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 823 
 v. I
 
 AUNT ANNE 
 
 4 A
 
 Aunt Anne 
 
 By Mrs. JV. K. Clifford, 
 
 Author of "Mrs. A'e it lis Crime" etc, 
 
 " As less the olden glow abides, 
 
 And less the chillier heart aspires, 
 With driftwood beached in past spring-tides 
 We light our sullen fires." 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 In Two Volumes. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 London : 
 
 Richard Bentley & Son, 
 
 Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen, 
 
 1892. 
 
 (All lights reserved,)
 
 ?JL3 
 
 Co Ma, 
 v.l 
 
 AUNT ANNE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ^ 
 
 HI' 
 
 R. and Mrs. Walter Hibbert had been 
 married just four months when Aunt 
 Anne first appeared on the scene. They were 
 Njat Brighton, whither they had gone from 
 -vf Friday to Tuesday, so that Mr. Hibbert might 
 get braced up after a hard spell of work. 
 • Besides doing his usual journalism, he had 
 been helping a friend with a popular educa- 
 tional weekly, and altogether "had slaved 
 quite wickedly," so his wife said. But he 
 had declared that, though he found matri- 
 mony, as far as he had gone, very delightful, 
 it had to be paid for, especially at the begin- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 ning of its career, when it ran into furniture, 
 linen, plate, and expensive presents to a dear 
 little wife, though the expensiveness of the 
 last he generously kept to himself. So it 
 resulted in the visit to Brighton. They 
 spent the happiest four days in the world 
 there, and felt quite sad when Tuesday 
 morning arrived. But they wisely did their 
 best to forget that the evening train would 
 take them back to London, and resolved 
 that their last day should pass merrily. 
 
 " Suppose we have a long drowsy morning 
 on the pier," she suggested ; " nothing is 
 nicer or more restful than to listen to the 
 band and look down into the water. We 
 needn't see the horrid people — indeed, if we 
 sit on one of the end seats and keep our 
 faces turned seawards, we can forget that 
 they even exist." 
 
 Mr. Hibbert solemnly considered the pro- 
 posal. 
 
 " The only drawback is the music, it makes 
 so much noise — that's the worst of music,
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 it always does," he said sadly. " Another 
 thing is, that I cannot lie full length on 
 the pier as I can on the beach." 
 
 " Very well, then we'll go to the beach. 
 The worst of the beach is, that we can't 
 look down into the water, as we can from 
 the end of the pier." 
 
 " That's true ; and then there are lots of 
 pretty girls on the pier, and I like to see 
 them, for then I know that there are some 
 left — for the other fellows," he added nobly. 
 
 So they went to the pier, and sat on one 
 of the side seats at the far end and looked 
 down into the water, and blinked their happy 
 eyes at the sunshine. And they felt as if 
 all the beautiful world belonged to them, as 
 if they two together were being drawn 
 dreamily on and on into the sky, and sea, 
 and light, to make one glorious whole with 
 happy nature ; but a whole in which they 
 would be for ever conscious of being together, 
 and never less sleepy or blissful than now. 
 This was Walter's idea, and he said it all
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 in his dear romantic way that generally ended 
 up with a laugh. "It would never do, you 
 know, because we should get nothing to 
 eat." 
 
 " Don't," she said. " That is so like you ; 
 you always spoil a beautiful idea, you pro- 
 voking thing," and she rubbed her chin 
 against the back of the seat and looked 
 down more intently at the water. Without 
 any one in the least suspecting it, he 
 managed to stoop and kiss her hand, while 
 he pretended to be trying to see something, 
 that of course was not there, at the top of 
 a wave. 
 
 They were having a delightful morning, 
 they lived in every moment of it, and wished 
 it would never come to an end ; still, when 
 it did, there would be a delicious luncheon 
 to go back to — very large prawns, roast 
 chicken and >green peas, and an enormous 
 dish of ripe figs, which both their souls 
 loved. After all, Walter thought, the world 
 was not a bad place, especially when you
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 had a wife who adored you and thought that 
 everything you did bore the stamp of genius. 
 
 The band was playing a waltz, though to 
 this day they do not know it. All manner 
 of people were passing to and fro, but they 
 did not notice them. 
 
 " I should like to stay here for ever," 
 Mrs. Hibbert said, with a sweet sigh of 
 content. " Do you know, Walter," she 
 went on suddenly after a pause, " it will 
 be four months to-morrow since we were 
 married ? Time seems to have flown." 
 
 " By Jove ! it really is a miracle what 
 those four months have done with them- 
 selves," he answered, looking up for a 
 moment ; as if to be sure that Time was 
 not a conjurer standing before him about 
 to hand the four months from beneath a 
 handkerchief, with a polite bow and the 
 remark that they would have to be lived 
 through at the ordinary rate. 
 
 A spare-looking old lady, dressed in black, 
 passed by, but he did not notice her.
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " You see/' he went on, with his eyes fixed 
 on a sailing boat in the distance, " if things 
 were always going to be " 
 
 At the sound of his voice the lady in 
 black, who was only a few yards off, stopped, 
 listened, hesitated, and, turning back, stood 
 before him. He recognized her in a moment. 
 
 "Aunt Anne!" he exclaimed. His voice 
 was amiable, but embarrassed, as if he did 
 not quite know what to do next. 
 
 " My dear Walter," she said, with a sigh 
 and in a tone of great relief, " I am so glad 
 to find you ; I went to your lodgings, I saw 
 your name and address in the visitors' list 
 yesterday, but you were out ; then I thought 
 I might find you here. And this is your 
 wife ? My dear Florence, I am so glad to 
 see you." 
 
 Till that moment Mrs. Walter Hibbert 
 had never heard of the existence of Aunt 
 Anne, but Aunt Anne had evidently heard 
 of Mrs. Hibbert. She knew her Christian 
 name, and called her by it as naturally as
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 if she had been at her christening. She 
 stretched out a small hand covered with a 
 black thread glove as she spoke, and held 
 Florence's fingers affectionately in hers. 
 Florence looked at her a little wonderingly. 
 Aunt Anne was slight and old, nearly sixty 
 perhaps. All over her face there were 
 little lines that crossed and re-crossed, and 
 branched off in every direction. She had 
 grey hair, and small dark eyes that blinked 
 quickly and nervously ; there appeared to be 
 some trifling affection of the left eye, for now 
 and then, as if by accident, it winked at you. 
 The odd thing was that, in spite of her evi- 
 dent tendency to nervous excitement, her 
 shabby black satin dress, almost threadbare 
 shawl, and cheap gloves, there was an air 
 of dignity about the spare old lady, and 
 something like determination in her kindly 
 voice that, joined to her impulsive tender- 
 ness, made you quickly understand she would 
 be a very difficult person to oppose. 
 
 "Dear boy/' she said gently to Walter,
 
 8 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " why didn't you write to me when you were 
 married ? You know how glad I should 
 have been to hear of your happiness." 
 
 " Why didn't you write to me, Aunt 
 Anne ? " he asked, gaily turning the tables. 
 
 "Yes, I ought to have done so. You 
 must forgive me, dears, for being so remiss," 
 she said, looking at them both, " and believe 
 me that it was from no lack of affection. 
 But," she went on quickly, "we must not 
 waste our time. You are coming to Rotting- 
 dean with me, and at once. Mr. Baines is 
 longing to see you both." 
 
 " But we can't go now, Aunt Anne," 
 Walter declared in his kindest manner ; " we 
 must get back to the lodgings. We told 
 them to have luncheon ready at one o'clock, 
 and to-night we go home. You must come 
 and lunch with us." 
 
 " That is impossible, dear Walter ; you are 
 coming back with me." 
 
 " It can't be done to-day," he said regret- 
 fully.
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " My dear Walter," she answered, with a 
 look of dismay and in a voice that was 
 almost pained, " what would your uncle say 
 if he heard you ? I could not possibly 
 return without you." 
 
 " But he has never seen me, Aunt Anne." 
 
 " That is one reason why he would never 
 forgive me if I did not take you back." 
 
 " But it is so far, and we should be all 
 day getting there," Walter objected a little 
 helplessly, for he felt already that Aunt Anne 
 would carry her point. 
 
 " It is only to Rottingdean " — she spoke 
 with hurt surprise — "and we will drive. I 
 saw a beautiful fly as I was coming on to the 
 pier, and engaged it. I know you too well, 
 my darling, to think that you will refuse 
 me. 
 
 Her manner had changed in a moment ; 
 she said the last words with soft triumph, 
 and looked at Florence. The sight of the 
 young wife seemed to be too much for her ; 
 there was something like a tear in the left
 
 io Aunt Anne. 
 
 eye, the one that winked, when she spoke 
 again. 
 
 " I must give her a kiss," she said tenderly, 
 and putting out her arms she gathered the 
 girl to her heart. " But we must make 
 haste," she went on quickly, hurrying over 
 the fag end of her embrace, as if she had not 
 time to indulge in her feelings much as she 
 desired to do so. " Mr. Baines will wonder 
 what has happened to us. He is longing to 
 see you ; " and without their knowing it, she 
 almost chased them along the pier. 
 
 Then Walter, thinking of the prawns and 
 the chicken and the large dish of ripe green 
 figs, made a wild struggle to get free. 
 
 " But really, Aunt Anne," he said firmly, 
 " we must go back to the lodgings. Come 
 and lunch with us now, and let us go and 
 see Mr. Baines another time ; I dare say we 
 shall be at Brighton again soon. We will 
 make a point of coming now that we know 
 you are here, won't we, Floggie ? " and he 
 appealed feebly to his wife.
 
 Aunt Anne. ti 
 
 " Yes, indeed we will," Florence assured 
 her. 
 
 " Dear children," Aunt Anne laughed, " I 
 shall not take any excuse, or think of letting 
 you escape now that I have found you." 
 There was an unexpected brightness in her 
 manner, but there was no intention of letting 
 them go. 
 
 " Besides, there may be important letters 
 at the lodgings, and I ought to do a bit of 
 work ; " but there was evident invention in 
 Walters voice, and she did not slacken her 
 pace. Still, as if she wanted him to know 
 that she saw through his excuses, she looked 
 at him reproachfully, and with a determina- 
 tion that did not falter. 
 
 " It would be impossible for me to return 
 without you," she said, with extreme gravity ; 
 "he would never forgive me. Besides, dear 
 children, you don't know what a pleasure it 
 is to see you. I could not let you go just 
 yet. My heart gave a bound as I recognized 
 Walter's voice," she went on, turning to
 
 12 Aunt Anne, 
 
 Florence; "he is so like what his dear 
 father used to be. I knew him directly." 
 
 They were already by the turnstile. They 
 felt helpless. The old lady with the thin 
 shoulders and the black shawl loosely float- 
 ing behind seemed to be their master : they 
 were like children doing as they were told. 
 
 " Here is the fly. Get in, my darlings," 
 she said triumphantly, and Florence meekly 
 took her place. " Get in, dear Walter/' she 
 repeated with decision, " I will follow ; get 
 in," and he too obeyed. Another moment 
 and they were going towards Rottingdean. 
 
 The old lady looked relieved and pleased 
 when they were well on their way. 
 
 " It is a lovely drive," she said, " and it 
 will do you far more good than sitting on 
 the pier. I am so glad to have you with me, 
 dear children." She seemed to delight in 
 calling them children, and it was odd, but 
 each time that she said the word it seemed 
 to give her a stronger hold on them. She 
 turned to Florence.
 
 Aunt Anne, 13 
 
 " Are your father and mother quite well, 
 my dear ? " she asked, and waited with 
 polite eagerness for a reply. 
 
 Walter put his hand on his wife's. 
 
 " She only has a mother," he said gently. 
 
 Aunt Anne looked quite penitent. She 
 winked with her left eye and was silent for 
 a moment or two, almost as if she meditated 
 shedding a tear for the defunct father of the 
 niece by marriage whom she had never seen 
 in her life before to-day. Suddenly she 
 turned the subject so grotesquely that they 
 nearly laughed. 
 
 " Are you fond of chocolates, my darling ? " 
 
 " Yes " Florence hesitated a minute 
 
 and then said softly, "Yes, Aunt Anne, 
 very " — she had not had occasion to give the 
 old lady any name in the few words she had 
 spoken previously. 
 
 " Dear child, I knew you would be," Aunt 
 Anne said, and from under her shawl she 
 produced a box covered with white satin 
 paper and having on its lid a very bright
 
 i4 Aunt Anne. 
 
 picture of a very smart lady. " I bought 
 that box of chocolates for you as I came 
 along. I thought Florence would be like 
 the picture on the lid," she added, turning to 
 her nephew ; " and she is, don't you think 
 so, Walter dear ? " 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Anne, she is— it is a most 
 beautiful lady," he answered, and he looked 
 fondly at his wife and drew up his lips a 
 little bit in a manner that Florence knew 
 meant, in the language only she and he in 
 all the wide world understood, that in his 
 thoughts he kissed her. 
 
 Aunt Anne was a dear old lady, Florence 
 thought, and of course she liked, and always 
 would like, any relation of Walters; still, 
 she did so wish that on this particular day, 
 their last by the sea together, Aunt Anne 
 had kept her distance. Walter was so pale 
 when they left town, but since Friday, with 
 nothing to do but to get brown in the sun, 
 he had been looking better and handsomer 
 every day, and this last one they had longed
 
 Aunt Anne. 15 
 
 to enjoy in their own lazy way ; and now 
 all their little plans were spoilt. To-morrow 
 he would be at his office : it was really too 
 bad, though it was ungrateful to think it, 
 perhaps, with the remembrance of Aunt 
 Anne's embrace fresh upon her, and the 
 box of chocolates on her lap. Still, after 
 all, she felt justified, for she knew that 
 Walter was raging inwardly, and that if 
 they were alone he would use some short 
 but very effective words to describe his own 
 feeling in respect to the turning up of Aunt 
 Anne. Only he was so good, so gentle 
 and considerate, that, no matter what his 
 thoughts might be, of course he would not 
 let Aunt Anne feel how much her kindness 
 bothered him. 
 
 Meanwhile, they jogged along in the open 
 fly towards Rottingdean. A long, even 
 road, with a view on the right of the open 
 sea, on the left alternate high hedges and 
 wide meadows. The grass on the cliffs 
 was green ; among the grass were little
 
 1 6 Aunt Anne. 
 
 footpaths made by wandering feet that had 
 diverged from the main road. Florence 
 followed the little tracks with her eyes ; she 
 thought of footpaths like them far away, not 
 by the sea, but among the hanging woods 
 of Surrey. She and Walter had sauntered 
 along them less than a year ago. She 
 thought of home, of the dear mother busy 
 with her household duties, but making time 
 between to write to the boys in India ; of 
 the dear, noisy boys who suddenly grew 
 to be young men and vanished into the 
 whirl of life ; of the dirty old pony carriage 
 in which she had loved to drive her sweet- 
 heart ; and when she got to this point her 
 thoughts came to a full stop to think more 
 particularly of the pony. His name was 
 Moses, and he had liked being kissed and 
 eating sugar. She remembered, with a pang 
 of self-reproach, that in the last months 
 before her marriage she used to forget to 
 kiss Moses, though she often stood absently 
 stroking his patient nose. She had some-
 
 Aunt Anne, 17 
 
 times even forgotten his morning lump of 
 sugar in the excitement of reading the letter 
 that the early post never failed to bring. 
 
 " Are you fond of scenery, dear ? " Aunt 
 Anne asked. 
 
 With a start Florence looked round at 
 the old lady, at Walter, at the shabby lining 
 of the fly. 
 
 " Yes, very," she answered. 
 
 " I knew it by the expression of your face 
 when you looked at the sea. Mr. Baines 
 says it is a lovely view." 
 
 Why should Mr. Baines be quoted ? 
 Florence wondered. She looked again — 
 an open sea, a misty horizon, a blue sky, 
 and the sun shining. A fine sea-view, 
 certainly, and a splendid day, but scenery 
 was hardly the term to apply to the distance 
 beside them. 
 
 "Is Mr. Baines very fond of the sea?" 
 she asked. She saw that Aunt Anne was 
 waiting for her to speak, and she said the 
 first words that presented themselves. 
 
 vol. 1. 2
 
 1 8 Aunt Anne. 
 
 "Yes, my love, he delights in scenery. 
 You must call him Uncle Robert, Florence. 
 He would be deeply wounded to hear you 
 say Mr. Baines. Neither he nor I could 
 think of Walter's wife as anything but our 
 niece. You will remember, won't you, my 
 love ? " Aunt Anne spoke in the gentle 
 but authoritative voice which was, as they 
 had already found, difficult to resist. 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Anne, of course I will if you 
 wish it ; it was only because as yet I do not 
 know him." 
 
 " But you soon will know him, my love," 
 the old lady answered confidently; "and 
 when you do, you will feel that neither he 
 nor I could think of Walter's wife except 
 to love her. Dear child, how fond he will 
 be of you ! " And she put her hand affec- 
 tionately on Florence's while she turned to 
 Walter and asked suddenly — 
 
 "Walter dear, have you got a white silk 
 handkerchief for your neck ? " 
 
 He looked at her for a moment, almost
 
 Aunt Anne. 19 
 
 puzzled, wondering whether she wanted to 
 borrow one. 
 
 " No, Aunt Anne, I fear I have not." 
 
 She dived down into her pocket and 
 pulled out a little soft packet. " I thought 
 it possible you hadn't one," she said joyfully, 
 " so I bought this for you just now ; " and 
 she tucked the little parcel into his hand. 
 
 It took him by surprise, he did not know 
 what to say. He felt like the schoolboy she 
 seemed to take him for, and a schoolboy's 
 awkwardness overtook him ; he smiled, 
 nodded mysteriously, and put the hand- 
 kerchief into his pocket. His manner 
 delighted Mrs. Baines. 
 
 "He is just the same," she said to 
 Florence ; " I remember him so well when 
 he was only ten years old. He had the 
 most lovely eyes I ever saw. Walter, do 
 you remember my visit to your father ? — 
 Ah ! we have reached the hill, that's why 
 he's going so slowly," she exclaimed ex- 
 citedly. "We shall be there in five minutes.
 
 2o Aunt Anne. 
 
 Now we are close to the village. Drive 
 through the street, coachman," she called 
 out, "past the church, and a little way on 
 you will see a house standing back from the 
 road with a long garden in front and a white 
 gate. Florence dear," she asked, still keep- 
 ing her eyes fixed on the driver, "do you 
 like preserve ? " 
 
 " Like — do you mean jam ? " Florence 
 asked, bewildered by another sudden question. 
 
 " Yes, my love, preserve," Aunt Anne 
 answered pointedly, as if she resented the 
 use of the shorter word. 
 
 "Yes, I like it very much," her newly 
 found niece said humbly, feeling that she 
 had been rebuked. 
 
 " We have quantities of fruit in our garden, 
 and have been preserving it all the week. 
 It is not very firm yet, but you must have 
 some to take back with you." 
 
 " I am afraid we shall hardly be able to 
 carry it," Florence began timidly, feeling 
 convinced that if she were made to carry
 
 Aunt Anne. 21 
 
 jam to London it would be fatal to the rest 
 of her luggage. 
 
 " I will pack it for you myself," Aunt 
 Anne said firmly. She was watching the 
 driver too intently to say more. She did 
 not speak again till they had driven down 
 the one street of Rottingdean, past the 
 newly built cottages and the church, and 
 appeared to be getting into another main 
 road. Then suddenly she rose triumphantly 
 from her seat. " There it is, coachman, 
 that little cottage to the left. Dear Walter 
 — how pleased your uncle will be ! Here 
 it is, dears," and all her kindly face lighted 
 up with satisfaction as they stopped before 
 a small whitewashed cottage with a long 
 garden in front and a bed of lupins at the 
 side. Florence noticed that the garden, 
 stretching far behind, was full of fruit-trees, 
 and that a pear-tree rubbed against the sides 
 of the house. 
 
 The old lady got out of the fly slowly, 
 she handed out her niece and nephew ; the
 
 22 Aunt Anne. 
 
 latter was going to pay the driver, but she 
 pushed away his hand, then stood for a 
 moment feeling absently in her pocket. 
 After a moment she looked up and said 
 in an abstracted voice, " Walter dear, you 
 must settle with the flyman when you go 
 back to Brighton ; he is paid by the hour 
 and will wait for you, my darlings ; " and 
 she turned towards the gate. " Come," she 
 said, " I must present you to your uncle. — 
 Robert," she called, " are you there ? " She 
 walked along the pathway with a quick 
 determined step a little in advance of her 
 visitors : when she reached the house she 
 stood still, looking in, but hesitating to enter. 
 Florence and Walter overtaking her saw 
 that the front door opened into a room 
 simply, almost poorly, furnished, with many 
 photographs dotted about the walls, and a 
 curious arrangement of quartz and ferns 
 in one corner. While Mrs. Baines stood 
 irresolute, there came round the house 
 from the right a little shabby-looking maid-
 
 Aunt Anne. 23 
 
 servant. Her dress was dirty, and she wore 
 a large cap on her untidy head. 
 
 " Emma," said Aunt Anne in the con- 
 descending voice of one who struggled, but 
 unsuccessfully, to forget her own superior 
 condition in life, " where is your master ? " 
 
 " I don't know, mum, but I think he's 
 tying up the beans." 
 
 " Have you prepared luncheon ? " 
 
 The girl looked up in surprise she evi- 
 dently did not dare express, and answered 
 in the negative. 
 
 " Then go and do so immediately/' 
 
 " But please, mum, what am I to put on 
 the table ? " asked the girl, bewildered. 
 
 " Put ! " exclaimed the old lady ; " why, 
 the cold bacon, and the preserved cranberries, 
 of course, and the honey and the buns." 
 
 Florence thought that it sounded like the 
 oddest meal in the world. 
 
 " I think we had better return, I do indeed, 
 Aunt Anne, if you will kindly let us," urged 
 Walter, thinking regretfully of the chicken.
 
 24 Aunt Anne. 
 
 Aunt Anne waved her hand. 
 
 "Walter," she answered grandly, "you 
 shall not go until you have partaken of our 
 hospitality. I wish it were a thousand 
 times better than it is," she added, with a 
 pathetic note in her voice that found their 
 hearts directly. 
 
