“Dearest old Lady—“I have been longing to know what had become of you. I only heard a little while ago that you were a happy bride, and I have just succeeded in getting your address. A thousand congratulations. I hope you are very much in love, and that Mr. Wimple is truly charming. He is, indeed, a most fortunate man and to be greatly envied by the rest of his sex.“I fear you will be shocked to hear that Mr. North has divorced me. I never loved him, you know. I told you that when you were so angry with me that day in Cornwall Gardens, and it was not my fault that I married him. I have been very miserable, and I don’t suppose I shall ever be happy again. But the world is a large place, and I am going to wander about; I have always longed to see the whole of it: now I shall go to the east and west, and the north and the south, like a Wandering Jewess. But before I start on these expeditions I shall be in England for a few weeks and should like to see you. Would you see me? But I don’t suppose you would come near me or let me go near you, though I should like to put my head down on your shoulder and feel your kind old arms round me again.“I am afraid you have eaten up all your wedding-cake, dear old lady, and even if you have any left you would, no doubt, think it far too good for the likes of me. I wonder if you would accept a very little wedding-present from me, for I should so much like to send you one? My love to you, and many felicitations to both you and Mr. Wimple.“Yours always,“E. North.”
“Dearest old Lady—
“I have been longing to know what had become of you. I only heard a little while ago that you were a happy bride, and I have just succeeded in getting your address. A thousand congratulations. I hope you are very much in love, and that Mr. Wimple is truly charming. He is, indeed, a most fortunate man and to be greatly envied by the rest of his sex.
“I fear you will be shocked to hear that Mr. North has divorced me. I never loved him, you know. I told you that when you were so angry with me that day in Cornwall Gardens, and it was not my fault that I married him. I have been very miserable, and I don’t suppose I shall ever be happy again. But the world is a large place, and I am going to wander about; I have always longed to see the whole of it: now I shall go to the east and west, and the north and the south, like a Wandering Jewess. But before I start on these expeditions I shall be in England for a few weeks and should like to see you. Would you see me? But I don’t suppose you would come near me or let me go near you, though I should like to put my head down on your shoulder and feel your kind old arms round me again.
“I am afraid you have eaten up all your wedding-cake, dear old lady, and even if you have any left you would, no doubt, think it far too good for the likes of me. I wonder if you would accept a very little wedding-present from me, for I should so much like to send you one? My love to you, and many felicitations to both you and Mr. Wimple.
“Yours always,
“E. North.”
When it was finished, her excitement gave way; her spirits ran down; she went, wearily, back to the sofa and pillowed her head on her arms once more. “I wonder what the next incident will be, and how many days and nights it is off.” She shut her eyes, and in thought hurried down the street to the old port. She saw the masts of ships, and the moving water, and the passing lights in the distance. “O God!” she said to herself, “how terrible it is to think that the land is empty for me from end to end. Though I walked over every mile of it, I should never see his face or hear his voice, and there is not a soul in the whole of it that cares one single jot for me. And the great sea is there, and the ships going on and on, and not a soul on board one of them who knows that I live or cares if I die. It frightens me and stuns me, and frightens me again. I am so hungry, and longing, and eager for the utter impossibilities. Oh, my darling, if you had only trusted me; if you could have believed that the sin was outside me and not in my heart; if you had written me just one little line to tell me that some day, even though it were years and years ahead, you would come to me and take me into your life for ever, I would have been so good—I would have made myself the best woman on earth, so that I might give you the best love that ever Heaven sent into a human heart.” There was another knock at the door, and something like a cry escaped from her lips.
“Come in”—and again thegarçonentered with a letter. This time it was a thick packet.
“This is also for Madame,” he said; “it is from England.” She waited until the door had closed behind him before she opened it.
The envelope contained a dozen enclosures. They looked like bills and circulars sent on from her London address. Among them was a telegram.
“I suppose it is nothing,” she said, as, with trembling hands, she opened it. It was from Bombay, and contained five words—
“Sailing next month inDeccan.”
She fell down on her knees by the table and, putting her face on her hands, burst into passionate weeping.
“O dear God,” she prayed, “forgive me and be merciful to me. I have not meant to do wrong, I have only longed to be happy—let me be so. I will try to do right all my life long, and to make him do right, too—only let him love me still. I have never been happy, and I have suffered so. O dear God, is it not enough? Forgive me and let me be happy.”
CHAPTER V.
Itwas chilly as only an English spring knows how to be. The fir-woods were deserted—the pathways through them wet and slippery. But overhead there was fitful sunshine and patches of blue sky, though the Surrey hills were misty and the fields were sodden with many rains. The leaves were beginning to unfold, fresh and green; the primroses were thick in the hedges; and here and there the little white stitchwort showed itself, tearful and triumphant. The thrushes and blackbirds were making ready for summer, though as yet there was not a sign of it.
Alfred Wimple and Aunt Anne had been more than a month at the cottage. The latter pottered about the garden, looking at every up-coming plant with absent recognition; but that was all. She was too sad to care any more for the delights of the country. She had grown feeble, too, and could not walk very far—even the garden tired her. Mrs. Burnett’s governess-cart had been her great comfort. She had no fear of doing the pampered pony, as she called it, any harm, and had driven herself for hours along the lonely roads between the fir-trees, and the hedges of awakening gorse and heather. The straggling population for three miles round knew her well—the lonely old lady, with the black bonnet and the long black cloak fastened with the steel clasp. Alfred Wimple never went with her; he had refused from the very first. But he had a way of disappearing by himself for long hours together. Where he went she could never divine; and to ask him questions, she told herself once, was like trying to look at the bottom of the sea by pushing away the water with her two hands. Still it was a mystery she was determined to unravel sooner or later: she felt that the solution lay at Liphook, and dreaded to think what it might be. Into her heart, against her will, lately there had sometimes crept a suspicion that was shame and agony; but she would not own, even in the lowest, most secret whisper, that it was possible. She never went to Liphook, though it would have been easy enough to drive there; she never dared: something seemed to hold her back from that which she felt to be only a few miles away, on the other side of Hindhead. She would not try to put into any shape at all what her dread was: least of all would her pride let her for a single moment imagine that it was the one thing of which the humiliation would kill her. But, silently, she watched, and hour after hour she sat wondering what was in the heart of that strange, inscrutable young man, who spoke so few words, and seemed to be always watching and waiting for the accomplishment of some mysterious plan he revolved again and again in his mind, but to which he had no intention of giving a clue.
