The next morning Aunt Anne did not appear. She sent word that she would
like her breakfast carried up, a fire lighted in her room, and to be
left alone for a couple of hours.
Florence was distracted. She had written to Walter, but as the mail did
not go out till three days later, nothing was gained by her haste. She
had considered things all round, and the more she did so the more
amazing did Mr. Wimple’s proposal seem. It was all nonsense to suppose,
as Aunt Anne evidently believed, that he was in love with a woman more
than twice his age. Florence mentally reviewed Aunt Anne’s charms. She
was not even a round, plump old lady with rosy cheeks, and a stray
dimple that seemed to have found her company so good it was loath to
vanish altogether. She was wrinkled, and thin, and feeble-looking. Her
eyes were small and weak, the left one had the nervous affection that so
often provided an almost droll accompaniment to her talk. Her skin was
withered and sallow. Florence tried to feel like a young man about to
marry Aunt Anne, and the idea was not pleasant. She felt that it was
almost a duty to prevent the marriage if possible—that Aunt Anne owed
it to her past years, to her own dignity, to her relations, to every one
and everything not to make a fool of herself.
The children went out at ten o’clock. Florence listened to their shouts
of joy as they drove off in the donkey-cart. Then, hurrying through her
domestic affairs, she sat down on one of the gaunt easy-chairs by the
drawing-room fire to think matters over again. It somehow seemed fitting
to sit in the old-world little room while she considered Aunt Anne’s
romance. She could hear the old lady moving about overhead, but was
afraid to go up, for she had been refused admittance two hours ago.
Jane, who was overwhelmed with curiosity, had managed to go in and out
once or twice, and reported that Mrs. Baines was dressed and looking
through the contents of her trunks “just as if she was packing up.”
Florence wondered what it meant, and a dim suspicion of the truth
crossed her mind. She felt too as if in the little cottage by the lonely
roadside a tragedy was beginning in which Aunt Anne would play the
central figure. She shut her eyes for a moment, and, as if in a dream,
could see the old lady wringing her thin hands, and stretching them out
almost imploringly. “Oh, dear Aunt Anne,” she cried, “something must be
done. No good can come of this wild nonsense.”
Suddenly on the gravel footpath outside she heard a footstep, just as
she had heard Aunt Anne’s footstep the night before. She got up quickly
and looked out. It was Mr. Wimple. He must have come up from the dip at
the end of the garden, the short way from Hindhead and the Liphook Road.
He was going round the house. Florence darted out and opened the front
door before he had time to ring. All in a moment it had struck her that
if she could get a talk with him, some explanation, perhaps some good,
might come of it. Yet her heart ached, she felt cruel and treacherous,
as if she were trying to cheat Aunt Anne of a promise—even though it
was a ridiculous promise—of happiness. She thought of the poor old
lady’s tears, of her pleading, of her piteous, “as if you grudged me the
cup of happiness of which you taste every day.” After all, she had a
right to do as she pleased; but that was a foolish argument. She had a
right to put herself on the kitchen fire if she pleased, but it would be
distinctly the duty of the nearest person to pull her off and prevent
her from being burnt.
Mr. Wimple stared at Florence. “How do you do, Mrs. Hibbert?” he said
with extreme gravity. He did not hold out his hand or look as if he
expected to enter, but stood still on the door-step.
“I saw you coming and wanted to speak to you, Mr. Wimple,” she said
almost breathlessly. “Won’t you come in?” Without a word he entered. She
led the way to the drawing-room and shut the door. She pointed to one of
the chairs beside the screen with a peacock on it, and he sat down,
still without a word, and waited for her to speak. She took the other
chair and faced him. The light was full upon him, but there was no
expression in his eyes, not even one of inquiry.
“Mr. Wimple,” she said, in a low voice, for she was afraid of Aunt Anne
above hearing the hum of conversation, “I wanted to speak to you about
Aunt Anne—Mrs. Baines.” He looked at her then, but still he said
nothing. “I am very fond of her,” she added, as if in excuse for her
interference.
“I am sure you are,” he answered, and waited. Florence was forced to go
on.
“She came home last night, and she surprised me so—she told me—oh, Mr.
Wimple, it can’t be true?”
“What cannot be true, Mrs. Hibbert?” he asked, speaking like an
automaton.
“That—that—you had asked her to marry you?”
“It is quite true,” he said, and looked at her unflinchingly; his face
wore an expression of slight surprise.