 Walter put his hand on her shoulder like 
 the simple affectionate fellow he was, and 
 Florence hastened to say heartily — 
 
 "It sounds delightful, dear Aunt Anne ; 
 
 it is only that we " And then there came 
 
 slouching round the left side of the house 
 a tall ungainly-looking man of about sixty, 
 a man with a brown beard and brown 
 trousers, carrying in his hand a newspaper. 
 He looked at Walter and at Florence in 
 almost stupid surprise, and turned from 
 them with a grunt. 
 
 "Anne," he said crossly, "where have 
 you been ? I have wasted all my morning 
 looking for you ; you knew those scarlet 
 runners wanted tying up, and the sunflowers
 
 Aunt Anne. 25 
 
 trimming. Who are these ? " he asked, 
 nodding at his visitors as coolly as if they 
 had been out of hearing ; " and what is that 
 fly doing at the gate ? " 
 
 " Why, I have been to Brighton, of 
 course," Aunt Anne answered bravely, 
 lifting her head and looking him in the 
 face, but there was a quaver of something 
 like fear in her voice ; "I told you I was 
 going : I went by the omnibus." 
 
 " What did you go to Brighton for ? you 
 were there only last week." He lowered 
 his voice and asked again, "Who are these?" 
 
 " Robert, I told you yesterday that Walter 
 Hibbert's name was in the visitors' list in 
 the paper, and that I was longing to see 
 him and his wife," she answered sharply, 
 but still with dignity — it was doubtful which 
 of the two was master — " so of course I went 
 off this morning to fetch them. I knew 
 how glad you would be to see them." 
 
 Mr. Baines gave a grunt. 
 
 The maid, laying the cloth in the white-
 
 26 Aunt Anne. 
 
 washed sitting-room, stopped clattering the 
 forks and spoons to hear what was going 
 on and to look through the open window. 
 Aunt Anne noticed it in a moment, and 
 turning round said sternly — 
 
 " Emma, proceed with your work. I told 
 you," she went on, again speaking to her 
 husband, " that these dear children were at 
 Brighton. I have brought them back, 
 Robert, to introduce them to you. They 
 have been looking forward to it." 
 
 He gave another grunt, and shook his 
 awkward shoulders in what was meant to 
 be a civil manner. 
 
 " Oh, that's it," he said ; " well, you had 
 better come in and have something to eat." 
 And he led the way into the cottage. 
 
 Aunt Anne entirely recovered herself the 
 moment she was under her own roof. "He 
 is so forgetful," she said softly, " but he has 
 really been longing to see you ; " and she 
 touched his arm : " I told them how glad 
 you would be to see them, Robert," she
 
 Aunt Anne. 27 
 
 said appealingly, as if she felt quite certain 
 that he would remember his gladness in a 
 moment or two, and wondered if it was yet 
 flowing into his heart. " Dear Florence, 
 you must ask him to show you his botanical 
 specimens ; he has a wonderful collection." 
 
 " We will," said Walter, good-humouredly. 
 
 " And now you must excuse me for a 
 few minutes, dears. I know how much 
 your uncle will enjoy a talk with you ; " and, 
 to the dismay of the Hibberts, Aunt Anne 
 vanished, leaving them alone with the brown 
 man. 
 
 Mr. Baines sat slowly down on the arm- 
 chair, the only really comfortable one in the 
 room, and stretched out his left leg in a 
 manner that showed it was stiff. Then he 
 looked at his visitors grimly, yet with a 
 suggestion of odd amusement on his face, 
 as if he knew perfectly how embarrassed 
 they felt. 
 
 " Sit down, Mrs. Hibbert," he said, nod- 
 ding towards an ordinary chair, and including
 
 2 8 Aunt Anne. 
 
 Walter in the nod. " I dare say you'll be 
 glad of your food before you look at speci- 
 mens. I shall," and he gave a lumbering 
 laugh. " I have done a hard morning's 
 work." 
 
 " I am sure you must be very tired," 
 Florence said politely, wishing Aunt Anne 
 would return. 
 
 He seemed to know her thoughts, and 
 answered them in an explanatory manner : 
 " Anne won't be long. She always dresses 
 before we have dinner. Great nonsense, 
 living as we do ; but it's no use my speak- 
 ing. Do you make a long stay in Brighton, 
 Mr. Hibbert?" 
 
 " No, we go back to town to-night." 
 <•*' A good thing," he said, with another 
 lumbering laugh ; " Brighton is a horrible 
 place to my mind, and the sooner one leaves 
 it the better. That pier, with its band and 
 set of idle people, with nothing else to do 
 but to walk up and down ; — well, it's my 
 opinion that railways have done a vast deal
 
 Aunt Anne, 29 
 
 of mischief and mighty little good to make 
 up for it. The same thing can be said of 
 newspapers. What good do they do ? " 
 
 Walter felt that this sudden turn upon 
 the Press was a little hard on him, but he 
 looked up over his moustache with laughter 
 in his eyes, and wondered what would come 
 next. Florence was almost angry. Aunt 
 Anne's husband was very rude, she thought, 
 and she determined to come to the rescue. 
 
 " But you were reading a paper," she said, 
 and tried to see the name of one that Mr. 
 Baines had thrown down beside his chair. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I like to try and find out what 
 mischief they are going to do next. If I 
 had my way they should only be published 
 monthly, if at all. All they do is to try and 
 set people by the ears." 
 
 " But they tell us the news." 
 
 " Well, and what better are we for that ? 
 I don't want to know that a man was hanged 
 last week, and a prince will be married to- 
 morrow ; I only waste my time reading
 
 30 Aunt Anne. 
 
 about them when I might be usefully em- 
 ployed minding my own business." 
 
 "Walter writes for a paper," Florence 
 said distantly, determined to find out if Mr. 
 Baines was being rude on purpose. A little 
 dull curiosity came into his eyes, as he 
 looked up and asked — 
 
 "Walter— who's Walter?" 
 
 " I am," laughed the owner of the name ; 
 "but she needn't have betrayed me." Mr. 
 Baines was in no way disconcerted. 
 
 " Oh ! you write for a paper, do you ? 
 Well, I am sorry for you; you might do 
 something much better. Oh, here's Anne; 
 now we had better go and eat." With the 
 aid of a stick, he shuffled out of the chair, 
 refusing Walter's offered help. " I didn't 
 know you wrote for a paper, or I would 
 have held my tongue," he said, as a sort of 
 apology. " No, thank you, I am all right 
 once I am on my feet." 
 
 Florence and Walter were astonished 
 when they looked at Aunt Anne. They
 
 Aunt Anne. 31 
 
 hardly knew her again. The shabby black 
 shawl had vanished, the dusty bonnet was 
 replaced by a soft white cap ; there was lace 
 at her throat fastened by a little crinkly gold 
 brooch that had a place for hair in the 
 middle : her satin dress trailed an inch or 
 two on the ground behind, and she had put 
 a red carnation in her bosom almost coquet- 
 tishly. 
 
 " Now, dears," she said, with a smile of 
 welcome that was fascinating from its abso- 
 lute genuineness, " I shall be truly hurt if 
 you fail to do justice to our simple repast " — 
 and she sat down with an air of old-fashioned 
 stateliness as if she were heading a banquet 
 table. " Sit down, dears. Robert, you must 
 have Florence on your right hand." 
 
 The Hibberts took their places merrily, 
 their spirits reviving now that they were 
 no longer alone with their host. Aunt 
 Anne, too, looked so picturesque sitting 
 there in the little summer-like room, with 
 the garden beyond, that they could not help
 
 32 Aunt Anne. 
 
 being glad they had come. They felt that 
 they were living a distinct day in their lives, 
 and not one that afterwards in looking back 
 they would find difficult to sort out from a 
 hundred others like it. 
 
 Even Mr. Baines grew less grumpy, and 
 offered presently to show them the garden. 
 
 "And the plum-trees and the pear-trees," 
 said Aunt Anne; "and the view from the 
 summer-house in the corner." 
 
 "Oh yes," her husband said, "we'll show 
 them all ; " and he helped to do the honours 
 of the table with what he evidently intended 
 to be genial courtesy. 
 
 "It does my heart good to see you, 
 dears," Aunt Anne said, as she insisted on 
 helping them to an enormous quantity of 
 stewed cranberries. 
 
 "And it does us good to be here," they 
 answered, forgetting all their vexation at 
 losing a day by the sea ; forgetting even the 
 poor chicken that was being roasted in vain, 
 and the waiting fly to be paid for at so much 
 an hour.
 
 Aunt Anne. 33 
 
 "Walter dear," Mrs. Hibbert said, as they 
 drove back to Brighton, carefully balancing 
 on their knees four large pots of jam, while 
 they also kept an eye on an enormous nose- 
 gay badly tied up, that wobbled about on 
 the back seat, " Mr. Baines didn't seem to 
 know you when we arrived." 
 
 "He had never set eyes on me before. 
 Aunt Anne only set eyes on him five years 
 ago. He was rather a grumpy beggar. I 
 wonder who the deuce he was ? We none 
 of us ever knew." 
 
 "He didn't know you were a journalist, 
 I think." 
 
 " No, I suppose not. I wonder if he ever 
 did anything for a living himself?" Then, as 
 if he repented saying anything that sounded 
 unkind of a man whose salt he had just 
 eaten, he added, " But you can never tell 
 what people are from their talk the first time 
 you see them. He is not unlike a man I 
 knew some years ago, who was a great in- 
 ventive genius. He used to shuffle about 
 
 VOL. 1. 3
 
 34 Aunt Anne. 
 
 in shoes too big for him, just as this beggar 
 did." 
 
 " I felt quite frightened when he first came 
 round the corner." 
 
 " You see it was rough upon him having 
 his morning spoilt. A man who lives in the 
 country like that generally gets wrapped up 
 in his surroundings. I suppose I must have 
 known that Aunt Anne was at Rottingdean," 
 he went on ; " but if so, I had forgotten it. 
 She quarrelled with my father and every one 
 else because she was always quite unable to 
 keep any money. There was a great de- 
 liberation in the family a few years ago, 
 when it was announced that Aunt Anne was 
 destitute and no one wanted to keep her." 
 
 " But had she no money of her own ? " 
 
 "She had a little, but she lived on the 
 capital till it was gone, and there was an 
 end of that. Then suddenly she married 
 Mr. Baines. I don't know who he was, but 
 she met him at a railway-station. He had 
 a bad headache, I believe, and she thought
 
 Aunt Anne. 35 
 
 he was ill, and went up and offered him 
 some smelling-salts." 
 
 "Why, it was quite romantic," Florence 
 exclaimed. 
 
 Walter had a curious way of looking up 
 when he was amused, and he looked up in 
 that curious way now. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " quite romantic." 
 
 " Do go on." 
 
 " I don't know any more except that some- 
 how they got married, and she turned up 
 to-day as you saw ; and I wish she hadn't 
 given us any jam, confound it. I say, 
 darling, let's throw it over that hedge." 
 
 " Oh, I wouldn't for the world," Florence 
 said. " It would be so unkind. She was 
 a dear old lady, Walter, and I am glad we 
 went to see her. She asked for our address 
 in London, and said she should write to us." 
 
 But Aunt Anne did not write for a long 
 time, and then it was only to condole with 
 Walter on the death of his father. The first
 
 36 
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 year after their visit to Rottingdean she sent 
 a large Christmas card inscribed to " My 
 dear Walter and Florence, from Aunt Anne ; " 
 but the second year even this was omitted. 
 It was not until Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert had 
 been married nearly seven years that Aunt 
 Anne again appeared before them.
 
 rfUjip'* -~ 
 
 
 ~ - - 
 
 * 
 
 f£g&Lde&j0kJtiB*&A t^ft^^^^HH 
 
 
 ■ • - 1 JhnI 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANY things had happened to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hibbert in those seven years. 
 Most important of all — to themselves, at 
 least — was the birth of their two children, 
 lovely children Mrs. Hibbert declared them 
 to be, and in his heart her husband agreed 
 with her. But the time came when Walter 
 found to his dismay that even lovely children 
 would sometimes cry, and that as they grew 
 older they wanted room to run about with 
 that constant patter-pattering sound that is 
 usually more delightful to a mothers ear than 
 to a father's, especially when he has to pro- 
 duce intelligible copy. So the Hibberts 
 moved away from the little flat in which they 
 had begun their married life, to an ugly little
 
 38 Aunt Anne, 
 
 upright house sufficiently near Portland Road 
 to enable Walter to get quickly to the office. 
 There a nursery could be made at the top of 
 the house, where the children would be not 
 only out of sight, but out of hearing. 
 
 Walter did a great deal of work, and was 
 fairly well paid, but that did not mean a 
 large income for a young couple with two 
 children and three servants, trying to keep 
 up an appearance before the world. He 
 wrote for magazines and literary journals, 
 occasionally he did a long pot-boiler for one 
 of those reviews he called refuges for destitute 
 intellects ; and altogether was thrown much 
 among men better off than himself, so that 
 he did not like to look poor. Besides, he 
 preferred to live with a certain amount of 
 comfort, even though it meant a certain 
 amount of anxiety, to looking poverty-stricken 
 or shabby for the sake of knowing precisely 
 how he would stand at the end of the quarter, 
 or being able at any moment to lay his hand 
 on a ten-pound note.
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 39 
 
 " You not only feel awkward yourself if 
 you look poor, but cause other people to feel 
 so," he said ; " and that is making yourself a 
 nuisance : you have no business to do that 
 if you can avoid it." 
 
 So, though the Hibberts had only a small 
 house, it was pretty and well arranged. 
 Their simple meals were daintily served, and 
 everything about them had an air that 
 implies content dashed with luxury. In fact, 
 they lived as people can live now, even on a 
 small income, and especially in London, in 
 comfort and refinement. 
 
 Still, it was a difficult task to pull through, 
 and Walter felt that he ought to be making 
 more money. He knew, too, though he did 
 not tell his wife so, that the constant work 
 and anxiety were telling on him ; he wanted 
 another but a far longer bracing-up than the 
 one he had had seven years ago at Brighton. 
 "A sea voyage would be the thing," he 
 thought, "only I don't see how it could be 
 managed, even if I could get away."
 
 4o Aunt Anne. 
 
 The last year had been a fortunate one in 
 some respects : an aunt of Mrs. Hibbert's 
 had died, leaving them a hundred pounds 
 and a furnished cottage near Witley, in 
 Surrey. It was a dear little cottage, they 
 both protested — red brick, of course, as all 
 well-bred cottages are nowadays, standing in 
 an acre and a half of its own fir-wood, and 
 having round it a garden with tan paths and 
 those prim flowers that grow best in the 
 vicinity of fir. It would be delightful to stay 
 there in the summer holidays, they agreed, 
 or to run down from Saturday to Monday, 
 or, by-and-by, to send the children there for 
 a spell with the governess when their parents 
 were not able to get away from town. 
 Walter had tried sending Florence and the 
 children and going down every week himself, 
 but he found "it didn't work." She was 
 always longing to be with him, and he with 
 her. It was only a broad sea and a few 
 thousand miles that would make separation 
 possible, and he did not think he could
 
 Aunt Anne. 41 
 
 endure that very long- : he was absurdly fond 
 of his dear little wife. 
 
 All this he thought over as he walked 
 along the Strand one morning to his office. 
 He was going to see his chief, who had sent 
 for him on a matter of business. His chief 
 was Mr. Fisher, an excellent editor, though 
 not quite enough of a partisan perhaps to 
 have a strong following. The Centre was a 
 model of fairness, and the mainstay of that 
 great section of the reading public that likes 
 its news trustworthy and copious, but has no 
 pronounced party leanings. Still, if it was a 
 paper without political influence, it was one 
 of great political use, for it invariably stated 
 a question from all points of view with equal 
 fairness, though it leant, if at all, from sheer 
 editorial generosity, towards making the best 
 of it for the weakest side. Thus a minority 
 looked to it almost as to an advocate, and 
 the majority knew that any strength that 
 was against them would be set forth in The 
 Centre, and that if none was pleaded there,
 
 42 Aunt Anne. 
 
 the right and the triumph were together. 
 Mr. Fisher liked Walter Hibbert; and 
 though by tacit agreement their relations 
 inside the office were purely formal, outside 
 they were a good deal more intimate. 
 Occasionally they took the form of a quiet 
 dinner, or a few hours in the little house 
 near Portland Road ; for Florence was rather 
 a favourite of the editor's — perhaps, for one 
 reason, because she was obviously of opinion 
 that he ought to be married. A man gene- 
 rally likes a woman who pays him this 
 compliment, especially when it is disin- 
 terested. Mr. Fisher was a widower and 
 childless. There was some story connected 
 with his marriage, but the Hibberts never 
 heard the rights of it, and it was evidently a 
 painful subject to him. All that was known 
 in the office was that years before a gaunt- 
 looking woman used to sometimes come for 
 him, and that they always walked silently 
 away together. Some one said once that he 
 had married her because he had known her
 
 Aunt Anne. 43 
 
 for years, and she was poor and he did not 
 know how to provide for her except by 
 marrying her, and that she was querulous 
 and worried him a good deal. After a time 
 she grew thin and feeble-looking. One day, 
 about three years after the marriage, her 
 death appeared in the paper ; her husband 
 looked almost relieved, but very sad, and 
 no one ventured to ask him any questions. 
 
 As Walter walked along the Strand that 
 morning he meditated on many ways of 
 improving his condition and at the same 
 time of not overworking himself. He found 
 that it told on him considerably to be down 
 late at the office three nights a week, writing 
 his article, and then, with the excitement of 
 work still upon him, to go home tired and 
 hungry in the small hours of the morning. 
 It was bad for Florence, too, for she generally 
 sat up for him, declaring that to taste his 
 supper and to have a little chat with him did 
 her good and made her heart light. Some- 
 times he thought he would take up a different
 
 44 Aunt Anne. 
 
 line altogether (he knew his editor would aid 
 and abet him in anything for his good) and 
 try living in the country, running up to town 
 every day if necessary. But this would never 
 do ; it would only make him restive. His 
 position was not yet strong enough to admit 
 of his taking things so easily. It was im- 
 portant to him to live among men of know- 
 ledge and influence, to be in the whirl and 
 twirl of things, and London was essentially 
 the bull's-eye, not only of wealth and com- 
 merce, but of most other things with which 
 men of all degrees concern themselves. 
 
 And when he got to this point he came to 
 the conclusion that he was thinking too much 
 about himself. After all, he only wanted a 
 month's rest or a couple of months' change of 
 air ; a friendly talk such as he might possibly 
 get in the next quarter of an hour would 
 probably bring about one or the other and 
 in a far better form than he himself could 
 devise it. Mr. Fisher was a man of infinite 
 resource, not merely in regard to his paper,
 
 Aunt Anne. 45 
 
 but for himself and his friends too, when they 
 consulted him about their personal affairs. 
 It was one of his characteristics that he liked 
 being consulted. Walter felt that the best 
 thing would be to get away alone with 
 Florence, to some place where the climate 
 had no cause to be ashamed of itself : he 
 wanted to be sated with sunshine. It was 
 no good going alone, and no matter how 
 pleasant a friend went with him, a time 
 always came when he wanted to go by one 
 route and the friend by another. " Now, 
 your wife," he thought, " not only particularly 
 longs to go by your route, but thinks you a 
 genius for finding it out." 
 
 He stopped for a moment to look at a 
 bookshop ; there was a box of second-hand 
 books outside ; he hesitated, but remembered 
 that he had no time to stay. As he turned 
 away some one touched him on the arm, and 
 a voice said doubtfully — 
 
 " Will you speak to me, Walter ? " He 
 looked up and instantly held out his hand 
 with a smile.
 
 46 Aunt Anne. 
 
 "Why, it's Wimple," he said; "how are 
 you, old fellow ? Of course I'll speak to 
 you. How are you ? " 
 
 The man who had stopped him was about 
 eight-and-twenty ; he was tall and thin, his 
 legs were too long and very rickety. To 
 look at he was not prepossessing ; he had a 
 pinky complexion, pale reddish hair, and 
 small round dark eyes with light lashes and 
 weak lids. On either side of his face there 
 were some straggling whiskers ; his lips were 
 thin and his whole expression very grave. 
 His voice was low but firm in its tone, as 
 though he wished to convey that even in 
 small matters it would be useless to contra- 
 dict him. He wore rather shabby dark 
 clothes, his thin overcoat was unbuttoned 
 and showed that the undercoat was faced 
 with watered silk that had worn a little 
 shiny ; attached to his waistcoat was a watch- 
 guard made of brown hair ornamented here 
 and there with bright gold clasps. He did 
 not look strong or very flourishing. He
 
 Aunt Anne. 47 
 
 was fairly gentleman-like, but only fairly so, 
 and he did not look very agreeable. The 
 apparent weakness of his legs seemed to 
 prevent him from walking uprightly ; he 
 looked down a good deal at the toes of his 
 boots, which were well polished. The oddest 
 thing about him was that with all his un- 
 prepossessing appearance he had a certain 
 air of sentiment ; occasionally a sentimental 
 tone stole into his voice, but he carefully 
 repressed it. Walter remembered the 
 moment he looked at him that the brown 
 hair watchguard had been the gift of a pretty 
 girl, the daughter of a tailor to whom he 
 had made love as if in compensation for not 
 paying her father's bill. He wondered how 
 it had ended, whether the girl had broken 
 her heart for him, or found him out. But 
 the next moment he hated himself for his 
 ungenerous thoughts, and forcing them back 
 spoke in as friendly a voice as he could 
 manage. " It's ages since we came across 
 each other," he said, " and I should not have
 
 48 Aunt Anne. 
 
 seen you just now if you had not seen 
 me. 
 
 " I wasn't sure whether you would speak 
 to me," Mr. Wimple said solemnly, as they 
 walked on together, and then almost hurriedly, 
 as if to avoid thinking about unpleasant 
 things, he asked, " How is your wife ? " 
 
 " All right, thank you. But how are you, 
 and how are you getting on ? " 
 
 "I am not at all well, Walter " — Mr. 
 Wimple coughed, as if to show that he was 
 delicate — " and my uncle has behaved shame- 
 fully to me." 
 