He could hire no more waggonettes at Steggall’s without paying for them, or without her knowledge; but once or twice she had seen him going along a by-path towards the station, so that he would arrive there just about the time there was a train to Liphook. She remembered that on the first occasion, he had pulled a shilling out of his pocket an hour or two before he started and looked at it, as if wondering whether it would be enough for a return ticket.
“Alfred,” she asked one day, “will you take me to see your country quarters, my love? I should like to visit the place which has been of so much benefit to you?”
“No,” he answered, looking at her steadfastly, as he always did; “I don’t wish you to go there.”
“May I ask your reason?”
“My wish should be sufficient.”
“It is,” she said gently; “for I know, dear Alfred, that you always have a reason for what you wish, and you would not prevent me from seeing a place for which you have such a preference if you had not a good one.”
He was soothed by her conciliatory manner.
“I owe some money there,” he said, “and if you went they might expect you to pay it”—an answer which satisfied her for a time on account of its obvious probability. But still his disappearances tormented her, and his silence stifled all questions she longed to ask.
She liked being at the cottage; she liked being the virtual mistress of a certain number of rooms and of a servant of her own; and, on the whole, the first month had gone smoothly. Florence and Walter had been generous, and made many provisions for their comfort, and she had been separated less from Alfred than when she was in town. And here, too, she was better able to keep some account of his movements. Moreover, if he disappeared for hours together now, it had been for days together then. He always went off silently, without warning or hint, and as silently reappeared.
“Have you been for a walk, my love?” she asked him one evening. He turned and looked at her: there was no anger in his dull eyes, but he made her quail inwardly, though outwardly she showed no sign.
“Yes”—and she knew, perfectly, he would tell her no more. Still, hopelessly, she persevered.
“In what direction did you bend your steps, dear Alfred?”
“I dislike being asked to give an account of my movements, Anne,” he said, and locked his lips in the manner that was so peculiar to him.
“I quite understand, my love,” she answered gently; “it is also extremely repugnant to me to be questioned. I merely asked, hoping that you felt invigorated by your walk.” He looked at her again, and said nothing.
It was nine o’clock. Jane Mitchell, the postman’s sister, who acted as their daily servant, came in to say she was going home till the morning. Aunt Anne followed her, as she always did, to see that the outer door was made fast. She looked out at the night for a moment, with a haunting feeling of mistrust—of what, she did not know—and listened to the silence. Not a sound—not even a footstep passing along the road. The fir-trees stood up, dark and straight, like voiceless sentinels. She looked at the stars and thought how far they were away. They gave her a sense of helplessness. She was almost afraid of the soft patter of her own feet as she went back to the drawing-room. She winked nervously, and looked quickly and suspiciously round, then sat down uneasily before the fire and watched Alfred Wimple. She knew that again and again his eyes were fixed upon her, though his lips said no word.
“Are you sleepy, my love?” she asked.
“I am very tired, Anne; good-night”—and, taking up a candlestick, he went slowly upstairs while she stayed below, looking at the deadening fire, knowing that one night, suddenly, everything would be changed; but how and when it would be changed she could not guess. She did not dare look forward a single day or hour. She extinguished the lamp and shut the drawing-room door and locked it, remembering for a moment the unknown people, in the bygone years, who had gone out of the room never to enter it more.
Gradually the money in their possession was coming to a sure and certain end. She knew it, and her recklessness and extravagance vanished. She guarded every penny as if it were her heart’s blood, though she still did her spending with an air of willingness that concealed her reluctance. Hour after hour she racked her brains to think of some new source of help; but no suggestion presented itself, and he and she together faced, in silence, the bankruptcy that was overtaking them. He went less often towards the station now; he stayed discontentedly in the drawing-room, sitting uneasily by the fire on one of the easy-chairs with the peacock screen beside it. Sometimes, after he had brooded for a while in silence, he would get up and write a letter, but he always carefully gave it himself to the postman, and no letters at all ever arrived for him to Aunt Anne’s knowledge.
“Alfred,” she asked one day, “what has become of your work in town?—the work you used to go to your chambers to do?”
“I am resting now, and do not wish to be questioned about it. I require rest,” he said: and that was all.
Then a time came when he took to walking in the garden, and she knew that while he did so he kept a watch on the house, and especially on the window of the room in which she was sitting. When he thought she did not see him he disappeared down the dip behind and along the pathway between the fir-trees and larches towards the short cut to Hindhead. She remembered that the way to Hindhead was also the way to Liphook. It was, of course, too far to walk there, but perhaps there were some means of obviating that necessity. She said nothing, but she waited. It seemed to her as if Alfred Wimple waited too. For what? Was it for her to die? she sometimes asked herself, though she reproached herself for her suspicions. Then all her tenderness would come back, and she hovered round him lovingly, or stole away to commune with herself.
“I am sure he loves me,” she would think, as she sat vainly trying to comfort herself—“or why should he have married me? His love must be the meaning of mine for him, and the forgiveness of the past, after all the long years of waiting. It is different from what it was then; he is changed, and I am changed too. I am old with waiting, and he does not yet understand the reason of his own youth. I wonder which it is,” she said one day, almost in a dream, as she rocked to and fro over the fire—“is he disguised with youth of which he does not know the meaning; or am I disguised with years, so that he does not know that under them my youth is hidden?”
