so I want you to have a present
of filthy lucre and not to be too proud to take it; but just to have
this little five-pound note because you love me and for any little odd
and end on which you may find it convenient to spend it. It would be so
sweet of you to let me share my present as my children shared the cream
with you.”
Florence bent her head and kissed the old lady’s hands as she pushed the
bit of crisp paper into them. Aunt Anne was not one whit offended, it
seemed for a moment as if she were going to break down and cry; but she
controlled herself.
“Bless you, my darling, bless you indeed. I take it in the spirit you
offer it me; I know the pleasure it is to your generous heart to give,
and it is equally one to mine to receive. I could not refuse any gift
from you, Florence,” she said, kissing Mrs. Hibbert; and when she
departed, it was with an air of having done a gracious and tender deed.
But besides this, her footstep had grown lighter, there was a joyfulness
in her voice and a flickering smile on her face that showed how much
pleasure and relief the money had given her.
“I am so glad,” Florence thought, as she noticed it; “poor old dear. I
wonder if it will go to Madame Celestine, or what she will do with it.
And I wonder where she is gone.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]