“But it is so strange and unsuitable; she is so much older than you.”
“I know she is much older.” He seemed to unlock his lips every time he
spoke.
“She is quite old and feeble,” Florence said compassionately.
“Yes, she is quite old and feeble,” he repeated.
“And, Mr. Wimple, do you know that she is not rich, that—that she has
no money, nothing. She is poor.”
“I know she is poor, Mrs. Hibbert.” He seemed to be afflicted with an
utter destitution of language, an incapacity to say anything but the
shortest, most cut-and-dried sentence. It affected Florence. But again
she struggled on; though she felt her words come with difficulty.
“And you—forgive me, but I am fond of her—and you, I believe, are not
rich. Walter told me that you were not, and—and——” She was beginning
to despair of making any way with Mr. Wimple, his eyes were dull and
uninterested, he seemed insensible to everything except the burden of
his own gravity.
“I am not rich, Mrs. Hibbert,” he said. The manner in which he repeated
her name at the end of every sentence irritated Florence.
“And oh, Mr. Wimple,” she went on, “it is so—so absurd.” But he said
nothing, though she waited. “It is so strange, and Walter will be very
angry.”
“It is not Walters affair, Mrs. Hibbert, it is mine,” he said.
“And hers, and Aunt Anne’s too.”
“And hers,” he repeated.
“And she is old, she wants comforts and luxury; and oh, I cannot bear to
think of it. It seems cruel.”
“We have talked it all over, Mrs. Hibbert; she knows best herself what
she wants,” he answered, without the slightest change in his manner.
“But are you really in love with her?”
“I am very fond of her,” he said blankly.
Florence put her hand to her throat to steady her utterance.
“But you are not in love with her? You can’t be; she is old enough to be
your mother. She is a dear, sweet old lady, but you can’t be in love
with her.”
“I don’t see the necessity of our discussing this,” he said, still with
extreme gravity.
“But she is my aunt, at least she is Walter’s, which is all the same.”
He gave a little dry cough.
“Mrs. Baines and I have settled our affairs, Mrs. Hibbert,” he said.
“There is no necessity to go over them.”
“But it is so ridiculous.”
“Then we will not talk about it.” Suddenly he looked at her; there was
no change in his tone, but he opened his eyes a little wider as if to
impress upon her the importance of his next words. “We don’t wish our
private affairs made known to the world,” he said. “There is no
necessity to talk of them at all; they are of no importance except to
ourselves. We don’t wish to talk about them or to hear of their being
talked about. Will you remember this, Mrs. Hibbert?” It was quite a
relief to get three consecutive sentences out of him.
“But, Mr. Wimple, do tell me that, if you persist in marrying her, you
will make her happy, you will be good to her, and—that you can keep her
in some sort of comfort,” Florence said in despair.
“I will talk to her about this, Mrs. Hibbert. It is her affair,” he said
solemnly; and Florence felt altogether worsted, left out in the cold,
put back, and powerless. She sat silently by the fire, not knowing what
to do or say. Mr. Wimple made no sign. She looked up at him after a
minute or two. What could Aunt Anne see to like in him, in his dull
eyes, his thin lips, his straggling sandy hair and whiskers, his
pink-and-white, yet unhealthy-looking complexion? He met her gaze
steadily. “Is there anything more you wish to say to me?” he asked; “I
have not much time.”
“No,” she answered, chokingly, “there is nothing—if you would only be a
son to her, a friend, anything, rather than marry her. Oh, Mr. Wimple,
if you really do care for her, don’t make her ridiculous in her old age,
don’t make her unhappy. Happiness cannot come of an absurd marriage like
this. You ought to marry a girl, a young woman. One day Walter and I saw
you at Waterloo——”
He fixed his eyes upon her, and there was a slight look of curiosity in
them now, but he was absolutely calm.
“Well, Mrs. Hibbert?” he said.
“We thought that perhaps she was—was some one you liked; she was young,
it would have been much more suitable.”
“I must know what I desire, and what is most suitable for myself, Mrs.
Hibbert,” he answered, without a shade of vexation, but with quiet
determination in his voice. Then Jane, evidently to her own
satisfaction, entered.
“If you please, ma’am, Mrs. Baines says she would like to speak to Mr.
Wimple when you have quite finished with him.”
“Tell Mrs. Baines I will go up to her in a moment; I want to see her.”