Closer and closer came the ills of poverty. The tradespeople trusted them to some extent, in spite of the warning they had received from the Hibberts, but at last they refused to do so any longer. The stores that Florence had sent in, too—Aunt Anne had said, “you must allow me to remain in your debt for them, my dear”—had gradually run out. Dinner became more and more of a difficulty, and at the scanty meal it was Alfred Wimple who ate, and Aunt Anne who looked on, pretending she liked the food she hardly dared to taste. He knew that she was starving herself for his sake, but he said nothing. It gave him a dull gratification to see her doing it. In his heart there was a resentment that death had not sooner achieved for his benefit that which from the first he had meant it to accomplish. Not that it was within his scheme to let Aunt Anne die yet; but when he married her he had not realized the awful shrinking that would daily grow upon him—the physical shrinking that youth sometimes feels from old age. In his nature there was no idealism, no sentiment. He could not give her the reverence that even mere age usually provokes, or the affection, as of a son, that some young men in his position might possibly have bestowed. He saw everything concerning her years with ghastly plainness—the little lines and the deep wrinkles on her face, the tremulous eyelids, the scanty hair brushed forward from places the cap covered. Even the soft folds of muslin round her withered throat made him shiver. He thought once, in one mad moment, how swiftly he could strangle the lingering life out of her. Her hands with the loose dry skin and the bloodless fingers and wrists that were always cold, as if the fire in them were going out, sent a thrill of horror through his frame when she touched him. The mere sound of her footstep, the touch of her black dress as she passed him by, insensibly made him draw back. He had played a daring game, but he had an awful punishment. He lived a brooding secret life, full of dread and alertness lest shame should overtake him, and his heart was not less miserable because it was incapable of generosity or goodness.
At last it became a matter of shillings.
“You had better go to London, Anne,” he said, “and borrow some money.”
“Of whom am I to borrow it?” she asked. “Florence and Walter are at Monte Carlo.”
“Walter is very selfish,” he answered; “I nursed him through an illness, years ago, at the risk of my own life.”
“I know how tender your heart is, dear Alfred.”
“I believe he resents my having borrowed some money from him once or twice. He forgets that if he were not in a much better position than I am he couldn’t have lent it.”
“Of course he could not, my love,” she said, agreeing with him, as a matter not merely of course but of loyalty and affection.
He gave one of his little gulps. “We can’t go on staying here, unless we have enough to eat; I cannot, at any rate. You must get some money. You had better go to London.” He looked at her fixedly, and she knew that he wanted to get rid of her for a space.
“Go to London, my love?” she echoed, almost humbly.
“Yes, to get money.”
“Alfred,” she asked, “how am I to get money? We disposed of everything that was available before we came here.”
“You must borrow it; perhaps you can go and persuade my uncle to let you have some.”
“If you would let me tell him that I am your wife,” she pleaded.
“I forbid you telling him,” he said shortly. “But you might ask him to advance your quarter’s allowance.”
“I might write and request him to do that, without going to town.”
“No. It is easy to refuse in a letter, and he must not refuse.”
“But if he will not listen to me, Alfred?” she asked, watching him curiously.
“Tell him that Sir William Rammage is your cousin, and that he has no right to refuse.”
“But if he does?” she persisted.
“Then you must get it elsewhere. There are those people you stayed with in Cornwall Gardens.”
She looked up quickly. “I cannot go to Mrs. North,” she said firmly. “There are some things due to my own self-respect: I cannot forget them even for you.”
“You can do as you like,” he answered. “If you cannot get money, I must go away.”
“Go away!” she echoed, with alarm; he saw his advantage and followed it up.
“I shall not stay here to be starved,” he repeated.
“I should starve, too,” she said sadly; “are you altogether oblivious of that fact, Alfred?”
“If you choose to do so it is your own business, and no reason why I should. I have friends who will receive me, and I shall go to them.”
“Would they not extend a helping hand to us both?”
“No,” he said doggedly.
“They cannot love you as I do,” she pleaded.
“I cannot help that. I shall go to them.”
“I give you all I have.”
“I want more—more than you give me now,” he answered; “and if you don’t give it me, I shall not stay here. You had better go to London to-morrow, and look for some money. My uncle will let you have some if you are persistent.”
“I think I will go to-day,” she said, with an odd tone in her voice. “I should be in time for the twelve o’clock train.”
“You will go to-morrow,” he replied decisively.
“Very well, my love”—and she winked quickly to herself. “I will go to-morrow.”
“Unless you bring back some money, I shall not stay here any longer. You must clearly understand that, Anne. I am tired of this business,” he said, in his hard, determined voice.
“It’s not worse for you than it is for me, Alfred. I can bear it with you; cannot you bear it with me?”
He looked at her—at her black dress, her white handkerchief, at the poverty-stricken age of which she seemed to be the symbol; and he shuddered perceptibly as he turned away and answered, “No, I cannot, and I want to go.”
“Alfred!” she said, with a cry of pain, and going to his side she put her hand on his arm; but he shook her off, and went a step farther away.
“Stay there,” he said sternly.
“Why do you recoil from me?” she asked; “am I so distasteful to you?”
But he only shuddered again, and looked at her with almost terror in his eyes, as though he dumbly loathed her.
“Have I forfeited your love, Alfred?” she asked humbly.
“I dislike being touched.”
“You will break my heart,” she cried, with a dry sob in her throat. “My dear one, I have given you all—all I possess; I have braved everything for you. Has all your love for me gone?”
“I don’t want to talk sentiment,” he said, drawing back still a little farther from her, as though he shrank from being within her reach.
