It was not till Tuesday afternoon in the week following that Florence
went back to Witley.
Mrs. Burnett was at the station, sitting in a little governess-cart
drawn by a donkey.
“I am waiting for my husband,” she explained; “he generally comes by
this train, and I drive him home, donkey permitting. It is a dear little
donkey, and we are so fond of him.”
“A dear little cart too,” Florence answered as she stood by its side,
talking. “I have been hoping that you would come and see me, Mrs.
Burnett; we are going to be here for six or seven weeks.”
“I know, Mr. Fisher told me,” Mrs. Burnett replied in her sweet and
rather intense voice, “and we are so sorry that your visit takes place
just while we are away. I am going to Devonshire to-morrow morning to
stay with my mother while my husband goes to Scotland. I am so-o
sorry,”—she had a way of drawing out her words as if to give them
emphasis. Florence liked to look at Mrs. Burnett’s eyes while she spoke,
they always seemed to attest that every word she said expressed the
absolute meaning and intention in her mind. Her listeners gained a sense
of restfulness which comes from being in the presence of a real person
from whom they might take bitter or sweet, certain of its reality. “I
hoped from Mr. Fisher’s note that you had arrived before, and ventured
to call on Saturday.”
“Did you see Mrs. Baines?”
“Only for a moment. What a charming old lady—such old-fashioned
courtesy; it was like being sent back fifty years to listen to her. She
wanted me to stay, but I refused, for she was just setting off for a
drive with your children and her nephew.”
“Setting off for a drive?” Florence repeated.
“Yes, she had Steggall’s waggonette from the Blue Lion, and was going to
Guildford shopping. She said she meant to buy some surprises for you.”
“Oh,” said Florence meekly, and her heart sank. “Did you say that she
had a nephew with her?”
“Well, I supposed it was a nephew, unless she has a son—a tall fair
young man, who looks delicate, and walks as if his legs were not very
strong.”
“Oh yes, I know,” Florence answered, as she signed to the fly she had
engaged to come nearer to the donkey-cart, so that she might not waste a
minute. “He is a friend; he is no relation. Good-bye, Mrs. Burnett; I am
sorry you are going away. I suppose you are waiting for the fast train,
as Mr. Burnett did not come by the last one?”
“Yes, it is due in twenty minutes. Good-bye; so sorry not to have been
at home during your visit. Oh, Mrs. Hibbert, do you think your children
would like to have the use of this cart while we are away? The donkey is
so gentle and so good.”
“It is too kind of you to think of it,” Florence began, beaming; for she
thought of how Catty and Monty would shout for joy at having a
donkey-cart to potter about in. And in her secret soul, though she felt
it would not do to betray it, she was nearly as much pleased as they
would be: she often had an inward struggle for the dignity with which
she felt her matronly position should be supported.
“It will be such a pleasure to lend it them. It’s a dear little donkey,
so good and gentle. It doesn’t go well,” Mrs. Burnett added, in an
apologetic tone; “but it’s a dear little donkey, and does everything
else well.” And over this remark Florence pondered much as she drove
away.
When she came in sight of the cottage she wondered if she had been
absent more than half an hour, or at all. She had left it in the
afternoon more than a week ago, and the children had stood out in the
roadway dancing and waving their handkerchiefs till she could see them
no longer. As she came back, they stood there dancing and waving their
handkerchiefs again. They shouted for joy as she got out of the fly.
“Welcome, my darling, welcome,” cried Aunt Anne, who was behind them, by
the gate. “These dear children and I have been watching more than an
hour for you. Enter your house, my love. It is indeed a privilege to be
here to receive you.”
“It is a privilege to come back to so warm a welcome,” Florence said
when, having embraced her children and Aunt Anne, she was allowed to
enter the cottage; “and how comfortable and nice it looks!” she
exclaimed, as she stopped by the dining-room doorway. There was a wood
fire blazing, and the tea set out, and the water in the silver kettle
singing, and hot cakes in a covered dish in the fender. Flowers set off
the table, and in the pots about the room were boughs of autumn leaves.
It was all cosy and inviting, and wore a festival air—festival that
Florence knew had been made for her. She turned and kissed the old lady
gratefully. “Dear Aunt Anne,” she said, and that was thanks enough.