She turned to Mr. Wimple again when Jane had gone. He rose as if to
signify that he considered their conversation at an end. “I fear there
is nothing more to say,” she said lamely, for this man, with his silence
and utter lack of response, had made every word that suggested itself
seem weak and hopeless.
“I think not, Mrs. Hibbert.”
“But for your own happiness, Mr. Wimple,” she said suddenly, struck with
a new way of putting it, “you surely can’t want to marry Mrs. Baines for
the sake of your own happiness.”
“I want to marry Mrs. Baines as much for my own sake as for hers,” and
he looked at her in a manner that was almost a dismissal. It had an
influence over her she could not help; almost against her will she rose,
feeling that there was no excuse for prolonging the interview.
“I will send Mrs. Baines to you,” she said, in despair.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hibbert, if you will,” and he held open the door for
her to pass out.
Aunt Anne heard the drawing-room door open and Florence coming up. She
waited eagerly on the top of the stairs. She wore her best dress; round
her throat there was a white silk handkerchief, in her manner more than
the usual nervous agitation. Glancing in at the bedroom Florence could
see that she had been packing, and making ready for a journey.
“Oh, Aunt Anne——” she began.
“Yes, my love, I am going to town,” the old lady said, with a cold
reserve in her tenderness that showed clearly she was displeased. “I
cannot stay longer under your roof. You must not ask me to do so,” she
went on. “I was cut to the quick by your want of sympathy last night. I
cannot recover from it; I could not expose myself to it again. My
luggage is ready, and when I have seen my dear Alfred I shall be able to
tell you the time of my departure.”
“Oh, Aunt Anne, it is cruel,” Florence said, dismayed.
“No, my love, it is not cruel; but I must respect myself. I would not
hurt you for the world, Florence; but you have hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you either for the world, but——”
“Where is Mr. Wimple, my love?” the old lady asked, interrupting her
niece with a long sigh.
“He is downstairs; I have been talking to him.”
“Yes, my love, I understand. I appreciate all your solicitude for my
happiness; but you should allow those who are older and wiser than you
to know what is best for themselves. I will see you again when he is
gone, Florence,” and almost imperiously Mrs. Baines went downstairs.
She entered the drawing-room and shut the door. Mr. Wimple was standing
on the hearth-rug. She looked at him for a moment nervously, and winked
solemnly as usual with her left eye.
“My darling,” she said, and putting her arms round his neck she kissed
his face on both sides, “my darling Alfred, are you glad to see me?” He
submitted to her caress half reluctantly, then drew back a little. His
manner was no warmer than it had been to Florence.
“Yes, I am glad to see you,” he said, and looked at her with his eyes
wide open, as if to show that he perfectly understood the position.
“My darling, I have suffered terribly. Florence had no sympathy for us;
she said it was an unsuitable marriage; that you had no fortune, and
that I had none; as if my poverty was not hard enough to bear without
being told of it. What did she say to you? Alfred, my dear one, she has
not turned your love from me?” She put out her arms again as if to
gather him to her, but he looked blindly past her.
“Sit down,” he said, and pushed her gently on to the chair beside the
peacock-screen.
“She has not taken your love from me, tell me that,” Mrs. Baines said
entreatingly. “A few hours ago you assured me of your devotion. She has
not taken it from me?”
“No.”
“I am just the same to you?” she asked. He turned his eyes on her again.
“You are just the same,” he said, with a gulp, but there was no
tenderness in his manner. He seemed to be speaking almost under
compulsion.
“My darling, my darling,” she said softly, “bless you for those dear
words. I will be truer to you, Alfred, than ever woman was to man
before. But I cannot stay here; you must take me away. I have already
packed my things, I cannot remain another night, not knowing to what
treatment I may be subjected. I love Florence most sincerely; she and
Walter and their children are very dear to me. But after her coldness to
me last night when I came in full of your love and my own happiness, and
she denied me her sympathy, I cannot stay. You must not ask me to do
that, Alfred.” There was more interest in his manner now, though his
gravity never relaxed.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“I shall go to London, my darling,” she said, stretching out her hands.
“But I cannot go alone, after all I have suffered during the last
twenty-four hours?” He looked at her questioningly.
“Suffered? What have you suffered?” he asked. “I thought you were happy
about it.”
“About you? Yes, my darling; but Florence has tortured me.”
“It does not take much to torture you,” he interrupted. “What did she
say?”
“I have told you already; I cannot go over it again. Don’t ask me to do
so. You could torture me, Alfred, with a word or a look—if you ceased
to love me.”