“Do you remember that night when we walked along the road by the fir-trees, and you told me you would always love me and take care of me? What have I done to make you change? I never cease thinking of you, day or night, but it is months since you gave me a loving word. What have I done to change you so?”
He looked down at her; for a moment there was an expression of hatred on his face.
“You are old—and I am young.”
“My heart is young,” she said piteously. Still he was merciless.
“It is your face I see,” he said, “not your heart.”
She let her hands fall by her side. “I cannot bear it any more,” she said quickly; “perhaps we had better separate; these constant scenes will kill me. You must permit me to retire; I cannot bear any more”—and she walked slowly away into the little drawing-room, and shut the door. She went up to the glass, and looked at her own face, long and sadly; she put her wrists together, and looked at them hopelessly.
“Oh, I am old!” she cried, with a shiver; “I am old!”—and she sat down on the gaunt chair by the fireplace, still and silent, till cold and misery numbed her, and all things were alike.
Presently, she heard his footsteps; he had left the dining-room, and seemed to be going towards the front door; she raised her head and listened. He hesitated, turned back, and entered the drawing-room. He stood for a moment on the threshold and looked round the little room—at the hard, old-fashioned sofa, at the corner cupboard with the pot-pourri on it, the jingling piano, the chair on which she sat. He remembered the day of his interview with Florence, and afterwards with Aunt Anne, and he looked at the latter now half doubtfully. She did not move an inch as he entered, or raise her eyes.
“Anne!” There was no answer. She turned a little more directly away from him. “Anne,” he said, “we had better make it up. It is no good quarrelling.”
“You were very cruel to me, Alfred,” she said, with gentle indignation; “you forgot everything that was due to me. You frequently do.”
“I cannot always be remembering what is due to you, Anne. It irritates me.”
“But you cut me to the quick. I sometimes wonder whether you have any affection at all for me.”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said, with an effort that was rather obvious; “and don’t let us quarrel. I dislike poverty—it makes me cross.”
“I can understand that,” she said, “but I cannot understand your being cruel to me.”
“I didn’t mean to be cruel,” he answered; “we had better forget it.” She stood up and faced him, timidly, but with a slight flush in her face.
“You said I was old; you taunted me with it; you often taunt me,” she said indignantly.
“Well, but I knew it before we were married.”
“Yes, you knew it before we were married,” she repeated.
“Then I couldn’t have minded it so much, could I?” he said, with a softer tone in his voice, though it grated still.
“No, my love”—and she tried to smile, but it was a sad attempt.
“Well, is it all right?” he asked. “We won’t quarrel any more.”
“Yes, my love, it is all right,” she said lovingly, and, half doubtfully, she put up her face to his.
Involuntarily he drew back again, but he recovered in an instant and forced himself to stoop and kiss her forehead.
“There,” he said, “it’s all right. To-morrow you shall go to London, and we will be more sensible in future.” He touched her hand, and went out into the garden. When she had watched him out of sight, she sat down once more on the chair by the fire.
“I am old!” she cried; “I am old, I am old”—and, with a quick movement, as if she felt a horror of herself, she hid her thin hands out of sight. “I cannot bear it—I am old.”
sprig of flowers
CHAPTER VI.
Beforenine the next morning, Aunt Anne was ready to set out on her journey to London. Mrs. Burnett’s governess-cart was at the gate with Lucas, the gardener, to drive her to the station. Alfred Wimple looked on at her preparations to go with an anxiety that was almost eagerness; and, stealthily, the old lady watched his every movement.
“Jane can prepare the dinner after my return. I shall bring back some little dainty with me, hoping that it may tempt you, my love.”
“I am very tired of the food we have had lately,” he said ungraciously. “What train are you coming back by?”
“That will depend on my occupations in town,” she answered, after a moment’s consideration.
“I will go to the station at half-past six. You can leave Waterloo Station at five fifteen.” Aunt Anne winked slowly.
“I will try to come by an earlier train, my darling, if you will be there to relieve me of the packages with which I hope to be burdened.”
“No. Come by the five fifteen,” he said decisively. “I have some letters to write.”
“Very well, my love,” she answered, with tender courtesy. “It is always a pleasure to study your wishes, even in trifles. Would you assist me with my cloak, dear Alfred?”
“It isn’t cold, and you have your shawl. Why are you taking this heavy cloak?”
“I have my reasons.”
He understood perfectly. He felt a gleam of almost fiendish triumph as, one by one, she divested herself of her belongings to buy him food and comfort. As she was going out of the doorway an idea seemed to strike him.
“Anne,” he said, “remember it is no good bringing back a few shillings—you must bring back a few pounds at least.”
“Have you any anxieties?—any payment it is imperative that you should make?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes,” he answered, with a little smile to himself, as if an idea had been suggested to him. “I have a payment to make.”
“I will do all I can—more for your sake than my own, dear Alfred,” and she turned to go. They were in the drawing-room.
She hesitated for a moment by the door. “My love,” she said, going up to him doubtfully, “will you kiss me? You will never know how much I love you—you are all I have in the world.” The cashmere shawl clung to her and the heavy cloak swung back from her arms as she put them up round his neck and kissed him, first on one side of his face and then on the other; but even as she did so, and though for once he strove to hide it, she felt that, inwardly, he was shrinking.
“I will be back by half-past six o’clock,” she said, with a hopeless tone in her voice, and, slowly letting go her hold, she went out of the house.
On her way to the cart she stopped for a moment to look at a pile of faggots that were stacked in a partly concealed corner inside the garden gate.
“Jane,” she said, “I think there have been some depredations among the wood lately.”
“I saw two lads stealing a bit the other morning,” Jane answered.
“We must take steps to prevent it occurring again.”