 " Why, what has he done ? " Walter asked, 
 wishing that he felt more cordial, for he had 
 known Alfred Wimple longer almost than 
 he had known any one. Old acquaintance 
 was not to be lightly put aside. It con- 
 stituted a claim in Walter's eyes as strong 
 as did relationship, though it was only when 
 the claim was made on him, and never when 
 he might have pressed it for his own ad- 
 vantage, that he remembered it.
 
 Aunt Anne, 49 
 
 " Done ! Why, he has turned me out of his 
 office, just because he wanted to make room 
 for the son of a rich client, for nothing else 
 in the world." 
 
 " That was rough," Walter answered, 
 thinking almost against his will that Wimple 
 had never been very accurate and that this 
 account was possibly not a fair one. " What 
 excuse did he make ? " 
 
 "He said my health was bad, that I was 
 not strong enough to do the work, and had 
 better take a few months' holiday." 
 
 " Well, but that was rather kind of him." 
 
 " He didn't mean it for kindness ; " and 
 Mr. Wimple looked at his friend with dull 
 severity in his eyes. "He wanted to give 
 my place in his office to some one else. But 
 it is quite true about my health. I am very 
 delicate, Walter. I must take a few months' 
 rest." 
 
 "Then perhaps he was right after all. 
 But can you manage the few months' rest ? " 
 Walter asked, hesitating, for he knew the 
 
 vol. 1. 4
 
 5o Aunt Anne. 
 
 question was expected from him. In old 
 days he had had so much to do with Wimple's 
 affairs that he did not like now to ignore 
 them altogether. 
 
 "He makes me an allowance, of course, 
 but its not sufficient," Alfred Wimple 
 answered reluctantly ; " I wanted him to 
 keep my post open for a few months, but 
 he refused, though he's the only relation I 
 have." 
 
 "Well, but he has been pretty good," 
 Walter said, in a pacific voice, " and perhaps 
 he thinks you really want rest. It's not bad 
 of him to make you an allowance. It's more 
 than any one would do for me if I had to 
 give up work for a bit." 
 
 " He only does it because he can't well 
 refuse, and it's a beggarly sum, after all." 
 
 To which Walter answered nothing. He 
 had always felt angry with himself for not 
 liking Alfred better ; they were such very 
 old friends. They had been school-fellows 
 long ago, and afterwards, when Walter was
 
 Aunt Anne, 51 
 
 at Cambridge and Alfred was an articled clerk 
 in London (he was by three years the younger 
 of the two), there had been occasions when 
 they had met and spent many pleasant hours 
 together. To do Walter justice, it had 
 always been Alfred who had sought him and 
 not he who had sought Alfred, for in spite of 
 the latter's much professed affection Walter 
 never wholly trusted him ; he hated himself 
 for it, but the fact remained. " The worst 
 of Alfred is, that he lies," he had said to 
 himself long ago. He remembered his own 
 remark to-day with a certain amount of 
 reproach, but he knew that he had not been 
 unjust ; still, after all, he thought it was not 
 so very great a crime : many people lied 
 nowadays, sometimes merely to give their 
 conversation an artistic value, and sometimes 
 without even being aware of it. He was 
 inclined to think that he had been rather 
 hard on Alfred, who had been very constant 
 to him. Besides, Wimple had been unlucky ; 
 he had been left a penniless lad to the care 
 
 imw 
 
 ERSTtt OF RUHM
 
 52 Aunt Anne. 
 
 of an uncle, a rich City solicitor, who had not 
 appreciated the charge ; he had never had a 
 soul who cared for him, and must have been 
 very miserable and lonely at times. If he 
 had had a mother or sister, or any one at all 
 to look after him, he might have been 
 different. Then, too, Walter remembered 
 that once when he was very ill in the vaca- 
 tion it was Alfred who had turned up and 
 nursed him with almost a woman's anxiety. 
 A kindness like that made a link too strong 
 for a few disagreeables to break. He could 
 not help thinking that he was a brute not to 
 like his old friend better. 
 
 " I am sorry things are so bad with you, 
 old man. You must come and dine and talk 
 them over." 
 
 Mr. Wimple looked him earnestly in the 
 face. 
 
 " I don't like to come," he said in a half- 
 ashamed, half-pathetic voice ; " I behaved 
 so badly to you about that thirty pounds; but 
 luck was against me."
 
 Aunt Anne. 53 
 
 " Never mind, you shall make it all right 
 when luck is with you," Walter answered 
 cheerfully, determined to forget all unpleasant 
 bygones. " Why not come to-night ? we 
 shall be alone." 
 
 Mr. Wimple shook his head. 
 
 " No, not to-night," he said ; " I am not 
 well, and I am going down to the country 
 till Wednesday ; it will do me good." A 
 little smile hovered round his mouth as he 
 added, " some nice people in Hampshire 
 have asked me to stay with them." 
 
 " In Hampshire. Whereabouts in Hamp- 
 shire ? " 
 
 There was a certain hesitation in Mr. 
 Wimple's manner as he answered, " You 
 don't know them, and I don't suppose you 
 ever heard of the place, Walter ; it is called 
 Liphook." 
 
 " Liphook ? Why, of course I know it. 
 It is on the Portsmouth line ; we have a 
 cottage, left us by my wife's aunt only last 
 year, in the same direction, only rather nearer
 
 54 Aunt Anne. 
 
 town. How long are you going to stay 
 there?" 
 
 " Till Wednesday. I will come and dine 
 with you on Thursday, if you will have me." 
 
 "All right, old man, 7.30. Perhaps you 
 had better tell me where to write in case I 
 have to put you off for business reasons." 
 
 Mr. Wimple hesitated a minute, and then 
 gave his London address, adding that he 
 should be back on Wednesday night or 
 Thursday morning at latest. They were 
 standing by the newspaper office. 
 
 " Do you think there might be anything 
 I could do here ? " he asked, nodding at the 
 poster outside the door ; " I might review 
 legal books or something of that sort." 
 
 " I expect Fisher has a dozen men ready 
 for anything at a moment's notice," Walter 
 answered, " but I'll put in a word for you if 
 I get the chance ; " and with a certain feeling 
 of relief he shook his friend's hand and 
 rushed upstairs. The atmosphere seemed 
 a little clearer when he was alone. " I'll do
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 55 
 
 what I can for him," he thought, " but I 
 can't stand much of his company. There is 
 a want of fresh air about him that bothers 
 me so. Perhaps he could do a legal book 
 occasionally, he used to write rather well. 
 I'll try what can be done." 
 
 But his talk with Mr. Fisher was so im- 
 portant to himself and so interesting in many 
 ways that he forgot all about Alfred until he 
 was going out of the door ; and then it was 
 too late to speak about him. Suddenly a 
 happy thought struck him — Mr. Fisher was 
 to dine with him next week, he would ask 
 Wimple also for Thursday. Then, if they 
 got on, the rest would arrange itself. He re- 
 membered too that Alfred always dressed 
 carefully and looked his best in the evening 
 and laid himself out to be agreeable. 
 
 " By the way, Fisher, I wonder if you 
 would come on Thursday instead of on 
 Wednesday. I expect an old friend, and 
 should like you to meet him ; he is clever 
 and rather off luck just now ; of course you'll
 
 56 Aunt Anne. 
 
 get your chat with my wife all right — in fact, 
 better if there are one or two people to 
 engross me." 
 
 " Very well, Thursday if you like ; it will 
 do just as well for me ; I am free both even- 
 ings as far as I know." 
 
 " Agreed, then." And Walter went down 
 the office stairs pleased at his own success. 
 
 " That horrid Mr. Wimple will spoil our 
 dinner ; I never liked him," Florence ex- 
 claimed when she heard of the arrangement. 
 
 " I know you didn't, and I don't like him 
 either, which is mean of me, for he's a very 
 old friend." 
 
 " But if we neither of us like him, why 
 should we inflict him on our lives ? " 
 
 " We won't ; we'll cut him as soon as he 
 has five hundred a year ; but it wouldn't be 
 fair to do so just now when he's down on his 
 luck ; he and I have been friends too long 
 for that." 
 
 " But not very great friends ? "
 
 Aunt Anne. 57 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but we won't throw him 
 over in bad weather — try and be a little nice 
 to him to please me, there's a dear Floggie," 
 which instantly carried the day. " You had 
 better ask Ethel Dunlop ; Fisher is fond of 
 music, and she will amuse him when he is 
 tired of flirting with you," Walter suggested. 
 
 " He'll never tire of that," she laughed, 
 " but I'll invite her if you like. She can sing 
 while you talk to Mr. Wimple and your editor 
 discusses European politics with me." 
 
 " He'll probably discuss politics outside 
 Europe, if he discusses any," her husband 
 answered ; " things look very queer in the 
 East." 
 
 " They always do," she said wisely ; " but 
 I believe it's all nonsense, and only our idea 
 because we live so far off." 
 
 "You had better tell Fisher to send me 
 out to see." 
 
 " Us, you mean." 
 
 " No, me. They wouldn't stand you, 
 dear," and he looked at her anxiously ; " I
 
 58 Aunt Anne. 
 
 shouldn't be much surprised if he asked me 
 to go for a bit — indeed, I think he has an 
 idea of it." 
 
 " Oh, Walter, it would be horrible." 
 
 " Not if it did me good ; sometimes I 
 think I need a - thorough change." 
 
 She looked at him for a moment. 
 
 " No, not then," she answered.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LORENCE sat thinking over Walters 
 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
 
 60 Aunt Anne. 
 
 the long deck, drinking in life and strength. 
 How vigorous he would grow ; how sun- 
 burnt 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 her- 
 self, she thought. He always liked arrang- 
 ing other people's lives ; he was so clever in 
 setting things right for any one who con- 
 sulted 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 6i 
 
 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
 
 62 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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."
 
 Aunt Anne. 63 
 
 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?"
 
 64 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 Ken- 
 sington as chaperon to a young married lady 
 whose husband is abroad. She has a 
 young sister staying with her, and her hus- 
 band 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.
 
 Aunt Anne, 65 
 
 " 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 imme- 
 vol. 1. 5
 
 66 Aunt Anne. 
 
 diate 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
 
 A unt Anne. 67 
 
 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
 
 68 Aunt Anne, 
 
 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."
 
 Aunt Anne. 69 
 
 " 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 wont 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
 
 70 Aunt Anne! 
 
 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 intro- 
 duction 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 grand- 
 father married twice ; I was the daughter of 
 the first marriage — my mother was the daugh- 
 ter 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 in-
 
 Aunt Anne. yi 
 
 different 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 ex- 
 pect me to give you an account of all my 
 friends and relations and of what they will
 
 72 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 desti- 
 tute, 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, Flo- 
 rence, 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. Hib- 
 bert's shoulder. 
 
 " There there," she said forgivingly, " I 
 know you did not mean to hurt me, 
 but" — and here her voice grew tender and
 
 Aunt Anne. 73 
 
 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
 
 74 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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. u 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,
 
 Aunt Anne. 75 
 
 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
 
 y6 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 expres- 
 sion 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. Re- 
 member 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
 
 Aunt Anne. yy 
 
 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
 
 78 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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, wonder- 
 ing 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 —
 
 Aunt Anne. 79 
 
 " 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
 
 80 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 down- 
 stairs 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 8i 
 
 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. 
 vol. i. 6
 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WISH we could do something for 
 Aunt Anne," Mrs. Hibbert said to 
 her husband that evening. " It was very 
 kind of her to send us those flowers." 
 
 " Let's ask her to dine." 
 
 " Of course we will — she is longing to see 
 you ; still, asking her to dine will not be 
 doing anything for her." 
 
 " But it will please her very much ; she 
 likes being treated with respect," Walter 
 laughed. " Let's send her a formal invitation. 
 You see these people she is with evidently 
 like her and may give her a hundred or two 
 a year, quite as much as she wants, so that 
 all we can do is to show her some attention. 
 Therefore, I repeat, let's ask her to dine."
 
 Aunt Anne. 83 
 
 " It's so like a man's suggestion," Florence 
 exclaimed ; " but still, we'll do it if you like. 
 She wants to see you. Of course she may 
 not be able to come if her time is not her 
 own." 
 
 "We must risk that — I'll tell you what, 
 Floggie dear, ask her for next Thursday, with 
 Fisher and Wimple and Ethel Dunlop. 
 She'll make the number up to six, which 
 will be better than five. It will please her 
 enormously to be asked to meet people — in 
 your invitation say a small dinner-party." 
 
 "Very well. It will be a comfort if she 
 takes Mr. Wimple off our hands. Perhaps 
 she will." 
 
 So a quite formal invitation was sent to 
 Aunt Anne, and her reply awaited with much 
 anxiety. It came the next morning, and 
 ran thus : 
 
 " My dear Florence, 
 
 " It gives me sincere pleasure to 
 accept the invitation that you and your dear
 
 84 Aunt Anne. 
 
 Walter have sent me for next Thursday. 
 It is long since I went into society, except 
 in this house, where it is a matter of duty. 
 But, for your sakes, dears, I will put aside 
 my sorrow for the evening, and try to enjoy, 
 as I ought, the pleasure of seeing you both, 
 and of meeting those whom you honour with 
 your friendship. 
 
 "In the happiness and excitement of seeing 
 you the other day, dear Florence, I forgot 
 to mention one object of my visit. It is 
 most important to me in my present un- 
 fortunate position to hide my poverty and 
 to preserve an appearance that will prevent 
 me from being slighted in the society in 
 which — sorely against my will — I am thrown. 
 Will you, therefore, my dear ones, send me 
 a black satin sunshade, plain but good, lined 
 with black in preference to white, and with 
 a handle sufficiently distinctive to prevent 
 its being mistaken for another person's if it 
 is left in the hall when I am paying visits ? 
 There are many other things I require, but
 
 Aunt Anne. 85 
 
 I do not like to tax your kindness too far, 
 or, knowing your generous hearts, to cause 
 you disquiet even by naming them. At the 
 same time, dear Florence, I am sure you 
 will understand my embarrassment when I 
 tell you I only possess four pocket-handker- 
 chiefs fit to use in a house like this. If you 
 have any lying by you with a deep black 
 border, and would lend them to me till you 
 require them, it would be a real boon. 
 
 " Kiss your sweet children for me. I 
 sent them yesterday a little token that I did 
 not cease to think of you all as soon as I had 
 left your presence — as the world is only too 
 prone to do. 
 
 " Your affectionate Aunt, 
 
 "Anne Baines. 
 
 41 P.S. — I should be glad, my darlings, to 
 have the sunshade without delay, for the 
 afternoons are getting to be so bright and 
 sunny that I have requested Mrs. North to 
 have out the open carriage for her afternoon 
 drive/'
 
 86 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " Really, Walter," Mrs. Hibbert said, "she 
 is a most extraordinary person. If she is 
 so poor that she cannot buy a few pocket- 
 handkerchiefs, why did she send us those 
 presents yesterday ? Flowers are expensive 
 at this time of year." 
 
 "It was very like her. I remember years 
 ago hearing that she had quarrelled with 
 my uncle Tom because she sent his son a 
 wedding present, and then he would not lend 
 her the money to pay the bill." 
 
 " Of course we will send her the things, 
 but she is a foolish old lady. As if I should 
 keep deep black-bordered handkerchiefs by 
 me : really it is too absurd." 
 
 " Yes, darling, it is too absurd. Still, send 
 her a nice sunshade, or whatever it is she 
 wants ; I suppose a pound or two will do it," 
 Walter said, and hurried off to the office. 
 
 But Florence sat thinking. The sunshade 
 and the handkerchiefs would make a big hole 
 in the money allowed for weekly expenses, 
 could not indeed come out of it. She wished
 
 Aunt Anne. 87 
 
 she could take things as easily as Walter 
 did, but the small worries of life never fell 
 upon him as they did upon her. She was 
 inclined to think that it was the small worries 
 that made wrinkles, and she thought of those 
 on poor Aunt Anne's face. Perhaps that 
 was why women as a rule had so many more 
 lines than men. The lines on a man's face 
 were generally fewer and deeper, but on a 
 woman's they were small and everywhere ; 
 they symbolized the little cares of every day, 
 the petty anxieties that found men too hard 
 to mark. She went through her accounts : 
 she was one of those women who keep them 
 carefully, who know to a penny how they 
 spent their last five-pound note. But it was 
 only because she was anxious to give Walter 
 the very best that could be got out of his 
 income that she measured so often the length 
 and breadth of her purse. However, it was 
 no good. The old lady must have her sun- 
 shade and her handkerchiefs. So Florence 
 walked to Regent Street and back to buy
 
 SS Aunt Anne. 
 
 them. She went without the gloves she 
 had promised herself, determined that Catty 
 should wait for a hat, and that she would 
 cut down the dessert for a week at the 
 little evening dinner. 
 
 The brown-paper parcel was directed and 
 sent off to Mrs. Baines. With a sigh 
 Florence wished she were more generous, 
 and dismissed the whole business from her 
 mind. 
 
 " Mrs. Baines called, ma'am," the servant 
 said, when she reached home that day. 
 " She wanted the address of a very good 
 dressmaker." 
 
 " Is she here ? I hope you begged her 
 to come in ? " Florence asked, with a vision 
 of Aunt Anne calling in a hurry, tired by 
 her walk, and distressed at finding no one 
 at home. 
 
 " Oh no, ma'am ; she didn't get out of the 
 carriage when she heard you were not in. 
 I gave her Madame Celestine's address, and 
 said that she had made your best evening
 
 Aunt Anne. 89 
 
 dress, as she was very particular about its 
 being a grand dressmaker." 
 
 " I suppose it was for Mrs. North," 
 Florence thought. " Poor Aunt Anne is 
 not likely to want Madame Celestine." 
 
 Then she imagined the spare old lady in 
 a scanty black gown going out with the 
 pretty and probably beautifully dressed girls 
 to whom she was chaperon. 
 
 As a sort of amends for the unkindness 
 of fate, Florence made some little soft white 
 adornments for throat and wrists such as 
 widows wear and that yet look smart, and, 
 packing them in a cardboard box, sent them 
 — With kind love to Aunt Anne. " Per- 
 haps they will gratify her pride a little, poor 
 dear, and it is so nice to have one's pride 
 gratified," she thought. And then, for a 
 space, Aunt Anne was almost forgotten. 
 
 The days slipped by anxiously enough to 
 the Hibberts — to Walter, for he knew that 
 Mr. Fisher meant to talk with Florence 
 about something that had been agreed be-
 
 90 Aunt Anne. 
 
 tween them at the office ; to Florence, 
 because without increasing the bills she 
 really could not manage to put that little 
 dinner together. Walter was particular ; he 
 liked luxuries, and things well managed, and 
 she could not bear to disappoint him. 
 However, the evening came at last. The 
 flowers and dessert were arranged, the claret 
 was at the right temperature, the champagne 
 was in ice. Florence went upstairs to say 
 good-night to the children, and to rest for 
 five minutes. Walter came in with a flower 
 for her dress. 
 
 "It is so like you," she said as she kissed 
 it; "you are always the thoughtfullest old 
 man in the world." 
 
 " I wished I had bought one for Aunt 
 Anne as I came along in the hansom ; but 
 I forgot it at first, and then I was afraid to 
 go back because it was getting so late." 
 
 He dressed and went downstairs. Flo- 
 rence leisurely began to get ready. Ten 
 minutes later a carriage stopped; a bell
 
 Aunt Anne. 91 
 
 rang, there was a loud double knock — some 
 one had arrived. 
 
 " But it is a quarter of an hour too soon ? " 
 she said in dismay to Maria who was help- 
 ing her. 
 
 The maid stood on tiptoe by the window 
 to see who the early comer might be. 
 
 " It's only Mrs. Baines, ma'am." 
 
 They had learned to say " only " already, 
 Florence thought. She was angry at the 
 word, yet relieved at its not being a more 
 important visitor. 
 
 " I am very vexed at not being dressed 
 to receive her," she said coldly, in order to 
 give Mrs. Baines importance. " Make 
 haste and fasten my dress, Maria." 
 
 There was a sound of some one coming 
 upstairs, a rustle of silk, and a gentle knock 
 at the bedroom door. 
 
 " My darling, I came early on purpose. 
 May I be allowed to enter, dear Florence ?" 
 
 The voice was certainly Aunt Anne's, but 
 the tone was so joyous, so different from the
 
 92 Aunt Anne. 
 
 woebegone one of ten days ago that it filled 
 her hearer with amazement. 
 
 " Come in, Aunt Anne, if you like ; but I 
 am not quite ready." 
 
 " I know that, my love. I hoped you 
 would not be ; " and Aunt Anne entered, 
 beaming with satisfaction, beautifully dressed, 
 her long robe trailing, her thin throat 
 wrapped with softest white of some filmy 
 kind, her shoes fastened with heavy bows 
 that showed a paste diamond in them, her 
 hands full of flowers. Florence could scarcely 
 believe her eyes. 
 
 " Aunt Anne ! " she exclaimed, and stood 
 still looking at her. 
 
 " Yes, my love," the old lady laughed. 
 " Aunt Anne ; and she has brought you 
 these flowers. I thought they might adorn 
 your room, and that they would prove how 
 much you were in my mind, even while I 
 was away from you. Would you gratify me 
 by wearing one or two ? I see you have 
 a white rose there, but I am sure Walter
 
 Aunt Anne. 93 
 
 will not mind your wearing one of his aunt's 
 flowers ; and, my love, perhaps you will 
 permit your maid to take the rest downstairs 
 to arrange before the arrival of your other 
 guests. I will myself help you to finish 
 your toilette." 
 
 With an air that was a command, she 
 gave the flowers to Maria and carefully 
 watched her out of the room. Then turning 
 to Florence, she asked with the joyousness 
 still in her manner, " And now, my dear, 
 tell me if you like my dress ? " 
 
 " It is quite beautiful, and so handsome." 
 
 " My darling, I am thankful to hear you 
 say that, for I bought it to do you honour. 
 I was touched to get your invitation, and 
 determined that you should not be ashamed 
 of me. Did the housemaid tell you that 
 she gave me Madame Celestine's address ? " 
 
 "Yes. But, Aunt Anne, I hope you 
 bargained with her. She costs a fortune if 
 you don't." 
 