“We need not discuss that improbability now,” he said solemnly. “What
about your going to London?”
“I shall go by the quarter-past one o’clock train this afternoon,” she
answered. “You will take me, will you not?”
“I cannot go to-day,” he said firmly. “I must get back to Liphook now.”
He pulled out his watch, a dull worn Waterbury one, at which Aunt Anne
looked keenly. “But I will go to-morrow; I want to see my uncle.” His
thoughts seemed to be intent on business matters. She waited a moment
after he had finished speaking, and winked slowly to herself before she
answered.
“Alfred,” she asked, “you do truly love me?” He looked at her
steadfastly.
“Yes,” he answered, “I told you so last night.” She half rose from her
chair again, but he waved her back. “Sit down,” he said, and she obeyed.
“I know you did, and I will never doubt it. In bygone days, my darling,
I was foolish and wicked, and played with the truest love ever given to
woman. But I am wiser now. You must never doubt me. Promise me that you
never will.”
“I promise you,” he said, and closed his lips.
“My dear, my dear,” she said softly to herself, and stopped for a moment
before she went on aloud, “I must go to town this afternoon, and you
must take me. My courage is not equal to encountering the journey alone.
Do take me, my darling.”
“Where will you go when you get to London?” he asked.
“I know of some apartments—two rooms—I saw them the day before I came
away. If they are still unlet, I shall rent them. But when we arrive I
shall go straight to Sir William Rammage. I have business with him. He
is very ill, Alfred, it was in the paper yesterday; but he will see me,
and when he knows all——”
“You will tell him nothing about me,” he said, in his slow determined
voice. She looked up indignantly.
“Alfred,” she answered, “I must tell him. I shall tell him that you love
me; that I have won a true and noble heart, and that we are going
through life together.”
“You will tell him nothing,” Mr. Wimple repeated, with something like
fright in his dull eyes. “If you did my uncle would hear of it, and
would think I was mad.” He added the clause about his uncle as if he
thought an explanation due to her.
“Mad to marry me?” she asked.
“Mad to think of marriage at all. He objects to it on principle.”
“But if he knew how tenderly and truly I loved you——”
“You must not say one word about it, to him or to any one,” came the
firm hard voice.
“Is it because you are—you are ashamed of loving me, Alfred?” she
asked, quivering.
“No. But it is my wish. That should be enough.”
She was silent for a moment.
“It is enough,” she answered slowly, “your wish shall be my law in this
as in all things. But you will take me up to town?” she pleaded. “You
can go to the Blue Lion, to Steggalls’, and tell them to drive you back
to Liphook now.”
“I have no money with me,” he said firmly.
“It will go down to my account, darling,” she continued, as if she had
not heard the interruption. “You can take the quarter to one train from
Liphook to London; it stops at Witley. I will be on the platform, and we
will go on together.” She ventured to stand now, and held out her hands
again, almost entreatingly.
“You will say nothing to Sir William?”
“Alfred, you are my lord and master,” and she bowed her head on to her
breast. But he was wholly untouched.
“Very well,” he said, “I will drive back at once—there is not too much
time—and meet you as you say. Good-bye.” He kissed her forehead, and as
before, swiftly drew back again.
“Will you order a waggonette for me too, Alfred?” she asked as she
followed him to the door. “I shall want one to take me to the station.
Tell them to put it all down to me.” He did not answer till the door was
open, and he saw the dark trees against the sky, and the withered leaves
beneath lying on the garden pathway. Then a smile crossed his lips, his
face wore an air of relief, he looked like a free man. He crossed the
threshold with a light step, and stopped and looked over his shoulder at
her.
“Good-bye,” he said. “I will order the waggonette. It is lovely weather.
We shall enjoy the journey to town.”
“My darling,” she said, with a world of tenderness in her voice, “I
shall enjoy anything with you as long as I live.” He looked at her for a
minute with the strange dumb expression that was so peculiarly his own,
and walked away.
Mrs. Baines went back to the drawing-room, and shut the door with a
manner that conveyed to the whole house that she wanted to be alone for
a little space. She stood thoughtfully beside the chair on which he had
sat. Suddenly she caught sight of her own face in the chimney-glass. She
looked at it critically and winked slowly, she pulled the white
handkerchief up a little higher round her throat and turned away
satisfied. “He loves me,” she said, “I know he loves me, and no power on
earth shall separate me from him. I will marry him if I walk to church
without my shoes. I was faithless once, but this time I will be true.”