“There’s plenty of wood, too, about here,” said Jane; “I don’t see why they should take ours; but I think they were tramps and wanted to make a fire. I thought I’d speak to the policeman—but I couldn’t catch him when he went by on his beat last night.”
“I should like to speak to him myself: at what time does he pass?”
“Well, ma’am, he is generally pretty punctual at about half-past eight.”
“If you see him this evening you can tell me”—and she got into the governess-cart. “Jane,” she said, looking back, “I forgot to tell you that your master and I will dine at half-past seven. I shall probably bring back a chicken.” She said the last words almost recklessly as she set off to the station.
She looked back towards the cottage, but though Alfred Wimple had strolled down to the gate after she had left it, his face was turned towards Liphook. There was something almost fierce in her voice as she spoke to the gardener, who was driving.
“The pony seems inclined to procrastinate—you had better chastise him.”
“They have spoiled him up at the house,” said Lucas, “till he won’t go nohow unless he gets a bit of the whip.”
“He goes very well with me,” she snapped.
“He knows your hand, most likely—they do get to know hands; do you find him shy much?”
She made no answer, but looked at the holes of the sand martens in the cutting on one side of the road—they always fascinated her—and at the bell heather, which was just beginning to show a tinge of colour. “He’s a bad ’un to shy, he is,” Lucas went on; “and he’s not particular what it’s at—wheel-barrows, and umbrellas, and perambulators, and covered carts, and tramps—he don’t like tramps, he don’t—and bicycles, and children if there’s a few of ’em together, and bits of paper on the road—he’s ready to be afraid of anything. There’s Tom Mitchell coming along with the letters—would you like to stop?”
“I do not expect any, but I may as well put the question to him,” the old lady said, very distantly, for she was of opinion that Lucas talked too much for his station. But he was not to be abashed easily.
“Them beeches is coming on,” he said. Aunt Anne looked up, but made no answer. “Everything is so late this year on account of the cold. Tom, have you got any letters for Mrs. Wimple at the cottage?”
“There’s one, I know, with a foreign postmark.” The man stopped and took a packet out of the leather wallet by his side.
Aunt Anne, leaning over the cart, saw, as he pulled out the letter with the French stamps on it for her, that there was another beneath, directed, in an illiterate-looking hand, to “A. Wimple, Esq.,” but it was a woman’s writing and it had the Liphook postmark. Her eyes flashed; she could hardly make her voice steady as she said—
“I see you have one there for Mr. Wimple; you will find him at the cottage.” Then she drove on. She looked at her own letter, a little bewildered. “It is not from Walter or Florence,” she said, “yet I know the handwriting.” She gazed vacantly at the hedges again, while Peter the pony, urged by arguments from the whip, went on more swiftly towards the station. Lucas’s remarks fell unheeded on her ears. Something was tightening round her heart that made her cheeks burn with a fire they had not felt for long years past.
“I think we’ll have more rain—them clouds over there seem like it,” the man said, wondering why she was so silent, for she generally liked a chat with him. “Maybe she wanted to drive him herself,” he thought; “I forgot to offer her the reins, and it’s no good changing now, we are so near the station. The train’s signalled,” he said, as they pulled up; “but you are in plenty of time.”
“I calculated that I should have sufficient time,” she answered.
“Would you like me to meet you this afternoon? I will, if you tell me what train you are coming down by.” She was silent for a minute, then, suddenly, she seemed to find courage.
“I shall leave London by the four thirty train,” she said. “It is due at Witley at a quarter to six, and I shall expect to find you there.” She walked into the station, with almost a hunted look.
She managed to get into an empty carriage, shut the door, and stood up by the window, winking sternly at the passengers who, in passing, hesitated whether or not to enter. As the train moved off she shut the window, and, sitting down with a sigh, stared out at the fir-woods and the picturesque Surrey cottages. She did not see them; she saw nothing and heard nothing but the rattle of the train, that gradually shaped itself into the word Liphook—Liphook—Liphook—till she was maddened. “It might have been some one writing to importune him for money,” she said, thinking of the letter. But if the difficulty at Liphook were only a debt, she felt certain that Alfred Wimple would not have spared her the annoyance of knowing it. It was a mystery of which her indomitable pride refused her even the suggestion of one solution, which yet seemed gradually, and from without, to be getting burned upon her brain. A despair that was half dread was taking possession of her. A desperate knowledge was bearing down upon her that the only chance she had of keeping the man to whom she had bound herself was by giving him money. He was evidently at his wit’s end for it, and had no resource of his own, for whatever was the attraction at Liphook it did not seem to include money. Her one chance was to give it him, and to let him see that she would not fail to give it him—then, perhaps, he would stay with her. She stretched out her arms for a moment as if she were drowning, and trying to save herself by holding on to him, but she stretched them only into space, and clutched nothing. “Perhaps he thinks because I am old I cannot love properly. Oh, my dear one, if you would only speak to me out of your own heart, or if you could only look into my heart—for that is not old; it is young. Age makes no difference if he did but know it—I feel the same as when I was twenty, and we walked between the chestnuts to the farm. It is only the years that have marked me.” And then anger and pride chased away her misery and tenderness. “I will have it settled,” she said; “I will know what it means; and if he has not treated me properly he shall be called to account. If Walter and Florence were only in England, I should not be in this sad dilemma.” The mention of their names made her remember the letter in her pocket. She pulled it out and opened it; it was the one Mrs. North had written from Marseille. At another time she would have liked the congratulations, or have been indignant at the divorce. Now she passed the news by with little more than a scornful wink. “It is most presumptuous of her to have written to me; she has taken a great liberty; she has committed a solecism,” she said, almost mechanically. As she put the letter back into her pocket her hand touched something she did not remember to have placed there. She looked puzzled for a moment, then drew it out. It was a little necktie of Alfred Wimple’s, blue with white spots on it. She understood—it was faded and frayed; she had put it into her pocket to mend. She looked at it wonderingly for a moment, then kissed it with a vehemence that was almost passion.