 " Never mind what she costs. I wished
 
 94 Aunt Anne. 
 
 to prove to you both how much I loved you 
 and desired to do you honour. And now, 
 my dear, I perceive that you are ready, let 
 us go down. I have not seen Walter yet, 
 and am longing to put my arms round his 
 dear neck before any one else arrives and 
 forces me into a formality that my heart 
 would resent." 
 
 She turned and led the way downstairs. 
 Florence followed meekly, feeling almost 
 shabby and altogether left in the shade by 
 the magnificent relation who had appeared 
 for their simple party. 
 
 Aunt Anne trod with the footstep of one 
 who knew the house well ; she opened the 
 drawing-room door with an air of precision, 
 and going towards Walter, who met her 
 halfway across the room, dropped her head 
 with its white cap on his shoulder. 
 
 " My dear Walter, no words can express 
 how glad I am to see you again, to meet 
 you in your own house, in your own room. 
 It makes me forget all I have suffered since
 
 Aunt Anne. 95 
 
 we parted ; it even forces me to be gay," 
 she murmured, in an almost sobbing tone. 
 
 "Yes, dear, of course it does," he said 
 cheerily, giving her a kiss. " And we are 
 very glad to see you. Why, you look 
 uncommonly well ; and, I say, what an awful 
 swell you are — isn't she, Floggie ? " 
 
 " He is precisely the same — the same as 
 ever," laughed out the old lady just as she 
 had at Brighton seven years before. " Pre- 
 cisely the same. Oh, my dear Walter, I 
 
 shall " 
 
 But here the door opened, and for the 
 moment Mr. Wimple's arrival put an end 
 to Aunt Anne's remembrances. 
 
 Mr. Wimple was evidently conscious of 
 his evening clothes ; his waistcoat was cut 
 so as to show as much white shirt as 
 possible ; his tie looked a little rumpled, 
 as though the first attempt at making a bow 
 had not been successful. He shook hands 
 solemnly with his host and hostess, then 
 looked round almost sadly, and in a voice
 
 96 Aunt Anne. 
 
 that was full of grave meaning said it was 
 cold and chilly. 
 
 " Cough better ? " Walter inquired. 
 
 "Yes, it is better,'' Mr. Wimple replied 
 slowly after a moment's consideration, as if 
 the question was a momentous one. 
 
 " That's right. Now, I must introduce 
 you to my aunt, Mrs. Baines. Alfred 
 Wimple is an old schoolfellow of mine, Aunt 
 Anne." 
 
 The old lady put out her gloved hand 
 with the lace ruffle round the wrist. 
 
 " I am glad to meet you," she said. "It 
 is always a pleasure to me to meet any one 
 who has been intimately associated with my 
 dear Walter." 
 
 "And to me to meet any one belonging 
 to him," Mr. Wimple responded, with much 
 gravity. "Walter is the oldest, and I may 
 say the dearest, friend I possess." 
 
 " It makes us also friends ; " and Aunt 
 Anne gave him a little gracious smile. 
 
 He looked up at her.
 
 Aunt Anne. 97 
 
 1 — 
 
 "It would be impossible that any one 
 loving my dear Walter should not possess 
 my friendship," she said as if explaining her 
 previous speech : she made it appear almost 
 a condescension. He looked at her again, 
 but more attentively. 
 
 " I am very fond of Walter," he said. 
 
 " It is impossible to help it — dear boy," she 
 said under her breath as she looked at her 
 nephew. "It must be a great pleasure to 
 him, Mr. Wimple, to preserve your affection; 
 the feelings of our youth are so often lost in 
 oblivion as we grow old — as we grow older 
 I should say, in speaking to you." 
 
 The other guests entered, Ethel Dunlop 
 a little shy but smiling, as if aware that 
 being a girl she had more business at dances 
 than at dinner-parties, but was nevertheless 
 quite happy. And lastly Mr. Fisher. Alfred 
 Wimple stood on one side till Walter went 
 towards him. 
 
 " Fisher, this is a very old friend of mine. 
 I want to introduce him to you." 
 
 vol. 1. 7
 
 98 Aunt Anne. 
 
 . — — — . i 
 
 There was something irritating and savour- 
 ing of mock humility in Mr. Wimple's manner 
 as he bowed and said, with a little gulp that 
 was one of his peculiarities — 
 
 " Walter is always conferring benefits 
 upon me — this is a great honour." 
 
 Mr. Fisher looked at him and, with a 
 polite word, turned to Ethel Dunlop. She 
 was busy with her glove. 
 
 " Buttons always come off," she said, with- 
 out looking up. Other people might treat 
 him with deference as an editor ; to her he 
 was a mere man. 
 
 " But you can at least sew them on ; my 
 sex is not so accomplished." 
 
 She seemed to be thinking of something 
 else and did not answer, and a puzzled look 
 came over his face, as if a girl was a 
 problem he did not know how to work out. 
 He was an odd looking man, tall and pale, 
 with a quantity of light hair pushed back 
 from his high forehead. He had almost 
 tender blue eyes ; but there was some-
 
 Aunt Anne. 99 
 
 thing hard and firm about the mouth and 
 square jaw that gave his face a look of 
 strength. He was not a young man, but it 
 was difficult to believe that he had ever been 
 younger or would be older ; he seemed to 
 have been born for middle age, and the direc- 
 tion of people and affairs. The awkwardness 
 of middle age that is not accustomed to 
 womankind overtook him as he stood by 
 Ethel. It was a little relief to him when 
 dinner was announced. 
 
 Aunt Anne turned to Walter, as he 
 went up to her, with a little inclination 
 of her head and a smile of dignified happi- 
 ness. 
 
 " It is so like a dream to be here with 
 you, to be going down on your arm — dear 
 children," she whispered as they descended 
 the narrow staircase. 
 
 Looking back, Florence always felt that 
 Aunt Anne had been the heroine of that 
 party. She took the lead in conversation, 
 the others waiting for her to speak, and no
 
 ioo Aunt Anne. 
 
 one dared to break up the group at table 
 into tite-a-tite talk. She was so bright and 
 full of life and had so much to say that she 
 carried all before her. Ethel Dunlop, young 
 and pretty, felt piqued ; usually Mr. Fisher 
 was attentive to her, to-night he talked 
 entirely to Mrs. Baines. That horrid Mr. 
 Wimple, as she called him in her thoughts, 
 had been quite attentive when she met him 
 before, but now he too kept his eyes fixed on 
 the old lady opposite ; but for her host she 
 would have felt neglected. And it was odd 
 how well Aunt Anne managed to flirt with 
 everybody. 
 
 " Mrs. Baines has given me some useful 
 hints about birds," Mr. Fisher told 
 Florence with a suspicion of amusement in 
 his voice : " if I had been as wise formerly 
 as she has made me to-night the white 
 cockatoo might have been living still. We 
 ought to have met years ago, Mrs. Baines," 
 he said, turning to her. 
 
 " I think so too," she said winningly. " It
 
 Aunt Anne. ioi 
 
 is such a pleasure to meet dear Walter's and 
 Florence's friends," she added, looking round 
 the table and giving a strange little wink at 
 the last word that made Mr. Wimple feel 
 almost uncomfortable. " It is a privilege 
 that I have looked forward to for years, but 
 that living in the country has hitherto made 
 impossible. Now that I am in London I 
 hope I shall meet them all in turn." Then 
 she lowered her voice and went on to the 
 editor : " I have heard so much of you, Mr. 
 Fisher, if you will forgive me for saying so, 
 though a great career like yours implies that 
 all the world has heard of you." 
 
 " I wish it could be called a great career, 
 my dear lady," he answered, feeling that she 
 was a person whose death would deserve a 
 paragraph simply on account of the extraordi- 
 nary knowledge of the world she possessed. 
 " Unfortunately it has been a very ordinary 
 one, but I can assure you that I am most 
 glad to meet you to-night. I ought to have 
 been at a City dinner, and shall always
 
 102 Aunt Anne. 
 
 congratulate myself on my happier con- 
 dition." 
 
 " I should like to see a City dinner/' Mrs. 
 Baines said sadly. 
 
 " I wish I could send you my invitations. 
 I go to too many, I fear." 
 
 " I suppose you have been to a great many 
 also, Mr. Wimple ? " Aunt Anne inquired, 
 careful to exclude no one from her little 
 court. 
 
 " To one only, I regret to say, Mrs. 
 Baines," Mr. Wimple answered solemnly ; 
 " four years ago I went to the solitary one 
 I ever attended." 
 
 "Ah, that was during the mayoralty of Sir 
 William Rammage." 
 
 " Do you know him, Mrs. Baines, or do 
 you keep a record of the Lord Mayors ? " 
 Mr. Fisher asked. 
 
 " I knew him well, years and years — I am 
 afraid I should shock you — you are all so 
 young — if I said how many years ago," she 
 answered ; and Mr. Fisher, who was well on
 
 Aunt Anne. 103 
 
 in his forties, thought she was really a charm- 
 ing- old lady. 
 
 " He is a great friend of my uncle's, he is 
 a very old client of his," Mr. Wimple said, 
 looking at Mrs. Baines again with his strange 
 fixed gaze, while Ethel Dunlop thought that 
 that horrid Mr. Wimple was actually making 
 eyes at the old lady as he did at every one 
 else. 
 
 "And may I ask if you also are on 
 intimate terms with him ? " Mrs. Baines 
 said. 
 
 " No, I have only met him at my uncle's. 
 He is very rich," he added, with a sigh, 
 "and rich people are not much in my way. 
 Literary people and out-at-elbow scribblers 
 are my usual associates ; for," he went on, 
 remembering that there was a possibility of 
 doing some business with Mr. Fisher, and 
 that he had better make an impression on 
 the great man, " I never met any illustrious 
 members of the profession till to-night, ex- 
 cepting our friend Walter of course."
 
 io4 Aunt Anne. 
 
 Mr. Fisher looked a little disgusted and 
 turned to the young lady of the party. 
 
 " Have you been very musical lately, Miss 
 Dunlop ? " he inquired. 
 
 " No," she answered, " not very. But we 
 enjoyed the concert. It was very kind of 
 you to send the tickets." 
 
 The editor's face lighted up. 
 
 " I am glad," he said ; " and did you find 
 a pleasant chaperon ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, thank you. I went with my 
 consin, George Dighton." 
 
 a Is that the good-looking youth I saw 
 you with once ? " 
 
 "Youth," Ethel laughed; "he is three- 
 and-twenty." 
 
 " A most mature age," and a smile flickered 
 over Mr. Fisher's grave face ; " and does he 
 often escort you to concerts ? " 
 
 " Occasionally." 
 
 "He is fortunate in having the privilege 
 as well as the time to avail himself of it," the 
 editor said formally. His manner was always
 
 Aunt Anne. 105 
 
 reserved, sometimes even a little stately. 
 Now and then, oddly enough, it reminded 
 one of Aunt Anne's, though it was a genera- 
 tion younger, and he had not her faculty for 
 long words. 
 
 " You never seem able to go to concerts. It 
 is quite sad and wicked," Ethel said brightly. 
 
 He looked up as if he liked her. 
 
 " Not often. Perhaps some day if you 
 would honour me, only I am not a cousin ; 
 still I have passed the giddy age of Mr. 
 Dighton." 
 
 " We will, we will," she laughed, and 
 nodded ; " but relations only are able to 
 survive the responsibility of taking me about 
 alone. Perhaps Mrs. Hibbert would " 
 
 " Ah yes, Mr. Wimple," they heard Mrs. 
 Baines say, " I have good reason to know 
 Sir William Rammage. He is my own 
 cousin, though for years and years we had 
 not met till we did so a few months since, 
 when I came to take up my residence in 
 London."
 
 io6 Aunt Anne. 
 
 The old lady's mouth twitched nervously, 
 the sad note of a week ago made itself heard 
 in her voice again. Mrs. Hibbert knew that 
 she was thinking of the unsuccessful appeal 
 to her rich relation, and of the port wine that 
 had always proved pernicious to her digestion. 
 
 " Your cousin ! " said Mr. Wimple, and he 
 fixed another long, steady gaze upon Mrs. 
 Baines, " that is very interesting ; " and he 
 was silent. 
 
 " Cousins seem to abound in our conversa- 
 tion this evening," Miss Dunlop said to Mr. 
 Fisher ; " it must be terrible to be cousin to 
 the Lord Mayor." 
 
 " Like being related to Gog and Magog," 
 he whispered. 
 
 " Even worse," she answered, pretending 
 to shudder. 
 
 But Mrs. Hibbert was looking at Aunt 
 Anne, for it was time to go upstairs. Mrs. 
 Baines went out of the door with a stateliness 
 that was downright courage, considering how 
 small and slight she was. Ethel Dunlop,
 
 Aunt Anne. 107 
 
 standing aside to let her pass, looked at her 
 admiringly, but the old lady gave her back, 
 with the left eye, a momentary glance that 
 was merely condescending. Unless Aunt 
 Anne took a fancy to people, or made a 
 point of being agreeable, she was apt to be 
 condescending. H er manner to young people 
 was sometimes impatient, and to servants it 
 was generally irritating. She had taken a 
 dislike to Miss Dunlop — she considered her 
 forward. She did not like the manner in 
 which she did her hair. She was of opinion 
 that her dress was unbecoming. All these 
 things had determined Mrs. Baines to snub 
 Miss Dunlop, who ill deserved it, for she was 
 a pretty, motherless girl of one-and-twenty, 
 very anxious to do right and to find the 
 world a pleasant dwelling-place. 
 
 The old lady sat down on the yellow couch 
 in the drawing-room again, the same couch 
 on which, a fortnight before, she had sat and 
 related her misfortunes. But it was difficult 
 to believe that she was the same person.
 
 108 Aunt Anne. 
 
 Her dress was spread out ; her gloves were 
 drawn on and carefully buttoned ; she opened 
 and shut a small black fan ; she looked round 
 the drawing-room with an air of condescen- 
 sion, and almost sternly refused coffee with 
 a " not any, I thank you," that made the 
 servant feel rebuked for having offered it. 
 Mrs. Hibbert and Ethel felt that she was 
 indeed mistress of the situation. 
 
 " You are musical, I think, Miss Dunlop," 
 she asked coldly. 
 
 " I am very fond of music, and I play and 
 sing in a very small way," was the modest 
 answer. 
 
 " I hope we shall hear you presently," 
 Mrs. Baines said grandly, and then, evidently 
 feeling that she had taken quite enough 
 notice of Miss Dunlop, she turned to her 
 niece. 
 
 " My dear Florence," she said, " I think 
 Mr. Wimple is charming. He has one of 
 the most expressive countenances I ever 
 beheld."
 
 Aunt Anne. 109 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Baines, do you really think 
 so ? " Ethel Dunlop exclaimed. 
 
 " Certainly I do." And Mrs. Baines turned 
 her back. " Florence, are not you of my 
 opinion ? " 
 
 "Well, Aunt Anne, I hardly know " 
 
 And happily the entrance of the men pre- 
 vented any further discussion. Somehow 
 conversation flagged a little, and silence 
 threatened to fall on the party. Florence 
 felt uneasy. 
 
 " Are we to have some music ? " Walter 
 asked presently. In these days music after 
 dinner, unless it is very excellent or there 
 is some special reason for introducing it, is 
 generally a flag of distress, a sign that dulness 
 is near. Florence knew it, and looking at 
 Ethel tried to cover it by asking for a 
 song. 
 
 " Ethel sings German songs delightfully, 
 Aunt Anne," she said ; " I think you would 
 enjoy listening to her." 
 
 " I should enjoy listening to any friend
 
 no Aunt Anne, 
 
 of yours," the old lady answered. But 
 Miss Dunlop pleaded hoarseness and did 
 not stir. 
 
 Mr. Wimple roused himself a little. " I 
 am sure Mrs. Baines plays," he said, standing 
 before her. Aunt Anne'gave a long sigh. 
 
 " My playing days are over," she answered. 
 
 " Oh no, Aunt Anne," laughed Walter, " we 
 cannot allow you to make that excuse." 
 
 In a moment she had risen. 
 
 " I never make excuses, Walter," she said 
 proudly ; " if it is your wish — if it will give 
 you pleasure I will touch the keys again, 
 though k is long since I brought myself even 
 to sit down before an instrument." 
 
 She took her place at the piano ; she 
 pulled out her handkerchief, not one of the 
 black- bordered ones that Florence had sent 
 her a week ago, but a dainty one of lawn and 
 lace, and held it for a moment to her fore- 
 head ; then suddenly, with a strange vibrating 
 touch that almost startled her listeners, she 
 began to play " Oft in the stilly night." Only
 
 A unt Anne. i i i 
 
 for a moment did the fire last, her fingers 
 grew feeble, they missed the notes, she shook 
 her head dreamily. 
 
 " I forget — I forget them all," she said to 
 herself rather than to any one else, and then 
 quickly recovering she looked round and 
 apologized. " It is so long," she said, " and 
 I forget." 
 
 She began softly some variations on " I 
 know a bank," and played them through to 
 the end. When they were finished she rose 
 and, with a little old-fashioned bow to the 
 piano, turned to Florence, and, saying, with 
 a sweet and curious dignity, "Thank you, 
 my dear, and your friends too, for listening 
 to me," went back to her seat. 
 
 Mr. Wimple was near her chair, he bent 
 down to her. 
 
 " You gave us a great treat," he said, as if 
 he were stating a scientific fact. 
 
 Mrs. Baines listened to his words gravely, 
 she seemed to revolve them in her mind for 
 a moment before she looked up.
 
 ii2 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " I am sure you are musical, Mr. Wimple," 
 she said, " I can see it in your face." 
 
 "Aunt Anne," Walter said, passing her, 
 " should you mind my opening this window ?" 
 
 " No, my darling, I should like it," she 
 answered tenderly. 
 
 Mr. Wimple gave a long sigh. 
 
 " Lucky beggar he is ; you are very fond 
 of him ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," she answered, " he is like my 
 own son ; " and she nodded at Walter, who 
 was carrying on a laughing conversation 
 with Ethel Dunlop, while his wife was having 
 what seemed to be a serious one with Mr. 
 Fisher. She looked round the room, her 
 gaze rested on the open window. " I think 
 the carriage must be waiting," she said, 
 almost to herself. 
 
 " I will tell you ; " and Mr. Wimple went 
 on to the balcony. " It is a lovely night, 
 Mrs. Baines," he said, and turning back he 
 fastened his strange eyes upon her. With- 
 out a word she rose and followed him.
 
 Aunt Anne. 113 
 
 ."Aunt Anne," Florence said, "you will 
 catch your death of cold; you mustn't go 
 out. Walter dear, get my thick white shawl 
 for Aunt Anne." 
 
 " Oh no, my love, pray continue your 
 conversation ; I have always made a point 
 of looking up at the sky before I retire 
 to rest, therefore it is not likely to do me 
 harm." 
 
 " I wouldn't let it do you harm for the 
 world," Mr. Wimple whispered. 
 
 She heard him ; but she seemed to digest 
 his words slowly, for she nodded to herself 
 before, with the manner and smile that were 
 so entirely her own, she answered — 
 
 " Pray don't distress yourself, Mr. Wimple, 
 I am accustomed to stand before the elements 
 at all seasons of the year, and this air is not 
 likely to be detrimental to me ; besides," she 
 added, with a gentle laugh, " perhaps though 
 I boasted of my age just now I am not so 
 old as I look. Oh, dear Walter, you are too 
 good to me — dear boy ; " and she turned and 
 
 vol. 1. 8
 
 ii4 Aunt Anne. 
 
 let him wrap the thick white shawl about her. 
 He lingered for a moment, but there fell the 
 dead silence that sometimes seems to chase 
 away a third person, and, feeling that he 
 was not wanted, he went back to Ethel 
 Dunlop. It was a good thing Aunt Anne 
 liked Alfred, he thought. He had been 
 afraid the latter would not wholly enjoy his 
 evening, but the old lady seemed to be 
 making up for Florences rather scanty 
 attentions. 
 
 " It is impossible to you to be old," Mr. 
 Wimple said, still speaking almost in a 
 whisper. 
 
 The old lady appeared not to hear him; 
 her hands were holding the white shawl close 
 round her neck, her eyes were following the 
 long row of street lamps on the right. The 
 horses, waiting with the carriage before the 
 house, moved restlessly, and made their 
 harness clink in the stillness. Far off, a 
 cornet was playing, as cornets love to do, 
 " Then you'll remember me." Beside her
 
 Aunt Anne. 115 
 
 stood the young man watching. Behind, 
 in the drawing-room, dimly lighted by the 
 shaded lamp and candles, the others were 
 talking, forgetful of everything but the sub- 
 ject that interested them. Cheap sentimental 
 surrounding enough, but they all told on the 
 old lady standing out on the balcony. The 
 stars looking down on her lighted up the soft 
 white about her throat, and the outline of the 
 shawl-wrapped shoulders, almost youthful in 
 their slenderness. Mr. Wimple went a little 
 closer, the tears came into her eyes, they 
 trickled down her withered cheeks, but he 
 did not know it. 
 
 " It is like years ago," she whispered, 
 " those dear children and all — all — it carries 
 me back to forty — more — eight-and-forty 
 years ago, when I was a girl, and now I 
 am old, I am old, it is the end of the world 
 for me." 
 
 He stooped and picked up the handkerchief 
 with the lace border. 
 
 " No," he said, " don't say that. It is not
 
 n6 Aunt Anne. 
 
 the end ; age is not counted by years, it is 
 counted by other things ; " and he coughed 
 uneasily and waited as if to watch the effect 
 of his speech before continuing. "In reality," 
 he went on, in the hard voice that would have 
 jarred horribly on more sensitive nerves — 
 " in reality I am older than you, for I have 
 found the world so much colder than you can 
 have done." He said it with deliberation, 
 as if each word were weighed, or had been 
 learnt beforehand. " I wish you would teach 
 me to live out of the abundance of youth 
 that will always be yours." 
 