She crept softly upstairs, and when she came down an hour later she was
dressed and ready to depart. She went to the dining-room, where Florence
in despair had had a little luncheon-tray brought in with sandwiches and
biscuits on it.
“My love,” she said, “I have finished the preparations for my journey;
will you permit your servants to bring down my luggage? Steggalls’ man
is coming immediately to drive me to the station. Thank you, but I do
not need any refreshment.”
“Aunt Anne, I can’t bear you to go,” poor Florence said in dismay.
“I must go—I cannot stay,” the old lady answered solemnly, “and I beg
you not to ask me to do so again.”
“But you will come back?” Florence entreated.
“No, I cannot,” Aunt Anne answered in the same voice. “You did not mean
it, but you cut me to the quick last night; I have had no sleep since,
my love. I must go away, I want to be alone. Besides, I have private
business to transact. Thank you for all your goodness and hospitality to
me, yours, and your dear ones. It has been a great privilege to be with
you and the dear children since Walter went away, and to come here and
see your second home.” She sat down for a moment by the buttery-hatch,
turning a quick sharp glance as she did so to see that it was well
closed, for one of her firm beliefs was that “servants were always ready
to listen to the private speech of their employers.” As she seated
herself, she looked as if she were trying to practise some of Mr.
Wimple’s firmness.
But Florence knelt lovingly by the old lady’s side, and put her pretty
head down on the black merino dress. “I would not be unkind to you for
the world,” she said, “you know I would not.”
Mrs. Baines winked sorrowfully, but did not falter.
“You were very unkind. You hurt me more than I can say,” she said
coldly.
Florence turned her lips towards the old lady’s hands, and kissed them.
“Aunt Anne dear,” she said very softly, “you have no money——” Mrs.
Baines stiffened herself, her voice became polite and distant.
“Thank you, my love, but I have sufficient to defray the expenses of my
journey; and at the other end I shall be in a position to make
arrangements.”
“Let me lend you a little,” her niece said humbly.
“No, my love”—and Mrs. Baines shook her head—“I cannot take it.”
But Florence thought of the ten shillings that constituted all the old
lady’s funds, and felt miserable.
“You could pay me back,” she pleaded. “And don’t be angry, dear Aunt
Anne, but you told me how poor you were in that lodging last year, and
how cold; it makes my heart ache every time I think of it; and the
winter and the cold are coming again. Oh, do stay here. You shall do
anything in the world that makes you happy. I cannot bear to think of
you in London; and it’s unkind of you to go, for we shall miss you so
much, the children and I——” and she burst into tears.
Then Aunt Anne melted.
“Florence,” she said tenderly, “that was like your dear self.”
“Then stay with us. You shall do as you like in all ways.”
“Thank you, my love; and bless you for your goodness. But I cannot stay.
I do love you, and I will believe that your heart feels for me in this
great crisis of my life. You must not think that because I love him I
shall love you less; that would be impossible. But you must allow me to
terminate my visit now. I want to be alone, to be in retirement for a
little while; besides I have, as I said just now, imperative business to
transact in town. You must not ask me to prolong my time here, love.”
“Let me, at any rate, be a little useful to you, Aunt Anne. I know you
are not rich.”
For a moment Aunt Anne was silent. Then she winked her left eye very
slowly, and looked up.
“Florence,” she said, “I know that you always mean your words, and I
should not like to hurt your generous heart. I will prove my affection
for you by letting you lend me two sovereigns. Don’t ask me to take
more, my love, for it would be impossible. There——” and she gave a
long sigh as she put the coins into her glove. “Now I hope you are
satisfied. Remember I only take them to prove my affection for you. Let
me kiss those dear children;” and quickly opening the door she called
them by their names, and laughed in an absent, excited manner, as they
came running down the stairs. “Come, my darlings,” she said; “Aunt Anne
is going away, and wants to say good-bye.”
“But we don’t want you to go,” said Monty.
“We don’t want you to go at all,” echoed Catty.
“You dear children,” the old lady said, “I must go; but I shall not
forget you, and to-night when you look under your pillows you will find
some chocolates as usual. I have put them there ready for you, so that
some day you might remember that, even in the midst of her own
happiness, Aunt Anne thought of you.” She said the last words almost
mechanically, while with one eye she watched her trunks being carried
out, and with the other looked at the children. Suddenly she turned to
Florence. “I should like to wish you good-bye alone; there is something
I want to say to you.” She turned quickly and entered the drawing-room.