“He thinks I cannot love,” she said; “I am convinced that is it. If he did but know—if he did but know.”
The servant who opened the door at Portman Square instantly recognized her, and was disposed to treat her with more respect than on a former occasion.
“Mr. Boughton is not here, ma’am,” he said, in answer to her inquiry.
“Would you give me the address of his office?”
“I can give you the address, but he is away in Scotland, and not expected back for another fortnight.” Aunt Anne stood dumbfounded for a moment, then slowly she looked up at the servant, with a little smile that had its effect.
“It is very unfortunate,” she said; “my business with him is most pressing. Have you good accounts of Sir William?”
“Sir William is back, ma’am. He returned last week, but he is confined to his room with another attack.”
“Does he keep his bed?”
“Well, he is sitting by the fire just now, ma’am, writing some letters.” In a moment Aunt Anne had whisked into the house; she felt quite exhilarated.
“Be good enough to take my name to him, and ask if he is sufficiently well to see his cousin, Mrs.—Mrs. Baines”—she hesitated over the last word; “say that I am extremely solicitous to have a few minutes’ conversation with him.”
“I am afraid he won’t be able to see you——” the servant began.
“Have the goodness to take up my name.”
“I am afraid——” the servant began again.
“And say I wish to see him on a matter of great importance,” she went on imperiously, not heeding the interruption. She walked towards the dining-room door, as if she had a right to the entire house, but suddenly turned round.
“I feel certain Sir William will see me,” she said, “and I will follow you upstairs.”
Helplessly the servant obeyed her, and unfalteringly the soft footstep pattered after him up to the second floor. Then he entered the front bedroom, while she remained on the landing.
“Mrs. Baines wishes to know if she can speak to you, sir,” she heard him say.
“Tell her I am too ill to see any one,” a thin, distinct voice answered.
“She says it is a matter of extreme importance, sir.”
“I am writing letters, and don’t wish to be disturbed: bring my chicken-broth in twenty minutes.”
But a moment later, and Aunt Anne had whisked also into the room, passing the servant who was leaving it.
“William,” she said, “you must not refuse to let me see you once again. I cannot believe that you are too ill to shake hands with your cousin Anne.” As she spoke she looked round the room, and took in all its details at a glance. It had three windows, a writing-table and a book-case between them, facing them, a big four-post bedstead with dark hangings. To the left was a tall wardrobe of rosewood that had no looking-glass let into its panelled doors. By the fireplace was a roomy easy-chair, in which sat Sir William Rammage. He was dressed in a puce woollen dressing-gown, and half rolled up in a coloured blanket. By his side was an invalid table, with writing materials on it, and a flap at the side that stretched over his knees. In the large fireplace blazed a cheerful fire, and on the other side of the fireplace, and facing Sir William, there was a second easy-chair. He was evidently a tall man—thin, nervous, and irritable. His manner was cold and disagreeable, but it conveyed a sense of loneliness, a remembrance of long, cheerless years, that in a manner excused it. He looked like a man who had probably deserved respect, but had made few friendships. He was not nearly as old as he appeared at the first glance; illness, and work, and lack of human interests had aged him more than actual years.
“How do you do?” he said dryly.
“I have been so grieved to hear of your illness, William. I hope you received my letters—I wrote three or four times to tender you my sympathy.” She looked at the servant in a manner that said, “Go away”—and he went, carefully shutting the door.
“I am not well enough to receive visitors,” Sir William said, in the same dry voice.
“My dear William, you must let me stay with you five minutes; I will not intrude longer on your privacy”—and she seated herself on the chair facing him.
“If what you have to say is of a business nature, I am not well enough to enter upon it now.”
“Did you derive benefit from your stay at Cannes?—you were constantly in my thoughts.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
“I fear you have had to abandon many of your city occupations,” she went on, in a sympathetic voice; “it must be a great regret to the corporation. I was speaking of your mayoralty some months ago to Mr. Fisher, the editor ofThe Centre.” Aunt Anne was talking to gain time. Her throat was choking; her mouth twitched with restrained excitement.
“Where did you meet him?” Sir William asked, in a judicial manner, tapping the arm of his chair with his thin fingers.
“I met him at Walter Hibbert’s.”
He was silent, and seemed to be waiting for her to go. For a few moments she could not gather courage to speak again. He looked up at her.
“I am much obliged for this visit,” he said coldly, “but I cannot ask you to prolong it.”
“William,” she said, “I came to see you on a matter of necessity. I would not have intruded had it been otherwise. On the occasion of my last visit I saw Mr. Boughton, but I understand that he is now away.”
“He will be back in two or three weeks: you will then be able to see him.”
She hesitated for a moment, and then went on doubtfully, “I have been deeply touched by your kindness.”
“Yes?” he said inquiringly.
“That it has been the greatest help to me I need hardly say; but I have had so many expenses this winter, it was inadequate to meet them all.”
“I don’t quite understand?” He was becoming interested.
“There are some weeks yet before the next quarter is due. I am staying in a country-house, and the expenses I have to meet——”
“What country-house?”
“Walter and Florence Hibbert’s. It is a cottage most charmingly situated in Surrey.”
“I suppose it costs you nothing to stay there?”
“They have been most kind. But they are now abroad, and, naturally, I have appearances to maintain and the necessities of the table to provide.”
“For whom? Only for yourself, I suppose? You have not a large establishment.” His thin fingers wandered beneath the papers on the table, as if they were seeking for something. They found it, and drew it a little forward. Aunt Anne, following the movement with her eyes, saw the corner of a cheque-book peep out from beneath the blotting-paper. “You have not a dozen servants?” he asked ironically.
“I have only one servant”—she was getting a little agitated.
“And yourself?”
