butterfly
CHAPTER XI.
Itwas a long night that followed. A telegram had arrived from the Hibberts. They were on their way, and coming as fast as possible, they said; but through the dark hours, as Mrs. North sat beside Aunt Anne, she feared that death would come still faster.
Her bronchitis was worse at times; she could hardly breathe; it was only the almost summer-like warmth that saved her. She talked of strange people when she could find voice to do so—people of whom Mrs. North had never heard before; but it seemed somehow as if they had silently entered—as if they filled the house, and were waiting. At midnight and in the still small hours of the morning she could fancy that they were going softly up and down the stairs; that they peered into the room in which Aunt Anne lay—the one to the front that looked down on the long white road stretching from the city to the sea. “Oh, if the Hibberts would come,” Mrs. North said, a dozen times. “I want her to die with her own people. I love her, but I am a stranger.”
So the night passed.
“My dear,” Aunt Anne asked, opening her eyes, “is it morning yet?”
“Yes,” Mrs. North answered tenderly, “and a lovely morning. The sun is shining, and a thrush is singing on the tree outside. We will open the window presently, and let the summer in.” An hour passed, and the postman came, but he brought no news of those who were expected. Later on the doctor looked in, and said her pulse was weaker.
“She must live a little longer,” Mrs. North said, in despair; “she must, indeed.”
“I will come again this afternoon,” he said; “perhaps she may have a little rally.”
While Aunt Anne dozed and the maid watched, Mrs. North, unable to sit quietly any longer, wandered up and down the house, and round the little drawing-room, bending her face over the pot-pourri on the corner cupboard, opening the piano and looking at the yellow keys she did not venture to touch. And then, restlessly, she went into the garden, and gathered some oak and beech boughs, with the fresh young leaves upon them, and put them in pots, as Aunt Anne had once done for the home-coming of Florence.
“I cannot feel that she is going to die,” she thought, “but rather as if she were going to meet the people she knew long ago; it will be a festival for them.” She looked down the road, and strained her ears, but there was no sound of a carriage, no sign of Walter and Florence. She could hardly realize that she was watching for the Hibberts and that Aunt Anne upstairs lay dying. “It is all such a tangle,” she said to herself, “life and death, and joy and sorrow, and which is best it is difficult to say.” Aunt Anne’s little breakfast was ready, and she carried it up herself, and lovingly watched the old lady trying to swallow a spoonful.
“You look a little better again, Aunt Anne.”
“Yes, love; and I shall be much better when I have seen those dear children. I am not quite happy about my will. I wanted you to have some remembrance of me.”
“Give me something,” Mrs. North said, “something you have worn; I shall like that better than a legacy, because I shall have it from your own two living hands.”
“I have parted with all my possessions, but Florence and Walter shall be commissioned to get you something.”
“The thing I should have liked,” Mrs. North answered, “was a little brooch you used to wear. It had hair in the middle, and a crinkly gold setting around it.”
“My dear,” said Aunt Anne, dreamily, “it is in a little box in my left-hand drawer; but it needs renovating—the pin is broken, and the glass and the hair have come out. It belonged to my mother.”
“Give it to me,” Mrs. North said eagerly. “I will have it done up, and wear it till you are better, and then you shall have it back; let me get it at once”—and in her eager manner she went to the drawer. “Here it is,” she said. “It will make a little gold buckle. I have a canary-coloured ribbon in the next room; I will put it through, and wear it round my neck. Aunt Anne, you have made me a present.”
“I am delighted that it meets with your approval, my dear”—and there was a long silence. The morning dragged on—a happy spring morning, on which, as Mrs. North said to herself, you could almost hear the summer walking to you over the little flowers. Presently Aunt Anne called her.
“I was thinking,” she said, “of a canary-coloured dress I had when I was a girl. I wore it at my first ball—it was a military ball, my dear, and the officers were all in uniform. As soon as I entered the room, Captain Maxwell asked me to dance; but I felt quite afraid, and said, ‘You must take off your sword, if you please, and put it on one side.’ Think of my audacity in asking him to do such a thing; but he did it. Your ribbon made me remember it”—and again she dropped off to sleep.
Mrs. North went to the window, and looked out once more. “I feel like sister Anne on the watch-tower,” she said to herself. “If they would only come.” Suddenly a dread overcame her. Florence and Walter knew nothing of Alfred Wimple’s conduct. They might arrive, and, before she had time to tell them, by some chance word cause Aunt Anne infinite pain. The shame and humiliation seemed to have gone out of the old lady’s life during the last day or two. It would be a cruel thing to remind her of it. She had made herself ready to meet death. It was coming to her gently and surely, with thoughts of those she loved, and a remembrance of the days that had been before the maddening shame of the past year. Mrs. North went downstairs. Jane Mitchell was in the kitchen.