“I thought, my love, that you would like to partake of tea with your
dear children on your return. Your later evening meal I have arranged to
be a very slender one.”
“But you are too good, Aunt Anne.”
“It is you who have been too good to me,” the old lady answered
tenderly. “And now, my darling, let me take you up to your chamber; it
is ready for your reception.”
There was a triumphant note in her voice that prepared Florence for the
fire in the grate and the bouquet on the dressing-table, and all the
little arrangements that Mrs. Baines had devised to add to her comfort.
It was very cheery, she thought when she was alone; Aunt Anne had a
knack of making one enjoy a home-coming. She sat for a few moments over
the fire, and pulled out Walter’s letter and read it and kissed it and
put it back into her pocket. Then she looked round the cosy room again,
and noticed a little packet on the corner of the drawers. Aunt Anne must
have placed it there when she went out of the room. On it was written,
_For my darling Florence_. “Oh,” she said, “it’s another present,” and
regretfully her fingers undid the string. Inside the white paper was a
little pin-cushion covered with blue velvet, and having round it a rim
of silver filigree work. Attached to it was a little note which ran
thus—
“MY DARLING,—Accept this token of my love and gratitude. I feel
that there is no way in which I can better prove how much I
appreciated your generous gift to me than by spending a portion
of it on a token of my affection for you. I trust you will
honour my little gift with your acceptance.”
“Oh,” said Florence again, in despair, “I wonder if she has once thought
of Madame Celestine’s bill or the others. What is the good of giving her
money if one gets it back in the shape of presents?”
But she could not bear to treat the old lady’s generosity with coldness.
So Aunt Anne was thanked, and the cushion admired, and a happy little
party gathered round the tea-table.
“And have you had any visitors except Mrs. Burnett?” Florence asked
artfully, when the meal was over.
“We have had Mr. Wimple,” Aunt Anne said; “he is far from well, my love,
and is trying to recruit at Liphook.”
“Oh yes, he has friends there.”
“No, my love, not now. He is at present lodging with an old retainer.”
“And have you been to see him?”
“No, dear Florence, he preferred that I should not do so.”
“We took him lots of rides,” said Monty.
“And Aunt Anne gave him a present,” said Catty, “and he put it into his
pocket and never looked at it. He didn’t know what was inside the
paper,—we did, didn’t we, auntie?”
“My dear children,” Mrs. Baines said, “if your mother will give you
permission you had better go into the nursery. It is past your hour for
bed, my dear ones.”
The children looked a little dismayed, but did not dream of disobeying.
“Was it wrong to say you gave him a present?” asked Catty, with the odd
perception of childhood, as she put up her face to be kissed.
“My dears,” answered Aunt Anne, sweetly, “in my day children did not
talk with their elders unless they were invited to do so.”
“We didn’t know,” said Monty, ruefully.
“No, my darlings, I know that. Bless you,” continued the old lady
sweetly; “and good night, my dear ones. Under your pillows you will each
find a chocolate which auntie placed there for you this morning.”
“And did you enjoy the drives?” Florence asked, when the children had
gone.
“Yes, my dear, thank you.” Mrs. Baines was silent for a moment. Then she
raised her head, and, as if she had gathered courage, went on in a
slightly louder tone, “I thought it would do your dear children good,
Florence, to see the country, and, therefore, I ventured to take them
some drives. Occasionally Mr. Wimple was so kind as to accompany us.”
“And I hope they did him good, too,” Florence said, trying not to betray
her amusement.
“Yes, my love, I trust they did.”
Then Florence remembered the bills paid by Mrs. North. They were all in
a sealed envelope in her pocket, but she could not gather the courage to
deliver it. She wanted to ask after Sir William Rammage, too, to know
whether he had written yet and settled the question of an allowance; but
for that, also, her courage failed—the old lady always resented
questions. Then she remembered Mr. Fisher’s remark about Alfred Wimple’s
writing, and thought it would please Aunt Anne to hear of it.
“Mr. Fisher says that Mr. Wimple writes very well; he has been doing
some reviewing for the paper.”
Mrs. Baines winked with satisfaction.