“And some one who is with me.”
“And doesn’t the some one who is with you keep you? or do you keep her?” and he pushed back the cheque-book. Aunt Anne was silent for a moment. “I suppose it doesn’t cost you anything to live. What do you want money for?” He put his hands on the arms of his chair and looked at her.
“William,” she said, “I cannot discuss all my expenditures, or enter into every detail of my household”—and there was as much pride in her tone as she dared put into it. “I came to ask you if you would have the great kindness to advance the quarter’s allowance you are so kind as to give me. It will be due——”
“Quarter’s allowance I give you? I don’t understand. I told you some time ago that I was not in the habit of giving away money. I believe you had some of your own when you started in life, and if you made away with it that is your own business.”
“But, William, I am speaking of the hundred a year you have allowed me lately through Mr. Boughton.”
He was fairly roused now, and turned his face full upon her. There were cruel, pitiless lines upon it, though she fought against them bravely.
“I have allowed you no hundred a year,” he said angrily, “and I intend to allow you none. Do you mean to tell me that Boughton has paid you a hundred a year on my account?”
“I understood so,” she gasped, shaking with fright.
“I suppose he had some reason for it. If he has done it out of his own money, it is his own business. If he has done it out of mine, I shall have a reckoning up with him, and probably you will have one, too.”
“But, William, have you been under the impression that I was left to starve?”
“I was under no impression at all concerning you. Once for all, Anne, you must understand that it is not my intention to give away the money for which I have worked to people who have been idle.”
“I have not been idle,” she said; “and you forget that I am your cousin, that our mothers——”
“I know all that,” he said, interrupting her; “your people and you had your own way to make in life, and so had I and my people.”
“But if you do not help me”—she burst out, for she could bear it no longer—“if you do not help me, I shall starve.”
“I really don’t see what claim you have upon me.”
“I am your cousin, and I am old, and I shall starve,” she repeated. “I must have money to-day. If I don’t take back money this afternoon my heart will break.” Again his fingers went for a moment in the direction of the cheque-book and tantalized her. She stood up and looked at him entreatingly. “I am not speaking only for myself,” she pleaded, “but for another——” and she broke down.
“For whom else are you speaking?” he asked, withdrawing his fingers.
“I do not wish to tell you, William.”
“For whom else?” he repeated, glaring at her.
“For one who is very dear to me, and who will starve, too, unless you help us. William, I entreat you to remember——”
“But who is this pauper you are helping, and why should I help her, too?”
“It is not a pauper,” she said indignantly. “It is some one who is dearer than all the world to me; and, once more, I entreat you to help us.”
“Well, but who is it?—is it a child?”
“No,” she answered, in a low voice, full of infinite tenderness, and she clasped her hands and let her chin fall on her breast.
“Who is it?” he asked sternly.
“It is my husband”—and almost a sob broke from her.
“Your husband!—I thought he was dead?”
“Mr. Baines is dead—long ago; but—I have married again.”
“Married again?” he repeated, as if he could hardly believe his ears.
“Yes, married again, and that is why I implore you to help me, so that I may give the young, tender life that is joined to mine the comforts that are necessary to him,” she said, with supplicating misery.
“Do you mean to say”—and he looked at her as if he thought she was mad—“that some young man has married you?”
“Yes,” she answered, in a low voice; “we have been married nearly eight months.”
“And has he got any money?—or does he do anything for a living?”
“He is a most brilliant writer, and has given the greatest satisfaction to Mr. Fisher; but he has been ill, and he requires country air and nourishment and luxuries—and I implore you to help me to preserve this young and beautiful life that has been confided to me.”
“Is he a cripple or mad?”
She looked up in astonishment.
“He is a fine, tall young man!” she said, with proud indignation. “I should not have married a cripple, William, and I have already told you that he is a writer onThe Centre, though he is not able at present to do his talents justice.”
“So you have to keep him?”
“He kept me when he had money; he gave me himself, and all he possessed in the world.”
“What did he marry you for?” Sir William asked, gazing at her in wonder, and almost clutching the arms of his chair.
“He married me”—her voice trembled and she drooped her head again—“he married me because—because he loved me.”
“Loved you! What should he love you for?”
“William, do you wish to insult me? I do not see why he should not love me, or why he should pretend to do so if he did not.”
“And I suppose you love him?” he said, pulling the blanket farther up over his knees and speaking in a scornful, incredulous voice.
“Yes, William, I do—I love him more than all the world; and unless you will help me so that I may give him those things that he requires and make our little home worthy of his residence in it, you will break my heart—you will kill him, and you will break my heart,” she repeated passionately. “I will conceal nothing from you—we are starving. We have not got a pound in the world—we have not even food to eat. He is young, and requires plenty of nourishment; he is not strong, and wants luxuries.”
“And you want me to pay for them?”
But she did not seem to hear him, and swept on—
“He must have them or he will die. We have spent every penny we had—I have even borrowed money on my possessions. I can conceal things from strangers, but you and I belong to the same family, and what I say to you I know is sacred—we are starving, William, we are starving, and I implore you to help me. He says he cannot stay unless I take back money—that he will go and leave me.” Something seemed to gather in her throat—there was a ring of fright and despair in her voice as she said the last words. “He will leave me, and it will break my heart, for he is all the world to me. It will break my heart if he goes, and unless I take back money he will leave me!”
“And let you starve by yourself?—a nice man to marry.”
“William,” she said, “he must remember what is due to himself. He cannot stay if he has not even food to eat.”
“And, pray, who is this gentleman?”
“I have told you that he is a brilliant writer.”
“What is his name?”
“I don’t think I am justified in telling you—he does not wish our marriage to be known.”
“I can quite understand that,” Sir William answered ironically. “Did he tell you to come to me for money?”
“Yes, he told me to do so,” she said, tragically; “he knew your good heart.”