The fire had burnt low, the room had grown chilly, and Florence shivered
a little as she stood waiting for Aunt Anne to speak. “My dear,” the old
lady said, “will you try not to think me ungrateful for all your care of
me, for all your solicitude for my happiness? I know you think that I am
in my dotage——”
“Oh no——”
“—That I am doing a foolish thing in marrying a man so much younger
than myself, that——”
“You must do as you like, Aunt Anne; it is a free country, and we can
all do as we like.”
“Yes, my love,” Mrs. Baines answered with a sudden wink, which showed
that this was a new bit of argument to her, and one that she would try
to use to her own advantage if she had the opportunity; “we can all do
as we like, as you did when you married your dear Walter, as I shall
when I marry Alfred Wimple, for, as you say, it is a free country.”
“I only hope that you may be happy,” Florence said earnestly.
“Yes, my love,” Mrs. Baines said, and her eyes filled with tears, “I
hope so too, and that I may make him happy.” She was silent for a
minute, and then it seemed as if what she said were forced from her. “I
wanted to tell you,” she began with a little gasp, “I want you to know
something in my past life, so that you may better understand the reason
of what I am doing. When I was a girl, Florence, a very true love was
given to me. I won it heedlessly, and did not know its value. I played
with it and threw it away—a fresh young life like Alfred Wimple’s. It
was in my power to make him happy; but I made him miserable. He was
taken ill and died. Sometimes I think that I am answerable to God for
the loss of that life; had I acted differently it might have been in the
world now. I never had a young love offered to me again; I thought that
God had denied it to me as a punishment; for Mr. Baines’s youth had gone
when I married him; it was the marriage of his middle age. But through
all the years I have not grown old, and all things that have youth in
them are precious to me. One reason why I love you all—you, and Walter
and the children—is that I am young too, at heart. It is only the lines
on my face that make me look old, and the years I can count that make me
feel so. I am young still in all else.” She stopped for a moment, as if
waiting for some response, but Florence could think of nothing to say;
she looked at the old lady wonderingly, and put her hand on the nervous
ones that rested on the chair-back. “I remember the night of your
party,” Mrs. Baines went on. “I thought of the past all the evening
while I sat there—your guest, my darling—it came back again and again,
it enveloped me, one year after another. I went on to the balcony, and
all my dear ones who had gone gathered round me in the darkness. I heard
your fresh young voices behind, but the years had set a mark on me that
cut me off from you, and death had taken most of those I remembered, but
left my heart young and longing for love, longing to live again just as
you loved and as you lived. I said to myself, ‘I am old, I am old!’
Alfred Wimple was standing by me, and whispered, ‘You are not old.’ He
was like my dead come back, like the one who had loved me when I was
young; I felt as if through all the years I had been waiting by a dead
man’s side, but that now perhaps out of his life that loved me this
other had grown, or else that God had sent him, my dear one, into the
world again to love me once more, and to prove I was forgiven. Do you
understand, Florence? I could not refuse the beautiful life that was
laid at my feet, the love that has come to bless me once more after all
the long years. We are young man and young woman to each other, and we
love each other with all our hearts. It is like you and your dear
Walter. I wanted to say this to you; I thought it would help you to
understand, to sympathize with me. You cannot be sorry that I am going
to be less lonely, or grudge me the love that will make my life happier.
That is all. And now, my darling, I must go; and good-bye once more.”
Florence could not speak—she felt the hot tears filling her eyes
again—a lump had come to her throat.
“God bless you, Aunt Anne,” she said at last, with something almost like
a sob.
“And God bless you, dearest Florence,” the old lady said, and kissed her
niece’s face and stroked her head. “You know I always admire your hair,
my love,” she said, and pulling her forward she kissed it. Then she went
out to the waggonette. Jane held open the door. “This is for you,” Mrs.
Baines said haughtily, and slipped half a crown into the servant’s hand.
“There are some old slippers in my bedroom; I don’t know if you will
deem them worthy of your acceptance.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jane, unwillingly.
“I trust you will study your mistress’s comfort and interests in every
way,” Mrs. Baines continued as she put a shawl over her knees, “and that
you will be good to those dear children.” The next moment she was on her
way to Witley Station.
END OF VOL. I.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES. _G., C. & Co._
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_, by Mrs. W. K. Clifford.]