“I am quite sure he writes well, my love,” she answered quickly; “he is
a most accomplished man.”
“And is there no more news to relate, Aunt Anne?” Florence asked; “no
more doings during my absence?”
“No, my love, I think not.”
“Then I have some news for you. I hope it won’t vex you, for I know you
were very angry with her. Mrs. North has been to see me. She really came
to see you, but when she found you had gone out of town she asked for
me.”
Mrs. Baines looked almost alarmed and very angry.
“It was most presumptuous of her,” she exclaimed.
“But I don’t understand; why should it be presumptuous?” Florence asked,
astonished.
“She had no right; she had not my permission.”
“But, dear Aunt Anne, she came to see you; and why should it be
presumptuous?”
“I should prefer not to discuss the subject. I have expressed my
opinion, and that is sufficient,” Mrs. Baines said haughtily. “I repeat
that it was most presumptuous of her, under the circumstances, to call
upon you—a liberty, a—Florence,” she went on, with sudden alarm in her
voice, “I hope you did not promise to go and see her.”
“She never asked me.”
“I should have put my veto on it if she had. My dear, you must trust to
my mature judgment in some things. I know the world better than you do.
Believe me, I have my reasons for every word I say. I treated Mrs. North
with the greatest clemency and consideration, though she frequently
forgot not only what was due to herself, but what was due to me. I was
blind while I stayed with her, Florence, and did not see many things
that I do now; for I am not prone to think ill of any one. You know
that, my love, do you not? I must beg that you will never, on any
account, mention Mrs. North’s name again in my presence.”
Florence felt as if the envelope would burn a hole in her pocket. It was
impossible to deliver it now. Perhaps, after all, the wisest way would
be to say nothing about it. She had an idea that Aunt Anne frequently
forgot all about her bills as soon as she had come to the conclusion
that it was impossible to make them any longer. She searched about in
her mind for some other topic of conversation. It was often difficult to
find a subject to converse upon with Aunt Anne, for the old lady never
suggested one herself, and except of past experiences and old-world
recollections she seldom seemed sufficiently interested to talk much.
Happily as it seemed for the moment, Jane entered with the housekeeping
books. They were always brought in on a Tuesday, and paid on a Wednesday
morning. Florence was very particular on this point. They usually gave
her a bad half-hour, for she could never contrive to keep them down as
much as she desired. That week, however, she reflected that they could
not be very bad; besides, she had left four pounds with Aunt Anne, which
must be almost intact, unless the drives had been paid out of them; but
even then there would be plenty left to more than cover the books. The
prospect of getting through her accounts easily cheered her, and she
thought that she would set about them at once.
“They are heavy this week, ma’am,” Jane said, not without a trace of
triumph in her voice, “on account of the chickens and the cream and the
company.”
“The chickens and the cream and the company,” laughed Florence, as Jane
went out of the room; “it sounds like a line from a comic poem. What
does she mean?”
Aunt Anne winked as if to give herself nerve.
“Jane was very impertinent to me one day, my love, because I felt sure
that after the fatigue of the journey from town, and the change of air,
you would prefer that your delicately-nurtured children should eat
chicken and have cream with their second course every day for dinner,
instead of roast mutton and milk pudding. White meat is infinitely
preferable for delicate digestions.”
“Yes, dear Aunt Anne,” Florence said sweetly, and she felt a sudden
dread of opening the books, “you are quite right.” But what did a few
chickens and a little cream matter in comparison to the poor old lady’s
feelings? she thought. “And if you had company too, of course you wanted
to have a smarter table. Whom have you been entertaining, you dear and
dissipated Aunt Anne?”
“My dear Florence, I have entertained no one but Mr. Wimple. He is a
friend of yours and your dear Walter’s, and I tried to prove to him that
I was worthy to belong to you, by showing him such hospitality as lay in
my power.”
“Yes, dear, and it was very kind of you,” Florence said tenderly. After
all, why should Aunt Anne be worried through that horrid Mr. Wimple?
Walter would have invited him if he had found him in the neighbourhood,
and why should not Aunt Anne do so in peace, if it pleased her? Of
course, now that she herself had returned she could do as she liked
about him. She looked at the books. They were not so very bad, after
all.
