moth
sea coast scene with a sailboat
CHAPTER III.
Florencesat thinking over Walter’s 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 the long deck, drinking in life and strength. How vigorous he would grow; how sunburnt 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 herself, she thought. He always liked arranging other people’s lives; he was so clever in setting things right for any one who consulted 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 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 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.”
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?”
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 Kensington as chaperon to a young married lady whose husband is abroad. She has a young sister staying with her, and her husband 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.
“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 immediate 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 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 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.”
“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 won’t 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 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 introduction 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 grandfather married twice; I was the daughter of the first marriage—my mother was the daughter 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 indifferent 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 expect me to give you an account of all my friends and relations and of what they will 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 destitute, 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, Florence, 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. Hibbert’s shoulder.
“There there,” she said forgivingly, “I know you did not mean to hurt me, but”—and here her voice grew tender and 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 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. “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, 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 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 expression 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. Remember 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 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 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, wondering 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—
“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 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 downstairs 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 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 flowersFor 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.
mountains and valley
CHAPTER IV.
“IWISHwe 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.”
“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 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 unfortunate 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 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-handkerchiefs 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.“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.”
“My dear Florence,
“It gives me sincere pleasure to accept the invitation that you and your dear 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 unfortunate 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 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-handkerchiefs 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.
“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.”
“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 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 sunshade and her handkerchiefs. So Florence walked to Regent Street and back to buy 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 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. “Perhaps 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 between 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. Florence leisurely began to get ready. Ten minutes later a carriage stopped; a bell 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 helping 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 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 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 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 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. “Precisely 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 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.
“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.”
There was something irritating and savouring 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, without 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 something 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 direction 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 happiness.
“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 one dared to break up the group at table intotête-à-têtetalk. 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 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 extraordinary 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 congratulate myself on my happier condition.”
“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 in his forties, thought she was really a charming 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, excepting our friend Walter of course.”
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 cousin, George Dighton.”
“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 reserved, sometimes even a little stately. Now and then, oddly enough, it reminded one of Aunt Anne’s, though it was a generation 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.”
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 conversation 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, 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. Her 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. 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 condescension, 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.”
“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 prevented 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 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 it 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 forehead; then suddenly, with a strange vibrating touch that almost startled her listeners, she began to play “Oft in the stilly night.” Only 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.
“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. Without a word she rose and followed him.
“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 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 Florence’s 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 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 subject 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 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 darkness to which the distance reached. Then she gave a little nod, as if she had remembered 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,” 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.”
“He seems to have no one belonging to him.”
“There are hardly any left,” she answered, with a sigh, “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.
“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.”