 She listened attentively ; she turned and 
 looked towards her left, far ahead, away into 
 the distance, as if puzzled and fascinated by 
 it, almost as if she were afraid of the dark- 
 ness to which the distance reached. Then 
 she gave a little nod, as if she had remem- 
 bered that it was only the trees of the 
 Regent's Park that made the blackness. 
 
 "If you would teach me to live out of the 
 abundance of youth that will always be yours,"
 
 A unt Anne. i i 7 
 
 he said again, as if on consideration he were 
 well satisfied with the sentence, and thought 
 it merited a reply. 
 
 She listened attentively for the second 
 time, and looked up half puzzled — 
 
 " I should esteem myself most fortunate, 
 if I could be of use to any friend of 
 Walter's," she answered, with an almost 
 sad formality. 
 
 " You have so many who love you " 
 
 The voice was still hard and grating. 
 
 " No," she said, "oh no " 
 
 " There is Sir William Rammage." He 
 spoke slowly. 
 
 " Ah ! " she said sadly, " he forgets. And 
 old association has no effect upon him." 
 
 " Has he any brothers and sisters ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " They are gone. They all died years 
 and years ago." 
 
 " It is remarkable that he never married." 
 
 " I suppose his inclinations did not prompt 
 him to do so."
 
 u8 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " He seems to have no one belonging to 
 him/' 
 
 " There are hardly any left," she answered, 
 with a sigh, <f and unhappily he does not 
 appreciate the companionship of those " 
 
 "Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne," Florence 
 said, " do come in, you will catch your death 
 of cold." 
 
 " My love, the carriage is waiting and you 
 must excuse me ; It is growing late. It has 
 been delightful to be with you, and to meet 
 your friends." 
 
 She shook hands with Mr. Fisher, and 
 bowed to Ethel Dunlop ; then she went 
 slowly out of the room on Walter's arm, the 
 long train of Madame Celestine's dress 
 sweeping behind her. 
 
 " Good night, Mrs. Hibbert," Mr. Wimple 
 said, and, shaking hands quickly with the 
 air of a man who has many engagements 
 and suddenly remembered one that must be 
 instantly kept, he too was gone. 
 
 He was just in time to reach the carriage 
 door.
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 119 
 
 " Mrs. Baines," he said, " I think you said 
 you were going to South Kensington — could 
 you take me as far as Queen's Gate ? " 
 
 " I wonder where he is going," Walter 
 said to himself as he went upstairs again ; 
 " I don't believe he knows a soul in Queen's 
 Gate."
 
 2^&fff« 
 
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 .*„ •. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ALTER 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."
 
 Aunt Anne, 121 
 
 " 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
 
 122 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 con- 
 siderable 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."
 
 Aunt Anne, 123 
 
 " 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 un- 
 selfish 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 rne." 
 
 11 Mr. Wimple — have you seen him then ? "
 
 i24 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " My love, he is one of the most culti- 
 vated 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 125 
 
 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 o£ 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
 
 i26 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 127 
 
 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.
 
 128 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 129 
 
 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 grum- 
 bling 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 ex- 
 
 VOL. I. g
 
 130 Aunt Anne. 
 
 claimed ; " 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 con- 
 nected. 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 131 
 
 " 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.
 
 132 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 133 
 
 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 sur- 
 roundings plainly. She gave a long sigh.
 
 i34 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 separa- 
 tion. 
 
 " 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 i35 
 
 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 over- 
 land 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
 
 136 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 draw- 
 ing-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 exclained, "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
 
 Aunt Anne. 137 
 
 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."
 
 138 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " 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 dis- 
 missed. 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 prefer- 
 ence 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 139 
 
 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
 
 140 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 counte- 
 nance ; 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 under-
 
 Aunt Anne. 141 
 
 stand that I thought her conduct reprehen- 
 sible. 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 sub- 
 stantial tea of the sort that women love and 
 men abhor. 
 
 "Now rest and forget all the worries," 
 she said gently. " You are tired and ex- 
 cited, 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
 
 142 Aunt Anne. 
 
 gently, though she could not help inwardly 
 chafing at the intrusion, and longing to be 
 alone. 
 
 " Tell me, love, did Walter go off comfort- 
 ably?" 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
 
 Aunt Anne, 143 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HEN it was that Florence discovered 
 that Aunt Anne was really a charm- 
 ing 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 unex- 
 pected little present, and at the tip of her 
 tongue some quaint bit of old-world know- 
 ledge 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 145 
 
 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 an- 
 swered, affectionately remembering how un- 
 grateful 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 
 
 vol. 1. 10
 
 146 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 permis- 
 sion 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 147 
 
 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
 
 148 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 sud- 
 denly 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 any- 
 thing at table, " here is a letter from Madame
 
 Aunt Anne. 149 
 
 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 vexa- 
 tion. " It was remiss of your servant not 
 to put all my letters beside me. I am sorry 
 you should be troubled with my corre- 
 spondence." 
 
 " But it doesn't matter," Florence answered. 
 " I hope you have not found her very ex- 
 pensive ; she can be so sometimes ? " and 
 through Florence's mind there went a re- 
 membrance 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 considera- 
 tion. I have been too much engaged with 
 more important matters."
 
 150 Aunt Anne, 
 
 " I sincerely hope she does not owe for that 
 dress," Florence thought, but she did not 
 dare ask any questions. " Madame Celes- 
 tine 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 un- 
 usual 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 151 
 
 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 vaga- 
 bonds, my darlings, go upstairs and tell 
 nurse to take you out at once to see the
 
 152 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 153 
 
 " 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
 
 154 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 Ports- 
 mouth 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 155 
 
 " 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
 
 156 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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. 157 
 
 " 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.
 
 158 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " 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. 5 ' 
 
 " 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 watch- 
 ing Florence intently with a hungry look 
 that a second self seemed trying to control.
 
 Aunt Anne. 159 
 
 " 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 in- 
 deed. 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, kiss- 
 ing Mrs. Hibbert; and when she departed,
 
 160 Aunt Anne. 
 
 it was with an air of having done a gracious 
 and tender deed. But besides this, her 
 footstep had grown lighter, there was a joy- 
 fulness 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."
 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 LORENCE'S speculations concerning 
 Aunt Anne were brought to an end 
 by the arrival of Mr. Fisher. She was sur- 
 prised at his paying her so early a visit, and 
 for a moment feared lest it should mean bad 
 news from Walter. But his benevolent ex- 
 pression reassured her. 
 
 " I hope you will forgive my intruding on 
 you at this hour, Mrs. Hibbert," he said. 
 " My visit is almost a business one, if I may 
 venture to call it so, and I hope its result 
 may be pleasant to us both." His manner 
 was a faint echo of Aunt Anne's. " I would 
 have written to ask you to see me, but the 
 idea that brings me only occurred to me an 
 hour or two ago." 
 
 VOL. i. n
 
 1 62 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " But of course I would see you," she 
 answered brightly. " And I think the morn- 
 ing is a delicious time of day to which we 
 devote far too much idleness." 
 
 " I thoroughly agree with you," he said, 
 and looked at her approvingly, for he was 
 quite alive to the duties of domesticity. In 
 his short married life it had been an ever- 
 lasting irritation to him that his wife was 
 a slattern and wholly indifferent about her 
 home. It had made him keen to observe 
 the ways of other women ; though the sight 
 of a well-kept house always depressed him 
 a little, for it set him thinking of the denials 
 in his own life, of what he might have had 
 and could have been ; it made him also a 
 little extra deferential and gracious to the 
 woman who presided over it. He was so 
 to Florence this morning. He had noticed 
 quickly that all signs of breakfast had van- 
 ished, he divined that the children were out 
 of doors, and that she herself, with her slate 
 and account-books, was deep in household
 
 Aunt Anne. 163 
 
 matters. It was thus he thought that a 
 woman should chiefly concern herself. Her 
 husband, children, and home were her busi- 
 ness in life. The rest could be left to the 
 discretion and management of men. He 
 felt that it was almost a duty on his part, in 
 the absence of her husband, to discreetly 
 manage Florence. Moreover, in the inter- 
 vals of editing his paper, he had a turn for 
 editing the lives of other people, and he 
 felt it almost an obligation to give a good 
 deal of time to the consideration of the 
 private affairs of his staff. He liked the 
 Hibberts too, and was really anxious to be 
 good and useful to them. He had come to 
 the conclusion that it was a pity that 
 Florence and her children should stay in 
 London while Walter was away. " She 
 would be much better in the country," he 
 thought ; " the children could run about ; 
 besides, what is the good of keeping that 
 cottage near Witley empty ? " and then he re- 
 membered his own mother, who was seventy
 
 1 64 Aunt Anne. 
 
 years old and lived far off in the wilds of 
 Northumberland. Her sole amusement 
 appeared to be writing her son letters, 
 lamenting that he never went to stay with 
 her, and that since he lived in small and in- 
 convenient bachelor chambers, she could not 
 go and stay with him. It had been her 
 desire that he should marry again. She 
 had told him that it was foolish not to do 
 so, that she could die happy if he had a 
 wife to take care of him. But he never 
 answered a word. " It would not be a bad 
 idea if I had the old lady up for a couple 
 of months, and took the Hibberts' house," 
 he said to himself. The idea grew upon 
 him. He imagined the dinners he could 
 give to his staff and their wives — not to the 
 outside world, for it bothered him. " We 
 might ask Ethel Dunlop occasionally,'* he 
 thought ; "a nice girl in her twenties, fond of 
 pleasure, would brighten up the old lady." 
 He remembered the twenties with regret, 
 and wished they were thirties ; then he
 
 Aunt Anne. 165 
 
 would not have felt so keenly the difference 
 in years between them. But he reflected 
 that after all he was still in the prime of 
 life, as a man is, if he chooses, till he is 
 fifty ; and he struggled to feel youthful ; but 
 struggle as he would, youthful feelings held 
 aloof. They were coy after forty, he sup- 
 posed, and looking back he consoled himself 
 by thinking that they had been rather fool- 
 ish. Then he thought of Ethel's cousin ; 
 confound her cousin ! she seemed to like 
 going about with him. Perhaps he made 
 love to her; yet he was too much of a 
 hobble-de-hoy for that, surely — three-and- 
 twenty at most — a very objectionable time 
 of life in the masculine sex, a time of dash 
 and impudence and doing of things from 
 sheer bravado at which wisdom, knowledge, 
 and middle age hesitated. Ethel was pro- 
 bably only amusing herself with him. To 
 fall in love with a cousin would show a lack 
 of originality of which he was slow to sus- 
 pect her. He wondered what the cousin
 
 1 66 Aunt Anne, 
 
 did, and if he wanted a post of any sort ; if 
 he had a turn for writing and adventure. 
 Perhaps he could be sent as special corre- 
 spondent to the Gold Coast, where the climate 
 would probably sufficiently engross him. 
 Ethel at any rate might be invited to see his 
 mother, it would cheer the old lady up to 
 have a girl about her. Yes, he had quite 
 made up his mind. Mrs. Hibbert should go 
 to her country cottage with her two children ; 
 he would take the house near Portland Road 
 for a couple of months, and the rest would 
 arrange itself. 
 
 " I don't know whether Walter would like 
 it," Florence said, when Mr. Fisher had ex- 
 plained his errand. 
 
 " I'll answer for Walter," Mr. Fisher said 
 concisely. Of course he, a man, knew 
 better than she did what Walter, also a 
 man, would like ; that was plainly conveyed 
 in his manner. " It will be better for you 
 and the children," he went on, with gracious 
 benevolence, for as he looked at Florence
 
 Aunt Anne. 167 
 
 he thought how girlish she was. He felt 
 quite strongly that in her husband's absence 
 it was his duty to look after her, and to 
 teach her, pleasantly, the way in which she 
 should go. It was absurd to suppose that 
 a woman should know it without any direc- 
 tion from his sex, and he was now the proper 
 person to give it. " I will send you plenty 
 of novels to read, and if you would allow 
 me to introduce you to her," he added, with 
 a shade of pomposity in his voice, " there is 
 a friend of mine at Witley — Mrs. Burnett. 
 You would be excellent companions for each 
 other, I should say, for her husband comes 
 up to town every morning, and " 
 
 " I know her a little," Florence said, " a 
 tall, slight woman with sweet grey eyes." 
 
 " I never looked at her eyes," Mr. Fisher 
 said quickly, and Florence felt reproved for 
 having mentioned them. Of course, he 
 would not look at the eyes of a married 
 woman. Mr. Fisher had clear and dis- 
 tinct views about the proprieties, which he
 
 1 68 Aunt Anne. 
 
 thought were invented especially for married 
 and marriageable women. " Perhaps Miss 
 Dunlop would pay you a visit," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " She has her father to take care of. 
 Besides, Mrs. Baines is staying with me." 
 
 " I saw Mrs. Baines with Wimple the 
 other day. Has she adopted him ?" 
 
 "With Mr. Wimple," Florence said, be- 
 wildered at the sudden mention of the name 
 again ; and then remembering Walter, she 
 added loyally, " she likes him because he is 
 Walter's friend." 
 
 "He writes well," Mr. Fisher answered, 
 as if he were making a remark that sur- 
 prised himself. "He has done some work 
 for us, and done it very well too." 
 
 Then he unfolded the details in regard to 
 the taking of the house. 
 
 Florence found to her surprise that he had 
 arranged them all carefully. 
 
 " Let me see," he said, " this is Monday. 
 You can go on Saturday, I suppose ? I
 
 Aunt Anne. 169 
 
 think that would be the best day for my 
 mother to arrive/' 
 
 " Oh yes. There are things to get ready 
 and to put away, of course." 
 
 " They won't take you long," he answered 
 shortly. 
 
 " I dare say it will do the children good/' 
 she said, reluctantly. 
 
 "Of course it will." 
 
 " I might ask Aunt Anne to take the 
 children to-morrow — I am sure she would 
 — then I could soon get the place ready." 
 
 " Mrs. Baines ? Yes, it would be an ex- 
 cellent plan to send her on first." 
 
 " It is very kind of you ; don't you think 
 that you are really paying too much rent, 
 Mr. Fisher ? " 
 
 " Not at all, not at all ; it is a fair one, 
 and I shall be very glad to have the house. " 
 
 She was really a nice little woman, he 
 thought, docile, and far from stupid ; she only 
 wanted a little managing. He had a sus- 
 picion that Walter was too easy-going, and
 
 i jo Aunt Anne. 
 
 if so, this little experience would be excel- 
 lent for her; it would teach her that after 
 all men were the governing race. It was 
 so foolish when women did not recognize it. 
 "Very well then, you will go on Saturday? 
 Good-bye. Oh, I should like to ask Miss 
 Dunlop to come and see my mother ; do 
 you think she would mind cheering her up 
 sometimes ? " 
 
 " Oh no. She is a nice girl too." 
 " We might make a party to the theatre 
 one night perhaps. By the way, Mrs. Hib- 
 bert," he exclaimed, a sudden thought strik- 
 ing him, " I shall write to Walter as soon 
 as I get to the office and tell him of this 
 arrangement. I might as well enclose a 
 note from you. The mail goes out to-day 
 from Southampton, so that it would be too 
 late to post, but I am sending specially by 
 rail. I will wait while you write a note, 
 and enclose it in mine." 
 
 " I wrote by this mail last night," she 
 answered. " But I should like to tell him
 
 Aunt Anne. 171 
 
 about the house — he might be angry." She 
 laughed at the last words. She only said 
 them to keep up Walter's dignity. 
 
 " Oh no, he won't be angry," Mr. Fisher 
 laughed back, and Florence thought he was 
 quite good-looking when he was not too 
 grave. He did not look more than forty 
 either ; perhaps Ethel might be happy with 
 him. Then, when she had written a few 
 lines, he departed, satisfied with the result 
 of his visit. 
 
 An odd thing happened about that note. 
 He went straight to the office and found a 
 dozen matters of business awaiting his atten- 
 tion, and all remembrance of the Hibberts 
 fled from him. Suddenly, an hour later, he 
 dived into his pocket for a memorandum, 
 and pulled out an unopened white envelope. 
 He did not look at the address. " What's 
 this ? " he said in utter forgetfulness, and 
 tore it open ; and — for his own name caught 
 his eye — he read a passage in Mrs. Hibbert's 
 note to her husband : —
 
 172 Aunt Anne. 
 
 -he is a kind old fogey, and I think 
 
 he likes Ethel D. Would it not be funny if 
 he married her ? " 
 
 He folded it up quickly for fear he should 
 read more. " Why should it be funny ? " he 
 said to himself. The word haunted him all 
 day. 
 
 Meanwhile Aunt Anne was deeply engaged. 
 She was delighted with Florence's unexpected 
 gift ; it would enable her to do a few things 
 that only an hour or two ago she had felt 
 to be impossible. She had not the least 
 intention of paying Madame Celestine. She 
 looked upon her as an inferior who must 
 be content to wait till it was the pleasure of 
 her superior to remember her bill, and any 
 reminder of it she resented as a liberty. 
 She spent a happy and very excited hour 
 in Regent Street, and at eleven o'clock stood 
 on the kerbstone critically looking for a 
 hansom. She let several go by that did 
 not please her ; but at last with excellent
 
 Aunt Anne. 173 
 
 instinct she picked out a good horse and a 
 smart driver, and a minute later was whirling 
 on towards Waterloo Station. She liked 
 driving in hansoms ; she was of opinion 
 that they were well constructed, a great 
 improvement on older modes of conveyance, 
 and that it was the positive duty of people 
 in a certain rank of life to encourage all 
 meritorious achievements with their approval. 
 She never for a moment doubted that she 
 was one of those whose approval was im- 
 portant. She felt her own individuality very 
 strongly, and was convinced that the world 
 recognized it. She was keenly sensible of 
 making effects, and it was odd, but for all 
 her eccentricities, there was in her the 
 making of a great lady ; or it might have 
 seemed to a philosophical speculator that 
 she was made of the worn-out fragments of 
 some past great lady, and dimly remembered 
 *at intervals her former importance. She 
 had perfect control over her manner, and 
 could use it to the best advantage ; she had
 
 i74 Aunt Anne. 
 
 reserve, a power of keeping off familiarity, 
 a graciousness, a winsomeness when she 
 chose, that all belonged to a certain type 
 and a certain class. As she went on swiftly 
 to the station she looked half-disdainfully, 
 yet compassionately, at the people who 
 walked and the people who passed in 
 omnibuses. She told herself that the last 
 were excellent institutions, she wondered 
 what the lower class would do without 
 them ; it rejoiced her to think that they 
 had not got to do without them, it was a 
 satisfaction to feel that she could enjoy her 
 own superior condition without compunction. 
 At Waterloo, with an air of decision that 
 showed a perfect knowledge of her own 
 generosity, she gave the cabman sixpence 
 over his fare and walked slowly into the 
 station. She looked up and down the 
 platform from which the Portsmouth train 
 would depart, but saw no one she knew. 
 She stood for a moment hesitating, and 
 winked slowly to herself. Then she went
 
 Aunt Anne. 175 
 
 to the bookstall and bought a Times and a 
 Morning Post. The one cost threepence 
 and the other was fashionable. She disliked 
 penny papers. Again her mania for present- 
 giving asserted itself, and quickly she bought 
 also a pile of illustrated papers and magazines. 
 " Gentlemen always like the Field" she said 
 to herself, and added it to the heap. She 
 turned away with them in her arms, and as 
 she did so Alfred Wimple stood facing her. 
 
 " I have ventured to get you a few 
 papers, hoping they would beguile you on 
 your journey," she said. 
 
 Mr. Wimple was as grave as ever and as 
 rickety on his legs. His face showed no 
 sign of pleasure at the sight of the old lady, 
 but his manner was deferential; he seemed 
 to be trying to impress certain indefinite 
 facts upon her. 
 
 " I never read in a train," he answered, 
 " but I shall be glad of them at the end of 
 the journey. Thank you." 
 
 He said the last two words with a sigh,
 
 176 Aunt Anne. 
 
 and put them in the corner he had already 
 secured of the railway carriage. He looked 
 at the clock. Twenty minutes before he 
 started. He seemed to consider something 
 for a moment, looking critically at the old 
 lady while he did so. 
 
 " Cannot I persuade you to give me your 
 address in Hampshire ?" He coughed a 
 little. " Have you your glycerine lozenges 
 with you ? " she asked hurriedly. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " they are in my 
 pocket. I will write to you, Mrs. Baines ; 
 I may have something of importance to say." 
 
 " Everything that you say is important," 
 she answered nervously. 
 
 He got into the train and sat down. 
 
 " I am tired," he said ; " you must excuse 
 me for not standing any longer." He 
 shivered as he opened the window. " I dis- 
 like third class," he added, " but I go by it 
 on principle ; I am not rich enough to travel 
 by any other, Mrs. Baines," and he looked at 
 her fixedly.
 
 Aunt Anne. 177 
 
 She was silent, she seemed fascinated, she 
 looked at him for a moment and winked 
 absently ; then a thought seemed to strike 
 her and she started. 
 
 " Wait ! " she exclaimed ; " I will return in 
 a moment," and she hurried away. 
 
 In five minutes she came back breathless 
 with excitement. " I have taken a great 
 liberty," she % said humbly, " but you must 
 forgive me. I have ventured to get you 
 this ticket ; will you please me by chang- 
 ing into a first-class carriage ? You must 
 imagine that you are my guest," and she 
 looked at him anxiously. " The guard is 
 waiting " 
 
 " I cannot refuse you anything, Mrs. 
 Baines." And with a chastened air he 
 pulled his portmanteau from under the seat. 
 The guard was waiting outside for it, and 
 took it to an empty carriage. Mr. Wimple 
 followed, Aunt Anne carrying the papers. 
 He took his place and looked round satisfied. 
 The guard touched his hat to the old lady 
 vol. 1. 12
 
 178 Aunt Anne. 
 
 and went his way. Mrs. Baines gave a sigh 
 of satisfaction. 
 
 " Now I shall feel content, and you will 
 not be disturbed," she added triumphantly. 
 
 " I have spoken " She stopped, for his 
 
 hacking cough came back ; she seemed to 
 shrink with pain as she heard it. 
 