“Knew my good heart, did he?” There was a deadly pallor spreading over Sir William’s face that frightened her. For a moment his lips moved without making a sound, then he recovered his voice, “Tell me his name—what is it?”
“William——” she began.
“What is it?” he cried, and his breath came short and quick.
She was too scared to demur any longer.
“It is Alfred Wimple”—and her heart stood still.
He gazed at her for a moment in silence.
“Wimple,” he said—“what, Boughton’s nephew? That skunk he had to turn out of his office?”
“He is Mr. Boughton’s nephew; and he left his uncle’s office because the duties were too arduous for his health.”
“He left his uncle’s office because he was kicked out of it. Do you mean to tell me that you have married him—a man who never did a day’s work in his life, or paid a bill that he owed? And as for writing, I don’t believe one word of it. It’s not a month ago that his uncle told me of some old woman, his landlady, forsooth! who had been to him with a long bill——”
“It was for his professional chambers. A man in his position requires them.”
“Yes; and he’d been sponging on the woman’s mother, too, in the country. Were you with him?”
“No, William, I was not”—and, suddenly, a load was lifted from Aunt Anne’s heart. The mystery of Liphook appeared to be solved, and Alfred Wimple’s account of his debts to be verified. A world of tenderness rushed back into her heart and gave her strength and courage to fight her battle to the end. “No, I was not with him,” she repeated; and as she looked up a smile, a look of almost happiness, was on her face, that made her cousin more wonder-struck than ever. “He required country air to invigorate him, and our means would not admit of——”
“Boughton has been allowing you a hundred a year,” said Sir William; “and this Wimple has married you,” he went on, a light seeming to break upon him. “I am beginning to understand it. I presume he knows that you are my cousin?”
“Yes, I told him that you were—he spoke of you with admiration,” Aunt Anne added, always more anxious to say something gratifying to her listener than to be strictly veracious.
“I have no doubt he did. Pray, when did this fine love-making begin?” Sir William asked scornfully.
“Nearly a year ago,” she answered, in a faltering voice, for she was almost beaten, in spite of the relief that had been given her a minute or two ago.
“And when did Boughton begin to allow you this hundred a year?”
“About the time of my marriage.”
“I perfectly understand. I’ll tell you the reason of your marriage and of his love for you in a moment.” With an effort he stretched out his hand and touched the bell. “Charles,” he said, when the servant entered, “unlock my safe.”
The man pulled back a curtain that had been drawn across a recess to hide an iron door. “On the top of the shelf to the left you will see a blue envelope labelled ‘Last Will and Testament.’ Give it to me,” Sir William said.
A scared look broke over Aunt Anne’s face; and she watched the proceedings breathlessly.
“Lock the safe and go—no, stop—give me some brandy first.”
The servant poured a little into a glass from a bottle which stood on the writing-table between the windows. The old man’s hand shook while he took it. Aunt Anne, looking at him like a culprit waiting for punishment, noticed a blackness round his mouth, and that the lines in his face were rigid.
“Shall I bring you some chicken-broth, Sir William?” the servant asked.
“When I ring. Go.” Then he turned to Aunt Anne. “Now I will tell you why this young man loved you.” He said the last words with an almost fiendish chuckle. “He loved you because, being a clerk in his uncle’s office, the office from which he had to be kicked, he probably knew—in fact, I am certain that he knew, for he came to ask me your Christian name when the instructions were being given—that I had provided for you in my will. I do not choose to pauperize people while I live, but I considered it my duty to leave some portion of my wealth to my relations, no matter how small a claim they had upon me. He knew that you would get a fourth share of my money—probably he reckoned it up and calculated that it would amount to a good many thousand pounds, so he and Boughton concocted a scheme to get hold of it together.”
“Mr. Boughton knew nothing of our marriage.”
“I tell you it was all a scheme. What should Boughton allow you a hundred a year for?” He was grasping the will while he spoke.
“He knew nothing about it, William—neither did Alfred.”
“Well, we’ll put his disinterestedness to the test”—and he tried to tear the will in half, but his fingers were too weak.
“Oh no,” she cried; “no—no——”
“Do you suppose a young man would marry an old woman like you for any reason but gain? That you should have been such a fool! and for that unwholesome-looking cur, with his long, rickety legs and red hair—why, he looks like a stale prawn,” the old man said derisively, and made another effort to tear the will.
“I cannot bear it—William, I implore you”—and she clasped her hands with terror.
He leaned forward with an effort, and put the will on the fire.
“Oh no, no—” she cried again, and, dropping on her knees, she almost snatched it from the flames.
He took the poker between his two white hands, and held the paper down with it.
“It is cruel—cruel——” she began, as she watched it disappear from her sight.
“I think I have made the case clear,” he said; “and you will see that there is nothing to be gained by staying. My money was not made to benefit Mr. Alfred Wimple. I shall make another will, and it will not contain your name.” He rang the bell again.
“You have treated me cruelly—cruelly—but Heaven will frustrate you yet——” she said tremblingly, as she rose from her knees. Anguish and dignity were strangely blended in her voice, but after a moment it seemed as if the latter had gained the victory, “You and I will probably never meet again, William; you have insulted me cruelly, and you will remember it when it is too late to ask my forgiveness. You have insulted me and treated me heartlessly, yet it was beside us when we were children that our mothers——” the servant entered with a cup of chicken-broth.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Alfred Wimple,” Sir William said politely. “Charles, show Mrs. Wimple downstairs.”
The man was bewildered at the strange name, and looked at Aunt Anne doubtfully. Sir William clutched at the arms of his chair again, and his head sank back upon the pillow.
“William—” she began.
“Go!” he said hoarsely. For a moment she hesitated, a red spot had burned itself on her cheek, and then slowly she followed the servant down.