“Shall we make up our accounts now, and get it over, or in the morning?”
she asked.
“I should prefer the morning,” Aunt Anne said meekly. “To-night, love,
you must be tired, and I am also fatigued with the excitement consequent
on seeing you.”
“What a shame, poor Aunt Anne!” Florence said brightly. “I have worn you
out.”
“Only with happiness, my dear,” said the old lady, fondly.
Florence put away her books, and stroked Aunt Anne’s shoulder as she
passed.
“We will do our work in the morning,” she said.
“Yes, my darling, in the morning. In the afternoon I may possibly have
an engagement.”
Florence longed to ask where, but a certain stiffness in Aunt Anne’s
manner made it impossible.
“Have you any news from London?” she ventured to inquire, for she was
longing to know about Sir William Rammage.
“No, my love, I have no news from London,” Mrs. Baines answered, and she
evidently meant to say no more.
* * * * *
In the morning much time was taken up with the arrival of the
donkey-cart and the delight of the children. A great basket of apples
was inside the cart, and on the top was a little note explaining that
they were from Mrs. Burnett’s garden, and she hoped the children might
like them. Aunt Anne was as much pleased with the donkey as the rest of
the party.
“There is a rusticity in the appearance of a donkey,” she explained,
“that always gives me a sense of being really in the country.”
“Not when you meet him in London, I fear,” Florence said.
Mrs. Baines considered for a moment. She seemed to resent the
observation.
“No, my love, of course not in London; I am speaking of the country,”
she said reprovingly; then she added, “I should enjoy a little drive
occasionally myself, if you would trust me with the cart, my love. It
would remind me of days gone by. I sometimes drove one at Rottingdean.
You are very fortunate, my dear one, in having so few sorrows to
remember—for I trust you have few. It always saddens me to think of the
past. Let us go indoors.”
Florence put her arm through the old lady’s, and led her in. Then she
thought of the books again; it would be a good time to make them up.
“I am always particular about my accounts, you know, Aunt Anne,” she
said in an apologetic tone.
“Yes, my love,” answered the old lady; “I admire you for it.”
Florence looked at the figures; they made her wince a little, but she
said nothing.
“The bill for the waggonettes, Aunt Anne?” she asked.
“That belongs to me, my dear.”
“Oh no, I can’t allow that.”
“My love, I made an arrangement with Mr. Steggall, and that is
sufficient.”
Again Aunt Anne’s tone forbade any discussion. Florence felt sure that
one day Steggall’s bill would arrive, but she said nothing.
“Do you mind giving me the change out of the four pounds?” she asked,
very gently. Mrs. Baines went slowly over to her work-basket, and took
up a little dress she was making for Catty.
“Not now, my love; I want to get on with my work.”
“Perhaps I could get your account-book, Aunt Anne; then I should know
how much there is left.”
Mrs. Baines began to sew.
“I did not put anything down in the account-book,” she said doggedly. “I
considered, dear Florence, that my time was too valuable. It always
seems to me great nonsense to put down every penny one spends.”
“It is a check on one’s self.”
“I do not wish to keep a check on myself,” Mrs. Baines answered,
scornfully.
“Could you tell me how much you have left?” Florence asked meekly. “I
hope there may be enough to help us through the week.”
She did not like to say that she thought it must be nearly untouched.
“Florence,” burst out the old lady, with the injured tone in her voice
that Florence knew so well, “I have but ten shillings left in the world.
If you wish to take it from me you must do so; but it is not like you,
my darling.”
“Oh, Aunt Anne,” Florence began, bewildered, “I am sure you—— I did
not mean—I did not know——”
“I’m sure you did not,” Mrs. Baines said, with a sense of injury still
in her voice, “but there is nothing so terrible or so galling to a
sensitive nature like mine—and your dear Walter’s takes after it,
Florence, I am sure—as to be worried about money matters.”
“But, indeed, Aunt Anne, I only thought that—that——” but here she
stopped, not knowing how to go on for a moment; “I thought that perhaps
the unpaid books represented the household expenses,” she added at last.
Really, something must be done to make the old lady careful, she
thought.