 " I am quite an invalid," he said impres- 
 sively. 
 
 " I wish I were going with you to nurse 
 you." 
 
 " I need nursing, Mrs. Baines," he answered 
 sadly. "I need a great many things." 
 
 " I wish I could give them to you." 
 
 He looked at her curiously ; as if the 
 words came from him without his know- 
 ledge, he said suddenly, " I see Sir William 
 Rammage is a little better." 
 
 " I am going to inquire after him this 
 morning," she answered, and then she drew 
 a little parcel from beneath her shawl. " I 
 want you to put this into your pocket," she 
 said, " and to open it by-and-by ; it is only
 
 Aunt Anne, 179 
 
 a trifling proof that I thought of you as I 
 came along." 
 
 " I always think of you," he said, almost 
 reproachfully, as, without a word of thanks, 
 he put the parcel out of sight. 
 
 " Not more than I do of you," she said, 
 in a low choking voice. " I hear you cough 
 in my sleep ; and it grieves me to think how 
 hard you have to work." 
 
 " I can't take care of myself," he said ; " I 
 was always careless, Mrs. Baines, and I must 
 work. Fisher is a very fidgety man to work 
 for ; it has taken me three days to review 
 a small book on American law, and even now 
 I am not sure that he will be satisfied." 
 
 His voice never varied, the expression of 
 his eyes never changed save once for a 
 moment. She had taken off her gloves and 
 was resting her hands, thin and dry, on the 
 ledge of the carriage window while she leant 
 forward to talk to him, and suddenly he 
 looked down at them. They seemed to 
 repel him, he drew back a very little ; she
 
 180 Aunt Anne. 
 
 saw the movement and followed his eyes ; 
 she understood perfectly ; for she had quick 
 insight, and courage to face unflinchingly 
 even truths that were not pleasant. She 
 drew her hands away and rubbed them softly 
 one over the other, as if by doing so she 
 could put young life into them. Suddenly 
 with a jerk the train moved. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said excitedly. " Good- 
 bye ; if I write to the address in town will 
 the letter be forwarded ? " 
 
 But he could only nod. In a moment he 
 was out of sight. He did not lean forward 
 to look after her, he sat staring into space. 
 " She must be seventy," he said. " I 
 
 wonder " Then he felt in his pocket 
 
 for the third-class ticket he no longer needed. 
 " Probably they will return the amount I 
 paid for it." A sudden thought struck him. 
 He looked at the ticket Mrs. Baines had 
 given him. "It is for Portsmouth/' he said 
 grimly. The one he had taken himself had 
 been for Liphook.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 T was not at all a bad thing to do, 
 Florence thought, as she sat and con- 
 sidered the arrangement Mr. Fisher had so 
 suddenly made in regard to the house in town 
 and the cottage at Witley. The country 
 would do the children good, and Aunt Anne 
 would probably enjoy it. Of course the latter 
 would consent to go with them. Indeed, 
 she had clearly no other resource. Florence 
 wondered if she would like it. 
 
 But Mrs. Baines was so full of news her- 
 self when she returned that she had no time 
 to listen to any one else. 
 
 " My love," she said, " I have passed a 
 most important day." 
 
 " Relate your adventures, Aunt Anne."
 
 1 82 Aunt Anne. 
 
 But at this request Mrs. Baines winked and 
 spoke slowly. 
 
 " I had an engagement in the morning," 
 she began, and hesitated. "When I had 
 fulfilled it," she went on, " I thought it right, 
 Florence, to go and call on Sir William 
 Rammage. He has been ill, and I wanted 
 to assure him of my sympathy. Besides, I 
 felt that it was due to you — that it was an 
 imperative duty on my part to ask him for 
 an allowance, and that it was his duty to give 
 it to me." 
 
 " But, Aunt Anne * 
 
 " Yes, my love. I am living now on your 
 generous kindness ; don't think that I am 
 insensible to it. But for your tenderness, 
 my darling, I should have been alone in a 
 little lodging now, as I was when — when I 
 was first left a widow." 
 
 " I should not like to think of you in a 
 little lodging, Aunt Anne," Florence said 
 gently ; and then she added gaily, "but con- 
 tinue your adventures."
 
 Aunt Anne. 183 
 
 Mrs. Baines gave a long sigh, and was 
 silent for a moment. She sat down on the 
 easy-chair and, as if she had not heard 
 Florence's interruption, went on with a 
 strange tragic note in her voice — 
 
 " I never told you about that time, 
 Florence. I had three pounds in the world 
 when I came to London ; just three pounds 
 to maintain my position until I could find 
 something to do. I had a little room at 
 Kilburn — a little room at the top of the 
 house ; and I used to sit day after day, 
 week after week, waiting. I had no coals, 
 only a little spirit-lamp by which I made 
 some water hot, then poured it into a jug 
 and covered it over and warmed my hands 
 by it; it was often an hour before it grew 
 cold, my love." 
 
 " But why did you not come to us ? * 
 
 " I couldn't," the old lady answered in an 
 obstinate tone. " I felt that it would not be 
 treating you properly to present myself before 
 you while I was so poor and miserable " —
 
 184 Aunt Anne. 
 
 she paused and looked into the fire for a 
 moment, then suddenly went on : " The 
 woman at the corner where I went every 
 morning to buy a newspaper, saw that I was 
 poor, and presumed upon it. Once she said 
 I looked nipped up, and asked me to sit down 
 and get warm. I reproved her for familiarity, 
 and never went to the shop again." 
 
 " But perhaps she meant it for kindness ? " 
 " She should have remembered her posi- 
 tion, my love, and asked me in a different 
 manner. There is nothing more painful to 
 bear than the remembrance of one's own 
 rank in life when one has to encounter the 
 hardships that belong by right to a lower 
 class. " Aunt Anne paused again for a 
 moment, and gave a long sigh before she 
 went on : " We won't go over it, my dear. 
 If Mrs. North had shown less levity in her 
 conduct and more consideration to me, I 
 should have been there still instead of living 
 on your charity." 
 
 "Oh no, Aunt Anne."
 
 Aunt Anne. i8. 
 
 " Yes, my love, it is so ; even though you 
 love me and I love you, it is charity ; and I 
 felt it keenly when you resented my little 
 offering of cream this morning — you, to 
 whom I would give everything I possess." 
 
 "Oh no, Aunt Anne " interrupted 
 
 Florence. 
 
 " And so — and so," continued the old lady 
 with a little gasp, " I went to Sir William 
 Rammage once more. I told him — I told 
 him " — she stopped — " I told him how our 
 mothers had stood over us together, years 
 and years ago." 
 
 "Yes, I know," Florence said soothingly. 
 She had heard this so often before. " I 
 hope he was good to you ? " 
 
 " My dear, he listened with compunction, 
 but he saw the force of what I said. He 
 will write and tell me how much he will 
 allow me," she added simply. 
 
 " I am very glad, Aunt Anne ; I hope he 
 will write soon, and be generous. I know it 
 will make you happier."
 
 1 86 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " It will, indeed," and Mrs. Baines gave 
 another long sigh. " I shall not be de- 
 pendent on any one much longer." 
 
 " Except upon him," Florence said un- 
 wittingly. 
 
 " No, I shall not feel that I am dependent 
 even upon him," and she looked up quickly. 
 "He will give it and I shall take it for the 
 honour of the family. I told him how im- 
 possible it was that I could go on living upon 
 you and Walter, that it would be a disgrace. 
 I could not live upon him either. He has 
 shown me so little sympathy, my love, that 
 I could not endure it. I shall take the 
 allowance from him as I should take an 
 inheritance, knowing that it is not given to 
 me for my own sake. I could not take it in 
 any other spirit ; but it would be as wrong in 
 him to forget what is due to us, as it would 
 be in me to let him do so. It would shed 
 dishonour on his name." 
 
 And again she was silent ; she seemed to 
 be living over the past, to be groping her
 
 Aunt Anne. 187 
 
 way back among days that were over before 
 Florence was even born, to be seeing people 
 whose very names had not been heard for 
 years. 
 
 " They would rise in their graves if I were 
 left to starve," she continued; " I have always 
 felt it ; and it was but right towards them 
 that I should go to William ; it was due to 
 them even that I should live on you and 
 Walter, my darling, till I received an ade- 
 quate income." 
 
 Suddenly her voice changed again, the 
 wonderful smile came back — the happy look 
 that always seemed as if it had travelled 
 from the youth she had left long years 
 behind. 
 
 " You understand, my love ? " she asked. 
 " Bless you for all your kindness, but I am 
 not going to intrude upon you much longer. 
 I have already seen an apartment that will, 
 I think, suit my requirements." 
 
 " Oh no." 
 
 "Yes, my love, it will be much better.
 
 1 88 Aunt Anne. 
 
 You cut me to the quick this morning, 
 Florence," and her voice grew sad ; " you 
 said that you would have to send away your 
 dear children because my influence would 
 spoil them." 
 
 "Aunt Anne!" — Florence began in con- 
 sternation. 
 
 "Yes, dear, yes," the old lady said 
 solemnly ; . " it gave me the deepest pain, as 
 I sat and thought it over in the privacy of 
 my own chamber. But when I came down- 
 stairs and you shared your dear mother's gift 
 with me, I knew that you loved me sincerely." 
 
 " I do," said Florence, soothingly. 
 
 "I am sure of it, my darling," with even 
 more solemnity, "but it will be better that I 
 should take an apartment. It will rejoice 
 your tender heart to know that by your gift 
 you have helped me to secure one, and when 
 I receive my allowance from Sir William I 
 shall feel that I am independent once more. 
 You must forgive me, my love ; it is not 
 that I do not appreciate your hospitality —
 
 Aunt Anne, 189 
 
 yours and Walters — I do. But I feel that 
 it would sadden all my dear ones who are 
 gone, if they knew that I was alone in the 
 world, without a home of my own. That 
 is why I went to Sir William Rammage, 
 Florence ; and though he said little, I feel 
 sure that he saw the matter in a proper light, 
 and felt as I do about it." 
 
 " What did he say?" 
 
 " He said he would think it over, and 
 when he had made up his mind he would 
 write to me. My love, would you permit 
 me to ring the bell ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course. Why do you always ask 
 me ? Don't you feel at home here, dear 
 Aunt Anne ? " Florence asked, thinking that 
 Sir William's answer had, after all, committed 
 him to little. 
 
 " I hope I shall never so far forget myself 
 as not to treat you with the courtesy that 
 you have a right to expect, my darling. I 
 will never take advantage of our relationship. 
 — Jane," she said, with quite another manner,
 
 iqo Aunt Anne. 
 
 and in a cold and slightly haughty tone, to 
 the servant who had entered, " would you 
 have the goodness to divest me of my cloak ? 
 and if your mistress gives you permission, 
 perhaps you would carry it up to my room ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said Jane, respectfully, but 
 without much willingness in her manner. 
 The servants had learnt to resent the tone 
 in which Mrs. Baines usually spoke to them. 
 "She treats us like dirt," the housemaid 
 explained to the cook ; " and if we're made 
 of dirt, I should like to know what she's 
 made of ? She give me a shilling the other 
 day, and another time a new apron done up 
 in a box from the draper's ; but I don't care 
 about her for all her presents. I know she 
 always sees every speck of dust that others 
 would be blind to ; it's in her wink that she 
 does." 
 
 " And now that you have told me all 
 your news, I want you to listen to mine," 
 Florence said. 
 
 Then she gave an account of Mr. Fisher's
 
 Aunt Anne. 191 
 
 visit, and of the letting of the house for a 
 couple of months. 
 
 "So, Aunt Anne," she continued trium- 
 phantly, " I want you to be very, very good, 
 and to go with the children and two of the 
 servants to the cottage at Witley to-morrow, 
 and to be the mistress of the great establish- 
 ment, if you will, and mother to the children 
 till I come; that proves how bad I think 
 your influence is for them, doesn't it, you 
 unkind old dear ? " — and she stooped and 
 kissed Mrs. Baines. 
 
 Aunt Anne was delighted, and consented 
 at once. 
 
 " I shall never forget your putting this 
 confidence in me. You have proved your 
 affection for me most truly," she said. " My 
 dear Florence, your children shall have the 
 most loving care that it is in my power to 
 give them. I will look after everything till 
 you come ; more zealously than you yourself 
 could. Tell me, love, where do you say the 
 cottage is situated ? "
 
 I9 2 Aunt Anne. 
 
 "It is near Witley, it is on the direct 
 Portsmouth road ; a sweet little cottage with 
 a garden, and fir woods stretching on either 
 side." 
 
 " And how far is it from Portsmouth, my 
 love?" Mrs. Baines asked eagerly. 
 
 Florence divined the meaning of the ques- 
 tion instantly. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, Aunt Anne; after 
 Witley comes Hindhead, and then Liphook, 
 and then Petersfield, and then — then I don't 
 know. Liphook is the place where Mr. 
 Wimple " — the old lady winked to herself — 
 " has friends, and sometimes goes to stay." 
 
 " And how far is that ? " 
 
 " About six miles, I think — six or seven." 
 
 "Thank you, my love; and now, if you 
 will allow me, I will retire. I must make 
 preparations for my journey, which is indeed 
 a delightful anticipation." 
 
 Florence never forgot the October morning 
 on which she took Aunt Anne and the chil- 
 dren to Witley. They went from Waterloo.
 
 Aunt Anne. 193 
 
 She thought of Walter and the day they had 
 spent at Windsor, and of that last one on 
 which they had gone together to Southamp- 
 ton, and she had returned alone. "Oh, my 
 darling," she said to herself, " may you grow- 
 well and strong, and come back to us soon 
 again." 
 
 Mrs. Baines, too, seemed full of memories. 
 She looked up and down the platform ; she 
 stood for a moment dreamily by the book- 
 stall before it occurred to her to buy a cheap 
 illustrated paper to amuse Catty and Monty 
 on the journey. 
 
 " My love," she said to Florence, with 
 a little sigh, "a railway station is fraught 
 with many recollections of meeting and 
 parting " 
 
 " And meeting again," said Florence, long- 
 ingly thinking of Walter. 
 
 "Yes, my love," the old lady answered 
 tenderly ; " and may yours with your dear 
 one be soon." 
 
 There were three miles to drive from 
 vou 1. 13
 
 194 Aunt Anne. 
 
 Witley to the cottage. A long white road, 
 with fir woods on either side. Gaps in the 
 firs, and glimpses of the Surrey hills, distant 
 and blue, of hanging woods and deep valleys. 
 The firs came to an end ; and there were 
 cliffs of gravel full of the holes of sand- 
 martins. More woods, then hedges of black- 
 berry-bushes, bare enough now ; gorse full of 
 late bloom, heather faded and turning from 
 russet to black. Here and there a solitary 
 house, masses of oak and larch and fir, 
 patches of sunshine, long wastes of shade ; 
 and the road going on and on. 
 
 " Here we are at last," Florence said, as 
 they stopped before a red-brick cottage that 
 stood only a few yards back from the road. 
 On either side of it was a fir plantation. 
 There was a gravel pathway round the 
 house, but the other paths were covered 
 with tan. Behind stretched a wilderness of 
 garden almost entirely uncultivated. There 
 was a little footway that wound through it 
 in and out among beeches and larches and
 
 Aunt Anne. 195 
 
 firs and oaks, and stopped at last on the 
 ridge of a dip that could hardly be called a 
 valley. 
 
 "Sometimes," said Florence, as they 
 walked about, half an hour later, while the 
 servants were busy within, " we go down the 
 dip and up the other side, and so get over 
 to Hindhead. It is nearer than going there 
 by the road." 
 
 "Our house is over there," the children said. 
 
 " Their house," explained Florence, " is a 
 little, lonely, thatched shed, half a mile away. 
 We don't know who made it. It is in a 
 lovely part on the other side of the dip, 
 among the straggling trees. Perhaps some 
 one tethered a cow in it once. The children 
 call it their house now, because one day they 
 had tea there. After I return next week 
 we must try and walk across to it." 
 
 But the old lady's eyes were turned to- 
 wards the distance. 
 
 " And the road in front of the house," she 
 asked, " where does that go to ? "
 
 196 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " It winds round the Devil's Punch Bowl, 
 and over Hindhead, and on through Liphook 
 and Petersfield to Portsmouth." 
 
 Aunt Anne did not answer, she looked 
 still more intently into the distance, and gave 
 a long sigh. 
 
 " It is most exhilarating to be out of 
 London again, my dear Florence," she said. 
 " I sincerely trust it will prove beneficial to 
 your dear ones. I was born in the country, 
 and I hope that some day I shall die in it. 
 London is most oppressive after a time." 
 
 " I like London," Florence answered ; 
 " still it does now and then feel like a 
 prison." 
 
 "And the rows and rows of houses are 
 the prison bars* my love. May we enter the 
 cottage ? " she asked suddenly. She was 
 evidently tired ; she stooped, and looked 
 older and more worn than usual. 
 
 " Poor old dear," Florence thought. " I 
 hope she is not worrying about Madame 
 Celestines bill, and that she will soon hear
 
 Aunt Anne, 197 
 
 from Sir William Rammage. Then she will 
 be happier." 
 
 It was a little house, simple inside as well 
 as out, with tiny rooms, plainly furnished. 
 The dining-room had been newly done up, 
 with cretonne curtains and a dado, and a 
 buttery-hatch in which Florence took a 
 certain pride as something rather grand for 
 so small a place. The drawing-room was 
 old-fashioned ; a stiff roomy sofa with hard 
 flat cushions at one end ; at the other a sweet 
 jangling piano. There were corner cup- 
 boards with china bowls of pot-pourri on 
 them ; on either side of the fireplace a 
 gaunt, high-backed easy-chair, and on the 
 left of each chair an old-fashioned screen on 
 which was worked a peacock. Aunt Anne 
 stopped on the threshold. 
 
 It seemed to Florence as if the room 
 recognized the old lady, as if it had been 
 waiting, knowing that she would come. 
 There was something about it that said more 
 plainly than any words could have said that
 
 198 Aunt Anne. 
 
 the hands were still that had first arranged 
 it, and many footsteps had gone out from its 
 doorway that would never come in at it 
 more. 
 
 " It always depresses me/' Florence ex- 
 plained ; " but it is just as we found it. We 
 refurnished the dining-room, and sit there a 
 good deal. It is more cheerful than this. 
 Come upstairs " — and she led the way. 
 
 The bedrooms were all small too, save 
 one in front, that seemed to match the draw- 
 ing-room. It looked like a room to die in : 
 Florence thought so, as she entered it for 
 the first time with Aunt Anne. A quaint 
 four-post bedstead with dark chintz curtains, 
 a worm-eaten bureau, a sampler worked in 
 Berlin wool and framed in black cherry-wood 
 hanging over the fireplace. 
 
 "This is the best room," she said, "and 
 we keep it for visitors. There is a little one, 
 meant to be a dressing-room, I suppose, 
 leading out of it," and she went to a bright 
 little nook with a bed in it. " I always feel
 
 Aunt Anne. 199 
 
 that the best bedroom and the drawing-room 
 belong to a past world, and the rest of the 
 house to the present one." 
 
 "It is like your life and mine, my dar- 
 ling; mine to the past and yours to the 
 present." 
 
 " I think you ought to sleep in the best 
 room, Aunt Anne." 
 
 " No, my love," the old lady interrupted, 
 " let me have this little one which is next it. 
 When you require the other, if I am still 
 with you, I can lock the door between. The 
 best one is too grand for me ; but some- 
 times while it is empty I will go in, if you 
 have no objection, and look out at the fir 
 trees and the road that stretches right and 
 left " 
 
 " I like doing that," Florence interrupted. 
 " It always sets me thinking — the road from 
 the city to the sea." 
 
 " From the city to the sea," the old lady 
 repeated ; " from the voices to the silences." 
 
 " Aunt Anne, we mustn't grow sentimental,"
 
 2oo Aunt Anne. 
 
 Florence began. There was the sound of 
 a tinkling bell. It seemed to come at an 
 opportune moment. " Oh, happy sound," 
 she laughed; " it means that our meal is 
 ready. Catty, darling/' she called, " Monty, 
 my son, roast chicken is waiting downstairs. 
 Auntie and mummy are quite ready ; come, 
 dear babes" — and patter, patter, came the 
 sound of the little feet, and together they all 
 went down. 
 
 An hour later the fly came to the door ; 
 it was time for Florence to start on her way 
 back to town. 
 
 " I shall be with you at latest on Tuesday. 
 Perhaps, dear Aunt Anne, if you don't mind 
 taking care of the bad children so long, I 
 may go on Saturday for a day or two to 
 an old schoolfellow," she said. " Then I 
 should not be here till the middle of next 
 week." 
 
 " Dear child, you do indeed put confidence 
 in me," Mrs. Baines answered quaintly. 
 
 " And, Aunt Anne, I have ordered most
 
 Aunt Anne. 201 
 
 things in, but the tradespeople come every day 
 if there is anything more you want. What 
 you order is, of course, put down, but here 
 is some money for odds and ends. Four 
 pounds, I think, will carry you through ; and 
 here is a little book in which to put down 
 your expenses. I always keep a most careful 
 account of what I spend ; you don't mind 
 doing so either, do you ? " 
 
 " My love, anything you wish will be a 
 pleasure to me." 
 
 " If you please, ma'am," said Jane, enter- 
 ing, u the driver says you must start at once 
 if you want to catch this train." 
 
 " Then good-bye, dear Aunt Anne ; good- 
 bye, dear dickie-birds ; be happy together. 
 You shall see me very soon again ; send me 
 a letter every other day ; " and with many 
 embraces Florence was allowed to get out 
 of the door. But Aunt Anne and the 
 children ran excitedly after her to the gate, 
 and helped her into the little waggonette, 
 and kissed their hands and waved their
 
 202 
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 handkerchiefs as she drove off, and called 
 " Good bye, good-bye ; " and so, watching 
 them, Florence went along the white road 
 towards the station.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HE days that followed were busy ones 
 for Florence — busy in a domestic 
 sense, so that the history of them does not 
 concern us here. Mr. Fisher called one after- 
 noon ; by a strange coincidence it was while 
 Ethel Dunlop was helping Florence with an 
 inventory of china. Miss Dunlop readily 
 promised to visit his mother, but she did not 
 show any particular interest in the editor. 
 