“Is there any way of sending a note to the station?” she asked.
“Why, yes, ma’am; Lucas would take it with the pony-cart.”
“Go to him, ask him to get ready at once, and come to me for the letter.” As shortly as possible she wrote an account of all that had taken place at the cottage, and explained her own presence there.
“Take this at once to the station-master, and ask him to give it to Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert the moment they arrive, and to see that they come here by the fastest fly that is there.” And once more she went up to the front bedroom. Aunt Anne was sleeping peacefully; a little smile was on her lips. Mrs. North went to the window, and looked up and down the long straight road, and over at the fir-trees. Presently Lucas came by with the pony-cart; he touched his hat, pulled the note out of his pocket to show that he had it safely, and drove on in the sunshine. The birds were twittering everywhere. A clump of broom was nearly topped with yellow; some spots of gold were on the gorse. Half an hour. Aunt Anne still slept. Mrs. North put her arms on the window-sill, and rested her head down on them with her face turned to the road that led to the station. “If only the Hibberts would come,” she said. “Oh, if they would come.”
The long morning went into afternoon. A change came over Aunt Anne. It was plain enough this time. She spoke once, very gently and so indistinctly that Mrs. North could hardly make out the words, though she bent over her, trying to understand.
“Aunt Anne, dear, do you know me?” A smile came over the old lady’s face. She was thinking of something that pleased her.
“Yes, dear Walter,” she said, “you must get some chocolates for those dear children, and I will reimburse you.” Then the little woman, who had watched so bravely, broke down, and, kneeling by the bedside, sobbed softly to herself.
“Oh, they must come; oh, they must come,” she whispered. “Perhaps I had better rouse her a little,” she thought after a little while, and slipped her arm under the old lady’s shoulder.
“Aunt Anne—Aunt Anne, dear,” she said, “Walter and Florence are coming; they are hurrying to you, do you hear me?”
“Yes, my love,” the old lady said, recovering a little, and recognizing her. “You said it was morning time, and a thrush was singing on the tree outside. I think I hear it.”
“You do; listen, dear, listen!” and Mrs. North turned her face towards the window, as though she were listening, and looked at Aunt Anne’s face, as if to put life into her. And as she did so there came upon her ears a joyful sound, the one she most longed to hear in the world—the sound of carriage wheels.
“They have come,” she said; “thank God! they have come.”
Aunt Anne seemed to understand; an expression of restfulness came over her face; she closed her eyes, as if satisfied. Mrs. North was in despair; it seemed as if they would be a moment too late.
“Dearest old lady, they have come! they are in the garden! Wake up—wake up, to see them. Stay, let me prop you up a little bit more.” She could scarcely say the words, her heart was so full. “There, now you can see the fir-trees and the sunshine. Kiss me once, dear Aunt Anne; I am going to fetch your children”—and she gently drew her arms away. The Hibberts were in the house—they were on the stairs already. Mrs. North met them. “You are just in time,” she whispered to Florence—“she has waited.”
Mrs. Hibbert could not speak, but she stopped one moment to put her arms round Mrs. North’s neck, and then went on.
“Come with us,” Walter said.
“No,” Mrs. North answered chokingly, while the tears ran down her face. “She is waiting for you. Go in to her. I have no business there.”
Without a word they went to Aunt Anne. Like a flash there came over Florence the remembrance of the day when she had first entered the room, and had thought that it looked like a room to die in. The old lady did not make a sign. For a moment they stood by her silently. Florence stooped, and kissed the coverlet.
“Dear Aunt Anne,” they said tenderly, “we have come.” Then a look of joy spread over the old lady’s face. She made one last struggle to speak.
“My dear Walter and Florence,” she said, and stopped for a moment. “I have not been able—to make any preparation for your arrival—but Mrs. North——” She stopped again, and her eyes closed. They went a little nearer to each other, and stood watching.
The scent of the fresh spring air filled the room. The sunshine was passing over the house. But all was still—so still that Florence looked up, with a questioning look of fear upon her face. Walter bent over the bed for a moment, then gently put his arm round his wife’s shoulder. Aunt Anne had journeyed on.
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,LONDON AND BECCLES.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.[The end ofAunt Anne, Vol. 2, by Mrs. W. K. Clifford.]
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
[The end ofAunt Anne, Vol. 2, by Mrs. W. K. Clifford.]