“My love,” Mrs. Baines said, with an impatient shake of her head, “I
cannot go into the details of every little expense. I am not equal to
it. Everything you do not find charged in the books has either been
paid, or will be charged, by my request, to my private account, and you
must leave it so. I really cannot submit to being made to give an
explanation of every penny I spend. I am not a child, Florence. I am not
an inexperienced girl; I had kept house before, my love—if you will
allow me to say so—before you were born.” The treble note had come into
Aunt Anne’s voice; it was a sign that tears were not far off.
But Florence could not feel as compassionate as she desired. She smarted
under the loss of her money; there was nothing at all to represent it,
and Aunt Anne did not seem to have the least idea that it had been of
any consequence. Florence got up and put the books away, looking across
at Aunt Anne while she did so. The expression on the old lady’s face was
set, and almost angry; her lips were firmly closed. She was working at
Catty’s little dress. She was a beautiful needle-woman, and embroidered
cuffs and collars on the children’s things that were a source of joyful
pride to their mother. But even the host of stitches would not pay the
week’s bills. If only Aunt Anne could be made to understand the value of
money, Florence thought—but it was no use thinking, for her foolish,
housekeeping heart was full of domestic woe. She went upstairs to her
own room, and, like a real woman who makes no pretence to
strong-mindedness, sat down to cry.
“If Walter were only back,” she sobbed, as she rubbed her tearful face
against the cushions on the back of the basket-chair by the fireside.
“If he were here I should not mind, I might even laugh then. But after I
have tried and tried so hard to save and to spend so little, it is hard,
and I don’t know what to do.” She pulled out Walter’s letter and read it
again by way of getting a little comfort, and as she did so, felt the
envelope containing the receipts of the bills Mrs. North had paid. She
did not believe that Aunt Anne cared whether they were paid or not paid.
She always seemed to think that the classes, who were what she pleased
to consider beneath her, were invented simply for her use and
convenience, and that protest in any shape on their part was mere
impertinence.
The day dragged by. The children prevented the early dinner from being
as awkward as it might have been. Mrs. Baines was cold and courteous.
Florence had no words to say. She would make it up with the old lady in
the evening, when they were alone, she thought. Of course she would have
to make it up. Meanwhile, she would go for a long walk, it would do her
good. She could think things over quietly, as she tramped along a lonely
road between the hedges of faded gorse and heather. But it was late in
the afternoon before she had energy enough to start. On her way out, she
put her head in at the dining-room door. Mrs. Baines was there with the
morning paper, which had just come. She was evidently excited and
agitated, and held the paper in one hand while she looked out towards
the garden. But she seemed to have forgotten all the unpleasantness of
the morning when she spoke.
“My love, are you going out?” she asked.
“I thought you had an engagement, Aunt Anne, and would not want me.”
“That is true, my dear, and I shall be glad to be alone for a little
while, if you will forgive me for saying it. There is an announcement in
the paper that gives me the deepest pain, Florence. Sir William Rammage
is ill again—he is confined to his room.”
“Oh, poor Aunt Anne!”
“I must write to him instantly. I felt sure there was some good reason
for his not having told me his decision in regard to the allowance.”
Then, as if she had suddenly remembered the little scrimmage of the
morning, she went on quickly, “My love, give me a kiss. Do not think
that I am angry with you. I never could be that; but it is unpleasant at
my time of life to be made to give an exact account of money. You will
remember that, won’t you, dear? I should never expect it from you. If I
had hundreds and hundreds a year I would share them with you and your
darlings, and I would ask you for no accounts, dear Florence. I should
think that the money was as much yours as mine. You know it, don’t you,
my love?”
“Yes, dear, I think I do,” Florence answered, and kissed the old lady
affectionately, thinking that perhaps, after all, she had made rather
too much fuss.
“Then let us forget about it, my darling,” Mrs. Baines said, with the
gracious smile that always had its influence; “I could never remember
anything long of you, but your kindness and hospitality. Believe me, I
am quite sure that you did not mean to wound me this morning. It was
your zealous care of dear Walter’s interests that caused you for a
moment to forget what was due to me. I quite understand, my darling. Now
go for your walk, and be assured that Aunt Anne loves you.”
And Florence was dismissed, feeling as the children had felt the evening
before when they had been sent to bed and told of the chocolate under
their pillows.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]