 " He has been so kind," Florence said, 
 " and don't you think he is very agreeable ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ; but you know, Florrie dear, he 
 has a very square jaw." 
 
 -Well?" 
 
 " It is a good thing he never married 
 again ; he would have been very obstinate."
 
 204 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " But why do you say never did ? — as if 
 he never would. He is only forty-odd." 
 
 " Only forty-odd ! " laughed Ethel— " only 
 a million. If a man is over eight-and-twenty 
 he might as well be over eighty ; it is mere 
 modesty that he is not." 
 
 "Walter is over thirty, and just as fas- 
 cinating as ever." 
 
 Florence was rather indignant. 
 
 " Ah, yes, but he is married, and married 
 men take such a long time to grow old. By 
 the way, Mr. Fisher said something about 
 a theatre-party, when his mother is here. 
 Do you think I might ask him to invite 
 George Dighton as well ? George is very 
 fond of theatres." 
 
 Before Florence could reply, a carriage 
 stopped at the door ; it looked familiar, it 
 reminded her of Aunt Anne in her triumphant 
 days. But a strange lady descended from 
 it now, and was shown upstairs to the draw- 
 ing-room, in which Aunt Anne had sat and 
 related her woes and known her triumphs.
 
 Aunt Anne. 205 
 
 " Mrs. North, ma'am," said the servant ; 
 and then Florence understood. 
 
 She left Ethel in the dining-room with 
 the inventory, and went up to receive the 
 visitor. Mrs. North was as pretty as Aunt 
 Anne had declared her to be ; a mere girl 
 to look at, tall and slim. Florence thought 
 it was quite natural that her husband should 
 like her to have a chaperon. 
 
 " I came to see Mrs. Baines," she said, 
 coming forward in a shy, hesitating manner, 
 " but hearing that she was in the country I 
 ventured to ask for you. What have you done 
 with the dear old lady ? " and she laughed 
 nervously. Florence looked at her, fascinated 
 by her beauty ; by her clothes, that seemed 
 to be a mixture of fur and lace and perfume, 
 by the soft brown hair that curled low on 
 her forehead, by the sweet blue eyes — by 
 every bit of her. " She told you, probably, 
 that she was very angry when she left me ; 
 I know it has all been very dreadful in her 
 eyes ; but she was always kind to me, and
 
 2o6 Aunt Anne. 
 
 I thought by this time that she would, 
 perhaps, forgive me and make it up ; so I 
 came." She said it with a penitent air. 
 
 " I am afraid she is very angry," Florence 
 answered, laughing, for the pretty woman 
 before her did not seem like a stranger. 
 " Do you want her again ? " 
 
 "Oh no!" and Mrs. North shook her 
 head emphatically. " She would not come, 
 I know ; besides, it would be impossible : 
 she led us a terrible life. But we loved her, 
 and wanted just to make it up with her 
 again. I think we could have put up with 
 anything if she had not quarrelled with the 
 servants." 
 
 " I was afraid it was that," Florence 
 answered. 
 
 " Oh yes ! " sighed Mrs. North ; " she was 
 horribly autocratic with them — 'autocratic' 
 is her own word. At last she quarrelled 
 with Hetty, and wanted me to send her 
 away — to send away Hetty, who is a born 
 treasure, and cooks like an angel. It would
 
 Aunt Anne, 207 
 
 have broken our hearts — a woman who sends 
 up a dinner like a charm ; we couldn't let her 
 go, it was impossible, and the old lady fled." 
 
 " I am very sorry. You were so kind to 
 her ; she always said that." 
 
 " I loved her," Mrs. North answered, with 
 a little sigh. " She was so like my dear dead 
 mother grown old — that was the secret of her 
 attraction for us ; but she ruled us with a 
 rod of iron that grew more and more un- 
 yielding every day. And yet she was very 
 kind. She was always giving us presents." 
 
 " Oh yes," Florence said, in a despairing 
 voice. 
 
 "We have had the bills for them since," 
 Mrs. North went on, with a comical air. 
 " She used to say that I was very frivolous," 
 she added suddenly. " She thought it wicked 
 of me to enjoy life while my husband was 
 away. But he is old, Mrs. Hibbert; one 
 may have an affection for an old husband, 
 but one can't be in love with him." 
 
 " If she were very nice she would not have
 
 2o8 Aunt Anne. 
 
 made that remark to me, whom she never 
 saw before," Florence thought, beginning to 
 dislike her a little. 
 
 " Of course I am sorry he is away," Mrs. 
 North said, as if she perfectly understood 
 the impression she was making ; " he is 
 coming back now. He has telegraphed 
 suddenly." There was something like fright 
 in her voice as she said it. " I did not 
 expect him ; but he is coming almost directly. 
 I suppose I ought to be very glad," she 
 added, with a ghostly smile. " I am, of 
 course ; but I am surprised at his sudden 
 return. I took Mrs. Baines because he 
 wished me to have an old lady about me ; 
 but I wanted my own way. I liked her to 
 have hers when it amused me to see her 
 have it, when it didn't I wanted to have 
 mine." Mrs. North's whole expression had 
 altered again, and she looked up with two 
 blue eyes that fascinated and repelled, and 
 laughed a merry, uncontrolled laugh like a 
 child's. " Oh, she was very droll."
 
 Aunt Anne. 209 
 
 " Perhaps it is very rude of me to say it," 
 Florence said primly, for deep in her heart 
 there was a great deal of primness, M but I 
 can understand Mr. North wishing you to 
 have a chaperon ; you are very young to be 
 left alone." 
 
 " Oh yes, and very careless, I know that. 
 And Mrs. Baines used to provoke me into 
 shocking her. I could shock her so easily, 
 and did — don't "you know how one loves 
 power for good or ill over a human being ? " 
 
 " No, I don't," Florence answered, a little 
 stiffly. 
 
 "I do ; I love it best of all things in the 
 world, whether it leads me uphill or down- 
 hill. But I am intruding," for she saw a set 
 cold look coming over Florence's face. " Let 
 me tell you why I asked for you. I have 
 been so embarrassed about Mrs. Baines. 
 She gave us presents, and she bought all 
 sorts of things : but she didn't pay for them. 
 These bills came, and the people wanted 
 
 their money." She pulled a little roll out of 
 vol. 1. 14
 
 2io Aunt Anne. 
 
 her pocket. "She probably forgot them, 
 and I thought it would be better to pay 
 them, especially as I owed her some money 
 when she left which she would not take ; " 
 and she laughed out again, but there was 
 the odd sound like fright in her voice. 
 "They are from florists and all sorts of 
 people." 
 
 Florence looked over the bills quickly and 
 almost guiltily. There were the pots of fern 
 and the flowers that had been sent to her 
 and the children after Aunt Anne's first 
 visit ; and there were the roses with which 
 she had triumphantly entered on the night 
 of the dinner-party. " Oh, poor old lady!" 
 she exclaimed sadly. 
 
 " They are paid," Mrs. North said. " Don't 
 be distressed about them and many others — 
 lace-handkerchiefs, shoes, all sorts of things. 
 Don't tell her. She would think I had taken 
 a liberty or committed a solecism," and she 
 made a little wry face. " But what I really 
 wanted to see you about, Mrs. Hibbert, was
 
 Aunt Anne. 211 
 
 Madame Celestine's bill. I am afraid I can't 
 manage that all by myself; it is too long. 
 Madame Celestine, of course, is sweetly 
 miserable, for she thinks the old lady has 
 vanished into space. She came to me yester- 
 day. It seems that she went to you a 
 few days] ago, but you were out, and she 
 was glad of it when she discovered that Mrs. 
 Baines was your aunt, for she doesn't want 
 to offend you. She came to me again to- 
 day. She is very miserable. I believe it 
 will turn her hair grey. Oh, it is too 
 funny." 
 
 " I don't think it is at all funny." 
 " But indeed it is, for I don't believe Mrs. 
 Baines will ever be able to pay the fifteen 
 pounds; in fact, we know that she won't. 
 Probably it is worrying her a good deal. I 
 have been wondering whether something 
 could not be done ; if you and I, for instance, 
 were to arrange it between us." 
 
 "You are very good, Mrs. North," 
 Florence said, against her will.
 
 2i2 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " Oh no, but I am sorry for her, and it 
 vexes and worries me to think that she is 
 annoyed. I want to get rid of that vexation, 
 and will pay something to do so. That is 
 what most generosity comes to," Mrs. North 
 went on, with mock cynicism, "the purchase 
 of a pleasant feeling for one's self, or the 
 getting rid of an unpleasant one. There is 
 little really unselfish goodness in the world, 
 and when one meets it, as a rule, it isn't 
 charming, it isn't fascinating ; one feels that 
 one would rather be without it." She rose 
 as she spoke. " Well," she asked, " what 
 shall we do ? I'll pay one half of the old 
 lady's bill if you will pay the other half." 
 
 " You are very good," Florence repeated, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 "No; but I expect you are," and Mrs. 
 North showed two rows of little white teeth. 
 " I should think you are a model of virtue,'' 
 she added, with an almost childlike air of 
 frankness, which made it impossible to take 
 offence at her words, though Florence felt
 
 Aunt Anne. 213 
 
 that at best she was only regarded as the 
 possessor of a quality that just before her 
 visitor had denounced. 
 
 "Why," she asked, smiling against her 
 will, " do I look like a model of virtue ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, you are almost Madonna-like, " 
 Mrs. North said, with a sigh. " I wish I 
 were like you, only — only I think I should 
 get very tired of myself. I get tired now ; 
 till a reaction comes. But a reaction to the 
 purely good must be tame at best." 
 
 " You are very clever," Florence said, 
 almost without knowing it, and shrinking 
 from her again. 
 
 " How do you know ? My husband says 
 I am clever, but I don't think I am. I am 
 alive. So many people are merely in the 
 preface to being alive, and never get any 
 farther. I am well in the middle of the 
 book ; and I am eager, so eager, that some- 
 times I long to eat up the whole world in 
 order to know the taste of everything. Do 
 you understand that ? "
 
 2i4 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " No. I am content with my slice." 
 
 "Ah, that is it. I am not content with 
 mine. You have your husband and chil- 
 dren." 
 
 " But you have a husband." 
 
 " Yes, I have a husband too ; a funny old 
 husband, a long way off, who is rapidly — too 
 rapidly, I fear — coming nearer" — Florence 
 hated her — " and no children. I amused 
 myself with the old lady — Mrs. Baines — till 
 she fled from me. Now I try other things. 
 Good-bye."' 
 
 " Good-bye/' Florence said. 
 
 As Mrs. North was going out of the door 
 she turned and asked, " Have you many 
 friends — women friends ? " 
 
 "Yes, a great many, thank you," Mrs. 
 Hibbert said, with a little haughty inclination 
 of the head. The haughtiness seemed to 
 amuse Mrs. North, for the merry look came 
 over her face again, but only for a moment. 
 
 " I thought you had," she answered. " I 
 have none ; I don't want them. Good-bye."
 
 Aunt Anne. 215 
 
 It was nearly dark, and the one servant 
 left to help Florence get the house ready 
 had neglected to light the lamp on the 
 staircase. Mrs. North groped her way 
 down. 
 
 " I want to tell you something,'' she said. 
 " You said just now that I was clever. I 
 don't think I am, but I can divine people's 
 thoughts pretty easily. You are very good, 
 I think ; but consider this, your goodness is 
 of no use if you are not good to others ; good 
 to women especially. The good of goodness 
 is that you can wrap others inside it. It 
 ought to be like a big cloak that you have 
 on a cold night, while the shivering person 
 next to you has none. If you don't make 
 use of your goodness," she went on with a 
 catch in her breath, "what is the good of 
 it ? — I seem to be talking paradoxes— you 
 prove how beautiful it is, perhaps, but that is 
 all ; you make it like the swan that sings its 
 own death-song. One listens and watches, 
 and goes away to think of things more com-
 
 216 Aunt Anne. 
 
 prehensible, and to do them. Good-bye, 
 Mrs. Hibbert," she said gently, and almost 
 as if she were afraid she held out her hand. 
 Florence took it, a little wonder-struck. 
 " You are like a Madonna, very like one, as 
 I said just now ; but though you are older 
 than I am, I think I know more about 
 some things than you do — good and bad. 
 Madonnas never know the world very well. 
 Give my love to the old lady, and say I hope 
 she has forgiven me. I am going to Monte 
 Carlo the day after to-morrow, only for three 
 days, to brace myself up for my husband's 
 return ; tell her that too. It will shock her. 
 Say that I should like to have taken her," 
 and with a last little laugh she went out — 
 into the darkness, it seemed to Florence. 
 
 But the next minute there were two 
 flashing lamps before the house ; there was 
 the banging of a door, and Mrs. North was 
 driven away. 
 
 Florence went slowly back to the dining- 
 room and the inventory. Ethel Dunlop had
 
 Aunt Anne. 217 
 
 gone. She was glad of it, for she wanted to 
 think over her strange visitor. 
 
 " I don't understand her," she said to 
 herself. " She is unlike any one I ever met ; 
 she fascinated and repelled me. I felt as if 
 I wanted to kiss her, and yet the touch of 
 her hand made me shiver." Then she 
 thought of Madame Celestine's bill, and of 
 Aunt Anne, and wished that the dress had 
 not been bought, especially for the dinner- 
 party ; it made her feel as if she had been 
 the unwitting cause of Mrs. Baines's ex- 
 travagance. She looked into the fire, and 
 remembered the events of that wonderful 
 evening, and thought of Walter away, and 
 the bills at home that would have to be paid 
 at Christmas. And she thought of her 
 winter cloak that was three years old and 
 shabby, and of the things she had longed to 
 buy for the children. Above all she thought 
 of the visions she had had of saving little by 
 little, and putting her savings away in a 
 very safe place, until she had a cosy sum
 
 218 Aunt Anne. 
 
 with which some day to give Walter a 
 pleasant surprise, and suggest that they 
 should go off together for " a little spree," 
 as he would call it, to Paris or Switzerland. 
 The fire burnt low, the red coals grew dull, 
 the light from the street lamp outside seemed 
 to come searching into the room as though 
 it were looking for some one who was not 
 there. She thought of Walter's letter safe 
 in her pocket. He himself was probably at 
 Malta by this time — getting stronger and 
 stronger in the sunshine. Dear Walter, how 
 generous he was ; he too was a little bit 
 reckless sometimes. She wondered if he 
 inherited this last quality from Aunt Anne. 
 She thought of her children at Witley having 
 tea, most likely with cakes and jam in 
 abundance ; and of Aunt Anne in her glory. 
 She wondered if Mr. Wimple had turned 
 up. " Poor Aunt Anne," she sighed, and 
 there was a long bill in her mind. Presently 
 she rose, lighted a candle, drew down the 
 blind — shutting out the glare from the street
 
 Aunt Anne. 219 
 
 lamp — and going slowly to the writing-table 
 in the corner, unlocked it, opened a little 
 secret drawer, and looked in. There were 
 three five-pound notes there — the remainder 
 of her mothers gift. "I wonder if Mrs. 
 North had Madame Celestine's bill," she 
 thought. " But it doesn't matter ; she said 
 it was fifteen pounds. I can send her the 
 amount/' 
 
 A couple of hours later, while she was in 
 the very act of putting a cheque into an 
 envelope, a note arrived. It had been left 
 by hand ; it was scented with violets, and 
 ran thus : — 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Hibbert, 
 
 " I have ventured to pay Madame 
 Celestine. I determined to do so while I 
 was with you just now ; but was afraid to 
 tell you, that was why I changed the con- 
 versation so abruptly. Please don't let the 
 old lady know that it is my doing, for she 
 might be angry ; but she was very good to
 
 220 
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 me, and I am glad to do this for her. For- 
 give all the strange things I said this after- 
 noon, and don't trouble to acknowledge 
 this. 
 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 " E. North. 
 " P.S. — I enclose receipt."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 T 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 ex- 
 plained ; " 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.
 
 222 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 re-
 
 Aunt Anne, 223 
 
 fused, 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 ? "
 
 224 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 225 
 
 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 ex- 
 claimed, as she stopped by the dining-room 
 doorway. There was a wood fire blazing, 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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." 
 
 c * 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 227 
 
 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
 
 228 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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." 
 
 u Oh yes, he has friends there." 
 
 " No, my love, not now. He is at present 
 lodging with an old retainer."
 
 Aunt Anne. 229 
 
 11 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 per- 
 ception 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."
 
 230 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 review- 
 ing for the paper." 
 
 Mrs. Baines winked with satisfaction. 
 
 " I am quite sure he writes well, my love," 
 she answered quickly ; " he is a most accom- 
 plished 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
 
 232 Auni Anne. 
 
 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 sub- 
 ject. 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."
 
 Aunt Anne. 233 
 
 " 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
 
 234 Aunt Anne, 
 
 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 235 
 
 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 open-
 
 236 Aunt Anne. 
 
 ing 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 enter- 
 taining, 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 neigh- 
 bourhood, 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 237 
 
 " 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 excite- 
 ment 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 engage- 
 ment." 
 
 Florence longed to ask where, but a cer- 
 tain stiffness in Aunt Anne's manner made it 
 impossible. 
 
 " Have you any news from London ? "
 
 2 38 Aunt Anne. 
 
 she ventured to inquire, for she was longing 
 to know about Sir William Rammage. 
 
 " No, my love, I have no news from Lon- 
 don," Mrs. Baines answered, and she evi- 
 dently 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 ;
 
 Aunt Anne. 239 
 
 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 some- 
 times 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 apolo- 
 getic 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.
 
 240 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " That belongs to me, my dear." 
 " Oh no, I cant allow that" 
 "My love, I made an arrangement with 
 Mr. Steggall, and that is sufficient." 
 
 Again Aunt Anne's tone forbade any dis- 
 cussion. 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 con- 
 sidered, dear Florence, that my time was 
 too valuable. It always seems to me great
 
 Aunt Anne. 241 
 
 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 my- 
 self," 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, be- 
 wildered, " 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 gall- 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 Aunt Anne. 
 
 ing 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 re- 
 presented 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 243, 
 
 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 compas- 
 sionate 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 em- 
 broidered 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, house-
 
 244 Aunt Anne. 
 
 keeping 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 enve- 
 lope 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 245 
 
 The day dragged by. The children pre- 
 vented the early dinner from being as awk- 
 ward 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 agi- 
 tated, 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.
 
 246 Aunt Anne. 
 
 "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 an- 
 nouncement in the paper that gives me the 
 deepest pain, Florence. Sir William Ram- 
 mage is ill again — he is confined to his 
 iroom." 
 
 "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
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 247 
 
 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 affec- 
 tionately, thinking that perhaps, after all, 
 she had made rather too much fuss. 
 
 11 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."
 
 248 
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HE grey sky and the dim trees, the 
 black hedges and the absolute still- 
 ness ; all these proved excellent comforters 
 to Florence. They made her philosophical 
 and almost smiling again. It was only when 
 an empty waggonette of Steggall's passed 
 her that she remembered the vexations of 
 the morning. " Poor old lady," she said to 
 herself with almost a laugh, "in future she 
 must not be trusted with money, that is all. 
 If she only would not scold me and treat me 
 like a child, I should not mind it so much. 
 Of course when Walter does it, I like it ; 
 but I don't like it from Aunt Anne." 
 
 She had walked a long way. She was 
 getting tired. The messengers of night
 
 250 Aunt Anne. 
 
 were abroad, the stray breezes, the dark 
 flecked clouds, the shadows loitering by the 
 trees, the strange little sounds among the 
 hedges by the wayside. Far off, beyond 
 the wood, she heard a clock belonging to 
 a big house strike six. It was time to hurry 
 home. If she walked the two miles between 
 herself and the cottage quickly, she would be 
 in by half-past six. At seven, after the chil- 
 dren had gone to bed, she and Aunt Anne 
 were to sit down to a little evening meal 
 they called supper. They would be very 
 cosy that night ; they would linger over their 
 food, and Aunt Anne should talk of bygone 
 days, and the quaint old world that always 
 seemed to be just behind her. 
 
 It was rather dull in the country, Florence 
 thought. In the summer, of course, the out- 
 door life made it delightful, but now there 
 was so little to fill the days, only the children 
 and the housekeeping, wonderings about 
 Walter, and the writing of the bit of diary 
 on very thin paper which she had promised
 
 Aunt Anne. 251 
 
 to post out to him every week. She was 
 not a woman who made an intellectual atmo- 
 sphere for herself. She lived her life through 
 her husband, read the same books, and drew 
 her conclusions by the light of his. Now 
 that he had gone the world seemed half 
 empty, and very dull and tame. There was 
 no glamour over anything. Perhaps it was 
 this that had helped to make her a little 
 unkind to Aunt Anne, for gradually she was 
 persuading herself that she had been unkind. 
 She wished Aunt Anne had an income of 
 her own, and the home for which she had 
 said she longed. It would be so much 
 better for everybody. 
 
 When she was nearly home, a sudden 
 dread seized her lest Mr. Wimple should 
 be there, but this, she reflected, was not 
 likely. It was long past calling-time, and 
 Aunt Anne was too great a stickler for 
 etiquette to allow him to take a liberty, as 
 she would call it. So Florence quickened 
 her steps, and entered her home bravely to
 
 252 Aunt Anne. 
 
 the sound of the children's voices upstairs 
 singing as they went to bed. A fire was 
 blazing in the dining-room, and everything 
 looked comfortable, just as it had the night 
 before. But there was no sign of Aunt 
 Anne. Probably she was upstairs " getting 
 ready," for a lace cap and bit of white at her 
 throat and an extra formal, though not less 
 affectionate, manner than usual Aunt Anne 
 seemed to think a fitting accompaniment to 
 the evening meal. Florence looked round 
 the dining-room with a little pride of owner- 
 ship. She was fond of the cottage, it was 
 their very own, hers and Walter's ; and how 
 wise they had been to do up that particular 
 room, it made every meal they ate in it a 
 pleasure. That buttery-hatch too, it was 
 absurd that it should be so, but really it was 
 a secret joy to her. Suddenly her eye caught 
 a package that had evidently come in her 
 absence. A parcel of any sort was always 
 exciting. This could not be another present 
 from Aunt Anne ? and she drew a short
 
 Aunt Anne. 253 
 
 breath. Oh no, it had come by rail. Books. 
 She knew what it was — some novels from 
 Mr. Fisher. " How kind he is," she said 
 gratefully ; " he says so few words, but he 
 does so many things. I really don't see why 
 Ethel should not love him. I don't think 
 she would find it difficult to do so," she 
 thought, with the forgetfulness of woman- 
 hood for the days of girlish fancy. 
 
 " Mrs. Baines has not yet returned," the 
 servant said, entering to arrange the table. 
 
 " Not returned. Is she out, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, she started half an hour 
 after you did. Steggall's waggonette came 
 for her." 
 
 Florence groaned inwardly. 
 
 " Do you know where she has gone ? " 
 
 " I think she has gone to Guildford, ma'am, 
 shopping ; she often did while you were 
 away. I heard her tell the driver to drive 
 quickly to the station, as she feared she was 
 late." 
 
 " Oh. Did any one call, Jane ? "
 
 254 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " No, ma'am." 
 
 Then, once more, Florence delivered her- 
 self over to despair. Aunt Anne must have 
 gone to buy more surprises, and if she had 
 only ten shillings in the world it was quite 
 clear she would have to get them on credit. 
 Something would have to be done. The 
 tradespeople would have to be warned. 
 Walter must be written to, and, if necessary, 
 asked to cable over advice. Perhaps Sir 
 William Rammage would interfere. In the 
 midst of all her perturbation seven o'clock 
 struck, and there was no Aunt Anne. 
 
 Florence was a healthy young woman, and 
 she had had a long walk. The pangs of 
 hunger assailed her vigorously, so, after re- 
 sisting them till half-past seven, she sat down 
 to her little supper alone. Food has a sooth- 
 ing effect on an agitated mind, and a quarter 
 of an hour later, though Aunt Anne had not 
 appeared, Florence had come to the con- 
 clusion that she could not get very deeply 
 into debt, because it was not likely that the
 
 Aunt Anne. 255 
 
 tradespeople would trust her. Perhaps, too, 
 after all, she had not gone to Guildford. Still, 
 what could keep her out so late ? The roads 
 were dark and lonely, she knew no one in 
 the neighbourhood. It was to be hoped that 
 nothing had happened to her, and, at this 
 thought, Florence began to reproach herself 
 again for all her unkindness of the morning. 
 But while she was still reviewing her own 
 conduct with much severity there was a soft 
 patter, patter, along the gravel path outside, 
 and a feeble ring at the bell. " That dissi- 
 pated old lady ! " laughed Florence to herself, 
 only too delighted to think that she had 
 returned safely at last. 
 
 A moment later Aunt Anne entered. She 
 was a little breathless* her left eye winked 
 more frequently than usual, there was an air 
 of happy excitement in her manner. She 
 entered the room quickly, and seated herself 
 in the easy-chair with a sigh of relief. 
 
 " My darling," she said, looking fondly at 
 Florence, " I trust you did not wait for me,
 
 256 Aunt Anne. 
 
 and that I have not caused you any incon- 
 venience. But if I have," she added in an 
 almost cooing voice, " you will forgive me 
 when you know all." 
 
 " Oh yes, dear Aunt Anne, I will forgive 
 you," and Florence signed to Jane to bring 
 a plate. " You must be shockingly hungry," 
 she laughed. " Where have you been, may 
 I know ? " 
 
 " I will tell you presently, my darling ; you 
 shall know all. But I cannot eat anything/' 
 Aunt Anne answered quickly. Even the 
 thought of food seemed to make her impatient. 
 " Jane," she said, with the little air of pride 
 that Jane resented, "you need not bring 
 a plate for me. I do not require anything." 
 Then, speaking to Florence again, she went 
 on with half-beaming, half-condescending 
 gentleness, " Finish your repast, my darling ; 
 pray don't let my intrusion — for it is an 
 intrusion when I am not able to join in your 
 meal— hurry you. When you have finished, 
 but not till then, I have a communication to
 
 Aunt Anne. 257 
 
 make to you. It is one I feel to be due to 
 you before any one else ; and it will prove 
 to you how much I depend on your sympathy 
 and love." She spoke with earnestness, un- 
 fastening her cloak and nervously fastening 
 it the while. Florence looked at her with 
 a little pity. Poor old lady, she thought, 
 how easily she worked herself into a state 
 of excitement. 
 
 " Tell me what it is now, dear Aunt 
 Anne," she said. " Has anything occurred 
 to worry you ? Where have you been — to 
 Guildford ? " 
 
 " To Guildford ? No, my dear. Some- 
 thing has occurred, but not to worry me. It 
 is something that will make me very happy, 
 and I trust that it will make you very happy 
 to hear it. I rely on your sympathy and 
 Walter's to support me." Florence was not 
 very curious. Aunt Anne had always so 
 much earnestness at her command, and was 
 very prodigal of it. Besides, it did not 
 
 seem likely that anything important had 
 vol. 1. 17
 
 258 Aunt Anne. 
 
 happened ; some trifling pleasure or vexation, 
 probably ; nothing more. 
 
 At last the little meal was finished, the 
 things pushed through the buttery-hatch, the 
 crumbs swept off the cloth by Jane, who 
 seemed to linger in a manner that Mrs. 
 Baines in her own mind felt to be wholly 
 reprehensible and wanting in respect towards 
 her superiors. But the cloth was folded and 
 put away at last, the buttery-hatch closed, 
 the fire adjusted, and the door shut. Aunt 
 Aunt gave a sigh of relief, then throwing 
 her cloak back over the chair, she rose 
 and stood irresolute on the hearth-rug. 
 Florence went towards her. 
 
 " Have you been anywhere by train?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "No, my love. I went to the station to 
 meet some one." She trembled with ex- 
 citement while she spoke. Florence noticed 
 it with wonder. 
 
 " What is it, Aunt Anne ? " she asked 
 gently.
 
 Aunt Anne. 259 
 
 The old lady stretched out her two thin 
 hands, and suddenly dropped her head for 
 a moment on Florence's shoulder ; but she 
 raised it quickly, and evidently struggled to 
 be calm. 
 
 " My darling," she said, " I know you will 
 sympathize with me, I know your loving- 
 heart. I knew it the first day I saw 
 you, when you were at Rottingdean, and 
 stood under the pear-tree with your dear 
 Walter " 
 
 " Yes, oh yes, dear " Florence had 
 
 so often heard of that pear-tree. But what 
 could it have to do with the present 
 situation ? 
 
 — " I shall never forget the picture you 
 two made," the old lady went on, not heed- 
 ing the interruption ; " I knew all that was 
 in your dear heart then, just as I feel that 
 you will understand all that is in mine now." 
 Her face was flushed, her eyes were almost 
 bright, and there were tears in them ; the left 
 one winked tremulously.
 
 260 Aunt Anne, 
 
 Florence looked at her in amazement. 
 " What is it, Aunt Anne ? Do tell me ; 
 tell me at once, dear ? " she said entreatingly. 
 " And where you have been, so late and in 
 the dark." For a moment Aunt Anne 
 hesitated, then, with a gasp and a strong 
 effort to be calm and dignified, she raised 
 her head and spoke. 
 
 " My dear — my dear, all this time I have 
 been with Alfred Wimple. He loves me." 
 
 "He loves you," Florence repeated, her 
 eyes full of wonder ; " he loves you. Yes, 
 of course he loves you, we all do," she said 
 soothingly, too much surprised to speculate 
 farther. 
 
 " Yes, he loves me," Aunt Anne said 
 again, in an almost solemn voice, " and I 
 have promised to be his wife." 
 
 " Aunt Anne ! — to marry him ! " 
 
 " Yes, dear, to marry him," and she waited 
 as if for congratulations. 
 
 " But, Aunt Anne, dear " Florence 
 
 began in astonishment, and then she stopped ;
 
 Aunt Anne. 261 
 
 for though she had had some idea of the old 
 lady's infatuation, she had never dreamt of 
 its ending in matrimony. Mrs. Baines was 
 excited and strange ; it might be some 
 delusion, some joke that had been played 
 on -her, for Mr. Wimple could not have 
 seriously asked her to marry him. She 
 waited, not knowing what to say. But 
 Aunt Anne's excitement seemed to be 
 passing, and with a tender, pitiful expres- 
 sion on her face, she waited for her niece 
 to speak. " But, Aunt Anne, dear," was 
 all Florence could say again in her bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 •' But what, Florence ? " Mrs. Baines 
 spoke with a surprised, half-resentful manner. 
 " Have you nothing more to say to me, 
 my love ? " 
 
 " But you are not really going to marry 
 him, are you ? " Florence asked, in an in- 
 credulous voice. 
 
 The old lady answered in a terribly earnest 
 one.
 
 262 Aunt Anne. 
 
 "Yes, Florence, I am; and never shall 
 man have truer, more loving help-meet than 
 I will be to him/' she burst out heroically, 
 holding herself erect and looking her niece 
 in the face. There was something infinitely 
 pathetic about her as she stood there, quiver- 
 ing with feeling and aching for sympathy, 
 yet old, wrinkled, and absurd, her poor 
 scanty hair pushed back and her weak eyes 
 full of tears. For a moment there was 
 silence. Then bewildered Florence broke 
 out with — 
 
 " But, Aunt Anne, but, Aunt Anne ■ " 
 
 "Well, my love?" the old lady asked 
 with calm dignity. 
 
 " He — he is much younger than you," 
 she said at last, bringing out her words 
 slowly, and hating herself for saying them. 
 
 " Age is not counted by years, my darling ; 
 and if he does not feel my age a drawback, 
 why should I count his youth one ? He 
 loves me, Florence, I know he loves me," 
 Aunt Anne broke out in a passionate,
 
 Aunt Anne. 263 
 
 tearful voice, " and you would not have me 
 throw away or depreciate a faithful heart 
 that has been given me ? " 
 
 Then the practical side of Florence's 
 nature spoke up in despair. " But, Aunt 
 Anne, he — is very poor." 
 
 " I know he is poor, but he is young and 
 strong and hopeful ; and he will work. He 
 says he will work like a slave for me ; and if 
 he is content to face poverty with me, how 
 can I be afraid to face it with him ? " 
 
 " But you want comforts, and " 
 
 " Oh no, my love. My tastes are very 
 simple, and I shall be content to do without 
 them for his sake." 
 
 " But at your time of life, dear Aunt Anne, 
 you do want them — you are not young — as 
 he is." Then Mrs. Baines burst into tears, 
 tears that were evidently a blessed relief, 
 and had been pent up in her poor old heart, 
 waiting for an excuse to come forth. 
 
 " Florence, I did not think you would tell 
 me of my age. If I do not feel it, and he
 
 264 Aunt Anne. 
 
 does not, why should you remind me of it ? 
 And why should you tell me that he is poor ? 
 Do you suppose that I am so selfish or — or 
 so depraved that I would sell myself for 
 comfort and luxury ? If he can face poverty 
 with me, I can face it with him." 
 
 "Yes, yes, but " The old lady did 
 
 not heed her, and went on breathlessly — 
 
 " I did think, Florence, that you would 
 have been kind to me, and understood and 
 sympathized. I told him that on your heart 
 and Walter's I could rely. You know how 
 lonely I have been, how desolate and how 
 miserable. But for your bounty and good- 
 ness I should have died " 
 
 -Oh no " 
 
 " And now, in this great crisis — now, when 
 a young, brave, beautiful life is laid at my 
 feet, now that I am loved as truly as ever 
 woman was loved in this world, as tenderly 
 as Walter loves you, Florence, you fail me, 
 as — as if" — she put her hand to her throat 
 to steady her quivering voice — "as if you
 
 Aunt Anne. 265 
 
 would not let me taste the cup of happiness 
 of which you drink every day." 
 
 " But, Aunt Anne, it isn't that indeed," 
 Florence answered, thinking despairingly of 
 Walter, and wishing that she could begin 
 writing that very minute, asking him what 
 on earth she ought to say or do. " It is 
 that — that — it is so unexpected, so strange. 
 I knew, of course, that you liked him, that 
 you were good friends ; but I never dreamt 
 that he was in love with you." Aunt Anne's 
 tears seemed to vanish as if by magic, her 
 left eye winked almost fiercely, her lips 
 opened, but no sound came. With a great 
 effort she recovered her voice at last, and 
 with some of her old dignity, dashed with 
 severe surprise, she asked — 
 
 " My darling, is there any reason why he 
 should not love me ? " 
 
 She stood gravely waiting for a reply, 
 while Florence felt that she was managing 
 badly, that she was somehow hurting and 
 insulting Aunt Anne. After all, the old lady
 
 266 Aunt Anne. 
 
 had a right to do as she liked ; it was 
 evident that she was incapable of taking in 
 the absurdity of the situation. 
 
 " But, Aunt Anne " she began and 
 
 stopped. 
 
 " My dear Florence," Mrs. Baines repeated 
 still more severely, " will you tell me if there 
 is any very obvious reason why he should 
 not love me ? I am not an ogress, my 
 darling — I am not an ogress," she cried, 
 suddenly breaking down and bursting into 
 floods of tears, while her head dropped on 
 to her black merino dress. 
 
 She looked so old and worn, so wretched 
 and lonely as she stood there weeping 
 bitterly, that Florence could stand it no 
 longer, and going forward she put her arms 
 round the poor old soul, and kissed her 
 fondly. 
 
 " No, dear Aunt Anne," she said, " you 
 are not an ogress ; you are a sweet old dear, 
 and I love you. Don't cry — don't cry, you 
 dear."
 
 Aunt Anne. 267 
 
 " My love, you are cruel to me," Aunt 
 Anne sobbed. 
 
 " Oh no, I am not, and you shall marry 
 any one you like. It was a little surprising, 
 you know, and of course I didn't — I didn't 
 think that marrying was in your thoughts,' ' 
 she added feebly, for she didn't know what 
 to say. 
 
 " Bless you, my darling, bless you," the 
 old lady gasped, grateful for even that straw 
 of comfort ; " I knew you would be staunch 
 to me when you had recovered from the 
 
 surprise of my communication, but " and 
 
 she gently disengaged herself from Florence's 
 embrace and spoke in the nervous quivering 
 voice that always came to her in moments 
 of excitement — " but, Florence, since the 
 first moment we met, Alfred Wimple and I 
 have felt that we were ordained for each 
 other." 
 
 " Yes, dear," Florence said soothingly. 
 
 "He says he shall never forget the 
 moments we sat together on your balcony
 
 268 Aunt Anne. 
 
 that night when your dear Walter fetched 
 the white shawl — of yours, Florence — to put 
 round my shoulders," the old lady went on 
 earnestly. " And the sympathy between us 
 is so great that we do not feel the difference 
 of years ; besides, he says he has never liked 
 very young women, he has always felt that 
 the power to love accumulated with time, as 
 my power to love has done. Few of the 
 women who have been loved by great men 
 have been very young, my darling." 
 
 " I didn't know," Florence began, for 
 Aunt Anne had paused, almost as if she 
 were repeating something she had learned 
 by heart. 
 
 " He asked me to-night," she went on 
 with another little gasp, "if I remembered 
 
 — if I remembered — I forget but all the 
 
 great passions of history have been concen- 
 trated on women in their prime. Petrarch's 
 Laura had eight children when the poet fell 
 in love with her, and Helen of Troy was 
 sixty when — when — I forget," she said again,
 
 Aunt Anne. 269 
 
 shaking her head ; " but he remembers ; he 
 went through them all to-night. Besides, 
 I may be old in years, but I am not old at 
 heart ; you cannot say that I am, Florence." 
 
 She was getting excited again. Almost 
 without her knowledge Florence led her to 
 the easy-chair, and gently pushing her on to 
 it, undid the strings and tried to take off her 
 bonnet ; but the old lady resisted. 
 
 " No, my dear, don't take off my bonnet," 
 she said, " unless you will permit me to ring," 
 she added, getting back to her old-fashioned 
 ways, " and request Jane to bring me my 
 cap from upstairs." 
 
 But Florence felt that Jane might look 
 curiously at the wrinkled face that still 
 showed signs of recent agitation, so she put 
 her hand softly on the one that Aunt Anne 
 had stretched out to touch the bell. 
 
 " I will get it for you, dear," she said, and 
 in a moment she had flown upstairs and 
 brought down the soft lace cap put ready 
 on the bed, and the cashmere slippers edged
 
 270 Aunt Anne. 
 
 with fur and lined with red flannel, in which 
 Aunt Anne liked to encase her feet in the 
 evening. " There, now, you will feel better, 
 you poor dear," she said when they were put 
 on and the old lady sat silent and composed, 
 looking as if she were contemplating her 
 future, and the new life before her. Florence 
 stood by her silently for a moment, thinking 
 over the past weeks in which Aunt Anne, 
 with her poverty and dignity, her generosity 
 and recklessness, had formed so striking a 
 figure. Then she thought of the lonely life 
 the poor old lady had led in the Kilburn 
 lodging. 
 
 After all, if she only had even a very little 
 happiness with that horrid Mr. Wimple, it 
 would be something; and of course, if he 
 didn't behave properly, Walter could take 
 her away. The worst of it was she had 
 understood that Mr. Wimple had no money. 
 She had heard that he lived on a small 
 allowance from an uncle, and the uncle 
 might stop that allowance when he heard
 
 Aunt Anne. 271 
 
 that his nephew had married an old woman 
 who had not a penny. 
 
 " Aunt Anne," she asked gently, "does he 
 know that you are not rich ? " 
 
 " Florence, I told him plainly that I had 
 no fortune," the old lady answered, with a 
 pathetic half-hunted look on her face that 
 made Florence hate herself for her lack 
 of sympathy. But she felt that she ought 
 to ask some questions. Walter would be so 
 angry if she allowed her to go into misery 
 and fresh poverty without making a single 
 effort to save her. 
 
 "And has he money, dear — enough to 
 keep you both, at any rate ? " 
 
 The tears trickled down Aunt Anne's face 
 again while she answered — 
 
 " If I did not ask him that question, 
 Florence, it is not for you to ask it me. I 
 neither know nor care what he has. If he 
 is willing to take me for myself only, so am 
 I willing to take him, loving him for himself 
 only too. I am too old to marry for money,
 
 272 
 
 Aunt Anne. 
 
 and he is too noble to do so. We are grown- 
 up man and woman, Florence, and know 
 our own hearts ; we will brook no inter- 
 ference, my darling, not even from you." 
 She got up tremblingly. " I must retire ; 
 you must allow me to retire, and in the 
 privacy of my own room I shall be able to 
 reflect." 
 
 The long words were coming back ; they 
 were a sign that Aunt Anne was herself 
 again. 
 
 " Yes, dear Aunt Anne ; I am sure you 
 must want to be alone, and to think," 
 Florence said gently. 
 
 The old lady was not appeased. 
 
 " You know — you remember what you felt 
 yourself when your Walter first loved you, 
 Florence," she said distantly. " Yes, I must 
 be alone ; my heart is full — I must be 
 alone." 
 
 Florence led her upstairs to her room. 
 Mrs. Baines stood formally in the door- 
 way.
 
 Aunt Anne. 273 
 
 " Good-night, my love," she said, with cold 
 disappointment in her voice. 
 
 " May not I help you, Aunt Anne ? " 
 Florence asked, almost entreatingly. 
 
 " No, my love, I must be alone," Mrs. 
 Baines repeated firmly, and shut the door. 
 
 VOL. I. jS
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HE 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 275 
 
 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
 
 276 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 im- 
 ploringly. "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
 
 Aunt Anne, 277 
 
 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.
 
 278 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 breath- 
 lessly. " 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,"
 
 Aunt Anne. 279 
 
 she added, as if in excuse for her inter- 
 ference. 
 
 " 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
 
 280 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 destitu- 
 tion 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 vou 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 281 
 
 she waited. "It is so strange, and Walter 
 will be very angry." 
 
 " It is not Walter's 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. ,, 
 
 u I don't see the necessity of our discussing 
 this," he said, still with extreme gravity.
 
 282 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 4< But it is so ridiculous." 
 
 "Then we will not talk about it." Sud- 
 denly 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 impor- 
 tance 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 283 
 
 you can keep her in some sort of comfort," 
 Florence said in despair. 
 
 " I will talk to her about this, Mrs. Hib- 
 bert. 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
 
 284 Aunt Anne. 
 
 ought to marry a girl, a young woman. 
 One day Walter and I saw you at Water- 
 loo " 
 
 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 285 
 
 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 sug- 
 gested 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.
 
 286 Aunt Anne, 
 
 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 dis- 
 pleased. " 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 287 
 
 " 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 appre- 
 ciate 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
 
 288 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 289 
 
 " 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 
 
 vol. 1. 19
 
 290 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 ? "
 
 Aunt Anne. 291 
 
 " 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 an- 
 swered. 
 
 " 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.
 
 292 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 293 
 
 " 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.
 
 294 Aunt Anne. 
 
 " 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 295 
 
 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( I shall enjoy any- 
 thing 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.
 
 296 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 297 
 
 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 chil- 
 dren since Walter went away, and to come 
 here and see your second home." She sat 
 down for a moment by the buttery-hatch,
 
 298 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 em- 
 ployers." 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 dis- 
 tant. 
 
 "Thank you, my love, but I have sufficient
 
 Aunt Anne. 299 
 
 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.
 
 3oo Aunt Anne. 
 
 "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 im- 
 possible. 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 Ann 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 301 
 
 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 impos- 
 sible. 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
 
 302 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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. Sud- 
 denly she turned to Florence. u 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 happi- 
 ness ? 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 "
 
 Aunt Anne. 303 
 
 " 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 advan- 
 tage if she had the opportunity ; u 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
 
 304 Aunt Anne. 
 
 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 punish- 
 ment ; 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
 
 Aunt Anne. 305 
 
 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 
 
 VOL. I. 20
 
 306 Aunt Anne, 
 
 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.
 
 Aunt Anne. 307 
 
 "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, un- 
 willingly. 
 
 " 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.